Failing Marks, page 7
“That’s a relief,” Remo muttered, getting to his feet. “Okay, spill it,” he said as he turned to the second thug.
The man was in the process of binding his injured hand with a handkerchief. Remo caught his reflection in the long mirror that stretched above the row of sinks. His resemblance to the first attacker was disconcerting.
As he examined the face, Remo caught a hint of something sinister in the man’s eyes. All at once, the man wheeled around, his unbandaged hand flashing forward.
The knife that Remo had failed to take away flew toward him now, eating up the space between them in a flash. At the last minute, Remo leaned back, snagging the knife from the air. He tossed it over his shoulder, and it landed with a splash in one of the unseen commodes.
“That’s enough of that,” he said, marching over to his assailant. Reaching around, Remo snagged a knot of muscle at the base of the man’s skull. “Who sent you?” he demanded. A hand like a vise squeezed tight on all the neck’s pressure points at once.
The killer’s eyes sprang open wide. But though the pain should have been unbearable, he didn’t even attempt to speak.
Remo was surprised. This technique had never failed to induce a response in the past. He increased the pressure.
This time, Remo got a reaction. The man opened and closed his mouth in a desperate attempt to communicate. No words came out. He gulped helplessly and silently at the air, giving a flawless impression of a fish gasping for breath in the bottom of a boat. And the light finally dawned on Remo.
“You’re a mute, aren’t you?” he asked.
There was still no response. The man looked at him with helpless, pleading eyes.
“Great,” Remo said. “You’re a mute who doesn’t understand English.”
He tightened his grip on the man’s neck. Vertebrae popped away from one another like beads on an abacus. The thug immediately went limp.
Remo carted the dead man over to the stall where he had ditched the first attacker. He threw the second killer up over the top and tucked random protruding arms and legs back in under the door.
Remo quickly left the men’s room. He met the Master of Sinanju at the stairs. Chiun was just coming down from above.
“Was your guy mute, too?” Remo asked.
“He did not say,” Chiun replied blandly.
“Har-de-har-har,” Remo said. “Where did you put him?”
“He will not soon be discovered,” the Master of Sinanju insisted. “Unless these cuckoo-clock makers have invented some special means to unseal maintenance closet doors. In case of that eventuality, I would recommend we make haste.”
“Yeah,” Remo agreed. He and Chiun stepped onto the escalator. “If nothing else, this proves we’re on the right track,” he said as they rode upstairs.
“Perhaps,” Chiun replied.
“Perhaps, nothing,” Remo said. “The guy we met six months ago couldn’t talk, either. That makes four identical guys who are all mutes. I think I smell a pattern here.”
“Here no longer matters,” Chiun sniffed. “We are leaving.”
The elderly Korean was right. And Remo was surprised at how good it felt to finally be leaving German soil.
They found the proper gate and made their way onto the plane. When they were settled into their seats, Chiun was delighted to find that the in-flight movie was a feature-length version of the sitcom he had enjoyed watching virtually the entire time they had been staying in Europe. Remo hunkered down, steadying himself for a long, long flight.
As the plane taxied for takeoff, neither of them noticed the young blond man seated in the rear of the cabin.
Chapter Seven
Smith wasn’t certain if it was the aspirins that had done the trick, but his pounding headache had eased somewhat since morning. He massaged his gray temples delicately with his fingertips as he studied the satellite images that stretched across his computer screen.
Through circuitous means, Smith had gotten time on a military satellite that was in geosynchronous orbit over the massive northern section of South America. The surveillance device was put in place to monitor drug activity in that part of the continent.
The satellite had been redirected ostensibly at the request of the CIA, which was working in conjunction with the Drug Enforcement Administration on mapping the latest U.S. inroads being made by the powerful La Cosina drug cartel. When the order to reposition the satellite came through via computer, no one questioned why the Colombian drug lords would ship their product south when their ultimate destination was north. The technicians simply shifted the satellite as directed.
Smith wore an unhappy expression as he studied the grainy images. He couldn’t seem to find anything in the rolling hills and wide prairies of Uruguay that even remotely hinted at a hidden Nazi village.
At first blush, the existence of such a place was an idea that seemed to border on fantasy. But Smith had seen much recently that lent credence to the claim of the old German from whom Remo had gotten the information. With the facts they had thus far confirmed, Smith conceded that it was very likely there was a secret community tucked away in some dusty, long forgotten corner of the world.
But if the IV village was on these satellite photos, Smith didn’t see it.
The work was tedious. First he needed broader images to find signs of roads and buildings that didn’t match up with any known map. When he did find an area that didn’t conform, the satellite had to zero in on the place in question. He would then be able to get a closer look at the unfamiliar spot. At that point, Smith would attempt to judge whether or not the nonlabeled area was the product of a faulty mapmaker or had been deliberately omitted from official documents.
But so far there were no mysterious deviations. Every strip of highway, street and access road was accounted for. He had studied the images for hours. His only break came a few minutes before when one of his special computer programs raised an electronic flag. Some odd deaths had been reported at the airport in Berlin. They matched the Sinanju pattern of Remo and Chiun.
The only truly odd thing was that the dead men were said to be triplets. While Smith found this interesting, he could not fathom its relevance. He vowed to question Remo about the matter when CURE’s enforcement arm checked in from South America. In the meantime, he had work to do.
Twenty more minutes passed before Smith’s headache began to reassert itself once more. The main pressure area was a spot at the crown of his skull. It felt as if the painful throbbing were connected by a taut and twirled elastic band that ran straight through his brain and out along his optic nerve. He felt nauseous.
Smith pulled his bleary eyes away from the computer screen. He leaned back in his creaking chair. Pushing his glasses up, he gently rubbed his eyelids with his fingers.
The headaches were worsening and coming with more frequency. They had begun in the wake of his return from France after the vacation debacle that was supposed to be a celebration of his fiftieth wedding anniversary.
Smith knew that the headaches must somehow be related to the blow he had received on the back of the head by an unnamed IV operative. At the time, the man had been posing as a member of British Intelligence. Circumstances had been such that no one save the Master of Sinanju had bothered to question the man’s authenticity.
Smith was lucky he hadn’t been killed. If the headaches continued much longer, he knew he would have to consult a specialist. Dr. Drew was a competent physician, but if there was some greater trauma, the Folcroft doctor would be out of his element.
Smith opened his tired eyes. The queasiness still clung to his stomach and ribs. For an unsettling moment, he thought he might vomit.
Smith steeled himself. He didn’t have time for nonsense.
He leaned forward once more in his chair, readjusting the rimless glasses on his patrician nose. The black-and-white images on the computer seemed clearer to him now.
Good. Perhaps it was all simply a matter of determination.
Peering down at the screen, Smith began to once more carefully scrutinize the contours of the current satellite image.
. . .
A country away from the area of South America that was the focus of Harold Smith’s pointless search, Adolf Kluge was touring the silent, tidy streets of IV village.
The pretty little gingerbread houses in their gaily painted colors were silent tombs. They were lined up along the cobbled roads—their doors locked, their shuttered windows closed on dead, black interiors.
A numbing stillness stretched up like icy hands from the mountainous rock beneath Kluge’s feet. It wound its arms around everything-houses, streets, even the distant mountaintops. The very air around him seemed wrapped in eerie calm.
Everywhere was silence.
It was the beginning of summer in this hemisphere. Flowers had been planted in the rich black soil of brightly colored window boxes. As he walked along, Kluge wondered if the plants would grow wild and eventually go to seed, or if they would be burned to ash.
He had never seen the village empty. These hills in the lower Andes had not been without activity since the first handful of carpenters hired by IV had put hammer to nail to construct the first block of quaint, old-world homes. That had been in the 1950s.
Now all was still. Every building was empty. And it had happened on the watch of Adolf Kluge.
His sadness was tinged with threads of anxiety as he walked past the last of the small houses.
The mountain fortress that was the nerve center for IV even before the rest of the village had been built loomed on its separate mountain peak before him. It was like something from another world. The long stone bridge that connected the fortress peak with the mountaintop on which the village had been constructed stretched downward until it became part of the road Kluge walked on.
Between the village and the bridge, just before the chasm that separated the two peaks, was a lush, bucolic field. Ordinarily parcels of this land were portioned out to the older members of the village with an interest in gardening. Today, the field was home to Kluge’s neo-Nazi army.
Several hundred men were gathered in the meadow. Each of them carried an assortment of weapons. Kluge’s aide walked over to him as the IV leader stepped from the road and began walking through the tall grass of the field.
“We are ready,” Herman announced.
Kluge smiled wanly. “Are we?” He focused his thoughts. “Any news out of Berlin?”
The aide hesitated. “They...failed.”
Kluge closed his eyes. “All dead?”
“Three of them. The fourth has not yet faxed in.”
“Faxed,” Kluge said sarcastically. “We do not even have agents capable of using a simple telephone.”
He looked over at the men lined up in the field. At first glance, an intruder might think that he was seeing some elaborate illusion. A funhouse-mirror army.
Impossible as it might seem to the uninitiated, many of the men lined up in that small Andean field were identical to each other. Azure blue eyes, collar-length blond hair pulled back into ponytails, perfectly hewed, almost feminine bone structure. They looked to have been stamped out, one right after the other, by some bizarre Aryan factory.
It was a disturbing image.
Mixed in with these men were a few other IV soldiers. Like Kluge, they were dedicated young men who had been born into the movement. Some had even been raised here in the village. They were standing here, waiting to defend their home.
Kluge had never felt compelled to dress the soldiers of IV in the maudlin frippery of days gone by. In fact, he had made a deliberate effort to avoid sticking his troops in Nazi uniforms. If someone had somehow managed to sneak a camera up into the village, the last thing he wanted was for his people to be goose-stepping around in SS uniforms.
Dressed in plain brown shirts and slacks, the men in that field looked as if they could have been part of any nondescript South American police force from Venezuela to Chile. That is, with the obvious exception of the small silver lapel pins on each of their shirts.
The pins were bisected by a narrow line. On one side was inscribed the Roman numeral IV. On the other was a simple engraved swastika.
Kluge looked away from the pin on the nearest man. With a bitter grumble, he turned his attention to his aide.
“It is possible that the agent who has not been reported dead somehow managed to succeed in his mission,” Herman ventured. “Perhaps he is en route here.”
“Yes,” Kluge replied dully. “And perhaps they are en route here. Did you think of that?”
Herman cleared his throat. “That thought did occur to me,” he admitted.
Kluge’s blue gray eyes were flat as he turned from his aide. “It is very quiet here,” he commented, looking back over the silent village. “Almost peaceful.”
“Herr Kluge?” Herman questioned, his voice striking a troubled note. It was as if he wanted to draw attention to the seemingly apathetic attitude of IV’s leader without being insulting. His tone worked.
“I have not taken leave of my senses, Herman,” Kluge replied tightly. When he looked back from the sleeping village, his brow was furrowed. “Yet,” he added. “Have you made certain the other defenses are fully operational?”
Herman nodded sharply. “We will give them more of a fight than they expect, Adolf. And we will prevail.”
“Perhaps,” Kluge said. He didn’t sound convinced.
“Unquestionably,” Herman said with a determined nod.
Kluge said nothing. Let the fool bury his head in the sand if he wished.
The head of IV looked out over the sea of identical faces. “Explain to them what is to be done,” he directed. It seemed an effort for him to point a world-weary finger at his army. “I do not have the patience.”
Clasping his hands behind his back, Adolf Kluge walked back across the field to the road. Shoulders hunched, the leader of IV strolled up the path toward the bridge.
The huge stone fortress loomed above him, a massive headstone for the grave that had been the IV village.
Chapter Eight
With two connecting flights and various delays in between, Remo and Chiun didn’t arrive in Montevideo until after 3:00 a.m. Instead of looking for Dieter Groth in the middle of the night, they decided it would be best to settle into their hotel for a few hours’ sleep.
The hotel they chose was the Cabeza de Ternera, the place Smith claimed was operated by the potential Nazi.
Remo never slept in beds any longer, preferring a simple mat on a hard floor. However, since he had neglected to bring a tatami sleeping mat along with him, he instead tossed a half-folded sheet down onto the dull green wall-to-wall carpeting.
He had just settled down on his makeshift bed and was drifting off to sleep when a familiar sharp noise shook him from his slumber.
“Oh, no. Not here, too,” he groaned, rolling over. In the living room of their spacious hotel suite, the Master of Sinanju was cackling loudly. The television hummed softly, with occasional bursts of laughter from a studio audience. Remo could almost see the pantomime antics of the British TV comic. Moaning, Remo pulled the pillow down from his bed, drawing it down tightly over his ears.
Remo could ordinarily blot out sounds as easily as a normal man might close his eyes. However, he had discovered several months before that the combination of the shrieking canned laughter of the TV soundtrack and the Master of Sinanju’s own delighted cackle could penetrate his best auditory defenses.
After a sleepless half hour, Remo finally gave up. When he walked back out into the living room, another episode of the same sitcom was just beginning. On the television, the odd-looking English actor was driving desperately down the street in his pajamas. Remo didn’t want to know why.
“I’m going to look for Groth now,” he complained.
A bony hand waved impatient dismissal. “Fascinate the chambermaid with announcements of your comings and goings,” Chiun snapped. “I am busy.” His face grew more intent as he studied the screen.
Remo rolled his eyes as he stepped into the hallway.
He strolled down the hall past the elevator. Pushing open the fire door, he walked down the four flights of stairs to the hotel lobby.
It was only four-thirty in the morning, so the same night desk clerk who had checked Remo and Chiun in was still on duty. He was a thin boy of Spanish descent. Remo’s best guess wouldn’t have put him much older than seventeen.
“Me again,” Remo announced, walking up to the desk.
The boy grinned earnestly. “Buenos dias!” he said.
Remo wanted to resent the clerk for being so cheerful, but the boy’s guileless, eager face made it impossible to do.
“I’d like to see Dieter Groth,” Remo said.
The desk clerk’s cheerful expression evaporated. “Does señor know the time?” he asked.
“Too early for British sitcoms,” Remo grumbled.
“Señor?”
“Nothing,” Remo said. “Groth. Is he here?”
“Señor Groth does not come in until eight o’clock,” the boy said apologetically.
Remo tapped an index finger against the desk. He glanced over at the stairwell door, considering. Did he really want to go back up and listen to Chiun’s incessant hooting for the next three and a half hours? After a long, thoughtful moment, he shook his head.
“I’ll wait,” Remo insisted. He walked away from the front desk and settled into one of the plush chairs flanking the front door.
. . .
Groth arrived at the hotel at precisely 8:05 a.m. Remo spotted the German immediately. He was a barrel-chested man in his early seventies. Old age hadn’t even considered sneaking up on Dieter Groth. At first glance, Remo guessed that it was afraid to. Groth’s features were severe, his face darkly tanned. He wore a short-sleeved dress shirt, untucked, and a pair of pleated white pants.
“Guten Tag, Herr Groth,” the young desk clerk said nervously as his employer approached across the lobby. “Wie geht es Ihnen?” He seemed uncomfortable with the German words.
