Brain Storm

26

Von Breslau registered at the hotel under the name Heinrich Kolb.

No one asked him why he had no luggage. All he carried with him was a large box tucked under one arm and a brown grocery bag that swung from his gnarled hand by its handles. When the bellboy offered to carry the items for him, the elderly man cheerily declined.

Alone in his room, he placed the box on the neatly made bed. He set the bag on the floor.

Kluge had made arrangements for him to leave the country tomorrow.

He had a 9:00 a.m. flight out of JFK.

Von Breslau had spent the better part of the afternoon and early evening copying files from the van computers onto diskettes. What he ended up with filled a container twice as large as a standard shoe box. This was the box he placed on the bed.

From the bag he took several items—scissors, brown paper, a marking pen and a roll of packing tape.

He arranged the diskettes snugly in the box, shoving a hotel hand towel in around the cargo to fill up the vacant space. Taking great care, he wrapped and taped the box for shipment. He did not address it.

That could wait until morning. When he called down for a cab he would have someone at the front desk mail the package for him.

Von Breslau left the box on the nightstand and undressed for bed.

He didn't know what time he awoke.

At first he thought he was dreaming. It was a sensation of floating—of gentle hands bearing him softly through the balmy evening air. But all at once, the air turned cold.

He tried to get his bearings.

He saw a green metal door opened behind him. It had no handle.

It was cold here. The wind whipped his sparse hair. Von Breslau shivered in his underwear.

Up, around...

He saw the chimneys. Like something out of his past. Fifty years before. Then they had belched a thick, acrid smoke—the smell of burning flesh weighing heavy in the frigid winter air. The chimneys he saw now were idle.

He floated in close to one, very close. He saw the rough surface of the grimy bricks. Then he was up.

Sure hands guided him to the very top. He saw the New York skyline, dazzlingly white. A sea of lights spreading out brilliantly around him. Then he saw the gaping maw of the chimney. Up close. The blackness slid around his head. He felt the tightness at his bony shoulders. The blood rushed to his head.

His arms were pinned to his sides. He was unable to move.

"What is it you want?" he pleaded. His voice echoed in the confines of the chimney. "I can get you money. Gold. Anything."

"Gold is generally an acceptable form of payment."

Von Breslau recognized the voice. The Master of Sinanju. The young one spoke next.

"Gold is pretty good," the voice of Remo agreed.

"I can promise you a fortune. It is guaranteed."

Von Breslau tried to move his head. Fragments of black grit jarred loose from the chimney's wall and fell into his eyes. He blinked but could not dislodge the painful flakes.

"What do you think, Little Father?" he heard Remo say.

"It is a tempting offer, admittedly," Chiun said.

"But I do not feel it is time yet to do business with the Hun. My memory of the little jester with the funny mustache is too recent. Perhaps in another hundred years or so, my attitude could change."

Then the younger voice spoke down into the hole.

"Don't go anywhere, we'll get back to you."

Von Breslau felt the young one slip something around his big toe.

He didn't hear them climb down from the chimney. He only knew they had left when he heard the roof door slam soundly shut.

Six months later, when a maintenance crew discovered the body stuffed down into the mouth of the chimney, the story would make national news. Public interest in the case would generate an extensive investigation, and it would ultimately be discovered that the deceased was none other than the infamous Dr. Erich von Breslau. With the resulting media fire-storm, the hotel would begin to wish they had paid attention to the note left by the killer. Whoever had put the body there had kindly placed a Do Not Disturb sign on the old man's toe.

"You might have done it more neatly," Smith chastised.

"I don't want to hear it, Smitty," Remo said. "It felt right."

The look on Remo's face suggested that Smith not press the issue.

"This is all he had with him?" He had opened the box and removed the diskettes.

"That was it. Oh, here." Remo reached into his pocket and removed the object Smith had given him.

He tossed it on the CURE director's desk. "I'm not sure, but I think that little gizmo worked," he said.

Smith allowed himself a rare smile. "I thought it might." He put down the box and picked up the object. He flipped it over in the palm of his hand.

"So what is it?" Remo asked.

"It is a pacemaker. You recall I had one implanted recently. That was why I was in New York earlier this week. To see my doctor. The signal must have somehow interfered with the immobilizing aspect of the Dynamic Interface System signal. If it worked for me, I hoped that it would work for both of you, as well."

"Your talisman was most effective, Emperor,"

Chiun enthused. "It appears, though Sinanju be your greatest sword, that there are other weapons in your mighty arsenal."

"A pacemaker," Remo said, mildly surprised.

Smith replaced the flat object on his desk and picked up von Breslau's box. He frowned as he turned it over in his hands. "You know, Remo, this looked as though it was packed for shipping," he mused. "I wonder where von Breslau was sending it?"

"He and Holz talked about something called

'Four'," Remo suggested.

Smith nodded. "Yes, you mentioned that to me earlier. I did some checking and I could find no reference to a Four organization in any of the pro- or neo-Nazi literature. It is probably merely a minor splinter group. I would not be concerned."

"Well, if this is all wrapped up, Chiun and I will get going."

"Do not be too hasty," Chiun said, stepping forward. "There is still a minor item."

"What?" Remo knew the answer the instant the word passed his lips. "Oh, Chiun, can't you collect your autograph later?" Remo complained.

"Autograph? Oh, yes. Of course." Smith took a pen and piece of paper from his desk drawer and began writing. "You realize, Master of Sinanju, that due to the need for secrecy in the organization, you may not show this to anyone?" He looked up over the tops of his glasses as he spoke.

Chiun's expression grew concerned. "To no one at all?"

"I am afraid not."

"Therefore selling it is out of the question?"

"I must insist." Smith had finished writing and held the small slip of paper out to Chiun.

The Master of Sinanju looked down his nose at the paper as if Smith were offering him a rotted fish.

"I have just remembered that I have many of your autographs already. They grace the contracts you have signed with the House of Sinanju. Long live Emperor Smith."

When it became clear that Chiun had no intention of taking the sheet of paper, Smith returned it to his desk. "Well, if this matter is finished, we should all go home and get some rest. It has been a very long week"

Harold Smith rose from behind his desk. Chiun suddenly held up a staying hand.

"Actually there is another trifling item."