Warren Murphy: Identity Crisis

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.