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.
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