The ridiculous buccaneer figure of Uncle Sam Beasley was trying to reach the Folcroft gate on foot. It was absurd. He could never do it, exposed as he was. On the other hand, he was making good time. Even if he was practically hopping like a ungainly red rabbit.
"Let's go," said Remo.
Together they raced after Uncle Sam Beasley, easily overtaking him.
"Give it up," called Remo.
"You cannot escape us," added Chiun, running alongside.
Beasley stopped. He whirled to confront them.
Uncle Sam Beasley smiled his wintry smile, and his skeletal steel hand clenched, fingers clicking as they made contact with his shiny palm.
"I do not wish to harm you, purveyor of cartoons," warned Chiun, his hands fluttering before him uncertainly.
"On the other hand," said Remo, "we don't have time to screw with you."
The hydraulic hand feinted toward Remo.
"Remo, do not hurt him!"
"Don't sweat it," Remo said as he met the steel appendage with a chopping blow that knocked the hand from its stump.
The hand fell to the grass with a surprisingly soft sound. It lay there, whirring, fingers clenching and unclenching like an upside-down steel tarantula trying to right itself.
Remo brought a hard heel down on it, there was a snap, and the whirring just stopped.
Uncle Sam Beasley lost his wintry smile. He said nothing.
"You coming without a fuss?" asked Remo.
Hanging his head, Beasley raised his mismatched arms in abject surrender.
"Guess without your robot hand, you're not very brave," grunted Remo.
Beasley said nothing to that, either. Remo took hold of his good arm and marched him back to Folcroft.
"Well," Remo told Chiun, "this is one thing that's gone well so far."
Headlights blazing, a car roared out of the parking lot and bore down on them.
"Watch out, Little Father!"
Whirling, Chiun broke left. Remo pushed Uncle Sam in the opposite direction, leaping after him.
The car swooshed by, sucking air, grit and dry dead leaves behind it. Its red parking lights vanished through the gate and down the road.
Remo pulled Beasley to his feet.
"Who the hell was that?" Remo demanded.
"I do not know. But he possessed but a single eye."
"You're thinking of Beasley," said Remo, giving the unresponsive Uncle Sam a hard shake.
"Yes, I am thinking of Beasley," said Chiun solemnly.
"But we've got Beasley right here."
"It must have been some other one-eyed pirate," said Chiun suspiciously, giving Uncle Sam a very hard look while stroking his wispy beard.
HAROLD SMITH came off his bunk when the rapping of knuckles on glass came.
Remo's face floated in the door window.
"Remo! Have you seen Chiun?"
"Better than that. Here's Beasley."
The hangdog face of Uncle Sam Beasley was brought into view, held steady by Remo's fingers at the back of his neck.
The Master of Sinanju's bald head came up into sight. "What should be done with this misguided one, O Emperor?"
"Lock him in a cell. He should keep overnight."
"No problem," said Remo. "What about you?"
"Brull was here. He suspects Folcroft of being a CIA front."
"So, let him."
"He's trying to extort money on behalf of the IRS."
"We can convince him of the error of that position," said Remo.
"No. It would not work."
"So what will?"
"I do not know," Smith admitted, his lemony voice dejected.
"Look," Remo said impatiently, "this running around can't go on forever. We gotta poop or get off the pot. "
"Yes," chimed in Chiun. "Let us turn these taxidermists into poop, and all our troubles will fade like yesterday's fog."
"They've seized my home. I do not know where my wife is. She is my chief concern now."
"We can look into that. But what about you?"
Smith said listlessly, "I am not important."
"Smitty, stop talking like that. We have unfinished business. I want you to find my father for me."
"It is impossible."
"Like hell it is. My mother-I mean the woman who spoke to me-claimed I knew my father. Look, how many people can that be? You can do background checks on everyone I ever knew. Something will turn up. Until then, you stay in the game."
"I make no promises, Remo. For the life of me, I do not see how we can put the pieces of the organization back together."
"Sleep on it," said Remo, shaking the silent Uncle Sam Beasley. "Let's start with putting this loose end to bed for the night."
As they walked away, Harold Smith could hear Remo scolding Uncle Sam Beasley. "I can't believe you turned out to be such a pill. I was a big fan of yours when I was a kid, you know."
"Even in my humble village," Chiun was saying, "the name of Uncle Sam made childish eyes glow like candles."
If Uncle Sam had any reply to that, Smith did not hear it as he lowered himself onto the narrow bunk. He didn't close his eyes until he heard the clank of a cell door shutting. Then he turned over on his side and he fell instantly asleep.
Chapter 29
In the hours before the sunless dawn of submarine life, Winston Smith awoke like a spark flaring. His hands fished under his pillow, and he turned on the light. He sat reading the sea gram over and over.
"The bastard," he said feelingly. "The cold, mother-loving bastard."
After a while he lit a cigarette and smoked it to a stub. Then he cracked open the door and stuck out his close-shaven head. A seaman was making his way along the corridor.
"Hey, sailor. When do we make port?"
"We're in it."
Smith blinked. Only then did he notice the absence of vibrations and other sounds of a submarine under way. "What port?"
"Search me. It's classified."
"Sounds like my kind of port," said Smith, shutting the door to smoke another Lucky.
This time he used the lit end to ignite the sea gram. It refused to burn until he blew on the smoldering edge. Then it caught, burning briefly in his fingers.
Winston Smith didn't bother to let go when the flames licked at his fingers. He just let the fire run its course and crushed the curled black paper in his unfeeling fist while it was still hot.
"Uncle Harold, you picked the wrongest damn day to do this to your favorite nephew."
He picked up the BEM gun and laid the plastic manual on his knee. There must be something in the specs that would disarm the damn antifiring interlock.
Chapter 30
In the deepest part of the night, Harold Smith heard a familiar voice. It snapped him from his dreamless sleep.
"Harold?"
"Maude?" Blinking, Smith rushed to the locked door.
There was Maude Smith in all her blue-haired matronly glory. Nevertheless, she was a welcome sight.
"Harold, what are you doing here?"
"I am under house arrest. Please do not enter. How did you get past the IRS?"
"That doesn't matter, Harold. I have come to tell you something important."
"What is it?"
"Harold, I have been keeping a dreadful secret from you all these years."
"Secret?"
"Yes. I have been too ashamed to reveal it to you until now. But with all that is happening, I think you should know."
"Go on," said Harold Smith, unable to comprehend what his wife could have on her mind. She seemed incredibly calm under the circumstances.
"You have always been a good husband. You know that."
Harold Smith cleared his throat. "Thank you."
"But you have not always been home. You were away a lot during your days with the CIA. After you came to Folcroft, I thought that would change, but if anything, your absences grew worse."
"I have my responsibilities," Smith said defensively.
"There was a time many years ago when you were away for nearly a year. Do you remember?"