Warren Murphy: Identity Crisis

"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."