Failing Marks

Destroyer 114: Failing Marks

By Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir

PROLOGUE

At the precise moment his killer was sharpening the sword that would sever his head from his body, Durthang of Saxony was carefully applying the finishing touches to what he considered his finest creation.

Gnarled craftsman's hands lovingly buffed the surface of the wood carving. Weary eyes peered intently at the deliberately uneven surface, searching for any flaws.

There were none. He had carved the wood to perfection.

Nonetheless, Durthang took from a nearby stone table a long, curved, flat implement forged for him by Gull the Blacksmith. The hook at the end was gradual, the iron end pitted with thousands of tiny indentations. Each dent had been gently tapped into the surface by Durthang's own hand.

He picked up the wood block that was, unbeknownst to him, the reason for his impending murder. He placed the block carefully between his knees, clamping them tightly together. Taking the curved tool in one hand, he drew it down to one of the interlocking furrows in the center of the block.

Durthang drew the iron implement back and forth gently across the wooden block. The delicate pitting of the tool's surface acted as sandpaper.

After a short time, Durthang blew gently on the wood. A puff of dust escaped down the deep furrow and out into the cool air of his forest workshop.

He repositioned the block between his knees and repeated the procedure, this time on a second line. Together, both lines formed a cross in the center of the block. The four separated areas outside the indentations were part of a larger map.

Durthang knew the precise spot that the entire map indicated. Of course he would; he had carved the map to the exact specifications of his noble employer. And he was no stranger to this area that would one day be part of modern Germany, having lived in the region for more than sixty years.

Until that morning, however, the white-haired carver didn't know the significance of the location. This knowledge was the reason for his impending death.

In each of the four corners, above the elaborate fleur-de-lis pattern in which were hidden the hissing heads of three sinister serpents, Durthang had been instructed to carve a single runic mark. It was the symbol for gold.

He couldn't entirely believe that this simple block carving he had been hired to create truly represented what he suspected it did. He was too insignificant a person to be involved even peripherally in something so great.

But still. The thought was there.

Durthang blew the last of the dust free of the block. Placing his sanding tool down with his other implements, he lifted the piece of wood from between his knees and held it upright to examine the lines of the map.

He knew where the place was. It was close by. And the symbols at the four corners. Gold.

It could not be.

Durthang jumped as he heard footfalls behind him on the stone floor of his cramped work area. So engrossed in his handiwork was he that he had not heard the old wooden door creak open. He quickly lowered the carving, turning to the intruder.

A lazy burst of early-evening air sent a twirl of sawdust spinning before the glowing hearth fire. His fat ruddy face relaxed when he saw who had entered. Durthang rose, bowing deep reverence. "Forgive me, noble sir. Your servant did not know the lateness of the hour."

The visitor stood before Durthang, resplendent in his silver chain-mail tunic. A skintight chain headdress rose up around his neck, enclosing his entire head with the exception of his face. A shining silver iron battle helmet sat atop his head, nestling down over his ears.

Perched at the peak of his armor helmet was a metal-hewed falcon, its wings spread back and frozen in perpetual flight. The bird stood as high as the ceiling, its beak open in a still-life menacing cry. The regal intruder stood a few feet inside the open doorway, his hooded black eyes staring intently at the simple peasant carver.

Although Durthang had met his lord on several occasions now, the man's presence was still awe-inspiring to the carver. And why not? For this was a god among men. His exploits were legendary. Siegfried, son of Siegmund, husband of Brunhild. Slayer of Fafner, the dragon. King of the Nibelungs. Possessor of the Nibelungen Hoard.

Siegfried regarded the dusty interior of the tiny peasant hut with regal disdain. He looked from hearth, to kitchen table, to cot, to work area with equal contempt. At last his eyes alighted on the nervous Durthang.

"It is complete?" Siegfried intoned.

Durthang nodded anxiously. "'Tis surely so, sire."

Siegfried didn't say another word. He stretched out an open palm to the carver. The hand was encased in an expertly crafted chain-mail glove. The gauntlets stretched halfway up his forearms and were attached around the back with elaborate metal fasteners.

Durthang obediently placed the block of wood in the hand of the Nibelungen king.

The wooden piece was heavy and flat. Though Siegfried's hand was large, the wood was larger.

With his fingers splayed, his hand was only as big as one of the four equal-sized sections. He nodded his approval as he scanned the details of the map.

"You have done well," Siegfried said with satisfaction.

Durthang the Carver sighed in great relief. When he had accepted this special appointment, his worst fear was that his work would dissatisfy his lordship, and that Siegfried would condemn him as an inferior craftsman. His business among the nearby villagers-meager as it was-would surely suffer from such a condemnation.

"I thank you, my lord," Durthang said, again with a polite bow.

While his eyes were downcast, the carver heard a sliding sound. It was that of metal against metal. When he glanced up, he found that Siegfried had placed the heavy wood carving on a chair. The sound Durthang had heard was that of Siegfried's famous sword. The king had drawn it from the chain belt that was slung below his hip.

Legend had it that the king had forged the weapon himself from the fragments of his father's own sword. It was the blade he had used to slay the mighty Fafner. This terrifying implement of death was aimed now at the simple peasant wood carver.

Durthang looked in fright at the sharpened tip of the huge gleaming sword. It was half a hand from his face. So powerful was Siegfried that the weapon did not quiver, though it weighed more than forty pounds. Orange firelight danced along the length of the broadsword.

Eyes locked on the tip of the sword, the carver threw himself to his knees. "My liege, I beg you!" he pleaded. "Spare my life!"

Siegfried shook his head. "You have done well, carver. Would that I might do as you request."

"Please, Lord. I will forget that which I have seen."

"How can you forget?" Siegfried stated, a note of sadness in his voice. He raised his sword in two hands as if to slaughter the peasant.

"Please!" Durthang cried. "Blind me, that I cannot see to find the spot. Cleave out my tongue, that I cannot speak of what I know. Remove one hand, that I will be unable to duplicate in memory that which I have crafted for you. But please, O Lord, I beg of you. Let me live."

Siegfried seemed for a time to consider the impassioned words of the simple carver. After a moment, his deliberations ended. He nodded ever so slightly. As he did so, the falcon on his helmet tapped softly against the great crossbeam at the center of Durthang's small hut.

The carver fell to the floor in relief and homage. He prostrated himself at the feet of the great, beneficent king.

"Let me sing praises of your lordship till my dying day!" he cried with joyful passion.

Tears streamed down his face, dropping to the dirt and sawdust on the floor of his simple hut. Remnants of years of hard work. As he wept, Durthang saw the armor-encased feet of Siegfried shift slightly. One arched upward while the other braced itself firmly against the flat stone floor.

Durthang's brain did not have time to process what this might mean before his brain became incapable of processing any information at all.

The peasant carver felt the weight of the mighty blade against the back of his neck for only an instant. In half a heartbeat, the sword passed through his spine, his throat and sliced out through his Adam's apple on the other side.

As Durthang's aged body collapsed to the floor, his severed head dropped and rolled, tumbling end over end to the simple stone hearth. His long white hair scattered among the gray ash and glowing orange embers.

Near Durthang's bleeding, headless corpse, Siegfried replaced his sword in his belt. He gathered up the engraved block of wood, placing it atop the carver's table.

Searching quickly, he found a hammer and chisel among the tools. Collecting the hammer in one hand, he steadied the chisel atop the carving with the other.

With a single great crack, he shattered the wooden map into two sections. He gathered up the two remaining sections in turn, snapping them each in half.

By this time the embers from the hearth had ignited the hair of Durthang. The fire burned up around his scalp, catching onto the thatch of the walls. Yellow flames raced up to the ceiling.

As the tiny hut was engulfed in flame, the king of the Nibelungs collected the four sections of the map beneath one powerful arm. Flames burning an inch above the splayed falcon wings atop his gleaming battle helmet, he hurried from the ratty, burning cottage.

And into the final day of his life.

THE SERVANT BOY FOUND the body of the king. It lay facedown in the river, arms spread wide. Only the head was submerged. The rest of the body was on dry land.

There was an area of what appeared to be rust on the back of Siegfried's chain mail. It flaked off when touched. Dried blood.

Closer scrutiny showed a small breach in the armor. Just wide enough for a single knife thrust. Someone had crept up behind the king while he drank from the river and murdered him.

"Was it the work of bandits, O Master?" the servant boy asked, his razor-slit eyes grown wide with wonder.

The man he addressed was the Master of Sinanju. Only once in a generation was a man deemed worthy to hold that title. From the village of Sinanju in the far-off land of Chosun had Master Bal-Mung come. He was a tall man with thick black hair and the flat face of the East. Squatting, he was examining the body of the king.

"No, it was not a true bandit who did this thing," the Master of Sinanju intoned. "Would that it was," he added. And after thus speaking, said no more.

The Master of Sinanju shook his head gravely as he looked down at the body of the slain king. Siegfried might have survived the attack had he not been dressed so foolishly. His ridiculous metal gloves weighed several pounds each. His idiotic iron helmet, with its insanely ornate iron bird, weighed much more.

After the assault from behind, the king had fallen into the water. The battle gear had weighed him down, effectively finishing the killer's job. Due to his absurd choice of wardrobe, great King Siegfried had drowned.

The Master of Sinanju was about to turn away from the scene when something odd caught his eye. There was an object a few feet away from shore, resting amid the slick stones at the bottom of the river. It was obviously man-made. The normal human eye wouldn't have seen it beneath the rapid currents. Indeed, the Master of Sinanju had nearly missed it.

Using a stick broken from a nearby tree, Bal-Mung pulled the object from the cold waters of the stream.

It was a flat block of wood. Two of the edges were rough, and two were smooth. A section of a larger puzzle, if the pair of jagged borders was any indication. The Master of Sinanju grew excited when he saw what it represented.

Clamoring into the waist-deep water, he searched the silty river bed for nearly an hour. All in vain. The one piece he had found was the only piece that was there.

Dripping wet, he climbed back up out of the cold water. He passed the body of Siegfried and crossed over to where he and his servant had left their horses.

Bal-Mung had forbade the servant boy from entering the water to aid in the search, insisting that the boy would only stir up more silt. Even so, the young man had waded ankle deep to collect the helmet of the slain Siegfried. The falcon-in-flight headpiece was already tied in with the Master's bedroll when he reached his pony.

Master Bal-Mung took the river section of the wood carving and tucked it inside a leather pouch near the helmet.

His young servant craned his neck to see what the Master of Sinanju had hidden away. He saw only a flash of carved roads and rivers. Places traditionally represented on maps.

"What is it, O Master?" the servant asked.

The Master of Sinanju was swinging up atop his steed. In his saddle, he looked over at the gently bobbing corpse of the legendary Siegfried. Bal-Mung's tan face could have been carved from the oldest petrified wood from the darkest heart of the surrounding forest.

"It is my undoing," Bal-Mung said gravely.

He tugged the reins. Together, the Master of Sinanju and his servant rode away from the body to vanish back into the thick forests of ancient Germany.

Chapter 1

His stalker came from the West, though his skills were born of the East.

Adolf Kluge had met his pursuer once. At first glance, Kluge might have thought him an average man. He was a thin Caucasian with dark hair, approximately six feet tall, perhaps 150 or 160 pounds. Other than a pair of abnormally thick wrists, he didn't seem exceptional in any way.

But he was exceptional. Of that, Kluge had no doubt.

The latest proof of this had been faxed to him not ten minutes ago. Among the documents were several black-and-white photographs that showed the bodies of men who had been killed in horrific ways. Kluge singled out a photo of a man whose head had been crushed by some massive force. He looked like a tube of toothpaste squeezed in the middle. In his mind, Kluge couldn't help but see himself as the victim in the photo. The thought froze his spine.

"The description by those left alive lends the appearance that this is all the work of a single assassin," said Herman, an aide. "I would venture that this is not possible. Do you concur, Herr Kluge?"

Eyes hooded as he looked up from the gruesome photo, Adolf Kluge gave his assistant a baleful glare. "Of course it is one man. Where else but in this village could one find an army that wears the same face?"

The aide frowned. "But it seems too incredible to believe," he insisted.

"That it does," Kluge admitted. His voice had an edge of annoyance.

Kluge dropped the photo. In the other hand, he still clutched the envelope containing the latest intelligence. With a world-weary sigh, he looked around the room. Involuntarily his gray-blue eyes alighted on the life-size painting of Adolf Hitler-Kluge's namesake-that graced the main wall of the large stone conference room. The fuhrer's flinty eyes had been painted so that they glared unapologetically at anyone who might enter this mountain fortress. As if the chancellor stared with disdain from a realm beyond death.

Kluge tore his gaze away from the painted eyes of Hitler. He found his aide staring at him, a puzzled look on his broad face.

Kluge was aware on some level that Herman had been talking to him while he was in his trance. He shook his head as if to clear out the cobwebs.

"Forgive me, I was distracted." Kluge waved his hand that held the latest information. "Continue."

"I was saying, Herr Kluge, that our friends on several police forces in Germany are searching for fingerprint records. I thought we might involve Interpol in the matter."

"Do not bother."

The aide seemed confused. "Herr Kluge?" Kluge dropped the dossier to the gleaming table.

"Tell them not to bother," he repeated flatly. "But he has killed many of our men."

"Not our men," Kluge snapped. "They were not from the village. They are therefore not my responsibility."

"Nonetheless," Herman persisted, "they were sympathetic to our cause."

Kluge laughed bitterly. "Our cause, " he mocked. "Thanks to our old friend Nils Schatz, we no longer have a cause. We have a pursuer. And he is getting closer." Kluge shook his head. "No. I fear now all we can do is await the inevitable. Please go." He sounded defeated.

Without another word, the aide gathered up his paperwork from the large oaken conference table. Dress shoes clicking a loud complaint on the highly buffed stone floor, the young man left the room. The big door echoed shut.

Alone, Kluge felt his shoulders sag as if drained of life.

The old portals in the ancient stone outer wall of the conference room had been filled with expensive paned windows. Around the edges were panes of beautiful stained glass depicting various struggles from different periods of German history.

Kluge's tired, roaming eyes ignored these. He had no great desire this day to dwell on the great Teutonic past. That was precisely what had brought them all to this dismal state.

Instead, his gaze moved to the clear glass at the middle of the nearest window. He stared out the slightly frosted panes at the nearby peaks of the Andes.

The air was thinner here in the mountains of Argentina, but his body seemed to have gotten used to it over the years.

It was a shame he had to leave. This had been his home for much of his life. The home of IV, the community of renegade Nazis that Adolf Kluge led.

An ultrasecret organization founded by the ragged losers of the Second World War, IV was to represent a rebirth of the fascist dream-the Fourth Reich, a Teutonic dynasty spanning generations.

That had been the ideal at its founding, and in his early, idealistic days as IV's third leader, it had always been the ultimate plan of Adolf Kluge. However, Kluge was nothing if not pragmatic. As he grew older, he realized that it would be impossible in the modern world to achieve the original goal of the secret Nazi organization.

With the abandonment of his youthful dreams and the approach of middle age, his concerns became more realistic. IV had a great deal of wealth at its disposal, riches looted from some of the finest families in Europe. During his tenure, Kluge began an aggressive covert campaign to involve IV in the financial markets of the world.

At nearly every turn, he met with rousing success. Kluge, it turned out, was a financial wizard. When it came to investments, he had the Midas touch. In the years of his stewardship, IV's business portfolio burgeoned. The money he made was used to meet the expenses of the village in which the founders of the organization-now retired or deceased-had come to live.

The building in which Kluge sat was an ancient structure, possibly Aztec, that had been constructed on a mountain peak that neighbored the IV village. A stone bridge connected the office stronghold with the main village. It was in this great old building that Kluge had made the first tentative steps toward the ruination of IV.

Of course, it had been accidental. When the downward spiral had started several months ago, Adolf Kluge had no idea where it would lead.

Back then, one of the many corporations in which IV had a financial interest was a technological giant, a German company called Platt-Deutsche. The company's subsidiary in the United States, Platt-Deutsche America, had developed a system that was able to create a link to the human brain with a computer via an electric signal. While refining the system, the company had run across a pair of agents in the employ of the U.S. government. One of these men was the legendary Reigning Master of Sinanju. According to the old men of the village, the Master of Sinanju was truly responsible for the death of Hitler. It was said that when the fuhrer learned that the wily Korean was on his way to Berlin to dispatch him, the German leader had taken his own life. The Master of Sinanju was said to possess remarkable physical powers. Kluge had foolishly approved a plan to use the computer program of Platt-Deutsche to download the abilities of the Master of Sinanju and his protege.

The scheme had backfired completely. Sinanju had triumphed, and IV's operatives in America had been killed. It was only sheer luck that Kluge had been able to sever all connections with Platt-Deutsche before the neo-Nazi group could be uncovered.

In the days that followed, Kluge was certain that the men from Sinanju would eventually show up on his doorstep. But as time went on, he realized that he and IV had stumbled into a bit of good luck; either Sinanju wasn't interested in him or didn't realize the extent of the Nazi organization's holdings.

Whatever the reason, he was left alone. In spite of the loss of a major company, IV had survived. Adolf Kluge had breathed a sigh of relief. But this relief proved to be short-lived.

All hope of anonymity for IV had been lost three months before. That was when the world as Kluge knew it ended and the entire delicately stacked structure of the decades-old organization had collapsed around his ears like a house of cards in a hurricane. One of the old founders of the village had left Argentina with the impatient hope of creating the vaunted Fourth Reich in his own lifetime. In a campaign that had played out before the entire world, the bitter old Nazi had created a modern reprise of World War II, complete with bombs dropping on London and the surprising takeover of Paris. Nils Schatz had financed all of this with stolen IV funds.

The Master of Sinanju had again arrived on the scene, and again he and his heir vanquished IV. This time, however, they knew. In the months following the events in London and Paris, a definite pattern of violence had begun erupting in neo-Nazi groups throughout Germany. Always the description of the attackers was the same-an old Asian and a slender white man with thick wrists.

The Master of Sinanju and his protege. Lately, in the reports he was getting, the old Korean was seen less and less. Adolf Kluge was not certain why this was. It could be that the Reigning Master-who looked quite old and frail-had finally succumbed to age.

He could be sick. He could even be dead.

What really mattered to Adolf Kluge was that the young Master of Sinanju was still alive. And he was coming for Kluge.

Kluge glanced away from the distant mountain peaks, drawing his gaze across the sparkling crystalline pattern of ice on the transparent window panes.

As he continued to reflect on his dire future, he found that his eyes had refocused on one of the stained-glass panes in the surrounding edge of the window.

He recognized the image out of Germanic legend. Ironically, like the pictures of the murder victims on the table before him, a body lay sprawled on the ground. Bits of red, blue, yellow and green glass-polished to a great luster-depicted an outdoor scene.

There was a river running near the body. The brilliant sunlight that eased across the Andes illuminated the strip of painted water, causing it to sparkle hypnotically. The effect as one stared at it was almost that of real running water. A vibrant testament to an artistic genius.

There was a small streak of red running down the stream.

Funny. Kluge had never noticed that before.

He saw now the slit of a knife wound in the back of the body. A smile of blood. According to myth, Siegfried, the great Nibelungen king, had been stabbed from behind by the mercenary Hagan.

More legends.

It was the legend of Sinanju that had brought Kluge to this sorry state. Would that that legend had not been true.

Kluge slapped his hands atop the table in impotent rage. He got to his feet, shoving the paperwork roughly to the floor.

He marched over to examine the stained-glass rendering more carefully.

It was foolish, really. Staring at a window that had been imported from a centuries-old European castle. But Adolf Kluge had little else to do while he awaited death.

The stained-glass Siegfried had been designed by the artist to be a big, burly man. The creator of the scene had been able to capture a sense of strength in the ancient hero even in death.

How old was the window? Kluge wondered. Several hundred years at least.

The detail was exquisite. He had never really taken the time to study it in all the years the castle had been his home.

Something at the hand of the dead king caught his eye.

Kluge leaned back, surprised. He peered in more closely.

It was there. Plainly evident beneath the gauntlet. To Kluge, it was rather like noticing for the first time one's own passport photograph in the background of the Mona Lisa.

He frowned.

It probably meant nothing. But his experience lately had proved that there was fact in some legends.

Kluge strolled to the door, deep in thought.

He paused once, looking back at the ancient death scene. The windows all along the wall shone like a thousand painted diamonds. For some reason, only one caught his attention.

Since he had been stabbed in the back, Kluge wondered briefly if Siegfried ever knew who his murderer was. Adolf Kluge at least knew who his killer would be. He had met the man who was coming after him.

He even knew his name.

Chapter 2

His name was Remo and the tenement rooftops of former East Berlin stretched out before him like the sun-bleached surface of some giant concrete checkerboard.

He stood on the flat tar roof of a tall high-rise and surveyed the city with a disapproving eye.

Remo had been to the eastern bloc countries many times before the fall of the Iron Curtain and had always found them to be dismally depressing. This was his first trip to this part of Germany since the Berlin Wall had toppled, and he was surprised to see that things hadn't changed much.

There was a little more color here now. On the streets below, as well as in the apartment windows. A few blocks away, Remo saw a billboard featuring the red-and-white logo of a famous American soft drink.

But the place was still as somber as a funeral parlor. Of course, the Russians were to blame. Decades of Communist oppression had a tendency to take the fun out of anything.

Remo wasn't certain what building he was looking for. The sameness of the tenements was startling and more than a little disconcerting. To him, it looked as if some Titan with an enormous square bucket and a limitless supply of beach sand had spent a lazy afternoon scooping up and plopping down building after identical building.

Remo didn't realize how true this analogy was until he leaned against the upper rim of the roof he was standing on. The cheap mortar crumbled to sand beneath his hands.

Jumping back toward the roof's center, he slapped the dust from his palms and shook his head in disbelief.

"Good thing this isn't an earthquake zone," he muttered to himself as he surveyed the halfcrumbled wall.

The structure he was trying to find was somewhere east of Grotewohlstrasse beyond the location of the old Wall.

Remo's best course of action would have been to stay on the ground and head east until he ran into a helpful pedestrian. But there were two very important reasons why he couldn't ask directions. The first was simple enough: Remo didn't speak German. The second reason was a bit trickier. The number of bodies Remo had been leaving in his wake lately had begun to attract undue attention. He had been given explicit instructions to eliminate only those who were absolutely necessary.

Of course, all of this would be simpler if Chiun hadn't stopped coming along with him. He understood German. If Remo's teacher had come with Remo rather than sitting like a Korean lump in their Berlin hotel room, the two of them would probably be back home by now.

Thanks to Chiun, Remo's only hope was to find the place himself. And so here he was, standing alone amid the seemingly limitless sea of cheap, Communist-era buildings.

With a put-upon sigh, Remo climbed gingerly atop the crumbling four-foot wall that rimmed the roof.

He was an average-looking man with deep-set eyes and dark hair. He wore a dark green T-shirt and a pair of tan chinos that fluttered in the early-winter breeze. Although the thermometer hovered around the forty-degree mark, Remo seemed unaffected by the cold.

Just beyond the toes of his loafers was a five-story drop into a filthy alley. Thirty feet across the empty air was an identical roof.

Remo hopped over to it.

It was an impossible jump even for an Olympic athlete. Remo made the leap with ease.

One instant he was standing; the next he was airborne. He landed atop the neighboring roof a second later.

Even though he had dispersed his weight in flight so that upon landing he would be no heavier than a handful of feathers, the mortar promptly crumbled beneath his weight. He hopped down to the main roof just as the avalanche of bricks and mortar slipped out from underneath him, landing with a terrible crash in the alley far below.

An angry shout rose up from one of the apartments beneath him. He ignored it.

Remo continued forward.

He picked up speed, running to the edge and leaping for the next building. As he ran, he glanced all around, looking for something in particular. Something the last man he had killed told him would be there.

Building, alley, leap. Run.

Building, alley, leap.

He covered blocks in a matter of minutes.

While he leaped from rooftop to rooftop, Remo found himself thinking of the city's recent history. It was pretty disheartening.

First the fascists, then the Communists. Which was worse? It was a testament to the utter evil of both philosophies that he had a hard time deciding.

Remo finally chose the fascists as being the worst of the two. After all, they were a better reflection of the dark souls of the indigenous population. The Communists had ruthlessly seized control after the Second World War. The Nazis had been voted in.

Remo was above a street parallel to the main concourse of Unter den Linden, leaping to the next building, when something far ahead caught his eye.

Movement. Briefly, he spied someone with a gun. Remo landed softly and skittered crab-like over to a massive vent cap. Twirling slowly in the soft wind, the cover resembled a tin chef's hat.

He peered out from behind it.

Remo didn't know where precisely his leapfrogging had taken him. The man he saw was several buildings away. For all he knew, it could be a guarded government or bank building. It wouldn't help the low profile he was supposed to be keeping for him to assault a few innocent bank guards. Upstairs would blow a gasket.

Remo waited until he spied what he was after. The man turned slowly away from him, scanning the rooftops to the north.

There it was. In plain daylight.

A red armband was wrapped tightly around the armed man's biceps. Within a white circle on the crimson band, the crooked black lines of a swastika were clearly visible.

No doubt about it. This was the place.

He came out from behind the vent cover and strolled casually across the roof. At the edge, he hopped over to the next building. He continued his harmless amble toward the distant rooftop.

Remo didn't want to alarm the sentry. If the man saw him too soon and Remo was running like a maniac in his direction, the neo-Nazi might have time to warn others. This way, as long as Remo wasn't spotted actually jumping from one building to the next, he would look like nothing more than an underdressed apartment dweller who had gone up to fix his antenna.

As it was, the sentry failed to see Remo until after the final leap from the adjacent roof.

Remo dropped down directly in front of the startled neo-Nazi. He smiled.

"Hi. I'm here to kill Gus. Is he in?" Shock.

The young neo-Nazi immediately swung the barrel of his machine gun in Remo's direction. He tried to pull the trigger but was stunned to discover the gun was no longer in his hands. Looking desperately for the weapon, he found to his astonishment that it had somehow ended up in the hands of the strange intruder.

"No, no, no," Remo admonished, as if speaking to a toddler who had just scribbled crayon cave paintings all over the living-room walls. "Mustn't make boom noise."

As the neo-Nazi watched in horror, Remo took the gun barrel in two hands and twisted sharply. There was a quick groan of metal as the barrel bent in half.

A six-foot-high section of wall nearby was dotted with ancient rusted hooks that had been once used to secure lengths of clothesline. Remo hung the U-shaped gun barrel around one of the hooks. Immediately a large section of the wall collapsed under the relatively light weight of the gun. Some of the debris fell to the alley. Most fell to the roof. When they hit the roof's surface, the slabs of concrete continued downward. They crashed through the rooftop, landing in a heap in the apartment directly below.

"Well, crap," Remo griped, peering down into the hole.

There was shouting from the apartment. Through the dancing dust, a wide, pale face peered up through the opening. When he saw Remo, the man grew panicked. The face hastily withdrew.

Since landing on the roof, Remo had been between the guard and the stairwell door, which was rusting on its hinges in an alcove beyond the toppled wall. With Remo's attention redirected momentarily, the guard made a break for the door.

Remo grabbed the man by the back of his brown shirt collar before he could take two steps. He held the man several inches off the roof. "Hold up a second, Frankenfurter," Remo said.

"No, no!" the young man screamed in heavily accented English. "Let me go! Let me go!!"

"In a minute," Remo promised. "First things first. Where's Gus Holloway?"

"I do not know a Gus Holloway."

"That is a lie," Remo said simply. "Every lie gets a whack. In case you were wondering, this is a whack."

Whirling, Remo slammed the neo-Nazi's forehead into the remains of the half-toppled side wall. A square section of mortar shattered from the force of the blow, toppling to the alley far below.

When Remo brought the neo-Nazi back from the wall, his frightened face was caked with dust. He coughed, and a puff of concrete powder gusted into the chilly air. A streak of blood trickled down his dirty forehead.

"My next question is surprisingly similar to my first. Where is Gus Holloway?"

"I do not know!" the man cried. He blinked blood and dust from his eyes.

"Wrong answer," Remo said. "Whack time." He slammed the man's head against the wall once again. Again more concrete tumbled away. "I'd feel safer living in a shoe box," Remo frowned, looking down at the rubble in the alley.

"Please!" the young man begged woozily. "I do not know this Holloway."

Remo shook his head. "You must," he stated, firmly. "My last lead pointed me here. And your 'Hi, I'm an asshole Aryan' merit badge-" he nodded to the swastika armband "-indicates to me that you're maybe not being entirely forthright. Hey, I know what might jar your memory!" Remo said brightly. "A whack!"

He slammed the man's head against the wall. This time most of what was left crumbled away, tumbling in long angry sheets to the asphalt five stories below.

Once it was gone, only one four-foot finger of mortar remained upright.

"Gus ...Gus," the man wheezed, choking on dust. "Gustav? Do you mean Gustav?" He looked desperately up at Remo, one eye shut painfully. A shard of concrete had gotten stuck beneath the lid during his last whack. By now his forehead was bleeding profusely.

Remo frowned, confused. "Yeah, I think that might be his alias or something. Is there a Gustav here?"

"Yes!" the man cried. "That vas him." Still halfblinded, he pointed at the hole in the roof.

"The fat guy that looked up here?"

"Yes!" the neo-Nazi howled in frustration. Remo shook his head angrily. "Why didn't you say so?" Cupping his hand on the back of the neoNazi's head, he drew the man toward the last upright section of side wall.

"Vait! No vack! No vack!"

"That's 'whack,'" Remo instructed even as he slammed the man's head into the remaining portion of wall. It collapsed against the pressure.

Unlike the first three times, the man's injuries did not end with a simple whack. As he passed through the wall, Remo released his grip on the young man's hair. The neo-Nazi continued his forward momentum, sailing out over the alley amid a pile of concrete fragments and a cloud of mortar dust. Bleeding and filthy, he dropped from sight. He landed with a squishy thud in the alley a few seconds later. Remo did not stay on the roof long enough to see him splatter. As the young neo-Nazi was free-falling to his death, Remo had gone over to the hole in the roof. He hopped down into the apartment below, landing atop the pile of collapsed ceiling.

The apartment was empty. Scowling at himself for allowing his target to escape so easily, he moved stealthily through the small flat and out into the dank hallway.

FOR THE PAST SEVERAL months, Gustav Reichschtadt had been hearing about the pair of terrifying men supposedly slaughtering neo-Nazis throughout Germany. He had disregarded the stories.

Certainly Gustav didn't deny that people were being killed. However, he was convinced that it was the work of the German government out to punish pro-Nazi groups for the embarrassment they had caused a few months before.

Modern Germany prided itself on its intolerance of the underground fascist organizations that seemed to spring up cyclically-like spring daisies in a Bavarian meadow. It was therefore humiliating to the national government when hundreds upon hundreds of its citizens began clamoring to the French border after the covert neo-Nazi takeover of Paris that had occurred the previous summer. Much to the German government's embarrassment, these young fascists made it clear to the world that they wished to join the leaders of that great campaign as soldiers under a unified Nazi flag.

The crisis in Paris had been defused by means that were still uncertain-at least as far as the press was concerned. The men who had eagerly swarmed to join the neo-Nazi forces had returned to their homes, never having set foot on French soil. And Germany was left to squirm in embarrassment as the world looked on in veiled distaste at the country that had failed to anticipate or control its most vile element.

It was at the beginning of this silent condemnation that the first bodies began to show up.

Gustav was certain that German authorities were doing the killing. The government in Berlin was attempting to prove its worthiness to a scornful world by murdering its most favored sons.

This was what he had been telling the members of the Goring Brotherhood for the past several months. He had told them this in English, for-though he dressed as a Nazi, lived in Germany and vociferously condemned the current weak German government--Gustav spoke not one word of German.

Gustav Reichschtadt had been born Gus Holloway, son of "Cap" and Dottie Holloway of the Pittsburgh Holloways. He had lived at home, jobless, bitter and without any life prospects, until his thirty-fifth birthday, at which point his more than tolerant father had thrown him out on his hairy ear.

With so much time on his pudgy hands, Gus had whiled away his youthful days at home as an active member of several American fascist groups. He had even achieved some notoriety for once throwing a chair at the host of the Horrendo show on national TV. When his parents finally disowned him, his friends in the skinhead movement took him in.

In a movement that was notoriously undercharged in the sparking-synapse department, Gus Holloway-with his high-school GED and unerring ability to accurately spell Mein Kampf-became a shining star.

Eventually Gus renounced his American citizenship and followed the movement to its birthplace. The home of the fuhrer himself. Germany.

He was promptly thrown in jail for distributing illegal Nazi literature. Gus learned the hard way that the current German government wasn't like the one to which he had pledged his undying fascist allegiance.

While in prison, Gus met up with many individuals like himself. After his release, he joined his newfound friends in the underground skinhead movement. He was reborn as the leader of the neoNazi Goring Brotherhood. Changing his name was part of that rebirth.

He was working in his capacity as leader of this secret group when the whole world came crashing in. When the dust cleared, Gustav realized that it wasn't the world after all just most of the ceiling of his apartment.

Fortunately for Gustav, he had been standing on the other side of the room at the time.

The neo-Nazi leader had been running off his latest propaganda leaflets from an old-fashioned printing press that his mother had given to him for his eighth birthday. His fat fingers were smeared with blue ink as he crept over to the pile of collapsed building material.

When he looked up through the hole in the ceiling, he found himself staring into the coldest eyes he had ever seen.

It was him! One of the two men who had been spotted slaughtering members of neo-Nazi groups all around Germany. The German government's politically correct hit squad had finally come to claim the great Gustav Reichschtadt!

The fascist leader had immediately lumbered from the room.

The tenement in which the brotherhood conducted its holy work was overrun by neo-Nazis. Gustav waddled frantically down the urine-soaked flight of stairs to the fourth floor. He pounded a desperate fat fist against the door across from the bottom of the landing. The ink on his hands left marks like toeless baby footprints across the thick metal door.

"Help me!" Gustav screamed in English. He was hyperventilating. "They're here! Good God, they're coming to kill me! Hurry!" He pounded harder.

Finally the door opened a crack. A suspicious eye peered out at him from within the apartment. Somewhere unseen, an aged scratchy recording of Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries" was building to a warped crescendo.

"What is it?" a voice asked in thickly accented German.

"The killers!" Gustav hissed. "The government hit squad that's out to destroy all our work. They're here."

The eye peered first left, then right. It finally looked back at Gustav.

"I do not see anyone."

Gustav flapped a large mitt toward the ceiling. "They're on the roof. Let me in!"

He forced his meaty palms against the door. Although the old man within the apartment was far from strong, he didn't need to be; there was precious little strength behind the push. Gustav only succeeded in spreading more ink across the face of the door. He pulled away, panting at his exertions.

"I need help," Gustav begged. He was on the verge of tears.

There wasn't a hint of sympathy in the eye. Obviously its owner had had a run-in or two with Gustav Reichschtadt before. But that was not to say that there was no sign of emotion in the orb. It suddenly blinked once, as if in great surprise. All at once, the door slammed shut.

Gustav wheeled around, ready to run panting for the next door. He didn't get an inch down the hallway before he saw what had made his fellow neoNazi slam the door.

The government killer with the dark, dead eyes was coming down the stairs from the fifth floor. He steered a path to Gustav.

Gustav broke into a dead run down the corridor. To his horror, his pursuer trotted easily up beside him.

"Are you Gus?" Remo asked as they both ran.

"Nein, nein!" Gus insisted, wheezing heavily. It was the only German word he had mastered in his nine years in that country. "Me no Gus. Me German."

They had come to the end of the corridor. Gus's face was coated with a sheen of sweat. His few remaining strands of hair were plastered to his pasty scalp. He looked desperately for a place to run, but there was nowhere to go.

Remo stopped before him.

"The guy on the roof said you were Gus Holloway."

"Me Gustav," Gus panted.

"Yeah, and me Jane," Remo said. "Tell you what. I think you are Gus. What do you think about that?"

The chubby neo-Nazi's eyes darted first left, then right. Blank walls stared back at him. There was not even a window behind him. He spun back to Remo, his ample belly jiggling like a sackful of kittens. Desperate, he opted for a different approach.

"I am an American citizen," Gustav Reichschtadt insisted. "I demand to see the United States ambassador." He tried to stick his chest out proudly, but even at its farthest point it remained a full foot behind his enormous stomach.

"That and bus fare will get you to Oktoberfest," Remo said flatly.

"I'm serious," Gus said arrogantly. "I want my lawyer. I know my rights as an American."

"Okay, let me explain your rights," Remo offered.

Reaching over, he grabbed a slick, glutinous mass of puffy flesh at the side of Holloway's neck. To Remo, it felt as if he had just grabbed a handful of shortening.

Remo squeezed.

A piercing feminine scream stabbed up through the mountain of semidigested pastries that filled Gus Holloway's ample pot. His eyes grew wide in pain and shock.

Remo eased off on the pressure. "Your rights at the moment are simple. You have the right to feel pain. You have the right not to feel pain. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?"

Remo squeezed again for emphasis. Gus shrieked, nodding his understanding. Three chins waggled helplessly.

"Good," Remo declared. "I need some information on a neo-Nazi organization called Four. What do you know about it?"

Gus licked his thick lips as he tried frantically to think of a clever lie. None came. He decided to bluff his way through.

"Never heard of them," he insisted.

The pain again. Far worse this time-it felt as if every nerve ending in his neck were being buffed with acid-dipped sandpaper. He howled in agony.

"I don't know!" Gus screamed. "They're a shadow group. In deep cover. I've only ever heard rumors." He was panting, swallowing thick, mucous-filled saliva.

"Tell me what you've heard," Remo pressed.

"They were responsible for the Paris takeover."

"I know that." Remo's expression was dark.

"And the London bombings."

"Ditto."

Gus's head was clearing now. Remo had eased the neck pressure. The pain wasn't as severe. "That's everything I know," Gus said feebly. The pain came in a white-hot burst. It shot up his spine, exploding in his brain. Gus sucked in his breath as his body contorted. He slapped his ink-smeared palms against the wall behind him, leaving streaks of sweat-soaked blue.

"There's a man," Gus hissed, "in Juterbog. He knows." He was breathing heavily now against the pain. "He's Four. He can get you to them."

"What's his name?" Remo asked.

"I don't know," Gus replied. The pain came again, as he knew it would. "I really don't!" Gus cried. Tears streamed down his swollen red cheeks. "It's Kempten Olmu-something. It's a really long old German name. I can't pronounce it. I've never been very good with German."

All at once, the pain stopped. Gus sucked in a tentative breath. It was truly gone. He had never before realized how good a feeling it was not to be experiencing agony.

His torturer was still standing before him. His brow was furrowed, casting an annoyed shadow over his dark eyes.

"Do you have a phone?" Remo asked.

Gus nodded fervently, anxious to remain on Remo's good side. "Yes, yes. Absolutely. It's upstairs." He waddled past Remo deliberately-Gus was now a man with a mission.

"Good," Remo said, following him. "Because we have to call someone who's good with German."

Chapter 3

Harold W. Smith was submitting to the latest in the interminably long line of physical examinations he had been subjected to over the past three months.

He sat in his spotless white T-shirt on an examining table in one of the doctor's offices of Folcroft Sanitarium, a Rye, New York, mental-health facility of which he was director. Smith breathed calmly as the physician inflated the blood-pressure cuff around his left biceps.

The doctor watched the indicator needle on the gauge in his hand as he gently released the air from the bag. He nodded his approval.

"Your blood pressure is good," he said.

"I assumed it would be, Dr. Drew," Smith responded crisply. There was an icy edge in his voice. The doctor looked up over his glasses as he slipped the cuff from Smith's arm.

"Forgive me, Dr. Smith, but you were the one who insisted on these examinations."

"Yes," Smith replied. "However, they appear to be no longer necessary."

"You were in rough shape a few months ago," Dr. Drew cautioned, as if Smith had forgotten. Smith hadn't. There was no way he would ever forget his recent trip to London.

"It was a very stressful time," Smith admitted.

"Yes," Dr. Drew agreed, dragging his stethoscope from his ears. "I imagine it would be. It's a shame that on the first vacation you took since I came to work here at Folcroft, you wound up in the middle of a war zone. Do you and your wife plan to take another?"

Smith pursed his bloodless lips. He didn't appreciate the informal tone Drew had taken with him over the past few months. After all, the Folcroft doctor was Smith's employee.

"I fail to see how my private life is your concern," Smith said, getting down from the table.

Drew stiffened. "I didn't mean to pry, Dr. Smith," he said tightly.

Smith didn't even seem aware that he had insulted the physician. The older man had already found his shirt on a brass hook near the door. He had pulled it over his creaking shoulders and was in the process of buttoning it.

"If that is all, I will return to work," Smith said absently as he fastened the top two buttons. He drew his green-striped Dartmouth tie from the same hook and began knotting it around his thin neck.

"Of course," Dr. Drew replied without inflection. "Same time next week?"

"That will not be necessary," Smith declared officiously.

Drew raised an eyebrow. "If you wish to postpone, it's obviously at your discretion. Remember, my day off is-"

"Thursday," Smith supplied. "And that does not matter. Our appointments are no longer necessary." He finished with his tie, checking the perfectly formed four-in-hand knot with his aged fingertips. Satisfied, Smith took his gray vest and suit jacket from another hook.

"Are you sure?" Dr. Drew asked.

"Of course," Smith sniffed. "I will let you know if there are any changes in my physical condition. Please excuse me."

Without so much as a thank-you, Smith left the office.

Dr. Drew stared at the door for a few minutes. "You're welcome," he said with a sarcastic laugh.

He didn't know why he was surprised by his treatment at the hands of the sanitarium director. The real surprise was that Smith came to him for help in the first place. But the old man had been in pretty rough shape back then. Now that he was better, Smith was back to being his old nasty self again.

Dr. Drew realized that it was his own fault for expecting anything more than being treated as a servant. At this stage, there shouldn't be anything that Dr. Harold W. Smith could do to surprise him any longer.

With a sigh, Dr. Lance Drew began labeling Smith's latest blood sample.

HAROLD SMITH WALKED briskly to the administrative wing of Folcroft. He took the stairs up to his second-floor office.

Mrs. Mikulka, his secretary of many years, smiled maternally as he entered the outer room of his small, two-office suite.

"Dr. Smith," she said with a concerned nod. Smith didn't appreciate the familiarity her smile represented. Some in the staff had been treating him differently since he had returned from his week-long European vacation three months before. Dr. Drew and Mrs. Mikulka were the two worst offenders. Smith found it easier to remonstrate Drew than Mrs. Mikulka. After all, doctors were a dime a dozen, but good secretaries were impossible to find in this day and age.

"I will be in my office for the duration of the morning," he noted crisply as he passed her tidy desk.

There was no need to ask her if there had been any calls while he was downstairs. Eileen Mikulka was efficient enough to let him know immediately if there was anything that required his attention. When he pushed the door closed on the world a moment later, Smith felt a tide of relief wash over his thin frame.

This was Smith's sanctum sanctorum, his haven from the foolishness and trivialities of the outside world. In this sparsely furnished room, Harold Smith had created for himself a perfect, orderly environment.

He crossed over to his desk, taking his seat behind the smooth onyx slab. The desk was the only hint of intrusion by the modern world into the decidedly low-tech room.

Smith's arthritic fingers located a rounded button beneath the lip of the desk. When he depressed it, the dull glow of a computer screen winked on beneath the polished surface of the large desk. The monitor was angled in such a way to make it invisible to anyone on the other side of the desk.

Smith raised his fingers above the edge of the desk's surface. Immediately the orderly rows of a computer keyboard appeared as if summoned by magic. In actuality, the capacitor keyboard needed only to sense the presence of his hands above it in order to activate.

Smith began typing rapid commands into the computer. His fingers drummed softly against the flat surface of the desk. Each key shone obediently in amber in the wake of Smith's expert touch.

To the uninitiated, everything within this office was gauged to appear precisely as it should for the rather bland director of an anonymous private health facility. However, the work that consumed Dr. Harold W. Smith was decidedly atypical for the humorless head of a medical facility. Smith was using his computer to search out neo-Nazi activity.

There was a vast store of data through which to sort. Too much for Smith's liking.

He began scrolling down a list of German names. Some were marked with asterisks. Many more were not.

The delineated names were members of neo-Nazi groups who were now deceased. The dates of their deaths were clearly marked beside their names. All of the dates had been entered since September. Smith knew this for a fact. After all, he had entered the dates himself.

His lemony features grew more pinched as he scanned the list of dead. There were a great many of them. More than he would have liked. And not one of them had been any help whatsoever.

It was slow, slow going.

So far, they had limited the hunt to Germany. Smith dreaded the prospect of expanding the search parameters further. There was so much to sift through in this one country alone that he couldn't begin to figure out how he would approach searching through the files of fascist sympathizers around the world.

As he worked, a dull ache began to grow at the back of his head. Smith did his best to ignore the pain, as he had for the past few months. His work was too important to be sidetracked by a minor headache.

Of course, Smith was not concerned with his work as director of Folcroft. Mrs. Mikulka was able to handle nearly all of the day-to-day operations of the facility herself.

The work that Smith found so important was that which was conducted without the knowledge of any of his underlings. This included his search through neo-Nazi files. Indeed, Folcroft could be consumed in flame and burn to the ground and Smith's true work would continue.

For in truth, Folcroft Sanitarium was only a front. Beyond the high brick walls and the attendant dignified stone lions that guarded the somber iron gates, within the ivy-covered walls of Folcroft itself, beat the heart of an organization so secret its existence was known to only a tiny handful of people.

The organization was CURE, a group sanctioned by the highest level of America's elected government and whose operational parameters granted it virtually unlimited discretion in dealing with the nation's enemies. Smith was CURE's director.

It was a thankless posting for a rigid bureaucrat whose devotion to patriotism was as rock solid as the granite hills of his native Vermont. It was this patriotic bent that had nearly gotten him killed.

Although the press would never know the truth, CURE had been responsible for the defeat of the neo-Nazi force that had taken control of Paris in August. On vacation with his wife at the time, Smith had gotten personally involved in the mission. As a result, he had suffered various scrapes and bruises, as well as a rather severe concussion.

He hated to admit it, but the emotionless Smith had been stirred to passion by a level of revulsion he hadn't felt since his youth, when he had helped topple Germany's Nazi regime. This past summer when he had been thrown in among a crowd of jackbooted neo-Nazis, it was as if the years had been stripped away. Smith had reacted as he would have in his youth.

But he was no longer a young man.

The reckless fury he had directed at the army of young skinheads in August was now channeled to an activity more suited to a man of his advanced years. With the aid of CURE's basement mainframes he was attempting to locate the shadow organization behind the Paris coup.

Smith typed furiously for nearly an hour. When he was finished, he had found nothing. He knew that the group he was looking for was called IV, but there was nothing his computer could turn up that might help him zero in on the organization.

He was only succeeding in covering old ground. So that was that. The answers he sought were obviously not in Germany. Smith steeled himself for what he knew he must do. He had been dreading the thought of it, but there were no other options left.

He would have to expand his search.

Wearily Smith began typing the preliminary commands into his computer. He was distracted from his work by the jangle of a telephone. One hand remained poised above the keyboard as he retrieved the blue contact phone from its cradle. He tucked the receiver between shoulder and ear.

"Report," Smith said pointedly, returning to his work.

"I think I've got something, Smitty," Remo's voice announced over the international line.

"What is it?"

There was a strange gurgling noise over the line. It stopped abruptly. The instant it did so, a voice that was unfamiliar to Smith wheezed out a foreign-sounding name.

"Kempten Olmutz-something-with-a-hyphen." The man struggled for breath.

Smith had been accessing police records in the Netherlands, Denmark and Poland. He quickly switched over to his German neo-Nazi file. He began scanning the list of names.

Remo's voice came back on the line. As soon as it did, the bizarre gurgling noise resumed.

"Did you get that, Smitty?" he asked.

"Yes," Smith said tightly. He was having no luck with the known neo-Nazis on file. There were several Kemptens, but none with a last name remotely like the one the voice had given him. "Are you still in Berlin?" Smith asked Remo.

"Uh-huh."

Smith accessed the Berlin phone directory. He scrolled rapidly down to the Os. Still nothing. "This man is in Berlin, presumably," Smith commented.

"I don't think so," Remo said. His voice grew more faint as he addressed someone nearby. "Where'd you say he was?" he asked.

The low gurgle had continued until now. It stopped. "Juterbog," the strange voice rasped. The gurgle resumed.

"Jitterbug," Remo said to Smith.

Frowning, Smith accessed the proper phone book. He found the name immediately.

"Kempten Olmutz-Hohenzollerkirchen," he said.

"Wow. He must have to print that on both sides of his business card," Remo mused.

"Confirm this before you proceed," Smith pressed.

"Okeydoke," Remo said. The gurgling grew very loud now. It was the sound of someone being strangled. "Say that name again, Smitty?" Remo called from somewhere beyond the gurgle.

Smith repeated the name. There was a choked "yes" on the other end of the line.

"He's our man," Remo said, coming back on the phone.

"I will see what I can uncover about him," Smith said. "You and Chiun proceed to Juterbog."

Remo sighed. As he did so, the strangling grew louder. Frantic. "We'll go there, but I bet I end up doing most of the work."

"Why? Is something wrong with Master Chiun?"

"I don't know," Remo griped. "He hasn't been much of a help lately." The gurgling sound reached a fevered pitch and then stopped suddenly. There was a heavy thump, audible even over the satelliteto-fiber-optic-cable telephone feed. "Are you still keeping a kill record?" Remo asked.

Smith winced at the term. "Yes," he admitted. "Add Gus Holloway," Remo said, then hung up the phone.

Smith found that his headache had gotten worse during his phone conversation with Remo. He removed an aspirin bottle from one of his desk drawers and took out two pills. He swallowed them without water.

Smith's throat-dry as dust-had a difficult time accepting the two aspirins. He finally felt them drop from a point beneath his protruding Adam's apple. They plopped into his acid-churned stomach.

Medicated, Smith returned to his computer. Calling up his list of neo-Nazis, he located the name of Gus Holloway. Beside his name, Smith wearily recorded the day's date.

Chapter 4

The old man had been a fixture in the musty corner of the ratty Juterbog beer hall for as far back as anyone there could remember. He sat in the same chair, in the same back booth wearing the same reeking clothes every single night of the week. His yellowed eyes rarely strayed from the door.

A smoldering cigarette hung in perpetuity from between his brown-smeared chapped lips. The blackened stumps of teeth that remained attached to his mucky gums were held in place seemingly by damp ash alone.

He smoked in deep drags, blowing great hazy clouds at the smoke-yellowed ceiling. There his relentless exhalations would join the massive fog created by the assembled drinkers in the Schweinebraten Bier Hall.

Kempten 0lmutz-Hohenzollerkirchen stared at the door as the young men around him reported the latest news.

There were three of them, all dressed in skintight black leather with a multitude of zippers. Their heads were shaved smooth, and their noses and ears were adorned with a variety of safety pins, chains and earrings.

"That fat American was found dead this morning," an earnest skinhead named Hirn whispered. The pin and chain in his flat nose wiggled enthusiastically as he spoke.

"How?" asked another.

"Strangled with his own armband."

Hirn tapped his biceps. Beneath his long-sleeved black shirt was a Nazi band similar to the one that had been found wrapped around the bloated neck of Gustav Reichschtadt. Hirn and his companions were forced to hide their armbands when they ventured out in public.

Aged Kempten pulled his cigarette from his mouth. Bits of skin on his lip tore away, stuck to the unfiltered end. Kempten didn't seem to notice the bleeding.

"Where was this latest attack?" he inquired, voice thick with phlegm.

"Berlin."

Kempten nodded. "Did anyone see his killer?" The ball of brown goo that he coughed up and spit to the floor of the beer hall was as large as a small mouse.

Hirn nodded and glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the room. "It was him," Hirn said in a hushed voice. Shivering, he took a pull from the large beer stein which sat on the table before him. No one seated in that cramped booth needed to ask who "him" was. They all knew the stories of the unstoppable killer who was carving a bloody path through the neo-Nazi underground.

Kempten made a mental note. He had been reporting each of these incidents as he heard them. He would have to make another phone call tonight.

"Have there been any others since then?" Kempten asked.

"Today?" Hirn said. "No, none today. The American was the only one. I heard the killer was seen chasing him at nine o'clock this morning."

"That dumpling would not be very hard to catch," one of the other young men joked.

The group around the table joined in an uncomfortable chuckle. All except Kempten.

The old man made a sudden supreme effort to clear decades of mucous buildup from his smoke-ravaged throat. An awful, ragged wet rumble poured up from deep within his withered chest. Whatever this maneuver managed to dislodge was swallowed back down an instant later in a slippery-sounding gulp. Kempten nodded across the crowded room to the door.

"My eyes are not so good," he said to the disgusted group of young men. "Who is that who just came in?"

Hirn looked back across the hall to the distant entrance. Through the haze of smoke he saw a thin young man framed in the doorway. The new arrival was scanning the room with a pair of eyes buried so deep within their sockets they lent him the appearance of an angry skull.

Hirn turned back quickly, his heart beating madly. He glanced at his two younger companions. They had seen the stranger, as well. All three skinheads were looking anxiously at one another.

"It's him," Hirn whispered anxiously.

Old Kempten was still straining to see the door. "Who is it?" Kempten repeated. "Is it Rolph?" He squinted at the figure that was even now scanning the many faces around the crowded room. Try as he might, Kempten couldn't see who the strange outsider was.

AS SOON AS HE STEPPED through the door of the Schweinebraten Bier Hall, Remo's body automatically doubled the number of times he ordinarily blinked per minute. The air in the cramped bar was thick and grimy and his eyes were forced to work harder than usual just to cleanse themselves of the accumulation of smoke and attendant airborne particulates.

He had assumed that he would be bothered most by the stench of fermented grains, but he had forgotten the European love affair with carcinogens. If they weren't mining them, building shanties on them or being irradiated by them, they were damned well determined to smoke them.

Fortunately Chiun had declined to join him on this expedition to Juterbog, preferring the solace of their Berlin hotel. The Master of Sinanju would have been impossible to deal with in a place like this. As it was, Remo's body was having a hard enough time filtering out the airborne toxins.

He would have to get in and out fast.

Keeping his breathing shallow, Remo began making his determined way across the room.

"HE IS COMING this way!" Hirn whispered urgently.

"Who?" Kempten demanded. The others still hadn't told him the reason for their sudden concern.

"Holloway's murderer," Hirn explained. It was all the warning he planned to give Kempten. As neo-Nazi sympathizers, they were all in danger. Hirn included.

Hirn jumped to his feet, joined by his two skinhead companions. Without another word to Kempten, they hurried off through the crowd. They circled over near the bar, cutting a wide swath around the intruder.

The killer was nowhere near them. He was walking through the cluster of tables in the center of the main floor. Although the room was thick with stretched-out legs and bent elbows, the man moved through the tangle without so much as a single sidestep. It was as if he had no more substance than the smoke-filled air around him.

"He doesn't see us," one of the young men said, braver now that the shadowy door loomed closer.

The chain in his nose tinkled softly as he nodded dully.

"Shut up," Hirn hissed.

As he spoke, he watched in horror as the killer's dead eyes turned their focus on him. It was as if he had somehow been able to single out the skinheads' hushed voices in the clamor of beer-fueled shouting. Hirn's stomach twisted into frozen knots.

"Hurry up," he whispered urgently to the others. They had seen the change in the stranger, as well. The trio hurried to the exit.

They were two yards away from the door when a terrifyingly familiar face appeared as if summoned by magic from out of the smoke before them.

"What put the goose in your step?" Remo asked, eyesleaden.

"Excuse us, sir," Hirn begged, swallowing nervously. Over Remo's shoulder, the door remained enticingly out of reach.

"Hmm. Polite for Germans," Remo mused, nodding. "I guess you three must be all putsched out. I'm looking for someone. Kempten Oatmeal-Hasenpfeffer, or something like that. His landlord said I'd find him here."

Three index fingers decorated with black nail polish stabbed in unison to the rear booth.

"Back there," Hirn insisted anxiously. "Very old. Yellow eyes. Bad teeth. You cannot miss him."

"Thanks," Remo said. "I don't intend to. By the way, bad teeth hardly narrows the field in this country." He began gliding past them.

There was a collective sigh of relief from the three skinheads.

"That is all?" one of them whispered, relieved. Hirn could have killed him.

Remo stopped abruptly.

"Actually, this is your lucky day," Remo said, turning back to the trio. "I was told to cut back on my killing."

There was a look of nervous relief on the faces of two of the skinheads. Hirn remained stone-faced. "But that doesn't mean I'm not allowed to vent a little righteous indignation."

Remo's hand shot forward three times. Each skinhead was aware of a blur of movement beneath his eyes and of a sudden, wrenching sensation at the center of his face.

The pain followed at once.

All three skinheads grabbed at noses that were suddenly gushing blood. Loose, frayed flaps of skin hung wet beneath their fingers.

As they watched in agony, Remo dropped three identical nose chains to the nearby bar.

"Hang Hitler," Remo announced with a sharp click of his heels and a crisp Nazi salute. Smiling, he headed back across the hall. Toward old Kempten.

THOUGH HIS EYES WERE no longer perfect, they didn't need to be. Kempten Olmutz-Hohenzoller-kirchen clearly saw his three companions point him out to the vile Nazi killer.

The old man had hoped to hunker down behind his cigarettes and beer until the intruder left the bar. He saw now that this was no longer possible.

Climbing uncertainly to his feet, he began hobbling quickly to the rear of the beer hall. He was vaguely aware of a door back there. At least there had been one about fifty years ago. He hoped it was still there.

As he walked, Kempten leaned against the side wall for support. He was an emaciated figure in out-of-date clothing. A few patrons glared angrily at him as he stepped steadily over feet and handbags in search of a door that might or might not be there.

He was surprised when he stumbled upon the ancient fire exit a moment later. His discolored eyes squinted suspiciously as he reached for the long metal bar.

Kempten rattled the handle. The door stubbornly refused to budge. He leaned his bony shoulder against the painted door and pushed with all his might. Still nothing.

He couldn't allow his exertions to get the better of him. Every moment brought the assassin closer to him.

Kempten leaned back and shoved once more against the door. It sprang abruptly open. The old man found himself flying out into a garbage-filled alley. He landed in a heap atop a pile of fetid, rain-soaked plastic bags.

Hurrying, Kempten used the grimy alley wall to pull himself to his feet. As he moved, his dry tongue stabbed around the filterless end of his imported cigarette.

Coughing madly, he turned away from the garbage heap ...and came face-to-face with the very man he was avoiding. The horrid spasm that racked his lungs froze in his throat.

Eyes flat, Remo allowed the rusted beer hall door to swing quietly shut behind him. The raucous shouts from within grew muffled, replaced with the sounds of distant traffic. Car horns honked angry complaints somewhere away from the alley.

Remo spoke but one word. "Four."

Still leaning against the alley wall, Kempten made an unpleasant face. Taking a deep drag on his cigarette, he blew a cloud of defiant smoke in Remo's face.

He was smiling contemptuously, showing off his row of jack-o'-lantern teeth, when it occurred to him that Remo was no longer standing before him. The smoke cloud had missed its target. Kempten frowned.

He was still frowning when Remo reappeared beside him.

"Didn't you catch the Surgeon General's warning on these?" he whispered with quiet menace.

Remo reached out and yanked the cigarette from Kempten's mouth. Somehow, half of Kempten's lower lip came with it. As the old Nazi screamed in pain, Remo stomped both lip and butt beneath the toe of his Italian loafer.

"Four," Remo said again.

"Go to hell," Kempten snarled. He spit a bloody glob of phlegm at Remo. Remo sidestepped the expectorated ball.

"Age before beauty," Remo said. Grabbing up a handful of the old Nazi's greasy, yellowed hair, he twisted.

To Kempten, it felt as if his scalp had caught fire. He was acutely aware of each individual hair follicle as it burned a laser-precise hole through to his brain. Pain like nothing he had ever known made him scream in sheer agony.

"Pain on," said Remo, giving the hair a final twist. "Pain off," he added. He loosened the pressure.

The old man was surprised at himself. He had always thought he would be able to hold out under torture.

The words came in a flood.

"There is a village," Kempten breathed wetly. "It is a haven for those who are reviled by the world."

"Why aren't you there?" Remo asked.

Kempten missed the sarcasm completely. He puffed his chest out proudly. "This is my home," he said. "I will not be driven from it."

"Spoken like a true fascist homesteader," Remo said. "Where is this village?"

Kempten shrugged. "I do not know."

"Not good enough," Remo said, grabbing at another clump of filthy hair. He lifted the old man off the ground.

"South America!" Kempten shrieked. "Beyond that, I cannot say!"

Remo knew the old Nazi was telling the truth. His pain level was far too high for him to be able to sustain a lie. Remo released Kempten's hair. Tangled bits dropped in filthy clumps to the grimy alley floor.

"I do not know where the village is," the old man continued, panting heavily. "That is a privilege reserved only for those who choose to make it their home."

"How do you contact them?" Remo demanded.

"A telephone number. I can give it to you," he added helpfully. He began searching through his grubby pockets. After a moment, he produced a small scrap of paper. Like everything else about Kempten Olmutz-Hohenzollerkirchen, the paper was a sickly brownish yellow. He handed it to Remo.

Remo scanned the numbers. They meant nothing to him. He tucked the paper in the pocket of his chinos.

While searching for the paper, Kempten had removed a battered pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. Hands shaking, he tapped one from the rest, pasting it to the clotting blood on his lower lip. With a dirty silver lighter, he ignited the tip. The cigarette burned a bright orange.

Kempten waggled the cigarette at Remo. He shrugged his wasted shoulders feebly.

"It is customary, is it not?" he said, indicating the cigarette with a nod.

Remo nodded. "Knock yourself out," he replied, folding his arms across his chest.

Kempten took a long, thoughtful drag. He exhaled mightily into the foul air of the alley. Beyond the closed metal door, the endless party within the beer hall continued its muffled hum. Kempten knew that he would never see his favorite corner booth again.

When his cigarette was nearly finished, the old Nazi took it from his mouth and stared at the glowing tip.

"The village is well guarded," he said absently. "Even for someone of your abilities, it will be dangerous."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Remo grumbled, uncrossing his arms impatiently. "Will you hurry up with that thing?"

Kempten replaced the cigarette. He took one final, great pull. The tip of the cigarette burned brightly, and his lungs filled with the soft, comforting smoke. Kempten blew the last puff of smoke into the air.

"You will die there," he said smugly. He dropped the spent butt to a filthy puddle at his feet.

Remo smiled grimly. "Maybe. But better there than here," he said as he reached out with a thickwristed hand for Kempten's throat.

WHEN HE LEFT the alley a few moments later, all that could be seen of the late Kempten Olmutz-Hohenzollerkirchen was a pair of stained black shoes sticking out of an oversized plastic garbage bag.

The old Nazi's body with its collapsed ribs and lungs would not be found for two weeks. By then the anonymous IV village would lie in ruins and an ancient myth would threaten to bring the economy of Germany to the very edge of bankruptcy.

Remo Williams would take credit for the former, but he would swear until his dying day that the latter was not his fault.

Chapter 5

When Herman brought him the news of the disappearance of old Kempten, Adolf Kluge was in the process of packing up his office. There were cardboard boxes piled on the floor around his big desk. Kluge abandoned the box he had been filling and dropped woodenly into his chair, considering the import of the young man's words.

"When?" the head of IV asked.

"Around three o'clock, Berlin time," his aide replied. "It was him again."

Kluge glanced up. "The Asian was not with him?" he asked.

"The older one was not seen," Herman admitted. Kluge shook his head unhappily. "That does not mean that he was not there," he sighed.

"So you have said."

"How do we know all this?"

"Our operatives are in place. Per your instructions, they went immediately to his most likely targets. Kempten was on the list."

Kluge's mouth opened in shock. "If they were there, why did they not kill Kempten themselves?"

"They arrived at the beer hall after the younger Master of Sinanju. They could only watch as he led the old one outside."

"And they did not think to follow, obviously," Kluge said sarcastically. He threw up his hands in amazement.

"Those were not your instructions," Herman explained.

"Of course not," Kluge snapped. "If they had killed old Kempten, they might have ended this right then and there. But no. I did not fill out a form in triplicate instructing them to do so." He wheeled around, staring at the ancient mantelpiece stretching along the outer wall. Like many of the other fine antiques in the massive stone temple, the mantel had been imported from Germany. "Freakish dunderheads," Kluge muttered under his breath.

"What are your instructions, Herr Kluge?" Herman asked after an uncomfortably long moment had passed by in silence.

Kluge barely heard the words. He found himself staring at an object on the mantel.

Getting slowly to his feet, Kluge walked over to the fireplace. He took down the item that had drawn his attention, feeling its weight in his hands.

He stared at the heavy article as he spoke.

"He has gotten to Kempten. He is therefore much closer to us," Kluge mused aloud. His eyes never strayed from the object in his hands. "It is only a matter of time before he reaches the village." He turned to his aide. "Tell the fools in Germany to regroup. If he has gotten the information we entrusted to old Kempten, then we know where he will have to go next."

The aide frowned. "You wish for them to return to South America?"

Kluge cast a withering eye on his aide. "No," he said with exaggerated patience. "My hope is that we may stop them before they leave Germany. Send them to the airport. The men from Sinanju will surely go there first before skipping off to South America, wouldn't you agree?"

Herman took Kluge's sarcasm without reaction. "I will let them know," he acknowledged.

"Please do," Kluge said. "For, God help us, our lives are in the hands of those bungling aberrations." Nodding his understanding, the aide stepped briskly from the cluttered room.

Only after Herman had gone did Kluge realize that he was still holding the object he had taken down from the mantel. It was a two-inch-thick block of petrified wood with a face approximately one square foot around. Ancient characters had been chiseled in the solid surface of the wood.

Although time had worn some of its carved features smooth, most were still plainly visible. Kluge stared at the wood for a long time.

When he finally spoke, his words were barely audible.

"There is a kernel of truth in all legends," he said.

Frowning, Adolf Kluge tossed the wood carving into the nearest packing crate.

Chapter 6

The Hotel Ein Dunkles was a tidy little building on Meinekestrasse just off the Kurfurstendamm, which until very recent German history had been the main street in isolated West Berlin.

Remo was whistling a cheery version of "The Star-Spangled Banner" as he pushed into the tidy lobby and strolled across the plush carpeting toward the lone elevator.

From behind his polished desk, the hotel's grayhaired proprietor-apparently still nursing festering wounds from the Second World War-shot him a foul look from over his gleaming bifocals. It had the practical effect of making Remo whistle all the louder.

As the elevator doors were closing, Remo directed a final shrill burst toward the glowering desk clerk. He had calculated the pitch perfectly.

Remo's final glimpse of the man before the elevator doors slid silently shut was that of the middle-aged German pulling off his pair of shattered glasses. If they hadn't been broken, the desk clerk would have been able to see that his watch crystal was cracked, as well.

Happy, Remo rode the elevator up to the third floor. As the doors rolled quietly open, he paused to listen into his apartment, which was directly across from the lift.

He heard nothing.

Relieved, Remo crossed over to the door. He had just placed his hand on the polished brass knob when there came a sudden burst of wild electronic laughter from inside. This was followed by a merry cackle that was all too familiar.

Sighing, Remo pushed the door open.

The television was on-as he had expected it would be. The bulk of the laughter he had heard came from the small speaker on the side of the set. The balance came from the hotel room itself.

Seated before the TV was a man so old he made Kempten Olmutz-Hohenzollerkirchen look like a toddler. Unlike the dead Nazi, however, this old man had a vibrancy of spirit that belied his many years.

The wizened Asian's tan skin was the texture of dried rice paper. His bald head was framed with puffs of gossamer hair-a single tuft above each shell-like ear. Bright hazel eyes displayed a glint of fiery youth that old Kempten hadn't known since the days when brownshirts marched along the Rhine. Even now the aged Korean was laughing uproariously at the action on the TV screen.

"I'm back," Remo called unhappily.

Chiun, Reigning Master of the five-thousand-year-old House of Sinanju-the premier house of assassins on the face of the planet for as many millennia-turned to Remo. Tears streamed down his parchment cheeks.

"You have missed the funniest program yet," Chiun breathed. He sniffled as he turned back to the TV.

Remo frowned as he looked at the television. On it, a rather thin, gawky Englishman was stumbling around with a gigantic turkey over his head. Chiun shrieked in joy as the odd-looking man attempted to disguise the bird by throwing a blanket up over it.

"I've seen this one before," Remo complained.

"I have seen many sunsets, yet each is always more beautiful than the last."

"In that case, try looking out the window," Remo suggested blandly. At that very moment, the sun was sinking low over the Berlin skyline.

"Shh!" Chiun insisted with an angry flap of one kimono-clad arm. He stared in childlike joy as the strange-looking man on the TV attempted to remove the turkey from his head. The Master of Sinanju clapped his hands with glee.

"I'm going to call Smith," Remo sighed wearily. Chiun made an effort not to listen.

Remo turned his back on the familiar scene and walked over to his bedroom. He shut the door as Chiun's bald head bobbed in eager anticipation of the impending turkey removal.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Remo picked up the phone. He began depressing the 1 button repeatedly. It was rather simplistic, but it was the only phone code Rerno ever seemed able to remember. Smith picked up on the first ring.

"I need you to trace a number for me, Smitty," Remo said by way of introduction.

"Proceed," came the tart reply.

Remo gave Smith the phone number from the scrap of paper he had gotten from the old Nazi at the beer hall.

"The country code is for Uruguay," Smith noted.

"What can I say?" Remo said. "Nazis have a love affair with South America."

He could hear Smith's fingers as they drummed against the touch-sensitive keyboard buried beneath the edge of the CURE director's desk.

"The number you have given me is to a hotel in Montevideo," Smith said after a brief pause.

"Geography isn't my strong suit, Smitty," Remo cautioned.

"That is the Uruguayan capital," Smith explained.

"And also where the rest of South America goes to rent movies on Saturday night. What happened when they were naming the place-'Blockbuster' already taken?"

"Actually the name stems from a story that is most likely apocryphal," Smith explained. "'Monte vide eu' is what Magellan's Spanish lookout allegedly shouted when he first spied the shore. It means 'I see a mountain.'" Smith returned to the subject at hand. "May I ask what purpose this number serves?"

"That Kermit Ovitz guy bit the dust," Remo explained. "But he gave that up first. It's supposed to be a secret number to contact Four."

"I do not believe so," Smith said. "It appears to be no more than an ordinary number. It is something called the Hotel Cabeza de Ternera."

"That doesn't make sense." Remo shook his head. "I know he wasn't lying."

"One moment," Smith said.

Remo could hear Smith drumming his fingers against his keyboard. A moment later, he was back on the phone.

"The proprietor is not Spanish," Smith stated. He tried to keep an excited edge from his voice. "His name is Dieter Groth." The typing resumed, more urgently now.

"Let me guess," Remo said. "He's a German immigrant."

"Groth emigrated to South America thirty years ago. One moment, please, Remo." He paused. "I've accessed the records of the Committee to Bring Nazi War Criminals to Justice. They do have a file on Groth, but are not actively pursuing him at the present time."

"It's their lucky day. They're going to get a freebie," Remo said. "Book me a flight to Uruguay."

While Remo remained on the line, Smith quickly made the necessary arrangements.

"By the way, Smitty," Remo said after the flight was sorted out, "the old guy said something about a village down there that's supposed to be a refuge for Nazis."

"I will borrow satellite time to search the Uruguayan countryside," Smith said. "In the meantime, you and Chiun follow up the Groth lead."

"Can do," Remo said.

He hung up the phone. As he did so, there was renewed laughter from the living room of the suite. The Master of Sinanju shrieked in joy as a new program began. It starred the same British comic and was one the old Korean had seen at least a dozen times.

Remo wondered how he could pry Chiun away from the TV.

"I wonder if the gift shop sells extension cords that'd reach all the way to South America?" Remo asked with a sigh.

Already fatigued by the battle not yet fought, he got up from the bed.

IT TURNED OUT rousting Chiun was not as difficult as Remo imagined it would be.

The Master of Sinanju's umpteenth viewing of the same British sitcom episode ended an hour before their flight was scheduled to leave from Tegel Airport. Remo rounded up the seven steamer trunks Chiun had brought from the United States and herded them into two small European taxis. Remo and Chiun followed in a third cab.

As they drove through Berlin's crowded post-twilight streets, the Master of Sinanju detailed all that had occurred on the television while Remo was talking to Smith.

"When the ugly British woman removed the fowl from his head, he found to his delight that the item he sought was in his very mouth."

"Uh-huh," Remo said. He stared out the cab window.

"Did I mention that it was his wristwatch?"

"Yes, you did," Remo sighed.

"I ordinarily do not approve of the use of ornamental timepieces," Chiun cautioned. "They are for those too slothful to develop the inner clock in the minds of all men. However, for comic purposes it was quite amusing."

He looked over at his pupil. Remo remained silent. His sharp features were illuminated at regular intervals by Berlin's streetlights.

"You do not appear to be amused," Chiun challenged.

Remo shook his head. "I'm sorry. It's just that I saw that show before."

Chiun raised an eyebrow. "So?"

"So, I couldn't give a fat flying frig."

Chiun's wrinkled face drew into a deep frown. "You do not have a sense of humor," he accused.

"I do, too," Remo argued. "The first fifty times I saw those shows, I thought they were funny. But we've been in Europe now for over three months, and that's all every country seems to play, day in and day out. I can't take anything twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week."

The harsh frown lines were reshaped into a look of intense pity. "You are a humorless man, Remo Williams," Chiun pronounced sadly. "I knew it the day we met. Not that you made any effort to hide the fact."

"I do, too, have a sense of humor," Remo said defensively.

Chiun raised an instructive finger. His nail was long and fiercely sharp. "If one must say it, it is untrue," he declared. "For only the humorless man is ever accused of being so."

Remo could not think of a clever retort. Unfortunately this didn't prevent him from trying. "Blow it out your ears," Remo said sullenly. Crossing his arms, he hunched down in the seat and stared at the back of their driver's head.

Chiun clutched at his heart. "Oh, I am stung by your piercing wit," he moaned histrionically. "Forgive me, O King of Comedy, for ever doubting your jovial soul." The Master of Sinanju smiled happily, pleased at having made his point.

Remo felt the blood rise in his cheeks.

"Is it any wonder I'm annoyed right now?" he groused. "You ditched me weeks ago for that hotel idiot box. I've been clomping alone around this backward excuse for a country whacking every knockwurst-fueled spike-hat I find, while you've been having a hey-ho time watching Brit-coms and ordering room service. So forgive me, Chiun, if I've lost my goddamned sense of humor."

"I did not accompany you because I lost interest," Chiun said simply. "We are assassins, not exterminators. Smith had you scouring the countryside for all manner of vermin. In Germany, that could be a lifetime's occupation. And as for your second point-" the impish smile returned, "-one cannot lose what one never had."

The elderly Korean settled placidly back into the taxi's seat.

Beside him, Remo racked his brain for something witty to say. Most everything he came up with, however, involved surly references to biological functions. Any of these would doubtless inspire further derisive comments from Chiun.

With great reluctance, Remo remained mute for the remainder of their trip to the airport.

WHILE REMO HAD MADE a deliberate choice to remain mute for the duration of his ride to Berlin's airport, the man who intended to kill him had been born that way.

The assassin had been sent from the IV village, accompanied by three colleagues.

Lounging around the main terminal building of Berlin's Tegel Airport, the four of them were an odd sight. The casual observer would have assumed they were related somehow. And in a very real way, they were.

In order to keep the curious at bay, an attempt had been made to differentiate between them.

One had long hair and was dressed casually in blue jeans and denim jacket. Beneath the coat was a red flannel shirt.

Another man wore dark sunglasses and a tweed blazer. His hair had been pulled back into a ponytail and tucked down behind his jacket collar.

The hair of the third had been cut short. He wore a conservative business suit and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

The well seemed to have run dry with the fourth. He, too, wore a business suit, though of a different color than the third man. He had been allowed to keep his hair long, but not at the same length as the first two. It was trimmed and moussed and parted neatly in the middle like a young Hollywood star.

Even after all the effort at disguise, close inspection revealed a rather startling fact. These men did not simply look alike; they were each identical to the next.

Four interchangeable muscular young men with perfectly chiseled Aryan features.

The man in blue jeans was their leader. He watched the glass double doors to the airport terminal with hooded eyes.

They had come here immediately upon receiving their orders from Kluge's underling, Herman. The four men had sat virtually unmoving for almost three hours. Incapable of speech, they had passed the time in utter silence.

Oddly they didn't seem agitated in the least. It was as if nervousness or boredom were concepts completely alien to them. They had been given a mission and were waiting with absolute patience to carry out their assignment.

They were closing in on the end of the third hour when their long wait finally came to an end.

The man in blue jeans spotted the short line of cabs as the three vehicles drew up to the curb outside the door.

The first two cabbies sprang out of their cars. One raced to find a pushcart while the other began unloading his cargo of lacquered steamer trunks to the sidewalk. It was as if they had been rehearsed, so precise was their performance.

Remo and Chiun climbed out of the third cab along with their cabbie. Chiun immediately began issuing orders to the remaining drivers.

The blond man with blue jeans tapped once on his seat, and his three colleagues took note of the activity on the sidewalk.

Like well-rehearsed zombies, the trio got up and walked deeper into the terminal. Their leader remained sitting, waiting for the hectic scene on the sidewalk to spill inside.

The missing cabbie returned with a cart. He and the others loaded up the steamer trunks while Chiun flounced between them in his saffron kimono. The Master of Sinanju made copious use of both hands and feet to ensure that his luggage was properly attended to.

In the end, one unlucky driver was chosen to wheel the cart inside. The other two were allowed to leave. Their tiny cabs made smoking rubber stripes on the asphalt in their eagerness to leave before Chiun changed his mind.

Remo and Chiun followed the least lucky cabbie inside the drafty building.

As they walked past the row of plastic seats near the door, the young blond man got to his feet. He trailed the two targets at a discreet distance.

"Use care, lummoxy Teuton," Chiun clucked angrily when the cab driver hit a bump on the rubber mat that was spread before the baggage check counter. The cabbie cringed, expecting a swat from the old Asian's lightning-fast hands.

"You going to be okay with this?" Remo asked.

"We are fine," Chiun said, eyeing the taxi driver with suspicion.

"Okay, I'll get the tickets," Remo offered. They separated, each going to an end of the counter. Remo collected the boarding passes Smith had ordered for them. The overly friendly woman behind the desk was more than willing to help Remo and his aged companion. Beaming, she relayed Chiun's pertinent ticket information via computer to the woman operating the baggage-check terminal at the far end of the counter.

"Iss dere someting else?" she asked with a lascivious grin. It was clear from the look on her face that she would have invaded Poland for him.

The look she gave him sparked a thought. "Actually there is," Remo said.

The woman squealed in delight. "I get off at nine. Actually I can get off right now. I'll be sick. Or I could qvit. I'll qvit. I qvit!" she shouted to no one in particular. A few faces turned her way.

"No," Remo said, easing the woman back behind her computer. She had been climbing over the counter to get to him. "I was just wondering about the menu on the flight."

"Oh." The woman seemed crestfallen. When she glanced around, she saw that the few people who had looked at her were already looking away. Forcing a businesslike air, she studied her computer. "Ve haff bratwurst and sauerbraten sandwiches. Braunschweiger or wienerwurst. Unt beer."

"Any way of getting some shark meat?"

Remo was surprised when the woman nodded. "Ve haff koenigsberger klops," she offered helpfully.

"Is that shark?"

"German meatballs," the woman said.

He saw now that she was only half listening to him. She was staring at his crotch even as she tried to work.

"You're drooling on your keyboard," Remo observed.

"Vant to sit on it unt dry it?" She grinned lewdly at him as she tapped the counter.

"Tell you what you start, and I'll catch up with you."

The woman did not need to be told a second time. In an instant, she was off the floor. Her Bavarian backside mashed her damp keyboard. As she slid from side to side like a human mop, Remo gathered up his and Chiun's tickets.

As he walked back over to the Master of Sinanju, he noticed that the woman had scrawled her telephone number on the bottom of his ticket. He rubbed his thumb against the handwriting, exciting the particles of ink at the atomic level. By the time he reached Chiun, the pen marks had faded to invisibility.

Chiun had just finished supervising the passing of his luggage through the square hole in the side of the counter. He was dismissing the grateful cab driver as Remo sauntered up beside him.

"I suppose I don't have to tell you we're being watched," Remo announced.

"Since our arrival," Chiun said blandly. He studied his last trunk as it slid along the conveyor. Their work in Germany was over. Remo had gotten the information they needed to proceed.

"What do you want to do?" he asked Chiun.

"I wish to leave this land of pastry-eaters in peace."

"Me, too," Remo said. "Let's ignore him." Together, they began walking toward the stairs that would take them to their boarding gate.

They had gotten no more than four feet from the counter when the first bullet was fired at them.

It was aimed at Remo's back. He shifted his weight slightly to his left foot in order to avoid the incoming round. After the bullet had passed harmlessly by, he continued his lazy glide across the main concourse.

The lead projectile thudded between two doors set into the wall beneath the main staircase.

"He's using a silencer," Remo commented.

"It is still not silent enough."

"Not for us, maybe," Remo said. "But at least no one else can hear it."

Another two bullets came whizzing in their direction. This time both Remo and Chiun had to dodge the fat lead rounds.

"He's using a clip." Remo frowned.

"Should I care?" Chiun asked.

"Dammit, Chiun, a clip holds more rounds. He's bound to shoot someone by accident before we can get out of here. Crap," he griped. "What is it with this dingdong country?"

Abruptly Remo dropped back from Chiun, twisting sharply on his left heel. In a flash, he was suddenly walking in the opposite direction.

The shooter obviously had not anticipated a change of course on Remo's part. He didn't have time to slow his own brisk pace before he slammed directly into Remo.

"Oh, sorry," Remo apologized, helping the stumbling man to his feet. As he did so, he tugged the man's gun free. The would-be killer had secreted the weapon beneath a newspaper that was draped over his hand.

They were near the wall struck by the first fired bullets. A waist-high trash receptacle was sitting next to the men's-room door. Remo slipped the gun through the metal lid, dropping it into the pile of trash within the barrel.

"Gee, pal, you don't look so hot," Remo said. He took the man by the arm as if to support him. With his free hand, Remo tapped a hard finger against the killer's chest. Immediately the man's heart stopped beating. He would have slumped to the floor had Remo not still been holding him upright.

"A little cold water on the face should fix you up," Remo suggested to the corpse. "Chiun, gimme a minute. This poor guy needs a hand."

"Do not dawdle," Chiun urged.

Remo pushed his way through the swinging men's-room door, carting the body with him. The Master of Sinanju took up a sentry position outside the door.

Inside the bathroom, Remo propped the body up against the line of sinks. He quickly searched the man's pockets for identification. There was none.

"Great," Remo muttered unhappily. He stepped back from the corpse, looking more closely at the face. Maybe Smith would have a photo on file that would help identify whoever this had been. Not that it mattered very much at this point.

As he examined the features, something about the man's face sparked a distant memory.

Leaving the body leaning against the sink, he stuck his head out the bathroom door.

"Hey, Chiun, come in here a minute." Frowning, the Master of Sinanju followed Remo into the bathroom. Inside, Remo pointed at the body. "Does he look familiar to you?" he asked Chiun. Casting a puzzled glance at his pupil, the Master of Sinanju tipped his head, examining the young man's face. His hazel eyes opened wide almost at once.

"He wears the face of the voiceless lout from the place that robbed us of free will." The old Korean sounded surprised.

"That's right," Remo said, remembering all at once. "He worked for what's-his-name." He snapped his fingers. "Holz. He was Holz's assistant."

It was six months ago during what they would later learn had been their first brush with IV. That man had been a mute. As Remo inspected the features of the corpse in the Berlin airport he realized that he was the spitting image of the man they had encountered half a year before.

"This is eerie," Remo said. "That guy is dead."

"So is this one," said Chiun. He nodded to the door.

"Yeah," Remo said, nodding his understanding. He took the body and stuffed it in one of the bathroom stalls. Slamming his palm against the door, he crushed the metal lock. It would be necessary for airport maintenance to use a welding torch in order to free the body.

"Let's make like the German band and blow," Remo suggested.

They hurried back out the rest-room door.

They hadn't even gone around to the bottom of the escalator before they were again assaulted. This killer attempted to use a dagger.

The man jammed the knife toward Remo's ribs. Rather than dodge the blade, Remo tightened his muscles at the point of impact, flattening out the skin above as he did so. The knife blade slammed against Remo's back, but-much to his attacker's consternation-his back was incredibly unyielding. The knife failed to even puncture Remo's tight skin.

The abrupt manner in which the knife was stopped caused its wielder to lose his grip. His hand inadvertently skipped up beyond the hilt, gripping down again automatically. Unfortunately the portion of the knife he managed to grab on to was the sharpened, double-edge blade.

Remo was surprised that the man didn't cry out in pain. His mild surprise turned to utter bewilderment when he turned around to face his attacker.

It was the same man as before. This time the young blond killer wore a sedate blue business suit. His hair was shorter, and a pair of glasses sat atop his nose.

"What the hell?" Remo said, glancing at Chiun. The Master of Sinanju seemed confused, as well. That was good. At least Remo knew he wasn't going nuts.

The man was bleeding profusely from twin gashes in his hand. Like the first time, Remo gathered the killer up and carted him off to the men's room. This time he didn't get as far as the bathroom before the third killer attacked.

This assassin used a high-powered rifle. Unseen by passersby, he was on the upper tier of the terminal building wedged between a pair of tall plastic signs that advertised two competing international credit-card companies.

The silenced bullets from the rifle ripped into the wall beside Remo and Chiun, who fluttered and danced to avoid the spray.

"I will attend to this facsimile," Chiun announced sharply. Like an orange typhoon, the Master of Sinanju flew toward the escalator to the second floor.

This was getting tricky. Although the people passing through the airport didn't know exactly what was going on, Remo and his bleeding companion had caught their attention. A few raised curious eyebrows. Fortunately the assassin didn't ask any of them for help.

"Let me give you a hand," Remo said, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. He was careful to keep this one alive as he led him into the men's room.

Remo was positive he had killed the assassin on the first attempt, but had to be certain. Leaving the man to attend to his bloody hand at the sink, Remo peeked under the stall door just in case. The dead killer was still there. His sightless blue eyes stared into Remo's.

"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 7

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, collarlength 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 8

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 senor know the time?" he asked.

"Too early for British sitcoms," Remo grumbled.

"Senor?"

"Nothing," Remo said. "Groth. Is he here?"

"Senor 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.

It didn't matter. Groth didn't seem to even hear him as he collected the morning mail from the desk clerk without a word. The boy seemed relieved to not be singled out for attention. Groth left him alone, walking down the employees' corridor next to the desk.

At that moment, the regular morning desk clerk arrived, ten minutes late for his shift. He was calling out excuses in Spanish the instant he stepped through the door.

The night clerk was so eager to chastise his fellow employee for his tardiness that he failed to notice that the hotel guest who had been sitting by the door waiting for the arrival of Senor Groth for nearly four hours was nowhere to be seen.

GROTH DROPPED THE MAIL to his desk with a loud slap.

"Hot," he murmured, flapping his arms uncomfortably. "I hate this damned heat."

He turned to the wall where the air conditioner controls were located. He hadn't taken a single step before noticing something with his peripheral vision. He wheeled around.

"Good morning, starshine." Remo smiled. He was standing inside the closed office door.

It was impossible. Groth had shut and locked the door. He should have heard someone enter behind him. Were they asleep at the front desk? Heads would roll for this.

"I'm looking for directions," Remo said.

Groth scowled. "Front desk," he grunted, jabbing a thumb at the door. He sat down behind his own desk. When he looked up, he was agitated to see that Remo was still there.

"Kempten sent me," Remo said. He smiled tightly.

The look that passed over Groth's face was both subtle and telling. He knew. Old Kempten was dead and Dieter Groth already knew.

In the next instant, Groth was lunging for his desk drawer. He ripped it open, jamming his hand down atop the Luger pistol he stored there for emergencies.

Even before Groth opened the drawer, Remo was slipping behind the desk. As the German's fingers found the gun butt, Remo slapped his palm against the face of the drawer. It flew shut, with Groth's hand still inside. Wrist bones were instantly crushed.

The German tried to howl in pain. Before he could, Remo's hand snaked out and grabbed a spot on his neck. Though Groth tried desperately to scream, all that issued from the hotel proprietor's throat was a pathetic croak.

"I'm looking for Four, sweetheart," Remo pressed. "Where is it?" He eased the pressure on Groth's bull neck.

"Argentina," the German gasped. Sweat had broken out on his tanned forehead. The blinding pain in his shattered wrist was almost more than he could bear.

"Where?" Remo pushed.

Whatever Dieter Groth might have said was lost forever.

At the precise moment his thick lips were parting, the door to the office burst open. As Remo and Groth turned, a young woman leaped into the small room, brandishing a handgun.

Dieter Groth looked for a moment as if he had seen his salvation. The relief was short-lived. Groth's eyes grew wide as the gun leveled on him. A crackling explosion filled the small room. A single bullet struck Dieter Groth's forehead with a satisfying thwack.

The German's dark eyes blinked once in bewilderment and then rolled back in his head, closing forever. The soft hiss of startled air from his slack mouth petered to silence.

"Dammit!" Remo snapped, dropping the dead Nazi onto the desk. Groth hit with a fat thud. The German immediately began oozing blood onto the Hotel Cabeza de Ternera's morning mail.

"Do not move!" the woman threatened. She had twisted on the ball of one foot. Her smoking gun was now aimed at Remo.

"Not very bloody likely," Remo growled. Her eyes couldn't even begin to process his movements. Remo flew across the room, snatching the gun from her hand. He flung it to the office floor.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

She was trying to come to terms with what had just happened. Her beautiful face was shocked, but she quickly pulled herself together.

"I might ask you the same thing," she sniffed haughtily. Slender fingers pushed her blond bangs away from her eyes.

"Lady, you're this close to getting tossed out that window." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"We are on the ground floor," she said defiantly.

"Believe me, I can make it feel like the twentieth."

Her lips tightened as she studied Remo's cruel face. She finally seemed to decide that he wasn't making an idle threat. The woman put her hands on her hips contemptuously.

"I am Heidi Stolpe," she declared imperiously.

"German?" Remo asked, surprised.

"I am of German ancestry, yes," she replied. The admission seemed distasteful to her.

"That accent isn't German."

"It is Spanish," she said. "I have spent much time here in South America."

"I bet," Remo said, annoyed. "Okay, spill it. Why'd you aerate Countess von Zeppelin over there?"

Heidi sneered as she looked over at the body of Dieter Groth. "I make no apologies for my actions," she said, eyes hooded. "He was a Nazi. His kind deserve to die."

Remo closed his eyes. "Oh, great," he muttered. "A Nazi-hunter."

Heidi puffed out her chest. "I am proud of that fact," she stated firmly.

"Bully for you," Remo said. "And in principle, you're not going to get much of an argument from me. But couldn't you have waited another two minutes before you plugged him?"

"He avoided punishment for his crimes for more than fifty years," Heidi said boldly.

She obviously had decided that Remo was no longer a threat. At least not to her. Proud chin raised high, she marched over to the corner of the room to retrieve her gun. Stooping, she tossed the weapon into the handbag that was draped around her neck.

"Another minute would have done it," Remo said to himself with a morose sigh. He dropped back against the wall, staring bitterly at the body of Dieter Groth.

"What is it you wanted from him?" Heidi asked, coming back over to the door. She seemed barely interested. Her azure eyes didn't even look upon the man she had just shot in cold blood.

"Nothing," Remo said, shaking his head. Even as he was saying it, a thought suddenly occurred to him. "Hey, you said you spent a lot of time down here," he said, looking up.

"Most of my life," she admitted.

"Ever hear of a place called Four? It's supposed to be a village or town or something."

Heidi considered for a moment. "The Spanish word is quatro," she advised him.

"No," Remo explained. "This isn't Spanish. I guess it wouldn't even be in German. It's just the Roman numeral IV."

"And this is the name of a village?" she asked dubiously.

"According to him, it's in Argentina." Remo nodded to Groth's body.

She shook her head. "I do not know of this place."

"From what I've heard, it's brimming over with semiretired fascists," Remo said slyly. "A Nazihunter could have a field day there."

Heidi frowned. "This is true?"

"Absolutely."

He could see he had piqued her interest.

"And you are certain Nazi war criminals live there?" Heidi asked.

"It'd be like shooting fish in a barrel."

Heidi seemed to reach some inner decision. "I have contacts in the area. I will ask around for you and return here in an hour. You have a room at the hotel?"

"I did," Remo said. "It might not be a great idea to stick around here after your Ozark Annie act." He indicated Groth's body.

"Perhaps not," she agreed. "Do you know the Old City?"

"I'm new in town," Remo said.

Heidi gave him a few precise directions. "Meet me at the Artigas statue in the plaza at nine-thirty. What is your name, by the way?"

"Remo."

"Is that Spanish?"

"It's actually sort of like the name-game version of the Junior Jumble," he replied.

She peered deeply into his eyes, looking for any hint of sarcasm. Finding none, she nodded once. "Nine-thirty," she repeated. With that, she fled the office.

"Why do I feel like I'd be better off without any help?" Remo asked the body of Dieter Groth once she was gone.

Leaving the dead German to ponder the answer to his question, Remo slid silently from the room.

FORTUNATELY FOR REMO, the Hotel Cabeza de Ternera staff was fearful of their domineering German boss. The body of Dieter Groth would be left undisturbed for hours.

Remo managed to pry the Master of Sinanju away from the television and, through the generous application of gratuities, was able to pack up Chiun's trunks and check out of the hotel in less than twenty minutes. In another twenty, the old Korean's luggage was stashed in a less opulent hotel and the two Masters of Sinanju were walking the busy streets of Montevideo.

The city had truly earned its reputation as one of the most beautiful in Latin America. Its tree-lined streets were wide, and the business and residential sections were planned at a time when city planning actually meant something. The buildings were a mixture of both old and new architectural styles.

The Old City that Heidi spoke of was on a small peninsula that had been the city's original location. At the heart of this section was the Plaza Constitucion-the original square of Montevideo. The square was bracketed by the city hall and cathedral, the city's oldest buildings.

In the square was a statue of the national hero General Jose Artigas, leader of the people of the Banda Oriental, which later became Uruguay.

As they approached the statue, Chiun cast a withering gaze up and down the immortalized figure of Artigas.

"Soldiers," he sniffed unhappily. "It is beyond my comprehension why the people of any nation would revere a simple peasant with a boom stick."

"What would you prefer?" Remo asked, suspecting what the answer would be.

"I would prefer that the citizenry appreciate the pivotal role an assassin plays in the development of their society. Namely me."

"That's all well and good, Little Father," Remo said, "but when people think of assassins, they don't automatically think of you."

"They should," the Master of Sinanju said haughtily.

"That's not the point," Remo objected. "They don't. And I'm not sure the public would rally behind a statue for John Wilkes Booth in the Mall in Washington."

"If not an assassin, perhaps the honor should be given to one who brings joy to the hearts of men the world over."

"That would be you again, right?" Remo deadpanned.

"No," Chiun said. "Though it would be right to honor one such as myself, your beloved lunatic Smith insists we toil in anonymity. Therefore, we are not known to the masses. But there is one who brings joy to all in every nation we have ventured to in recent months. I speak of none other than the brilliant comic Rowan Atkinson."

"You're kidding," Remo said flatly. This was the Englishman whose television show Chiun had been watching incessantly for the past three months. "You want a statue to a British TV comic?"

"It does not have to be too large." He looked up disdainfully at the statue of Jose Artigas. "As long as it is bigger than this eyesore, that will suffice."

"Good luck," Remo snorted.

"I will mention it to Smith."

"I'm sure he'll get right on it."

"Do you really think so?" Chiun asked. Fortunately Remo didn't have to answer. He spied Heidi Stolpe coming toward them down the path near the statue.

She was dressed in a green sleeveless T-shirt and baggy khaki pants. Black military boots were laced up around her ankles. A knapsack was slung over her shoulder. Her short blond hair bounced perkily as she strode toward them.

Remo and Chiun walked over to meet her. Heidi's face was flushed.

"I do not know what to make of what I have learned," she said. Her voice was excited. "Hello," she added, smiling at Chiun. The Master of Sinanju tipped his head in response.

"You know where Four is?" Remo asked.

She shook her head. "I am not certain. I have checked with contacts I have in the area about associates of Dieter Groth. There is one name that a few seemed to know. A man by the name of Adolf Kluge." She peered at Remo, trying to see if the name sparked any recognition.

Remo shrugged. "Don't know him."

She nodded. "One man I spoke to said this Kluge could be found in a village in the lower Andes in Argentina. He didn't know the name of the village, but he knew how to get there. When I checked my maps of the area, I found that there was no such place officially listed." She dropped her knapsack to her feet. Crouching, she rummaged around inside it, eventually producing a hastily sketched map. She handed it to Remo. "This is where he said it would be."

Remo studied the roads and landmarks. There was a circle around a few bottomless triangles, which Remo assumed represented the Andes. In it, Heidi had written "IV?"

"That could be it," Remo said, nodding. "You want to check it out?" he asked Chiun.

"Our new lodgings have no television," Chiun said with a bored shrug.

"Thanks," Remo said to Heidi as he pocketed the map. He and Chiun started to walk away from the Artigas statue.

Heidi ran around in front of them, propping a hand against Remo's chest.

"I am going, too," she insisted.

"Sorry," Remo said. "Too dangerous." He skipped around her outstretched arm and continued walking.

Heidi kept pace with them.

"I know the area better than you. I could get there first and warn them," she said quickly.

Remo stopped. "Now, why would a Nazi-hunter want to do that?" he asked wearily.

"I would not want to, but you could force me to do it," Heidi said defiantly. "If you do not let me come."

"I don't have time for nonsense," Remo said. He waggled a warning finger at Heidi. "If you get shot, it's your business. Don't come bleeding to me."

"I will be fine," she said excitedly. "My jeep is parked around the block."

There was a bounce in her step as she slung her knapsack back over her shoulder. She took the lead. Remo and Chiun followed a few yards behind her. Heidi was humming a Spanish-accented version of an old German lullaby.

"Where did you find this one?" Chiun asked quietly.

"She's the one who shot Groth," Remo explained.

Chiun appraised Heidi's back. "She killed a mere hour ago and is able to sing?" he said. "This female has a heart of stone." There was admiration in his squeaky voice.

Heidi had begun singing softly as they strolled out onto the sidewalk.

"You wouldn't know it to listen to her," Remo snarled. "If she was any damned perkier, I'd kill her myself."

They followed the singing murderess down the busy streets of Uruguay's capital to Heidi's parked jeep.

Chapter 9

Veit Rauch did not like the Numbers. He had been assigned three of them at his shack near the bottom of the lonely mountainside road that led up to the IV village.

The only route by land into the village, theirs was the first line of defense against intruders. It should, therefore, have been the most heavily manned area within the IV perimeter. Instead, there were only the four of them.

While Veit sat on his stool in the small shed, the three Numbers stood at attention along the road. Numbers. That's what they were called around the village. They didn't have names; they had assigned digits. They were the blond-haired, blue-eyed creations of the late Dr. Erich von Breslau and his team of neo-Nazi geneticists.

The eggs of a violently unwilling host had been "harvested" by von Breslau. The woman, of course, had been sacrificed to a greater cause.

Through some genetic tinkering that Rauch could not begin to understand, a strand of perfect Aryan DNA had been produced in a laboratory. It combined the flawless traits of a dozen male volunteers. This genetic information was injected into the many egg cells, and the whole melange was introduced into the bodies of local peasant women whose families had been well compensated for their nine-month inconvenience. The result was the Numbers-hundreds of identical soldiers programmed to blindly serve the leaders of IV.

It was discovered after the birth of the first infants that there had been some unseen flaw in the DNA cocktail. Von Breslau's monsters were born incapable of speech.

Not long after this failed experiment, Adolf Kluge had assumed his post as head of IV. The genetics lab was closed down and its research was halted. Proof of IV's sorry flirtation with manufactured perfection, the Numbers were kept alive as workhorses.

Rauch looked at the three men lined up along the road. He found them particularly unnerving in those instances when they happened to blink in unison. They could not even rightly be termed freaks of nature, Rauch realized, for nature had little to do with their creation.

They stood-each one interchangeable with the next-as monuments to failure. Rauch vowed that if there was any trouble, they would bear the brunt of it.

Rauch frowned as he considered the events of the past few months. It was disgusting that IV had come to this. Rauch was the grandson of an important Gestapo officer. The IV village had always been an unassailable bastion against the perverted thinking of the modern world. It had never seen any kind of trouble since his grandfather's day.

But there had been so many deaths in recent months. Some of the dead were people Rauch knew. IV was at the center of an ever tightening noose. And in the darkest corners of Rauch's mind, he wondered if any of them could survive.

There was a small black phone on the narrow shelf near Rauch's elbow. It squawked suddenly, causing him to jump.

He hadn't realized he had been so self-absorbed. Rauch glanced at the Numbers. They hadn't seen his display of nerves. Not that it mattered. The brutish mutes would not have been able to tell anyone even if they had. He picked up the phone.

"Rauch," he barked.

The whining voice of Kluge's assistant, Herman, came on the line.

"There has been an incident in Uruguay."

"Yes?" Rauch said evenly.

"One of our contacts was found dead."

His heart skipped a beat. "Is it them?" Rauch asked.

"Not likely," Herman said. "Groth was shot to death, and the men we expect do not use weapons. Still, he is a direct link to us. Remain alert."

The line went dead. Rauch's frown deepened.

Getting up from his stool, he stepped out onto the road.

There was no wind today. The lush green scenery that stretched out around them was a painted canvas remarkable only in the diversity of tone. There were greens in these low hills unseen anywhere else in nature.

The mountains loomed high to his right. There were only two types of peaks from Rauch's vantage point. Tall and taller. To his left, down a short incline, the mountain road snaked a sharp U-turn, disappearing into the forest. Beyond the visible stretch of road was a wide-open field, and beyond that, still more mountains.

Though it was a breathtaking vista, Rauch barely saw it.

He was fingering his swastika collar pin as he stepped over to the three Numbers.

"Stay alert," Rauch ordered in a growl, repeating the command he had been given.

It was unnecessary. The men did not even turn his way. They continued staring intently down to the point where the road cut sharply down around an island of foliage.

"Freaks," Rauch muttered.

He turned around and was heading back for the shack when he heard something new echoing against the slowly rising hills. Rauch paused, listening intently.

The sound grew louder.

An automobile engine!

He glanced down the incline to the lower half of the road just as the jeep broke into view.

The vehicle drove swiftly up the steady incline, engine working overtime. As it approached on the lower level, Rauch could see only the driver. There were no passengers.

When the jeep passed on the road beneath, Kluge could clearly make out the face behind the wheel. It was a woman. And there was something about her features that seemed strangely familiar.

The car disappeared behind the stabbing strip of trees and overgrown shrubs. Back near the shack, the Numbers were already aiming their guns down the road. Ready to shoot the incoming car the instant it broke cover.

It never did.

The engine continued to whine, but the car didn't drive forward. It remained hidden behind the copse of trees.

"What is she doing?" Rauch hissed nervously.

"Maybe she had to make a pit stop," suggested a voice at Rauch's elbow.

He wheeled around.

Remo was leaning against the guard shack, a placid smile decorating his hard features.

"There is no need to be vulgar," the Master of Sinanju admonished. He stood next to Remo, dressed in an orange kimono with red piping. A pair of fiery red dragons reared on their hind legs across the front of the flowing garment.

"They are here!" Rauch screamed, stumbling back to the trio of men who still stared down the road. "Shoot them!"

The three blond men spun toward Rauch. Six perfect blue eyes registered surprise when they saw the two men standing by the shed. Almost at once, three pale fingers tensed on triggers.

Rauch dove out of the way as the men opened fire. He skidded on his belly down the incline to the lower road.

A hail of bullets erupted around Remo and Chiun, ripping chunks of wood from the shack and spitting white splinters back atop the deep green plants.

"Wait a minute," Remo said unhappily as he danced around the incoming lead. "Those are the same three guys from the airport. Something's screwy here."

"Yes," Chiun agreed quickly. "While you chatter on like a stupid monkey, we are being shot at." With that, the Master of Sinanju raced across the road to the three men.

"That's news?" Remo griped. He ran after his teacher.

Chiun was first into the group of men. Dodging their blazing rifle barrels, the old Korean danced in between the two nearest men. Grabbing handfuls of blond hair in his long, tapering fingers, Chiun brought the heads together with a supersonic crack.

Perfect Aryan brains spit from perfect Aryan ears and nostrils in perfect little driblets.

As Chiun was releasing his inert bundles, Remo was flying to the third and final triplet.

The last man was spinning in place, desperate to locate his suddenly missing targets. His blue eyes had only just alighted on the smears of gray puree on the road and the placid kimono-clad figure standing above them when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He wheeled.

Remo stood beside him, his cruel features fixed in stone. "Check-out time, Goldilocks," he said.

The surviving Number saw a thick-wristed hand flutter up before his face, index finger and pinkie extended. Briefly, in the uncomplicated center of his genetically engineered brain, the last Number wondered what this man was doing. Then his survival instinct kicked in. Unfortunately, in that infinitesimally short period of time during which he was raising his rifle, Remo's hand was already shooting forward.

The blond man felt an unbelievable, blinding pressure at his eyes. Twin supernovas exploded, each bearing the distinctive swirl patterns of his attacker's fingerprints.

And then the entire universe collapsed back into ethereal nothingness.

REMO ALLOWED the body to fall from his extended fingers. There were no eyes visible in the blood-lined sockets, yet not a trace of ocular fluid or gore was visible on Remo's hand. It was as if the eyes had simply evaporated.

Remo turned from the body.

"I better go get the other one," he said.

Before he had taken a single step toward the ridge down which Veit Rauch had slid, he heard a gunshot. Exchanging tight glances, both Masters of Sinanju raced over to the hill that looked down onto the lower half of the road.

Veit Rauch's twisted body lay on the ground, Above him, gun in hand, stood Heidi Stolpe. When Remo and Chiun broke into view on the hill, Heidi twisted and crouched, aiming her gun up at them with cool professionalism. When she saw who was looking down at her, she relaxed.

"Is it safe?" she called up.

"That depends on who you plan to shoot next," Remo shouted down to her.

Heidi took this as a yes. She ran back up the road, disappearing behind the cluster of trees. A moment later, her jeep pulled into view around the far turn and headed up the hill, stopping at the bodies of the three Numbers.

As he and Chiun climbed into the vehicle, Remo said, "You must be putting your ammo dealer's kids through college."

"Does he always feel compelled to talk even when it is not necessary?" she asked Chiun.

In the back of the jeep, Chiun nodded somberly.

"And he has no sense of humor," the old Korean confided. "I spend half my time shushing him and the other half explaining the punch lines to jokes. He is not a bad son, mind you, just dour. And a chatterbox. And he sometimes eats with his mouth open."

"Look, can we just get going?" Remo begged from the passenger's seat.

"He's your son?" Heidi asked, ignoring Remo. She suddenly seemed very interested.

"That's it," Remo announced, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "I'm walking." He reached for the door handle.

"Oh." Heidi glanced at Remo. "Oh, I'm sorry," she mumbled quickly, turning back to the wheel. She seemed upset with herself for becoming distracted.

She slipped the jeep in gear. But even as she eased around the bodies of the failed neo-Nazi experiment for perfection, her eyes strayed to the rearview mirror and the wizened figure in the back seat. There was something infinitely sad in the depths of her azure eyes.

The jeep continued up the winding mountain road.

ADOLF KLUGE WATCHED the jeep proceed on one of the many video monitors that lined the curving wall in the special rear room of the ancient temple.

The treetop surveillance camera tracked the vehicle as far as it could before the system automatically switched over to the next camera. The surveillance had been arranged so that once a vehicle entered the protected IV perimeter, it was never out of sight.

The jeep was moving fast.

This was it, Kluge thought. This was how IV would end.

He still couldn't completely believe that it would happen. Even though he had seen what these men could do, it was impossible to conceive that these two unexceptional-appearing men would overwhelm IV's defenses.

And yet Kluge would not have evacuated the village if he truly believed the village could survive otherwise.

Many of the monitors displayed the empty homes of the abandoned village. In streets and near the mouth of the fortress, his army of men waited patiently.

Kluge spun his chair around. Herman sat over near the radio equipment.

"Tell them they are almost here," Kluge commanded.

Herman obediently radioed the orders down to the troops.

Kluge had turned his attention back to the intruders. "Let us see if we cannot stop them before they get here," he muttered. But his voice lacked conviction.

Face somber, he flipped several silver toggle switches at a broad control panel before him. Once finished, his hand strayed to a single button, index finger hovering in place.

Eyes alert, Adolf Kluge watched the progress of the jeep.

"STOP THE JEEP," Remo ordered.

They were racing along the steep mountain road. "What?" Heidi asked. "Why?"

"Stop!" Remo snapped.

Face registering her confusion, Heidi slowed to a stop. The mountain stretched up on their left. A wooded slope dropped off to their right, overshadowed by a nearby hill.

"You feel them, Little Father?"

"Of course," Chiun replied. "There are many of them."

"Too many to go through?"

"For us, no," the Master of Sinanju said flatly. Remo looked at Heidi. From the way they spoke, she felt as if she was holding them back somehow. Her expression made it clear she didn't enjoy being treated as a handicap.

"What is it?" she asked, peeved.

"Wait here."

Remo got out of the jeep. Standing on the road, he felt around under his seat. Producing a tire iron, he held it out for Heidi's inspection.

"So?" she said with a look of perplexed annoyance.

"Watch."

Remo flipped the tire iron up the road. It soared two dozen yards before it finally struck the ground. The instant it hit, a huge flash of white and orange belched from the earth. The accompanying violent explosion rattled the road beneath them. The jeep was rocked on its shocks as the windshield was pelted with dirt and gravel.

Heidi sucked in a sharp breath as the unexpected flash of light flared and diminished.

"Land mines," Heidi breathed, once the commotion had died down. A huge smoking crater filled the road.

"The exploding kind," Remo agreed. "Looks like we'll have to hoof it after all."

"It is a lovely day for a walk," the Master of Sinanju said. He stepped down from the jeep onto the debris-scattered road.

Heidi shut off the engine. She was clearly confused. "How do we get through without setting them off?" she asked, trotting to catch up with the two departing figures.

"... WITHOUT SETTING THEM OFF?"

Heidi's voice sounded tinny on the small speakers.

"Damn," Adolf Kluge snapped. "How did they know?" His hand withdrew from the minefield's remote arming system.

Herman shook his head. "They could not possibly," he said. "We planted them only this morning."

"They know, Herman," Kluge snarled. He peered at Heidi more closely. The image was not clear. "Does she look like anyone to you?" he asked.

Herman shook his head. "Possibly the Numbers," he said.

Kluge nodded. "Of course. A perfect Aryan woman," he said, "siding with our attackers. A fitting irony for those who write the final history of Four."

He watched the three of them abandon the jeep and head away from the minefield. They went down the side of the hill, disappearing from the camera's range.

Kluge felt a tingle of excitement.

"Perhaps there is still hope," he said. He stood up, leaning over the board before him. With desperate hands, he remotely armed every mine in the road. When he was finished, he waited at the master control. "How long ago did they go down?" he demanded urgently.

"Twenty seconds. Perhaps thirty," Herman answered.

Kluge nodded. "They move quickly, but she will slow them up. Half a minute to the bottom, plus another minute to get in position..." Kluge was counting in his head. When he guessed a minute and a half had elapsed, he smiled nervously. "We will see if we can't surprise the men from Sinanju after all."

With a sharp stab, he punched a single button. It was the one to detonate the entire field of mines.

THE TREE-DOTTED HILL sloped down sharply to a narrow strip of level land. This minigorge, which ran parallel to both the road on one side and to the upward slope of the adjacent hill on the other, was packed with pine needles and rotting leaves. Some of the boulders that had been displaced when the road was constructed had been rolled down into the ravine. There were many of these scattered like blocks after a child's tantrum. They stood in the way of Remo, Chiun and Heidi.

Remo assumed he would have to help Heidi through the rough terrain, but he was pleasantly surprised to find she was much more agile than he expected.

After abandoning the jeep, she had pulled a drab green coat on over her T-shirt, dragging her omnipresent knapsack over too. With her thumbs tucked into the backpack's shoulder straps, she was scaling the rocks like a professional mountaineer. Scampering up one side of a large rock, she would leap back down to the ravine floor.

For their part, Remo and Chiun appeared to float effortlessly up one side of a rock before gliding back down to the ground.

Chiun made the move look particularly graceful. The hem of his kimono billowed like a gaily colored parachute as the material caught the small air pockets in the cramped valley.

"Are there any mines down here?" Heidi asked as she scampered up a rock face.

Remo's hands were stuffed in his pockets as he hopped down from a large boulder. "Hard to tell," he said casually.

Heidi, who until now had been in the lead, stopped abruptly. Remo stopped, as well.

"Don't you know?" she asked.

"It's a little trickier here," Remo admitted. "Given the terrain. Oddly enough, mines are much easier to detect in a car. I find that tires focus your senses."

"It is their hollowness," Chiun explained, passing the two of them. He scurried up another rock face. When the stone had been rolled down here, a massive tree was uprooted in its path. Long dead, it remained pinned beneath the huge rock. Enormous, gnarled roots clawed at the air.

"You think that's it?" Remo called up to him.

Chiun nodded. "The compressed air within reacts to the surface of the road. The normal sensory range is thus extended greatly."

"That's probably true," Remo admitted. "I never much thought of it."

"Fortunately for all of our sakes, you are not paid to think," the Master of Sinanju called. He disappeared over the far side of the high rock.

"Is he always so unpleasant?" Heidi asked.

"Naw," Remo said. "He's just showing off because he likes you. Let me give you a hand."

The rock Chiun had vanished over was the tallest so far. Remo was pleased to find that Heidi was not too proud to accept help when it was offered.

Remo held his hands out in an interlocking cuplike formation. Heidi placed one boot inside the U-shape and allowed Remo to boost her up to the rock.

He hopped up beside her.

They were walking to the other side of the great flat rock when Remo felt something reverberate up from the rock-and-leaf strewed ground. To his highly trained senses, it was a sudden snap-like a sheet pulled taut.

It came a split second before the explosion.

The ground beneath began to shake as in an earthquake. Belches of flame were briefly visible between the trunks and branches of trees as a black mushroom cloud poured into the crisp mountain air.

Heidi covered her face against the initial hail of pebbles. "The mines!" she shouted to Remo.

A few boulders ahead of them, the Master of Sinanju stopped dead. He shot a concerned look back to Remo.

"What the hell set them off?" Remo demanded. The question died in his throat.

His senses had suddenly picked up something else. Even Heidi felt the new rumble through the rock. On the hill above them, she could see the tops of the farthest trees topple and vanish behind those closest to them. They were being flicked aside by some horrifying force.

It was like a cliched movie scene in which some creature from a bygone age first makes its appearance. Except this terror was real.

An avalanche.

"Remo!" Chiun squeaked anxiously. Trees nearby rattled.

"Go!" Remo shouted back.

Chiun hesitated at first, too far away to offer assistance. All at once, he spun on a sandaled heel, his mouth a thin line. Rapidly he began bounding from rock to rock, distancing himself from the main area of collapse.

The trees nearest them ripped away. Like pencils in some massive sharpener, they were flung beneath the great rolling boulders. The mighty trunks were split to kindling and thrust into the ravenous maw of the avalanche.

When the mass of rock was nearly upon them, Remo snatched Heidi up around the waist. It would be difficult enough by himself. He didn't know if he could manage with extra baggage.

Remo didn't follow the Master of Sinanju. He was too far back. If he attempted to follow, Remo would be swept under the collapsing mountain of debris. Instead, he spun on his heel and-Heidi in tow headed directly into the incoming rush of stone and earth.

The first rock he encountered was only as large as a beach ball. It was rolling rapidly as Remo dropped one toe atop it. Using opposite force against the stone's forward momentum, Remo vaulted up and over. He landed on a larger, flatter stone that was being swept along at the fore of the advancing pile of churning rubble.

Fortunately Heidi was not fighting him. She remained limp beneath his arm, not wishing to distract him from his life-or-death ballet.

His next jump brought him to a toppled tree trunk. It was scraping down the hill at a terrifying speed. Remo ran to the far end of the log, then rode it like a surfboard back down into the growing pile of debris.

Already in the valley, many of the rocks they had been climbing on earlier were covered by fresh stones.

When the lower end of the log they were on struck the swelling pile of debris, Remo jumped again. Both feet barely touched the surface of a dangerously splintering boulder before he sprang again. He landed on yet another stone.

The huge rock he had barely trodden on struck an even larger boulder at the bottom of the ravine and shattered. The pieces were instantly covered in a washing mass of dirt.

Remo leapfrogged a few more times, but found the going increasingly easier.

The avalanche was tapering off.

With a sigh of settling earth and a cloud of choking dust, the last of the largest chunks of earth and sections of broken road rolled into the ravine. Long after, tiny stones still toppled along the devastated path of the avalanche.

In all, it had taken no more than a minute.

Remo set Heidi down to the still-reverberating earth. He glanced back at the damage.

It looked as if the claw of a gigantic backhoe had swiped a huge chunk out of the side of the mountain. There was a single stripe of missing trees and rock running straight up to the road. The valley where they had been standing was buried.

Panting, Heidi looked at Remo. For all his exertions, he had not broken a sweat. He wore a deep scowl.

"Have I told you lately that I hate Nazis?" Remo grumbled.

As he spoke, Chiun bounded into view far ahead of them. He stood at the nearest visible part of the valley that had not been overrun by the avalanche. For an instant when he first saw Remo, the Master of Sinanju was visibly relieved.

"Remo, that was-" he suddenly considered his words, and his look of relief morphed into one of blase acceptance "-adequate."

"Adequate, my ass," Remo griped. "That was perfect. And how the hell did they do that without us stepping on the damned things?"

"They could be set to accept a radio signal."

Remo turned away from Chiun, looking at Heidi. "Thank you, Professor Science," he said.

"Do not ask if you do not wish to know," she said with a shrug. Readjusting the pack on her back, she struck off toward Chiun.

"No wonder everyone loves Germans," he muttered to himself. "They're so damned cuddly." Following Heidi, he began hiking across the fresh pile of stone rubble toward the waiting Master of Sinanju.

IT HAD BEEN forty-five minutes since Kluge had set off the field of land mines. The leader of IV had sat in front of the bank of video monitors the entire time, his anxiety level rising every minute.

"Has everyone reported in?" he asked Herman. "Yes, sir."

"Even Theodor? You were not able to raise him."

"It was a communications problem," Herman explained. "It has been corrected."

Kluge nodded. He glanced at the monitor on which he had last seen his stalkers. A ragged V-shape crater was visible on the road. Beyond it sat the girl's parked jeep.

"They are dead, Adolf," Herman insisted.

"Possibly," Kluge said. There was a touch more optimism in his voice than there had been of late.

"I cannot imagine anyone surviving that," Herman said, indicating the minefield damage on the monitor.

Kluge snorted derisively. "In that case; I have the greater imagination." He bit his lip. "Still..."

Herman waited a moment before breaking the silence. "We could send the second unit down to sift the rubble," he suggested. Indeed, this was the third time he had floated the same idea in the past forty-five minutes.

Kluge nodded. "Yes," he said. "Yes, all right." Herman wheeled around in his chair. He held his hand delicately over the slender microphone that was hooked around the back of his head and positioned it over his mouth.

"Christoph, come in."

Herman waited. There was no reply. He repeated the command. Again, his radio message was greeted by silence.

"More equipment failure," Herman griped.

He attempted to raise the IV soldier a third time. As he did so, Adolf Kluge switched his attention to the monitor screens.

The second unit was the designation given to the IV villager and his attendant group of Numbers who were at the next checkpoint up from that of the late Veit Rauch, only a few yards outside the periphery of the village.

When he called up the appropriate image on the nearest monitor, the tree-mounted camera panned the designated scene.

Kluge's blood chilled to ice.

"Never mind, Herman," Kluge said woodenly.

Still trying to raise the second unit, Herman turned, confused. "Sir?" he said.

Kluge pointed at the monitor above the second unit's small guard station. Herman gaped at what appeared to be bodies lying around the road. When he looked closer, he saw a face that was clearly that of the man he had been trying to raise on the radio. The man's head was several feet away from his body.

"How-?" Herman asked, incredulous.

He never finished his question. At that moment, the sound of gunfire erupted outside the ancient stone temple.

THEY HAD FOLLOWED the ravine until it cut up by the upper guard shack. Remo and Chiun preceded Heidi up the hill. She was stunned by how easily they took out the dozen men stationed near the small shed.

The IV village sprouted out of the leveled mountaintop where the ruins of an ancient city had once stood. The priceless architecture of a culture long dead had been demolished for the comfort of the band of fugitive Nazis.

Looming far above the village was Estomago de Diablo-the name given to the huge old temple that was the focal point of the entire area. The massive stone structure stared down protectively over the orderly little houses from its separate mountain peak.

"Dollars to doughnuts the head guy's in there," Remo said, pointing to the temple.

Focused on the temple, they ran toward the first line of neat Bavarian-style houses...

... and into a hail of machine-gun fire. "Crappity crap-crap-crap," Remo groused.

As a cluster of frantic IV soldiers ran toward them down the street shooting madly-the three of them quickly ducked down an alley. Bullets ripped against the wall nearest them.

Remo quickly plucked Heidi from the path. Kicking open the door of the nearest house, he tossed her to the floor. "Stay put," he commanded, slamming the door tightly shut.

Remo and Chiun whirled on the soldiers.

The men ran into view at the mouth of the alley. Remo recognized their shared face immediately; he'd encountered the same face at the airport, as well as at the first two guard shacks.

"Not him again," Remo complained.

"Do not get distracted," Chiun warned the instant before the men opened fire.

Chiun leaped high to the left, Remo to the right. Hitting the eaves of the roofs with one foot, they pushed off and forward. They formed an invisible X as their paths nearly crossed in the air above the blazing gunfire.

The heads of the baffled soldiers slipped below them as both Masters of Sinanju flew over. Twisting in midair, they dropped down behind the startled IV troops.

Before the shock could even register, Remo and Chiun launched themselves forward.

A few guns fired feeble bursts of lead into the clear blue sky as Chiun ripped through the men. Diet-and-exercise-hardened fingernails clawed vicious strips through chest muscle and bone. Kneecaps shattered. Skulls collapsed.

Remo had torn into the crowd from the other side, spinning like a top on one foot, barely seeming to change position. As he swirled, an arm or foot would fly out of the twisting blur. In their wake, streaks of blood erupted from corrupted throats and chests.

In a matter of seconds, the attackers were dead. "I'll get Heidi," Remo said quickly.

Racing back to the house where he had left her, he flung open the door. She was nowhere in sight. A quick search of the one-story structure found the house empty and the front door on the far side of the house ajar.

"Double crap," Remo complained. He ran back to meet Chiun. "Heidi's gone," he said, arriving back at the carnage in the alley.

"We cannot search for her now," Chiun stated.

Remo shook his head. "She can't say I didn't warn her," he agreed.

Together, they ran back out onto the tidy village road.

KLUGE HAD BECOME more animated as he watched the men from Sinanju slaughter his soldiers as easily as lesser mortals might step on an anthill. IV was still his home. He would do everything he could to preserve it.

"Have them pull back to the field," he ordered Herman.

"Is that wise?" Herman asked.

"Do it!" Kluge shouted. There was an angry spark in his eyes, a spark that had been absent ever since the dark days in Paris several months ago.

Herman obediently gave the order into his headset.

Kluge watched Remo and Chiun advance through the vacant streets of the village. Unseen by the Masters of Sinanju, the defenders of IV began backing along streets closer to the temple. On Kluge's order, they were retreating to the large open field with its trampled vegetable and flower gardens.

It seemed ridiculous. An entire army in retreat because of two unarmed men.

"Is the other system operational?" Herman nodded. "Tested this morning."

"I want it ready to switch over to manual if automated tracking fails," Kluge warned.

"At your command, Herr Kluge."

Kluge saw that Herman was sweating. He had been so calm during the whole time leading up to this crisis. Herman had never thought there was a crisis. The fool.

Kluge turned his attention back to the monitors. Remo and Chiun continued their relentless advance. As he watched them move stealthily through the streets, his eyes strayed to a single red button on his control console. Unlabeled, it was covered by a clear plastic lid.

Unseen by Herman, Kluge flipped the plastic cover open.

And prayed.

"NOW, THERE'S SOMETHING you don't see every day," Remo commented. He nodded to the army of identical soldiers arranged in the field before the ancient stone fortress.

Although the men were lined up to fire, they didn't do so when Remo and Chiun cleared the last of the quaint little gingerbread houses.

"There is something else here," Chiun declared, concerned.

"Not more mines," Remo said. He had been stomping his foot occasionally to get a crude sonic reading of the land up ahead. As far as he could tell, there were no land mines.

The field was to their right. To their left, a stretch of rocky terrain dropped down after a few yards, only to come back into sight a little farther beyond. Continuing only briefly, it disappeared for good a short way farther on. Somewhere far below the last appearance of the rocky ridge was the road.

The army continued to stand down as they approached.

"Gee, you think it's a trap?" Remo asked sarcastically.

Chiun was peering at the uneven mound of stone to their left. Remo followed the elderly Korean's line of sight.

He immediately saw the thick metal barrel jutting from the stone. Beyond this was another. And a third, fourth and fifth. Each of the weird gun muzzles was aimed down the path. Directly at Remo and Chiun.

"Oh, great," was all Remo had time to say before the muzzles hidden in the rock flashed to life. All five of them exploded in a deafeningly violent, unified blast.

They weren't controlled by human hands, so Remo hadn't felt the telltale sign of men about to shoot. Before he had properly prepared for an attack, the air was suddenly alive with burning lead fragments.

More rounds screamed at him in that one instant than at any other single time in his life. His senses were strained to overloading as he flung himself to a protective outcropping of rock beside the road.

The outcropping did not shelter him for long. As soon as he had hunkered down behind the great black stones, the blond-haired IV soldiers in the field aross the road broke their cease-fire. As one, they opened fire on Remo.

He slid down behind the rocks, pushing himself low behind a small lip. Bullets whizzed like angry hornets above his head, ricocheting off rocks and whizzing into the distance.

Remo was a sitting duck.

He didn't know where Chiun had gone to when the automated weapons had begun firing. Remo only hoped that the Master of Sinanju was faring better than him.

CHIUN HAD DONE much the same thing as Remo when the guns had begun their automatic firing. Unlike Remo, however, he had the fortune of landing in a crevice that was the sole blind spot of the nearest machine gun.

As the men in the field opened fire on Remo, Chiun quickly scampered around the far side of the large finger of rock behind which he had taken refuge.

He came out close to the nearest gun. It continued firing relentlessly, deafeningly down the path. But though it tracked from side to side with relative ease, it had more difficulty moving up and down.

Out on the road once more, Chiun ducked below the barrage of lead. He skittered crab-like to the left, coming up between the first two weapons.

They were altered versions of the GEC Minigun. Each was capable of firing 6000 rounds per minute. The pockmarked road was testament to the effectiveness of the weapons.

Racing up alongside the automated guns, Chiun ducked in behind. With two slaps from one longnailed hand, Chiun broke the heavy guns loose from their moorings. Two sharp kicks sent them spinning over in the direction of the small army.

The firing guns swept across the advancing mob of blond-haired men. Crumpling bodies spit streaks of crimson across the lush green field.

There was no defense against the remorseless attack of the automated guns. Some tried to run. Most didn't have the time to even consider the option. In seconds, the grisly deed was done.

As the bullet-riddled bodies fell, Chiun worked to disable the remaining three guns. By the time he had reduced them to pieces and returned to the road, the first two weapons had grown silent.

He climbed down to the path. The dying echoes of machine-gun fire sighed forlornly against the distant peaks of the Andes, fading to an eerie silence.

The entire IV army lay dead on the road. Not one man had survived the fierce gunfire.

Across the road from the nearest dozen bodies, Remo came out from his protective outcropping of rock. He ran up to meet the Master of Sinanju, his face growing more severe as he beheld the breadth of the carnage. He paused next to Chiun, looking up at the ancient temple.

"Let's finish this," he said, hollow of voice.

They turned to the huge stone fortress.

The road ended at a long stone bridge, a remarkable piece of ancient construction spanning the two peaks of the IV complex.

Remo and Chiun were nearly to the bridge when an odd expression crossed the face of the younger Master of Sinanju.

"Wait a sec," Remo said, stopping abruptly. His bare forearm barred Chiun's path.

Chiun frowned even as he stopped beside his pupil. "What is it?" he asked impatiently.

Remo squinted at the bridge, uncertainty clouding his features. "Didn't you feel-?"

He never finished the question.

A powerful rumble rose from beneath their feet. The vibrations were different from those of land mines or machine guns. This was something muffled and heavy.

And as both men watched, each one knowing now what Remo had heard, the bridge before them began to collapse.

The carefully buried charges tore huge slabs of the bridge away. The massive chunks of rock tumbled in slow motion to the ravine floor more than a half mile below.

The wide gap the crashing stone left behind was too great for even a Master of Sinanju to traverse.

ADOLF KLUGE removed his finger from the single red button. He turned to Herman.

"We should go," he said. His face was stone. Herman seemed shell-shocked. He nodded numbly to the IV leader. Together, they left the monitor room, heading farther into the bowels of the ancient temple.

REMO RAN back to the village in order to find something to bridge the gap left by the collapsed bridge. He returned after a few moments with a long extension ladder.

Extending the ladder fully, Remo lowered it across the ravine.

Unmindful of the dizzying height, he and Chiun raced across the aluminum ladder and into the temple.

Remo was surprised when they encountered no resistance inside the huge, drafty fortress. He commented on this to the Master of Sinanju.

"This Kluge is wise," Chiun said knowingly as they raced through the cool stone corridors, "Fearful for his life, a prince would ordinarily surround himself with guards. He realized that his greatest safety lay in sending his entire legion against us."

"Fat lot of good it did him," Remo commented. They found the monitor room, which had been abandoned. Remo immediately identified the pungent odor of nervous sweat.

"That way," he said, pointing to a narrow hallway off the large stone room.

He and Chiun ran through the cramped space and into a much larger chamber.

This had been the main sacrificial room for the priests of the ancient temple. A rock stairway led up the side of a huge pyramid-shaped stone structure in the center of the room. The sacrificial pit.

Obviously the previous occupants of the temple hadn't limited themselves to animal oblations. Cracked, brownish human skulls lined the ancient rock steps.

"I love what they've done with the place," Remo said dryly.

"Shh," Chiun hissed. He was listening intently to something distant.

Remo cocked an ear. He heard the sound, as well. It was very faint. And hollow.

Exchanging glances, Remo and Chiun flew side by side up the stairs to the sacrificial pit.

They found what they had expected at the top. There was a deep black hole in which the dead victims of the temple priests had been dumped. Far below-much farther than the floor of the chamber itself--could be seen the reflective glow of dull yellow light.

A steel ladder was attached to the interior stone wall of the pit. Obviously a new addition since the IV occupation of the village.

The noise they had both heard grew fainter as they climbed over the edge of the pit. Propping their hands against either metal side of the ladder, they slid down to the bottom of the pit.

The vertical shaft stabbed deep into the bowels of the mountain. The wide stone floor at the base was rimmed with shattered yellowed bones. Remo and Chiun touched softly to the floor amid the dusty, headless skeletons.

A horizontal shaft ran off from one side of the pit. They followed the ancient escape route down a gradually declining tunnel. Emerging into sunlight a few moments later, they found themselves on a hollowed, level plateau, rimmed on nearly all sides by mountains. Only a narrow path appeared to lead down to the valley below.

But it was not the path that would have carried Adolf Kluge to safety.

The noise they had heard from inside was so indistinct by now as to be only a mocking memory. Remo's jaw clenched in helpless rage as his gaze settled on the well-tended and empty helipad that had been constructed on the plateau.

As the echoes of the helicopter's rotor blades faded, Remo became aware of another noise coming from behind them. He didn't even turn around as Heidi Stolpe burst, panting, from the mouth of the long tunnel.

"Where have you been?" he snarled. He was still staring up at the empty sky.

"Hiding," she said, breathless. She adjusted her backpack. "There was a soldier in the house you threw me into. I barely escaped with my life."

"You're not the only one," Remo said.

Heidi also detected the faint sound of the helicopter. As she strained to hear, the sound was swallowed up by the mountains. Kluge was gone.

Wordlessly Remo wheeled back around to the tunnel's circular black mouth. As he did so, there was an angry rumble from within the dark cave.

The explosions came one right after another. The bombs had been placed midway up the length of the tunnel. As they were detonated from some remote location-presumably the helicopter-their force ripped apart the long rock cavern.

With a shudder of earth, the tunnel collapsed, sealing them outside the quickest route back to the IV village. A thick cloud of dust belched out in a massive mocking blast onto the elevated rock face on which they all stood.

"Perfect," Remo snapped.

It would take forever to climb back up the side of the cliff. The path was out of the question. The valley circled too far around the broad bases of several converging mountains. That route could take days. And there was the matter of Heidi. Remo looked dully at her.

"Um..." she said. She looked first to the path, then to the rocky cliff face.

Chiun had turned away in disgust. He was already scaling the mountain face up toward the flat rear wall of the huge temple.

Heidi smiled wanly. "Could you...?" Sheepishly she pointed up toward Chiun.

Remo considered leaving her there. But his conscience got the better of him. "Let's go," Remo said with a deep sigh. Hefting Heidi up over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, he stepped over to the sheer rock face.

Trailing the Master of Sinanju, Remo began the tedious climb back up to the top of the mountain.

OVER THE COURSE of the next three days, Remo and Chiun searched for Adolf Kluge in vain. The trail was cold.

Heidi left for parts unknown. The Master of Sinanju eventually hunkered down in their hotel in Uruguay, refusing to involve himself in yet another wild-goose chase.

Smith had no luck finding the fugitive head of IV with the CURE computers. Eventually, he admitted defeat.

With great reluctance, Harold Smith ordered Remo and Chiun home.

Chapter 10

When Keijo Suk accepted the money with a promise of more, he didn't know it was all the man had left in the world. He immediately deposited the large sum of cash in one of Berlin's many impressive Western banks.

If Suk had so chosen, he could have left it at that. The man who had given him the money had a desperate, hunted look about him. His clothes were disheveled, his hair unkempt. It looked as if he hadn't slept in days. Dark semicircles rimmed his watery blue eyes. If Suk had kept the cash without performing the requested service, he doubted the man would be able to do much to stop him. But the man had surprised him.

"You will not be able to take so much with you back to your country," he had said.

Suk only nodded. Already he had decided in his head which bank the money would go into.

"You will likely leave it here," the man continued.

Again, Suk silently agreed.

"If you attempt to keep the money without supplying me with that for which I have retained you, I will turn you over to the authorities of your country. I am certain they will want to know how you came to have so much in an illegal bank account."

The look in the man's sleepless eyes convinced Suk that he was telling the truth.

Suk decided to abandon his plan to cheat the man of his money. Besides, he had been assured that there was much more to be had if he performed but one small service. When Suk returned for the balance, he wouldn't leave the West again. He would live like a king for the rest of his life.

But there was still the matter of the duty he had been hired to perform.

His flight from Berlin connected with another in Moscow. The plane he took from Russia carried him across the remainder of Europe and on into Asia. When he finally landed in the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, Keijo Suk was exhausted.

But Suk didn't have time to rest.

In Berlin he was the official representative of North Korea's Culture and Art Ministry. Allegedly sent to "promote positive global understanding" with the German people, Keijo Suk had in truth been sent to the West in order to form ties with the former Communists of the former East Germany who were vying for positions of power in the new, united Germany.

As a member of his nation's elite, Suk was allowed the privilege of owning a fine Western automobile. His Ford Taurus was waiting for him at the airport in Pyongyang.

When he drove out into the streets of the North Korean capital, Suk didn't head for his small apartment. He instead turned north, driving out of the city into the featureless, flat expanse that was the Korean countryside.

The official People's Highway was dotted with few cars-fewer still as he drove farther northwest. The traffic he met was largely people on foot or on bicycles.

Eventually the pedestrian traffic ended completely. He found himself on a long multilaned stretch of barren highway that appeared to go nowhere.

But Keijo Suk knew better than that. He knew precisely where this long road ended. He arrived at the rocky shores of the Korean west coast a little after sundown. The highway simply stopped dead, and a small footpath that seemed as old as the stars in the dark black canvas of the night sky angled down off the road. At the other end of the path, Suk spied bright square patches of yellow-the lights of a lonely fishing village.

Leaving his car on the highway, Suk skirted the edge of the village. He had no strong desire to draw unnecessary attention to himself.

A massive garbage heap overflowed onto the ground beyond the highway at the rear of the nearest houses. Though it was cold, rats cavorted freely through the piles of ordure.

Suk had to pull the tails of his dress shirt up around his mouth and nose in order to ward off the stench. The smell was so overpowering, his eyes watered. Unlike the rest of the population of North Korea, the people of this village ate well. The evidence was everywhere he stepped.

Scraping the muck from his shoes, Suk continued past the massive dump.

The village was positioned on the shore of West Korean Bay. Powerful gusts of early-winter wind whistled in off the churning black waters, stabbing frigid knives through layers of clothing. The only article appropriate for the weather was Suk's thick Western winter coat. It did him no good. He shivered madly as he walked stealthily forward.

The backs of the houses were plain wood with no windows. Suk crept past the homes, careful not to alert the occupants. His nervous heart was ringing in his ears.

The village ended in a small rise that led up to a solitary house. This dwelling was far more ornate than the rest. Parts of it seemed to have been constructed at vastly different periods of history. There was evidence of early Roman influence in the foundation, along with the practicality of ancient Greece. The frippery of the Renaissance, as well as that of Victorian architecture, was also present.

To Suk, the home was a garish mishmash of styles.

Checking first to see that he wasn't being followed, he made his anxious way up the path to the big, ugly house.

He found the front door unlocked.

Pushing open the door, Suk slipped inside, relieved to be able to shut out the persistent howling wind.

There was a light switch next to the door, but he dared not use it. Instead, he pulled a powerful flashlight from the pocket of his heavy down jacket.

As he shone the light around the interior of the first room, Keijo Suk's jaw nearly hit the floor. Every spot his flashlight illuminated was filled with gold and jewels. It was more than a king's ransom, more than that of ten kings. In fact, enough treasure was crammed into this one room alone to ransom every ruler in the history of mankind.

Suk had developed a powerful love for material wealth since assuming his post in Berlin. That was his reason for being here. It was difficult for him to break the initial numbing trance this fabulous store of wealth had put him under.

After a few moments of slack jawed gawking, Suk managed to pull himself together. He had a job to do. Stepping around the room, he began to search methodically through the bags of jewels, the golden statues and the gem-encrusted chests of heaping ingots.

IT TOOK HIM two solid hours of searching, but he finally found what he was after.

The lights in the village had winked out one by one. All had gone to bed for the night, never noticing the strange flashes of light that came from the house on the hill.

The object of Suk's search was propped up in a small room adjacent to the first. He had almost skipped searching this tiny chamber when his initial flashlight sweep failed to illuminate a single diamond.

The room looked to be some sort of library. There were huge leather-bound books, as well as a number of rolled parchment scrolls. The books were lined up on shelves while the scrolls were squirreled away in an ornate mahogany wall unit divided into tiny cubbyholes.

The object rested on a separate wall unit along the narrow distant wall. Suk recognized it immediately. It was exactly as the man in Germany had described it.

Suk had to step over a pair of large stone tablets that sat in the center of the floor. He pulled the object of his quest down from the shelf. Unbeknownst to him, Suk left a trail of freshly disturbed dust in its wake.

He picked his way back out into the outer room. Across the room, flushed with triumph, Keijo Suk gave in to the urge to grab a handful of gold coins from an urn near the door. He couldn't help himself.

Like mints in a fancy restaurant, they sat there waiting to be taken.

Opening the door, Suk paused. He reached over and grabbed a few more handfuls of gold coins. Hands shaking, he stuffed the coins into the pockets of his coat. A few fell to the floor. Suk hardly noticed.

Giddy with success, Keijo Suk hurried back out into the frigid Korean night, slamming the door tightly behind him.

In the weak Asian moonlight, the three coins Suk had dropped glowed dully on the living-room floor of the Master of Sinanju.

Chapter 11

The corridors of Folcroft Sanitarium were cloaked in chilly semidarkness as Remo Williams roamed up from the basement rooms in which he and Chiun had been staying since arriving back in the United States.

Ten days had passed since he had lost the elusive head of IV in the mountains of Argentina. Ten days of inactivity, ten days that Adolf Kluge would have used to burrow himself further and further away from the prying eyes of the world.

When he had returned to the top of the mountain, Remo found a computer area in one of the old temple rooms. Someone had hastily sifted through everything and boxed up and carted off whatever was deemed necessary. Everything else had been left.

The computers had been smashed to pieces, their hard drives destroyed.

Virtually.