Warren Murphy: Target of Opportunity

"Everything's in place."

"We have only to wait," said Smith.

"I hate deceiving the American people like this."

"Better that they temporarily mourn a living man than bury another dead President for all time."

"You know," said the President, "I ordered the Secret Service to stand down."

"I know."

"Yet they had snipers on every roof overlooking the place."

"The director of the Secret Service no doubt considered it prudent."

"Makes me wonder if those shots weren't meant to hit me. "

"That possibility cannot be discounted at this juncture," said Harold Smith.

Chapter 30

With the announcement by ANC that the President of the United States had died in a helicopter crash, the other networks, predictably, followed suit. Within twenty minutes everyone had declared the Chief Executive dead.

There was no confirmation from the White House, no comment from the other branches of government. No one went into the executive mansion and no one and nothing came out.

For all intents and purposes, the White House became an informational black hole.

National Transportation Safety Bureau teams cordoned off the destroyed helicopter, allowing no cameras within viewing range.

The press held vigil into the late hours of the night, interviewing one another to fill air time.

And the nation held its breath.

IN THE WHITE HOUSE basement, Harold Smith monitored the ongoing news coverage out of the corner of one eye as he wrestled with the problem.

His worn briefcase lay open on the desk before hire, exposing the portable computer that was connected by phone lines to the great mainframes housed in the basement of Folcroft Sanitarium.

Smith had created a flowchart on his screen in an attempt to organize what was now a large and Byzantine sequence of events.

The trouble was the chart refused to flow.

That there was a conspiracy was beyond any shred of doubt.

Someone had set on the President a Lee Harvey Oswald double, perfect down to his fingerprints and body scars, armed with perfect replica Secret Service badge and vintage Mannlicher-Carcano rifle. And had filmed it.

That same someone had tricked an obscure bartender named Bud Coggins into gunning down the Oswald double in such a way that he, too, was killed in an eerie recreation of the original Oswald's murder. Coggins was not part of the conspiracy; that much was certain. Yet even as he was unwittingly covering up for the true conspirators, his VR helmet camera was transmitting pictures of everything he saw and did to the conspirators. That had been determined by an examination of the VR helmet.

Within hours of the events in Boston, the conspiracy had already shifted into a second phase in Washington, D. C. The replica Socks had infiltrated the White House grounds exactly in time to create chaos upon the President's return. And the replica Gila Gingold had struck by the end of day one.

Yet all of these incidents seemed engineered to drive the President from Boston, to the White House and then, in the final phase, trick him into boarding a booby-trapped helicopter and a fiery death.

Why? Why not kill him in Boston and be done with it? What was the point of it all?

The desk phone rang.

"This is the D.C. medical examiner," a voice said.

"Go ahead," said Smith.

"This man I have just autopsied is not Thrush Limburger. I know this because the actual Limburger is on my TV vociferously proclaiming his innocence."

"Does he have a burr hole at the top of his head? The fake, I mean."

"He does."

"What is the likely significance of such procedures?"

"Typically this is an operation used to cure Parkinson's disease by the introduction of fetal brain cells into an affected brain. It is called a brain graft."

"I see. Are there any other applications?"

"Well," the M.E. said slowly, "the only similar operation I have heard about involves transspecies applications-grafting animal brain cells from one species to another. It is purely experimental, but very interesting in that it shows behaviors and inherent instincts can be translocated across species."

"Could animal brain cells be introduced into a human brain?"

"Only an unethical madman would attempt it."

"You have not answered my question," Smith snapped.

"If the rejection problem could be solved, yes."

"Am I correct in assuming that such operations would require sophisticated techniques and state-of-the-art surgical facilities?"

"You are."

"Is there anything else?"

"The man was asthmatic. An inhaler was found on his person containing a cartridge of a common antiinflammatory steroid called Vanceril."

"Are you certain it is Vanceril?"

"That is what the cartridge says."

"Messenger the cartridge to the FBI crime lab and have them compare it to a sample already in their hands. They should match."

"At once."

"Thank you," said Harold Smith, hanging up. The phone rang again instantly.

"FBI. We have no fingerprint match on the Boston shooter."

"Unfortunate."

"But the California driver's license found on the body checks out as authentic. His name really is Alek James Hidell. We're trying to develop this information further."

"Get back to me when you have something solid."

Smith hung up again. He faced his screen frowning.

The conspiracy was frightening in its rough outlines. From the surgical procedure to the clever replica of Marine One, a small fortune had been expended in setting up the President. But for what? And why had everything been filmed?

Remo Williams poked his head in the door.

"How's it coming?"

Smith rubbed his tired eyes. "This conspiracy, whatever it is, required a small fortune to mount and a small army to implement. How could they possibly engineer such an operation without leaks or defections? It makes no sense."

"Speaking of making no sense, ANC says Pepsie Dobbins is about to go on the air and blow the whole thing wide open."

"Pepsie Dobbins..." Smith said strangely. "She broke the story about the Mannlicher rifle, claiming a Secret Service source. I would like to know her source in the service."

"I'd offer to squeeze the truth out of her, but thanks to Chiun we've been made as far as Pepsie is concerned."

"I did no such thing," a squeaky voice said.

The Master of Sinanju floated into the room, looking stern.

"I never mentioned the organization, O Emperor of Discernment."

Smith sighed. "I cannot help but think that the motive lies in the letters RX, which were scratched in the shell casing the Oswald replica fired," he said.

"But why would the conspirators try to claim credit for the ambush?" asked Remo.

"To strike fear into the hearts of their enemies," said Chiun. "It is both obvious and logical."

Smith shook his gray head soberly. "No one in their right mind would dare claim responsibility. The retaliation would be massive. No, the true meaning of the letters RX must be to deflect suspicion away from the actual conspirators."

"Toward what-the medical industry?" asked Remo.

"Toward the opponents of health-care reform," said Smith.

"Like who? Gila Gingold and Thrush Limburger? No way. I don't buy it. Those guys were being framed."

"It is a baffling conundrum," admitted Harold Smith. "If only I could glean some meaning from the letters RX."

UPSTAIRS, in the White House family quarters, the President of the United States sat at a private desk out of sight of the windows and prying camera lenses, doodling the letters RX on a sheet of Presidential stationery.

He tried reversing them, stacking them, but the letters continued to mock him with their cryptic insolvability.

"Wish I could make some sense of all this," he muttered.

"You can start by explaining something to me," the First Lady said angrily. She had just walked in.