Kneeling, Remo took hold of the gripping mechanism and began wrenching odd pieces away. They snapped under his powerful fingers until the tire was freed. Then he drove off, whistling.
When he reached town, Remo stood in line for twenty minutes at the Rye post office waiting to mail the letter to Harold Smith's nephew, Winston.
The mail clerk said, "You'll need an express envelope and an air bill. You can fill them out at the counter over there."
"I just stood in line twenty freaking minutes," Remo protested.
"You're supposed to fill out the air bill before you get in line."
"Where does it say that?"
"Nowhere. You're supposed to know these things."
Grumbling, Remo got out of line, dropped the envelope in a cardboard mailer, sealed it and filled out the air bill. After another ten minutes in line, the same clerk took the cardboard mailer, weighed it and said, "Eight seventy-five, please."
Remo dug into his pockets and found only a crumpled-up five-dollar bill and an old buffalo-head nickel.
"Take a credit card?" he asked.
"No."
"Damn."
Stepping out, Remo noticed a Western Union office across the street and went in. "You accept major credit cards?" he asked the clerk.
"Even minor ones."
"I want to send a telegram."
The clerk handed over a blank, and Remo was allowed to transfer the text of Harold Smith's letter to the blank without having to get out of line. When he was done, the clerk processed the telegram, ran his credit card through the charge machine and handed the card back with a receipt and a friendly "Thank you."
"A pleasure doing business with private enterprise," said Remo, stepping out into the light.
Chapter 23
They were waiting for Winston Smith at the escape zone. Three members of SEAL Team Six, loaded for bear, hunkered down over two beached Boston whalers.
A dark hand waved at him. "Hey, Winner!"
"Fuck you," snarled Smith.
The gun echoed his sentiments.
Six gathered around him. "Hey, we heard you nailed the guy."
"He isn't dead," Smith snapped.
"Maybe next time they'll give you live ammo. Ha."
"Fuck you," he said a beat ahead of the gun.
"Where's the XO?" Smith asked.
"Back at the sub."
"You guys were aboard for the ride?"
Beaming grins pierced the dark. "All the time. We watched the mission unfold from the gun camera. "
"What gun camera?"
"The laser, numb-nuts. It wasn't a laser. You shoulda known that. What kind of moron sticks a laser on ordnance already rigged with a night scope?"
"Fuck."
"That's another thing. You gotta watch your language. All manner of clean-minded admirals are gonna be watching your footage. Don't want to embarrass them in front of the spooks."
"Hey, Winston, how do you feel about nailing a target when he's porking his best girl?"
"Conscience bothering you yet?"
"Just shut up everybody," Smith barked. "Shut up."
"Man appears a mite out of sorts," a voice drawled. They returned to the Darter in the whalers.
The XO was there to greet him as Winston Smith climbed down the sail into control.
"Sir I-"
"Not a word, Smith. Not in front of the crew."
They were escorted to a tiny debriefing room. The rest of Team Six were made to wait outside.
"You did a great job," the XO began. "You proved the mission is doable and the BEM gun performs to expectations."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but performing the mission for real would have proved the identical thing. And much more satisfactoraily, sir."
"That wasn't in the mission profile. Not this time, anyway."
"Sir, Six is getting tired of all these dry-fire missions. We're the best the Navy has to offer. We can do the job. Why aren't we sent after the bad guys for real?"
"This is how the JCS wanted it to go down."
"Permission to speak frankly, sir?"
"No. Now take your BEM back to quarters and familiarize yourself with it thoroughly. Next time may be for real."
Winston Smith saluted and stormed back to his cubicle. He ignored the back slapping of his teammates as they followed him down the cramped sub passageways. He shut the door in their laughing faces.
"The Navy sucks," he said bitterly in the confines of his cubicle.
Two hours later someone knocked on the door and said, "Got a sea gram for you, Smith."
"Shove it up the ass of somebody who cares."
"It'll be out here if you want it."
Winston Smith rolled over in his bunk and, when sleep would not come, he got up and fetched the sea gram.
He unfolded it and read the text.
Dear Nephew,
Congratulations. This is the year you reach your twenty-first birthday. You are now ready to take your place in the world and no longer require or are due any further assistance from me, whether financial or spiritual. Please accept my sincere good wishes on your future, and under no circumstances return to visit the place where you were raised.
Dutifully, Uncle Harold
Winston Smith's eyes grew wide, then shocked, then hot.
His fingers shook and the cable trembled between them.
"Fuck," he said softly. "Fuck fuck fuck."
This time the gun said nothing. There was nothing to say. He was all alone in the world now.
As he lay back in his bed and stared at nothing, Winston Smith wondered why he had been abandoned by his only living relative.
Chapter 24
On the ride up to the third floor, Big Dick Brull began barking out orders.
"I want a lid clamped down on this place. No press, no outsiders coming in, no personal leave. We're all staying here until someone cracks, and it won't be me."
"I would like to call my wife," said Harold Smith without a trace of the concern he felt.
"Don't bother."
"She must expect me home by now."
"If she didn't miss you yesterday, she won't miss you today."
"I protest this treatment."
"Protest all you want, deadbeat. There isn't fuck-all you can do about it." Brull paused. "Unless you'd like to confess to tax fraud here and now."
"I am guilty of no tax fraud."
"Suit yourself. I'm denying you calling privileges-"
The elevator doors hummed apart, and Harold Smith exited, the lenses of his rimless glasses starting to fog up. No one noticed this as they strode down the corridor in a tight knot, the feet of the IRS agents tattooing in unison.
"By the way," Big Dick Brull added, "we've invoked the one-hundred percent rule in your case."
Smith halted, turned. "I beg your pardon?"
"We're seizing your personal assets, as well as your place of business. That means your car, your house and everything in it. The operation should be getting under way-" he looked at his watch "-right about now."
"You cannot do this."
"I can overrule it if you have something to say to me."
Smith compressed his lips until they all but disappeared. His glasses were completely fogged up now. Still, Smith's cold gray eyes seemed to bore through the condensation like hateful agates.
Big Dick Brull happened to notice the Timex on Smith's thin wrist and said, "Nice watch you have there."
"Thank you," Smith said thinly.
"Looks expensive, too."
"It is not. Merely of excellent quality."
Brull put out his hand saying, "Hand it over."
"You cannot be serious."
"I said, 'Hand it over.' The tie and clasp, too."
"This is a school tie."
"When I said we're seizing your possessions, I meant it. Don't stop with the watch and tie. Take off your coat and shoes."
"This is outrageous. I am a lawful taxpayer."
"No, you are what we like to call the 'screwee.' I am the 'screwer.' Is that your wedding ring?"