"Let me at him," said Remo, lunging for the door.
"No," cried Chiun, blocking the way with his tiny body. "Do not let him taunt you into killing him and thus yourself."
"I remember what he did to me," Remo snarled, face twisting with emotion. "To Mah-Li. It was my wedding day and he took her place, the rat bastard. I stood beside my bride-to-be, not knowing that she was already dead and he had taken her place, using his mind tricks."
"That is the past, Remo," Chiun said, trying to catch his pupil's gaze and hold it.
"Shove it," said Remo. "Look at him. He wants me to come in."
"Yes! In the dimness of his mind he understands that if you strike him dead, you too will fall and he will have his revenge in death. Yours and his."
The Dutchman stood looking at Remo through the window, wild-eyed and expectant. He tittered.
Smith spoke up. "Remo, as your father, I order you-"
"Stuff it," Remo said sharply.
"If you will not obey your true father, stubborn one," Chiun said, "obey your adopted one."
Remo just looked at Chiun and Smith, as if doubting their sanity and his own. The tension began going out of his face.
"We can't leave him here," Remo protested. "He could break out at any moment."
Smith shook his gray head seriously. "If he had that ability, Remo, he would have done it."
"But he did. We hauled him back, thinking he was Beasley."
"Did he resist?"
"Well, no," Remo admitted.
"His mind may be coming out of his autistic phase, but apparently not enough for his Sinanju skills to return."
"Only a matter of time," warned Remo, not taking his eyes off the Dutchman's wan, taunting face.
"All in due time."
"What say we check?" Remo said tightly.
"Master Chiun will examine Purcell."
Reluctantly Remo stepped aside.
The Master of Sinanju strode into the cell. The Dutchman retreated. Chiun stalked him about the room until Jeremiah Purcell found himself trapped in a corner covered by drawings.
A quirk of fear came into the Dutchman's pale face. He trembled from head to toe, setting his long cornsilk hair shimmying.
Without warning, Chiun spun Purcell in place, exposing the brass hasps that pinioned his sleevewrapped arms to his back. A slashing fingernail broke them in a vertical line. The canvas sleeves dropped loosely at his sides.
"Strike me," Chiun dared.
The Dutchman only giggled.
Chiun began weaving lines and circles before Purcell's pallid face. Each feint brought a flinch, but no return blow.
Chiun paused, frowing. When his fingers licked up to squeeze a nerve on the Dutchman's shoulder, there was no resistance, no blocking blow. The Dutchman wilted, unconscious.
"No mind that retains the sun source," Chiun intoned, "would allow the body it controls to be touched in anger."
His arms disappearing into his kimono sleeves, the Master of Sinanju emerged from the cell. "He is harmless, except for his crazed mind," Chiun added solemnly. "Let us go."
They walked away, Remo reluctantly, after Harold Smith barred the door.
Remo snapped his fingers. "Wait a minute. If that's Purcell, where's Beasley?"
"Escaped," said Smith, his voice flat.
"Damn! That must have been Beasley in the car that tried to run us over."
"We will undertake the search for Beasley later," said Smith grimly. "I must deal with the IRS first."
"Want me to fetch them?"
"Just Brull. The others can cool their heels on the roof."
"Maybe it'll rain," said Remo. "And the IRS will get soaked for a change."
They were in Harold Smith's office. Smith threw himself into his high-backed chair behind the desk with the black glass top.
"I have explained that this is a FEMA site," Smith was saying. Big Dick Brull stood nervously between Remo and Chiun. He was staring at Chiun, who still wore the black kimono with the orange markings that made him resemble a monarch butterfly.
"You're the butterfly," Brull blurted out.
"And you are the taxidermist."
"I'm no taxidermist."
"You got that right," said Remo. "A taxidermist leaves the skin."
Brull swallowed hard.
Smith was working the telephone.
"This is Smith. My password is Site Forty. I require independent confirmation of wire transfer number 334 to the Grand Cayman Trust emergency account."
"One moment," a crisp voice said loud enough for everyone to hear. Smith had engaged the speakerphone function.
A moment later the crisp voice said, "Confirming wire transfer number 334 to Grand Cayman Trust. Date is September 2, this calendar year. Amount is twelve million and no change."
"Confirm transfer fully authorized by FEMA," said Smith.
"Fully."
"That will be all. Thank you," said Smith.
He looked up, regarding Big Dick Brull coldly.
"Those are just voices," Brull said defensively.
"You now have the FEMA wire-transfer locator number to take to your superiors. If you dare."
Brull swallowed hard.
"Of course, since it was the unreported twelve million that showed up in the Folcroft bank account that precipitated the seizure of Folcroft Sanitarium, it might be more expedient to pay the director of the Lippincott Savings Bank a call. I am certain he will confirm that the money was transferred in error and does not belong in the account. They will wipe it from their computers once this has been established to the satisfaction of everyone. And if you are smart, you too will wipe it off the IRS records."
"I can't promise that."
"You have already seen too much."
Brull tossed his bead in either direction, saying, "I see these two doing impossible things. I see lavender pterodactyls and pink cartoon rabbits that don't-can't-exist in real life."
"You sound like you need a long vacation, pal," suggested Remo. "You're imagining things."
"Don't give me that! You saw them, too!"
Remo shook his head in a slow negative.
"I see only a liar," Chiun said coolly.
Big Dick Brull seemed to shrink into his shoes. His shoulders sagged. "I make no promises," he said grudgingly.
"And I make no guarantees," replied Smith. "Remo."
Remo Williams reached up and gave Dick Brull's neck a squeeze that brought a flush to his face and made him feel as if his eyeballs were about to pop from their sockets.
"You have breached one of the most secure installations in America," said Smith, his voice stretched drum-tight. "You have behaved as if you are above the law, with the result of many unnecessary deaths." His glasses began to steam again. "And you have violated my home and my wife. Only your high position with the Internal Revenue Service and your usefulness to us in resolving this outrage without further publicity is keeping you alive."
Brull lost all facial color.
"And don't forget," added Remo, "we know where you work."
"You can't threaten a Treasury agent like this."
"You haven't been paying attention," said Remo, lifting Brull off his feet and sweeping him around like dangle-footed puppet. "We already have."
At that, Harold Smith came out from behind his desk. His face might have been a skull scraped raw. His eyes were hard. He held one fist at his side, a trembling mallet of bone.
Stepping up to Brull, Smith let fly with a roundhouse punch.
Brull saw it coming, but his arms refused to lift in his own defense. He took Harold Smith's bony knuckles on the point of his jaw, his head snapping half around.
"Show him out," Smith clipped.
"My pleasure," said Remo.
Ears ringing, Dick Brull was sent skimming along the corridor on the seat of his pants, out of the office and toward a particularly unforgiving-looking wall. Unable to stop, he closed his eyes as the wall came rushing into his face.
So
mehow he made a sudden impossible right-angle turn and found himself in the elevator, stopped short by the hard impact of his heels against the rear of the car. The doors rolled closed. Dick Brull didn't bother getting up. He just reached up for the button marked 1.
Standing up was awkward just about now. He was sitting in a warm puddle he was certain had originated in his frightened bladder.
REMO, CHIUN and Harold Smith stood looking at one another with doubtful expressions.
Smith cleared his throat as he adjusted his tie.
The Master of Sinanju looked bland and expectant.
Remo broke the silence.
"You," he said bitterly, "are not my father."
"Would that it were so," said Chiun, closing his eyes in pain.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Remo snapped.
Chiun looked ceilingward, avoiding his pupil's eyes. "It is an ugly truth. Emperor Smith is your true father. I have known this for many years."
"Bull!"
"Look closely. You have his nose."
Remo pointed at Smith's patrician nose. "That's not my nose. My nose doesn't look anything like that!"
"Remo," Smith said awkwardly, "I understand your discomfort."
"He can't be my father," Remo continued hotly, "because if he's my father, then his wife is my mother. And I've seen my mother. She's a beautiful woman."
"-who told you that you knew your father," Chiun added.
"Maybe," Remo said defensively.
Chiun indicated Harold Smith with a graceful sweep of his arms. "Behold your true father, Prince Remo."
"Don't call me that!" Remo said angrily. "None of this is real. It's gotta be one of the Dutchman's freaking illusions."
"There is a way to prove this," said Smith. "I can call my wife. She will confirm what I have already related."
Remo hesitated.
"Afraid of the truth?" Smith asked.
"No. Go ahead."
Smith returned to his desk to make the call.
Out in the corridor, the elevator dinged.
"Someone comes," Chiun warned.
"Someone with a gun," growled Remo. "I smell residual gunpowder."
Remo and Chiun took up positions on either side of the door and waited for it to open.
The gun barrel entered a full breath ahead of the gunman.
Behind the desk, Harold Smith stiffened.
"Winston!" he breathed.
Then Remo's and Chiun's hands flashed out in unison.
"No!" Smith cried.
It was too late.
Winston Smith saw his Uncle Harold the moment he entered the Folcroft office. He had rehearsed the speech all the way across the Atlantic, in the belly of the MAC C-130 he'd stowed aboard. He had it down pat by the time he'd slipped unseen from the cargo bay at MacGuire Air Force Base and grabbed a taxi.
But with his Uncle Harold blinking numbly at the muzzle of the BEM gun, his mind went blank and all the rage of rejection drained from him.
Then the gun in his fist began clicking like mad. It happened so fast it took Winston Smith's breath away. He hadn't so much as caressed the trigger.
When his eyes stopped blinking, Winston Smith saw that the Lucite spokes of his ammo clips had disappeared completely. He lifted the weapon to his face. The clear drum was gone, too. So was the banana clip in the heavy grip.
It was then he realized he was flanked by two men.
One was short and very, very old. An Asian. The other was tall and lean and looked vaguely familiar. Both were holding fistfuls of Lucite clips in their hands, their postures casual.
"Nice gun," said the tall one.
"Screw you," Winston growled, directing the big muzzle toward him. "There's still one in the chamber."
"We always give a freebie," the tall one said with a hard smile.
"Don't mess with me. I'm a trained SEAL."
"That so? Let's see you balance that toy on your nose while clapping your flippers."
"Your mother," Winston growled, squeezing the trigger.
The BEM convulsed. It was at point-blank range, and there was no way he could have missed. No way at all.
But as the gun sound stopped echoing, the tall guy with the dead-looking eyes and insolent smile stood his ground, unhurt. He should have gone down with a hot round in his thigh, but all he did was fold his arms smugly.
Winston Smith blinked. Was it his imagination, or was there a suggestion of a blur around the edges of the guy? As if he had stepped out of the path of the round and back again too fast to be seen?
"So much for your freebie," the guy said coolly.
"Your mother," repeated the kid in the camouflage outfit and tiger-striped face.
Remo looked more deeply into that face, blinked and said, "You do kinda look like my mother. Around the eyes."
Chiun abruptly seized the kid and spun him around.
"Who are you?" he demanded, searching the green-and-black planes of his face.
"Winston Smith. What's it to you, gook?"
"If you are Winston Smith, why do you wear Remo's face?"
"Who's Remo?"
"I am," said Remo, spinning the kid back again so he could get a better look at him. "He doesn't look like me at all."
"Look more closely, Remo," said the shaken voice of Harold Smith. "And you will see the resemblance."
"I don't see any such thing," Remo snapped. "This is your nephew, right? The one you had me mail the kiss-off letter to?"
"Damn right," said Winston Smith bitterly.
"Wrong," said Harold Smith.
"What?" said Winston Smith.
"He is the proof that I am your father, Remo," said Smith, coming out from behind the desk. "He is my grandson, your son."
"You told me you were my uncle," Winston Smith blurted.
Smith shook his gray head gravely. "A lie-told to conceal from you the truth of your parentage."
"I don't get this," said Remo and Winston in unison.
"Aiiieee! Remo has a son!" Chiun wailed.
Smith said, "I thought you always wanted a son for Remo, Master Chiun?"
"Yes. One to train in Sinanju. A suitable heir to the House. Look at him. He is even whiter than Remo. He smells of hamburger and alcohol and he thinks he is a sea lion."
"SEAL," corrected Winston Smith. "It means Sea Air Land-"
"And he carries a boom stick so ridiculous it is a wonder he has not shot himself dead," Chiun wailed in conclusion.
"Don't think it hasn't crossed my mind," said Winston, glaring at Harold Smith.
Remo, his mouth hanging slack, said, "This kid isn't my son. I never had a son."
"Correction. You never had a son that you knew about," said Smith.
"You're my son?" said Remo, his voice flat.
"If I am, I plan on shooting myself," growled Winston Smith.
"You might as well," moaned Chiun, throwing up his hands. "It is already too late. You have been ruined by uniforms and guns. You can never achieve Sinanju."
"What's this gook talking about?" Winston asked Remo.
Chiun stepped up and seized an earlobe. Winston Smith tried to defend himself with judo. His hands were slapped numb, and he was brought to his knees by the sudden white-hot needles of pain in his right earlobe.
"Aaahhh!"
"It is just like the old days," Chiun told Remo. "Before I taught you respect."
"This is crazy!" Remo said, white-faced. "This isn't happening." He pointed an accusing finger at Harold Smith. "You're not my father." The finger swung around. "And this Navy squid isn't my son!"
"Owww! What-oww-watch you say about the Navy, dickhead!"
"I'm a Marine, swabbie."
"Jarhead. Owww!"
"Speak to your father with proper respect, seal-that-barks."
"Owww!"
"Wait a minute. Wait a minute," Remo said suddenly. "This isn't real. It's gotta be more of the Dutchman's illusions."
"Which?" asked Chiun, cocking his bald head to one side.
"Why am I an illusion?" Chiun asked curiously, not releasing Winston Smith.
"Because you're backing Smith's stupid story that he's my father," said Remo confidently.
"It is true," Chiun admitted. "I am very sorry to have kept it from you all these years, Remo. But it is true."
"Bullshit!" Remo yelled.
"Denial is the first stage of parenthood," retorted Chiun.
Remo stopped, closed his eyes and listened for heartbeats. He counted them. Three. Smith's checked out. Chiun's came through clear and strong. And the kid's heartbeat, too. It wasn't the Dutchman's heart sound. Remo knew that. So the kid wasn't Jeremiah Purcell cloaked in an illusory sheath. The kid was real. And he had the eyes of Freya and the mother Remo never knew.
Remo opened his own eyes, saying, "No way this is real. It can't be." His voice shook with doubt.
Harold Smith cleared his throat noisily. "It is time to clear the air," he said somberly. "For all of you. "
Everyone looked to Harold Smith expectantly.
"When Remo first came to Folcroft for training," Smith began, "it was assumed that his life of service might be short. The work was difficult and dangerous."
"What work?" asked Winston.
"Hush," said Chiun.
Smith asked, "Remo, do you remember a Folcroft nurse named Deborah Dean?"
"No."
"Small wonder. You were sleeping your way through the nursing staff in those days"
"Sue me."
"I saw this pattern of behavior, and knowing that the. . . ah. . . organization would have a long-term need for an enforcement arm, paid Ms. Dean to carry your child."
"Liar. I used rubbers in those days."
Smith looked uncomfortable. "Artificial insemination. We took a semen specimen the first day you came to Folcroft. Winston was the product. He spent his formative years as a ward of Folcroft, his adolescence in military schools and for the last few years served with distinction as a Navy SEAL."
"You can stow the distinction part," Winston Smith said sourly. "I went AWOL when I got your get-lost letter."
"Unfortunate. Perhaps your error can be rectified."
"Up yours," Winston Smith snapped.
"The hamburger does not fall far from the tree," sniffed Chiun, regarding Winston Smith unkindly.
Identity Crisis td-97 Page 22