"We've seized Folcroft."
"That explains all the guns."
"We suspect illegal activity is going on here."
"What kind?"
"You tell us."
"Got me. It's a hospital. The only thing out-of-bounds are the doctors' bills."
"You ever notice unusual activity here? Late-night deliveries? People coming and going after hours?"
"I'm the day-shift janitor."
"Ever been audited, Remo?"
"No."
"Keep acting stupid and we'll remedy that."
"Keep threating me and I might get mad."
"Don't mouth off. This is the IRS you're talking to."
"What about my constitutional rights?"
"IRS regulations supercede the Fourth Amendment protecting against search and seizure without due process."
"Since when?"
"Since the Civil War."
Just then the agent came back with a fistful of keys.
"This is everything I could find," he said.
Koldstad focused his too-small eyes on Remo. "Last chance to tell us what we need to know."
"I don't know what you want to know," Remo said.
"Okay, open that door."
They tried every key twice. None fit.
"Damn," Koldstad said. "Okay, get the ram. We're battering it down."
Remo tried to keep the worry off his face. The way they were going, it was just a matter of time. And Chiun might be back at any minute, or not for hours yet.
Mouth thinning, Remo decided to let things play out a little while longer. There were only eight of them. Not too many to handle if it came down to that.
The ram was a solid slug of steel weighing maybe fifty pounds with two handles welded to each side. The nose looked as if ball-peen hammers had gone at it.
"Okay, let her rip."
Two of the beefiest agents took up the ram and swung it back and forth until it built up momentum. They sent it crashing into the door on a dead run.
The door was chilled steel painted gray to blend in with the gray-painted concrete wall. The first hit didn't even mark the paint. The second cracked a paint chip loose. The third hit bounced off.
"What's wrong with you milk balls! Hit it harder!"
This time they backed up a dozen yards, got a clumsy running start and slammed the door dead center. The door shuddered on its heavy hinges. The ram bounced back, taking the agents with it. They ended up on their asses on the dusty concrete, the ram cracking the concrete floor with a loud bang.
"There's something behind that door," Koldstad said, pacing like a caged tiger. "I know there is."
"We could shoot the locks off," an agent suggested.
"They only do that in movies," Remo said quickly.
"It's worth a try," said Koldstad.
"If there is something, then you could wreck it with bullets," Remo pointed out.
Koldstad whirled. "Then you do know something!" he crowed.
"Not me," Remo said grudgingly.
"Blow it open," Koldstad said, one eye on Remo.
Remo stood there, rotating his thick wrists anxiously. He wasn't worried about Smith's computers. They were a lost cause. But Chiun's gold was not bulletproof.
A man brought a MAC-11 up to the padlock, testing the angle of fire a couple of times, and fired once. The padlock combination became a smear. The hasp held.
"I'll try again, sir."
This time he fired a short burst. The hasp broke clean, and the padlock fell to the floor with a dusty clank.
"Great. Now the other locks."
Another agent came up with a .357 Magnum and put five shots into the remaining key lock. Each shot made a bigger dent.
Then they brought up the ram and finished the job.
Remo held his breath.
Koldstad turned to Remo. "By the way," he said smugly, "you're fired."
"You can't fire me. I work for Dr. Smith."
"And the IRS owns Smith's illegal ass. Now clear yours out."
Without waiting for Remo's reply, Jack Koldstad strode up to the battered steel door and used both hands to pull it open.
And his jaw dropped at the sight of stacks and stacks of gleaming yellow ingots that reached to the ceiling. They were packed together so tightly there was only one narrow walkway between the ingots. Even under the weak overhead lights, they shed a warm golden radiance that picked out yellowish details on every face turned toward them.
There was a collective intake of breath. In that crucial moment no eyes were upon Remo Williams. Everyone was gaping at the tall stacks of gleaming yellow ingots, realizing what they had to be.
"We hit the mother lode," someone whispered.
"Our careers are saved," another murmured.
And from the corrugated door came a fierce screech, followed by a burst of raw sunlight, and a voice boomed, "Stand back from the gold of Sinanju or face the wrath of its awesome protector!"
Chapter 14
The voice of the Master of Sinanju was still echoing off the concrete walls when Remo faded back and took out the two IRS agents directly at his back with his elbows. He brought them back and up and nailed the agents on the point of their chins too fast for their dull senses to see him coming.
They dropped like wet oatmeal poured into off-the-rack suits.
From a standing position, Remo pivoted and took out a MAC-11 that was swiveling toward the corrugated door. The machine pistol lost its barrel, and the agent clutching the grip lost his weapon to the sudden fury of Remo's side kick. He was clutching his gun hand when something that felt like a ball-peen hammer knocked him flat.
Remo began weaving among the others, tapping them on their skulls with a steel-hard forefinger. Nobody got off a shot. Everybody went down hard.
"Take them out clean," Remo called.
"They have profaned my gold," Chiun squeaked.
"They only just found it. Now, do as I say."
The Master of Sinanju leaped into the basement like a great monarch butterly taking wing. But he landed on Jack Koldstad with the ferocity of a pouncing tiger.
Koldstad threw up his arms to shield himself, but his arms were forced aside so that the raking fingernails scored vertical lines in his surprised face. His mouth opened in a frozen scream, and two thumbs found the indentations on either side of his narrow forehead.
Jack Koldstad never felt the long thumbnails plunge into his brain. He just rolled his eyes up and made a pile of clothes-covered meat on the floor where he had been standing.
Remo saw all this out of the corner of his eye as he finished his sweep of the IRS. He went for knees and, when collapsing legs brought agents' heads down, he slapped the consciousness out of them with the flat of his hands.
Smack smack smack.
The last agent collapsed onto the one just before him, and Remo turned toward the Master of Sinanju, who was shaking the dust from his wide kimono sleeves like a flustered black-and-orange bat.
"I said not to kill anyone," Remo complained.
"I did not."
"I saw you drive your nails into the head guy's skull."
"I drove them into the part of the brain he obviously did not use. He will live."
"I'll believe it when I see it," grumbled Remo, joining the Master of Sinanju at the open door to the computer room.
"Well, the cat's out of the bag now," said Remo, surveying the scattering of unconscious IRS agents.
"They must all die. It is Smith's edict that any who trespass upon his kingly preserves forefeit their lives."
"We'll check with Smith first."
"I will not leave my gold unattended, for obviously you are not equal to the task."
"So sue me. I didn't think they'd get the door broken down."
"You should have broken their empty skulls."
"Look, I'll take this up with Smith, I said."
"I do not trust you to return with the correct answer. We will both take this up with Smith."
&nbs
p; "Fine with me."
HAROLD SMITH would have groaned had his body been his to command.
But the Master of Sinanju hadn't restored his bodily functions. It was a terrible feeling because it was the second day, and even though they had hooked up an IV tube and were feeding him intravenously, his bowels felt like sausages filled with cold, soggy bran meal. But his body refused to release the inert matter that made him feel as constipated as an elephant in tall sugarcane.
He forgot his inner distress as the Master of Sinanju tried to explain the situation. "The tax terrorists have breached your holy of holies, your sanctum sanctorum, O Smith."
"That means they found the gold," Remo added by way of explanation.
They hovered over his bed like anxious angels, Chiun's face a guarded mask, Remo's looking worried.
"But have no fear," continued Chiun. "We dispatched them all."
"Actually they're just down for the count. Except that guy Koldstad. Maybe he'll live, maybe he won't."
"They live or die at your pleasure, O Emperor. You have only to blink twice, and I will see that their body parts nourish the fish of the cold blue bay that is called the sound."
"It's up to you, Smitty. For my money, they were throwing their weight around like they were the KGB. They could use a lesson in manners."
Smith blinked furiously.
"He has decreed that they die!"
Smith blinked even more furiously.
Remo said, "Look again. He's blinking to beat the band. I think he wants to say something."
Remo reached out to Smith's forehead.
"No, I will do it." And Chiun's finger touched the spot.
"I instructed you to get rid of the gold first!" Smith said, sitting up. A strange expression crossed his face, and Remo pinched his nose shut with his right thumb and index finger.
The Master of Sinanju withdrew several paces with alacrity and continued the audience from a far corner of the room.
"I called for a moving van, Smitty. But the earliest they'd come is tomorrow. Besides, the grounds are crawling with IRS agents. So Chiun and I figured we'd take care of the other business first while we figured a way to work it out."
"You failed," Smith said bitterly.
"We screwed up," Remo admitted.
"You have screwed up." Chiun fairly spat out the words. "Emperor, Remo was on guard when the tax terrorists came to him. Only by my timely arrival was the day saved."
"Thanks for your moral support, Chiun," Remo said acidly. "Look, Smitty, we can still work this out. Do the IRS guys go or not?"
Smith's prim mouth thinned to a bloodless line. "Not."
Remo threw up his hands. "Great. So what's our next move?"
"The gold must be removed," Chiun said. "They must not take it."
"We can try to rent a truck, but I don't think they rent out semis."
"Do what you can, but do it soon," said Smith.
He started to climb out of bed, but Remo moved in and pushed him back into the bedclothes with a flat but firm hand. "You stay put until we pull this off," he said.
"I must change."
"Sorry."
Remo started to reach out toward Smith.
Smith threw up a pale hand. "Wait. There is something you must do for me."
Remo hesitated. "What's that?"
"I must attend to an important letter left on my desk in the confusion. Send Mrs. Mikulka in."
"They fired her."
"What!"
"It was the first thing they did when they took over. They fired me, too."
"You?"
"They mistook me for a janitor."
Smith gray eyes narrowed and turned to flint. "Then I must count on you."
"Shoot."
"On my desk is a sealed letter addressed to Winston Smith ...."
"Wait a minute. This isn't one of your old security codes, is it? I remember your dippy Aunt Mildred. She didn't even exist, but I was always getting coded messages from her."
"I assure you that Winston Smith is a real person. Now I would like you to mail that letter."
"Promise me that it doesn't involve that dippy doomsday scheme of yours."
"I assure you that Winston Smith is no concern of yours."
"Okay," said Remo.
"See that it goes out express mail."
Remo blinked. "You running a fever?"
"No. Why do you ask?"
"Express mail costs, oh, a whole eight, nine dollars. I've never known you to spring for such serious bucks when the price of a first-class stamp will get the job done."
"We have lost a day, and the letter is very important to Winston Smith."
Remo asked, "What kind of name is Winston?"
"A family name," said Harold Smith before they sent him back into the oblivion of his numbed body.
Chapter 15
It was a blow-and-go mission.
That was the first stupid thing. There were easier ways to inject a SEAL into North Nog than shooting him up out of the sail of a nuclear attack submarine in full combat gear. Why not a HALO night drop? Or Sea Stallion insertion?
Then there was the Fucking Ugly Gun.
His mission commander had come along for the ride. An hour before he was to go up the blow tube, the XO showed up in the cubicle where Winston Smith was fieldstripping his Heckler machine gun.
"You won't be needing that, Smith."
Navy SEAL Winston Smith looked up. His eyes, brown as tree bark, frowned in his lean youthful face. "It's been scrubbed?"
"Fat chance. The mission is still a go. But you'll be using this."
The XO opened a deep ordnance box and exposed the weapon to the overhead lights. "Go ahead. Pick it up."
Winston Smith stood up and regarded the weapon, his face tiger striped with camo paint.
It was a machine pistol. No mistaking that. Not with a banana clip shoved into the oversize grip, and a clear Lucite ammo drum mounted in front of the trigger guard. There were Lucite clips radiating from the breech at equally spaced angles, like spokes on a wagon wheel. At a glance Smith estimated over 250 visible rounds.
"Looks like the mother of all Pez dispensers," he said.
"Pick it up."
Smith lifted the weapon from its crushed-velvet tray. It was a slab of some kind of ceramic material, plated with as much chrome as a '57 Chevy. The barrel was unusually long. There was a chrome laser sighter slung under it, and a side-mounted AN/PVS-4 night scope. Where the rear sight should have been was an attachment Smith didn't recognize but reminded him of a combination LED display and minishotgun microphone.
"Throw away half the crap on your combat vest, Smith. This baby has almost everything you need for the mission. She fires 4.7 mm hollowpoint HydraShok subsonic rounds, fifty-five to a clip. Flick a switch, and the caseless Black Talon drum ammo is at your disposal. Also included for your dining pleasure are the spring-loaded bayonet, folding tripod, night scope and optional laser-targeting system. In addition, there's a built-in LED compass, distance reader, transponder and two-way SATCOM satellite uplink."
"What's this dohickey?" Smith asked, thumbing a button beside the clip release.
The XO smiled grimly. "Press it."
Smith did. A lip of blue flame curled out of the silencer-flash-hider muzzle.
"Butane cigarette lighter," the XO explained. "Never know when you're going to need a light." The XO's smile widened. "Ain't she a kick in the teeth?"
"Yeah," Smith growled, trying to shake the flame out, "if you like mirror-finish hardware. Why don't I just suck on the muzzle and pull the trigger? With this thing strapped to me, the warlord will see me coming two oceans away."
The XO looked wounded. "It's a CIA prototype. It came this way. It's called a BEM. Stands for Bullet Ejecting Mechanism."
"Looks more like a FUG-Fucking Ugly Gun." Smith dropped it back into its case. "Send it back. My H me just fine."
"This is part of the mission. Now, shut your dumb face and listen for once."
&
nbsp; Winston Smith made a grim mouth. His eyes seemed to retreat into his skull. Folding his arms, he listened. He did not look happy.
"Aside from the features just described, this BEM weapon can be personalized to the end user."
"The what?"
"That's what the manual calls you. The end user. It's some kind of technical jargon. Forget it, Smith. Just listen."
The BEM came out of its case again, and the XO pressed something and tiny varicolored lights strung along the barrel began blinking like a pinball machine. Smith rolled his eyes, and the dull gold loop in his left ear began dancing in the bad light.
"Now," the XO continued, "I've engaged the voice-rec function. Just say a few words into the gun."
"Fuck you, gun."
The gun said, "Fuck you, gun." It sounded like a bad imitation of Winston Smith's own voice.
"A few more words. I don't think it got it."
"It's a stupid gun, then."
"It's a stupid gun, then," said the gun in a much clearer tone. This voice sounded almost exactly like Smith's voice this time. The LED display came on. It said "Rec."
The XO smiled. "Okay, it should be configured to your voice pattern. Here, try to shoot a hole in the bunk."
"We're on a submarine. We'll get our boots wet."
The XO smiled. "Trust me on this."
"Okay," Smith said, smiling the cool smile that made him instantly recognizable despite his war paint to other members of the Navy's elite counterterrorist unit, SEAL Team Six. "I will."
He took the weapon and leveled it at the bunk. His thumb did the natural thing and found nothing.
"Where's the safety?"
"There's no conventional safety. Test fire a round."
Smith squeezed the trigger. The weapon didn't so much as click. It might have been a very heavy supersoaker.
"Broken," he said.
"Now tell the gun to arm itself."
"You tell it to arm itself. I don't talk to ordnance."
"No, it won't recognize my voice. Watch-arm one."
The gun lights continued blinking merrily.
"Try firing it."
Smith squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened.
"Now, you say it."
"Arm one," said Smith.
The gun beeped. The barrel lights winked out.
"I think I killed it," Smith said.
"Try squeezing off the round now."
Smith dropped the barrel until the muzzle came in line with his dented pillow. He squeezed once. To his surprise, the gun convulsed. A hot round went into the pillow, and a smoking shell dropped clinking onto the steel deck floor.
Identity Crisis td-97 Page 11
