Failing Marks, page 16
“Did that hurt?” Hirn asked, pointing to the chain. At the moment, he had no strong desire to have anyone poke anything through his nose.
“Not as much as it hurt for that American!” Erwin said with a raucous laugh.
Though they hadn’t a clue what he meant, the other skinheads laughed uproariously.
The air inside the vehicle was fetid, the interiors of the windows covered with a thick fog of condensation. Their laughter carried to the sidewalk outside. Eventually, and with much difficulty, they got control of themselves. Eyes watering, they took long drinks from cans of thick German beer.
“Is he coming?” Erwin asked after he was through swilling his beer. He scratched the tip of his nose.
Hirn could not yet bring himself to do that. He was afraid his nose would come loose under his fingers.
“What time is it?” he asked.
As if on cue, the rear door of the vehicle popped open. The trio of skinheads searched through the pile of trash on the seats and floor for their guns. Only Erwin found his. From the passenger’s-side seat, he pushed the gun toward the figure who was climbing in the rear of the car next to Hirn Zeitzler.
As Erwin did so, Adolf Kluge grabbed the gun in his left hand, at the same time launching forward with his right. The rabbit punch connected with Erwin’s quilt-work nose.
Howling in pain, Erwin released the gun. He grabbed at his nose, which had begun to spring several major leaks, none of which at the customary openings.
Kluge settled in beside Hirn, tossing Erwin’s gun to the mountain of discarded cans in the footwell.
“I do not have time for your stupidity,” Kluge warned.
“Heil Hitler,” Hirn said proudly. He slurred the words.
Kluge ignored him. “We must hurry,” he said to Hirn.
Erwin cried anew as a fresh seam opened up along the bridge of his nose.
“Shut him up,” Kluge hissed to the man behind the wheel.
The other skinhead in the front seat did his best to quiet Erwin. It seemed to help, for it gave the bleeding neo-Nazi someone against whom he could vent his anger.
As the two men in the front seat got into a slapping fight, Kluge concentrated on Hirn.
“You have contacted your men?” the IV leader asked.
“Yes, sir,” Hirn enthused drunkenly.
“How many?”
“Almost one hundred,” Him said.
“How many?” Kluge repeated, more angry this time.
Hirn glanced up at Erwin. He was still bleeding as he fought with the driver. His hands were slick with blood.
“Fifty-eight,” Hirn admitted. “But I called one hundred,” he added quickly. “More than one hundred. But this was all that agreed to go. You must understand, Herr Kluge, the failure in Paris over the summer weakened the movement. No one has the belly for it. And the American killer who was slaughtering our men did even more damage. The three of us stopped him too late.”
“You did not stop him at all, idiot!” Kluge snapped. “Save your tales of glory for the fools with whom you spend your drunken nights.”
Hirn was like a chastised dog before his furious master. He grew very quiet, staring nervously at the head of IV.
“Fifty-eight,” Kluge complained to himself. He shook his head. “It will have to do.” He turned to Hirn. “You have rented the vehicles?”
“I had my men do it this morning.”
“Good. See to it that all of your men show up at the designated rendezvous. I want fifty-eight there, Hirn. Not fifty-six. Not fifty-seven. It is going to be difficult enough with so few. Is that understood?”
Hirn looked at Erwin. The bleeding was slowing, but he was still a bloodstained mess.
“Yes, sir,” Hirn said enthusiastically.
“Fine,” Kluge said. “Now, before we can leave on this expedition, I need one last thing.”
“Sir?”
Blue eyes washed in gray fixed on the young skinhead.
“I need you to steal a block of wood.”
. . .
The Stolpe family castle was a huge old-world edifice resting on a jagged slab of rock in the Harz Mountains in the Niedersachsen region of north-central Germany. It sprawled morosely across the craggy mountain peak in hideous contrast to the beautiful early-winter countryside through which they had just passed.
As they drove up the winding black road to the castle’s front entrance, Remo noted the only thing that might have made the scene complete would have been a dose of crackling lightning and a couple of howling wolves.
“I don’t want to sound rude or anything,” Remo said as they passed beneath the rusted portcullis and into the spacious inner courtyard, “but this has got to be the crummiest castle I’ve ever seen.”
“It has been in my family for generations,” Heidi countered, a faraway look in her azure eyes. Remo could tell by her tone that she didn’t disagree with his assessment. Following Heidi’s instructions, he took the smooth path that skirted the inner battlements. Remo parked their rented car near the massive stone entrance to the tall, circular donjon.
“What is that?” the Master of Sinanju asked in disgust as they exited the car. He pointed to a deep furrow that had been carved along the exterior wall of the inner tower.
Heidi’s cheeks flushed. Remo was surprised that the woman who had been so brave and ruthless in South America and Korea could be embarrassed.
“My uncle’s idea. He was the last Stolpe to live here. It is supposed to be a moat.”
“A moat?” Chiun asked. “At the interior? Tell me, girl, why was your uncle not committed to an asylum? This defacement is obviously the work of a deranged mind.”
Again Heidi didn’t argue.
“He thought that this was the image of a castle people would like. You see, we are forced in better weather to rent out to tourists,” she said sadly.
Remo couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. “That’s a shame,” he said, consolingly.
“A shame?” Chiun scoffed. “It is a crime. A fine home like this should never be turned over to fat American hamburger eaters and their squealing offspring.”
“I agree.” Heidi nodded. “And it will not be again if we are successful. Come, the carving is in here.”
She led them up the half-dozen steep steps and through the rounded door frame of the old dungeon wing.
“This building predates the time of Otto the Great,” Heidi remarked as she led them through a narrow corridor.
Chiun snorted.
“Did I say something wrong again?” Heidi asked warily.
“It’s just that Otto wasn’t so great as far as we’re concerned,” Remo said. “He used us to help him beat back the Magyars and enslave the Poles and the Bohemians, but then he got all caught up with the Church of Rome. Which,” he said to Chiun, “I don’t think is all that bad an idea.”
“Spoken like one who was raised by virginal wimple wearers,” Chiun commented.
“The nuns weren’t so bad,” Remo said defensively.
“Go on,” Chiun said, striking his chest. “Defend them if you feel you must. Each ungrateful word twists the knife further into your poor old father’s ailing heart.”
“Put a sock in it, Tallulah Bankhead,” Remo suggested.
The corridor ended at a narrow staircase. This led down into the old dungeon of the castle. At the bottom of the stairs, a replica of an old-fashioned wooden door was slightly ajar. Flickering torchlight, as well as hushed voices, came from within the room beyond. There was the sound of metal scraping against rock.
“There should not be anyone here,” Heidi whispered.
Remo pressed his fingers to his lips. He and Chiun slipped down the staircase, making no more noise than a pair of thousand-year-old spirits. Heidi followed on tiptoes.
The voices grew louder as they neared the open door.
“How am I supposed to know?” someone said in German. “He said it was behind one of these.”
“I checked those already,” insisted another.
Remo—who was the only member of their group not fluent in German—stuck his head around the door frame. He caught sight of three figures inside one of the dungeon cells. Their actions were illuminated by a burning torch that had been jammed into a metal hoop in the wall.
Remo was surprised to find he recognized the trio of skinheads. Each of the three men he had met at the Schweinebraten Bier Hall carried a crowbar that he was jamming into the large fissures between the stones of the cell wall.
“Wait here,” Remo whispered to Heidi.
Curious, he sauntered into the room along with the Master of Sinanju. The men in the cell were so engrossed in their work that they didn’t notice their visitors.
Remo paused near the rusted bars of the cell. He leaned against the open door.
“Hey, fellas,” Remo said brightly. “What are you doing nosing around in here?”
The trio of skinheads nearly jumped out of their skins. As soon as they saw who it was who had spoken to them, their initial surprise rocketed into the stratosphere of abject terror.
Three separate hands flashed instinctively for three separate noses.
“Good,” Remo said, stepping into the cell. “We don’t have to get reacquainted. What are you doing here?”
The cell was small. Too small for much maneuvering. In spite of that, Erwin’s fear of the terrifying Nazi killer got the better of him. As Remo approached, he took his crowbar in a double-handed grip and swung it fiercely at Remo’s head. At least, that was Erwin’s hastily hatched plan.
However, at the point where the crowbar should have made contact with Remo’s face, something went desperately wrong. Remo’s head was no longer where it was supposed to be.
Even as his eyes were registering the dull afterimage of Remo ducking out of the way of his mighty swing, Erwin’s momentum was carrying the heavy crowbar in a wide arc. The bar whizzed around the cell, slamming with a loud finality into the forehead of the third skinhead. The man dropped like an undercooked strudel to the damp stone floor of the cell.
Erwin’s brain was trying to register what his body had just done. He stared dumbly down at the corpse of his friend. So amazed was he by what had transpired that he didn’t feel the crowbar being plucked from his hands. He only briefly became aware of the metal rod as it was bent over the back of his skull. Then he was no longer aware of anything.
Remo tossed the twisted crowbar onto Erwin’s body.
“So much for Larry and Curly,” he said dryly. Remo turned to the surviving skinhead.
“We were sent to find a block of wood,” Hirn blurted out. His hand was still over his bandaged nose.
“This was what they were after,” Heidi Stolpe said, excited. She stepped past Chiun and made her way into the cell.
Heidi tugged at a rusted manacle that was secured to the wall. It pulled away easily, along with the façade of the rock beneath. A hollow behind revealed the contours of yet another section of the Siegfried carving. Heidi took out the wooden block, handling it with great reverence.
“Whoever they are working for must know at least part of my family’s history to know of this hiding place,” she said, examining the block.
“Of course,” Remo said sarcastically. “Isn’t everyone in on this dink-ass treasure hunt of yours?”
Heidi and Chiun weren’t listening to him. The Master of Sinanju had padded into the cell behind Heidi. Both of them were observing the carvings in the surface of the ancient petrified wood. They quickly left, arguing about the true location of a river.
Remo turned his attention back to the lone skinhead.
“Who sent you?” he asked Hirn.
“What?” Hirn asked, startled. He had been watching Chiun and Heidi bicker.
“If you’re hard of hearing, I can match your ears to your nose.” He reached for the sides of Hirn’s head.
“Kluge! His name is Kluge. Adolf Kluge.”
Remo’s bloodless lips thinned to invisibility. Hirn recognized the predator’s glint in his eyes. The skinhead again pressed a hand over his injured nose. His free hand he placed over an ear. He was forced to jam the other ear protectively into his shoulder. “Where is he?” Remo asked.
“What?” Hirn yelled.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Remo slapped the skinhead’s hands away from his face. “Kluge,” he repeated. “Where?”
“At an inn,” Him said, nervously rubbing his smarting hands. “Waiting for us. It’s in the Black Forest.” He gave Remo the name of the lodge. “I can take you there,” he offered lamely.
“Thanks,” Remo said, “I already have a guide.” He launched a hard finger deep into Hirn Zeitzler’s broad forehead. Surprisingly, the neo-Nazi’s brain must have performed some function in life, for when it ceased to operate, so too did Hirn Zeitzler. As the skinhead was collapsing atop his neo-Nazi comrades, Remo was already heading up the dungeon stairs.
His cruel face held the promise of violent death.
Chapter Eighteen
He sat alone on the terrace. Waiting.
The late-afternoon air was cold. Adolf Kluge watched his breath escape in tiny puffs of steam. He checked his watch.
Late.
Hirn should have been here hours ago. It was a simple matter. The only way Kluge could have made it simpler would have been to take them by the hand and lead them to the block carving himself. These skinhead creatures were moronic.
He would have sent one of the Numbers, but there were precious few of them left. Some were here. He had sent more with his aide, Herman, to help with the South American relocation of the IV villagers. Most of the genetically engineered men were dead. To Kluge’s knowledge, only one was unaccounted for. He was the last of the four-man team Kluge had sent to Berlin weeks ago to intercept the two Masters of Sinanju at the airport. Presumably that one had ended up like his companions. All dead.
All thanks to the men from Sinanju.
Kluge glanced at his watch again. Barely fifteen seconds had elapsed since the last time he checked.
All the planning he had done would come to naught if Hirn failed to get the final piece of the ancient puzzle. The skinhead’s friends were already camped in the woods up the road from the Pension Kirchmann. Only thirty-eight of them had shown up. In truth, that was more than Kluge had expected. He had augmented the band of skinheads with a few of the surviving Numbers from the IV village.
Kluge had the vehicles and the men. If the gold was in the right place, he would have that, too. But only if Hirn came down from whatever drug- or alcohol-induced stupor he was in today and brought Kluge the one thing he needed to make the whole plan come together.
Somewhere in the forest nearby, an animal snorted.
Kluge had never spent much time in this area of Germany, but in spite of his newness to the region he knew one thing: this part of the Black Forest had been appropriately named.
Staring into the woods from his terrace at the rear of the inn was like staring into the great abyss.
The trees were ghastly, gnarled aberrations. As old, it seemed, as time itself. Kluge tried to see between the nearest ones, attempting to find whatever animal had made the noise. It was probably just a local dog.
He leaned forward, looking intently, but saw nothing.
The first snow had not yet fallen. It would have helped to have something light as background. Even just a dusting of powdery crystals would have reflected some light.
Whatever had made the noise, it was probably long gone now. Kluge settled back into his chair.
His head hadn’t touched the fanned wooden back of the handmade chair when Kluge felt a sudden, intense pressure around his throat.
It was as if all of the veins and muscles of his neck had somehow impossibly animated themselves and had wrapped snakelike around his throat. He felt the blood clog in his head. His eyes watered and bulged as he grabbed at the constricting force at his throat.
Instead of finding a neck, Kluge felt a hand.
Woozily he followed the hand to an abnormally thick wrist. As his vision swirled around him, his spinning gaze somehow located the person at the other end of the hand.
Adolf Kluge found himself staring into the eyes of the Angel of Death.
“The gold rush is over, Kluge,” Remo said tightly.
Kluge gasped for breath, but none could pass beyond Remo’s clenching fingers. He pulled at Remo’s hand, but to no avail. It was as powerful as a vise. At the moment when he was about to black out, the strong grip relaxed slightly.
“Wait a minute,” Remo said, peering intently at Adolf Kluge. “I know you.”
Kluge sucked down a pained lungful of air. His head began to clear.
“Yes,” Kluge rasped, nodding. He found the effort difficult with Remo’s hand still clasped around his throat.
“From Paris, right? You claimed to be a British secret agent. You’re the one who whacked Smith.”
“Yes,” Kluge panted. “I helped you stop Schatz.”
“Helped, my ass,” Remo said, remembering the neo-Nazi takeover of Paris. “He was a renegade from Four. The only reason you wanted to stop him was to cover your tracks. It didn’t do any good. I’m here now. And you’re checking out.”
Remo increased the pressure on Kluge’s neck once more.
A frantic voice shrieked suddenly from the corner of the inn. The Master of Sinanju had just come running into view near the well-tended shrubberies.
“Unhand him!” Chiun shouted desperately. Kimono sleeves flapped as he raced up along the rear of the building beneath the dining-room windows. Heidi trailed behind him.
Remo and the Master of Sinanju had gone in opposite directions when they arrived at the Pension Kirchmann. Remo had been lucky enough to stumble on Kluge first.
Chiun vaulted up over the low hedge that rimmed the terrace. He landed next to Remo and the seated Kluge.
“I’m not letting him go, Chiun,” Remo warned evenly.
“Remo, your village needs that treasure,” Chiun cried.
“That bunch of ingrates has so much loot they could eat it, wear it and smoke it for a hundred years and not make a dent in it,” Remo retorted. He continued strangling Kluge.
