Warren Murphy - Target of Opportunity

"Why on earth should I wear this? I will be unrecognizable."

But he tried the costume on anyway. Perhaps he would be in luck, and it would not fit properly.

"On reflection," Orville said, regarding himself in the dresser mirror, "this might be for the best."

The phone rang, and the soft voice he had come to know said, "It's tonight."

Orville swallowed his disappointment. After all, he awed the Ixchel Talent Agency his life. "Excellent. Where and when do I appear?"

"Eight-fifteen sharp. The White House."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Tonight is the annual Christmas-tree lighting ceremony on the White House lawn. And you're the official Santa Claus."

"I am going to the White House?"

"Present yourself at the East Gate at eight-fifteen. Don't be early and don't be late. They have security concerns over there."

"I fail to understand."

"It's the First Lady's little joke. You and the President will together throw the switch that lights the tree, then you pull off your hat and beard and do your Thrush Limburger bit."

"What shall I say?"

"It doesn't matter. Ad-lib. Just see if you can get a rise out of the President. Make him laugh."

"I don't know if I am up to this," Orville said.

"You are. It'll all be over in fifteen minutes. Just go get a good dinner and a stiff drink or two if you need it and be at the East Gate at eight-fifteen on the dot."

"I will do my best," Orville promised solemnly.

"Don't forget your asthma inhaler."

"I always carry it in case of an attack."

"When you go through the gate, take a good shot. The steroids will give you that boost that'll get you through the ceremony."

"A very good idea. I will be sure to remember it," said Orville Rollo Fletcher.

He took his meal in the hotel restaurant, happy to be out of the room, and ordered the prime rib, baked potato and kernel corn. And two helpings of peanutbutter pie.

On the way back from the restaurant he was accosted by a panhandler in a shabby coat and taped-together Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses. "Spare a dollar?" the beggar asked in a low whine of a voice.

"I am very sorry, my good man."

The beggar was obviously drunk because he lurched into Orville, then went stumbling away.

Orville patted his bulk and was relieved to find his wallet where it should be. But his patting fingers failed to find his asthma inhaler.

Heart pounding, he searched the pavement at his feet, backtracked to the restaurant and experienced no luck.

He was greatly relieved to discover it on the bed stand of his hotel room, although he had been virtually certain he had taken it with him before leaving.

"Mustn't forget my Vanceril," he said, pocketing the inhaler. In the lobby he purchased a large packet of salted peanuts. They had become his latest comfort food.

Chapter 27

Remo Williams found the Master of Sinanju in the White House kitchen hectoring the Presidential chef.

"What are these sauces you inflict upon your liege?" he demanded.

"These are French sauces. I am a French chef."

"Liar. You are not French."

"I did not say I was French. I am a French chef. I cook according to the French way. I am Italian."

"Then you cook the Italian way!" said Chiun. "And the Italian way is the Borgia way. Are you a Borgia?"

"I resent the implication that my cooking is poisonous."

Chiun noticed Remo at the entrance to the White House kitchen and said, "Look at these concoctions. It is no wonder the President is grossly fat."

"He has lost ten pounds since I have began cooking for him," the chef said, his tall white hat shaking with indignation.

Chiun held two bottles, one in each hand. He carried them over to a stainless-steel sink and gave then a squeeze. The bottles broke. Chiun's hands withdrew so quickly his fingers were neither spattered with hollandaise sauce nor touched by flying glass.

He stabbed the garbage disposal button, and it was impossible to say which howled more loudly, the glass in the disposal or the chef at the sight of it.

Chiun fixed the chef with glittering hazel eyes.

"From now on you will serve steamed rice. No cow tallow or spices will despoil your rice. Duck will be your only fowl. You may serve any fish that you do not ruin with your gross ways. No chicken. No beef."

"The First Lady enjoys shellfish."

"No shellfish. Proper fish do not have shells. Insects and turtles do."

The White House chef sputtered. "I will resign first."

"You will be doing your country a great boon," said Chiun.

"Then I refuse to resign."

"If you cook acceptable food and the food tasters do not sicken and die, then you may be allowed to remain," retorted Chiun.

The White House chef pawed his tall hat off his head and started chewing off pieces of the starched fabric in rage.

"Can I see you a minute, little Father?" Remo said.

Chiun left the chef fighting with the garbage disposal.

"What is it, Remo?"

"I'm not an assassin anymore."

Chiun's hazel eyes narrowed briefly. His smooth brow grew furrowed. Then the tiny wrinkles radiating from the hub of his face, his button nose, went smooth in shock.

"You are Sinanju. You will be an assassin until the day your lazy bones lie moldering in the dirt."

"I've got a new job description."

"Imbecile."

"Don't call me names."

"Is that not your new description?"

"Don't be like that. You're looking at the new Remo Williams."

"You look like the old Remo Williams."

"The old Remo Williams was an assassin."

"And what are you?"

"A counterassassin. "

Chiun regarded his pupil stonily.

"You assassinate counters?" he squeaked. "Is that like the karate dancers who break boards with their hands because boards do not fight back?"

"No. I'm a counterassassin-as in an assassin who foils other assassins."

Chiun made a face. "There are no other assassins except you and I. All others are inferior and therefore not worthy of the name."

"I like the sound of it. Remo Williams, counterassassin. "

"Schmuck," said the Master of Sinanju, dredging up a word he had picked up on a Florida beach so long ago he hadn't used it on Remo in many years. "You are a schmuck."

"I am not a schmuck."

"Counterschmuck, if the distinction pleases you."

"Look, I'm just trying to find myself. Okay?"

"It is too late. I found you many years ago. You have been found and made whole by my largesse. And what do I get in return? No gifts, no gratitude, no respect. Putz."

"Don't call me that."

"Then do not call yourself anything other than what you are-a Sinanju assassin."

"I'm a counterassassin."

Chiun puffed out his tiny cheeks. "That is the same as saying anti-Sinanju."

Remo blinked. "I never thought of it like that."

"You never think. That is the problem. Come, I am not finished rooting out those who conspire against the puppet President."

"What have you uncovered so far, besides the chef?"

"The Shrill Queen."

"I don't think it's her. The President dies, and she's out on the street."

"There are ways to circumvent the line of succession. Have you noticed that the President of Vice is nowhere to be found since the events of yesterday?"

"According to Smitty, the Vice President had been told to stay clear of the White House for the duration."

"Ha! The puppet suspects him."

"No, it's just that things are so crazy no one wants them to be in the same place at the same time in case a bomb goes off."

"Who is next after him?"

"The Speaker of the House, I think."

"Then he should die."

"Why?"

"If he dies and the madness ceases, we will be vindicated."

"Better check with Smith before you do the Speaker of the House," said Remo.