"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."
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.