However, he had never been very good at keeping track of gadgets. Smith had once given him an expensive two-way satellite communications device. Remo had broken it the first time he used it. After that Smith had relied on the telephone system.
It had always worked in the past. Until now. Remo paced back and forth before the windows along the Trafalgar Square side of the office. He rotated his thick wrists absently as he walked.
"You are making me dizzy," the Master of Sinanju complained. He was sitting cross-legged atop one of the empty desks. A bone-china cup filled with steaming tea sat in a gilded saucer. A delicate rose pattern adorned both cup and saucer.
"I can't just sit here," Remo grumbled.
"Why not?" Chiun asked, tipping his aged head. "Have you forgotten how?"
He picked up the teacup in his bony hand and brought it to his parchment lips. He sipped delicately. Remo stopped pacing.
He looked once more at the empty square and then back at the Master of Sinanju. After a moment's pause he walked over to the desk next to Chiun. Climbing atop it, he dropped into a lotus position on the desk's barren surface.
"You see," Chiun intoned sagely, "it is not as difficult as you might have remembered."
Once Remo was settled on the desk, Chiun clapped his hands two times, sharply.
Like a genie summoned from a lamp, Sir Guy Philliston appeared from a small office that was off to the side of the main Source information center. He carried with him a sterling-silver tea set.
Chiun had sent Sir Guy out for some proper herbal tea after the Englishman had returned that morning with the inferior, stimulant-laced East India blend. It took little effort for him to convince the Source commander to serve the tea when beckoned.
The objects on the tray rattled like a curio cabinet in an earthquake as Guy Philliston stepped nervously over to the Master of Sinanju.
"For my son," Chiun ordered.
Sir Guy gathered up the teapot and obediently filled a cup from the serving tray with the steaming greenish liquid. He handed it to Remo.
"The English make wonderful servants," Chiun commented. "I once had a British butler. He was a superb lickspittle."
"He tried to poison us," Remo reminded him, accepting the tea from Sir Guy.
"Yes, but he was polite about it," Chiun replied.
Sir Guy looked anxiously from one man to the other. "Does sir require anything further?" he asked.
Chiun waved a dismissive hand. "That is all, dogsbody."
Relieved, Sir Guy gathered up his serving set. He moved swiftly back inside the side office.
After he was gone, Remo sipped quietly at the tea. He stared out the window thoughtfully.
The Master of Sinanju watched his pupil looking vacantly off into space. A frown crossed his face. "You are troubled," Chiun said.
Remo glanced at him. "Shouldn't I be?"
"No. You should not."
Remo looked back out the window. "Sue me," he said softly.
"What is it that you find so distressing?"
Remo snorted, almost spilling his tea. "Haven't you been paying attention to what's going on?" He set the cup down at his knees. "We've got World War III threatening to erupt in Europe. Or at least a second installment of World War II. According to Philliston's latest intelligence reports out of Germany, every skinhead or skinhead buddy is lining up to march on England. We've got one of the sickest times in modern history resurfacing right before our eyes." Remo exhaled loudly. "That's what's bothering me."
"Ah, yes," Chiun observed, "but were you not also troubled before leaving America?"
"That was different. I was ticked at that incident in New Hampshire. I didn't think I was making a difference back home. I'm over that now. This is a big deal."
Chiun nodded. "If you had been able to save the life of that woman who summoned images of your troubled youth, would you have been pleased?"
Remo shrugged. "Yeah. I guess so."
"You will never change, Remo Williams." Chiun smiled sadly. "Though I have labored lo these many years to alter your narrow perception of the world, my efforts have come to naught. The image you have of yourself is that of a fat sowboy in a white hat riding your trusty steed hither and thither in the defense of justice. I tell you this now, Remo. You are not here to root out injustice. You are here at the request of your emperor. The job of an assassin is a simple one. It is you who make it complex."
"I don't know," Remo said sullenly. "Maybe."
"It is fact," Chiun stated simply. "You were angry before coming here. Now you are no longer angry about the thing you were fleeing-you are angry at something new. When our work here is finished, you will find something even newer to be angry about. You are like a child flitting from one shiny toy to the next, never satisfied with what he has."
Remo knew that there was a great deal of truth in what Chiun was saying. He nodded reluctantly. "So what should I do?" he asked.
"Learn from my example," Chiun said. "See what we do as the business it is. And never take your work home with you."
Remo wanted to laugh. Chiun was talking about assassination like a bookkeeper talked about the company's accounting ledger.
"I'll try," Remo promised, shaking his head.
"You will find that such an outlook lessens the complications in life greatly," Chiun offered. He lifted his teacup and took a thoughtful sip.
Remo glanced back to the office where Guy Philliston was hiding with his tea set.
"Tell me the truth," Remo asked, pitching his voice low. "Wasn't there a little part of you that wanted to zap Hitler all those years ago just for the satisfaction?"
"Absolutely," Chiun replied. "For the satisfaction of a job well done. The little Hun's head on a post outside my village would have brought much work to our House. Lamentably it was not so."
Remo shook his head. "You'll never convince me that you didn't want to bump him off for the sheer pleasure of it."
Chiun's sad smile deepened.
"That is where we will forever differ, my son," the old Korean said.
There was a sudden stomping on the staircase from the apothecary shop. Both Masters of Sinanju grew silent as a young Source agent came running into the main office area. Ignoring the men on the desks, he went racing into the side office of Sir Guy Philliston.
"Jilted boyfriend?" Remo asked, with a nod to the glass office door.
"I do not wish to think about it," Chiun sniffed. A moment later Sir Guy appeared from the room, the young man following obediently in his wake. He marched over to a large television set in the corner of the room.
"This had better be important," Philliston complained. He shot a nervous glance at Remo and Chiun. "The lad is worked up about something on the telly," he explained. He scanned the front of the set. "How does one activate this box thingie?" he asked his underling.
The young assistant turned the TV on. The audio came on before the picture. The stentorian voice of a Thames television announcer blared across the room.
"...the scene in Paris this afternoon is a page torn from the history books. A document of surrender that has been authentically verified as being signed by the president of France himself was released to the world press not half an hour ago. In it control of Paris is ceded to the invasion force you see behind me now...."
The picture slowly congealed into recognizable shapes.
Remo blinked in disbelief as the camera image settled on a column of marching soldiers led by a single man on horseback.
He had seen the footage before. But always in the grainy black-and-white of decades-old newsreels. This was in full, glorious color and surround sound.
The Arc de Triomphe stood in the background, surmounting the hill of Chaillot in Paris. Before it, the soldiers marched proudly through the street, black boots kicking high in the familiar Nazi goose step. Red-and-black armbands were the single spots of brightness on their drab uniforms.
It was an image of historical deja vu.
"Is this supp
osed to be some kind of joke?" Remo asked angrily.
"I'm sure I don't know," Philliston said nervously. He quickly turned to his underling. "Is this some sort of Gallic prank?" he demanded.
The young man shook his head. "No, Sir Guy. It's everywhere on the radio and telly. The World Service, ITN, BBC television, Thames. It became official at noon today. The French have surrendered Paris completely."
The column of men-Remo could see there were only about two hundred of them in all-turned in a wide arc as they passed by the camera. The long white tail of the lone horse in the lead waved merrily in the late-summer air.
"Thought they would have learned their lesson last time out," Sir Guy Philliston commented.
The television report next cut to a scene of raucous cheering near the Brandenburg Gate in Germany. The joy and optimism that had been displayed by the German people at the fall of communism on this very site was replaced by a dance of sheer blood lust by a huge crowd of skinheads.
The television announcer droned on. "This was the scene in Germany just minutes after the announcement of French surrender came. Obviously word of the impending bloodless coup had been deliberately leaked to fascist groups throughout the republic of Germany. Men who had until yesterday planned to join forces with the attack on London, have since switched their allegiance to the group that now controls Paris. The new regime has welcomed them with open arms. However, it remains to be seen whether they will encounter resistance upon reaching the French border."
Remo hopped down from the desk.
"I think we can guarantee them that," he said somberly.
Chiun had alighted to the floor also in a flutter of silk. Together they headed for the door.
"The two of you are going in alone?" Philliston's youthful aide asked, surprised. He turned to his commander. "Might that not be just a touch dangerous, sir?"
Remo and Chiun were just sliding out into the hallway. They vanished down the staircase.
As they were leaving, Sir Guy had taken a longstemmed meerschaum pipe from his pocket. It was carved in the shape of Anne Boleyn's head. Tiny fissures indicated where the pipe had once been cracked and glued back together. Guy stuck the pipe between his lips and lit the already stuffed bowl with a single wooden match. He blew a thoughtful puff of smoke at the ceiling as he shook the flame off the match with a gentle back-and-forth movement.
"Yes," Sir Guy said finally, nodding. "For the Nazis."
THE IMAGE of the marching neo-Nazi forces was beamed via satellite to a small television set in a neat little office in the ancient stone fortress that perched on a small South American mountain peak separate from the rest of the IV village.
The bright blue eyes of Adolf Kluge turned a flinty gray as the line of goose-stepping soldiers marched beyond the camera's range.
Hands clenched in bloodless white knuckles, Kluge rose slowly from behind his large desk. Wordlessly he stepped from the office into the huge stone corridor.
He did not turn the television off.
Chapter 24
Harold Smith pushed aside the heavy drapes in his hotel room, revealing an inch-wide strip of dirty glass.
His vantage point afforded him a fairly unobstructed view of the street three stories below. Occasionally a rental truck whose sides had been repainted red and emblazoned with an enormous black swastika would drive slowly down the road, turning off on a distant side street.
They were making their presence known. A lazy victory lap for the mighty conquerors.
At the moment two sets of armed guards had converged before the hotel. They stood on the quaint cobbled road, chatting and laughing. Three of them smoked cigarettes, casually flicking ash, like students sitting in some fashionable French sidewalk cafe.
Their Nazi uniforms propelled Smith backward in time. Unlike yesterday, he didn't feel an overwhelming compulsion to race out and fight the men. In fact, he admitted now that he had taken leave of his good senses in the London Underground the day before. No, what Smith was feeling now was the old sense of cold moral outrage he had experienced in his youth as a member of the OSS.
He hadn't realized that time had dulled his ability to be viscerally offended. He supposed his duties as CURE director were to blame. After seeing so much of the vile underbelly of American society, it was difficult to work up a stomachful of bile over anything. It had taken neo-Nazi storm troopers on the streets of Paris to rekindle the flames of revulsion that had burned away in youth.
"Is it safe, Harold?" his wife's timid voice asked from behind him. She sat in a chair next to the bed. Her face was filled with confusion and tension.
"No," Smith said simply.
The neo-Nazis on the street laughed once loudly and then parted company. A group of four walked down the street; the other three headed into the hotel. Smith watched them disappear beneath the windowsill.
He couldn't allow his emotions to dictate his next few steps. If they were to get out of this alive, he had to approach the situation rationally.
"Maude, please go in the bathroom," he instructed.
She didn't object. She didn't question why. Maude Smith merely stood dutifully and walked into the small room to one side of the bed. The door shut a moment later.
Smith looked at the night table. The cheap phone sat on the varnished wood surface. It was useless.
The invaders had disrupted Paris phone service during the night. He wouldn't be able to contact Remo. Smith crouched down beside the bed. His legs and back ached as he reached beneath the dangling edge of the dust ruffle. He slid his briefcase out onto the worn rug.
Standing, Smith placed the briefcase on the neatly made bed. This accomplished, he sat down in the overstuffed easy chair his wife had vacated moments before.
Smith patiently stared at the cracked painted surface of the old wooden door.
Alone in the room, he waited.
PIERRE LEPOTAGE'S grandfather had bought the small hotel for a modest sum in the early part of the twentieth century. Since that time it had been a tradition for all members of Pierre's family to work there.
Young Pierre had gotten his start in the kitchen during World War II. Back then, the LePotage family had been forced to make the best of a bad situation.
During the Occupation; his grandfather had retired to doing light duty around the hotel. Pierre's father had taken charge behind the desk. And in the kitchen young Pierre had the awesome duty of personally spitting in every meal prepared for the occupying German force. By the end of a busy day, his mouth would be as dry as the North African desert.
Both father and grandfather were long-since dead. Pierre had many years ago assumed the vaunted family position of desk clerk for Hotel de LePotage. So much time had passed since his youth that he had assumed his days of spitting into diners' meals were far behind him.
Pierre was surprised, therefore, when he felt a welling need to expectorate. It came to him the moment the three German soldiers came through the front door of his small family-owned hotel.
"We are under orders to search every building," the leader snarled in crude French as the trio approached the desk.
"Of course," Pierre said. He didn't smile.
"You will accompany us," the skinhead commanded.
Pierre nodded his understanding. He went to the door behind the desk. Reaching around the wall into the small office, he took the big ring with the master key from its special hook above the desk that had been his grandfather's.
Key in hand, he came out from behind the desk and joined the trio of neo-Nazi soldiers.
"Have you men eaten?" Pierre asked.
"No," admitted the German soldier.
The party entered the small elevator. Pierre reached up to grab the gate.
"In that case I invite you to dinner. I will prepare the meal myself."
He pulled the old-fashioned metal gate down with a resounding clank.
SMITH HEARD THEM coming down the hallway. They were stopping at each room in turn.
It ha
d become obvious to the people staying there what was going on in the hotel. The objections tapered into a dull acceptance. Guests submitted their rooms and their personal belongings to the indignity of a search at the hands of the brutish skinhead soldiers.
When they at last came to his door, Smith had been sitting patiently for more than an hour.
He heard the footfalls on the old carpeted floor. There was not a rattle of keys as he expected. Just the sound of a single key sliding into the lock.
Smith got hastily up from the chair and reached for the briefcase on the bed.
The door sprang open into the room. Smith was caught like a deer in headlights. He was leaning over the bed, his frozen hand extended over the battered briefcase with its portable computer. He glanced at the door with a look of desperation.
Coming in from the dingy hallway, the neo-Nazis immediately sensed they had stumbled onto something valuable.
"Move away from there!" one of the soldiers ordered in French.
"Non!" Smith said. He lowered his hand farther. The briefcase was enticingly in reach.
Three machine guns raised threateningly.
"I will not tell you again," the skinhead in command said with sneering coldness.
Defeated, Smith withdrew his hand. Shoulders hunched, he stepped obediently over to the far side of the bed.
The three men hurried across the room. At the door Pierre LePotage looked mournfully at Harold Smith. This was terrible for business. He apologized to his guest with a wordless shrug.
Smith responded with an odd look. He was edging farther to the wall. He glanced down at the floor. It was the subtlest of gestures, but Pierre somehow caught the meaning in Smith's eyes at once. With a casualness that would have impressed the greatest living actor, the desk clerk eased himself back out into the hallway. He disappeared beyond the wall. "What do you suppose it is?" one of the skinheads said to his fellow soldiers, intrigue and greed in his voice.
"Probably more junk," said the lead soldier, studying the metal hasps. He glanced at Smith. "How do you open these?" he demanded.
"They are on a spring. You simply have to twist them," Smith explained.
The soldier placed his thumbs against the pair of locks. He pressed against them, hard. The split second he did so, Smith threw himself to the floor.
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