"He claimed on his 1040s to have been an analyst out of Langley."
"His claim is false," the CIA man said flatly.
"You telling me the truth or is this the usual deniability runaround?"
"Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"Yeah. You can hang up, dink," said Big Dick Brull, hanging up.
Brull leaned back again. Okay, he thought. There were only two scenarios here. Maybe three. Smith was lying. Or Central Intelligence was lying. Maybe both were lying. But somebody was lying.
That still pointed Dick Brull in one direction-Folcroft Sanitarium was a CIA outpost or was manned by an ex-CIA operative. Guys like that, once they were cut loose, were always running weird spook operations on their own initiative.
Big Dick Brull looked at the strange red telephone, the superfluous blue telephone that didn't go out on NYNEX lines and the desk with its hidden computer setup.
Maybe Folcroft was dirty. Maybe it was just off the books. Either way, it didn't matter to the IRS or Dick Brull. If it was a conduit for black budget money, the IRS was going to get its share, deserved or not. That was going to be the price for all those dead IRS and DEA agents. Dick Brull would either bring home the bacon or blow the whistle on Folcroft.
After all, in the scheme of things, the CIA was hardly forty years old. IRS went back to Abraham Lincoln.
And CID still had its quarterly quotas to meet.
Big Dick Brull got out of his chair. It was time to rub Harold Smith's nose in the very disagreeable political reality.
HAROLD SMITH HEARD the unmistakable hard heels sound coming down the corridor.
When Big Dick Brull's black brush cut appeared in the square window, Smith was prepared. But not for Brull's first words.
"The bull is off the nickel."
"I beg your pardon?" said Smith.
Brull hoisted himself up on his feet so his grinning face, like a boiled apple peeling, showed. "I know what Folcroft Sanitarium really is."
"You do," Smith said in a blank voice, his heart racing.
"Damn right I do."
"Then you know everything."
"I know enough. You're running a covert installation for the CIA here. I found your trick computer terminal and funny phones. So much for that thin story of yours about those basement mainframes."
"You are very clever," said Smith, his voice cool as brook water.
"What I'm not clear on is exactly what kind of operation this is. Domestic Intelligence gathering. Illegal radiation experiments. Safehouse. What?"
"I have no comment on that."
"That damn drumming is part of it, isn't it?"
"No comment."
"The gold that disappeared faster than reasonably possible. Those stupid vultures circling the building day and night. That killer butterfly. The bank account. They all hook up together."
"I know nothing whatever of these things," said Smith, wondering himself what Brull meant by circling birds.
"Don't bullshit me, Smith! I haven't forgotten how you threatened me with a government agency bigger that IRS. Hah! Like I'm scared. Those CIA spooks suck at the service's teats the same as anyone."
Smith said nothing.
Brull snapped his fingers. "I know! You're doing genetic experiments here. Breeding mutants. Am I right?"
"No comment."
Brull's face came close to the glass. Smith met his icy black eyes with his own cool gray stare.
"Whatever it is, you're not off the hook until you square accounts with IRS."
"I fail to follow."
"This damn place is off the books. Way off the books. I understand that. I'm not stupid. I know how things work. You're moving big blocks of cash if not gold to support it. All of it tax free."
Smith said nothing.
"Technically tax free. But if you want the lid to stay on Folcroft, you're going to have to kick through thirty percent to IRS coffers."
"Are you talking about a bribe?"
"Don't use that word with me!" Brull exploded. "I take nothing. But IRS takes thirty percent. In return, Folcroft goes back to you, just like we left it."
Harold Smith's glasses began to steam again.
"It is a shambles," he said, bitter voiced. "There are two dead IRS agents just down the hall. How are you going to explain them away?"
Brull looked. "I don't see anything."
"They are around the corner."
Brull left. He came back, his face the color of a sheet.
"Jesus, what killed them?"
"I did not see. I was locked in here. But I heard them being strangled."
Brull wiped his suddenly moist brow with a handkerchief. "Their necks are squeezed to the diameter of fucking pencils," he said.
"A dangerous lunatic was deinstitutionalized on IRS orders. He is obviously running amok."