Failing Marks, page 12
“Oh, the dastards!” Chiun hissed. He was panting so hard Smith thought he might be having a heart attack.
“What is it?” Remo asked, concerned.
“Thieves! Scoundrels! Oh, the perfidy!” Chiun drummed his fist against his bony chest. He wheeled on Remo. “We must be off at once!” he cried.
“Off?” Remo said. “Off where?”
“To Korea, of course,” Chiun snapped. “That this could happen after lo these many years. What is this world the gods have thrust down around one as trusting as I?”
“Chiun,” Remo interjected, “I don’t know what that was all about, but I am not going to Korea.”
Chiun wheeled. An accusing nail stabbed the air between them.
“Betrayal?” Chiun cried in shock. “From my own son?”
“How can I betray you? Dammit, I don’t even know what the hell you’re upset about.”
“The treasure,” Chiun explained, seething. His hazel eyes were furious. “The vast stores of priceless tribute to generations of greatness that is the House of Sinanju have been swept from the floors of my home like driftwood in a ferocious monsoon.” He gripped fistfuls of brocade kimono fabric. “I have been robbed, Remo!” he wailed.
Remo let the tension drain from his shoulders. “Is that all?” he said, relieved.
When he saw the sense of relief in his pupil’s face, Chiun snapped back into outrage mode.
“How dare you be calm?!” he accused. A bony finger quivered at Remo. “The man you call father has been grossly violated. Thieves have pillaged my most prized possessions.”
“That’s too bad,” Remo said. “Really. It’s just that I thought there was something really wrong.”
“‘Really’?”Chiun cried. “‘Really’?” His voice grew increasingly frenzied as he repeated the word. Although it was long after midnight, Smith was concerned Chiun’s screams would be overheard. He shot a cautious look at his closed office door.
“Please, Master Chiun,” Smith begged.
The Master of Sinanju spun on him, his long robes twirling madly. “Stay out of this, white,” Chiun menaced.
“Look,” Remo said, attempting to be the voice of reason, “the treasure was stolen before. We got it back then, and I’m sure we’ll get it back now. We can go to Sinanju as soon as we’ve cleared up this Four business.”
“No,” Chiun insisted, tugging at his tufts of wispy hair in frustration. “It must be now. Every day we dally allows the trail to grow ever colder.”
Remo was determined. He was about to insist that they stay put when Smith broke into their conversation.
“If I may interject,” the CURE director said. Chiun twirled on him, eyes pinpricks of white-hot rage.
“I said mind your own business,” he snapped.
“I only wanted to say that I have had little luck finding this Kluge. And, frankly, your presence here is drawing undue attention.”
“You see,” Chiun insisted, shifting gears so fast Remo swore he heard grinding. Though he spoke to Remo, he stabbed a bony finger at Smith. “The wisdom of a true emperor. Even Smith wishes us to go.”
“If something comes up, I will contact you in Sinanju,” Smith offered reasonably. “You still have a phone, correct?”
“The only one in the village,” Chiun replied.
“Then it is settled,” Smith said. Inwardly he was greatly relieved. He wasn’t comfortable when Remo and Chiun stayed at Folcroft for extended periods of time.
“Don’t I get any say in this?” Remo asked.
“No,” said Smith and Chiun in unison.
Remo threw up his hands in defeat. “Fine,” he said, exhaling loudly. “We’ll go to Sinanju.”
Whirling, Chiun raised a defiant hand as he marched over to the door. He flung it open grandly. “And woe to he who would pilfer the treasure of the most awesome house of assassins in the history of creation.” He stormed outside.
“Yadda, yadda, yadda,” Remo grumbled to Smith. His face held the look of a man totally devoid of enthusiasm.
Hands in his pockets, Remo followed Chiun reluctantly from the office.
Chapter Twelve
Adolf Kluge was born in La Plata, the capital of the province of Buenos Aires in Argentina.
In spite of the fact that it was the country’s national language, Kluge hadn’t heard a word of Spanish spoken until he was nearly seven years old. By that time, he already knew that he was different from the people around him.
No. Not just different. Adolf Kluge was better.
Even before he could walk, the parents of young Adolf had taught their precious blue-eyed offspring that he was superior to all others. This—he would come to realize later in life—included them.
His proud Nazi parents had fled their homeland during the persecution that came in the wake of the Second World War. Wounded in the early days of the Polish incursion, his father had sat out the war as nothing more than an SS bureaucrat. If the brutality of the Nazi secret police force had never come to light, he might have been able to resume his anonymous life after the war. Unfortunately for the senior Kluge, his name turned up in several key files concerning the torture and deaths of dozens of suspected Allied spies. He had been forced to flee to South America in order to escape prosecution.
The Nazis of Argentina were a close-knit group. They lived together, socialized only with their peers, married one another and raised their children in the old way. And, most of all, they kept the Nazi dream of global domination alive long after the world thought a stake had been driven through its evil heart.
Kluge was born in the early 1950s into a community fueled by bitter hatreds and a festering, impotent rage at the treatment it received from the outside world.
As the community of Nazi exiles grew, so did its members’ desire for a place to call home. Germany was out of the question. None of them could ever go back. Not under the climate that dominated so much of world opinion.
It was more than ten full years after the fall of Berlin that IV village was established. As a boy, Kluge remembered driving up with his parents to see the homes under construction. To the little child who had seen his parents’ beloved homeland only in old photographs, it was as if they had somehow magically driven across the Atlantic and into the mountains of Bavaria. The funds looted by Hitler’s regime and held by Swiss bankers had been used to re-create a small scrap of Germany for that nation’s most pitiful outcasts.
Adolf Kluge would never forget how his father had stopped their car in the shade of the old stone fortress. As his mother stared in silence at the homes beyond the large open field, his father wept openly at the sight of the picturesque little houses.
Kluge would never forget the feeling of contempt his father’s emotional outburst had raised in him. For, at the tender age of five, Adolf Kluge was as insufferably arrogant as he was intelligent.
Some people grew to rebel against that which they had been taught as children. Not Kluge. He fervently believed in the idea of the master race. He also fervently believed in his role as its eventual leader, a belief that became his driving ambition.
At the private German-only school he attended as a youth alongside the children of other refugee Nazis, he achieved the highest honors of any student in its history. He excelled at languages, mastering more than a dozen tongues by the time he graduated high school.
Kluge was sent to college abroad, studying in both England and the United States. The honors he received while away at school were such that, when his education was finally complete, he had left no doubt in the minds of his fellow villagers that he was the future of IV.
As the years peeled away, Kluge assumed a small position on the leadership council of the village. At that time, IV was still dominated by old-timers who thought that the vaunted Fourth Reich was on the verge of unfolding. Kluge knew that this was insanity. The old fools refused to admit to the political realities of an ever changing world. If IV was to survive, it would have to adapt.
Eventually and not unexpectedly, Adolf Kluge rose to his position as leader of IV. He was only the third in its history—the first from his generation.
At this point in his life, he no longer felt compelled to flaunt his superiority. Rather, he simply excelled at everything he put his mind to.
The life-styles of everyone in the village were enhanced because of Kluge’s prudent investments. Unfortunately for the old surviving hard-liners, Adolf Kluge veered away from the principles of IV’s founding.
Even though he was dedicated in spirit to the principles of Adolf Hitler, Kluge recognized the futility of trying to establish the Fourth Reich in the way IV’s founders intended.
No one in the village seemed truly bothered by Kluge’s leadership. Oh, they would scream and yell about the wrong-headed turn their nation of origin had taken, but they always returned to their cozy homes and warm meals. As long as their needs were met and their bellies were full, they didn’t question the leadership of Adolf Kluge.
Until Nils Schatz.
One of the last of the original founders, Schatz had used stolen IV money to finance an invasion of Paris in a scheme that at its inception was doomed to fail. This maniac had brought the House of Sinanju down on all their heads.
Schatz was dead now, but his legacy lived on. It was a waking nightmare.
The money was all gone. The bank accounts were empty. The stocks and bonds were inaccessible. The companies were all under investigation. All IV assets were frozen.
Kluge thought he had been careful to cover his tracks. He should have known. Given the timetable under which he had been forced to work, something must have been left.
To his knowledge, every last scrap of information in the village had been destroyed. But some small thing must have survived. And whoever the men from Sinanju were working for had used that single thread to unravel the entire IV financial fabric.
IV was destitute. As was its leader.
With the companies all gone, Kluge had only a paltry hundred thousand dollars at his disposal. It was his innate intelligence that made him open the lone bank account in Germany. But it was his supreme arrogance that told him to put so little into it. Now even that money was gone.
He had spent nearly every cent he had on a ridiculous dream. A bedtime story.
But, in the end, it was all he had.
Kluge sat alone in the back of the Berlin restaurant, lamenting the sad turn his fortunes had taken.
When he went abroad, he was used to dining in only the finest eating establishments. The place he was in today was part of a fast-food chain brought over from America. The thick smell of grease made his gourmet stomach churn.
Kluge kept his breathing shallow as he tried not to think about his sorry fate, but of course he couldn’t help but dwell on it.
It was desperation.
IV would have been insolvent years ago if not for his leadership. His labors had always guaranteed him a lavish life-style. That life-style had been taken away from him in a flash. He could never hope to reclaim it without great risk.
But this risk...
It was insanity. Utter, foolish insanity. Yet what choice did he have?
Kluge’s heart skipped a beat as he saw a familiar face pass before the brightly painted window. Keijo Suk glanced in once as he passed by before continuing along the sidewalk.
A minute later, he was inside the restaurant. Walking briskly across the virtually empty dining area, Suk slid into the booth across from Kluge. His fat face was flushed.
“You were successful,” Kluge said. He stared at the wrapped package the man had placed on the table between them.
Keijo Suk nodded. “It was much easier than I thought.” The Korean grinned and pushed the bundle over to Kluge.
“That is because they were not there,” Kluge said.
He loosened the twine Suk had used to tie the bundle and carefully unfolded the paper. It fell away, revealing a slab of ancient petrified wood.
It was in perfect condition. Much more so than the quarter that had been in his possession at the IV fortress.
Kluge ran his fingertips across the uneven surface, feeling every ridge of the carved wood.
In spite of his better instincts, he began to grow more confident. Why would Sinanju have saved this scrap of wood for so many years if it wasn’t significant?
He thought of the stained-glass window back at the ancient temple. How many times had he looked at it and not seen the piece of wood in Siegfried’s hand? How could he possibly have missed something so significant for so long?
Suk tapped his hand on the table, shaking Kluge from his trance.
“I would like my money now,” the Korean said.
“I am sure you would.” Kluge smiled.
Looking down, he carefully folded the paper back up around the block carving. He stashed the bundle in a black leather valise that sat on the bench next to him. When he looked back up at Suk, his eyes were hooded.
“I do not have the money,” Kluge stated simply.
Suk was taken aback by the German’s frankness.
“You do not have it with you.” It was a statement, not a question.
Kluge shook his head. “I do not have it at all. I knew you would be greedy, Keijo. I did not have enough initially to split in half. If I had offered you half of that pittance up front and half after you gave the stolen object to me, you would have laughed in my face. Likewise, I knew that if I told you I had paid you everything up front you would have simply left with my money without performing the service for which you had been hired.”
Keijo Suk shook his head in disbelief. “I have risked incurring the wrath of the Master of Sinanju for a scrap of firewood,” he said, astonished.
“And a healthy sum of money,” Kluge argued. “Eighty thousand is still a lot, Keijo.”
“It was not enough,” Suk snarled. He stood up, grabbing across the table for Kluge’s valise.
As Suk snatched for the handle, Kluge locked his hand around the Korean’s wrist. Twisting the fist around, the German thrust his other hand forward, fingers extended and rigid. They connected solidly with Suk’s shoulder.
There was a crunch of bone and popping cartilage. Shocked air whooshed out of Suk’s lungs.
Unable even to cry out in pain, the Asian dropped back into his seat. His lungs ached as he strained to refill them. He gulped for air, at the same time grabbing his injured shoulder with his good hand.
Kluge calmly retook his seat. He smiled grimly.
“I made a deal with you, Keijo, and I intend to keep it. I do not have the money now. But from what I have seen, this will allow me to pay you the balance in a few days.” He nodded to the valise. “I will even compensate you for any medical expenses you might incur.”
Suk shook his head in impotent rage.
“Of course,” Kluge continued, “my generosity does not extend to anything the men from Sinanju might do to you. I am certain they frown on theft. It probably insults their honor or some other such nonsense.”
Kluge collected his valise. He stood to go.
“When will I be paid?” Suk begged, his teeth clenched.
“Soon, Keijo. Soon. Although, if I have judged you correctly, I would say that you left the home of the Master of Sinanju with more than just the block carving.” He patted the valise. “You are a greedy bastard, Keijo. That is what I like about you.” He stepped from the table.
“My risks are my own,” Suk called after him. He was nursing the pain in his shoulder.
Kluge paused. “When one has nothing else to lose, risk becomes a tool of survival,” he agreed.
Adolf Kluge walked briskly away from the injured Korean. He crossed the linoleum floor of the sparsely filled restaurant and stepped out onto the crowded Berlin street.
Chapter Thirteen
Standing just inside the doorway, hands jammed firmly against his hips, Remo was more than just a little miffed.
“You mean to tell me you dragged my ass halfway around the world for a crummy handful of gold coins?” he demanded angrily.
“It is not the amount that is significant. It is what it represents,” the Reigning Master of Sinanju explained.
They were in the packed living room of the Master’s house in Sinanju. Bright sunlight shone through the tall windows, casting warming rays over only a fraction of five thousand years of accumulated tribute. The rest of the Sinanju treasure trove was stacked all around the house, like uneaten loaves of bread in an overproducing bakery.
Chiun was stooping to examine the gold coins that Keijo Suk had dropped in his haste to leave several days before.
“This is ridiculous,” Remo complained. “You made me think they cleaned you out.”
“Today it is a handful,” Chiun said seriously. “Tomorrow it is another. Where will it end?”
“Judging from the pile of junk you have heaped around this dump, I’d say somewhere in the middle of the millionth century,” Remo said.
Chiun paid him no heed. He collected the three coins from the floor. Never in circulation at any time in history, they had been minted specifically for Sinanju by a grateful employer. They bore the face of Cleopatra on one side and the symbol of Sinanju on the other. Each coin would have been priceless to a collector.
Chiun tossed the three coins into the copper urn next to the door. There were seven more jars stacked nearby, each brimming over with identical gold pieces.
“Ah-hah!” Chiun announced.
“What?” Remo asked, peeved. He was leaning on the door frame.
“See how the villain pauses.” Chiun pointed at the footprints in the dust near the door. “He thinks whether he should steal from the glorious House of Sinanju, thus sealing his fate. An evil and stupid creature, he gives in to temptation.” He indicated a mass of scuffed prints. “More hesitation. I have committed my base act of thievery, he thinks. If I must die, let me be cast into the Void for more than one handful of coins.” Chiun raised an instructive finger. “He fills his pockets and than scurries off into the black of night, fearful even in his flight of the awesome vengeance to which he has condemned himself.”
