"You have breached one of the most secure installations in America," said Smith, his voice stretched drum-tight. "You have behaved as if you are above the law, with the result of many unnecessary deaths." His glasses began to steam again. "And you have violated my home and my wife. Only your high position with the Internal Revenue Service and your usefulness to us in resolving this outrage without further publicity is keeping you alive."
Brull lost all facial color.
"And don't forget," added Remo, "we know where you work."
"You can't threaten a Treasury agent like this."
"You haven't been paying attention," said Remo, lifting Brull off his feet and sweeping him around like dangle-footed puppet. "We already have."
At that, Harold Smith came out from behind his desk. His face might have been a skull scraped raw. His eyes were hard. He held one fist at his side, a trembling mallet of bone.
Stepping up to Brull, Smith let fly with a roundhouse punch.
Brull saw it coming, but his arms refused to lift in his own defense. He took Harold Smith's bony knuckles on the point of his jaw, his head snapping half around.
"Show him out," Smith clipped.
"My pleasure," said Remo.
Ears ringing, Dick Brull was sent skimming along the corridor on the seat of his pants, out of the office and toward a particularly unforgiving-looking wall. Unable to stop, he closed his eyes as the wall came rushing into his face.
Somehow he made a sudden impossible right-angle turn and found himself in the elevator, stopped short by the hard impact of his heels against the rear of the car. The doors rolled closed. Dick Brull didn't bother getting up. He just reached up for the button marked 1.
Standing up was awkward just about now. He was sitting in a warm puddle he was certain had originated in his frightened bladder.
REMO, CHIUN and Harold Smith stood looking at one another with doubtful expressions.
Smith cleared his throat as he adjusted his tie.
The Master of Sinanju looked bland and expectant.
Remo broke the silence.
"You," he said bitterly, "are not my father."
"Would that it were so," said Chiun, closing his eyes in pain.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Remo snapped.
Chiun looked ceilingward, avoiding his pupil's eyes. "It is an ugly truth. Emperor Smith is your true father. I have known this for many years."
"Bull!"
"Look closely. You have his nose."
Remo pointed at Smith's patrician nose. "That's not my nose. My nose doesn't look anything like that!"
"Remo," Smith said awkwardly, "I understand your discomfort."
"He can't be my father," Remo continued hotly, "because if he's my father, then his wife is my mother. And I've seen my mother. She's a beautiful woman."
"-who told you that you knew your father," Chiun added.
"Maybe," Remo said defensively.
Chiun indicated Harold Smith with a graceful sweep of his arms. "Behold your true father, Prince Remo."
"Don't call me that!" Remo said angrily. "None of this is real. It's gotta be one of the Dutchman's freaking illusions."
"There is a way to prove this," said Smith. "I can call my wife. She will confirm what I have already related."
Remo hesitated.
"Afraid of the truth?" Smith asked.
"No. Go ahead."
Smith returned to his desk to make the call.
Out in the corridor, the elevator dinged.
"Someone comes," Chiun warned.
"Someone with a gun," growled Remo. "I smell residual gunpowder."
Remo and Chiun took up positions on either side of the door and waited for it to open.
The gun barrel entered a full breath ahead of the gunman.
Behind the desk, Harold Smith stiffened.
"Winston!" he breathed.
Then Remo's and Chiun's hands flashed out in unison.
"No!" Smith cried.
It was too late.
Winston Smith saw his Uncle Harold the moment he entered the Folcroft office. He had rehearsed the speech all the way across the Atlantic, in the belly of the MAC C-130 he'd stowed aboard. He had it down pat by the time he'd slipped unseen from the cargo bay at MacGuire Air Force Base and grabbed a taxi.
But with his Uncle Harold blinking numbly at the muzzle of the BEM gun, his mind went blank and all the rage of rejection drained from him.
Then the gun in his fist began clicking like mad. It happened so fast it took Winston Smith's breath away. He hadn't so much as caressed the trigger.
When his eyes stopped blinking, Winston Smith saw that the Lucite spokes of his ammo clips had disappeared completely. He lifted the weapon to his face. The clear drum was gone, too. So was the banana clip in the heavy grip.
It was then he realized he was flanked by two men.
One was short and very, very old. An Asian. The other was tall and lean and looked vaguely familiar. Both were holding fistfuls of Lucite clips in their hands, their postures casual.
"Nice gun," said the tall one.
"Screw you," Winston growled, directing the big muzzle toward him. "There's still one in the chamber."
"We always give a freebie," the tall one said with a hard smile.
"Don't mess with me. I'm a trained SEAL."
"That so? Let's see you balance that toy on your nose while clapping your flippers."
"Your mother," Winston growled, squeezing the trigger.
The BEM convulsed. It was at point-blank range, and there was no way he could have missed. No way at all.
But as the gun sound stopped echoing, the tall guy with the dead-looking eyes and insolent smile stood his ground, unhurt. He should have gone down with a hot round in his thigh, but all he did was fold his arms smugly.
Winston Smith blinked. Was it his imagination, or was there a suggestion of a blur around the edges of the guy? As if he had stepped out of the path of the round and back again too fast to be seen?
"So much for your freebie," the guy said coolly.
"Your mother," repeated the kid in the camouflage outfit and tiger-striped face.
Remo looked more deeply into that face, blinked and said, "You do kinda look like my mother. Around the eyes."
Chiun abruptly seized the kid and spun him around.
"Who are you?" he demanded, searching the green-and-black planes of his face.
"Winston Smith. What's it to you, gook?"
"If you are Winston Smith, why do you wear Remo's face?"
"Who's Remo?"
"I am," said Remo, spinning the kid back again so he could get a better look at him. "He doesn't look like me at all."
"Look more closely, Remo," said the shaken voice of Harold Smith. "And you will see the resemblance."
"I don't see any such thing," Remo snapped. "This is your nephew, right? The one you had me mail the kiss-off letter to?"
"Damn right," said Winston Smith bitterly.
"Wrong," said Harold Smith.
"What?" said Winston Smith.
"He is the proof that I am your father, Remo," said Smith, coming out from behind the desk. "He is my grandson, your son."
"You told me you were my uncle," Winston Smith blurted.
Smith shook his gray head gravely. "A lie-told to conceal from you the truth of your parentage."
"I don't get this," said Remo and Winston in unison.
"Aiiieee! Remo has a son!" Chiun wailed.
Smith said, "I thought you always wanted a son for Remo, Master Chiun?"
"Yes. One to train in Sinanju. A suitable heir to the House. Look at him. He is even whiter than Remo. He smells of hamburger and alcohol and he thinks he is a sea lion."
"SEAL," corrected Winston Smith. "It means Sea Air Land-"
"And he carries a boom stick so ridiculous it is a wonder he has not shot himself dead," Chiun wailed in conclusion.
"Don't think it hasn't crossed my mind," said Winston, glaring at Harold Smith.