Brain Storm

12

The world was sound and fury, narrowed down, tele-scoped to a sense that the world might end—in that very spot, unless something was done...

The bomb had blown out the rear wall of the office.

Ernst, the torturer, had been struck by a piece of flying rock. He crawled, dazed, across the rubble-strewed floor of the interrogation cell.

Smith had remained alert in spite of days of in-humane treatment. Though weakened, his mind raced.

The cross beams and plaster ceiling of the room had been new additions. Smith spied glimpses of the stone ceiling through the newly formed holes. The heavy beam from which Smith dangled had been jarred loose in the explpsion. It was much lower than it had been, its end near the newly opened wall shattered by the blast. His toes now touched the floor.

Smith moved on tiptoe toward the open wall, slid-ing the rope along the beam as he moved. Every joint ached, every muscle protested.

From the floor, Ernst moaned.

The end of the beam was chewed, pulpy wood.

Smith lifted the looped end of the rope from around the beam's end.

His arms ached. Fortunately they had taken him down not half an hour before to eat. It was the only time during the day he was freed from his bonds. If it had been another six hours later, it would have taken much more time to restore the circulation to his arms. As it was, they felt leaden and unresponsive.

Ernst grunted from behind. Smith turned.

The big man was pushing himself up, using the wall for support.

There wasn't much time.

Smith scrambled over the debris to the interior of the cell. His heart racing in his chest, he found the torturer's bag, which had overturned in the explo-sion. A heavy steel pipe had spilled out and rested beside the battered case.

Ernst grunted again. Smith glanced up.

The torturer was more alert. He realized what was happening. Groggily he pushed himself away from the wall, lumbering over toward the escaping prisoner.

Smith curled his fingers around the pipe. It was cold in his grip. Ernst was nearly upon him.

Smith stood, wheeling. He swung the pipe like a batter trying to put one out of the park.

The pipe struck Ernst in the temple. The big man stopped in his tracks, dazed.

Smith swung again. Another crack. Ernst blinked once, hard, and fell to his knees.

Smith lashed out once more. Ernst was too far gone by now to feel the blow register. Shattered skull fragments were already lodged in his brain. The final blow forced them in farther.

Like some great primal beast that knows when its time has come, Ernst's eyes rolled back in his head.

The huge man fell forward onto his bag of torturer's tools. He didn't move again.

Smith quickly unholstered the man's side arm, tucking it in his belt. Captain Menk had left his greatcoat on a hook in the corner of the room. Smith snatched it up, pulling it on over his grimy clothes as he ducked out through the opening.

From all around came the sound of shouting, panicked voices and frantic milling around.

Smith ducked into the shadows behind the building, hiding away.

Plotting his next move. He knew that Captain Menk wouldn't rest until he was dead.

Smith had become the madman's prey once more.

Harold Smith awoke behind the wheel of the rented car.

For one frightening instant, he thought he was back on Usedom, but the thought soon fled. He was here, in the present. And the stakes were as high now as they had been then.

He checked his watch. He had slept for precisely eleven minutes.

Harold Smith removed his glasses and massaged his eyes with his fingertips. The same troubling thought that had passed through his mind for the past five hours resurfaced.

He should have shot Holz when he had the chance.

His gun had been in the desk drawer the entire time.

He could have ended this nightmare before it had even started.

It was a foolish recrimination, he knew. He had hoped that Remo would be able to take out Holz and his interface van quietly. That hope had vanished, along with Remo.

His organization was an open book to Lothar Holz, but Holz didn't seem interested in CURE. Only Sinanju. That had been the only piece of true luck in this entire ordeal.

Smith's only hope was to use the organization against Holz. But for that, he needed access to his office.

The passenger's door of the car suddenly opened.

The Master of Sinanju slid in beside Smith. There was no rustling of leaves or clothing, not a single audible footfall to warn of his approach. These were the skills that had served the Korean Masters for centuries and that had finally been rendered useless by technology.

"The vehicle is not there." The old Korean's voice was thin.

"You are certain of that?"

Chiun fixed Smith with an icy glare. "I am certain, Smith."

Smith nodded curtly. He turned the ignition key.

"I'm sure Remo will be fine." He was embarrassed the second the words passed his lips. Chiun didn't respond. The wizened Asian stared stonily out the windshield.

Without another word, they drove the last quarter mile to the darkened gates of Folcroft.

There was a note on Smith's desk.

Your appointment informed me that you were feeling ill. Hope you are better today. E. Mikulka Smith's secretary.

The note was neatly typed and perfectly centered on the onyx slab. She must have suspected Smith would return the next morning. In his entire time as director of Folcroft, only dire circumstances had kept him from his post for more than two days in a row.

He settled in behind his desk and booted up his computer.

Chiun stood before the desk, tucking his bony hands into the voluminous folds of his brocaded kimono.

Smith ran a security check for any signs of tampering in the CURE system but found none.

It was a relief,, though not entirely a surprise. He had been checking in at various intervals from pay phones around Rye. If someone other than himself had attempted to access any information, the entire memory core of the Folcroft mainframes would have self-destructed. However, it was still a relief to see with his own eyes that everything remained intact.

"You will use that device to locate Remo?" Chiun asked flatly.

He hadn't spoken much to Smith in the past few hours.

"It is my hope," Smith said. He stabbed out a few rapid commands, eyeing the results expectantly. He was surprised to find no listing of a Lothar Holz in any of the PlattDeutsche company records that were open to public scrutiny. "Odd," Smith said aloud.

He tried a different tack. Reasoning that they would have to bring Remo somewhere convenient to their research, he began checking real-estate holdings. He found that the PlattDeutsche Corporation and its subsidiary, PlattDeutsche America, had several smaller business concerns in the immediate vi-cinity. It was a well-diversified company, and as Smith ran through the various real-estate holdings, he eliminated most of them as possible destinations.

There were only two research facilities in the area.

One in upstate New York, the other in New Jersey.

But he needed to be certain.

He used his computer to gain access to PlattDeutsche's vast database...and was instantly surprised at the complexity of the company's antitam-pering safeguards. Every time he tried to delve into the research material concerned with the Dynamic Interface System, he was rebuffed. Smith had little time to waste cracking the code. He couldn't even find a listing of Lothar Holz as vice president in charge of the operation. The entire R&D wing of PlattDeutsche seemed impossible to access.

And then it struck him. Lothar Holz. Vice president in charge of research and development.

Remembering the file he had created the previous day, he called up any information the computers had culled from a variety of media outlets. And there it was. An interview in a local New Jersey paper.

Glowing praise for Lothar Holz, rising star at PlattDeutsche. The computer offered a grainy newspaper photo of Holz donating a check to a local community center.

It was only then that Smith remembered. The van that had brought Holz to Smith's home had sported New Jersey license plates. They had taken Remo to their facility in Edison, New Jersey.

He stood.

"Master of Sinanju, Remo is in New Jersey."

Chiun didn't seem convinced. He held a slender index finger to his lips. He cocked a leathery ear toward the door. When he seemed at last convinced of some invisible certainty, he tucked his hands back inside his sleeves.

"That is where your machine tells you we will find my son?"

"That is correct."

"Then it is time to have it hauled over."

Smith frowned. "Overhauled? Why?"

"Because Remo is here."

And his voice was fraught with foreboding.

He would have felt more comfortable if Dr. Newton had come along. Or Mervin Fischer. But Mr.

Holz had sent Ron Stern out in the interface van on a specific mission. A mission that he could not entrust to the others.

That Lothar Holz could trust Ron Stern to follow his orders to the letter was a certainty. Trust was the very foundation of their relationship.

Stern was a brilliant programmer who had come to computers late in life. He was nearly forty years old, but in spite of his advanced years—in terms of the computer field—Stern had worked alongside Fischer developing the earliest translation programs for the Dynamic Interface System.

His age made him a sort of father figure to the rest of the men on the programming team, including the real genius, Mervin Fischer.

But Stern and Fischer were polar opposites. Stern was boisterous and outspoken. He was an avowed sportsman and quite athletic. He watched his diet more carefully than anyone else at the Edison complex. Even when the rest of the boys were eating their fast-food burgers and pizzas, Stern always ate nothing heavier than a salad. No dressing. Stern also had one minor peccadillo that the others didn't know about. He was somewhat more aggressive when it came to the fairer sex than his friend Mervin. He was just more persuasive, and though some people had called it rape, Ron Stern knew that term was far too strong.

Unfortunately for the computer programmer, the authorities didn't think the term was strong enough when applied to Ron Stern.

His world had begun to cave in shortly after an incident concerning a PlattDeutsche executive secretary.

Luckily for Stern, when his darkest hour had been upon him he had found an ally in the R&D vice president. Holz put the entire muscle of the legal-affairs division into defending the "poor innocent man." The prosecution crumbled. In less time than it took to bring the charges, Ron Stern was a free man. And Lothar Holz had the programmer in his back pocket. After that, the lines between right and wrong further blurred to Ron Stern as Holz, his sav-ior in his most desperate time of need, used him to deal with any niggling extralegal thing that came up.

Unbeknownst to Stern, most of these problems were manufactured, in a deliberate manipulation to train him to unquestioning obedience and make him feel more and more indebted to his boss.

And it had worked. Stern didn't question the motives of Mr. Holz when he was given his special instructions to return to the sanitarium in Rye with his

"special cargo."

The others who had been sent along with him wouldn't be a problem. They had all had similar help at one time or another from Lothar Holz. The only thing that really worried Stern were the computers.

He hoped they were up to the challenge.

They had parked outside the high walls of the sanitarium. One of the men had scrambled up to the roof and attached the rotating transmitter array to the coupling behind the cab. The curved black mesh looked like some kind of miniature Pentagon missile tracker.

It would boost the signal so that they wouldn't have to enter the grounds of the sanitarium.

Ordinarily this wouldn't be necessary. The wide beam of the system was usually all it took. And the machines themselves were preprogrammed to handle hundreds of ordinary people automatically. It was virtually idiot proof. But this was a special case.

They needed all the focus they could get just to hold on to one man. And Stern had permission to access the satellite if it became necessary.

In the rear of the van, three technicians operated the motion-coordinating terminals. Stern and two others worked the keyboards on the other side of the truck.

It was a go. Stern saw two people in the same rear office they had isolated earlier in the day. The thermal sensors outlined the men in red.

"One of them is that guy from the bank. We still can't get a lock on him."

"Doesn't matter," Stern said. "Mr. Holz wants them both dead."

He watched as another lone figure, also outlined in red, moved swiftly through the corridors of the administration building. And as the men behind him typed madly away, the spectral shape drew closer to the rear office.

They would have expected him to come in through the window. Or to explode in through the office door.

Maybe to ambush them in the parking lot. What they wouldn't have expected was for Remo to saunter in through the doorway as if nothing was wrong. So that was exactly what they had programmed him to do. "Hi, Smith. Hi, Chiun. How's it going?"

"Remo?" Smith asked, confused. Chiun raised a warning hand. "Do not trust your senses, Emperor."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Remo aske< His face scrunched up in a flawless computer creation of puzzlement.

"Come no closer."

"What? I waste half the night escaping from those goons you turned me over to and that's the welcome I get? Thanks a lot."

His words sounded sincere, but Chiun could see the look of anguish deep within his pupil's eyes.

knew that Remo still didn't control his own actions.

Smith looked at him, his staid features puzzled.

He opened his mouth to ask for some enlightenment.

Unexpectedly, Remo sprang toward Chiun. His feet and hands lashed out like a manic windmill. The movements were much more fluid than they had been earlier in the day. Whoever controlled Remo had obviously been practicing.

Chiun blocked the arm blows with his forearms.

In the move Remo used, the arms were not the primary means of assault. They were meant only as a distraction to the target. The real killing blows were focused in the legs.

Chiun dared not attempt to stop Remo's legs. Jje leaped up and over them, his skirts billowing as he landed to Remo's right.

The next attack was instantaneous, as if Remo had anticipated Chiun's first move. He whirled and struck out with the heel of his hand. Another millisecond, and he would have shattered the Master of Sinanju's windpipe.

Chiun no longer stood beside Remo. He was behind, then above him as his spindly legs flashed out, knocking Remo off balance. The instant Remo struck the carpet, Chiun was on him, his tapered fingers searching out the spot at the base of Remo's skull that would paralyze him.

When he was satisfied that Remo could no longer move, Chiun stood.

Amazingly Remo flipped over, thrashing out at Chiun once more. Chiun was stunned. This should not have been possible. Whatever this outside influence was that tampered with Remo's mind, they had no idea what their ham-fisted tinkering could do.

They might irreparably damage Remo's delicate nervous system if they continued to override his body's instincts for preservation.

"Fiends," Chiun hissed, dodging Remo's lightning-fast hands.

Again he knocked Remo down and again he

placed pressure on the top of the spine. On the floor, Remo grew rigid.

"Come here, Smith," Chiun said, beckoning to the CURE director.

Harold Smith stepped uncertainly from behind his desk and crossed over to the Master of Sinanju.

"Here." Chiun grabbed Smith by the wrist and pulled him down to Remo's prone form. "Place your fingers here, at the top of his spine." Smith did as he was instructed. Chiun rose, leaving Smith squatting on the floor beside Remo.

"What now?" Smith asked.

Heading for the door, Chiun called back over his shoulder, "Do not waver for an instant, or I fear Remo will kill you."

"Where are you going?"

"The vehicle that poisons Remo's mind is near."

"But you said the van was not here."

"It was not. Now it is. And in a moment, it will be no more."

And leaving Smith crouching uncomfortably on the office floor beside Remo, Chiun slipped out the door.

"Where did the little guy go?" Stern demanded in the van.

The man beside him shrugged. "One minute the heat sensors had him, and the next minute he was gone. It was like he turned off his body heat."

"Maybe our guy killed him."

"And his body temperature switched off the minute he died? Not very bloody likely. He must've found a way to shield himself from the thermal sensors."

"Can't you use the interface signal to find him?"

The man smirked. "We can only focus the signal, Ron. And we need a target to focus it on."

"Can we use the satellite link to Edison? Maybe we can use the extra boost to widen the search area."

"We'd be searching for a ghost."

"Right, right," Stern said, shaking his head at the foolishness of his own question. He didn't like this.

He was only a programmer. He shouldn't be in charge here. "Why haven't you gotten control of our guy yet?" Stern demanded of the row of hackers on the other side of the van.

"We've been locked out of the system," one of them complained.

"Manual override," said a second.

"Yeah," the first one agreed, nodding. "Manual override."

"This never happens when I play Riven," the first opined.

The man beside Ron Stern gave up tapping at his keyboard. Their operative wasn't responding to the, interface lock, the other man in the office couldn't be controlled and the third—who might be somewhat controllable—had vanished. He crossed his arms and looked up at the leader of this expedition. "So, what do we do now, Ron?" he asked sarcastically, folding his arms across his chest.

His question was answered by a horrible wrenching of metal. The van rocked on its shocks.

"What the hell was that?" Stern demanded, grabbing at the wall-mounted table behind him for support.

"I just lost the interface signal."

Though they couldn't see out of the windowless back of the van, they heard something clatter to the ground outside.

"That's the booster," a technician said.

"We can't access the satellite," Stern said under his breath.

"Can you get a thermal reading now?" he demanded. "Someone on the roof?"

The man beside him clucked unhappily. "I'm getting something, but it's very faint...."

All at once, the rear door of the van was ripped from its hinges. The cab of the truck was lifted into the air by the incredible force exerted on the back door. The front tires remained several feet off the ground for a moment as the large white vehicle resembled nothing less than a wild animal rearing up on its hind legs.

The other five men in the back grabbed urgently at whatever they could, desperate to keep from fall-ing through the open maw, but Ron Stern, who was still standing between them all, was tossed out the open door. He vanished into the night.

There was a painful screeching of protesting metal as the truck began to teeter in place. And then it fell.

But even as the van crashed back to its four tires, bouncing wildly on its shocks, Ron Stern bounced back in through the door. At least part of him did.

Specifically, the part that had controlled the higher functions of the man who had been Ron Stern.

The head thudded against the closed door that led into the cab, then it came to a rolling stop at the feet of one of the computer operators.

The man instantly passed out.

Before the full impact of what had just occurred even registered in the minds of the others, the Master of Sinanju whirled into the cramped interior of the van. The pudgy, pale faces of the two hackers still at their workstations grew shocked at the sight of the tiny Asian. On the computer screen, people were ab-stract. But here, in person, was one of the men they had been sent to kill. To them, he existed as a shadow in the strange electronic netherworld of bytes and binary.

They didn't have time to reconcile their computer-generated perceptions with reality.

Like an angry hissing typhoon, Chiun fell upon the two men. His movements duplicated those they had made Remo perform. But here, the execution was flawless.

Two palms flashed out, their long-nailed fingers folded neatly over like talons of some vicious bird of prey. Two windpipes collapsed beneath the pressure. The men dropped from their stools, joining their unconscious comrade and the head of Ron Stern on the floor. Chiun's foot lashed out in two neat jabs.

A pair of holes erupted in their temples.

Chiun wheeled on the other two men. They remained in their seats, paralyzed with fear. Chiun's eyes narrowed as he saw on one of the screens the ghostly image of Smith bent over Remo.

"You will break the beam device that manipulates my son."

"It's severed," one of the men insisted. "You broke the signal when you derailed the satellite dish."

"The thing on the roof?"

"Yes. Yes, sir," they chorused obligingly, hoping that maybe there was still some chance to get out of this. "That is what I thought," said Chiun. And grabbing the men by the scruffs of the neck, he steered their heads into their computer screens. A pair of muffled pops and a few sparks followed. The men didn't move again.

Chiun found the unconscious computer programmer and dragged the man out the rear of the vehicle.

The evening was unseasonably warm. A faint breeze carried the scent of salt water in the air.

Chiun propped the man up against the side of the van and slapped him sharply across his blotchy white cheek. Immediately the young man's eyes sprang open.

"What? Where am...?" His words trailed off as he spied the blood on his shirt. All at once, he remembered the head of Ron Stern rolling around on the floor of the van. "Oooh..." He began to pass out once again, but the Master of Sinanju struck him roughly across the cheek, back and forth.

The pain revived him. He sucked in a deep lungful of air.

"Remain alert, fat one," Chiun snapped, "for though I would remove you now, my employer doubtless has need for you." And with that, he dragged the whimpering young man back toward the gates of Folcroft.

"You may release Remo, O Emperor. He is once more only a threat to himself." The Master of Sinanju swept into the room, propelling the computer programmer before him. The young man glanced around, frightened. To him, this was all still a giant video game. This office was as unreal to him as a Pac-Man maze.

Smith had grown weary squatting for so long. He had dared not move a muscle. He rose stiffly from the floor, releasing the pressure on Remo's spine.

"Thanks a heap," Remo complained. He tried to climb to his feet, but found that he could barely control his legs. Smith helped him up.

"Why didn't you just hold me down there all night?" Remo griped, rubbing the back of his neck at the remembered sensation of the interface signal.

"You might have killed me," Smith responded blandly.

"Yeah, and I still might. You're the one who handed me over to them, remember?" Disgusted, Remo wobbled away from Harold Smith.

Smith ignored Remo. "Who is this person?" he asked Chiun.

"Hey, Chiun, that's one of them," Remo said.

"Hey, Chiun, that's one of them," Chiun repeated, in a mocking singsong. "I risk my life to rescue you from their evil clutches, and all you are able to do is state the obvious." To Smith, he said,

"I have allowed this one to live so that you might question him, Emperor."

"I'm not certain I approve of doing this here,"

Smith said.

"It's the middle of the night, Smitty," Remo sighed. "Even the cleaning staff went home hours ago." He leaned back against Smith's desk, rubbing his neck, still trying to shake off the residual effects of the interface signal. It took much more of an effort of will for him to stand than he wanted the others to know.

Smith nodded his tense agreement. "Of course, you are correct. Chiun."

At a nod from Smith, the Master of Sinanju lifted the heavyset programmer into the air and tossed him back onto the worn office sofa.

The couch creaked in protest.

"You will answer my questions," Smith said to the man.

The programmer swallowed hard. He nodded.

"I am having difficulty accessing the PlattDeutsche computers."

The young man watched Smith, wide-eyed. He nodded nervously. His double chin wobbled. "You tried to access a dummy system. We set it up for corporate spies. People waste hours and hours trying to access files that don't even exist."

Smith furrowed his brow. "It's all a ruse?"

"Everything that's public knowledge is buried in the modem-access system. That way, when someone finds something they think they're on the right track.

But PlattDeutsche has a completely private internal system that is not hooked into the phone lines."

"It makes sense," Smith agreed.

"You can't get in?" Remo asked.

"I am not surprised," Smith said over his shoulder. "For a company that is involved in sensitive research, there is no telling what a diligent hacker could learn over an open line." He turned back to the young man. "Tell me about the security system at the Edison plant."

For the next half hour, Smith grilled the programmer about the various fences, guards and security codes that would gain them access to the Edison, New Jersey, facility.

When he learned everything he thought he needed to know about the defenses and about the interface labs in particular, he nodded crisply to the Master of Sinanju. Chiun stepped over to the young man.

The programmer sensed what was coming. He

held up two pudgy hands. "Wait, wait!" he begged.

"There's more."

Chiun glanced at the CURE director, and Smith held up a staying hand. "What is it?" he asked.

"Holz is more than he seems," the hacker offered.

"Explain," Smith demanded.

The young man glanced nervously, first from Smith, then to Chiun.

"If I tell you, will you promise to let me go?"

His eyes, nearly buried beneath layers of distended flesh, looked hopefully at the two men. At that moment, he seemed more like a lost and frightened little boy than a man.

"Perhaps," Smith answered vaguely.

The programmer seemed to take this as a solemn vow. "I guess maybe I ought to tell you that I was in a little trouble last year. Mr. Holz helped me out.

But then he started making me do things...." The man cast his eyes down to the threadbare carpet.

"Go on," Smith prodded.

"I got to thinking that he was making me do this stuff for a reason. Sort of a control mechanism." The man smiled weakly. "Just because someone's socially maladjusted doesn't mean they're stupid. Anyway, I secretly broke into Mr. Holz's phone line. You know, just to see what he was up to. I figured maybe I could use it to get me out of my obligation to him."

"Blackmail," Remo offered from behind them.

"I don't know," the young man said. "It didn't seem that way at the time. It's just that the stuff I was doing wasn't right. I was looking for a way to stop."

"What did you learn?" Smith asked.

"Mr. Holz isn't exactly on the level," the programmer said with a sardonic laugh. "And neither is PlattDeutsche. The people who own it on paper aren't the real owners."

"What do you mean?"

"There were a lot of telephone calls—back arid forth to Holz—from outside the country. They were scrambled, so I couldn't pinpoint from where, but the way Holz and this other guy talked, it was obvious the people who think they're running the company really aren't."

"That is not possible. There is a command structure in every organization. Someone always answers to someone else."

The man shrugged. "All I can tell you is what I heard. The people on the board of PlattDeutsche think they're running the show, but sometimes they get overridden by something outside. Particularly this week. Holz got himself in trouble for the stunt at the bank. The higher-ups at the company were talking about suspending him or worse. But then everything got dropped. I'm the only one who knows that it is because somebody somewhere else saved his job for him. The real owners. And even they chewed him out for putting the company at risk. They were real mad until yesterday. That's when he called and told them about your friend there." He nodded over to where Remo lounged against Smith's desk. "I'm really sorry, by the way," he said.

"Don't mention it," Remo said sarcastically.

The young man looked chastened.

Smith was still thinking about containment. The contamination was spreading. There was no telling how much Holz actually knew or how many others shared his knowledge.

"Did he tell them of this place? Folcroft? About me?"

The young man shook his head. "No. It was all just about the stuff he could do," he said, pointing to Remo. "And about the master of something-or-other. And he asked the man on the other end to send someone up to examine him."

Smith was feeling a wave of relief wash over him.

There was still a chance to salvage this situation.

"Do you remember whom he sent for or when and where they would be arriving?" Already he was thinking of intercepting the individual at the airport.

"Holz called him Breslau or something. He's a doctor. I guess he's pretty old by the sounds of things. They said no at first, but Mr. Holz said it was an emergency. Breslau is supposed to be some kind of expert or something."

Smith sucked in a rapid hiss of air. "Breslau?" he demanded. "Dr. Erich von Breslau?"

The young programmer brightened. "That was it," he said with a happy nod. "Do you know him?"

Smith looked dazed. Woodenly he walked across the room and took his seat behind his desk.

"Von Breslau," Remo mused. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

The programmer glanced toward the open door.

"May I go now?" he asked hopefully. He rubbed his sweaty palms on the knees of his jeans.

"Erich von Breslau," Smith said under his breath.

He stared at the top of his desk.

The computer programmer stood. "I promise I won't tell anyone about this place." He began edging toward the door.

Smith was shaken from his reverie. "What? Oh, yes. Of course not. Thank you for your help."

The young man seemed greatly relieved and

moved for the door. He didn't see Smith nod to the Master of Sinanju, nor did he feel the blow that stopped his heart muscle from working through his meaty back. He merely felt the sudden urge to take a long nap on the inviting floor of the sanitarium office. A wave of blackness washed over him, and he dropped to the floor. He didn't stir again.

"Smitty, why does that name von Breslau sound so familiar?" Remo asked as the Master of Sinanju joined him before the desk.

"It has historical significance. Erich Von Breslau worked in three of the Nazi concentration camps during the Second World War. He was answerable directly to Mengele. Many reports have it that his brutality toward his victims was far worse than his superior's."

"Okay, that's right," Remo said. "I heard about him on a PBS documentary. But I thought he was dead."

"It would seem he is not," Smith said. "And someone obviously feels the lure of Sinanju knowledge outweighs the risk of exposing him to the world."

"But they don't have anything without me, right?'' Remo queried.

Smith considered. "I am not certain." There was something larger going on. Why would they bring von Breslau here now? What purpose would it serve?

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

"Holz not only has a duplicate file of my brain but yours, as well. Either would be enough to compromise CURE. We must organize a plan of attack. But we must first find a location to store the PlattDeutsche van. I presume it is nearby?"

"Beyond the walls of Fortress Folcroft," Chiun said. "I will have to see inside, but I must check a few things here first. Remo, could you make certain that there is nothing that will attract attention to the van?" He was thinking of the Master of Sinanju's usual thorough work.

"I'm on it."

Remo and Chiun turned to go. Remo cast a glance at the programmer's body lying on the floor near the door.

"I'm not cleaning that up," he said, shaking his head.

"That is of no concern to me. Of course, if I am forced to carry this fat white thing, the strain might cause me to forget the secret method I have devised to shield myself from the demon signals. But that should not be a concern to you. You have done such a fine job representing your House in this matter so far."

"There's no secret method," Remo insisted.

Chiun didn't say a word. He smiled at Remo, his face a placid pool. When Remo glanced back at Smith, he saw that the CURE director was hard at work at his computer's buried keyboard. The light from the monitor screen cast an eerie, possessed glow on his pinched features.

Remo sighed.

"This better be worth it," he grumbled.

He hefted the body to his shoulders and carted it from the office.