Two of them shook off the shock and, shiny steel pistols elevating, issued a warning.
"DEA! Freeze."
The human butterfly lunged at them. He should have died right there. The DEA agents had plenty of time to riddle him. In fact, two had already begun to squeeze their triggers in unison.
This became very apparent when yellow claws caught them at the elbow and forced their arms around so their weapons faced one another. The shiny muzzles came together with a clank that welded them nose to nose.
The agents stood blinking, obviously slow to comprehend how they had come into this awkward position. They tried to withdraw their weapons, but they refused to separate, like Chinese handcuffs holding two facing fingers together.
The weapons had hair triggers. The exertion of trying to separate the muzzles caused them to fire. Both weapons exploded in their gun hands, sending gun metal flying into soft organs and fragile skulls.
"Who will challenge the Master of Sinanju now?" shrieked the butterfly with the voice of a man.
As it turned out, no one. The remaining DEA agents beat a hasty retreat to their boats and pushed them off.
For their part, the gawking IRS agents decided discretion was the better part of valor. They shut the windows they had been leaning out of, not wanting to attract the fury of the butterfly that they now realized was no figment of Jack Koldstad's lobotomized brain, but a very real creature with the power to wreak incredible damage.
"Big Dick will have to handle this," one sail, voice shaking.
"Yeah, this is a job for Big Dick."
"I pity the butterfly when Big Dick gets here."
"I pity us if that butterfly comes searching the building for more government agents to maim."
"Someone should look out the window to see where it is."
No one cared for that particular duty, it turned out. So they drew straws.
The agent who pulled the short straw made the sign of the cross and crawled to the nearest window. They had all laid themselves flat on the office floor because who knew but the butterfly might flap by on a search of more victims. He poked his head up to the sill like a frightened periscope.
"See it?"
"No."
"See anything?"
"I see the DEA out on the water."
"What are they doing?"
"I think they're trying to rescue some guys from a sinking boat."
"Did the butterfly sink a boat?"
"Can't tell."
"See anything else?"
"Yeah," the agent said in a suddenly disheartened voice. "I think I see Big Dick coming through the gate, hell-bent for audit."
From the open door, a lemony voice demanded, "Who is Big Dick?"
REMO WILLIAMS MET the Master of Sinanju at the loading dock to the basement of Folcroft Sanitarium.
"Did you have to do it that way?" Remo demanded.
Chiun's wise face gathered its wrinkles like a fist clenching. "The gold is inviolate. They must not find it. And why are you not with the gold?"
"I moved it."
"Impossible! There was no time."
"See for yourself."
The Master of Sinanju flew past his pupil and into the dank basement, his feet whisked along the concrete flooring until he came to the vault door. It lay open to any white eye that happened along.
The mute and inert computers of Emperor Smith stood at the rear of the space. Of the gold of Sinanju, there was no sign. Not even a grain of gold lay on the floor, knocked off by careless movers.
Chiun whirled on his pupil. "Where is the gold?"
"I told you, I moved it."
"Then why are you not with the moved gold, guarding it with your life?"
"Because it's safe."
"Safe! Where safe? Where is safe in this land of madness and lunatics with boom sticks and loud voices and taxidermists! There is no safe except in the House of the Masters in the village of my ancestors-who are now calling down curses on my aged head because I entrusted the future to a dull round-eyed white!"
"Trust me," said Remo.
"Trust! You have lost the gold. My gold."
"Not true. Some of it was mine. Some Smith's."
"Most of it belonged to Sinanju. I demanded to know where it is."
"On one condition."
"Blackmailer!"
"The pot is calling the kettle black, seems to me."
Chiun stamped a sandaled foot. A portion of concrete floor cracked under his tiny toes. "Speak!"
"Promise?"
"Never!"
"Okay, you're just going to have to trust me."
"Where gold is concerned, trust is impossible."
"It's gone, it's safe, and we can get it back at any time," Remo was saying as the Master of Sinanju fluttered about the basement, looking for nooks or crannies that might conceal single ingots.
"It is in the walls!" he shouted triumphantly.
Remo folded his lean arms. "Nope. Not in the walls."
"It is buried under this floor."
"Not even warm," said Remo.
"It is on the roof, then."
"There was no time to carry it all to the elevator. Even if there was, the cable would have snapped under all that weight."
"Then it has vanished."
Remo shook his head. "Safe as soap," he said.
Chiun's brow knit together. "How is soap safe?"
"Search me. I just made that up."
Chiun padded up to his pupil and looked up at him with chill hazel eyes.
"Do not trifle with me, rootless one."
"Hey, if I'm to be Reigning Master some day, shouldn't I be trustworthy enough to handle the village gold? Besides, if only one person knows, the IRS can't torture it out of you."
"Wild yaks could not wrench this secret from me-if I only knew it."
Remo shook his head firmly. "Can't take that chance. Sorry."
"But Remo," Chiun said plaintively, "if harm befalls you, the secret of the gold goes to your grave."
"I guess you'd better see that no harm befalls me," said Remo, smiling thinly. "That reminds me. Where's Beasley?"
"I do not know. He was escaped. But the Dutchman is secured. The drooling idiot did not possess wits enough to leave his cell when it was open."
"Well, that's one break today. What about Smith?"
"I have released him."
"Then I guess it's up to Smith to try to put a lid on things," said Remo.
"Then we will remain here until these matters are resolved," said Chiun, his eyes questing about the basement suspiciously.
"You're only saying that because you think if you keep sniffing around, you'll stumble across your gold."
"It is somewhere."
"It is safe. That's all you need to know," said Remo, trying to suppress a grin. It was rare that he put one over on the old Korean.
Chapter 22
Big Dick Brull sent his onyx black Cadillac Eldorado tearing through the Folcroft gates like a hearse trying to catch up to a funeral procession. It swept up the road and stopped at the main entrance.
The door opened. A black brogan came out and struck the asphalt like a jackhammer punch.
Dick Brull stepped out and strode into the lobby. There was no guard, no one to stop him. Not that anyone would dare. The look of intensity in Dick Brull's hard eyes usually stopped an ordinary man in his tracks. Brull clomped through the lobby, his feet making distinct reports that bounced off the walls. Where Dick Brull walked, people took notice. Wherever Dick Brull entered, it became his domain.
The lobby was spacious and empty, but the striding feet of Big Dick Brull filled it as if he stood forty feet tall.
His pumping legs took him to the elevator. He gave the button a punch. The elevator, as if intimidated, responded without hesitation. The steel doors parted. Brull stepped aboard. He stabbed the second-floor button. The door closed.
The elevator whisked him up, and he stepped out, pausing. The corridor was empty. His icy black eyes swept left and right. They came to rest on the plain door marked Dr. Harold W Smith, Director.