The leader of the SS was impressed by Schatz's unparalleled talent for brutally savage interrogation. Since the Gestapo had become part of the SS, no one protested when Himmler stole Schatz away to become his personal assistant.
Schatz was taken to the seat of Axis power. Eventually Himmler had grown to rely on his young colonel. So much so that he one day brought him along to an important meeting in the chancellery in Berlin.
Schatz had never expected the fuhrer to be at the gathering. He had thought it would be a collection of SS officials, as had been the case in many of the other meetings he had attended since joining the upper echelon of the secret state-police force.
His shock when Hitler entered the room was obvious-even humorous-to all gathered. Schatz was like a star-struck American teenager who had just run into Veronica Lake on a Hollywood sidewalk.
Hitler had laughed off the attention. The rest did, as well. The meeting was allowed to continue. Schatz made a good show of getting himself under control. But the truth was he never got over that first thrill of seeing Germany's supreme warlord face-to-face.
It was not only Hitler.
That the man was charismatic was an understatement. He held a fascination for the German people that was misunderstood and forever mischaracterized by the outside world. They were like helpless moths drawn to an open flame.
But the fuhrer was only part of the equation. It was what he represented that was even more important. Hitler had a vision for the future of Germany that had captured the hearts and the souls of millions of Germans.
The Third Reich. A thousand-year Teutonic empire.
Nils Schatz believed not only in Hitler-he believed passionately in the idea of the reich.
His wholehearted belief in the Third Reich remained strong up until one fateful morning only a few days before its spectacular collapse.
Things were already bleak when news was brought into the SS from a captain who was supposed to be stationed in Italy. For some reason the man had seen fit to abandon his post. He had traveled all the way back to Germany during some of the heaviest fighting of the war.
Schatz had intercepted the captain on his way to deliver a message to Heinrich Himmler. When pressed by Schatz, the man said simply that he brought word to those highest up in the modern Hun empire.
"Hun? That is insulting to your people," Schatz had sneered, his mien utterly disdainful.
"That is what the Master of Sinanju called us," the captain had responded.
"Who?" Nils Schatz had asked. With Berlin tumbling down around his ears, he had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with fools.
"The Master of Sinanju," the captain repeated, as if the name alone explained the man.
"Yes," said Schatz slowly. "And what is this message?"
"The Master wishes for me to tell the funny little man with the funny little mustache that death is on its way."
Nils Schatz grew pale. Not with fear-he had no idea at that time who this Master of Sinanju was and therefore had no reason to fear. No, the thing that drained the blood from the face of Nils Schatz was pure, unbridled rage.
While Allied bombs dropped on Berlin, Schatz had personally dragged the man down to an interrogation cell. For the captain's insolence in the manner in which he characterized the chancellor of Germany, Schatz delivered the beating of a lifetime. He asked repeatedly who this Master of Sinanju was and how he had managed to turn an officer of the SS so completely.
Schatz questioned the man for four hours. He used every method of torture he could think of yet the man stubbornly refused to break. It was as if he had already experienced a pain so great that nothing Schatz could do to him could even come close to matching whatever force had sent him fleeing back to Germany.
Finally Schatz had given up. He signed the execution order personally and had returned, sweating from his labors, to his office. It was only in a later meeting with Himmler that he mentioned the captain and his strange message.
He never forgot the look that crossed the SS head's taciturn face when he mentioned the Master of Sinanju.
"When did you receive this message?" Himmler demanded.
"I am not sure," Schatz admitted. "Perhaps, nine, perhaps ten o'clock this morning."
"And what time is it now? Quickly, quickly!"
"Six o'clock, sir," Schatz had answered. Himmler's normally bland face grew wild.
"We must see the chancellor," he hissed. He hurried from the conference room where they had been meeting. Confused, Schatz followed.
The streets were littered with debris. Bombs whistled endlessly around their speeding staff car as Schatz and Himmler raced to the fuhrer's bunker beneath the bombed-out chancellery building.
The word among the Nazi elite was that the fuhrer was even now planning his withdrawal from the city. It was well-known that he intended to flee to the south, where Field Marshal Schoerner's army group in Czechoslovakia and that of Field Marshal Kesselring were still intact. Hitler had every intention of joining them and using their collective forces to strike out anew against the accursed Allies.
Upon greeting Himmler and Schatz in the bunker, Hitler was vibrant and upbeat. Entirely unlike the accounts that would eventually surface detailing his last days.
The fuhrer noticed Himmler's sickly expression instantly. At the SS leader's urging, the two men went into a private conference room.
Schatz never knew precisely what was said in that meeting, but he had a strong suspicion.
The meeting with Himmler took all of ten minutes. When they again stepped out into the common room, Hitler was a drained man. His vitality was gone, his vision of a Nazi future all but destroyed.
Schatz and Himmler left the bunker together. When they parted company later that night, it was the last time Nils Schatz ever saw his mentor. A disguised Himmler was captured by Allied forces later that night while attempting to flee Germany.
Hitler lasted only another two days. A coward who was finally faced with a choice of death by his own hand or death at the hands of the Master of Sinanju, the fuhrer chose the former. He committed suicide rather than suffer the wrath of the mysterious stranger.
The vaunted Third Reich was over. And with it, a young SS officer's dreams of glory. While Russian troops swarmed through Berlin, Nils Schatz slipped into the night.
Others escaped, as well. With the gold and priceless art treasures they had looted from all over Europe while the war had raged, these former Nazis set up a system to see that they and their kind would be safe from persecution. This band of fugitives founded what would eventually become known as IV.
While Schatz hadn't come up with the name, he wholeheartedly supported its purpose. To establish a new, true thousand-year German reich. The Fourth Reich.
But IV had not lived up to its purpose. The founding members were now retired. Most had died off. There were few around who understood the importance of their work. And of those who did not understand, Adolf Kluge was the worst offender.
Kluge had taken over IV more than ten years before. He was a young man. Barely in his forties. He didn't understand what IV represented to the men of Schatz's generation. No one who didn't live through those terrible times could understand.
No, Kluge-while a capable man and a dedicated fascist was simply too young and inexperienced to appreciate that for which Schatz and his followers pined.
Nils Schatz understood.
And that was why Schatz had taken matters into his own hands. That was why he had stolen millions of dollars of IV money to finance this operation. And that was why he was sitting here now, in a Paris apartment, staring at a blank television screen.
He was an old man now. And for the first time in his life he finally understood the fear that had engulfed both Himmler and Hitler all those years ago. In another lifetime.
He heard the phone ring out in the living room of the apartment. Fritz answered it.
Schatz was too preoccupied to worry about who might be calling.
His thoughts were of
the Master of Sinanju. The same man who had chased Himmler from Germany and frightened the fuhrer to death. He was here. In Europe. Alive. And his protege had just vowed to kill Schatz.
He was furious at himself for not having Michtler hook up a remote charge to the explosives. It would have been-what?-another fifty dollars in parts. Schatz had underestimated his opponent. He had assumed the mustard gas would be enough.
"Not again," he muttered to himself. Slowly he began tapping his cane against the floorboards. "Not again," he repeated, more firmly this time.
In the outer room Fritz hung up the phone. On reluctant feet he walked up to the small bedroom. He found Nils Schatz sitting in front of the television. "Nils?"
"Not again!" Schatz screamed, wheeling on Fritz. He stabbed his cane like a fencer's sword.
Fritz recoiled in shock, grabbing at the door frame. The look of terror on his subordinate's face seemed to have a calming effect on Schatz. He dropped his cane tip to the floor, bracing his hands atop the blunt handle.
"Who was that?" he demanded.
Fritz seemed hesitant to speak. He took a few deep breaths to compose himself.
"Kluge," Fritz said at last. He waited for another outburst from Schatz. None came.
"What did our friend, Herr Kluge, want?" Schatz asked. He tipped his head, turning a lazy eye on Fritz.
"He has learned of the missing funds."
"Who told him?" Schatz asked flatly.
Fritz shrugged his bony shoulders. "I do not know. I am not certain anyone told him. He periodically reviews all IV accounts."
"Ah, yes. Kluge the accountant. Very brave. Very noble." Schatz wore a displeased expression. "How did he find me here?"
"IV still has resources in Europe. Contacts," Fritz added with a feeble shrug.
Schatz nodded. "When I have the time, I will learn the names of these contacts."
"Herr Kluge wishes for us all to return."
"No time," Schatz said, shaking his head. As if this reminded him of something, he smacked himself on the forehead. "Time! The planes surely have arrived by now. We are sitting here like old washerwomen while London burns."
He got up, leaving the closed-circuit television behind him. All thoughts of the Master of Sinanju and his protege were banished from his mind.
It was fear that had done the others in. Even his own mentor, Himmler, had succumbed. Nils Schatz wouldn't allow mindless fear to rule his destiny. Leaving his fears behind him, he went out to the living room to watch the new blitzkrieg on the apartment's small black-and-white TV.
Chapter 17
The bombings had turned London into a sight-seeing mecca.
Eager tourists-their suitcases bulging with camera equipment and extra rolls of film-had been taking every available flight into the city over the past two days hoping to get a glimpse of yet another bombing attack by the as yet unexplained German surplus aircraft.
Germany itself had disavowed any knowledge of the planes' origin and emphatically denied that the government of unified Germany was involved in any way. To show their good faith the Germans had offered a team of special government agents to assist in the investigation.
England had resisted the notion of accepting outside aid. The official statement from the government was that there was no difficulty that could not be defeated with a little British pluck.
Remo nearly choked with laughter when Helene Marie-Simone informed him of this.
"They didn't even send up planes until the Germans were nearly out of bombs," he said with a derisive snort.
They were touring Trafalgar Square. The Nelson Monument with its huge pedestal loomed two hundred feet above them. The imposing statue of Lord Nelson high above stared out over the bustling city.
The German bombs had knocked out London's phone lines. Remo hadn't heard from Smith since the day before, and so they had traveled to England in hopes of locating the CURE director. It would have helped if he had some idea of the hotel at which the Smiths were staying.
"It was thought in the RAF that the planes had originated in Northern Ireland," Helene explained. "All available technology and manpower was directed there."
Remo rubbed tears of mirth from his eyes, still chuckling lightly.
"This country is amazing," he sniffled.
The Master of Sinanju, walking between Remo and Helene, shook his head. "Not any longer," he intoned sadly. "During the reign of Henry the Benign this land knew greatness. Now it is a pale imitation of its former self."
"The benign?" Helene asked Remo.
"Henry VIII," Remo replied. "Chopped off his wives' heads, but he always paid on time."
"Prompt payment for services rendered must not be treated lightly," Chiun said, raising an instructive talon. "England in good King Henry's day treated us well."
The crowd through which they passed had grown thicker. Remo could see the tail of a downed plane jutting up at a right angle from the street. Swarms of people were gathered around it, snapping pictures. A gaggle of milling bobbies in blue uniforms and high police hats didn't attempt to hold the crowd back. They stood at attention, arms behind their backs, faces glancing intently around the square. What they were looking for, Remo could not begin to fathom.
"I am sorry," Helene pressed Chiun, "but are you claiming to have been an assassin to Henry the Eighth?"
Chiun fixed her with a baleful glare.
"Do I look to you, madam, to be five centuries old?"
Helene hesitated. "Well-"
"Our family," Remo explained quickly, lest an insensitive answer from the French agent cause her head to suffer the same fate as that of Henry's wives. "An ancestor worked for Henry the Eighth."
With Remo in the lead, they had managed to push through the crowd. The aircraft around which the crush of people had assembled had been shot down by an RAF missile. Freed of its payload minutes before the final, fateful attack, the plane hadn't been destroyed wholly in midair. A piece of the tail section had been blown away, causing the plane to lurch forward and sail headlong into the hind end of a parked double-decker bus. Fortunately the bus had been unoccupied at the time.
The plane stood upright, enmeshed in the rear of the large red bus.
"Messerschmitt," Helene said with a knowing nod.
"It sure is," Remo agreed. "A big mess. What do you think, Little Father?" he said to Chiun. "I'll bet you thought you saw the last of these when you offed old Schicklgruber."
"Schicklgruber?" Helene asked, surprised. "Surely you do not mean Hitler?"
"You know any other Schicklgrubers?" Remo said blandly.
Helene looked at Chiun. He examined the downed plane, blithely indifferent to her gaze.
"Are you saying he killed Hitler?" she asked Remo.
Remo didn't want to get into an afternoon of Sinanju history lessons with the French spy. "Indirectly," he admitted vaguely.
"The coward took poison and shot himself before I was able to carry out the deed," Chiun interjected. "A double death for a white-livered lunatic."
"It was totally self-serving," Remo explained. "You see, with wars people go out and hire local help. Who needs a professional assassin when you can slap a uniform on the grocery boy and send him off to fight for you?"
"No one," Chiun lamented.
"Which is why Chiun offered the Allied powers Hitler's head on a post. He figured he'd take out the guy who was causing all the trouble in the world gratis. After that everyone would line up for our services."
"But the little fool robbed me of my prize," Chiun said bitterly.
"I assume the plan did not work out as he envisioned it would?" Helene asked blandly.
"Let's just say that after the little jerk shot himself, the House of Sinanju entered a bit of a dry spell."
Helene was losing interest in Chiun and Remo's fanciful take on history. It was not that she did not entirely disbelieve them-after all, she had seen what these two were capable of. But France and now England were faced with a very real crisis. The plane
before them was a part of that threat.
"Why would someone use these out-of-date planes now?" she mused. The question was aimed at no one in particular.
"Because so far they're working," Remo suggested dryly.
"But not any longer, my dear boy," a cheery voice said from behind them.
Remo knew that voice. It was the same one that had spoken to Helene on her cellular phone in Paris. Remo closed his eyes patiently. He didn't think he had the will to deal with this right now.
When he looked back at the speaker, the first thing he saw was that Helene Marie-Simone had grown dreamy eyed. Chiun's face held a look of utter disdain.
Before the three of them stood a man so handsome he made the average male model look as though his gene pool had been set on Puree. Remo knew him as Sir Guy Philliston. Head of the British intelligence agency known simply as Source. Their paths had crossed several times over the years. Remo had never been particularly impressed. The same, apparently, couldn't be said for Helene.
"Sir Guy," the French agent said in breathily accented English. Her face was flushed.
Remo frowned as he glanced at her. "Guy?" he asked. "I thought that was 'Gay.'"
"Quite," said Philliston. A look of minor displeasure sent the tiniest wrinkles up around his perfect aquiline nose. "Good to see you all again. Jolly good. Perhaps at your age you don't remember me, my old friend." He extended a perfectly manicured hand to Chiun. "Sir Guy Philliston," he said with a smile that flashed a row of flawlessly capped white teeth that had never seen the interior of a British dentist's office. The Phillistons imported their own personal D.D.S. from America.
Chiun looked first at the hand, then at Sir Guy. Spurning both, he looked over at the crashed plane. "Yes, quite," droned Philliston, replacing his hand at his side with the gentlest of efforts. He had no desire to create a wrinkle in his impeccably tailored Savile Row suit. "Here to tour the scene of battle, eh?" he said to Remo and Helene. "Quite a matchup yesterday. Jolly good sport."
"Your team was a little late on the field," Remo said.
"Utter cock-up, that was," Philliston admitted. "It seems RAF and our boys were at cross-purposes. No bother. Everything is sorted out nicely now."
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