Warren Murphy: Identity Crisis

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.