Warren Murphy: Infernal Revenue

"He means the Internal Revenue Service is on his case," explained Remo.

Chiun's eyes went wide. "The confiscatory of wealth! What if they discover my gold?"

"That is why we must find a better hiding place."

"I cannot tarry. I must guard my gold with my skills and my fearsome reputation. For the Irish are a drinking race and once intoxicated are not easily swayed against seizing what is not theirs."

Chiun fled the room, leaving Remo and Smith in an uneasy silence.

"What about the Friend chip?" Remo asked. "You going to look for it?"

"If what you claim is true, and it is a reasonable supposition that the entire building is a gargantuan mainframe, it could take years of searching to isolate that chip. I have arranged to keep the power supply shut off to the building. XL has no surviving owners, so I will see what I can do about having the building razed. That should take care of the matter."

"You said that before."

"Without electricity, Friend cannot influence anyone."

Remo shifted his feet. "So CURE's back in business," he said.

"Not as before. The dedicated line to the White House is still out of commission. It may take months to restore it, assuming we can find the point where it was severed. And until the gold is converted, we are without operating funds. As it is, it is not clear what our future would be under the current administration."

"If you have your own gold, do you need Washington?"

Smith shook his head in the negative. "No. But we serve at the pleasure of the President. If he orders us to deep stand-down, I have no choice but to obey."

"Whatever that is," grunted Remo. He ran a hand over the smooth black glass desktop. "This your new computer setup?"

"Yes. I am still getting used to it."

"Just so long as it finds my parents."

Smith looked up. "I have made no progress."

"Just give me an honest effort."

"Agreed."

Remo hesitated.

"Is there anything else?" asked Smith.

Remo fidgeted. "Yeah."

"Well?"

"Remember last time out, we talked about my problem?"

"Yes. The blackouts in which you seem to lose yourself and this Shiva entity assumes control of your body."

"You said there was a name for it—a psychiatric name."

"You could be suffering from periodic psychogenic fugues."

"I told you about that dream."

Smith frowned. "I do not believe in precognitive dreams."

"Neither did I. But that's the second time I've had an acute attack of déjà vu. When I was in Tibet, it looked familiar as hell. Maybe I should stick around Folcroft a while and see if your doctors can help me. It's not normal to remember things you never experienced."

"I am sure they can help, Remo. Now if you will excuse me," Smith said, touching the black button that brought the amber screen under his desktop to life, "there is still the matter of the missing twelve million dollars Friend transferred out of the CURE account."

"With all that gold in the basement, what's twelve million dollars?"

"Twelve million dollars," Smith said flatly, "is a loose end that has to be tied. We have seen how CURE can be compromised by seemingly small details. Besides, it is twelve million of the taxpayers' dollars, and I am responsible for its recovery."

With that, Harold Smith bent his gray head and brought his thin hands to the keyboard that lit up in response to the proximity of his fingers. He was soon lost in the information stream. Remo Williams left him to his work.

EPILOGUE

Jeremy Lippincott entered the Lippincott Savings Bank in Rye, New York, early on the Tuesday after Labor Day. He had spent a perfectly beastly Sunday with his wife, Penelope, and could not wait to climb into his pink fuzzies in the sanctity of his corner office.

Rawlings intercepted him at the door, looking pale and thoroughly wrung out.

"Mr. Lippincott. A word with you, please."

"What is it, Rawlings?" Lippincott clipped.

"There is a man named Ballard to see the Folcroft account."

"Ballard. Do we know him?"

"He is with the IRS."

Jeremy Lippincott's lantern jaw clenched, the hinge muscles turning white and hardening to concrete. If it were not for the IRS and its infernally high tax brackets, the Lippincott family would own banking in the United States and not merely have cornered one piece of it.

"Very well. Let him see whatever he needs to."

"But Mr. Lippincott. You remember my speaking to you about the irregularities in the Folcroft account."

"What of it?" asked Jeremy, not remembering at all.

"Mr. Lippincott, this is the account in which the twelve million dollars mysteriously appeared the other day."

"Yes, I think I remember now," Lippincott said vaguely.

"So what shall I do? He has no court order."

"You," Jeremy Lippincott said, "will show this Ballard whatever he is legally authorized to see, while I am going to my hutch to drink carrot juice and pretend I am winning the America's Cup with my dear wife lashed to the mainmast."

With that, Jeremy Lippincott flung open the door to his office and slammed it after him.

Rawlings remembered to wipe the perspiration from his upper hp before returning to his office and the IRS revenue agent who waited there.

Perhaps, he thought, everything would turn out satisfactorily for the Lippincott Savings Bank. For Folcroft Sanitarium, it would surely be another matter. Especially if its chief administrator could not account for a twelve-million-dollar electronic windfall.

The Internal Revenue Service was not an agency to be trifled with. Once they got their hooks into you, there was no escaping them.

The very thought sent a shiver running down Rawlings's erect spine.