Failing Marks
( The Destroyer - 114 )
Warren Murphy
Richard Sapir
Golden Mirage
The losers or World War II and their descendants have carved out their own little slice of heaven in the mountains of Argentina. In this staging area to the Fourth Reich, the promise of the dream reborn dawned as bright as a new German mark. But when the Destroyer's brain was downloaded onto disks, he took the whole matter very personally. That put an end to the whole affair - almost.
Adolf Kluge, the head of the secret organization known as IV, has an eleventh-hour plan that may just refinance the whole sweet dream. He's come into some money: a centuries-old treasure belonging to the venerable house of Sinanju. But then, he isn't aware just how sensitive the Master of Sinanju is regarding this precious metal....
At first the idea of a trilogy turned me off. But then I thought about what I'm doing now - reading all the Friend books , then all the Nuihc books, then the Mr.Gordons, and so on. Basically taking the super-baddies and reading them in series. The downside is the years that pass, the upside is the continuity in the character. With this mini-series, it should be all upside!
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 th
e 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.
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