Smith continued. "Then it was all concoction." His face was almost comical with realization.
"Right," said Remo. "I'm not related to you and you are not related to me. End of freaking story."
"There is still this one," said Chiun, indicating Winston Smith.
"Forget him. "
"He wears your face, Remo," Chiun pointed out.
"I don't believe it."
"Neither do I," said Winston Smith. "I'm bailing."
Smith spoke up. "I am afraid we cannot allow this. You know too much, Winston."
Winston Smith started backing out of the room. "I don't know jack shit. Except that you're a fraud."
"If you will not return to your unit, some provision must be made for you. Chiun, render him unconscious, please."
Chiun shook his aged head. "He is not my son. He is Remo's responsibility."
"I offer him to you for training," Smith said quickly. "Since Remo has made his intentions of leaving the organization clear, we have need of a new Destroyer. I put him in your hands."
"Don't I get any say in this?" Remo and Winston said in unison. Their heads snapped around, and their gazes locked.
After a beat Remo suddenly advanced on Winston Smith. Smith drew a combat knife from a boot sheath. Remo stopped. Suddenly he tossed Winston a set of car keys. He caught them.
"What's this?"
"There's a blue Buick parked down the road. Take it. Change your name. And don't look back."
Winston Smith's camouflage tiger stripes gathered up in confusion. "You're giving me your car?"
"Once Smith gets his hooks into you, he'll never let go. You have a chance for your own life." Remo gave Harold Smith a hard look. "Which is more than I ever got. Take it and go."
Winston Smith smiled cockily. "Thanks, jarhead."
"Don't mention it, swabbie."
And he was gone.
Smith rose from his desk. "Remo! We cannot-"
Remo kicked the door shut. "Forget it, Smitty. Your story may be true or not. Either way, the kid deserves a decent break after the raw deal you handed him."
"Here! Here!" said Chiun.
Smith settled back into his chair, features haggard.
"And what kind of a name is Winston?" Remo demanded.
"I told you before. A family name. It happens to be my middle name."
"You ought to be shot just for naming an innocent kid after a cigarette," said Remo.
Smith made a lemony mouth and said nothing.
The Master of Sinanju floated up to the glasstopped desk and plucked something out of one voluminous sleeve. He laid it on the black glass.
Smith squinted.
"If it is still your wish to end your life," Chiun intoned, "there is the means."
Smith took up the white coffin-shaped pill, regarded it with an impassive expression and without a word slipped it into the watch pocket of his vest.
"The crisis has passed."
No one said anything for a long awkward moment.
Then Smith said, "I have many loose ends to clean up. Staff to rehire. Patients to calm down. Strings to pull with the IRS and DEA."
"What about the Dutchman?" asked Remo.
"His medications will have to be changed. His mind is clearing and the danger is growing. At the moment I am more concerned with Uncle Sam Beasley."
Smith pulled closer the worn attache case that Big Dick Brull left on the desk. He worked the combination that disarmed the explosive latch charges, exposing a portable computer and telephone handset. He booted it up.
"The basement computers are inoperative but may be salvageable, even if the data stored on them is not. In the meantime, I will undertake a search for Beasley."
"Don't forget my mother," Remo reminded. "I'll make you a copy of the drawing."
"I will do my best as promised," said Smith absently.
"Do better," warned Remo. "You have a lot of sins to make up for."
Harold Smith said nothing to that. He was already lost in cyberspace.
"Come on, Little Father. Let's go panning for gold."
Hazel eyes widening, the Master of Sinanju followed Remo out of the office.
Chapter 35
Remo Williams led the Master of Sinanju down to the Folcroft basement. They walked in silence, lost in their own thoughts.
There Remo raised the corrugated loading door.