Failing Marks, page 8
It didn’t matter. Groth didn’t seem to even hear him as he collected the morning mail from the desk clerk without a word. The boy seemed relieved to not be singled out for attention. Groth left him alone, walking down the employees’ corridor next to the desk.
At that moment, the regular morning desk clerk arrived, ten minutes late for his shift. He was calling out excuses in Spanish the instant he stepped through the door.
The night clerk was so eager to chastise his fellow employee for his tardiness that he failed to notice that the hotel guest who had been sitting by the door waiting for the arrival of Señor Groth for nearly four hours was nowhere to be seen.
. . .
Groth dropped the mail to his desk with a loud slap.
“Hot,” he murmured, flapping his arms uncomfortably. “I hate this damned heat.”
He turned to the wall where the air conditioner controls were located. He hadn’t taken a single step before noticing something with his peripheral vision. He wheeled around.
“Good morning, starshine.” Remo smiled. He was standing inside the closed office door.
It was impossible. Groth had shut and locked the door. He should have heard someone enter behind him. Were they asleep at the front desk? Heads would roll for this.
“I’m looking for directions,” Remo said.
Groth scowled. “Front desk,” he grunted, jabbing a thumb at the door. He sat down behind his own desk. When he looked up, he was agitated to see that Remo was still there.
“Kempten sent me,” Remo said. He smiled tightly.
The look that passed over Groth’s face was both subtle and telling. He knew. Old Kempten was dead and Dieter Groth already knew.
In the next instant, Groth was lunging for his desk drawer. He ripped it open, jamming his hand down atop the Luger pistol he stored there for emergencies.
Even before Groth opened the drawer, Remo was slipping behind the desk. As the German’s fingers found the gun butt, Remo slapped his palm against the face of the drawer. It flew shut, with Groth’s hand still inside. Wrist bones were instantly crushed.
The German tried to howl in pain. Before he could, Remo’s hand snaked out and grabbed a spot on his neck. Though Groth tried desperately to scream, all that issued from the hotel proprietor’s throat was a pathetic croak.
“I’m looking for Four, sweetheart,” Remo pressed. “Where is it?” He eased the pressure on Groth’s bull neck.
“Argentina,” the German gasped. Sweat had broken out on his tanned forehead. The blinding pain in his shattered wrist was almost more than he could bear.
“Where?” Remo pushed.
Whatever Dieter Groth might have said was lost forever.
At the precise moment his thick lips were parting, the door to the office burst open. As Remo and Groth turned, a young woman leaped into the small room, brandishing a handgun.
Dieter Groth looked for a moment as if he had seen his salvation. The relief was short-lived. Groth’s eyes grew wide as the gun leveled on him. A crackling explosion filled the small room. A single bullet struck Dieter Groth’s forehead with a satisfying thwack.
The German’s dark eyes blinked once in bewilderment and then rolled back in his head, closing forever. The soft hiss of startled air from his slack mouth petered to silence.
“Dammit!” Remo snapped, dropping the dead Nazi onto the desk. Groth hit with a fat thud. The German immediately began oozing blood onto the Hotel Cabeza de Ternera’s morning mail.
“Do not move!” the woman threatened. She had twisted on the ball of one foot. Her smoking gun was now aimed at Remo.
“Not very bloody likely,” Remo growled. Her eyes couldn’t even begin to process his movements. Remo flew across the room, snatching the gun from her hand. He flung it to the office floor.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
She was trying to come to terms with what had just happened. Her beautiful face was shocked, but she quickly pulled herself together.
“I might ask you the same thing,” she sniffed haughtily. Slender fingers pushed her blond bangs away from her eyes.
“Lady, you’re this close to getting tossed out that window.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“We are on the ground floor,” she said defiantly.
“Believe me, I can make it feel like the twentieth.”
Her lips tightened as she studied Remo’s cruel face. She finally seemed to decide that he wasn’t making an idle threat. The woman put her hands on her hips contemptuously.
“I am Heidi Stolpe,” she declared imperiously.
“German?” Remo asked, surprised.
“I am of German ancestry, yes,” she replied. The admission seemed distasteful to her.
“That accent isn’t German.”
“It is Spanish,” she said. “I have spent much time here in South America.”
“I bet,” Remo said, annoyed. “Okay, spill it. Why’d you aerate Countess von Zeppelin over there?”
Heidi sneered as she looked over at the body of Dieter Groth. “I make no apologies for my actions,” she said, eyes hooded. “He was a Nazi. His kind deserve to die.”
Remo closed his eyes. “Oh, great,” he muttered. “A Nazi-hunter.”
Heidi puffed out her chest. “I am proud of that fact,” she stated firmly.
“Bully for you,” Remo said. “And in principle, you’re not going to get much of an argument from me. But couldn’t you have waited another two minutes before you plugged him?”
“He avoided punishment for his crimes for more than fifty years,” Heidi said boldly.
She obviously had decided that Remo was no longer a threat. At least not to her. Proud chin raised high, she marched over to the corner of the room to retrieve her gun. Stooping, she tossed the weapon into the handbag that was draped around her neck.
“Another minute would have done it,” Remo said to himself with a morose sigh. He dropped back against the wall, staring bitterly at the body of Dieter Groth.
“What is it you wanted from him?” Heidi asked, coming back over to the door. She seemed barely interested. Her azure eyes didn’t even look upon the man she had just shot in cold blood.
“Nothing,” Remo said, shaking his head. Even as he was saying it, a thought suddenly occurred to him. “Hey, you said you spent a lot of time down here,” he said, looking up.
“Most of my life,” she admitted.
“Ever hear of a place called Four? It’s supposed to be a village or town or something.”
Heidi considered for a moment. “The Spanish word is quatro,” she advised him.
“No,” Remo explained. “This isn’t Spanish. I guess it wouldn’t even be in German. It’s just the Roman numeral IV.”
“And this is the name of a village?” she asked dubiously.
“According to him, it’s in Argentina.” Remo nodded to Groth’s body.
She shook her head. “I do not know of this place.”
“From what I’ve heard, it’s brimming over with semi-retired fascists,” Remo said slyly. “A Nazi-hunter could have a field day there.”
Heidi frowned. “This is true?”
“Absolutely.”
He could see he had piqued her interest.
“And you are certain Nazi war criminals live there?” Heidi asked.
“It’d be like shooting fish in a barrel.”
Heidi seemed to reach some inner decision. “I have contacts in the area. I will ask around for you and return here in an hour. You have a room at the hotel?”
“I did,” Remo said. “It might not be a great idea to stick around here after your Ozark Annie act.” He indicated Groth’s body.
“Perhaps not,” she agreed. “Do you know the Old City?”
“I’m new in town,” Remo said.
Heidi gave him a few precise directions. “Meet me at the Artigas statue in the plaza at nine-thirty. What is your name, by the way?”
“Remo.”
“Is that Spanish?”
“It’s actually sort of like the name-game version of the Junior Jumble,” he replied.
She peered deeply into his eyes, looking for any hint of sarcasm. Finding none, she nodded once. “Nine-thirty,” she repeated. With that, she fled the office.
“Why do I feel like I’d be better off without any help?” Remo asked the body of Dieter Groth once she was gone.
Leaving the dead German to ponder the answer to his question, Remo slid silently from the room.
. . .
Fortunately for Remo, the Hotel Cabeza de Ternera staff was fearful of their domineering German boss. The body of Dieter Groth would be left undisturbed for hours.
Remo managed to pry the Master of Sinanju away from the television and, through the generous application of gratuities, was able to pack up Chiun’s trunks and check out of the hotel in less than twenty minutes. In another twenty, the old Korean’s luggage was stashed in a less opulent hotel and the two Masters of Sinanju were walking the busy streets of Montevideo.
The city had truly earned its reputation as one of the most beautiful in Latin America. Its tree-lined streets were wide, and the business and residential sections were planned at a time when city planning actually meant something. The buildings were a mixture of both old and new architectural styles.
The Old City that Heidi spoke of was on a small peninsula that had been the city’s original location. At the heart of this section was the Plaza Constitución—the original square of Montevideo. The square was bracketed by the city hall and cathedral, the city’s oldest buildings.
In the square was a statue of the national hero General José Artigas, leader of the people of the Banda Oriental, which later became Uruguay.
As they approached the statue, Chiun cast a withering gaze up and down the immortalized figure of Artigas.
“Soldiers,” he sniffed unhappily. “It is beyond my comprehension why the people of any nation would revere a simple peasant with a boom stick.”
“What would you prefer?” Remo asked, suspecting what the answer would be.
“I would prefer that the citizenry appreciate the pivotal role an assassin plays in the development of their society. Namely me.”
“That’s all well and good, Little Father,” Remo said, “but when people think of assassins, they don’t automatically think of you.”
“They should,” the Master of Sinanju said haughtily.
“That’s not the point,” Remo objected. “They don’t. And I’m not sure the public would rally behind a statue for John Wilkes Booth in the Mall in Washington.”
“If not an assassin, perhaps the honor should be given to one who brings joy to the hearts of men the world over.”
“That would be you again, right?” Remo deadpanned.
“No,” Chiun said. “Though it would be right to honor one such as myself, your beloved lunatic Smith insists we toil in anonymity. Therefore, we are not known to the masses. But there is one who brings joy to all in every nation we have ventured to in recent months. I speak of none other than the brilliant comic Rowan Atkinson.”
“You’re kidding,” Remo said flatly. This was the Englishman whose television show Chiun had been watching incessantly for the past three months. “You want a statue to a British TV comic?”
“It does not have to be too large.” He looked up disdainfully at the statue of José Artigas. “As long as it is bigger than this eyesore, that will suffice.”
“Good luck,” Remo snorted.
“I will mention it to Smith.”
“I’m sure he’ll get right on it.”
“Do you really think so?” Chiun asked.
Fortunately Remo didn’t have to answer. He spied Heidi Stolpe coming toward them down the path near the statue.
She was dressed in a green sleeveless T-shirt and baggy khaki pants. Black military boots were laced up around her ankles. A knapsack was slung over her shoulder. Her short blond hair bounced perkily as she strode toward them.
Remo and Chiun walked over to meet her. Heidi’s face was flushed.
“I do not know what to make of what I have learned,” she said. Her voice was excited. “Hello,” she added, smiling at Chiun. The Master of Sinanju tipped his head in response.
“You know where Four is?” Remo asked.
She shook her head. “I am not certain. I have checked with contacts I have in the area about associates of Dieter Groth. There is one name that a few seemed to know. A man by the name of Adolf Kluge.” She peered at Remo, trying to see if the name sparked any recognition.
Remo shrugged. “Don’t know him.”
She nodded. “One man I spoke to said this Kluge could be found in a village in the lower Andes in Argentina. He didn’t know the name of the village, but he knew how to get there. When I checked my maps of the area, I found that there was no such place officially listed.” She dropped her knapsack to her feet. Crouching, she rummaged around inside it, eventually producing a hastily sketched map. She handed it to Remo. “This is where he said it would be.”
Remo studied the roads and landmarks. There was a circle around a few bottomless triangles, which Remo assumed represented the Andes. In it, Heidi had written “IV?”
“That could be it,” Remo said, nodding. “You want to check it out?” he asked Chiun.
“Our new lodgings have no television,” Chiun said with a bored shrug.
“Thanks,” Remo said to Heidi as he pocketed the map. He and Chiun started to walk away from the Artigas statue.
Heidi ran around in front of them, propping a hand against Remo’s chest.
“I am going, too,” she insisted.
“Sorry,” Remo said. “Too dangerous.” He skipped around her outstretched arm and continued walking.
Heidi kept pace with them.
“I know the area better than you. I could get there first and warn them,” she said quickly.
Remo stopped. “Now, why would a Nazi-hunter want to do that?” he asked wearily.
“I would not want to, but you could force me to do it,” Heidi said defiantly. “If you do not let me come.”
“I don’t have time for nonsense,” Remo said. He waggled a warning finger at Heidi. “If you get shot, it’s your business. Don’t come bleeding to me.”
“I will be fine,” she said excitedly. “My jeep is parked around the block.”
There was a bounce in her step as she slung her knapsack back over her shoulder. She took the lead. Remo and Chiun followed a few yards behind her. Heidi was humming a Spanish-accented version of an old German lullaby.
“Where did you find this one?” Chiun asked quietly.
“She’s the one who shot Groth,” Remo explained.
Chiun appraised Heidi’s back. “She killed a mere hour ago and is able to sing?” he said. “This female has a heart of stone.” There was admiration in his squeaky voice.
Heidi had begun singing softly as they strolled out onto the sidewalk.
“You wouldn’t know it to listen to her,” Remo snarled. “If she was any damned perkier, I’d kill her myself.”
They followed the singing murderess down the busy streets of Uruguay’s capital to Heidi’s parked jeep.
Chapter Nine
Veit Rauch did not like the Numbers. He had been assigned three of them at his shack near the bottom of the lonely mountainside road that led up to the IV village.
The only route by land into the village, theirs was the first line of defense against intruders. It should, therefore, have been the most heavily manned area within the IV perimeter. Instead, there were only the four of them.
While Veit sat on his stool in the small shed, the three Numbers stood at attention along the road. Numbers. That’s what they were called around the village. They didn’t have names; they had assigned digits. They were the blond-haired, blue-eyed creations of the late Dr. Erich von Breslau and his team of neo-Nazi geneticists.
The eggs of a violently unwilling host had been “harvested” by von Breslau. The woman, of course, had been sacrificed to a greater cause.
Through some genetic tinkering that Rauch could not begin to understand, a strand of perfect Aryan DNA had been produced in a laboratory. It combined the flawless traits of a dozen male volunteers. This genetic information was injected into the many egg cells, and the whole mélange was introduced into the bodies of local peasant women whose families had been well compensated for their nine-month inconvenience. The result was the Numbers—hundreds of identical soldiers programmed to blindly serve the leaders of IV.
It was discovered after the birth of the first infants that there had been some unseen flaw in the DNA cocktail. Von Breslau’s monsters were born incapable of speech.
Not long after this failed experiment, Adolf Kluge had assumed his post as head of IV. The genetics lab was closed down and its research was halted. Proof of IV’s sorry flirtation with manufactured perfection, the Numbers were kept alive as workhorses.
Rauch looked at the three men lined up along the road. He found them particularly unnerving in those instances when they happened to blink in unison. They could not even rightly be termed freaks of nature, Rauch realized, for nature had little to do with their creation.
They stood—each one interchangeable with the next—as monuments to failure. Rauch vowed that if there was any trouble, they would bear the brunt of it.
Rauch frowned as he considered the events of the past few months. It was disgusting that IV had come to this. Rauch was the grandson of an important Gestapo officer. The IV village had always been an unassailable bastion against the perverted thinking of the modern world. It had never seen any kind of trouble since his grandfather’s day.
But there had been so many deaths in recent months. Some of the dead were people Rauch knew. IV was at the center of an ever tightening noose. And in the darkest corners of Rauch’s mind, he wondered if any of them could survive.
There was a small black phone on the narrow shelf near Rauch’s elbow. It squawked suddenly, causing him to jump.
He hadn’t realized he had been so self-absorbed. Rauch glanced at the Numbers. They hadn’t seen his display of nerves. Not that it mattered. The brutish mutes would not have been able to tell anyone even if they had. He picked up the phone.
