The Empire Dreams td-113

by Warren Murphy

General Cresson was standing alone just beyond the French barriers. He was at full attention; back erect, chest jutting forward proudly, staring directly at Remo and Chiun. His jaw quivered almost imperceptibly as he brought his hands together in a deliberate, repetitive motion. There was a faint hint of moisture in his flint black eyes.

  All at once the entire platoon of French army soldiers on the other side of the road exploded in a spontaneous burst of cheers and applause. The sound thundered up the motorway.

  Remo cast a wary eye toward the city. He looked back at the cheering French forces.

  "Hey, you wanna keep it down?" Remo called. "Sheesh," he complained to Chiun as they began walking, "no wonder this city keeps getting invaded. No one knows when to shut up."

  They continued up the road for Paris.

  Chapter 26

  Nils Schatz watched the reports out of Germany with something approaching pure, undiluted rapture. Everything was going exactly according to plan. Before the Berlin Wall came down, IV had worked for many years to establish a network of people sympathetic to the cause within the borders of both East and West Germany.

  That fool Kluge had back-burnered the project, concentrating the organization's resources on technology and foreign investment. But the men were already there. Most of them would have worked for nothing, so great was their hatred. Indeed, many of them had been without funds since Adolf Kluge had assumed control of IV.

  But Schatz had seen to it that they were paid. With the money he had been stealing all these months, he had gotten them supplies, weapons. And they were ready.

  Neo-Nazi groups were already massing on the other side of the Rhine. They were ready to march through France and on to Paris.

  The army of this new Germany had vowed to keep its people on the other side of the border, but Schatz knew that that would be impossible to do. Eventually there would be too many of them and they would come spilling over the border into France, sweeping across the country in a bloody wave so magnificent it would be impossible to stop.

  The movement had its sympathizers within the regular army, as well. Schatz was certain that, before the week was out, the German army would be on his side, as well.

  History was being made. Finally.

  The shameful stain that was the Nazis' ignoble defeat in World War II was on the verge of being finally and completely erased.

  The promise of IV would be realized in his lifetime. The Fourth Reich. The beginnings of a Teutonic empire that would span a thousand years.

  And he-Nils Schatz-would be its fuhrer.

  At the moment the leader of the reich was seated on the dais in the small auditorium of the Palais de l'Elysee.

  Sitting on the floor against one wall were the city's elite, including the president of France himself. They were being guarded by a group of handpicked skinheads.

  These were the ones with hope. He saw a piece of him in each of them. Every one of these young skinheads had the same love for blood that young Nils Schatz had had. He would train them to be his personal SS.

  For now it wasn't yet safe for Schatz to tour the streets of this conquered city. He had spent much of the day and long hours into the night watching the televised reports of the fall of Paris, reveling in his bold accomplishment.

  On the table before him was his walking stick. As he stared in wonder at the television screen, he rolled the cane back and forth absently between thumb and forefinger.

  He was aware of sharp footfalls coming in from the hallway. They came to a scuffling stop on the auditorium floor beneath the stage.

  "Fuhrer," Fritz called up to him.

  The newly promoted field marshal had a disturbed edge to his voice. Schatz held up a staying hand, not turning away from the television.

  Suddenly the CNN coverage he had been watching cut away for an interview with a former United States secretary of state. Schatz snarled, shutting off the television with the remote control. At last he turned his attention to Fritz.

  His assistant was not alone. With him were two skinhead guards. Between the pair of men was a beautiful young woman. She wore a set of handcuffs and an expression of utter hatred.

  "What have we here?" Schatz asked, amused.

  "This traitor was apprehended within the palace walls, Fuhrer," Fritz said crisply. "She has murdered several soldiers of the reich."

  Schatz gathered up his cane and stepped purposefully down from the stage. He walked over and stood toe-to-toe with Helene Marie-Simone.

  "How many men?" Schatz asked, looking at the girl.

  "Three guards," Fritz announced hotly.

  Schatz stared deeply into Helene's eyes. He didn't tear his gaze away as he issued orders to Fritz. "Pull two more from duty on the street. Place them at the place our brave men were murdered."

  "We have not many men to spare, Fuhrer," Fritz said nervously. "It is important that we have some presence on the streets. If the people were to realize how few men we actually have-"

  "Would you perhaps prefer that a lone terrorist like our young lady friend here were to steal in here in the dead of night and assassinate your fuhrer?" Schatz asked. The words were said playfully, but there was a cold undertone.

  Fritz snapped to attention. "Nein, mein Fuhrer!"

  "Go," Schatz ordered.

  Spinning on his heel, Fritz marched dutifully back out the auditorium door.

  "You are the one from Guernsey," Schatz mused. "You were in the company of the Master of Sinanju. Tell me, my young assassin, is he with you now?"

  Helene was not sure what a Master of Sinanju was. However, she had a sinking feeling that he was referring to either Remo or Chiun. She refused to play his game. Helene remained silent.

  Schatz continued to stare into her eyes. As if he could see through to her brain and read her every flitting thought.

  Helene's eyes strayed from his gaze only once. She shot a look to the president of France over against the wall. He seemed none the worse for wear.

  "I will tell you what I think," Schatz said when it became clear she would not answer voluntarily. "I think you are alone. I think that if the Master of Sinanju were with you, he would have made it inside with far greater ease than you. He does not come now, nor will he in the future. For he sees his superior in me."

  As he spoke, Schatz's eyes grew more and more wild. They held the look of a madman.

  In that instant DGSE agent Helene Marie-Simone had an epiphany. She knew with a certainty beyond simple knowledge that the psychotic old man before her intended to kill her.

  With great deliberateness Schatz ran the bronze end of his cane delicately beneath Helene's flawlessly shaped chin.

  "Permit me, my dear, to show you how the Fourth Reich deals with murderers."

  Chapter 27

  The light drizzle had ended in a ten-minute-long downpour. Afterward many of the storm clouds scudded east, revealing a spotty tapestry of distant stars.

  A few tenacious clouds remained above the city. Large, uncertain droplets of rain splattered to the wet ground as Remo and Chiun walked along the vacant sidewalks of Paris.

  They had encountered few neo-Nazis since entering the besieged capital. A few foot patrols. Infrequently a truck with a painted swastika on its side would rumble past.

  Obviously there were not many of them. The two hundred or so men Remo and Chiun had seen on television marching so proudly beneath the Arc de Triomphe must have been nearly the entire invading force.

  "It doesn't make sense," Remo mused as they walked. "Let's say for the sake of argument there are double the number of soldiers here than were on TV. That still only gives them an army of four hundred. Even I can't believe the French would turn over their capital to four hundred men."

  "There is more here than meets the nose," Chiun said.

  "Nose?" Remo asked. He turned to the Master of Sinanju. Chiun remained silent.

  Remo's eyes narrowed. As they continued down the street, he concentrated his olfactory senses on the minute particles suspended i
n the air around them.

  It took him a moment to locate what Chiun was referring to. When he did, he was annoyed at himself for not noticing it, as well. The rain had cleaned much of the odor from the air, but some of it still remained.

  "Mustard gas," Remo said with a somber nod. "I can smell the rotting canisters, too. They've got the gas and probably the bombs stored in the city somewhere."

  "Of that there is no doubt," Chiun said.

  "Which direction is it coming from?"

  "Every direction," the Master of Sinanju answered seriously. "These villains have turned this entire city into one gigantic boom device. That is why the French conceded defeat so readily."

  "This time," Remo clarified.

  "True," Chiun admitted. "But whatever their past history, they have in this instance recognized a true threat. We must tread lightly."

  "You don't have to tell me twice," said Remo.

  "We must tread lightly," Chiun repeated.

  "What was that for?" Remo asked.

  "In case you blow me up before I have a chance to warn you yet again," the Master of Sinanju explained simply. They continued on through the dimly lit streets of the City of Lights.

  FUHRER NILS SCHATZ of the German Fourth Reich watched over the shoulder of one of his young SS apprentices. The skinhead was trying to show the old Nazi how to navigate through the uncomplicated computer system that had come already installed on the machine.

  "This is a mouse, mein Fuhrer," the lad was saying. He rested his hand atop a palm-sized piece of plastic to the side of the computer. "With it, you move the small arrow on the screen."

  "The cursor," said Schatz.

  "Yes, mein Fuhrer," the skinhead said brightly. Schatz detested technology. But although he was loath to admit it, it would be necessary in the new order. Others would have these devices. He could not allow the Fourth Reich to be outstripped by other nations in the infancy of its thousand-year life.

  On the screen was a detailed map of Paris. Square red blocks indicated areas where explosives had been planted. Blue triangles showed the places that had been used for mustard-gas storage.

  "One need only move the cursor to either a triangle or a square," the skinhead explained.

  As he spoke he moved the cursor onto a red spot. Depressing the left mouse button with his index finger, the young man called up a computerized sheet that listed in detail the amount of ordnance that had been placed at that particular location.

  "It is quite simple," the youth offered.

  "Yes," Schatz said, lips pursed in a look of perpetual distaste. "Let me."

  The youth obediently stood, allowing Schatz to assume the seat before the computer. Leaning his cane against the side of the desk, Schatz sat down.

  He pressed the button on the mouse. Immediately the image on the screen changed to that of a gray background. Lines of text ran up the right side of the screen.

  "What did I do?" he asked sternly.

  "Nothing, mein Fuhrer," the skinhead explained. "That is the help function. You merely have to-" He reached over Schatz's shoulder in order to take control of the mouse.

  "No," Schatz snapped. "Tell me."

  Hurried footsteps racing into the room from the corridor interrupted the lesson. Schatz cast an angry eye over his shoulder.

  It was Fritz. Panicked once again. Fritz always seemed panicked about something lately. He was standing between the two skinhead guards Schatz kept with him at all times.

  "Mein fuhrer, Herr Kluge-" Fritz began. Schatz cut him off with a raised hand. He did not even look his way. As he spoke, he used the mouse to roll the cursor around the screen. The small arrow of light twirled drunkenly on the computer screen.

  "Do not speak of Kluge. Not in this, our finest hour. Kluge is a nothing, an infant. A coward. He has squandered the invaluable resources of IV on what? On economic matters. We are an organization for conquest. That fool in diapers never understood our true purpose."

  "I understand now that I should have put you in restraints."

  The cursor stopped dead. Schatz's withered old hand had frozen upon the smooth plastic mouse. He turned slowly around in his seat.

  "Kluge," he said with an almost imperceptible nod.

  The leader of IV stood just inside the door to the small office next to Fritz. His blue gray eyes were more enraged than they had been in the small village in Argentina. He had just spent two hours traveling through the empty streets of Paris and had seen the lunacy of Nils Schatz firsthand.

  "What were you thinking, you fool?" Kluge demanded.

  "I was thinking of that which you never dared think," Schatz answered. He picked up his cane from its resting spot beside the desk. Still seated, he toyed with it, slowly twirling the walking stick on the carpeted floor.

  "What? Of suicide?" Kluge snapped. "You pathetic old imbecile, you are out to ruin us."

  Schatz slammed the blunt end of his cane down on the floor. As quickly as it struck, he was pulling it up in the air, aiming it at Adolf Kluge.

  "Us?" Schatz snarled. His yellowed teeth ground viciously together. "I am not out to ruin us." The cane stabbed toward Kluge more violently. "However you, Herr Kluge, are an altogether other matter."

  REMO AND CHIUN MET their first real resistance within the borders of Paris on their way into the part of the city that housed its most famous tourist attractions.

  They were walking south on Rue de Clichy when they encountered a convoy of neo-Nazi vehicles. The entire column consisted of two stolen Hertz rental trucks that had been badly painted over in the colors of the Nazi flag.

  Remo and the Master of Sinanju continued padding down the damp sidewalk as the trucks slowly approached.

  "Shall I find out from these?" Chiun asked.

  "I suppose we're going to have to ask sometime," Remo said glumly.

  "It is preferable to wandering the streets aimlessly for the foreseeable future."

  Remo nodded. "I don't smell any explosives in them."

  "Nor do I," said Chiun.

  Remo stopped on the sidewalk, crossing his arms. As he did so, the Master of Sinanju stepped out into the road. The old Asian walked over into the middle of the wet street and turned to face the oncoming truck.

  DOWN THE ROAD the driver of the lead truck caught sight of the wizened figure in the amber glow of the truck's headlights.

  The truck wasn't going fast-only about fifteen miles per hour. The old man had plenty of time to get out of the way. In point of fact, he shouldn't have even been outside. It would be good to give him a little scare.

  The skinhead behind the wheel beeped the horn. The old man refused to budge.

  The skinhead depressed the horn harder this time, holding his palm atop it for a solid ten-second burst. The old man picked a piece of lint off his kimono sleeve.

  That was all the skinhead needed. There was a curfew in Paris. And he was under orders to enforce that curfew.

  With more force than was necessary, he clomped his heavy black boot down onto the accelerator. The truck lurched obediently forward.

  He watched the old man grow larger in the headlights as the truck bore down on him. The stranger still made no move to get out of the way.

  The skinhead felt a swelling tingle of excitement as the truck ate up the last few feet between him and his target.

  It was only at the last minute that he noticed another man standing on the sidewalk. No matter. He would attend to the second one later. Perhaps they would enlist him to scrape his old friend's remains from the front of the truck.

  The driver had only gotten the big truck up to twenty-five miles per hour before overtaking the tiny Asian.

  The wrinkled old face disappeared below the level of the dashboard. There was an instant where the skinhead behind the wheel swore he heard the crunch of brittle old bones.

  Then suddenly there was a painful shriek of wheels and the windshield was coming up very fast to meet him. And he realized in a blinding flash that he had been flung from his seat a
nd that the old man had somehow stopped the truck as solidly as if it had struck a concrete wall.

  The glass shattered against his face-shredding his pasty skin. He was propelled forward out of the truck.

  The skinhead soared over the head of the wrinkled old man, who held his hand against the front of the truck in a gesture so weak it looked like it would not have stopped a fistful of daisies.

  He landed on the pavement, skidding several yards before coming to a stop against a pair of fine leather loafers. The young skinhead looked up, blood running into his eyes.

  Looking down from above was the upside-down face of the man who had been standing on the sidewalk.

  "OUCH," REMO SAID with a smile. "That looked really painful."

  There was a screech of brakes, followed by a crash from the direction of the stalled truck.

  Remo glanced up in time to see Chiun bounding over to the sidewalk, robes billowing around him like an insanely inflating parachute.

  He had held the first truck just long enough for the second to plow into it, releasing his hold the instant the next driver slammed on his own brakes.

  The driverless vehicle careered forward, flipping over onto its side. It crashed headlong into a darkened building, half on the street, half on the sidewalk. Its wheels spun crazily as its engine continued to race.

  The next truck driver got control of his vehicle seconds after plowing into the rear of the first truck. He gripped the steering wheel for dear life as he slammed soundly on the brakes. Leaving a dozen yards' worth of black treads, the truck skidded across the wet street. It finally came to a gentle stop against a lamppost. High atop the pole, the faint yellow streetlight quivered ever so slightly from the truck's soft touch.

  The skinhead on the road pushed blood from his eyes with shaking hands as he watched a pair of men spill from the cab of the less damaged truck.

  As the men ran across the street, Chiun flounced up beside Remo.

  "Nice work," Remo said.

  "Of course," Chiun acknowledged, his tone indicating that he was surprised that Remo would have expected anything less. "Do you wish to save these pinheads for any reason?" he asked of the pair that were approaching.

  "No, this one will do," Remo said, nodding to the man on the ground.