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"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."
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"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.
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"You can start by explaining something to me," the First Lady said angrily.
She had just walked in.
The President turned in his chair. "What is it, honey?"
"Don't you 'honey' me. I checked the Federal Staff Directory. There is no
Committee on Urban Refugee Empowerment."
"Could we do this another time? I'm trying to solve a mystery."
"You and your mysteries," said the First Lady, looking over the President's
shoulder. "What's that?" [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]