"What do I do? Just say it, I'll do it."
"Until we have chapter and verse on Folcroft, it's your campground. You stay there. You run it. You pare its operating costs to the bone. Fire whoever you have to, deinstitutionalize whoever you have to. Get to the bottom of that place, and then we'll sell it off brick by brick to satisfy its debt to Uncle Sam. You got that?"
"Yes, Mr. Brull."
Right then and there, Jack Koldstad knew his career with the IRS's CID was dead on the water unless he turned Folcroft Sanitarium into the most lucrative jeopardy seizure in the past twenty years.
He began calling in his troops, issuing marching orders.
"We're invoking the hundred percent rule here. That means Harold Smith's personal assets are forfeit. Seize his car and house and throw out into the street anyone you find living there."
"Yes, sir."
"Get the staff down to manageable levels. Every person we can cut from the payroll means more payroll for the service."
"Right away, Mr. Koldstad."
"I'll have our people in Martinsburg run a deep background check on Harold Smith. The master file will have his tax records going back to day one."
"I never heard of a filer who didn't fudge a return somewhere along the line."
"That's the beauty of the voluntary compliance system. The odds are long the taxpayer will hand us the pole we shove up his noncompliant ass, and the lubricant to boot."
"Understood, sir."
All morning long they came and went. One agent came in as the last was leaving. His face was pale. "Skinner is missing, sir."
Koldstad's small eyes got smaller. "I thought it was Reems who was missing."
"He still is, sir. Now Skinner has gone AWOL, too."
"No one goes AWOL from the service. There's no place to go AWOL to-unless you want to forfeit your citizenship. Where did you last see him?"
"I think he was sent to look into the basement."
"I thought the basement had been checked."
"That was Reems's job. It doesn't look like he completed it."
"Let me get this straight. Reems goes into the basement and doesn't come back?"
"That was yesterday, sir."
"And today Skinner goes in and isn't heard from?"
"That seems to be the size of it."
Jack Koldstad brightened. "Looks like the basement is where we hit the jackpot. Assemble the troops. We're going into that basement."
"Of course armed. The IRS doesn't walk into situations where it doesn't have the upper hand going in. And if that damn Chinaman is hiding down there, he's going to pay for assaulting an IRS special agent. And I don't mean in interest and penalties."
REMO HEARD THEM coming from two floors up.
Even surrounded by the soundproof concrete foundation of Folcroft Sanitarium, it was impossible not to know that the IRS was closing in force and armed to the teeth.
They pounded down the stairs in the lead-footed tread typical of armed men. They jacked rounds into chambers and communicated by walkie-talkies.
A smaller contingent was circling around to the freight entrance, feet crunching grit.
That gave Remo plenty of time to step up to the two prone IRS agents, tuck one under each arm and stash them in the coal furnace. It was cold, fortunately. Not that it would matter to the first agent to have made the mistake of venturing into the Folcroft basement. But the guy who was still alive was probably relieved to be folded up and stuffed into the bed of cool brown ash, considering the other possibility. Even if a day-old dead guy was set on top of him.
"Try not to inhale too much," Remo whispered as he shut and dogged the fire door.
Remo looked around quickly. Chiun's sleeping mat and spare kimonos were out of sight. Remo had hammered the corrugated door shut with his bare hands, but a crack still showed. He had patched the rip from inside and locked the adjoining door.
The basement looked as ordinary as possible now.
So Remo went to the toolshed and pulled out a longhandled push broom.
When the IRS pounded down the inner steps, flashlights blazing, they found him coolly sweeping the dusty concrete floor, the happy-go-lucky strains of "Whistle While You Work" coming from between his pursed lips.
"Who they hell are you?" demanded a man with a long jaw and painfully pinched temples.
"Name's Remo. I'm the basement janitor."
"How the hell did you get in here?'
Remo pointed to the side door. "The usual way. Through the janitorial entrance."
"Didn't you see the IRS sign out front?"
"Nope. Can't read. Why do you think I'm pushing a broom in a basement?"
The IRS agent eyed Remo closely. "You a nonfiler, Remo? You look like a nonfiler to me. What's your Social Security number?"
From the side door came the pounding of fists on stubborn steel.
"Open up! IRS!"
"Open it up for them," the agent ordered Remo.
"Why not?" said Remo, setting the broom against the door to the computer room.
When the door opened, it really opened. Remo faded back only inches ahead of the inward surge of armed IRS agents.
"I thought you guys were from the IRS," he said as a fan of gun muzzles tracked him.
"We are." The agent with the pinched temples stepped up to flash his ID. "Jack Koldstad. With the IRS Criminal Investgation Division."
"You act like Paddy O'Toole with the IRA knee-capper squad"
"Shut up. I'll ask the questions around here. An agent came down earlier."
"Haven't seen him. And I've been here all day."
Koldstad eyed his agents. "Sweep this place."
"I think I beat you to it," said Remo.
"I meant sweep it for contraband."
"My job description covers dirt only," Remo said.
The agents moved through the basement with grim purpose. One of them found the fuse box and noticed a switch in the red position. He reset it. The overhead lights came on.
"Didn't you notice there was no light?" Koldstad asked Remo.
"I notice it now," Remo said.
An agent came upon the triple-locked door and called out, "Mr. Koldstad, I think I found something."
"What is it?"
"A door with a lot of locks."
Koldstad hurried over, saying, "Bring that smartass along."
"I'll go quietly," Remo offered as the gun muzzles closed in on him.
Koldstad was looking over the door.
"Where does this lead?" he asked Remo.
Remo shrugged. "To the other side."
"Don't get smart."
"If I knew, I'd say," Remo lied.
"Who has the keys?"
"Dr. Smith."
Koldstad grabbed an agent by the arm. "You go upstairs. Bring me every key from Smith's office."
While the agent was gone, Koldstad turned to Remo, "What's your name again?"
"Remo."
"Okay, Remo, we're the IRS. You know what that means?"
"I get a refund?"
"No!"
"Shucks."
Koldstad lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Work here long?"
"Too long."
"Good. You must know a lot of what goes on here."
"I know which end of a broom to hold." Remo swept the men around him with his deep-set eyes. "I also know not to point a weapon at a man unless I intend to use it."
"The IRS doesn't shoot compliant citizens," Koldstad assured him.
"I'll try to remember that."
"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?"