Warren Murphy - Identity Crisis

"Halt. Who goes there?"

Remo went for his wallet, intending to flash one of his many fictitious ID cards supplied by Smith. He was wondering if he should try to outrank the IRS agent with his Remo Eastwood Secret Service badge or bluff him with his Remo Helmsley IRS special agent's card.

The point became moot when the agent pulled out a 9 mm Glock.

Remo yanked the Glock out of the agent's hand and inserted the blunt barrel into his mouth. The IRS agent looked surprised, then bewildered, then a thin golden stream began to come out of his left pant cuff to cut into the high polish of his cordovans.

"I'm an innocent citizen," Remo grated. "Who are you?"

The agent managed to get the mushy letters IRS past his chipped teeth and plastic side arm.

"Since when does that give you cause to shoot at an innocent hospital employee?"

The man's explanation refused to get past the Glock, so Remo removed it, keeping the barrel hovering menacingly. The agent understood Remo had no intention of shooting him. His finger wasn't even on the trigger. But having felt the impact on his teeth, he recognized the threat.

"You can't do this to the IRS."

"The IRS did it to me first. Now I want answers."

The thin stream petered out as the agent got his answer organized. "This hospital has been seized by IRS order."

"I saw the sign. Why? And don't tell me for deducting his 900-number calls. Harold Smith is as honest as the day is long."

"The days are getting shorter. Smith failed to report over twelve million dollars of income. That makes him a money launderer. Maybe a drug dealer."

"Drugs! Smith?"

"This is a private hospital. A perfect cover for illicit drug dealing."

"That why the DEA is standing outside, scratching themselves?"

The IRS man nodded. "They landed just as we pulled in through the gate. There were two separate operations. We got the worst of it, fortunately."

"What do you mean, fortunately?"

"Well, we lost a man, but he was only a trainee. And another agent took one in the ankle. That gave us the moral high ground to claim jurisdiction."

"That's gotta be worth a man and an ankle," Remo said dryly.

"Without tax revenue, there is no America," the agent said in a wounded voice.

"Tell it to Thomas Jefferson."

"The founding father who said something about taxation without representation being tyranny."

"Never heard of him."

"Do tell. Where's Smith?"

"They took him to intensive care."

"Dead?"

"We don't know what's wrong with him. He's stiff as a corpse. Paralyzed, but his eyes are open." The agent repressed a visible shudder.

"Sounds scary," Remo remarked.

"I wouldn't want that to happen to me."

"Perish the thought," said Remo, reaching up to tap the man on the exact center of his forehead, where his third eye was supposed to be. The man went out like a human light. Remo grabbed him by his tie and eased him to the floor.

Remo left him lying flat on his back, stiff as a board. But not before he stopped to peel back the agent's eyelids and remove the opaque glass dome from an overhead light so the harsh bulb glare struck him full in his unprotected eyes.

Maybe the guy wouldn't go blind when he came to again, but he'd be wearing sunglasses for the next year.

Remo went up the steps. He met Mrs. Mikulka, Smith's longtime private secretary, who was carrying down a cardboard box. She was fighting back tears.

"What's going on?" Remo asked.

She caught at her throat. "Oh, you startled me."

"Sorry."

"I've been fired."

"Smith fired you?"

"No. The IRS."

"How can they fire you?"

"They have taken over the hospital. I barely had time to get my things together." She showed him the cardboard box, whose top flaps hung open and forlorn.

Remo looked into the box. "It's empty," he said.

"They confiscated my personal effects."

"Why?"

"They called them assets. My poor son's graduation photo was all they let me keep. And only because I fought them for it."

"Look," Remo said sympathetically, "I'm sure we can get this straightened out. You go home and wait for the all-clear."

"Poor Dr. Smith is in intensive care. They burst in on him as if he were some sort of criminal. But he's not like that. Not at all. He's the dearest man. Why, when my son passed away-"

"Smith up on the third floor?"

"Yes."

"Go home. Someone will call you when everything gets straightened out."

On the third floor Remo eased the fire door open. The buzz of voices was a blur. He couldn't make out any one voice in particular. He was in the process of zeroing in on one voice when he became aware of a subtle warmth on the cool stairwell.

Remo whirled.

The Master of Sinanju stood regarding him with brittle eyes.

"What happened?" Remo asked.

"Idiots happened. Why are you not guarding the gold?"

"I could ask the same of you," Remo said pointedly.

"It was our agreement that I sleep with the gold and that you pass your idle waking hours guarding the gold. When I was awakened by rudeness and ignorance, you were not there."

"I was paying my respects."

Chiun made a disgusted face. "You have no respects. Not for yourself. Not for the one who exalted you above all others of your stumbling ilk." Chiun's hazel eyes narrowed suddenly. "Respects to whom?"

"To myself. I went to the grave last night."

"Only a white would mourn for himself."

"I looked into the mirror of memory."

Chiun cocked his birdlike head to one side. "And?"

"I saw a woman's face. She had Freya's eyes." Remo lowered his voice to a whisper. "Chiun, I think it was my mother."

"You did not see your father?"

"No."

"How could you summon up your mother and not your father?"

"Because my mother appeared to me."

"Like a spirit?"

"Exactly."

"What was this lying wench wearing?"

"That's no way to speak about my mother, dammit."

Chiun clapped long-nailed hands together. Dust filtered down from the ceiling in response. "Answer!"

"I don't remember," Remo admitted.

"You have the eyes of a hawk and you do not remember common clothes?"

Remo thought about that a moment. "I don't think she was wearing any."

"Your mother was naked?"

"No. I can't explain it. I don't remember her being naked, but I know she wasn't wearing clothes."

Chiun's hazel eyes narrowed thinly. "You did indeed see your mother, Remo."

"She was trying to tell me how to find my father. She said if she could stand up where she lay, she could see mountains and a stream called Laughing Brook."

"Your mother is dead, Remo."

"I know," Remo said softly.

"But your father is not."

"She thought it was important for me to find him."

"Then it is. But first we have work to do."

"Without Smith, I don't have a prayer of finding anyone. What the hell's going on?"

"I do not know. I awoke to rudeness and boom sticks booming, and then the barley drinkers were swarming over Folcroft."

"Barley drinkers?"

"The lesser English."

"Lesser?"

"The Irish terrorists. Those who break knees and mothers' hearts with their cruelty."

"You mean the IRS?"

"Exactly."

"Little Father, the Irish terrorists are called the IRA. Irish Republican Army. The IRS is the Internal Revenue Service."

Chiun squeaked, "Those who tax! The taxing ones?"

"Exactly."

"They must not find my gold. Quickly! We must go to guard it."

"What about Smith?" asked Remo.

"I have placed him in the sleep from which only I can awaken him. The fool attempted to end his life with poison."

"Just because the IRS landed on him?"

"No doubt he is guilty of skimming vast sums from his overseers. That can await. The gold must be moved."