Harley took a roll of bills from his pocket and flashed the wad of fifties, before digging down into the center of it to find a ten-dollar bill.
"Here. For you. Thanks again."
"Okay, Mr. Harley. Really appreciate it."
After the delivery boy left, Harley gave the big carton of Instamatics, purchased at individual list price from a large camera store in the heart of the city, a healthy kick. He was beginning to think this was all kind of stupid. So he had his 200 cameras. So what? Wait for more instructions.
The more he thought about it, the more stupid it became. So he gave the carton another kick. The sound was answered, as if by a sportive echo, by the ringing of the doorbell.
Harley recoiled slightly before going to the door. It was the delivery boy again.
"I found this downstairs on the hall radiator. It's got your name on it." He handed forward a plain white envelope with "Osgood Harley" neatly lettered on it.
"Thanks, kid," Harley said.
After the boy left, Harley opened the envelope. There was a simple hand-printed note inside: Bring pencil and paper to the telephone booth at 16th and K Streets at 2:10 P.M. exactly.
The note was unsigned.
Harley got to the telephone booth at 2:12 P.M., delayed because he had to stop and have an Italian ice. The telephone did not ring until 2:15 P.M.
"Hello, Harley here," said Harley when he picked up the telephone.
"Clever," said the caller.
"I mean, hello," said Harley, who suspected
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from the sarcasm that he had made a mistake but couldn't be sure what it was.
"Do you have pencil and paper?"
"Right here," Harley said.
"Since you have already obtained the cameras, it is time to move on. You need one dozen cap pistols, the kind children use. Write it down. One dozen cap pistols. Get good ones. The loudest you can get. Don't, however, be an idiot and test them in the store.
"Have you got that?"
"Got it," Harley said. "A dozen cap pistols. Loud ones."
"Before you repeat anything else, please close the door of the telephone booth," the caller said. He waited until Harley pulled the door click-closed.
"All right. You also need four cassette tape players. Be sure they are battery operated and run at 1% inches per second. The smaller the size you can buy the better. Be sure to buy the necessary batteries to operate all of them. Good batteries. Not dead ones. Do you have that?"
"Got it," Harley said.
"Repeat it."
"Four cassette tape recorders..."
"Players. They need not be recorders."
"Okay," Harley said. "Got it. Players. Battery operated. Get fresh batteries. Small size players. Make sure they run at 1% inches per second."
"That's fine. Now. Underneath the telephone at which you're standing, you will find a key. It's taped to the underside of the shelf. Take it off and hang on to it. You will use it for your final instructions and for the next installment of your payment. Did you find the key?"
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"I've got it."
"Okay. Now don't screw things up. In a few days we are going to embarrass the entire government as it's never been embarrassed before. Your participation is vital. Goodbye."
Harley recoiled at the sharp click of the phone in his ear. Then he slammed the telephone onto the hook, snarled "jerkoff," and walked out of the booth to go to a wine shop on his way back to his apartment.
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"I don't have anything," Remo said for the second time.
"That just won't do." Smith's tone of voice made his usual lemony snarl seem like undiluted saccharin paste.
"Oh, it won't, will it? Well, try this on for size. I don't, have anything and I don't think I'm going to get anything."
"Try this one on for size too," Smith said. "You're all, God help us, that we've got. We don't have much time now. "I . . ."
"Smitty," Remo interrupted, "what's the price for a futures contract on hog bellies?"
"Three thousand four hundred and twelve dollars," Smith said, "but..."
"What's the exchange rate of Dutch guilders for American dollars?"
"Three point two-seven guilders per dollar. Stop it, will you? We are charged with our biggest single mission and we . .."
"What's gold selling for?"
"One hundred thirty seven dollars twenty-two cents an ounce." Smith paused. "I presume all this has a point."
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"Yeah, it has a point," Remo said, "The point is you've got sixty-three million frigging people on your frigging payroll and you know the market for caterpillar crap in Afghanistan and you know how many pounds of chicken bones the Zulus buy each year to wear in their noses and what they pay for them and you can find out anything and everything and now when it gets sticky, you give the find-out to me. Well, I don't have your damned resources. I'm not good at finding out. I don't know who's going to try to kill the President. I don't know how they're going to try to do it. I don't know how to stop them. And I think they're going to be successful. And I think if you want to stop them you ought to take your far-flung organization and use it and if you can't use it, stuff it, that's what I think."
"All right," Smith said evenly. "Your objections are noted and filed. You've been to the Capitol?"
"Yes. And I didn't find out a thing except that three congressmen are fat and Neil used to work at Colgate's."
"You have no idea how they could attempt an assassination?"
"None at all," said Remo.
"Chiun? What does he think?"
"He thinks it's unusual that there are no roaches in the Capitol."
"That's wonderful," said Smith. His voice would have sounded sarcastic if it hadn't always sounded sarcastic. "That is the best word you have for me?"
"Yeah. If you want anything more, read the Warren Commission report. Maybe they'll tell you something," Remo said.
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"Maybe they will at that," Smith said. "I trust you'll keep working?"
"Trust all you want," Remo said.
He hung up and looked angrily at Chiun who was sitting in a lotus position on a red straw mat on the floor. His golden daytime robe was spread gently about him. His eyes were closed and his face serene. He looked so peaceful it seemed as if he might vanish any moment into a mist of wysteria scent.
Chiun raised his hand in Remo's general direction, a silent soft stop sign.
"I am not interested in your problems," he said.
"You're a big help."
"I have told you. You have to find The Hole. That is how this murder attempt . . ."
"Assassination," Remo corrected.
"Wrong," said Chiun. "Assassination is carried out by an assassin. An act of skill, talent, and training. Until I know otherwise it's crude murder. And please stop interrupting. It's rude. Your manners have become unbearable."
"I'm sorry I'm rude. I'm really sorry. Smitty's yelling at me and the President's going to be killed and you're worried that I'm rude."
"A human being should not stop acting like a human being just because some petty annoyances enter his daily life," Chiun said. "At any rate, you must find The Hole. That is how they will try to kill this man of many teeth."
"And where do I find this hole?"
Chiun's eyes widened like those of a jockey who had just found an unexpected opening on the rail. They showed joy at the chance to stick it to Remo.
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Remo raised his hand. "Never mind," he said. "I know. I can find The Hole in my head. In my fat stomach. In something or other. Can the insults, Chiun. I've got problems."
Chiun sniffed. "Then find The Hole."
"Leave me alone. I don't need any Eastern philosophy right now."
"Wisdom is always useful. If he paid attention to the coming and going of the sun, the worm wouldn't be eaten by the bird."
"Aaaaah," said Remo in disgust and ran at the wall behind Chiun. His feet hit it, four fe
et up, and he moved his legs up in a running step, while bringing his head down and around. When his feet were almost at the ceiling and his head almost touching the floor, he did a slow almost lazy flip to land back on his feet.
"Work the corners," Chiun said. He closed his eyes again and gently touched the five fingertips of his left hand to the five fingertips of his right.
"Aaaaah," Remo said again. But he worked the corners, moving up onto a wall as he ran to a corner, running around the corner on the wall, coming down off the wall onto the floor, moving across the room, cutting the room into four triangles, his feet touching the floor only four times for each resetted circuit of the room.
He was still at it when the knock came on the door.
Remo stopped. Chiun's eyes were closed. Remo did not know how long he had been exercising, whether it was ten minutes or an hour. His heart beat was the same fifty-two it always was at rest, his respiration still twelve breaths a minute. His body was without sweat; he had not perspired for over a year.
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A bellboy stood outside the door. He had a white envelope in his hand, a large padded envelope. "This was just delivered for you, sir."
Remo looked at the envelope. It was addressed in felt-tipped printing to his hotel registry name: Remo McArgle. No return address. He felt the envelope. It felt like a book.
He gave it back to the bellhop. "I don't want it," he said.
"There's no charges due on it," the bellhop said.
"Why'd you say that?" Remo asked. "You think I'm poor?"
"No sir. Not in this room. It's just if you don't take it, what'll I do with it? There's no return address."
"Oh, all right. I'll take it." Remo took the envelope back. "Here. For you." He reached into his pocket and fished out a roll of bills and handed them to the bellhop without looking.
The bellhop looked. "Oh, no, sir." He fanned the bills and saw tens, twenties, even a fifty. "You've made a mistake."
"No mistake. You take that. Buy your own hotel. I was poor once and I don't ever want you to think I'm poor. Here. Take my change too." Remo turned his pocket inside out and gave the bellhop several dollars in dimes and quarters, Remo having long ago solved the problem of carrying other kinds of change by simply throwing it all in the street before it had a chance to accumulate.
The bellhop raised his eyebrows. "You sure, sir?"
"I'm sure. Get out of here. I'm working the corners and then I'm going to look for The Hole and sixty-three million people can't find out one little
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thing- and I'm supposed to. Wouldn't it make you mad ?"
"It sure would, sir."
"Goodbye," Remo said. Before slamming the door, he yelled out into the hall, "And I'm not poor either."
When the door closed, Chiun said. "You are poor. You are a poor substitute for rational man. If the race had depended on you, it would still be sleeping in the forks of trees."
"I don't want to hear about it. I want to read my mail."
Remo opened the padded envelope with the slit of a fingernail, like a bladed paper cutter. Inside was a book:
Summary: The Presidential Commission on the Assassination of President Kennedy.
There was no note. Remo threw the hard-covered blue bound book onto the floor.
"Just what I need," he growled. "Smitty sending me a book to read."
Chiun said, "With all these interruptions it becomes more and more impossible to meditate. First the Mad Emperor on the telephone, then you working the corners with heavy leaden feet, puffing like a chee-chee train ..."
"Choo choo," said Remo.
"And that boy at the door. Enough is enough." Chiun rose to his feet like a twist of smoke under pressure, released from a wide-topped jar. As he came up he brought the book with him. "What is this document?" he said.
"A report the government made when President Kennedy was murdered."
"Why do they call it 'assassination,'" Chiun
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asked, "when it was murder, not an assassination?"
"I don't know," Remo said. "I forgot to ask."
"Have you ever read this book?"
"No. I favor light reading. Schopenhauer. Kant. Like that."
"Who is Schopenhauer and why can't he?"
"Why can't he what?" Remo asked.
"What you just said. Schopenhauer can't."
"Never mind," Remo said.
"You can always improve your mind by reading," Chiun said. "In your case, it may be the only avenue left."
He opened the book and looked inside.
"This is a nice book," he said.
"Glad you like it. Consider it a gift from me to you. With love."
"That is very thoughtful of you. You are not all bad."
"Enjoy it. I'm going out."
"I will try to endure," Chiun said.
Down in the lobby, Remo looked up the telephone number of the Secret Service. He fished in his slacks for a dime, but his pockets were empty.
He saw the bellboy who had delivered the book to him and motioned him to come over. The boy came slowly, as if fearing Remo had come to his senses and wanted his money back.
"Hey, kid, can you lend me a dime?"
"Yes sir," the boy said. He handed over exactly one dime.
"And I'm not poor," Remo said. "I'll pay it back."
Obviously the Secret Service had not yet caught the full meaning of Washington's new
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spirit of open people's government because when Remo arrived to talk to someone about a plot to assassinate the President, he was not directed to the office he wanted. Instead he was whisked off to a room where four men demanded to know who he was and what he wanted.
"When did you plan to do it?"
"Do what ?" Remo asked.
"Don't get smart, fella."
"Don't worry, I won't. It'd make me too conspicuous around here."
"We'll just have to hold you for a while."
"Look. I'm looking for a guy. He's always popping pills. I don't remember his name, but everybody ought to remember his nervous stomach. I talked to him yesterday."
"You mean Benson ?"
"I guess so. I talked to him yesterday with a congressional committee."
"You're with a congressional committee."
"That's right," Remo said.
"Which one?"
"The House Under Committee on Over Affairs. I'm the Middle Secretary."
"I don't know that one."
"Call Benson, will you please?"
When Remo was escorted into Benson's office a few minutes later, the assistant director was swallowing a palmful of pills as if they were salted peanuts and he was in training for a cabinet appointment.
"Hello," the man sputtered as he choked and coughed.
"Drink some water," Remo said. As Benson drank, he said, "I thought Chiun got you off the pills. By talking about the egg."
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"He did. I was golden for a day. But today everything started off wrong and before I knew it I was hooked again."
"Stay with it, that's the answer," Remo said. "The first few weeks are the hardest."
"I'm going to. I'm going to try again as soon as I get rid of this pile of papers on my desk."
Remo looked at a foot-high stack of reports and correspondence on the wood-finished metal desk and wanted to shake his head. Benson would never get off the pills because he would never find the time to get off the pills. There would always j
be too much work, or a too-cranky wife, or too-bad weather. There would always be something to stop him, to put off his plan until tomorrow, and he would just keep on with pills. Better living through chemistry. Better living and faster dying.
"So what can I do for you?" asked Benson, the coughing jag completed.
"You know that the threat has come. The President's supposed to be killed tomorrow."
Benson met Remo's eyes levelly, then nodded. "We know. We're on it. One thing I don't understand is how you know
so much about it."
"Congress," Remo said by way of explanation.
"If Congress knew anything about this, it'd be all over the papers by now. Just who are you?"
"That's not important," Remo said. "Just we're on the same side. I want to know more about the payments that you made in the past."
Benson squinted, then shook his head. "I don't think I can give you that," he said.
"If you want, I can have the President of the United States call you and tell you to give me that," Remo said. He met Benson's eyes coldly.
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Benson's eyes were bloodshot, the eyes of a man who had gotten early on into the bad habit of working too hard and then found out that bureaucracies searched out such people unerringly and loaded work on them until they collapsed under the pressure. Benson's workload would decrease the day the bureaucracy found out he had been dead for three months.
"You won't have to do that," Benson said. "I guess it won't do any harm to tell you about that." Talking to Remo meant one less phone call he'd have to take, a half-dozen fewer pieces of paper that came across his desk, one less problem to take home. It was a mistake, but the kind made by the overworked. That was the way empires crumbled. Because people became too busy to be careful.
"We sent the tribute money to a bank account in Switzerland," Benson said. "I told you, I think. Walgreen delivered it for us."
"And that's where it died?"
"No. We had it tracked from there, but it went through different accounts to a half-dozen different countries. Mostly in Africa. And eventually it just got lost out and we couldn't ever nail anybody with it."
"No clues ? No surmises ?"
"None at all," said Benson.
"And you've still got nothing about tomorrow's festivities ?" Remo asked.
Benson shook his head. "Somehow," he said, "I get the idea that you're more than just a congressional flunkie."
"That's a possibility," Remo said. "Have you done everything for tomorrow? In the way of protection?"
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"Everything. Every tree. Every telephone pole. Every manhole cover. Every rooftop within mortar range. Everything. We've done every goddam thing we can, nailed down every loose end we can think of. And somehow I know it's still not enough."
"Maybe we'll struggle through," Remo said, suddenly feeling pity for Benson, and envy for the dedication to his duty that drove him into his destructive overwork.
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