“And when they are old enough—”
“He sends them to the boys’ home, maybe keeps them separate from the other kids, some kind of special classes. I don’t know. Inspectors come around, they see the usual. If they run into any little Thomas Hardys, even two together, it could be explained. It wouldn’t happen often. Anyway, inspectors come and go. I’d guess that some of them are more agreeable than others.”
“What about the regulars?” Smith asked. “The normal boys?”
“There’s bound to be a number of legitimate adoptions,” Remo speculated. “The rest would be cut loose when they become adults, at age eighteen. Radcliff would need security to keep them separated from the clones, but if a boy got curious and saw too much, it’s easy to arrange an accident or have him disappear.”
“Another teenage runaway,” said Dr. Smith.
“Exactly. With an orphan, my guess is that no one bothers looking very hard. The cops would file some paperwork and then forget about it overnight.”
“And Radcliff’s operation would be subsidized by income from the state.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“You will have to prove it, Remo.”
“Which is why I’m going in.”
In a town the size of Ekron, it had not been difficult to pin the boys’ home down. They called it the Fairfield Home for Boys and it was situated on a ninety-acre tract of woodland east of town.
“Do you expect resistance?”
“With the way it’s gone so far,” said Remo, “I expect most anything.”
“I will wait for your report,” Smith declared, and cradled the receiver.
“I do not understand this cloning,” said Chiun when Remo laid the handset down.
“I’m not sure anybody does completely. Little Father. If the theory works, it means that you can take a piece of tissue from an animal, or man, extract the DNA and raise a perfect duplicate of whatever or whoever you started with. I understand some labs have had a fair bit of success with sheep and monkeys, that kind of thing.”
“So, there could be another Chiun?”
“In theory,” Remo said. “Of course, the body’s only part of it. Your clone would not inherit memories or skills. He’d have to go through all the education, training and experience that you’ve absorbed throughout your life to make a perfect duplicate—and even then, I guess, there could be room for some emotional discrepancy that altered his behavior.”
Chiun was scowling at a distant point in space. “Why was I not informed of this?” he asked.
“Nobody really believed it could be done on human beings. Hell, I could still be wrong. Smith thinks I’m crazy.”
Chiun replied, “The pot is calling the kettle black. Still, that does not mean he is necessarily correct.”
Was that a compliment or Chiun’s contrariness? Remo wondered.
“Anyway, I’m out of here. I have to check the so-called boys’ home,” Remo told him, glancing toward the road map that lay open on his bed, with route and destination marked in felt-tipped pen. “I’ll see you.”
Chiun folded his hands inside the sleeves of his silk kimono. “Come back quickly. I weary of waiting.”
The lineup of infomercials was never less than captivating, but the Master of Sinanju found it difficult to concentrate on the blaring set, even when he switched over to a noxious sitcom. His mind went back to Remo and the riddle of a dead man who would never truly die as long as bits and pieces of himself were frozen in a lab somewhere, available for transmutation into embryos. What marvels could have been achieved if such technology had been available in bygone ages! Why, Master Ung the poet could still be penning verses of sweet perfection. Death would lose all meaning, in effect, and if that meant assassins had to do the same job more than once, what harm was there in being paid to kill the same man two, three, even six or seven times?
Would such a killer who had generations to prepare himself challenge Remo? Chiun didn’t think so. But since the guinea pig and scientists were all American, they would attach the usual importance to such implements as guns, grenades and knives, neglecting the refinements of a true assassin’s art. It also helped that they were clumsy—Remo had killed four of them so far—but he was no immortal, for all his skills. When he met them next, there could be six or seven times as many, better armed, better, prepared.
Would that number of identical men confuse even a full Sinanju Master?
Chiun blinked at the commercial that was playing. On the TV screen, a mother and her daughter—indistinguishable by their ages—occupied a blanket in the middle of a meadow bright with flowers. From the wicker basket and array of home-cooked food, Chiun knew they must be on a picnic.
Eyes downcast, the daughter spoke. “I have to ask you something, Mom…about those special days. I’ve tried the pads and tampons, but they just don’t do the job.”
“These will,” her mother answered with a smile, and reached into the open picnic basket for a brightly colored box that might have held a dozen cans of beer. “I always keep a few of these around for special days. They’re more absorbent, and—”
Chiun switched the television off, disgusted with himself. It was a sign of weakness that he did not have sufficient faith in Remo to complete this particular mission unassisted..
Still, a new threat had manifested itself. These so-called clones. Remo might resent Chiun for interfering if it turned out to be a relatively simple mission. But if it was more than that…
Chiun stood up, went to the closet, where his lone steamer trunk was standing in a corner. He was changed in seconds flat, his green kimono traded for a black one. There was nothing else that he required.
Harold Smith had taken several hours to locate all the legal paperwork on the facility called Fairfield Home for Boys. Of course, it helped that he had known the town to start with, and there weren’t that many orphanages in the neighborhood of Ekron, Kentucky, but Smith was intent on proving Dr. Radcliff’s personal connection to the place before he unleashed Remo on the staff.
In fact, the orphanage was owned by Fairfield Mutual, a paper holding company that was itself controlled by something called Security Unlimited. That company, in turn, was owned by Quentech International—a firm created and controlled by Dr. Quentin Radcliff.
It was evidence enough for Smith, more than enough for Chiun and Remo. Quentech owned the Family Services Clinic in Brandenburg, and also held the title to Ideal Maternity.
Case closed.
When he was ready, Chiun paged through the telephone directory and found a number for the taxi company located nearest to his lodging. Thirteen minutes later, he was settled in the back seat of a battered yellow cab, giving directions to a sweaty driver several times his size.
“Ekron!” the driver snorted. “Are you kiddin’ me? That’s close to thirty miles, one-way, and then I gotta come back empty. There’s no way—”
“How much?” the Master of Sinanju asked him.
“Huh?”
“How much?” Chiun enunciated carefully, as if conversing with a mentally retarded child.
“Well, jeez, let’s see… A trip like that would run you sixty—more like seventy—and with the tip…” Chiun reached across the driver’s meaty shoulder, dropped a pair of crisp new hundred-dollar bills into the man’s lap, and sat back in his seat.
It was only paper money after all.
“Step on it, if you please,” the Master of Sinanju said. “And do not spare the horses.”
“Is everything in place?”
“I guarantee it,” Morgan Lasser said. “We’re set for damn near anything.”
“Damn near?” The tone of Quentin Radcliff’s voice was skeptical.
“Well, you know what I mean.”