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"Are we talking rogue elephant here?"
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Chiun indicated the white beard slowly turning crimson, saying, "That is its
trunk. Notice the great ears, the small eyes. When attacked, it used its head
as a ram. It is an elephant."
"That explains the way he charged around," said Remo, "but not much else."
The press was creeping around the other side of the van, so Remo and Chiun
slipped up to the dead hulk in the Santa suit.
Remo plucked off the stocking cap and beard, exposing smooth black hair. The
blood-soaked whiskers came off with a snap of a rubber band.
"Look, Remo! It is Thrush."
Remo canted his head to see.
"Damn. Thrush Limburger. The press will have a field day with this."
The great body shuddered and gave out a final pungent exhalation.
"Whew!" said Remo, backing away. "That's gotta be the worst case of peanut
breath west of Africa."
"India. He thought he was an Indian elephant."
Then the clatter of helicopter rotor blades made the suddenly still night air
quiver and shake.
Remo looked toward the Washington Monument, a brilliant stone finger behind
the White House, and told Chiun, "That's Marine One. We'd better get a move on
if we're going to Boston with the President."
Chapter 29
Secret Service Agent Vince Capezzi heard the clatter of Marine One's rotors as
an answer to a silent prayer.
"This way, Mr. President," he urged, hustling the Chief Executive from the
podium. The First Lady followed, complaining, "This is going to look awful on
CNN."
They entered the White House and walked quickly through to the South Portico.
Capezzi checked his watch. Marine One was five minutes ahead of schedule. It
was one of those minor miracles that happen when they are most needed.
"We'll have you in the air shortly," he told the President, and they stepped
out onto the South Lawn.
The blazing floodlights limned Marine One as she settled heavily into the
Kentucky bluegrass of the South Lawn, and her green-and-white shape had never
been more welcome, Capezzi thought. The rotors continued winding as the
bluecarpeted steps dropped into place.
Retired Secret Service Agent Smith stepped out from nowhere and said, "You
must hurry, sir."
"Smith, you come with us."
"I cannot, Mr. President. I must remain here to continue the investigation.
But Remo and Chiun will accompany you to Boston. You will be in good hands."
"I know."
The President started up the blue-carpeted steps, the First Lady holding his
arm. Their faces were drained white under the glare of the floodlights.
Vince Capezzi, his MAC-11 at the ready, covered the stairs.
REMO CAME AROUND the corner of the White House in the shelter of the open
breezeway, Chiun pumping along at his side.
"There's Smitty," he said. "Looks like the President's on board already."
Chiun nodded. They crossed the rotor-wash-flattened lawn to the waiting
helicopter.
"Stay with the President every step of the way," Smith told Remo over the
whine of the impatiently turning rotors.
"Gotcha," said Remo.
"No harm will befall the puppet while Sinanju stands beside him," cried Chiun
in a firm voice.
"Shh," said Smith, indicating Vince Capezzi with a tilt of his head.
"Security."
"Advertising always pays," said Chiun.
Remo started up the stairs, but Chiun blocked him.
"As Reigning Master, I have the honor of going first."
"Suit yourself," said Remo. Chiun floated up the steps, and Remo turned to
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Vince Capezzi, "You go next."
Capezzi climbed aboard, relief making his face go slack.
Remo turned to Harold Smith, "You know that Santa?"
"Yes?"
"I pulled his cap and whiskers off. Guess who he was?"
"Who?"
"Thrush Limburger."
Smith groaned.
"It's probably another double," said Remo.
"Let us hope so," said Harold Smith fervently.
Then Remo started up the stairs.
The pilot was looking over his shoulder at Remo through the Plexiglas side
port. Something about his face made Remo pause.
Something was wrong. Something serious. He wore the impenetrable Ray-Ban
Aviators of a Secret Service agent. But on his head sat a black baseball cap
emblazoned with the letters CIA.
Remo stopped.
"What is wrong?" Smith called.
Remo said nothing, but his senses were keying up. The rotor noise drowned out
any subtle infrasounds. A pungent scent came to his nostrils over the residual
scent of gasoline. The smell resembled gasoline, but wasn't. Not quite. It was
an astringent smell Remo associated with dry-cleaning establishments.
It took a moment for Remo's brain to put a name to the strong odor.
Naphthalene.
Then he looked down. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]