Failing Marks, page 18
IV.
The Roman numeral leaped out at him, mocking him from beneath the neat rows of letters lined up on his high-tech computer screen.
Smith scanned the electronic note. With each line, his eyes grew wider behind his rimless glasses.
After he was finished reading, he backed out of the system and dived quickly into the email of some of the other large Frankfurt brokerage firms.
The same note had been sent to each. At the bottom of every letter was the same legend: “IV.”
Smith was acutely aware of his headache now. It pounded in sharp, furious bursts at the back of his skull as he exited the last of the German stockmarket computers.
He had thought he had finished them. They had no funds. Smith had been so very careful in his market manipulations. Certainly some unlucky investors had experienced losses, but he had averted a major downward turn with his deft handling of the IV accounts.
Now it might all have been for naught.
On another level, it concerned Smith that so many powerful men in Germany had been aware of IV for years and kept silent. It didn’t reflect well on a nation trying to crawl out from under its fifty-year-old past.
Obviously the news contained in the email had not yet exploded on the European trading floors. But it had leaked out. And the hesitation in the day’s market was the result.
The reluctance to accept the fanciful tale at face value was probably the only thing that had saved the world market from collapse. But if the rumors contained in the memo proved true, the panic would be worldwide. For in the end, the stock market would react however the stock market chose to react. Smith would be helpless to avert a total meltdown.
But for now, there was still cause for hope. By the sound of his last phone conversation with the CURE director, Remo was already in the thick of things.
The future of the world’s economic stability—and, by extension, civilization itself—was in the hands of CURE’s enforcement arm. Harold Smith only hoped that Remo was up to the challenge.
Chapter Twenty-one
Remo sat on his private, second-story balcony at the vine-covered side of the Pension Kirchmann. The empty road leading into the Black Forest snaked off around a tree-shrouded bend far away. There had been no traffic on the desolate path since Chiun’s caravan had left eight hours ago.
All Remo could do was wait.
On the floor of the balcony before his chair were several handfuls of small stones. Until an hour before, they had rested in a large decorative clay pot near the black-painted wrought-iron railing.
Remo had dumped the stones out where they could be easily reached. Bored, he would occasionally flick one with the toe of his loafer. The trunk of a tree at the side of the yard had borne the brunt of the deadly missiles.
The resulting clap as each stone hit and burrowed inside the tree was enough to draw a few increasingly curious guests from the warmth of the lodge. Two swore they had heard gunshots. Suspicious eyes strayed in Remo’s direction.
Whenever they looked up from the lawn, Remo would shrug his confusion and pretend to search the treetops. Each time they would eventually give up and return to the inn. The last time they had gone inside was barely two minutes before.
Remo was pulling another rock into firing position when the room phone squawked at his elbow. Not wanting to get up from his chair, he had placed it on the cheap metal table next to him. Remo hefted the phone to his ear, at the same time snapping his toe into the next stone in line.
The rock took off like a shot. It moved in a blur, cracking audibly into the thick black tree trunk.
There was a shouted voice from below.
“Remo?” asked the puzzled voice of Dr. Harold W. Smith. Since lifting the receiver, Remo had failed to speak.
“Just a minute, Smitty,” Remo whispered, leaning forward.
A group of lumpy Germans and Continental tourists came bustling into view below him. They were pointing at the woods and chattering excitedly to one another.
Two of them were dressed in khaki clothing. These took off through the underbrush. There was crashing and shouting as they stumbled and panted out of sight.
Their labors had a comforting effect on Remo.
“Yeah, Smitty,” he said. “How’d you track me down?”
In the distance, the hunters still labored through the woods.
“Your credit card,” Smith explained quickly. “Are you and Chiun still searching for the Nibelungen Hoard?”
“It’s always right to the chase with you, isn’t it?” Remo said. He toed another rock into place. With a sharp kick, he launched it into the forest. There was renewed shouting as the stone struck a tree much farther in.
“Remo, I need to know,” Smith demanded urgently.
“I’m not,” Remo replied. “Chiun is.”
“He is not with you?”
“Nope.”
“Have you any idea where he has gone?”
“Into the Black Forest,” Remo said. “Which isn’t really all forest. Did you know that?”
“Yes,” Smith said tersely.
“Really? ’Cause I didn’t.”
“Remo, I have come across information that indicates that Four is also in search of the Hoard. They plan to disrupt the economy of Germany by dumping the treasure onto the market all at once.”
“So what?” Remo said. “I thought America was supposed to be all worried about Germany’s big-shot new economy. I say let ’em wreck it.”
“It is not that simple,” Smith said. “There is an interconnectedness among economies in the modern age. And Germany’s is one of the most complex of the Western world. If it topples, it could bring the rest down with it.”
“Again,” Remo said, “so what?”
“It could be the dawn of a new Dark Ages.”
“Sinanju survived the first Dark Ages,” Remo countered. “In fact, Chiun would probably be happy if the world economy collapsed. There’d be a whole slew of regional despots vying for our attention. It’d be an assassin’s feeding frenzy.”
Remo could hear Smith taking patient, calming breaths. He heard the rattle of one of Smith’s pill bottles. The CURE director had just downed a few more baby aspirins.
“Remo,” he said levelly, after the pills had gone down, “please be serious. Things could very well be as you say. If the world economy collapses, the type of people who would stand to benefit the most are those least suited to lead. We have encountered men from Four twice before. I cannot believe that you would want the likes of them leading the world. And I find it less likely that you would want to work for them.”
Remo frowned. “You got that right.”
Smith persisted. “Chiun, on the other hand, would have no such reservations. If he chose to throw in with Four, there would be an inevitable rift between the two of you.”
“Where were you yesterday?” Remo muttered.
“What do you mean?” Smith asked.
“I mean it’s already too late. Chiun took off this morning into the Black Forest with Adolf Kluge’s band of merry Nazis to find the lost pile of gold.”
“You actually met Kluge?” Smith asked, shocked.
“So did you, Smitty,” Remo said. “He’s the guy who cracked you over the noggin in Paris. He’s teamed up with Chiun and that girl we met in South America. They’re going to divvy up the prize when they find it.”
Smith was attempting to absorb this information. “You cannot allow that to happen,” Smith urged. His lemony voice was tight with concern.
“Too late,” Remo said. “The ink’s already dry.”
“You have to stop them, Remo,” Smith insisted.
“Chiun wouldn’t listen,” Remo explained, sighing. “He’d just be ticked at me for keeping him from his precious gold.”
“Remo, I am ordering you to find Adolf Kluge and kill him.” The serious treatment Smith was giving this was evident by his choice of words. Ordinarily he would substitute a euphemism for the distasteful kill.
“Hold that thought,” Remo said all at once.
He heard a rumble of engines in the distance. For an instant, he thought Chiun was returning. He soon realized, however, that the sound was coming from the wrong direction. As he spoke to Smith, a line of drab blue official-looking trucks pulled slowly into view on the road in front of the inn. They headed off in the direction Chiun had taken.
“Hey, Smitty,” Remo asked, “are they sending the army into the forest?”
“One moment,” Smith said. Remo heard the drumming of Smith’s fingers against his desktop. A moment later, he returned. “That would be the Federal Border Police,” he said. “A letter was sent to the chancellor of Germany this morning identical to the ones emailed to the major brokerage houses in Frankfurt.”
“Whoa,” Remo said. “What letters?”
“I did not mention them?” Smith said. He sounded annoyed at his own forgetfulness. He went on to tell Remo about the notes that told of IV’s plan to dump the Nibelung gold onto the German market.
“That doesn’t make much sense,” Remo said afterward. “Wouldn’t they want the element of surprise?”
“Perhaps their arrogance is such that they don’t feel concerned,” Smith suggested.
“Maybe,” Remo hedged. He didn’t sound convinced. Brow furrowed, he watched the large column of trucks continue to roll forward into the forest. “Do you know what time those emails came in?” he asked.
“The first went to the chancellor at 9:00 a.m. The others were sent out shortly thereafter.”
“That isn’t right,” Remo said, confused. “They left hours before that.”
“Perhaps Kluge left a representative behind,” Smith suggested. There was uncertainty in his voice.
“To rat him out?” Remo said skeptically.
“I will not pretend to understand the thoughts of a madman, Remo,” Smith said. “I only know that if there is any truth to the legends surrounding the Nibelungen Hoard, Kluge would have enough raw capital to reestablish Four, as well as to ruin Germany’s–and possibly the world’s—economy. It is imperative that you stop him. Whatever the cost to your relationship with the Master of Sinanju.”
“Cost.” Remo laughed bitterly. “That’s what this all comes down to.” He sighed. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said finally. Standing, Remo hung up the phone.
With a half-dozen sharp kicks, he launched the last of the stones on the balcony in a final flurry. They impacted against the trunk of the already damaged tree, one right after the other. The last one to enter pushed the others forward roughly. The stones dumped from the far side of the tree as if from a primitive slot machine, dropping to the forest floor. All that was left in their wake was a clean, four-inch-wide hole straight through the trunk.
The men in the woods came tumbling out of the underbrush a few minutes later, scratched and panting. When they looked up at Remo’s balcony, as they had several times after the loud noise, they saw that the strange American tourist was gone.
. . .
Colonel Friedrich Heine bounced unhappily in the passenger’s seat of the shiny blue jeep at the head of the long line of border police jeeps and trucks. He viewed the countryside through hooded, washed-out green eyes.
It was as if the ancient, gnarled trees around him were menaces over which to cast a suspicious glare.
Heine was the commanding officer of the Federal Border Police regarding the matter dubbed “Siegfried’s Revenge” by Berlin. The broad details of the situation had been explained to Colonel Heine by the German chancellor himself.
It was a tricky affair.
During the crisis in Paris a few months before, Heine had been in command of a detachment of border police sent to prevent civilian Germans who were sympathetic to the Nazis in France from swarming across the Rhine into the neighboring country. His job had been complicated by the fact that many of the men beneath him were in agreement with the evil cadre that had taken control of the French capital.
This morning, the chancellor had informed him that a shadow organization called IV had been responsible for the incident in France. The same group, it was explained to Colonel Heine, was now threatening to destabilize the government of unified Germany. Heine was to locate them in the Black Forest and stop them at all costs.
The colonel’s job would be complicated by the fact that many of the men who were ready to switch allegiance a few months ago were still under his command. If they learned the true nature of their mission and what this group IV represented, they would most likely abandon that mission to join their enemy. Colonel Heine might find himself a lone patriot battling this new neo-Nazi menace.
Heine would never think to join the rest. The grandson of a Catholic death-camp survivor, he detested the Nazis and all they represented. This had contributed in a very large way to the chancellor’s decision to put Heine in command. For, if it became necessary, Colonel Friedrich Heine would not hesitate to shoot his own men if their loyalties swayed.
The convoy had passed a lonely inn about a kilometer back and the colonel’s jeep had just rounded the most recent desolate turn in the winding road when a strange chatter from the rear trucks began to filter up from the radio. The men of his force were yelling some nonsense about someone running up alongside the convoy.
“How fast are we going?” Heine asked.
“Forty kilometers per hour, sir,” his driver replied.
Too fast for anyone to follow on foot. His men were obviously in a joking mood. Heine hoped that they hadn’t already learned about IV.
Heine was about to instruct his driver to advise the men to hold down their chatter when the door near the man suddenly sprang open. A hand reached in and plucked the driver from his seat, tugging him out and flinging him upward. Heine became aware of a sudden weight on the roof of the jeep, even as a strange intruder slipped into the now vacant driver’s seat. The man slowed the jeep to a stop.
Taking the cue from their leader, the column of vehicles whined to a stop, as well. The colonel’s driver scampered down from the roof, his boots denting the hood in his haste.
Behind them came angry shouts. Doors opened. Feet clomped up the narrow forest road. At the direction of the colonel’s young driver, the jeep was surrounded by armed soldiers in a matter of seconds. Rifles leveled menacingly.
From the driver’s seat, Remo looked out at the dozens of men. He yawned.
“Let me guess. You’re on a picnic and they’re here to interrogate the ants,” Remo said to the colonel.
“You are not German,” Heine accused.
“No way, sweetheart. Could never get used to all that black shoe polish.”
“Leave now,” said Heine. “And I will not file charges.”
Remo was aware that the colonel was surreptitiously reaching for the gun at his hip holster. Heine suddenly pulled the weapon loose. He swung it around to Remo, only to have it pulled from his hand before he had even found his target. Remo placed the gun beneath the driver’s seat.
Heine seethed. “I suppose you are with Four?” he said.
“You know about them?” Remo asked.
Heine nodded. “I have been sent to stop you.”
“Sorry,” Remo said. “I’m not Four.” He quickly appraised the colonel. “Give me your hand,” he announced.
The intruder had already disarmed him with ease. Heine thought it pointless to resist. Scowling, he stretched his hand out to Remo.
Remo took hold of the fleshy area between the colonel’s thumb and forefinger. He squeezed.
The pain was so intense and came so quickly that it took the colonel’s breath away. He could not even scream.
“Are you with Four?” Remo asked, easing back on the pressure.
“What?” Heine demanded. “No. No, of course not. My orders are to obliterate them.”
Remo knew he was telling the truth. He released the colonel’s hand. Heine immediately jammed the injured part of his hand into his mouth.
“Sorry, pal,” Remo said. “Just had to make sure.”
“Who are you?” Heine garbled past a mouthful of thumb.
“All you need to know is that I’m on your side.”
Colonel Heine examined Remo with the same suspicious eyes he had been using earlier on the trees of the Black Forest. He seemed to reach some internal conclusion.
“It is nice to know someone is,” the colonel harrumphed, pulling his hand from his mouth. Heine rolled down the window of his jeep. “Get these men back in their trucks,” he ordered his driver.
After a moment of convincing, the surprised driver did as he was told. Reluctantly the men began lowering their rifles. Heine got the distinct impression that some of them had hoped to catch him in the crossfire. Repayment for his failure to join the fascist cause of a few short months ago. Slowly the troops began trudging back down the road to their waiting vehicles.
“You realize a lot of those guys were ready to shoot you, too,” Remo commented as he started the jeep.
“They are more loyal to the ghosts of the past,” Colonel Heine said somberly.
Remo frowned deeply. “There’s been a lot of that going around lately,” he said. He stomped down on the accelerator.
With a lurch, the police convoy began to roll once more down the ancient, curving road.
Chapter Twenty-two
The ragtag convoy led by Adolf Kluge passed through the gentle lower slopes of the Black Forest, avoiding the high mountains of the Baden-Württemberg region. These large dark peaks loomed like giant sentinels along the distant horizon.
Above the frosted mountaintops, the heavy gray clouds of early morning had grown more swollen with every passing hour. However, they had failed as yet to produce a single flake of winter snow.
As the lead vehicle broke into a wide clear patch in the middle of the forest, the Master of Sinanju cast a glance at the distant mountains.
From the rear seat, his squeaky voice intoned:
