Warren Murphy: Failing Marks

Kempten leaned back and shoved once more against the door. It sprang abruptly open. The old man found himself flying out into a garbage-filled alley. He landed in a heap atop a pile of fetid, rain-soaked plastic bags.

Hurrying, Kempten used the grimy alley wall to pull himself to his feet. As he moved, his dry tongue stabbed around the filterless end of his imported cigarette.

Coughing madly, he turned away from the garbage heap ...and came face-to-face with the very man he was avoiding. The horrid spasm that racked his lungs froze in his throat.

Eyes flat, Remo allowed the rusted beer hall door to swing quietly shut behind him. The raucous shouts from within grew muffled, replaced with the sounds of distant traffic. Car horns honked angry complaints somewhere away from the alley.

Remo spoke but one word. "Four."

Still leaning against the alley wall, Kempten made an unpleasant face. Taking a deep drag on his cigarette, he blew a cloud of defiant smoke in Remo's face.

He was smiling contemptuously, showing off his row of jack-o'-lantern teeth, when it occurred to him that Remo was no longer standing before him. The smoke cloud had missed its target. Kempten frowned.

He was still frowning when Remo reappeared beside him.

"Didn't you catch the Surgeon General's warning on these?" he whispered with quiet menace.

Remo reached out and yanked the cigarette from Kempten's mouth. Somehow, half of Kempten's lower lip came with it. As the old Nazi screamed in pain, Remo stomped both lip and butt beneath the toe of his Italian loafer.

"Four," Remo said again.

"Go to hell," Kempten snarled. He spit a bloody glob of phlegm at Remo. Remo sidestepped the expectorated ball.

"Age before beauty," Remo said. Grabbing up a handful of the old Nazi's greasy, yellowed hair, he twisted.

To Kempten, it felt as if his scalp had caught fire. He was acutely aware of each individual hair follicle as it burned a laser-precise hole through to his brain. Pain like nothing he had ever known made him scream in sheer agony.

"Pain on," said Remo, giving the hair a final twist. "Pain off," he added. He loosened the pressure.

The old man was surprised at himself. He had always thought he would be able to hold out under torture.

The words came in a flood.

"There is a village," Kempten breathed wetly. "It is a haven for those who are reviled by the world."

"Why aren't you there?" Remo asked.

Kempten missed the sarcasm completely. He puffed his chest out proudly. "This is my home," he said. "I will not be driven from it."

"Spoken like a true fascist homesteader," Remo said. "Where is this village?"

Kempten shrugged. "I do not know."

"Not good enough," Remo said, grabbing at another clump of filthy hair. He lifted the old man off the ground.

"South America!" Kempten shrieked. "Beyond that, I cannot say!"

Remo knew the old Nazi was telling the truth. His pain level was far too high for him to be able to sustain a lie. Remo released Kempten's hair. Tangled bits dropped in filthy clumps to the grimy alley floor.

"I do not know where the village is," the old man continued, panting heavily. "That is a privilege reserved only for those who choose to make it their home."

"How do you contact them?" Remo demanded.

"A telephone number. I can give it to you," he added helpfully. He began searching through his grubby pockets. After a moment, he produced a small scrap of paper. Like everything else about Kempten Olmutz-Hohenzollerkirchen, the paper was a sickly brownish yellow. He handed it to Remo.

Remo scanned the numbers. They meant nothing to him. He tucked the paper in the pocket of his chinos.

While searching for the paper, Kempten had removed a battered pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. Hands shaking, he tapped one from the rest, pasting it to the clotting blood on his lower lip. With a dirty silver lighter, he ignited the tip. The cigarette burned a bright orange.

Kempten waggled the cigarette at Remo. He shrugged his wasted shoulders feebly.

"It is customary, is it not?" he said, indicating the cigarette with a nod.

Remo nodded. "Knock yourself out," he replied, folding his arms across his chest.

Kempten took a long, thoughtful drag. He exhaled mightily into the foul air of the alley. Beyond the closed metal door, the endless party within the beer hall continued its muffled hum. Kempten knew that he would never see his favorite corner booth again.

When his cigarette was nearly finished, the old Nazi took it from his mouth and stared at the glowing tip.

"The village is well guarded," he said absently. "Even for someone of your abilities, it will be dangerous."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Remo grumbled, uncrossing his arms impatiently. "Will you hurry up with that thing?"

Kempten replaced the cigarette. He took one final, great pull. The tip of the cigarette burned brightly, and his lungs filled with the soft, comforting smoke. Kempten blew the last puff of smoke into the air.

"You will die there," he said smugly. He dropped the spent butt to a filthy puddle at his feet.

Remo smiled grimly. "Maybe. But better there than here," he said as he reached out with a thickwristed hand for Kempten's throat.

WHEN HE LEFT the alley a few moments later, all that could be seen of the late Kempten Olmutz-Hohenzollerkirchen was a pair of stained black shoes sticking out of an oversized plastic garbage bag.

The old Nazi's body with its collapsed ribs and lungs would not be found for two weeks. By then the anonymous IV village would lie in ruins and an ancient myth would threaten to bring the economy of Germany to the very edge of bankruptcy.

Remo Williams would take credit for the former, but he would swear until his dying day that the latter was not his fault.

Chapter 5

When Herman brought him the news of the disappearance of old Kempten, Adolf Kluge was in the process of packing up his office. There were cardboard boxes piled on the floor around his big desk. Kluge abandoned the box he had been filling and dropped woodenly into his chair, considering the import of the young man's words.

"When?" the head of IV asked.

"Around three o'clock, Berlin time," his aide replied. "It was him again."

Kluge glanced up. "The Asian was not with him?" he asked.

"The older one was not seen," Herman admitted. Kluge shook his head unhappily. "That does not mean that he was not there," he sighed.

"So you have said."

"How do we know all this?"

"Our operatives are in place. Per your instructions, they went immediately to his most likely targets. Kempten was on the list."

Kluge's mouth opened in shock. "If they were there, why did they not kill Kempten themselves?"

"They arrived at the beer hall after the younger Master of Sinanju. They could only watch as he led the old one outside."

"And they did not think to follow, obviously," Kluge said sarcastically. He threw up his hands in amazement.

"Those were not your instructions," Herman explained.

"Of course not," Kluge snapped. "If they had killed old Kempten, they might have ended this right then and there. But no. I did not fill out a form in triplicate instructing them to do so." He wheeled around, staring at the ancient mantelpiece stretching along the outer wall. Like many of the other fine antiques in the massive stone temple, the mantel had been imported from Germany. "Freakish dunderheads," Kluge muttered under his breath.

"What are your instructions, Herr Kluge?" Herman asked after an uncomfortably long moment had passed by in silence.

Kluge barely heard the words. He found himself staring at an object on the mantel.

Getting slowly to his feet, Kluge walked over to the fireplace. He took down the item that had drawn his attention, feeling its weight in his hands.