"Then she is not your mother, for she lied to you."
"Her exact words were, 'He is known to you, my son.' She called me 'son.' I gotta find out who she is, Chiun."
And seeing the troubled light in his pupil's dark eyes, the Master of Sinanju said, "I give you one hour. But what do you expect to accomplish in so brief a time?"
"I'm going to get her picture," said Remo in a strange voice.
But before the Master of Sinanju could question his obviously demented pupil further, he slipped out the side door.
Chiun took up a position before the triple-locked door, his face stern, his eyes troubled. Far more troubled than those of his pupil.
For he knew what Remo Williams did not. That he had met his father, unknowing, and must not learn the truth of his parentage. Otherwise, the Master of Sinanju might never be forgiven for concealing this truth.
Chapter 6
Harold W Smith heard the federal magistrate's charges from his hospital bed.
He was awake. They could tell that by his eyes. The attending physician had proved that he was awake even if he could not move his body by getting Smith to blink once for yes and twice for no.
It had been half a day now. A half day since the combined raids by the IRS and the DEA had overwhelmed Folcroft's virtually nonexistent defenses. A half day since the Master of Sinanju had thwarted his attempt to ingest the suicide pill that was Smith's last resort in the event of catastrophic compromise. Once before, he had been forced to take that pill. Chiun had stopped him then, too. Didn't he understand? Once CURE was no more, Smith would have to die.
Perhaps it was the memory of that last wrenching failure that had caused Smith's mouth to go dry as he took the pill into his mouth. Perhaps it was the suspicion that it was the new President's way of shutting down CURE and making certain it stayed shut down that had brought on the raids.
Smith could only surmise these things. Whatever the case, the pill would not go down his dry throat, but had lodged there instead. Chiun had caused it to pop out with his irresistible manipulations, and with that thoughtless act went Smith's final chance to end it all.
Now he lay paralyzed. Again the Master of Sinanju had been very clever. He understood that Smith would find a way-any way-to end his life if he had the strength and mobility to do so.
But as the federal magistrate droned out the charges-the titles and sections and subsections of the Revenue Code-which had come crashing down on his head like a rain of hard brick, Smith began to realize the absurdity of it all.
They thought he was some kind of drug merchant and money launderer. Where could they have gotten so ludicrous an idea?
"These charges include the willful and deliberate failure to report some twelve million dollars in income that were surreptitiously wire transferred to the Folcroft Sanitarium bank account-an account that you, Dr. Smith, have sole control over. No currency-transaction report was generated, and there was no rendering to the IRS of estimated tax payments. How do you plead to these charges? Guilty or not guilty? Blink once for guilty, twice for not."
Smith blinked twice.
"Since you have waived the right to counsel, I hereby place you under house arrest. You are not to leave these premises under any circumstance."
I am completely paralyzed, Smith thought bitterly. What is that man thinking of?
"Pending a federal trial, I have agreed to the petition of the Internal Revenue Service that they take complete operating control of this hospital pending the outcome of said trial. You may of course file a petition with the tax court if you feel this seizure is baseless or excessive."
Smith would have groaned if his throat would let him.
They would search Folcroft for contraband, if they hadn't already done so. They would find the CURE computers. Even with their data banks erased, this would raise unanswerable questions. And there was the gold stored with the computers. It had belonged to Friend. Its recovery by the Master of Sinanju and Remo meant CURE had operating capital for the coming fiscal year. It would be impossible to explain away.
As impossible as the twelve million dollars that now lay on deposit in the Folcroft bank account.
The amount could not be a coincidence, Smith realized.
During Friend's multipronged attempt to neutralize Folcroft so he could blackmail the US. banking system, the relentlessly greedy VLSI chip had infiltrated the computer links that governed the Federal Reserve wire-transfer system. Money began disappearing from bank computers all over the nation, including the CURE operating fund in the Grand Cayman Trust headquartered on Grand Cayman Island in the Caribbean.
The money had disappeared. Smith had coerced Friend into returning all the rerouted funds before shutting him down for good. He had forgotten to specify the missing CURE money. It was a serious oversight, committed at the end of a very taxing operation.
Now Smith understood where the missing funds had gone to. Friend had wire transferred them to the Folcroft account. It was a final scorpion sting from an old foe who had refused to die. Folcroft was already being audited by the IRS. Friend's doing once again, Smith now realized.
No doubt Friend had also dropped a dime with the DEA.
Thus, from the oblivion of his electronic grave, Friend had exacted his final revenge upon CURE and Harold W Smith.
There was no way to explain away twelve million dollars in the operating account of a sleepy private hospital. No doubt the bank that handled the Folcroft business account itself was under great scrutiny.
CURE was finished.
Harold Smith lay on his hospital bed prison wishing for the strength to finish himself, too.
But only the Master of Sinanju had the power to fulfill that particular wish.
JACK KOLDSTAD was wondering exactly what kind of madhouse Folcroft Sanitarium really was.
After six hours it was very clear that it functioned-at least outwardly-as a private hospital. Its patients were generally chronic convalescent cases, older and from moneyed families prepared to warehouse their sick until the inevitable end of natural life. None of that Dr. Kevorkian crap here.
There was a psychiatric wing for the mentally ill. He hadn't checked into it yet. A subordinate had done that. Koldstad wasn't sure he wanted to deal with those kinds of people. He had enough problems on his hands.
First there was Dr. Smith's paralysis. None of the Folcroft physicians could explain it. The man was obviously alert and conscious. His eyes were open. But he couldn't even twitch. Koldstad wondered if it was psychosomatic, so he had slipped into Smith's room when no one was looking and jabbed Smith in the cheek with a needle.
Smith hadn't flinched. He had batted his eyes and glared at Koldstad. But not a twitch otherwise.
Just to make sure, Koldstad had inserted the needle in a couple of other tender places with the same disappointing result.
He didn't try the technique on his own agent. They had found him on the first-floor stairwell on the floor, eyes staring, stiff as a board, but alive and thinking. Koldstad ordered him into an available room and gave instructions to keep a lid on it.
No one could explain him, either.
And no one could explain the drumming.
Koldstad had first heard it while going through Dr. Smith's desk. He'd found a wide array of antacid pills, foams, aspirin and other common remedies-much of it marked Free or Sample-but no drugs or incriminating papers.
The drumming had come from Smith's private washroom.
It was a steady, almost monotonous drumbeat. Doom doom doom doom. It had continued while Koldstad fumbled for the washroom key, and it was still going when he'd jammed it into the lock.
When the door was flung open, the drumming had stopped.
There had been nothing in the washroom, either. Koldstad had checked everywhere, including the toilet tank, which was a common place to hide contraband.
When he closed the door, the drumming had started all over again.