Remo's face floated in the door window.
"Remo! Have you seen Chiun?"
"Better than that. Here's Beasley."
The hangdog face of Uncle Sam Beasley was brought into view, held steady by Remo's fingers at the back of his neck.
The Master of Sinanju's bald head came up into sight. "What should be done with this misguided one, O Emperor?"
"Lock him in a cell. He should keep overnight."
"No problem," said Remo. "What about you?"
"Brull was here. He suspects Folcroft of being a CIA front."
"So, let him."
"He's trying to extort money on behalf of the IRS."
"We can convince him of the error of that position," said Remo.
"No. It would not work."
"So what will?"
"I do not know," Smith admitted, his lemony voice dejected.
"Look," Remo said impatiently, "this running around can't go on forever. We gotta poop or get off the pot. "
"Yes," chimed in Chiun. "Let us turn these taxidermists into poop, and all our troubles will fade like yesterday's fog."
"They've seized my home. I do not know where my wife is. She is my chief concern now."
"We can look into that. But what about you?"
Smith said listlessly, "I am not important."
"Smitty, stop talking like that. We have unfinished business. I want you to find my father for me."
"It is impossible."
"Like hell it is. My mother-I mean the woman who spoke to me-claimed I knew my father. Look, how many people can that be? You can do background checks on everyone I ever knew. Something will turn up. Until then, you stay in the game."
"I make no promises, Remo. For the life of me, I do not see how we can put the pieces of the organization back together."
"Sleep on it," said Remo, shaking the silent Uncle Sam Beasley. "Let's start with putting this loose end to bed for the night."
As they walked away, Harold Smith could hear Remo scolding Uncle Sam Beasley. "I can't believe you turned out to be such a pill. I was a big fan of yours when I was a kid, you know."
"Even in my humble village," Chiun was saying, "the name of Uncle Sam made childish eyes glow like candles."
If Uncle Sam had any reply to that, Smith did not hear it as he lowered himself onto the narrow bunk. He didn't close his eyes until he heard the clank of a cell door shutting. Then he turned over on his side and he fell instantly asleep.
Chapter 29
In the hours before the sunless dawn of submarine life, Winston Smith awoke like a spark flaring. His hands fished under his pillow, and he turned on the light. He sat reading the sea gram over and over.
"The bastard," he said feelingly. "The cold, mother-loving bastard."
After a while he lit a cigarette and smoked it to a stub. Then he cracked open the door and stuck out his close-shaven head. A seaman was making his way along the corridor.
"Hey, sailor. When do we make port?"
"We're in it."
Smith blinked. Only then did he notice the absence of vibrations and other sounds of a submarine under way. "What port?"
"Search me. It's classified."
"Sounds like my kind of port," said Smith, shutting the door to smoke another Lucky.
This time he used the lit end to ignite the sea gram. It refused to burn until he blew on the smoldering edge. Then it caught, burning briefly in his fingers.
Winston Smith didn't bother to let go when the flames licked at his fingers. He just let the fire run its course and crushed the curled black paper in his unfeeling fist while it was still hot.
"Uncle Harold, you picked the wrongest damn day to do this to your favorite nephew."
He picked up the BEM gun and laid the plastic manual on his knee. There must be something in the specs that would disarm the damn antifiring interlock.
Chapter 30
In the deepest part of the night, Harold Smith heard a familiar voice. It snapped him from his dreamless sleep.
"Harold?"
"Maude?" Blinking, Smith rushed to the locked door.
There was Maude Smith in all her blue-haired matronly glory. Nevertheless, she was a welcome sight.
"Harold, what are you doing here?"
"I am under house arrest. Please do not enter. How did you get past the IRS?"
"That doesn't matter, Harold. I have come to tell you something important."
"What is it?"