Warren Murphy: Target of Opportunity

"Are we talking rogue elephant here?"

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 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.

The blue-carpeted steps under his feet looked too new. They were pristine, as if they had never known the regular tread of feet.

Then Remo realized something was missing.

"Damn!" he said, plunging in.

Inside Marine One, the President and First Lady were buckling up.

"There goes my-I mean your-chance for reelection," the First Lady was saying.

"Evacuate!" shouted Remo.

The President and First Lady looked up, eyes going round, faces stark.

"What?"

"This thing is booby-trapped! Get out now!"

They stared at him in disbelief. Remo reached down toward an empty seat that stank of astringent chemicals and tore the cushions open with steel-hard fingers, exposing heavy plastic sacks filled with an evil red fluid. He slashed one open with the edge of a sharp fingernail, and pungent naphthalene flowed out.

"That stuff will go up like flash paper."

Abruptly the rotors wound up. The craft started to rock and lift.

Remo moved in. His fingers grabbed the safety belts, and they parted like cheesecloth.

"C'mon, Chiun," urged Remo.

The Master of Sinanju moved quickly, pushing the stunned First Family out of their seats.

They got them out of the helicopter just as the wheels lifted off. They had to jump from the steps, which were still in the down position and rising off the grass.

The steps pulled away into the night.

"Remo! What is it?" Smith asked hoarsely.

"Look at those steps. Where's the Welcome Aboard Marine One sign?"

"Damn," said Vince Capezzi. "I should have noticed that." Lifting his MAC-11, he added, "We can't let him get away."

"No," said Smith. "We'll have it tracked. It may lead to the conspirators."

But the fake Manne One didn't make it as far as the Ellipse between the White House and the Washington Monument. It was rattling over Constitution Avenue when it burst apart in a flat whoof of a sound. It hung there for an awful, indecisive moment.

In flames, it cascaded to the ground, after which it burned merrily. The black smoke soon carried in their direction, smelling of naphthalene.

The President of the United States stared at the crackling pile of twisted metal and said, "I don't understand ...."

"That, Mr. President," Harold Smith said grimly, "was the ultimate escalation. The real thing."

Then, past the blinking red light atop the white obelisk of the Washington Monument, a clattering noise resolved itself into a great olive-green-and-white military helicopter.

"That looks like Marine One," Vince Capezzi breathed.

"It is," said Remo. "The real one."

Grim-faced, Harold Smith turned to the President and said, "Mr. President, we have just witnessed conclusive proof that the conspiracy to kill you is a massive one, involving many persons prepared to trade their lives for your own."

"Don't I know it," the President said thickly.

"I have a suggestion."

"Go ahead."

"Order Marine One back. Let out word that you've died."

"What good will that do?"

"It may flush the conspirators out into the open."

"You're asking me to lie to the American people."