Destroyer - The Empire Dreams Part 24

"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 ?oor.

"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 ?oor. 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 ?rst 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-n.a.z.i vehicles. The entire column consisted of two stolen Hertz rental trucks that had been badly painted over in the colors of the n.a.z.i ?ag.

Remo and the Master of Sinanju continued padding down the damp sidewalk as the trucks slowly approached."Shall I ?nd 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 ?gure in the amber glow of the truck's headlights.

The truck wasn't going fast-only about ?fteen 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 sc.r.a.pe his old friend's remains from the front of the truck.

The driver had only gotten the big truck up to twenty-?ve 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 ?ash that he had been ?ung from his seat and that the old man had somehow stopped the truck as solidly as if it had struck a concrete wall.

The gla.s.s 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 ?stful of daisies.

He landed on the pavement, skidding several yards before coming to a stop against a pair of ?ne 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 in?ating parachute.

He had held the ?rst 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, ?ipping 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 ?rst 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 ?nally 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 ?ounced 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.

Wordlessly Chiun whirled forward to intercept the advancing skinheads.

They had their weapons drawn and aimed at the Master of Sinanju, ready to open ?re. Chiun plowed straight into them faster than they could squeeze their triggers.

In a blur visible only to Remo, Chiun dropped his hands atop the helmets of the two men. A pair of simultaneous hollow plop- crunch noises followed. Their old-fashioned headgear collapsed like folding beach chairs around their ears. Quick as a ?ash, the Master of Sinanju carved a pair of smiley faces into the fronts of both helmets. Unlike Remo, he made certain his eyes were even.

He turned, holding the bodies by the necks for Remo's inspection. The helmet faces stared, unblinking, at Remo.

"Maybe you should try a nose," Remo suggested.

"You must develop an appreciation for minimalism," Chiun replied. He released the helmet-headed corpses. Leaving them in the street, he joined Remo and the injured skinhead.

The young man was suffering from only a few super?cial wounds. He grew more frightened as the Master of Sinanju approached.

"Keep him away!" he begged fearfully.

"Not to worry," Remo said. "It's my turn." Grabbing a knotted ?stful of neo-n.a.z.i shoulder muscle, Remo squeezed tightly. The young man's eyes bulged so hard they looked as if they might pop from their sockets. The pain was too intense to even scream.

Though his mouth was open wide, no sound emerged.

"That's level one," Remo said, easing back on the pressure. "Now tell me, who's behind this?"

"The fuhrer," the young man gasped.

Remo shot a look at Chiun. The Master of Sinanju stood more erect upon hearing the German t.i.tle. "Do better than that, sausage breath," Remo said. He squeezed harder.

"Nils Schatz!" the man cried in pain. "He is an old leader! From the time of the ?rst fuhrer!"

"Now we're getting somewhere," Remo said encouragingly. "Where can we ?nd this s.h.i.ts guy?""At the presidential palace," the skinhead answered.

Remo turned to Chiun. "You know where that is?"

"You refer to the Palais de l'Eysee?" Chiun asked the skinhead. The young man nodded. "I know the place," Chiun said to Remo.

Remo turned his attention back to the bloodied skinhead.

"When you meet the ?rst fuhrer, tell him Sinanju says to keep a seat warm for his understudy."

He drove two hard ?ngers into the frontal lobe of the whimpering neo-n.a.z.i.

"YOU ARE NOT in command," Kluge said. "I demand that you return with me to Argentina at once, before you further jeopardize our anonymity."

"We are no longer anonymous," Schatz sneered. "No thanks to you. Because of your cowardly leadership, we have squandered decades scurrying like frightened rats at the periphery of the world. I have accomplished that which you were afraid to do."

"I was not afraid, idiot!" Kluge screamed. "You've accomplished nothing. A stupid old man with a stupid old scheme of revenge against the world. 'Der Geist der stets verneint. '" Kluge spit the German words out like a curse. "'The The spirit that never dies.'

Pah! You should have died. Along with these insane hopes of military domination."

Schatz had remained seated since Kluge had arrived in this small of?ce in the Palais de L'Elysee. But at this last outburst from the IV leader, he pushed himself to his feet. Though it was unnecessary, he used his cane for support. He stared icily at Kluge.

"This insane hope is a reality," he said with cold simplicity.

"And what of Sinanju?" Kluge demanded. "Oh, yes, I know that both Masters of Sinanju have been here, on this very soil. And they were involved in your little-" he waved his hand impatiently "-foray into England."

Schatz shot a look at Fritz. The old man held his leader's glare for a few seconds before ?nally turning away. It was as good as an admission of guilt. Scowling, Schatz turned back to Kluge.

"They have yielded before the might of the reich."

"Hah," Kluge spit venomously. "They do not yield. They never yield. Do you have any idea the intricacies involved in our last encounter with those two? Whoever they work for in America tried to trace us through Platt-Deutsche. I managed to throw up a few computer roadblocks barely in time to keep them at bay. We lost that entire company. It was nearly a billion-dollar loss."

"Economics," Schatz snapped. "Technology. Your two mistresses. They have brought us to ruin."

"No, you have brought us to ruin. Face the truth, Schatz. I am the future of IV. You are its past."

"Do not be so certain of yourself, Adolf," Schatz said. He pointed to the pair of skinhead guards standing inside the door. "Take him," he ordered blandly.

Immediately the guards grabbed Adolf Kluge by the arms.

"Are you insane?" Kluge demanded, shocked.

"Have you not said so yourself?" Schatz asked with a simple shrug. He turned to his guards. "Put him in with the French prisoners. I will decide what to do with him later."

Kluge was too stunned to protest. The skinhead guards led him from the room and down the corridor. "Mein fuhrer, I am sorr-"

Fritz began with a helpless shrug of his bony shoulders.

The cane was up in an instant, resting against Fritz's pointy chin. The old man was too afraid to push it away. The cold end sat there, held aloft by Nils Schatz's trembling hand. Fritz could see a faint ?lm of dried blood and gore on its bronze tip. He swallowed in fear."Be relieved that you are not joining him," Schatz said menacingly. He lowered the cane to the ?oor. Fritz closed his eyes and heaved a sigh of relief. The second his eyes were shut Fritz felt a tremendous pressure against the side of his head. A blinding ?ash of light crashed in a furious wave from a point just behind his left ear.

Fritz reeled.

His eyes opened for a moment and he saw the room in a tilted haze. It took him a second to orient himself.

He realized that he had fallen to his knees. In the process he had somehow grabbed on to the chair that Nils Schatz had been sitting on in front of his computer.

His fuhrer and lifelong friend was before him, holding his favorite walking stick in a two-handed grip. To Fritz it seemed as if everything were moving in slow motion.

Schatz swung again. The metal end of the cane connected with a hollow crack.

Again the blinding pain.

Fritz lost his grip on the chair. He fell spreadeagled to the ?oor. With desperate hands he tried to push himself up to his creaking knees.

Above him Schatz swung a ?nal time. The heavy tip of the cane landed square in the back of Fritz's head. At last the skull cracked obediently and the old n.a.z.i fell once more to the ?oor. This time he didn't move.

Schatz withdrew a few steps from the corpse, panting excessively. He had to lean against the wall from his great exertion.

"In the future," Schatz said to the body, as if Fritz were still alive, "I would advise you, Fritz, to ask your fuhrer before giving out privileged information."

The young skinhead who had been aiding Schatz with the computer was still in the room. He stood at attention by the small terminal.

Schatz pointed at the body with his cane.

"See the ?eld marshal to his quarters," he instructed. "I believe he is ill." He walked from the room and up the long corridor.

Schatz had spoken it with such seriousness that the neo-n.a.z.i standing at the computer was uncertain whether or not his fuhrer was joking. However, not wishing to be on the receiving end of a punishment like the one Field Marshal Dunlitz had just gotten, the skinhead stooped dutifully to collect the body.

He carried the old dead n.a.z.i to his room.

Chapter 28.

He didn't enjoy the prospect of leaving his wife in such a dangerous climate, but Harold W. Smith had no other choice. For the moment he knew that she would be safe.

He stole quietly down the soggy streets of Paris in a borrowed black overcoat. Beneath it was hidden the gun he had taken from the dead skinhead back at his hotel. He held it awkwardly as he walked stif?y through the late-night air.