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No one had much to add to that, so the director signaled for the second tape.
Because it was night, the surveillance video cameras recorded night-vision
images that played back a grainy greenish black.
It was clear enough to show vividly the sight of what appeared to be
Congressman Gila Gingold chasing Secret Service agents across the White House
lawn and later attacking the President himself. On all fours.
Once the President hit the lawn, the figures blended together.
"I count two extra people," the director of the Secret Service said, brow
furrowing.
"Shadows," said Harold Smith, looking to Remo and Chiun.
"No. Run that over."
"Forget it," the President cut in. "Have that tape destroyed. It's not exactly
anyone's finest hour."
After that, there was an awkward silence.
The director offered, "Congressman Gingold is under observation. Maybe we'll
have some kind of explanation in a few days."
Again Special Agent Eastwood asked his companion, "What do you think?"
"That was no man," intoned Chiun. "That was a gravel worm. "
"What's a gravel worm?"
"The Egyptians of old called them gravel worms because when their eggs
hatched, they resembled gravel come to life as they crawled up from the gravel
beds of the Nile."
"I still don't know what a gravel worm is," said Remo.
"In some lands they are called alligators. In others, the word is crocodile."
Jack Murtha snapped his fingers. "I knew Gingold reminded me of something. He
reminded me of an alligator!" He ran over and reran a portion of the tape.
"Look, see the way he came splashing out of the fountain? That's how an
alligator runs."
"You mean he was trying to drag me into the fountain with his teeth?" the
President demanded.
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"That's how they kill prey. By dragging them into the water and holding them
under till they drown."
The President of the United States shuddered visibly and uncontrollably.
"What would make Congressman Gila Gingold think he was a alligator?" asked
retired Special Agent Smith.
"The same evil that convinced a simple tabby cat that it was a tiger," said
Chiun.
"I would like to examine that cat," said Smith.
The cat was brought over from the FBI testing lab in a carrier cage. It had
already begun to stiffen.
"I can't get over how much that looks like Socks," the President said glumly.
"Did I mention we found evidence that the cat was dyed to match Socks's
markings?" the director asked casually.
"No, you did not," the President said tightly.
"Actually it was the FBI forensics lab that uncovered it," the director added
hastily. "We have so much stuff coming in here, we're just shipping it right
on over to the Fantasy Factory for analysis."
"Fantasy Factory?" asked the President.
"Secret Service Intelligence Division. They're the best, Mr. President. They
spitball every conceivable scenario. If sense can be made of all these events,
they'll do it."
Special Agent Smith had withdrawn the dead cat from the carrier cage and was
going through its fur with his fingers. Near the top of the head where the fur
was black, he paused, separating the stiffening hairs.
"Find something, Smith?" asked the President.
"A scar. Perfectly circular."
Everyone gathered around to see. It was dime-sized patch of whitish scar
tissue.
"Looks surgical," muttered Remo.
"The FBI missed this," said Smith.
"Shame on them," the director said smugly.
Smith looked up. "Where is the cat's collar?"
"FBI must still have it"
"It should be examined."
"I'm sure that's being done right now," the director said, rocking on his
heels. So far, this was going smoothly. The FBI was catching most of the
heat.
"And Gila Gingold's hair should be examined for a surgical mark such as this,"
said Smith.
"What?"
"If such a mark is found, it will be incontrovertible evidence of a conspiracy
to assassinate the President."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves here. We have no evidence of any such
conspiracy. Not in Boston. Not in Washington. At least, not officially."
"What do you mean by not officially?" the President demanded.
The director lost his composure. "I mean, sir, simply that there are Secret
Service procedures we follow, and crying wolf isn't part one of them. And I'm
getting tired of this dried-up retirement case barging into my investigation,
Dallas experience or not."
"Do not speak to me that way," warned the tiny Asian Chiun.
"I was referring to Smith."
"And do not speak to Smith that way," said Chiun.
The director towered over the little Asian. "Who made you cock of the walk?"
"The Master before me."
Before the director could say anything further, the President noticed the TV [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]