Had the President ever been in that one-tenth of one percent?
For twenty minutes, there were nothing but questions about the tenth of a percent doing poorly until the President said he had a plan to eliminate that problem, whereupon the press corps moved to foreign policy. The President mentioned a new peace treaty America helped arrange to stop a thirty-year-old border war in Africa. There were no questions.
Remo watched the President, watched everyone near him. He could sense the President was nervous. He looked at his watch a few times. That brought a question about whether the watch was broken and how had his presidency brought about its breakdown.
Remo glanced at a watch next to him. Two P.M. came and two P.M. went. Nobody moved.
Nothing went off and the President called the press conference over on the last question of did he think the tenth of one percent, the disregarded tenth of one percent, those dire-straits people having fallen through the safety net of human concern, did they come from the same failure of his government as his watch?
"No," said the President with a smile, a little bit happier this moment because it was 2:05 P.M. As he turned, a man with straight black hair and Malaysian dark features ran from behind a camera with a sword, screaming.
"Death to you. Death to you."
The man's movements were so sudden and the Secret Service so stunned by a physical attack from the press section that Remo saw the man would make it to the podium in the Rose Garden with his sword before he could be stopped. From the front row, Remo flipped his cardboard notebook at the man.
It looked merely as though he opened his hand but the notebook sailed out at such velocity that it tore through the sword hand and the man arrived at the podium with a limp wrist, a cry of death on his lips, and thrusting nothing into the President's chest because the sword was tumbling uselessly about the lawn.
The Secret Service wrestled him to the ground, got the President out of the Rose Garden, and then an alarm went off on the man, followed by a pop. The pop was a red gushy thing blowing through the air. It was his heart. Something had blown it out of his chest cavity.
After checking press credentials, the assailant was identified as Du Wok of the Indonesian Press Service. The man previously had been a solid newspaperman, was not open to bribes because he had an independent income and generally there was only mystery as to why he had attacked the President. He had no political affiliations whatsoever, which of course made him quite different from most Indonesians, who were either with the government or in hiding.
That night, at Smith's request, Remo stayed with the President. No more notes were found nor were any bombs found. Remo stayed three days, wearing the medicine-colored suit. On the last day, he even stayed in a far wing of the White House.
And still no notes, no reason why an Indonesian named Du Wok had attempted to kill the President. Even more puzzling was how he got the notes into the President's clothing. The best guess was that there was a network. But why did the network want to assassinate the President?
Remo was on his way back to his vacation when his plane was turned around in flight for some federal emergency. The pilot banked toward Dulles International Airport and the passengers began grumbling. All the passengers were off loaded except Remo, who was signaled into a small booth.
Smith waited inside the booth. Silently he handed Remo a piece of white paper. It was the same size as those that had wrapped the bombs found on the President.
"Have they gotten into his clothes again?" asked Remo.
"We should be so lucky," said Smith.
"They killed him?"
"We should be so lucky," Smith said. "A President's important but he's not Montana, Minnesota, Iowa and if the winds are wrong, the entire Midwest through to Chicago."
"How are they going to blow up all of middle America? They're not the Russians," Remo said.
"They don't have to be. Besides, some things could be worse than a few atomic bombs," Smith said.
Reginald Woburn III wore shorts, a white T-shirt and sandals, and happily hummed to himself. He was watching a film. There was Du Wok with a sword. There was the notebook. Reggie ran it backward and the notebook went from the sword hand back to the thrower. The film had been taken with an incredibly highspeed camera. If it hadn't, it would not have caught the motion of the man in the pink-gray suit. One of the problems was, there were seventeen suits just like it. But this was one of the only three in the front row. And the film he had was the only one shot with enough frames per second to capture the movement of the notebook. Indeed, the book had been moving so fast it was shredding because the air acted like sandpaper against its pages.
Reggie recognized the man. The American. The second plum. It was all so clear it was almost easy. First the eavesdropping devices that did not work. That showed what they did professionally, because only professionals would be used to being bugged. If indeed this American was somehow from the family of the old Korean, they would be working for only the highest power in the land. And the old one had mentioned something about the government when he was talking to Reggie. So it had been natural: threaten the President and they would have to come to his aid. When Remo left the Del Ray condominium suddenly after the notes to the President, Reggie was sure that he had found his men. Or more accurately, that they had come to him, for the great secret of the seventh stone was that they themselves were going to show him how to kill them.
Reginald watched the high-speed camera catch the action again. It was a white wrist and a white hand. It was indeed the second plum. Reggie had set the stage and there was the actor. He ran the film again and calculated the force of the notebook. And the wrist had hardly moved in throwing it. Phenomenal.
They were the ones he sought, Reginald knew. He had expected them both to be Koreans with Korean features, but he was sure that the white one was somehow related to the old one, and he knew the old one must be just as awesome as the white. He could see how one of these would be able to chase a prince and his army across the world and off the maps of the world. They were frightening. He watched the movement of the wrist again. It was so natural, so economical. He knew others might be impressed with the result, but he was looking at the source. If he had not been searching for this, if he had not known it was there, he never would have seen it in the one true way of seeing anything. Understanding it. But there it was, more frightening and somehow more desirable than even that first bull elephant he had killed.
And the two of them had looked like only human beings at first. Reggie found himself humming an old prayer and then he realized it was in the language his father had taught him for gods long dead in lands not even remembered. The kingdom Prince Wo had ruled was gone. But the power of the Korean was not. It had been worth the wait.
His telephone was ringing. It was his father. The Woks from Djakarta, Indonesia, were complaining to his father that Reggie had killed their blessed son Du and that while they recognized the first son of the first son as the true lord by right, this did not include getting killed. "Father," said Reginald. "it does."
"How do you expect to keep the line of the family together if you get them killed?"
"We'll take care of that," said Reggie.
"Do you have others with you?"
"No, we don't," said Reginald. "But we will take care of it."
As he hung up the telephone, Reggie thought that while he might have people working for him, he had no one with him. Princes never did. They were always alone.
In Djakarta, the family of Wok received a special silver-and-jade platter sent by the firstborn of the firstborn in the direct line of Prince Wo.
In the center covered by fine silks was the special surprise. Of such wonder was it, such grandness were the jewels under the silk, that Reginald Woburn III had one request. He wanted the children of the Wok family present for the unveiling of the gift. He was truly repentant for the loss of one of their members serving him and while the gift could never compensate for a life, it most certainly would show his feelings.
It had one warning. They could not remove the silk hastily because it would ruin the fine lacquers and spun gold. It had to be unwrapped under precise instructions and for that they would have to be talked through it on the telephone. Considering that the outside corners each held gems worth over a hundred thousand dollars, the Woks could only imagine what the value of the center would be.
"Are the babies there? I want the babies, no matter how young, to be there," said Reggie. "They must remember this day."
"Yes, everyone."
"Everyone?" Reggie asked. There was a long pause.
"Why would you not think everyone is here?"
"Because we suspect that Ree Wok is disloyal. We do not wish for him to share in this treasure if he is not there," Reggie said.
"Reginald, you really do have eyes across seas for thousands of miles. The one of whom you speak was reluctant. How did you see that?"
"We will start without him," Reggie said, "because we see greater things. We see into your hearts. Now, is the platter on the floor?"
"Yes."
"There are no tables or chairs there?"
"No."
"Everybody gather round," said Reggie. "Now place the youngest child directly over the silk pile. Is it there?"
"Yes, yes. My arms are getting tired holding him."
"Just put him down."
"Feetfirst?"