Failing Marks td-114

by Warren Murphy

  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 di
rection. 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 c
arted 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.