Failing Marks td-114

by Warren Murphy

  Kluge had only recently begun to lend credence to the old stories. Encountering the Sinanju Masters had been the catalyst. If they were real, then perhaps his father's fanciful stories were true, as well.

  Looking down on those pages, he only wished that someone had had the sense of history to save the original manuscripts from which this one book had been compiled. They would have been priceless. Kluge placed the book to one side.

  Aside from the lone manuscript, there was a folded Nazi flag tucked into a corner of the box. A memento of his late father's war days. There was other assorted junk-the Iron Cross, old letters. Kluge went instinctively to the two letters that were written and signed by Hitler himself. He had always sought these two out, even as a boy. He examined their dog-eared edges for a moment before putting them aside.

  It was a paltry pile of useless junk.

  The item Kluge had been looking for was at the bottom. Atop it, half-tucked into a yellowed envelope, was an old photograph.

  Kluge picked up the envelope. Pulling the photo out, he examined it carefully.

  He was disappointed to find that it was not as he hoped it would be. Most of the details of the map were clear; however, there had been an unintentional blurring in the lower right-hand corner of the picture.

  He cursed himself inwardly for not being certain the box containing the IV section of the map had been spirited away with the rest of his personal belongings. There had been so much planning at the end, and-truth be told-even though he imagined early on that the village was doomed, he had never expected that the men from Sinanju would find a way to bankrupt the secret Nazi group. He had always thought to set up IV elsewhere. Now that his businesses were gone and he was forced to resort to archaeological sleuthing, all he had to go on was a blurry old photograph.

  Well, not all, he realized.

  The final item in the box was in an old black felt bag, which Kluge lifted gently from the bottom of the metal container. Unknotting the dingy cord at the neck of the bag, Kluge slipped a flat square object from inside.

  Kluge examined the details of his family's section of the Siegfried block carving. It was in excellent shape. Better shape, in fact, than the IV square.

  That piece of the puzzle-now missing-had been collected by his father during the height of Nazi Germany's power. The descendants of Hagan's family were weak. And, as an odd quirk of fate would have it, they had found themselves at that unfortunate time in history to be of a particular religious sect that was not in line with the progressive reforms of the fascist government.

  After they were dead, Kluge's father had pillaged their belongings. His search had turned up not only the block carving, but also the stained-glass windows which would eventually be installed at the South American fortress of IV.

  Kluge supposed he owed the Hagan family a favor. If not for the picture of Siegfried holding a piece of the block in that window, he might never have realized the significance of the sections already in his possession.

  Kluge quickly slipped the block, as well as the picture of the missing piece, inside the cloth bag. Replacing the other items inside the safe-deposit box, he secured the lid. He put the container back inside the locker, shutting the door tightly.

  After he locked the door, he collected the black bag from the table.

  Though the Hagan block was no longer in his possession, he did have a photograph of it. That, along with his family's section and the Sinanju section so thoughtfully provided by Keijo Suk, had already given him a fairly strong idea where the treasure might be hidden.

  But he needed to know for certain. There was one section left. And Adolf Kluge knew where it would be.

  He hurried from the room, not bothering to tell the obese bank manager Riefenstahl that he was through.

  Chapter 17

  The North Korean government was surprisingly generous in loaning its plane to the Master of Sinanju and his party. Provided, of course, that the Master of Sinanju not blame the actions of Keijo Suk on the North Korean government.

  Via the pilot's radio, Chiun had flatly stated that there would be no provisions. Government authorities had said that this was good; too, and told the pilot to do as he was told.

  The jet had been cheerily refueled and allowed to take off from Pyongyang airport without delay. To Remo's delight and Chiun's dismay, there were no British situation comedies being played on the plane.

  The long flight back to Germany was uneventful. As the plane finally began its descent over Berlin, Remo looked out the window at the rapidly growing rooftops.

  "It feels like we just left here," he griped.

  "I will not complain," Heidi said in her soft Spanish accent. "I spend far too little time here."

  "Do not talk of spending, swindler," Chiun accused from the seat behind them.

  "Is he going to start again?" Heidi asked Remo.

  "One thing you should know about him," Remo explained. "He may quiet down for a continent or two, but he never really stops."

  "Really, Remo, I do not know why you would converse with this flimflammer," Chiun called over the top of the seat. "We merely agreed to do business with her-we do not have to be nice to her. Look on her as you would a rat catcher or the Rooty Rotor man."

  "This is your deal, Little Father," Remo reminded him. "At this point I'm just going along to zap Kluge."

  "Remember that when we find the gold," Chiun cautioned. With that, the Master of Sinanju fell silent.

  Remo rolled his eyes. "If we find it," he muttered.

  "We have three-quarters of the map," Heidi reminded him. "Success may be in our grasp." She nodded serenely. "It is as it was intended to be."

  "How so?" Remo asked, bored. He was looking out the window for the regimented runway lines of Tegel Airport.

  "Siegfried was actually quite clever," Heidi said. "According to my family records, which date back to the time the carving was made, Siegfried wished that the money be divided equitably at the time of his passing. His son would have a segment, as well as each of our ancestors. At the time of his death, the location of the fourth piece would be revealed and the three interested parties would be able to find the Hoard. We could then divide it in thirds."

  Behind them, Chiun snorted. "Poppycock," he volunteered.

  Heidi pressed ahead. "With our two factions united, we need only bring aboard the descendant of Siegfried. If he is willing, we could all be much richer by morning."

  "Wait a minute," Remo said, spinning away from the window. "You're not talking about cutting a deal with Kluge?"

  "If necessary," Heidi admitted.

  "Any separate deals you make will come out of your fifty percent," Chiun piped in.

  "Think of another option," Remo told Heidi. She shrugged.

  "We do not necessarily need to make a deal," she suggested. "As long as we acquire his portion of the block carving."

  "No deals," Remo said firmly. He turned back to the small window. The airport runway was racing rapidly up to meet them.

  Heidi sighed. "As you wish. It is a shame, however. We have come so far to fulfill the wishes of an ancient hero. This quest was intended by Siegfried to be a group effort by those deserving of the treasure."

  "I deserve it all," called the Master of Sinanju's squeaky voice.

  The Korean jet touched down with a heavy jounce and a shriek of tires.

  AS HE WAITED in the car, Hirn Zeitzler touched the small flesh-colored bandage on his nose with delicate fingertips.

  It still hurt, but nowhere near as much as it had when his nose rings had been ripped out.

  That was two weeks ago.

  Two weeks since the killer with the dead eyes had assaulted Hirn and his neo-Nazi friends in the Schweinebraten Bier Hall in Juterbog. Two weeks since the same man had killed Gus Holloway and Kempten Olmutz-Hohenzollerkirchen. Two weeks since the deaths of Nazi sympathizers had stopped. The assassin was obviously gone.

  And with his departure, those who had been lucky enough to survive his att
acks had woven tales of great heroism in which they played the dual role of both victim and hero.

  Hirn's nose had been shredded so badly that it had required more than forty stitches to piece it back together. He had spent much of the past two weeks in great pain and with his proboscis swathed lavishly in gauze bandages. However, any discomfort he may have felt was not enough to stop Hirn from claiming that he was one of the ones who had stopped the assassin in his tracks.

  Since the attacks by the killer had ceased after his encounter with Hirn, he felt safe making this boast.

  Of course, he had had the good sense to wait a week and a half before bringing it up among the neoNazi beer-hall circuit. After all, Hirn wasn't completely stupid. The last thing he wanted was to invite the angry return of the man who had liberated him of not only his nose rings, but also of much of the cartilaginous ridge between his nasal hemispheres.

  Once he had begun weaving his tall tales, it had taken just under two days for Hirn to actually begin believing his own stories concerning his deadly encounter with the mysterious assassin.

  As they waited in the car, Hirn and his skinhead companions whiled away the time laughing and cursing as they recounted the story to one another. Each of the men managed to embellish the account further.

  One of the other two-a youth named Erwin-had already gotten the remnants of his nose pierced. A silver swastika dangled on a chain from out the cluster of deep red furrows where his skin had been pieced together.

  "Did that hurt?" Hirn asked, pointing to the chain. At the moment, he had no strong desire to have anyone poke anything through his nose.

  "Not as much as it hurt for that American!" Erwin said with a raucous laugh.

  Though they hadn't a clue what he meant, the other skinheads laughed uproariously.

  The air inside the vehicle was fetid, the interiors of the windows covered with a thick fog of condensation. Their laughter carried to the sidewalk outside. Eventually, and with much difficulty, they got control of themselves. Eyes watering, they took long drinks from cans of thick German beer.

  "Is he coming?" Erwin asked after he was through swilling his beer. He scratched the tip of his nose.

  Hirn could not yet bring himself to do that. He was afraid his nose would come loose under his fingers-"What time is it?" he asked.

  As if on cue, the rear door of the vehicle popped open. The trio of skinheads searched through the pile of trash on the seats and floor for their guns. Only Erwin found his. From the passenger's-side seat, he pushed the gun toward the figure who was climbing in the rear of the car next to Hirn Zeitzler.

  As Erwin did so, Adolf Kluge grabbed the gun in his left hand, at the same time launching forward with his right. The rabbit punch connected with Erwin's quilt-work nose.

  Howling in pain, Erwin released the gun. He grabbed at his nose, which had begun to spring several major leaks, none of which at the customary openings.

  Kluge settled in beside Hirn, tossing Erwin's gun to the mountain of discarded cans in the footwell. "I do not have time for your stupidity," Kluge warned.

  "Heil Hitler," Hirn said proudly. He slurred the words.

  Kluge ignored him. "We must hurry," he said to Hirn.

  Erwin cried anew as a fresh seam opened up along the bridge of his nose.

  "Shut him up," Kluge hissed to the man behind the wheel.

  The other skinhead in the front seat did his best to quiet Erwin. It seemed to help, for it gave the bleeding neo-Nazi someone against whom he could vent his anger.

  As the two men in the front seat got into a slapping fight, Kluge concentrated on Hirn.

  "You have contacted your men?" the IV leader asked.

  "Yes, sir," Hirn enthused drunkenly. "How many?"

  "Almost one hundred," Him said.

  "How many?" Kluge repeated, more angry this time.

  Hirn glanced up at Erwin. He was still bleeding as he fought with the driver. His hands were slick with blood.

  "Fifty-eight," Hirn admitted. "But I called one hundred," he added quickly. "More than one hundred. But this was all that agreed to go. You must understand, Herr Kluge, the failure in Paris over the summer weakened the movement. No one has the belly for it. And the American killer who was slaughtering our men did even more damage. The three of us stopped him too late."

  "You did not stop him at all, idiot!" Kluge snapped. "Save your tales of glory for the fools with whom you spend your drunken nights."

  Hirn was like a chastised dog before his furious master. He grew very quiet, staring nervously at the head of IV.

  "Fifty-eight," Kluge complained to himself. He shook his head. "It will have to do." He turned to Hirn. "You have rented the vehicles?"

  "I had my men do it this morning."

  "Good. See to it that all of your men show up at the designated rendezvous. I want fifty-eight there, Hirn. Not fifty-six. Not fifty-seven. It is going to be difficult enough with so few. Is that understood?"

  Hirn looked at Erwin. The bleeding was slowing, but he was still a bloodstained mess.

  "Yes, sir," Hirn said enthusiastically.

  "Fine," Kluge said. "Now, before we can leave on this expedition, I need one last thing."

  "Sir?"

  Blue eyes washed in gray fixed on the young skinhead.

  "I need you to steal a block of wood."

  THE STOLPE FAMILY castle was a huge old-world edifice resting on a jagged slab of rock in the Harz Mountains in the Niedersachsen region of north-central Germany. It sprawled morosely across the craggy mountain peak in hideous contrast to the beautiful early-winter countryside through which they had just passed.

  As they drove up the winding black road to the castle's front entrance, Remo noted the only thing that might have made the scene complete would have been a dose of crackling lightning and a couple of howling wolves.

  "I don't want to sound rude or anything," Remo said as they passed beneath the rusted portcullis and into the spacious inner courtyard, "but this has got to be the crummiest castle I've ever seen."

  "It has been in my family for generations," Heidi countered, a faraway look in her azure eyes. Remo could tell by her tone that she didn't disagree with his assessment. Following Heidi's instructions, he took the smooth path that skirted the inner battlements. Remo parked their rented car near the massive stone entrance to the tall, circular donjon.

  "What is that?" the Master of Sinanju asked in disgust as they exited the car. He pointed to a deep furrow that had been carved along the exterior wall of the inner tower.

  Heidi's cheeks flushed. Remo was surprised that the woman who had been so brave and ruthless in South America and Korea could be embarrassed.

  "My uncle's idea. He was the last Stolpe to live here. It is supposed to be a moat."

  "A moat?" Chiun asked. "At the interior? Tell me, girl, why was your uncle not committed to an asylum? This defacement is obviously the work of a deranged mind."

  Again Heidi didn't argue.

  "He thought that this was the image of a castle people would like. You see, we are forced in better weather to rent out to tourists," she said sadly.

  Remo couldn't help but feel sorry for her. "That's a shame," he said, consolingly.

  "A shame?" Chiun scoffed. "It is a crime. A fine home like this should never be turned over to fat American hamburger eaters and their squealing offspring."

  "I agree." Heidi nodded. "And it will not be again if we are successful. Come, the carving is in here."

  She led them up the half-dozen steep steps and through the rounded door frame of the old dungeon wing.

  "This building predates the time of Otto the Great," Heidi remarked as she led them through a narrow corridor.

  Chiun snorted.

  "Did I say something wrong again?" Heidi asked warily.

  "It's just that Otto wasn't so great as far as we're concerned," Remo said. "He used us to help him beat back the Magyars and enslave the Poles and the Bohemians, but then he got all caught up with the Church
of Rome. Which," he said to Chiun, "I don't think is all that bad an idea."

  "Spoken like one who was raised by virginal wimple wearers," Chiun commented.

  "The nuns weren't so bad," Remo said defensively.

  "Go on," Chiun said, striking his chest. "Defend them if you feel you must. Each ungrateful word twists the knife further into your poor old father's ailing heart."

  "Put a sock in it, Tallulah Bankhead," Remo suggested.

  The corridor ended at a narrow staircase. This led down into the old dungeon of the castle. At the bottom of the stairs, a replica of an old-fashioned wooden door was slightly ajar. Flickering torchlight, as well as hushed voices, came from within the room beyond. There was the sound of metal scraping against rock.

  "There should not be anyone here," Heidi whispered.

  Remo pressed his fingers to his lips. He and Chiun slipped down the staircase, making no more noise than a pair of thousand-year-old spirits. Heidi followed on tiptoes.

  The voices grew louder as they neared the open door.

  "How am I supposed to know?" someone said in German. "He said it was behind one of these."

  "I checked those already," insisted another.

  Remo-who was the only member of their group not fluent in German-stuck his head around the door frame. He caught sight of three figures inside one of the dungeon cells. Their actions were illuminated by a burning torch that had been jammed into a metal hoop in the wall.

  Remo was surprised to find he recognized the trio of skinheads. Each of the three men he had met at the Schweinebraten Bier Hall carried a crowbar that he was jamming into the large fissures between the stones of the cell wall.

  "Wait here," Remo whispered to Heidi. Curious, he sauntered into the room along with the Master of Sinanju. The men in the cell were so engrossed in their work that they didn't notice their visitors.

  Remo paused near the rusted bars of the cell. He leaned against the open door.

  "Hey, fellas," Remo said brightly. "What are you doing nosing around in here?"