Identity Crisis

Remo, Chiun and Smith stood outside that cell, talking.

"Maybe Beasley saw something," Remo suggested.

"That is not Beasley," said Chiun very suddenly.

Remo and Smith looked at him.

"What do you mean?" asked Smith.

"Listen to his heartbeat."

Smith grew puzzled. Remo shut his eyes, listening.

"Normal heartbeat," said Remo. "So what?"

"That is impossible," snapped Smith. "Uncle Sam Beasley was outfitted with an animatronic heart after he was brought out of suspended animation."

"Then that's not Uncle Sam," said Remo.

"If not, then who is it?" asked Smith.

The glass in the cell door suddenly wavered as if it were a TV screen or a porthole shimmering in water.

When it cleared, Uncle Sam Beasley was gone. In his place stood Jeremiah Purcell-the Dutchman. He regarded the three startled faces with his neon blue eyes and began giggling.

"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.

Somehow 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.

Remo thought hard. "All of it. Him. Smith. Maybe even you."

"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.

Coloring, Smith went on. "Winston was never told the truth. Only that his parents had died and that I had been appointed his guardian in their absence. If anything were to happen to Remo, the organization would have an operative after Winston's SEAL training was complete."

"Why was he not given to me?" Chiun complained.

"I assumed Remo would object to allowing his son to undergo Sinanju training. And frankly, after all that has transpired over the years, I was looking for an agent who was more . . . er . . . controllable."

"You got that right," said Remo. "You already ruined my life. I wouldn't have let you ruin his." Remo caught himself. "Not that this squid is any son of mine."

"You do not know that."

"For one thing," Remo said, "no son of mine would wear an earring."

"Goat-fuck," Winston Smith said. "Owww. Why does he do that?" Winston asked nobody in particular.

"Chiun enjoys inflicting pain," said Remo.

"What do you mean by agent?" Winston asked. He was ignored.

"A Navy SEAL seemed the next-best thing," finished Smith.

"You insult Sinanju," Chiun said coldly.

"And you insult the Navy," Winston retorted. "SEAL Team Six is the best there is."

"You have a lot to learn, sonny," said Remo.

"You have a lot to learn, sonny," a new voice said.

"Is there an echo in here?" Remo wondered.

"Who said that?" Smith demanded.

"My gun," said Winston Smith in a strange voice.

"Your gun talks?" said Remo skeptically.

"It's configured to my voice," Winston blurted. "It only repeats what I say. How come it recognizes your voice pattern?"

"There is your proof, Remo," Chiun cried.

"Since when is a talking gun proof of paternity?"

"Why did you return in defiance of my express wishes, Winston?" asked Smith.

"To pay you back, you cold mother."

"How have I wronged you? I raised you, supported you, saw that you had opportunities in life."

"And you dumped me in military schools as soon as you could get rid of me," Winston Smith said hotly. "I thought you were my uncle. I thought you were proud of me. Now I come to find out I'm some kind of fucking guinea pig. My whole life is a lie."

"Join the club," said Remo. "You should see what he did to me."

"What?"

"I've been dead for twenty years."

Winston looked as blank as his camo face would allow.

Smith cleared his throat. "Winston, the circumstances that forced me to write you off have turned out to be temporary. I regret the cold tone of my letter, but it was in your best interests. You were a loose end that needed tying."

"Thanks a heap."

"The crisis has passed," Smith continued. "It is in my power to return you to your unit with minimum disciplinary repercussions."

"Who made you admiral of the fucking fleet?"

Smith winced. "More than that I cannot say."

"Thanks but no thanks. I'd rather bail."

"So bail," said Remo, opening the door for him. "No one's stopping you."

"What about this guy?"

Chiun withdrew his fingernails from Winston Smith's earlobe. Smith got up, recovering his pistol.

Remo looked Winston Smith in the eye for a long time. "No way he's related to me," he said flatly.

"That goes double for me," Winston said.

"I'm sorry that both of you have had to come to the truth so abruptly and without preparation," said Harold Smith. "But the facts remain. Remo, I am your father, and Winston, you are my grandson, Remo's son."

"Prove it," said Remo, folding his arms.

"Yeah," said Winston, copying Remo's posture. "Prove it."

Chiun grasped the puffs of hair over both ears in frustration. "They are both blind."

"We can begin where we left off before we were interrupted," said Smith. "I will call my wife at her sister's home."

Smith sat down and began dialing.

"This is Harold. How are you? Is my wife staying there? Thank you. Put her on."

Smith engaged the speakerphone function.

Mrs. Smith sounded shocked. "Harold! Where are you?"

"Folcroft. All is well again. The IRS have gone. It was a simple misunderstanding. We should be able to go home tomorrow, if not tonight."

"Harold, it was horrible. They threw me out into the street!"

"I know, dear. But it is over. Maude, I would like to go over our discussion of last night."

"Discussion?"

"Yes, you remember. You came to Folcroft last night."

"Harold, I was here all last night, frantic with worry. I tried calling the hospital, but no one would give me any satisfaction."

"Excuse me?" said Smith, gray eyes blinking rapidly.

"Harold, what are you talking about? Are you well?"

Flustered, Harold Smith said, "It is nothing. It must have been a dream. I will be home as soon as I can."

Smith abruptly hung up. "Er," he began, "it appears there has been a slight misunderstanding."

"Hah!" said Remo. "I knew it!"

"But Maude came to me last night," he said dully.

"Yeah," Remo said. "And we all saw pink bunny rabbits and purple pterodactyls. None of them were real, either."

Smith made long faces as he sat thinking.

"We did have a conversation about the search for your parentage within hearing of the Dutchman's room," Smith went on. "It is possible that he could have created the illusion of a visit from my wife, to sow confusion and dissension among us."

"Who's the Dutchman?" asked Winston Smith.

No one bothered to reply.

Smith continued. "Then it was all concoction." His face was almost comical with realization.

"Right," said Remo. "I'm not related to you and you are not related to me. End of freaking story."

"There is still this one," said Chiun, indicating Winston Smith.

"Forget him. "

"He wears your face, Remo," Chiun pointed out.

"I don't believe it."

"Neither do I," said Winston Smith. "I'm bailing."

Smith spoke up. "I am afraid we cannot allow this. You know too much, Winston."

Winston Smith started backing out of the room. "I don't know jack shit. Except that you're a fraud."

"If you will not return to your unit, some provision must be made for you. Chiun, render him unconscious, please."

Chiun shook his aged head. "He is not my son. He is Remo's responsibility."

"I offer him to you for training," Smith said quickly. "Since Remo has made his intentions of leaving the organization clear, we have need of a new Destroyer. I put him in your hands."

"Don't I get any say in this?" Remo and Winston said in unison. Their heads snapped around, and their gazes locked.

After a beat Remo suddenly advanced on Winston Smith. Smith drew a combat knife from a boot sheath. Remo stopped. Suddenly he tossed Winston a set of car keys. He caught them.

"What's this?"

"There's a blue Buick parked down the road. Take it. Change your name. And don't look back."

Winston Smith's camouflage tiger stripes gathered up in confusion. "You're giving me your car?"

"Once Smith gets his hooks into you, he'll never let go. You have a chance for your own life." Remo gave Harold Smith a hard look. "Which is more than I ever got. Take it and go."

Winston Smith smiled cockily. "Thanks, jarhead."

"Don't mention it, swabbie."

And he was gone.

Smith rose from his desk. "Remo! We cannot-"

Remo kicked the door shut. "Forget it, Smitty. Your story may be true or not. Either way, the kid deserves a decent break after the raw deal you handed him."

"Here! Here!" said Chiun.

Smith settled back into his chair, features haggard.

"And what kind of a name is Winston?" Remo demanded.

"I told you before. A family name. It happens to be my middle name."

"You ought to be shot just for naming an innocent kid after a cigarette," said Remo.

Smith made a lemony mouth and said nothing.

The Master of Sinanju floated up to the glasstopped desk and plucked something out of one voluminous sleeve. He laid it on the black glass.

Smith squinted.

"If it is still your wish to end your life," Chiun intoned, "there is the means."

Smith took up the white coffin-shaped pill, regarded it with an impassive expression and without a word slipped it into the watch pocket of his vest.

"The crisis has passed."

No one said anything for a long awkward moment.

Then Smith said, "I have many loose ends to clean up. Staff to rehire. Patients to calm down. Strings to pull with the IRS and DEA."

"What about the Dutchman?" asked Remo.

"His medications will have to be changed. His mind is clearing and the danger is growing. At the moment I am more concerned with Uncle Sam Beasley."

Smith pulled closer the worn attache case that Big Dick Brull left on the desk. He worked the combination that disarmed the explosive latch charges, exposing a portable computer and telephone handset. He booted it up.

"The basement computers are inoperative but may be salvageable, even if the data stored on them is not. In the meantime, I will undertake a search for Beasley."

"Don't forget my mother," Remo reminded. "I'll make you a copy of the drawing."

"I will do my best as promised," said Smith absently.

"Do better," warned Remo. "You have a lot of sins to make up for."

Harold Smith said nothing to that. He was already lost in cyberspace.

"Come on, Little Father. Let's go panning for gold."

Hazel eyes widening, the Master of Sinanju followed Remo out of the office.

Chapter 35

Remo Williams led the Master of Sinanju down to the Folcroft basement. They walked in silence, lost in their own thoughts.

There Remo raised the corrugated loading door.

"Remember when the DEA stormed ashore that second time and you tore into them?" he asked Chiun.

"They were fools and died fools."

"You made a lot of noise."

"Striking terror into one's enemies is never wasted," sniffed Chiun.

They were standing on the rust-stained concrete loading dock.

"It covered the whizzing very nicely," said Remo.

"What whizzing?"

Remo had picked up a crowbar along the way. He drew back, letting fly.

It seemed a casual gesture. But the crowbar whizzed once it left his fingers. It kept on whizzing as it arced high out over the sound. The noise it made splashing was too far away to make much impression on their eardrums. But their sharp eyes easily detected the eruption a mile out on the sound where it struck.

"You threw my gold out to sea!" Chiun cried in horror.

"No," said Remo. "I threw everyone's gold out to sea. I threw high and far so no one noticed. Not even you. Of course, I had to work really fast and one ingot spun out of control and sank a DEA boat. But I figured they had it coming."

"What if my gold rusts?" demanded Chiun.

"You know that gold doesn't rust. Like I kept telling you, it's safe as soap."

Chiun puffed out his cheeks while his wrinkled face smoldered. "You will recover every dram of gold or you will never hear the end of it," Chiun said in a flinty voice.

"Done," said Remo unconcernedly.

"Any gold missing from my share will come out of your share."

"Fair enough."

"And any missing from Smith's share comes out of your share, as well. Unless, of course, Smith does not notice it-in which case, it goes into my share."

Remo blinked. "How is that possible?"

Chiun levered a quivering finger at the choppy waters of the sound. "Do not think. Swim. I will not endure the thought of the gold of the House of Sinanju lying wet and untended at the bottom of this barbarian bay."

"Next time let's use a bank."

"Pah! Banks are untrustworthy."

"How is that?"

"They accept your gold and money with smiles and promises of safekeeping. But when you demand it back, they are full of lies and excuses."

Remo looked puzzled.

"They never give you back your own money. It is always someone else's," sniffed Chiun.

Laughing, Remo started down toward the water. Chiun followed, gesticulating in anger with every step.

Once they reached the water, Chiun noticed the pleased cast of his pupil's face.

"What are you thinking of?" he asked.

Remo took the police sketch out of his pocket, carefully unfolding it. "I know what my mother looks like. She talked to me."

"She was an illusion."

"No. It was her. The Dutchman is good at projecting illusions, but he couldn't have cast one a whole state away. It was her. I don't know her name, but I know her face and her voice. It's a first step. And my father is out there, whoever he is." Remo stepped out of his shoes. "And I intend to find him."

"Do not get your hopes too high," Chiun warned.

Remo looked up from the drawing. "You seemed awfully eager to go along with that crap about Smith being my father. What was that all about?"

Chiun shrugged. "A mistake. Like your sending that noisy youth away."

"You think he's my kid?"

"He wears your face."

Remo shrugged. "Hard to tell under all that camo paint."

"I notice you did not wipe it away, the better to see the truth."

"Maybe I didn't want to know the truth."

Chiun smiled. "You are a good father, Remo Williams. Even if you have been woefully negligent in the past."

Remo handed Chiun the folded drawing for safekeeping and without another word slid into the water. It swallowed him without a ripple. After a moment there was no trace of his existence.

Down the road a car started up.

The Master of Sinanju stood looking at the regathering water, listening to the fading engine sound as his wizened features pulled tight and concerned.

Behind him the purple pterodactyls flying low over Folcroft Sanitarium on tiring wings slowly faded against the cobalt sky until they were no more.

Chapter 36

Big Dick Brull showed up at the Lippincott Savings Bank unannounced later that day. That was the way IRS usually hit a bank. Without warning. That way no one could bury records, pretending to misplace them or stonewall in other ways.

Striding through the staid lobby, his head swiveling like a radar dish, confident as only a man who worked for the federal government and had a fresh change of underwear could be, Big Dick Brull made a beeline for the director's office.

"Richard Brull, IRS, to see Jeremy Lippincott."

"Are you expected?" asked the secretary.

"Not if we can help it," said Brull.

"What shall I tell Mr. Lippincott this is in reference to?"

"The Folcroft Sanitarium account and a matter of twelve million dollars."

The secretary dutifully conveyed the information to Jeremy Lippincott by intercom.

Lippincott's amplified voice was grating. "Confound it! I have already explained the mistake to the IRS. Twice. Why are they sending more people to annoy me?"

"Because," barked Big Dick Brull into the speaker, "IRS takes no answers at face value, and no prisoners at all."

"Sir! You can't go in there!" the secretary protested.

Big Dick Brull barged in anyway. He crossed the threshold, and behind his desk, Jeremy Lippincott froze in midnibble, eyes startled, the raw carrot dropping from his poufy pink fingers.

Both men froze for an eternity that lasted barely thirty seconds. Lippincott gulped guiltily.

Big Dick Brull lost the contents of his bladder before he lost consciousness.

THE NEXT THING he knew it was hours later and he was in hospital being looked over by a team of doctors and his immediate IRS superior, who was looking very displeased.

"You have a lot of explaining to do, Brull."

Brull did his best to explain. "It was a big fuzzy bunny rabbit. It followed me from the hospital. It's been following me for days, beating its drum. I don't think it likes me."

"I received a call from the Almighty. She is very upset at me. In turn, I am very upset with you. It seems you seized a private hospital without going by the book and managed to screw us up with DEA, FEMA and no one knows who else."

Big Dick Brull looked at his naked toes peeping out from under the bed sheet. "A bunny wabbit stole my shoes," he said in a tiny voice. "Pterodactyls ate my paperwork."

"There, there," he was told by one of the attending physicians. "No need to repeat it all. We heard enough while you were under. Why don't you rest?"

"Dickie wants to go home," Brull said in a whiny voice.

"That's not possible right now. In fact, we're thinking of moving you to a place where they know how to deal with people who see pink rabbits and purple pterodactyls."

Big Dick Brull looked blank.

"Yes. It's a marvelous facility. Not very far from here, in fact. Perhaps you've heard of it. Folcroft Sanitarium?"

Big Dick Brull opened his mouth to scream. All that came out was a mousey squeak. Then they injected the needle into his forearm.