Failing Marks td-114

by Warren Murphy

  But there was still the matter of the duty he had been hired to perform.

  His flight from Berlin connected with another in Moscow. The plane he took from Russia carried him across the remainder of Europe and on into Asia. When he finally landed in the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, Keijo Suk was exhausted.

  But Suk didn't have time to rest.

  In Berlin he was the official representative of North Korea's Culture and Art Ministry. Allegedly sent to "promote positive global understanding" with the German people, Keijo Suk had in truth been sent to the West in order to form ties with the former Communists of the former East Germany who were vying for positions of power in the new, united Germany.

  As a member of his nation's elite, Suk was allowed the privilege of owning a fine Western automobile. His Ford Taurus was waiting for him at the airport in Pyongyang.

  When he drove out into the streets of the North Korean capital, Suk didn't head for his small apartment. He instead turned north, driving out of the city into the featureless, flat expanse that was the Korean countryside.

  The official People's Highway was dotted with few cars-fewer still as he drove farther northwest. The traffic he met was largely people on foot or on bicycles.

  Eventually the pedestrian traffic ended completely. He found himself on a long multilaned stretch of barren highway that appeared to go nowhere.

  But Keijo Suk knew better than that. He knew precisely where this long road ended. He arrived at the rocky shores of the Korean west coast a little after sundown. The highway simply stopped dead, and a small footpath that seemed as old as the stars in the dark black canvas of the night sky angled down off the road. At the other end of the path, Suk spied bright square patches of yellow-the lights of a lonely fishing village.

  Leaving his car on the highway, Suk skirted the edge of the village. He had no strong desire to draw unnecessary attention to himself.

  A massive garbage heap overflowed onto the ground beyond the highway at the rear of the nearest houses. Though it was cold, rats cavorted freely through the piles of ordure.

  Suk had to pull the tails of his dress shirt up around his mouth and nose in order to ward off the stench. The smell was so overpowering, his eyes watered. Unlike the rest of the population of North Korea, the people of this village ate well. The evidence was everywhere he stepped.

  Scraping the muck from his shoes, Suk continued past the massive dump.

  The village was positioned on the shore of West Korean Bay. Powerful gusts of early-winter wind whistled in off the churning black waters, stabbing frigid knives through layers of clothing. The only article appropriate for the weather was Suk's thick Western winter coat. It did him no good. He shivered madly as he walked stealthily forward.

  The backs of the houses were plain wood with no windows. Suk crept past the homes, careful not to alert the occupants. His nervous heart was ringing in his ears.

  The village ended in a small rise that led up to a solitary house. This dwelling was far more ornate than the rest. Parts of it seemed to have been constructed at vastly different periods of history. There was evidence of early Roman influence in the foundation, along with the practicality of ancient Greece. The frippery of the Renaissance, as well as that of Victorian architecture, was also present.

  To Suk, the home was a garish mishmash of styles.

  Checking first to see that he wasn't being followed, he made his anxious way up the path to the big, ugly house.

  He found the front door unlocked.

  Pushing open the door, Suk slipped inside, relieved to be able to shut out the persistent howling wind.

  There was a light switch next to the door, but he dared not use it. Instead, he pulled a powerful flashlight from the pocket of his heavy down jacket.

  As he shone the light around the interior of the first room, Keijo Suk's jaw nearly hit the floor. Every spot his flashlight illuminated was filled with gold and jewels. It was more than a king's ransom, more than that of ten kings. In fact, enough treasure was crammed into this one room alone to ransom every ruler in the history of mankind.

  Suk had developed a powerful love for material wealth since assuming his post in Berlin. That was his reason for being here. It was difficult for him to break the initial numbing trance this fabulous store of wealth had put him under.

  After a few moments of slack jawed gawking, Suk managed to pull himself together. He had a job to do. Stepping around the room, he began to search methodically through the bags of jewels, the golden statues and the gem-encrusted chests of heaping ingots.

  IT TOOK HIM two solid hours of searching, but he finally found what he was after.

  The lights in the village had winked out one by one. All had gone to bed for the night, never noticing the strange flashes of light that came from the house on the hill.

  The object of Suk's search was propped up in a small room adjacent to the first. He had almost skipped searching this tiny chamber when his initial flashlight sweep failed to illuminate a single diamond.

  The room looked to be some sort of library. There were huge leather-bound books, as well as a number of rolled parchment scrolls. The books were lined up on shelves while the scrolls were squirreled away in an ornate mahogany wall unit divided into tiny cubbyholes.

  The object rested on a separate wall unit along the narrow distant wall. Suk recognized it immediately. It was exactly as the man in Germany had described it.

  Suk had to step over a pair of large stone tablets that sat in the center of the floor. He pulled the object of his quest down from the shelf. Unbeknownst to him, Suk left a trail of freshly disturbed dust in its wake.

  He picked his way back out into the outer room. Across the room, flushed with triumph, Keijo Suk gave in to the urge to grab a handful of gold coins from an urn near the door. He couldn't help himself.

  Like mints in a fancy restaurant, they sat there waiting to be taken.

  Opening the door, Suk paused. He reached over and grabbed a few more handfuls of gold coins. Hands shaking, he stuffed the coins into the pockets of his coat. A few fell to the floor. Suk hardly noticed.

  Giddy with success, Keijo Suk hurried back out into the frigid Korean night, slamming the door tightly behind him.

  In the weak Asian moonlight, the three coins Suk had dropped glowed dully on the living-room floor of the Master of Sinanju.

  Chapter 11

  The corridors of Folcroft Sanitarium were cloaked in chilly semidarkness as Remo Williams roamed up from the basement rooms in which he and Chiun had been staying since arriving back in the United States.

  Ten days had passed since he had lost the elusive head of IV in the mountains of Argentina. Ten days of inactivity, ten days that Adolf Kluge would have used to burrow himself further and further away from the prying eyes of the world.

  When he had returned to the top of the mountain, Remo found a computer area in one of the old temple rooms. Someone had hastily sifted through everything and boxed up and carted off whatever was deemed necessary. Everything else had been left.

  The computers had been smashed to pieces, their hard drives destroyed.

  Virtually.

  They had been damaged, but apparently not enough. Smith was able to access a fraction of what was left on one of the hard drives. From this, the CURE director was able to reconstruct the entire structure of IV's finances.

  Remo had never seen his employer appear quite as shocked as when Smith successfully broke the IV encoding system and uncovered the vast holdings of the neo-Nazi organization.

  Smith had immediately set to work cutting the purse strings to IV. Some corporations he sold off; others he forced into bankruptcy. It took five whole days of work, but Smith had finally finished that afternoon. Wherever Kluge was hidden, he would not be able to access any IV funds.

  Once the finances were out of the way, Smith was able to finally devote full attention to locating the head of IV. So far Smith had had no luck. And without a trail to follow, Remo w
as helpless to do anything.

  Remo wandered off the elevator on the second floor of Folcroft's administrative wing.

  Smith's outer office was empty. Mrs. Mikulka had gone home hours before. Remo walked through the secretary's drab little work area and pushed open the door to Harold Smith's slightly larger but no less drab office.

  Smith glanced up from his work when Remo entered.

  "Nothing yet," he said. He looked back down at the computer screen set into his desktop. Smith's weary eyes scanned back and forth along thin lines of text. The dull amber glow of the computer screen cast a demonic glow across the CURE director's pale, haggard features.

  The Master of Sinanju sat cross-legged on the threadbare rug before Smith's desk. Crossing the room, Remo sank down into a lotus position before him.

  "Did you sleep well?" Chiun asked.

  "Not a wink," Remo replied.

  "Sleeplessness does not a great assassin make," Chiun intoned. He was a pool of calm.

  "Did you write that little aphorism for the next Official Assassin's Newsletter?" Remo deadpanned.

  Chiun's brow furrowed. "Is there such a publication?"

  Remo shook his head. "No," he sighed.

  Chiun nodded. "I did not think there was, for no one contacted me. I sincerely hope that when there is, I will be the cover story of its premier issue."

  "Speaking of grand delusions," Remo said, "any luck with either of your statue ideas?"

  Chiun shook his head. "Lamentably, no," he said. "Emperor Smith has been far too busy with his current project. He has offered to take the matter under advisement."

  As good as dead, Remo thought. Aloud, he said, "I'll put in a good word for you."

  Chiun nodded. The two men fell silent. The only sound in the room was the incessant tapping of Smith's fingers as they struck against the high-tech surface of his desk.

  Remo and Chiun sat in stony silence for more than two hours when the phone on Smith's desk suddenly squawked loudly. Smith had been deeply engrossed in the seemingly endless scrolling text on his computer screen. The ringing shook him from his work with a start.

  It was Folcroft's outside line. Sanitarium business. Smith reached for the receiver, at the same time looking at his watch. He frowned at the lateness of the hour.

  "Smith," he said tartly. His features bunched into an unhappy mass as he attempted to discern what the speaker was saying. All at once, his eyes opened wide. He held the phone out to Chiun. "I believe it is for you."

  Chiun scooped up the phone. Remo raised a quizzical eyebrow as the Master of Sinanju announced his formal title in archaic Korean.

  "Who is it?" Remo mouthed.

  "I do not know," Smith said with a frown. "However, I believe he was speaking rather frantically in Korean."

  "Korean?" Remo said. Though his hearing was acute enough to have heard the speaker, he hadn't been interested enough to focus.

  "They repeated 'Sinanju' several times. Is it possible that it is someone from Chiun's village?"

  "I don't know," Remo admitted. His face registered intrigue.

  He watched Chiun carefully. The Master of Sinanju's expression was unreadable. He tried to listen, but Chiun had pressed the receiver tightly against his shell-like ear. It was impossible for Remo to eavesdrop.

  Smith cleared his throat. "Remo, I am not comfortable with the prospect that someone from Sinanju might have this number. There are security considerations."

  Smith's admonishments were drowned out by the crashing of the handset onto the cradle of the phone. At the same time, a pained howl rose up from the very soul of the Master of Sinanju. It was a cry of both pain and rage.

  Remo and Smith both wore wary expressions as they looked over at the elderly Korean.

  "Oh, the dastards!" Chiun hissed. He was panting so hard Smith thought he might be having a heart attack.

  "What is it?" Remo asked, concerned.

  "Thieves! Scoundrels! Oh, the perfidy!" Chiun drummed his fist against his bony chest. He wheeled on Remo. "We must be off at once!" he cried.

  "Off?" Remo said. "Off where?"

  "To Korea, of course," Chiun snapped. "That this could happen after lo these many years. What is this world the gods have thrust down around one as trusting as I?"

  "Chiun," Remo interjected, "I don't know what that was all about, but I am not going to Korea." Chiun wheeled. An accusing nail stabbed the air between them.

  "Betrayal?" Chiun cried in shock. "From my own son?"

  "How can I betray you? Dammit, I don't even know what the hell you're upset about."

  "The treasure," Chiun explained, seething. His hazel eyes were furious. "The vast stores of priceless tribute to generations of greatness that is the House of Sinanju have been swept from the floors of my home like driftwood in a ferocious monsoon." He gripped fistfuls of brocade kimono fabric. "I have been robbed, Remo!" he wailed.

  Remo let the tension drain from his shoulders. "Is that all?" he said, relieved.

  When he saw the sense of relief in his pupil's face, Chiun snapped back into outrage mode. "How dare you be calm?!" he accused. A bony finger quivered at Remo. "The man you call father has been grossly violated. Thieves have pillaged my most prized possessions."

  "That's too bad," Remo said. "Really. It's just that I thought there was something really wrong."

  "'Really'?" Chiun cried. "'Really'?" His voice grew increasingly frenzied as he repeated the word. Although it was long after midnight, Smith was concerned Chiun's screams would be overheard. He shot a cautious look at his closed office door.

  "Please, Master Chiun," Smith begged.

  The Master of Sinanju spun on him, his long robes twirling madly. "Stay out of this, white," Chiun menaced.

  "Look," Remo said, attempting to be the voice of reason, "the treasure was stolen before. We got it back then, and I'm sure we'll get it back now. We can go to Sinanju as soon as we've cleared up this Four business."

  "No," Chiun insisted, tugging at his tufts of wispy hair in frustration. "It must be now. Every day we dally allows the trail to grow ever colder."

  Remo was determined. He was about to insist that they stay put when Smith broke into their conversation.

  "If I may interject," the CURE director said. Chiun twirled on him, eyes pinpricks of white-hot rage.

  "I said mind your own business," he snapped.

  "I only wanted to say that I have had little luck finding this Kluge. And, frankly, your presence here is drawing undue attention."

  "You see," Chiun insisted, shifting gears so fast Remo swore he heard grinding. Though he spoke to Remo, he stabbed a bony finger at Smith. "The wisdom of a true emperor. Even Smith wishes us to go."

  "If something comes up, I will contact you in Sinanju," Smith offered reasonably. "You still have a phone, correct?"

  "The only one in the village," Chiun replied.

  "Then it is settled," Smith said. Inwardly he was greatly relieved. He wasn't comfortable when Remo and Chiun stayed at Folcroft for extended periods of time.

  "Don't I get any say in this?" Remo asked.

  "No," said Smith and Chiun in unison.

  Remo threw up his hands in defeat. "Fine," he said, exhaling loudly. "We'll go to Sinanju."

  Whirling, Chiun raised a defiant hand as he marched over to the door. He flung it open grandly. "And woe to he who would pilfer the treasure of the most awesome house of assassins in the history of creation." He stormed outside.

  "Yadda, yadda, yadda," Remo grumbled to Smith. His face held the look of a man totally devoid of enthusiasm.

  Hands in his pockets, Remo followed Chiun reluctantly from the office.

  Chapter 12

  Adolf Kluge was born in La Plata, the capital of the province of Buenos Aires in Argentina.

  In spite of the fact that it was the country's national language, Kluge hadn't heard a word of Spanish spoken until he was nearly seven years old. By that time, he already knew that he was different from the people around him.


  No. Not just different. Adolf Kluge was better. Even before he could walk, the parents of young Adolf had taught their precious blue-eyed offspring that he was superior to all others. This-he would come to realize later in life-included them.

  His proud Nazi parents had fled their homeland during the persecution that came in the wake of the Second World War. Wounded in the early days of the Polish incursion, his father had sat out the war as nothing more than an SS bureaucrat. If the brutality of the Nazi secret police force had never come to light, he might have been able to resume his anonymous life after the war. Unfortunately for the senior Kluge, his name turned up in several key files concerning the torture and deaths of dozens of suspected Allied spies. He had been forced to flee to South America in order to escape prosecution.

  The Nazis of Argentina were a close-knit group. They lived together, socialized only with their peers, married one another and raised their children in the old way. And, most of all, they kept the Nazi dream of global domination alive long after the world thought a stake had been driven through its evil heart.

  Kluge was born in the early 1950s into a community fueled by bitter hatreds and a festering, impotent rage at the treatment it received from the outside world.

  As the community of Nazi exiles grew, so did its members' desire for a place to call home. Germany was out of the question. None of them could ever go back. Not under the climate that dominated so much of world opinion.

  It was more than ten full years after the fall of Berlin that IV village was established. As a boy, Kluge remembered driving up with his parents to see the homes under construction. To the little child who had seen his parents' beloved homeland only in old photographs, it was as if they had somehow magically driven across the Atlantic and into the mountains of Bavaria. The funds looted by Hitler's regime and held by Swiss bankers had been used to re-create a small scrap of Germany for that nation's most pitiful outcasts.

  Adolf Kluge would never forget how his father had stopped their car in the shade of the old stone fortress. As his mother stared in silence at the homes beyond the large open field, his father wept openly at the sight of the picturesque little houses.