Identity Crisis td-97 Read online

  He looked in. The patient sat at his writing desk, his scarlet pirate costume askew.

  "Time for your daily dose, my good friend," Dr. Simon called as he unlocked the door.

  The patient turned his head. His grin was cracked. His single exposed eye rolled up in his head.

  Simon shivered. It was uncanny how much a resemblance to Uncle Sam Beasley the man bore. Of course, had Uncle Sam lived, he would be much much older than this poor wretch. In fact, the joke on the floor went, Uncle Sam was so old if he had lived he'd still be dead.

  "Time for your meds," he said cheerily, handing over a single bright pink pill and a paper cup filled with water.

  The patient accepted them. He frowned at the pill when he looked it over. "This is the wrong color. It should be purple."

  "Nonsense. It's your usual. Now take it."

  The patient obliged. He popped the pink pill into his mouth, chasing it down with water.

  "Open, please."

  The patient opened his mouth. When the questing tongue depressor showed that the pink pill hadn't been hidden under the tongue or secreted between teeth and cheek, Dr. Simon nodded and continued his rounds.

  He was very surprised to find a familiar lemony face staring out of a padded cell a few doors down.

  "Dr. Smith?"

  "Bring Brull here," Smith said hoarsely. "Tell him I have something important to say to him."

  "But what... Why?"

  "Get Dick Brull!" Harold Smith thundered.

  BRULL WASTED NO TIME getting to Dr. Smith's cell.

  "Had enough, Smith?" he gloated, eyes straining to see over the lower edge of the door window.

  "I am prepared to tell you what you want to know."

  "Shoot."

  "You are correct. Folcroft Sanitarium is a secret US. installation"

  "Of course I'm correct." Brull's eyes narrowed. "But how correct am I?"

  "This is not a CIA site."

  "No?"

  "When I came to Folcroft, it was a sociological research center. That much is true. Over the years it became a hospital for special long-term-care cases. But that is only a cover."

  "Come on. Out with it. A cover for what?"

  "The Federal Emergency Management Agency."

  "FEMA," said Smith.

  "FEMA," repeated Big Dick Brull in an uncertain voice. "What kind of FEMA operation?"

  "You are aware of the mission of FEMA-the true mission?"

  "Yeah, emergency preparedness in the event of nuclear war. IRS has a doomsday program just like it. If we ever got nuked, the service has emergency powers to levy a flat tax on everybody."

  "The Federal Emergency Management Agency was set up to handle domestic disasters such as hurricanes, floods, earthquakes and other natural calamities. Ostensibly."

  "And done a damn poor job of it until recently."

  "Until the Cold War ended, you mean. Since then, the actual mission of FEMA has leaked out. The agency was set up to keep the US. government operating in a postnuclear environment. Among the assets are mobile communications vans designed to keep the fractured power centers in touch with one another. These centers are hardened safe sites scattered throughout the nation. The broad plan was very simple. Should there be a nuclear attack, the President, First Family and certain key members of the legislative and judicial branches will be whisked to these hardened sites. From these places, a skeleton government will operate until the emergency has passed."

  Brull swallowed.

  Smith went on. "I told you that I represented an agency more powerful than IRS. This is it. Folcroft is a FEMA site."

  "What kind? I mean, we're a heck of a long way from Washington."

  "If that information were to come into your possession," Smith said coldly, "I would be sanctioned to terminate your life on the spot."

  "You can't do that," Brull barked. "I'm essential IRS personnel."

  "And I am FEMA."

  "This is crap. It's just words. I don't buy any of it. Not without hard, concrete proof."

  "Proof could be dangerous to your health," Smith said grimly.

  "Don't screw with me, Smith. We can't take people's words for things in the service. I gotta have solid, verifiable proof before I close the books on this seizure.

  "Does that mean you are prepared to relinquish IRS control over Folcroft once its bona fides are established?"

  Brull hesitated. "Maybe."

  "You know that as powerful as you are, as important as IRS is, FEMA is essential to national security in the event of a catastrophe."

  "Says fucking you," Brull snarled.

  "Bear in mind that in order for IRS to continue operating in a postnuclear scenario, it must have a secret site. A FEMA site."

  "Why didn't you tell me all this before?"

  "I am sworn to keep these secrets. You have forced my hand through your gross incompetence. I only hope we can resolve this matter without having to resort to extreme measures to ensure your silence."

  "Okay, okay, I'll play this out. But where's my proof?"

  "Walk four doors down on the right and look through the glass port."

  "All right."

  A moment later Big Dick Brull was back, his face three shades paler than before.

  "There's a guy in there dressed like a fucking pirate."

  "Did he look familiar to you?"

  "Yeah. He looked a lot like old Uncle Sam Beasley."

  "The Uncle Sam Beasley who died nearly thirty years ago?" asked Smith.

  "Yeah. Of course."

  "The Uncle Sam Beasley who has been long rumored to be suspended in a state of cryogenic preservation until the day his heart disease can be cured by medical science?"

  "That's a load of manure!" Brull exploded.

  "Is it?"

  "You're not saying . . "

  "In the postnuclear world, there will be a need for entertainment to keep a frightened populace pacified. What better choice than the most beloved animator and filmmaker of all time?"

  Eyes enlarging, Brull croaked, "That's the real Beasley?"

  "There are others here who are equally important," added Smith.

  "Like whom?"

  "The butterfly everyone has seen."

  "What is he?"

  "That is so highly classified I dare not entrust that information to you."

  "This is crazy!" Brull blurted. "You can't expect me to swallow this cock-and-bullshit!"

  "The computers in the basement are part of our postdisaster mission," Smith went on relentlessly. "The purpose of the gold is obvious. Cash will be worthless after the fall of our economy. As for the funds that through a clerical error came into the Folcroft bank account, it represents our budget for the coming fiscal year."

  "You gotta explain that money to IRS! We can't just wish it away."

  "The twelve million dollars came from the Grand Cayman Trust in the Cayman Islands."

  "I knew it stank of offshore money!"

  "But it originated at FEMA. A discreet inquiry will confirm that FEMA wired twelve million dollars to Grand Cayman Trust more than a week ago. There is no electronic or paper trail to the Folcroft bank for security reasons I cannot get into. But the bank officer there will verify the money appeared in their computer ledgers overnight, after hours and without explanation. It will leave the bank that way, once the way is cleared, going to its proper destination."

  "I gotta check this out."

  "Lippincott Savings Bank will confirm the movement of funds," said Smith. "Grand Cayman Trust will not, of course, without serving papers and a protracted legal struggle. You do not have the luxury of time. Whether or not you wish to trace the funds back to FEMA and embroil yourself in a high-security exposure, remains up to you. But let me urge you in the strongest terms possible to have your highest superior make the call."

  Big Dick Brull licked his lips. "It's that sensitive, huh?"

  "The true nature of Folcroft Sanitarium is of such cosmic importance to America's continued survival that
in the past people have been killed to protect it."

  Brull pushed the knot of his tie from side to side. "All right," he said. "I'll look into it. But no promises. Except this one-if anything you say doesn't pan out, you are in very big tax trouble. And that's the worst kind of trouble there is."

  "And if it does, it may be you who are in trouble."

  "We'll see about that," Brull said.

  When he stormed off, the sound of his heels on the flooring was not very confident.

  Harold Smith allowed himself a tight smile. It sat on his face like a lemon slice.

  Perhaps the long-dead President who had chosen him to head CURE had been mistaken. When inspired, Harold W. Smith did possess something like an imagination.

  BIG DICK BRULL WAS sweating bullets as he bowled down the corridor of Folcroft's psychiatric wing.

  FEMA. Christ in a sarong! He never dreamed this was a FEMA operation. It was beyond the worst-case scenario. You could theoretically audit the President, or any member of Congress, and create less of a stink. He had unwittingly gotten the service tangled up in an interagency squabble that would make the fuss with the DEA look like a battle between the DAR and the PTA.

  So Folcroft was a FEMA hardsite. God knows what really went on here. From the sound of it, they were going to be on the front lines in the reconstruction phase of the postnuke era. For all Dick Brull knew, Folcroft would be the headquarters for IRS itself after the fallout settled.

  First he would have to take care of his own personal fallout.

  On the way down to the elevator, Brull paused to take another look at the cell where Uncle Sam Beasley was warehoused. For the first time he noticed the door was actually marked Beasley.

  Uncle Sam was slumped in his seat, staring at the cartoon-covered walls. His one good eye looked sleepy. As Brull watched, Beasley started. He had caught himself nodding off. Beasley shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs out of it. One hand lifted to his forehead and revealed a smooth, scarred stump.

  "Damn," Big Dick Brull muttered to himself. "Sure hope that isn't his drawing hand."

  Brull paused at the next cell door. The plate under the window read Purcell.

  This was one of the padded rubber rooms. It was bare except for a low cot and the television set high in the wall where it couldn't be pulled down. The set was off.

  On the cot lay what looked at first glance to be an anorexic woman. She was staring at the ceiling, her long corn-silk hair spilling over the pillow. Her arms were wrapped around her thin torso by the bound sleeves of a canvas straitjacket.

  The figure lay so completely still and unmoving that Brull wondered if she were dead.

  That was when he noticed she was a he. No breasts. No soft lines. And it looked like no brain, either.

  Brull continued on, wearing the look of a man who had been handed a hot potato and no one to pass it on to.

  Chapter 31

  The Master of Sinanju insisted on being let off by the main entrance to Folcroft Sanitarium.

  "You're crazy," said Remo, pulling over to the side of the lone access road. "The IRS will land on us like a ton of bricks."

  "And we will land back."

  "They'll seize the car. They already tried it once."

  "It is time you got a new car," Chiun sniffed.

  "New? I trade this in every six months. You know that."

  "I meant a vehicle of quality and worth. Not an American garbage can on wheels."

  "Take it up with me if we're still employed at the end of all this."

  "Next time buy Korean."

  "I wouldn't drive a Korean car off a cliff," said Remo, opening the door. "Now, are you getting out or not?"

  "Why must I walk?"

  "Because you can't fly, and neither can I. Let's go. Not that I'm looking forward to telling Smith we came up empty trying to find his wife."

  Chiun emerged from the passenger side. They began walking. "You will explain that to him, not I."

  "You gonna back me up?"

  "Yes. I will confirm your failure if that is your wish."

  "You didn't find her, either."

  "That is not my fault."

  "Then it's not mine, either."

  "That will be for Emperor Smith to judge. But you will explain all this to him because technically you are not employed by him. You can afford to incur his displeasure. As the sole support of the House of Sinanju, I cannot."

  They came to the gate. Remo got up against one of the brick gateposts and peered around it cautiously.

  "The coast looks clear," he said.

  "What about Fortress Folcroft?" Chiun asked.

  "That's what I meant."

  "And I meant the cretins who sit in boats with their guns."

  "The DEA? I took care of them."

  They entered through the gateposts.

  Remo's eyes went skyward. He noticed that the trio of circling birds were flying lower, their great wings rising and dipping in languorous waves. It seemed impossible that the air could support them. Their wings were barely moving.

  "Looks like they're back," Remo muttered.

  Chiun frowned. "They seem familiar to my eyes."

  "I was just thinking the same thing."

  "They are not sea gulls."

  "Sure aren't vultures, either."

  "They resemble vultures."

  "Maybe they're condors."

  "Perhaps they are not birds at all," said Chiun, frowning quizzically.

  "They gotta be birds. What could they be except birds?"

  "I do not know, but they are an ill omen."

  "No argument there," said Remo. "Come on. Let's go in the assassin's entrance."

  They reached the freight entrance unseen, and the moment they entered the basement the Master of Sinanju repeated a question that had seldom left his papery lips all night long.

  "Where is my gold?"

  "Safe as soap."

  "That is no answer."

  "If it were my gold, I'd say it was the best answer there is. "

  "Pah!"

  They floated up the steps to the first floor and took a chance on the elevator. It was resting on the first floor, and their sharp hearing told them it was unoccupied.

  The doors rolled open at the touch of the call button.

  They rode it to the third floor, and Remo stuck his head out, looking both ways before he signaled for Chiun to follow.

  The psychiatric wing was quiet. No doctors seemed to be on the floor.

  As they passed Jeremiah Purcell's cell, Remo's face hardened.

  "He remains a prisoner?" Chiun asked, noting Remo's stare.

  Remo nodded. "I wish he were dead."

  "Beware the wish that comes true."

  "I don't believe that crap about our destinies being entwined."

  Chiun sniffed derisively and said nothing.

  Uncle Sam Beasley was still visible through his celldoor window when they passed him.

  "I'm sure glad he's on ice again," said Remo.

  Chiun nodded sagely. "Agreed."

  "I'd wring Purcell's neck with pleasure, but I couldn't bring myself to take out Uncle Sam himself."

  When they reached Harold Smith's cell, Remo knocked twice.

  Smith had been lying on his cot, staring at the ceiling in a posture that was almost identical to Jeremiah Purcell's. At the sound of Remo's knock, he started and rolled off his cot, fumbling for his glasses.

  "Remo! " said Smith when he came to the window.

  "Bad news, Smitty."

  "Remo," Smith repeated, his voice low and wondering. His eyes searched Remo's face.

  "By the time we got to your house, the IRS had seized it," Remo explained. "It's locked up tight as a drum. None of the neighbors knew where your wife went."

  "She was here," Smith said softly.

  "Here?"

  "Last night she came to me. I sent her to her sister's."

  "That's a relief."

  Smith's voice became low and forceful. "Remo, she to
ld me something incredible."

  "Yeah?"

  "Why do you regard Remo so strangely, Emperor?" Chiun asked.

  Smith's voice dropped to a hiss. "Remo, I know who your father is."

  "Since when!" Remo exploded.

  "Since last night."

  Remo and Chiun looked at each other.

  "Look, Smitty," Remo said. "This has been a strain on all of us. Why don't you just take a long nap and we'll come back?"

  "No! Remo, I want you to open the door."

  "What about your alibi?"

  "I may not need one. Now, open the door. Please."

  Harold Smith's eyes and voice were so beseeching that Remo felt he had no choice. He undid the latch.

  When Smith stepped out, he threw out his long arms and gave Remo a stiff, awkward hug. He buried his gray head in Remo's hard shoulder.

  Remo looked over Smith's trembling shoulder to the quizzical features of the Master of Sinanju. Chiun shrugged. Remo gave Smith a vaguely distasteful pat on the back.

  "It's all right, Smitty," Remo said gently. "We're glad to see you, too. You can let go now. Okay?"

  Smith stepped back, cleared his throat and looked Remo Williams dead in the eye. "When the woman you saw in the cemetery told you that you knew your father, she was exactly right. I have no idea who she really was or how she knew this, but she was correct."

  "Yeah..."

  "Your father is someone you have known for a very long time."

  Remo blinked. His lean forearms trembled briefly. He willed them to be still.

  "Someone very near to you for most of your adult life."

  Remo's eyes flew wide. He turned.

  "Little Father!" he said wonderingly. "You?"

  "Never!" snapped Chiun. "I would sooner sire a monkey than one such as you."

  "You don't mean that. You can't."

  "You are not my son, Remo Williams," Chiun flared.

  "He's right," said Smith. "Chiun is not related to you."

  Chiun lifted his wispy chin defiantly. "I would not go that far. There may be some Korean blood in him. Possibly three drops. Small ones."

  Remo's brow was furrowed up. "If it's not Chiun, that only leaves..."

  Harold Smith adjusted his tie primly. Clearing his throat, he said, "Yes. That only leaves me, Remo. I am your father."

  "Not a chance!" Remo said hotly. "I'd sooner have Richard Nixon for a dad."

  "Remo. My wife explained it all to me."