Failing Marks, page 17
Heidi Stolpe rounded the terrace and ran up the rear stairs. Sliding to a stop, she watched the drama unfold, helpless to do anything to stop Remo.
Chiun’s tone grew soft. “Do it for me,” he pleaded.
Remo’s hand relaxed. He looked at Kluge’s bright red bullfrog features. He glanced at the Master of Sinanju. The man who had given him everything in life. He hesitated.
“Smith’s orders were clear, Little Father,” Remo said.
“Pah! Smith’s orders,” Chiun mocked. “This gold will be with us long after Smith has issued his last demented decree.”
Remo’s grip had slackened to the point where Adolf Kluge was able to suck in a huge gulp of air. The IV leader wheezed painfully.
“Gold doesn’t matter to me. Never has.”
“It matters to me,” Chiun insisted, eyes imploring. “Therefore it should matter to you.”
Chiun had tossed down his trump card. Toying with Remo’s affection for him. Remo knew that the wily Korean was only playing with his emotions. Unfortunately Chiun was right. Even though he was motivated purely by greed, it would hurt Chiun if Remo killed Kluge. For this reason alone, Remo couldn’t bring himself to complete the act.
With great reluctance, he released his grip on the gasping IV leader.
Kluge hacked and wheezed alternately, dragging cold, ragged mouthfuls of air down into his oxygen-deprived lungs.
Chiun smiled. “You are a good son,” he said proudly.
“No,” Remo answered solemnly. His eyes were flint. “That’s a load of baloney. You wanted to make me feel guilty, and it worked. End of story.”
Chiun was taken aback by Remo’s candor. “You were being rash. Sinanju needs that gold.”
Remo shook his head sadly.
“I’m not buying it anymore, Chiun,” he said. “You want the gold. Now you’ll get it. The almighty buck has always been the love of your life. Maybe it’d be good for you to remember that that’s what got Bal-Mung into trouble.”
Remo turned abruptly away from the silenced Chiun. Marching past Heidi, he began walking alone across the vast, darkening lawn behind the rambling, old-fashioned inn.
He didn’t look back.
. . .
Hour fed into hour.
Night had taken firm hold of the ancient forest around the Pension Kirchmann. Elongated rectangles of amber light stabbed across the black lawn from the inn’s brightly lit rear windows, marred only by the crisscross pattern of the painted wooden strips separating each pane.
Heidi Stolpe pulled her woolen coat more tightly around her shoulders as she crossed the sprawling lawn. Her years spent in South America had spoiled her. She wasn’t used to such cold weather. And winter was only just beginning.
She found Remo sitting in the dead autumn grass, his back propped against the trunk of a huge European ash.
Remo’s arms were crossed stiffly. He stared angrily at another nearby tree. If looks alone could fell a tree, the one Remo was scowling at would have already been halfway to the lumber mill.
Heidi stared at him for a long time. When he realized she wasn’t going to go away, he finally looked up.
“What do you want?” he asked, flat of voice.
“I only wished to see that you were all right,” she said gently. “Your father said you would be.”
“You mean Daddy Warbucks stopped wheeling and dealing long enough to think of me?” Remo said, feigning shock.
“Do not be overly harsh with him, Remo. He is not a young man. Appreciate him for who he is.” She paused, as if considering whether she should speak further. At long last, she continued. “I never knew my father,” she whispered, staring wistfully into the forest.
“He isn’t my biological father, Heidi,” Remo said.
Her smile held an odd sadness. “I am not blind,” she said softly. “But biology cannot be everything, can it?”
There was something deeply troubling in the way she said it, as if her life held some sorrowful burden that was almost too great for her to bear.
Her sadness touched him.
For a time years ago, Remo had searched for his biological parents. But when he learned the truth of the two strangers whose DNA he carried, he found that they could never replace the man he had come to know as his spiritual father. And here was Heidi—virtually a stranger to him—defending Chiun. Remo’s heart went out to her.
“I’ll get over it,” he murmured.
Heidi smiled once more. She hugged herself for warmth. “Aren’t you cold?” she asked, changing the subject.
He had worn nothing but a thin T-shirt since she met him. It had to be below freezing out here.
“No,” Remo said simply.
She nodded. “I suppose I should get back inside. Before they cut me out of the deal altogether.”
“How’s it going?” Remo asked.
“Kluge wanted to divide it into thirds. He argued that this was how it was historically supposed to be.”
“Chiun didn’t go along with that,” Remo said firmly.
“Not in the least.” She laughed. “He still maintains that the deal we made is the one that supersedes all others.”
“The one where he gets fifty percent,” Remo said knowingly.
“Yes,” Heidi said. “I eventually agreed to split my fifty percent evenly with Kluge, if only to get all of this over with. That seemed to satisfy them both.”
“For now.”
She agreed. From the way she stared off toward the bright lights of the inn, Remo could tell she was thinking about the future. “Kluge has trucks and men to haul the treasure. I think it is for this reason as much as any that Chiun is allowing him to live.”
“You haven’t known him long, but you know him well,” Remo said with a shrewd smirk.
“He and I are very much alike. I am desperate to keep my family’s property from falling into bankruptcy. It is a far worse thing, Remo, to have had money and lost it than to never have had it in the first place. We were nobles at one time. With the Nibelungen Hoard, we will be again.”
“I don’t know what the big fuss is about gold,” Remo grumbled. “It’s just like any other metal.”
She squatted, patting him gently on the shoulder. “Tell that to the landlord when the rent is due,” she said plaintively.
Remo felt an odd tingle of electricity from her touch. There was an air of mystery about her that he hadn’t noticed before. Her concern for his relationship with Chiun and the way she shielded the secrets in her past—it was almost as if there was a strange connection between the two of them.
Remo had no time to act on these newfound stirrings before she was gone.
Heidi’s hand brushed away from his shoulder. She turned abruptly on her heel. Marching briskly, she headed back across the frozen yard toward the sprawling old inn.
. . .
The lights burned well after midnight as Chiun, Kluge and Heidi labored over all the details of the expedition.
Kluge thought that he should be compensated for the use of his people and equipment. Chiun agreed and told him to see Heidi. Heidi said that this was out of the question since she had already cut her share of the take in half. She suggested that the cost of mounting the expedition was offset by his dishonesty in stealing the Sinanju piece of the carving.
Chiun agreed with all of this, provided it didn’t cost him anything.
It was approaching 12:30 a.m. when Kluge finally agreed to absorb the cost of the trucks and supplies.
The three of them then set about recording the terms of their contract on paper to allay any confusion as to precisely what terms had been agreed upon. This started the whole negotiating process anew.
At one point, Remo stuck his head in the door to the inn’s library where the trio was negotiating. He announced that he was turning in for the night. No one—not even Heidi—seemed to notice he was there.
It was approaching two in the morning when their meeting at last broke up. Each of the interested parties went to bed with a version of the contract, handwritten by the Master of Sinanju himself in Korean, English and German.
The ink was still wet on his copy of the contract as Adolf Kluge made his weary way up to his bedroom. He shut the door behind him with a soft click.
Alone, Kluge massaged his aching throat as he stepped over to his suitcase.
Folding the seven sheets of paper carefully, he tucked the contract in his meager luggage. He dared not throw it away. Not yet. Kluge would keep up the act until it was no longer necessary.
Kluge had memorized the details of the Sinanju and Siegfried family sections of the map. Likewise, he had committed to memory all that was visible in the photograph of the Hagan piece. He had then destroyed all three.
Chiun claimed to know all that was on the Sinanju piece.
Heidi had the full Hagan segment.
But only Kluge had seen the Siegfried quarter.
Apparently, the Nibelung king had told the carver to put something extra on the piece he had intended for himself. It was probably an incentive for the others to not stumble blindly into the treasure trove, even if they somehow managed to find it without the missing piece.
It was King Siegfried’s revenge from beyond the grave.
And since Kluge was the only one who knew what was on that quarter, he was the only one of them who would be truly safe when they opened the age-old chamber.
Kluge would sign as many contracts as they wanted him to sign. He would argue passionately for each bargaining point as if it truly mattered to him. But it did not.
With what he had learned from the piece of the carving in his family’s safe-deposit box, he had all the bargaining chips he would ever need.
Tomorrow they would find Siegfried’s gold.
And then Chiun, Remo and Heidi would die.
Chapter Nineteen
The shabby convoy was lined along the ancient road that snaked through the thickest forests of Schwarzwald, eventually leading to the shores of the famous Danube River.
The sallow sky held the promise of snow, though no meteorologist had forecast it. The swollen white clouds vied with gray, pressing down like a gloomy canopy to the gnarled treetops.
It was 6:00 a.m. The Master of Sinanju went from truck to truck, inspecting tires and checking equipment. He found Remo leaning against one of the rear trucks.
“I would have thought this sort of thing would be beneath you,” Remo commented as Chiun tugged at one of the bungee cords on the supply truck.
Chiun regarded him with flinty eyes. “I do what I must,” he said.
“I’ve noticed that about you,” Remo said, nodding. There was no malice in his tone.
At that moment, Heidi walked into view around the truck, nearly plowing into Remo.
“Oh—” She seemed surprised to see him. “—�good morning, Remo. Are you going with us?”
Remo shook his head. “Naw. I’m sitting this one out.”
Heidi nodded her understanding. Her face was flushed as it had been the previous day at her family’s castle. This time, however, it was not from embarrassment, but excitement.
She and Chiun began the long trek up to the lead car. It was the one Remo had rented on their return to Germany the previous day. Since he didn’t intend to leave the inn until they returned, he would have no use for it.
As Chiun and Heidi walked beside the trucks full of skinheads, Remo trailed distantly behind them. He noted that there were a few of the blond-haired mutes from the IV village mixed in with the rest. Remo couldn’t help but think of the vast number of them that had been mowed down by Kluge’s machine guns beneath the shadow of the old stone fortress.
There were fifteen trucks lined up behind Remo’s rental car. Chiun commented to Heidi that they would likely not be enough.
Kluge was seated behind the wheel of the rental car. Chiun climbed into the back. Heidi debated for a moment whether she should join the Master of Sinanju but finally decided against it. She sat in the front beside Kluge.
The head of IV started the car’s engine. Behind him, the other fifteen vehicles rumbled to life.
Before the car could drive off, Remo tapped on the rear window. Kluge powered it down from the front.
“Little Father?” Remo called in softly.
Chiun’s hazel eyes were focussed on the road ahead.
“Yes.”
Remo smiled tightly. “Good luck.”
The Master of Sinanju nodded crisply. The window rolled back up with a smooth hum.
Kluge waved his arm out his own window in a circular fashion. With a crunch of gravel, the convoy began moving forward down the long road. The last of the trucks pulled away a minute later.
Standing alone on the desolate country road, Remo could only watch them go.
. . .
News of the expedition to find the lost treasure of the Nibelungs reached the hands of the German chancellor by fax at nine o’clock that morning.
It was the sort of crank note that would have been filed and forgotten under ordinary circumstances. The thing that made this fax different from the rest was the signature. At the bottom of the page where there would ordinarily have been a name, a Roman numeral had been sketched in large, careful letters. It was the number IV.
His assistant had brought it to him at once.
The chancellor’s pudgy fingers shook as he scanned the few short lines of text. Swirls of sweat had dampened the curled fax paper by the time he placed it on his desk.
This was a crisis far greater than that of a few short months before. The neo-Nazi takeover of Paris had been an embarrassing reminder of Germany’s unsavory past.
But this…
This could spell financial ruin for one of the greatest economies in the West. Perhaps, if the legends were true, it could even send the world into a spiraling depression, the likes of which had not been seen since 1929.
And the Great Depression was what had given rise to Adolf Hitler. After the turmoil of the German national elections less than two short months before, anything was possible. The chancellor shuddered at the thought.
The rough details were all there in the letter.
Siegfried and Hagan. Something about a long-lost map to the Hoard, alleged to have belonged to the two players in the Nibelungenlied.
All backed up by the mark of IV.
That was what confirmed it to the chancellor.
He had been aware of IV for years as it hovered at the edge of legitimate society. But until now, the actions of the secret organization had always benefitted the economy of Germany.
But this came too close on the heels of the Paris incident. If IV had finally decided to make its move to destabilize the German mark, what better way to do it than by flooding the gold market? That much of the priceless metal dumped at once would surely devalue gold prices to the point of worthlessness.
IV’s holdings were already on shaky ground as it was. Vast sums of cash had been exchanged over the past few weeks. Companies thought strong were collapsing before their stockholders’ eyes. Others were being sold off for bargain-basement prices. The result was a growing uncertainty in the stock market in Frankfurt.
As those reports had come in, the chancellor had thought that IV was dying. Either internally, or due to some unseen external force. He now realized he had been mistaken.
He now saw that it was most certainly part of some grand strategy by the shadowy neo-Nazi organization to make one last grab at power.
And it would destroy Germany to do it.
The chancellor pressed the button on his desk intercom.
“Yes, Chancellor?” asked his concerned assistant. It was the same nervous man who had brought the fax to the German leader.
“Get me the head of the Federal Border Police,” the chancellor intoned. His voice was grave.
Chapter Twenty
Within the confines of his modest Folcroft office, Smith watched the uncertainty unfolding in the German market with a look of pinched displeasure.
Always an erratic business, it was difficult now to gauge precisely why the market was slipping. But there was no doubt that it was.
It was very slight at the moment. The overall market had lost only five percent of its value since trading had begun that morning. The London market had reacted to the trend, dropping by a few points, as well.
It was a ripple effect that was barely registering. Trading on Wall Street had begun only an hour before, and the European markets had yet to have anything more than a minor influence on the Dow Jones. It appeared that it did not yet matter to anyone of consequence.
Except Harold W. Smith.
Smith had been watching the markets carefully ever since he had begun dumping shares of IV companies onto the German trading floors. There had been a gradual downward trend in Frankfurt about two weeks before. This had brought a minor adjustment all around the world. Wall Street had caught on to the trend. As a result, the Dow had dipped by about thirty points before adjusting to the hit caused by the liquidation of the secret organization’s vast holdings. Barely a hiccup. Afterward the markets had rebounded and had pressed bullishly upward. It had been smooth sailing ever since.
Until now.
Something was causing a downswing in European trading. And it was originating in Germany.
Utilizing a program he had created during the stock-market upheavals of the late eighties, Smith accessed the private computer lines of one of Germany’s largest brokerage firms. Not wasting time with the transactions themselves, Smith went immediately to the top. Typing rapidly, he accessed the company president’s morning email.
He found that it was all pretty dry stuff.
There were concise digests of the previous night’s activities on Japan’s Hang Seng Stock Exchange. A note had been sent from the lawyer of the company president’s soon-to-be ex-wife. As Smith watched his screen another electronic letter materialized this one from the man’s mistress.
He chose not to be voyeuristic.
Abandoning the personal note, Smith scanned quickly through the rest of the mail. He was about to deem his search a failure and move on when he found something startling nestled comfortably between a pair of interoffice memos. Smith blinked in surprise, for a moment forgetting the dull, constant ache in his head.
