Remo tugged at two more sets of heels.
The DEA responded with a rain of bullets that veered crazily in all directions once they struck water, their force dissipating. Moving fast, Remo batted them back with just enough force to sting but not injure.
The firing stopped.
Grinning in the dark silence of the sound, Remo resumed his swim.
If the DEA wanted to stake out Folcroft, they'd need a whole new team, he thought. These guys were not coming back.
IT WAS like something out of a nightmare.
Except that Harold W Smith was rarely visited by night terrors. He lacked the imagination to conjure up fantasies, even in the deepest sleep. It was one of the reasons he had been chosen to head CURE. A man with imagination might see the possiblities in the nearabsolute power the secret office gave one.
Yet Smith now confronted a nightmare beyond his deepest fears.
Framed in the square glass window was the mugging face of Uncle Sam Beasley, world-renowned illustrator, animator, and motion-picture studio executive, founder of the most popular and universally known theme parks in the world. And as far as the world knew, dead for nearly thirty years.
Harold W Smith had thought him dead, too. Until an invasion of Cuba launched from American soil was traced back to Sam Beasley World in Florida, and Remo and Chiun had uncovered the truth: Uncle Sam Beasley, rumored cryogenically frozen since his death in 1965, had been brought back from the dead outfitted with an animatronic heart and artificial limbs to replace those that suffered cell damage during his long icy sleep.
Seeing the fall of Cuba near, Beasley had mounted a secret invasion force with the intention of toppling the Castro government and turning the lush Caribbean isle into the ultimate theme park-not to mention a tax-free haven from which to run his global entertainment empire.
It was mad, it was insane, and it had very nearly succeeded. Only the intervention of CURE had stopped the invasion of Cuba by one of America's most famous and beloved corporations-and averted the embarrassing international incident that would have resulted.
In the end neither Remo nor Chiun, both of whom revered the legendary animator, could bring himself to kill Beasley. Neither could Smith in the final analysis. So he had had the man rendered harmless by the removal of his deadly hydraulic hand and institutionalized in Folcroft, where his cracked claims to be a resurrected Uncle Sam would fall on deaf ears.
"Look what I found," Beasley said with a satisfied cackle, malting his steel fist whine open and closed. There was blood on it. And a fleck of froth bubbled in the corner of Beasley's grinning mouth.
Smith shuddered. The man was now a caricature of his folksy former self. And he was loose in Folcroft, with Smith himself trapped in one of his own padded cells.
If ever there was a nightmare for Harold Smith, this was it.
"You are not well," Smith said in a calm voice. It was best to speak calmly to the deranged. And Uncle Sam Beasley was definitely deranged.
"Belay the bedside crap," Beasley snapped "Whose necks did I just snap?"
"Innocent IRS agents."
"No such thing. And that'll teach the bastards to nickel-and-dime me into early heart failure."
Smith changed tactics. "You have no place to go."
"What are you talking about? I'm Uncle Sam Beasley, beloved father-figure storyteller. Hell, there isn't a city, town or hamlet in the world where I wouldn't be welcome. France aside, that is."
"The world knows you're dead."
"You know I'm not. In fact, with my new ticker, I'm good until the Mouse's centennial."
"Perhaps. But you are instantly recognizable. If you set foot off these grounds, you will attract attention and have to explain youself."
"Good point."
"So you see you must remain here."
Beasley fingered his frosty mustache with a gnarled finger.
"So I must, so I must."
"I am glad you see the true nature of your position," said Smith through the glass.
"I do, I do. And I appreciate your pointing these things out to me."
"Return to your room please," said Smith, relaxing.
A chilly eyebrow crawled up from under the black eye patch in slow surprise. "Don't you want to be let out?"
"Not at the moment."
"Why not?"
"I don't care to discuss it," said Harold Smith.
"Suit yourself. Ta-ta."
Harold Smith heard Uncle Sam Beasley clump away on his silver-filigreed artificial leg. He continued listening. The clumping echoed all the way down to the end of the corridor. It stopped. Smith listened for the closing of a steel door. No such sound came. Instead, the ding of the arriving elevator came distinctly.
"My God!"
The elevator doors dinged shut again over a throaty chuckling, and Harold Smith knew that Uncle Sam Beasley had been let loose on the world.
And all because of the stupidity of the Internal Revenue Service.
Smith began banging on the door and shouting loud, inarticulate words.
It was a nightmare. And it was about to get worse. Much worse. If only someone would hear him.
THE MASTER of SINANJU was picking the pocket of a prowling IRS agent when he heard the hoarse shouting from two floors above.
The IRS agent did not hear this shouting, of course, any more than he felt the delicate finger extract his leather wallet from his back pocket.
The agent was bent over a water bubbler, refreshing himself. The Master of Sinanju had slipped up on him like a phantom, as he had on two others, each time relieving them off their fat wallets.
So far, he had collected less than three hundred dollars, but it was at least partial repayment for all the trouble the taxidermists had caused.
The hoarse shouting caused the Master of Sinanju to retreat before the agent straightened, wiping his mouth of water.
Chiun took the stairs, floating up them like a wraith. His feet brought him to the door behind which Emperor Smith pounded and shouted like a madman.