Failing Marks td-114

by Warren Murphy

  Kluge would never forget the feeling of contempt his father's emotional outburst had raised in him. For, at the tender age of five, Adolf Kluge was as insufferably arrogant as he was intelligent.

  Some people grew to rebel against that which they had been taught as children. Not Kluge. He fervently believed in the idea of the master race. He also fervently believed in his role as its eventual leader, a belief that became his driving ambition.

  At the private German-only school he attended as a youth alongside the children of other refugee Nazis, he achieved the highest honors of any student in its history. He excelled at languages, mastering more than a dozen tongues by the time he graduated high school.

  Kluge was sent to college abroad, studying in both England and the United States. The honors he received while away at school were such that, when his education was finally complete, he had left no doubt in the minds of his fellow villagers that he was the future of IV.

  As the years peeled away, Kluge assumed a small position on the leadership council of the village. At that time, IV was still dominated by old-timers who thought that the vaunted Fourth Reich was on the verge of unfolding. Kluge knew that this was insanity. The old fools refused to admit to the political realities of an ever changing world. If IV was to survive, it would have to adapt.

  Eventually and not unexpectedly, Adolf Kluge rose to his position as leader of IV. He was only the third in its history-the first from his generation.

  At this point in his life, he no longer felt compelled to flaunt his superiority. Rather, he simply excelled at everything he put his mind to.

  The life-styles of everyone in the village were enhanced because of Kluge's prudent investments. Unfortunately for the old surviving hard-liners, Adolf Kluge veered away from the principles of IV's founding.

  Even though he was dedicated in spirit to the principles of Adolf Hitler, Kluge recognized the futility of trying to establish the Fourth Reich in the way IV's founders intended.

  No one in the village seemed truly bothered by Kluge's leadership. Oh, they would scream and yell about the wrong-headed turn their nation of origin had taken, but they always returned to their cozy homes and warm meals. As long as their needs were met and their bellies were full, they didn't question the leadership of Adolf Kluge.

  Until Nils Schatz.

  One of the last of the original founders, Schatz had used stolen IV money to finance an invasion of Paris in a scheme that at its inception was doomed to fail. This maniac had brought the House of Sinanju down on all their heads.

  Schatz was dead now, but his legacy lived on. It was a waking nightmare.

  The money was all gone. The bank accounts were empty. The stocks and bonds were inaccessible. The companies were all under investigation. All IV assets were frozen.

  Kluge thought he had been careful to cover his tracks. He should have known. Given the timetable under which he had been forced to work, something must have been left.

  To his knowledge, every last scrap of information in the village had been destroyed. But some small thing must have survived. And whoever the men from Sinanju were working for had used that single thread to unravel the entire IV financial fabric.

  IV was destitute. As was its leader.

  With the companies all gone, Kluge had only a paltry hundred thousand dollars at his disposal. It was his innate intelligence that made him open the lone bank account in Germany. But it was his supreme arrogance that told him to put so little into it. Now even that money was gone.

  He had spent nearly every cent he had on a ridiculous dream. A bedtime story.

  But, in the end, it was all he had.

  Kluge sat alone in the back of the Berlin restaurant, lamenting the sad turn his fortunes had taken. When he went abroad, he was used to dining in only the finest eating establishments. The place he was in today was part of a fast-food chain brought over from America. The thick smell of grease made his gourmet stomach churn.

  Kluge kept his breathing shallow as he tried not to think about his sorry fate, but of course he couldn't help but dwell on it.

  It was desperation.

  IV would have been insolvent years ago if not for his leadership. His labors had always guaranteed him a lavish life-style. That life-style had been taken away from him in a flash. He could never hope to reclaim it without great risk.

  But this risk...

  It was insanity. Utter, foolish insanity. Yet what choice did he have?

  Kluge's heart skipped a beat as he saw a familiar face pass before the brightly painted window. Keijo Suk glanced in once as he passed by before continuing along the sidewalk.

  A minute later, he was inside the restaurant. Walking briskly across the virtually empty dining area, Suk slid into the booth across from Kluge. His fat face was flushed.

  "You were successful," Kluge said. He stared at the wrapped package the man had placed on the table between them.

  Keijo Suk nodded. "It was much easier than I thought." The Korean grinned and pushed the bundle over to Kluge.

  "That is because they were not there," Kluge said.

  He loosened the twine Suk had used to tie the bundle and carefully unfolded the paper. It fell away, revealing a slab of ancient petrified wood.

  It was in perfect condition. Much more so than the quarter that had been in his possession at the IV fortress.

  Kluge ran his fingertips across the uneven surface, feeling every ridge of the carved wood.

  In spite of his better instincts, he began to grow more confident. Why would Sinanju have saved this scrap of wood for so many years if it wasn't significant?

  He thought of the stained-glass window back at the ancient temple. How many times had he looked at it and not seen the piece of wood in Siegfried's hand? How could he possibly have missed something so significant for so long?

  Suk tapped his hand on the table, shaking Kluge from his trance.

  "I would like my money now," the Korean said.

  "I am sure you would." Kluge smiled.

  Looking down, he carefully folded the paper back up around the block carving. He stashed the bundle in a black leather valise that sat on the bench next to him. When he looked back up at Suk, his eyes were hooded.

  "I do not have the money," Kluge stated simply. Suk was taken aback by the German's frankness.

  "You do not have it with you." It was a statement, not a question.

  Kluge shook his head. "I do not have it at all. I knew you would be greedy, Keijo. I did not have enough initially to split in half. If I had offered you half of that pittance up front and half after you gave the stolen object to me, you would have laughed in my face. Likewise, I knew that if I told you I had paid you everything up front you would have simply left with my money without performing the service for which you had been hired."

  Keijo Suk shook his head in disbelief. "I have risked incurring the wrath of the Master of Sinanju for a scrap of firewood," he said, astonished.

  "And a healthy sum of money," Kluge argued. "Eighty thousand is still a lot, Keijo."

  "It was not enough," Suk snarled. He stood up, grabbing across the table for Kluge's valise.

  As Suk snatched for the handle, Kluge locked his hand around the Korean's wrist. Twisting the fist around, the German thrust his other hand forward, fingers extended and rigid. They connected solidly with Suk's shoulder.

  There was a crunch of bone and popping cartilage. Shocked air whooshed out of Suk's lungs.

  Unable even to cry out in pain, the Asian dropped back into his seat. His lungs ached as he strained to refill them. He gulped for air, at the same time grabbing his injured shoulder with his good hand.

  Kluge calmly retook his seat. He smiled grimly.

  "I made a deal with you, Keijo, and I intend to keep it. I do not have the money now. But from what I have seen, this will allow me to pay you the balance in a few days." He nodded to the valise. "I will even compensate you for any medical expenses you might incur."

  Suk shook his
head in impotent rage.

  "Of course," Kluge continued, "my generosity does not extend to anything the men from Sinanju might do to you. I am certain they frown on theft. It probably insults their honor or some other such nonsense."

  Kluge collected his valise. He stood to go. "When will I be paid?" Suk begged, his teeth clenched.

  "Soon, Keijo. Soon. Although, if I have judged you correctly, I would say that you left the home of the Master of Sinanju with more than just the block carving." He patted the valise. "You are a greedy bastard, Keijo. That is what I like about you." He stepped from the table.

  "My risks are my own," Suk called after him. He was nursing the pain in his shoulder.

  Kluge paused. "When one has nothing else to lose, risk becomes a tool of survival," he agreed. Adolf Kluge walked briskly away from the injured Korean. He crossed the linoleum floor of the sparsely filled restaurant and stepped out onto the crowded Berlin street.

  Chapter 13

  Standing just inside the doorway, hands jammed firmly against his hips, Remo was more than just a little miffed.

  "You mean to tell me you dragged my ass halfway around the world for a crummy handful of gold coins?" he demanded angrily.

  "It is not the amount that is significant. It is what it represents," the Reigning Master of Sinanju explained.

  They were in the packed living room of the Master's house in Sinanju. Bright sunlight shone through the tall windows, casting warming rays over only a fraction of five thousand years of accumulated tribute. The rest of the Sinanju treasure trove was stacked all around the house, like uneaten loaves of bread in an overproducing bakery.

  Chiun was stooping to examine the gold coins that Keijo Suk had dropped in his haste to leave several days before.

  "This is ridiculous," Remo complained. "You made me think they cleaned you out."

  "Today it is a handful," Chiun said seriously. "Tomorrow it is another. Where will it end?"

  "Judging from the pile of junk you have heaped around this dump, I'd say somewhere in the middle of the millionth century," Remo said.

  Chiun paid him no heed. He collected the three coins from the floor. Never in circulation at any time in history, they had been minted specifically for Sinanju by a grateful employer. They bore the face of Cleopatra on one side and the symbol of Sinanju on the other. Each coin would have been priceless to a collector.

  Chiun tossed the three coins into the copper urn next to the door. There were seven more jars stacked nearby, each brimming over with identical gold pieces.

  "Ah-hah!" Chiun announced.

  "What?" Remo asked, peeved. He was leaning on the door frame.

  "See how the villain pauses." Chiun pointed at the footprints in the dust near the door. "He thinks whether he should steal from the glorious House of Sinanju, thus sealing his fate. An evil and stupid creature, he gives in to temptation." He indicated a mass of scuffed prints. "More hesitation. I have committed my base act of thievery, he thinks. If I must die, let me be cast into the Void for more than one handful of coins." Chiun raised an instructive finger. "He fills his pockets and than scurries off into the black of night, fearful even in his flight of the awesome vengeance to which he has condemned himself."

  Remo looked at the marks on the floor. To him, they looked like a mass of dirty footprints.

  "If you say so," Remo said dubiously.

  A fire burned in the great iron furnace in the cellar, heating a huge cauldron of water, which in turn warmed the chilly air within the house. This method of heat dispersal had not become popular in the West until the twentieth century. The Master's House had enjoyed this luxury since the time of Plato.

  Chiun's caretaker and the man who had lit the fire in preparation for the Master of Sinanju's arrival was an aged villager named Pullyang. The man who had contacted Chiun at Folcroft, Pullyang stood near the archway that led into the next room. He rubbed his hands together nervously.

  "Master, I believe the thief was here, as well," the anxious caretaker said, voice tremulous.

  Chiun marched boldly across the room. Remo trailed him reluctantly, hands stuffed in his pockets. Pullyang indicated an open door off of the next room. Remo and Chiun peered in around the frame. Crazed dust patterns swirled in the beams of hot yellow light that poured in through the lone window.

  Remo knew the room to be a sort of library for the House of Sinanju. This was where nearly all the records of every past Master of Sinanju were kept.

  When Remo had first seen the room years before, Chiun had promised him that one day the scrolls of Remo's own masterhood would be placed in here beside the rest.

  "Whoop-de-do," Remo had said.

  Remo was not so glib today. He knew how much the histories of Sinanju meant to his teacher. The look of pain on Chiun's face was almost enough to make him forget his desire to get back to America in order to continue the search for Adolf Kluge.

  Remo saw the streak of upset dust at the same time as the Master of Sinanju.

  "Brigand!" Chiun cried when he realized what was missing. "Robber!" he shouted as he bounced over the debris field that was the floor. "Bandit!" he wailed, after he had made certain the ancient wood carving had not fallen to the sturdy old floor.

  "What was it?" Remo asked, stepping gingerly into the room. He had to climb over a pair of stone slabs.

  "A map to a treasure forever lost. A piece of a puzzle whose other fragments were scattered to the winds of history. An invaluable reminder of the folly of fools."

  "It doesn't sound that bad," Remo offered encouragingly.

  "Bad?" Chiun moaned. "It is terrible."

  "I'd say you made out okay," Remo said. "A couple of gold coins and a useless puzzle piece. We should get a lock for the front door. Maybe an alarm system." As Chiun continued to stare at the vacant spot on the shelf, Remo turned to Pullyang. "Is there electricity in this rathole of a village?" he asked.

  "Only in the Master's house," the caretaker ventured.

  "See, Chiun," Remo said. "An alarm system would be easy. I bet Smith could fix you up real nice."

  Chiun refused to be encouraged. His eyes never wavered from the barren spot on the shelf. Beside the marks in the dust, an ancient rusted battle helmet sat on the counter. A corroded falcon was locked in a perpetual struggle to take flight on the front of the headpiece.

  The look on his teacher's face was so forlorn as he stared at the shelf Remo couldn't help but feel a welling sadness of his own.

  Remo felt uncomfortable with someone else seeing Chiun in this inconsolable state. The old caretaker was hovering at the edge of the room, the mass of wrinkles around his aged eyes pinched to narrow slits.

  "We can handle it from here," Remo whispered softly to Pullyang.

  The aged caretaker wasn't certain if he should take the suggestion of the Master of Sinanju's white pupil.

  "Master?" he asked.

  Chiun didn't say a word. He raised a long-nailed hand, waving it dismissively. Pullyang bowed respectfully from the room. A moment later, the front door opened and closed.

  The Master of Sinanju continued to stare morosely at the empty spot on the shelf.

  This was not like Chiun. His angry reaction to the missing gold coins-that was Chiun. But by his own admission, the item stolen from this room had been worthless. Yet he seemed to grieve more for its loss than for the loss of his beloved gold. To Remo, it didn't make sense.

  "Chiun?" Remo said gently. "If it means that much to you, to hell with Kluge. We'll go after whoever did this. I promise you'll get everything back."

  Chiun at last looked up. There was still sadness in his eyes, but there was a sliver of pride, as well. "You are a good son, Remo," Chiun said. Remo felt his heart swell.

  "Look, I know what this stuff means to you. It means something to me, too. It's our history."

  Chiun nodded. "It is that," he said glumly. "More than you know. Come, Remo, sit down." He indicated the two stone tablets on the floor. Remo obediently sank to a sitting position
on the nearest slab. Chiun joined him on the other, arranging his orchid kimono hem neatly around his scissored knees. He settled easily into his role as instructor. Chiun closed his eyes, taking a deep steadying breath.

  "You know, Remo, of Master Bal-Mung," Chiun began.

  Remo nodded. "I know he's not on the A list," he said.

  There had been several Masters of Sinanju in the long history of the ancient house of assassins who had in some way or another disgraced their ancestors. Most of them were stricken from the official history. Bal-Mung was one of the lucky ones. As part of his earliest lessons, Remo had learned Bal-Mung's name along with all of the other past Masters. However, he had learned nothing more. Until today, Bal-Mung had just been a name on a list with no connecting story.

  "I have never told you the tale of Master Bal-Mung," Chiun began, "because it is a story that shames our House and all it represents."

  It pained Chiun to even discuss this. In deference to his teacher, Remo resisted making a smart-alecky remark.

  "What did he do?" Remo asked gently.

  "Bal-Mung committed the most grievous of sins. He squandered his masterhood on a fool's search," Chiun said bitterly. "Before him, there were two other Masters called Bal-Mung. After the time of his disgrace, their names were changed in our records so as not to cause them the shame of being associated with such a one. Shame to you, Bal-Mung of the Fruitless Quest."

  "He must have been pretty awful for someone to change the names of previous masters." Remo frowned.

  "In truth, this was not so," Chiun lamented. "Until the time of his disgrace, Bal-Mung served his House and ancestors well. He was not on the level of the Great Wang, of course. But he was still not entirely inadequate."

  Chiun's voice grew less inflected as he somberly related the painful tale of Bal-Mung's disgrace. "This occurred in the Sinanju Year of the Fire Petals, by your Western reckoning prior to 500 A.D. It happened that at that time Bal-Mung the Waster of Precious Time was known as Bal-Mung the Good. Not Great, for that is a title bestowed only at death. But Good. Good is not bad, Remo, remember this."