Warren Murphy: Failing Marks

He stared at the heavy article as he spoke.

"He has gotten to Kempten. He is therefore much closer to us," Kluge mused aloud. His eyes never strayed from the object in his hands. "It is only a matter of time before he reaches the village." He turned to his aide. "Tell the fools in Germany to regroup. If he has gotten the information we entrusted to old Kempten, then we know where he will have to go next."

The aide frowned. "You wish for them to return to South America?"

Kluge cast a withering eye on his aide. "No," he said with exaggerated patience. "My hope is that we may stop them before they leave Germany. Send them to the airport. The men from Sinanju will surely go there first before skipping off to South America, wouldn't you agree?"

Herman took Kluge's sarcasm without reaction. "I will let them know," he acknowledged.

"Please do," Kluge said. "For, God help us, our lives are in the hands of those bungling aberrations." Nodding his understanding, the aide stepped briskly from the cluttered room.

Only after Herman had gone did Kluge realize that he was still holding the object he had taken down from the mantel. It was a two-inch-thick block of petrified wood with a face approximately one square foot around. Ancient characters had been chiseled in the solid surface of the wood.

Although time had worn some of its carved features smooth, most were still plainly visible. Kluge stared at the wood for a long time.

When he finally spoke, his words were barely audible.

"There is a kernel of truth in all legends," he said.

Frowning, Adolf Kluge tossed the wood carving into the nearest packing crate.

Chapter 6

The Hotel Ein Dunkles was a tidy little building on Meinekestrasse just off the Kurfurstendamm, which until very recent German history had been the main street in isolated West Berlin.

Remo was whistling a cheery version of "The Star-Spangled Banner" as he pushed into the tidy lobby and strolled across the plush carpeting toward the lone elevator.

From behind his polished desk, the hotel's grayhaired proprietor-apparently still nursing festering wounds from the Second World War-shot him a foul look from over his gleaming bifocals. It had the practical effect of making Remo whistle all the louder.

As the elevator doors were closing, Remo directed a final shrill burst toward the glowering desk clerk. He had calculated the pitch perfectly.

Remo's final glimpse of the man before the elevator doors slid silently shut was that of the middle-aged German pulling off his pair of shattered glasses. If they hadn't been broken, the desk clerk would have been able to see that his watch crystal was cracked, as well.

Happy, Remo rode the elevator up to the third floor. As the doors rolled quietly open, he paused to listen into his apartment, which was directly across from the lift.

He heard nothing.

Relieved, Remo crossed over to the door. He had just placed his hand on the polished brass knob when there came a sudden burst of wild electronic laughter from inside. This was followed by a merry cackle that was all too familiar.

Sighing, Remo pushed the door open.

The television was on-as he had expected it would be. The bulk of the laughter he had heard came from the small speaker on the side of the set. The balance came from the hotel room itself.

Seated before the TV was a man so old he made Kempten Olmutz-Hohenzollerkirchen look like a toddler. Unlike the dead Nazi, however, this old man had a vibrancy of spirit that belied his many years.

The wizened Asian's tan skin was the texture of dried rice paper. His bald head was framed with puffs of gossamer hair-a single tuft above each shell-like ear. Bright hazel eyes displayed a glint of fiery youth that old Kempten hadn't known since the days when brownshirts marched along the Rhine. Even now the aged Korean was laughing uproariously at the action on the TV screen.

"I'm back," Remo called unhappily.

Chiun, Reigning Master of the five-thousand-year-old House of Sinanju-the premier house of assassins on the face of the planet for as many millennia-turned to Remo. Tears streamed down his parchment cheeks.

"You have missed the funniest program yet," Chiun breathed. He sniffled as he turned back to the TV.

Remo frowned as he looked at the television. On it, a rather thin, gawky Englishman was stumbling around with a gigantic turkey over his head. Chiun shrieked in joy as the odd-looking man attempted to disguise the bird by throwing a blanket up over it.

"I've seen this one before," Remo complained.

"I have seen many sunsets, yet each is always more beautiful than the last."

"In that case, try looking out the window," Remo suggested blandly. At that very moment, the sun was sinking low over the Berlin skyline.

"Shh!" Chiun insisted with an angry flap of one kimono-clad arm. He stared in childlike joy as the strange-looking man on the TV attempted to remove the turkey from his head. The Master of Sinanju clapped his hands with glee.

"I'm going to call Smith," Remo sighed wearily. Chiun made an effort not to listen.

Remo turned his back on the familiar scene and walked over to his bedroom. He shut the door as Chiun's bald head bobbed in eager anticipation of the impending turkey removal.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Remo picked up the phone. He began depressing the 1 button repeatedly. It was rather simplistic, but it was the only phone code Rerno ever seemed able to remember. Smith picked up on the first ring.

"I need you to trace a number for me, Smitty," Remo said by way of introduction.

"Proceed," came the tart reply.

Remo gave Smith the phone number from the scrap of paper he had gotten from the old Nazi at the beer hall.

"The country code is for Uruguay," Smith noted.

"What can I say?" Remo said. "Nazis have a love affair with South America."

He could hear Smith's fingers as they drummed against the touch-sensitive keyboard buried beneath the edge of the CURE director's desk.

"The number you have given me is to a hotel in Montevideo," Smith said after a brief pause.

"Geography isn't my strong suit, Smitty," Remo cautioned.

"That is the Uruguayan capital," Smith explained.

"And also where the rest of South America goes to rent movies on Saturday night. What happened when they were naming the place-'Blockbuster' already taken?"

"Actually the name stems from a story that is most likely apocryphal," Smith explained. "'Monte vide eu' is what Magellan's Spanish lookout allegedly shouted when he first spied the shore. It means 'I see a mountain.'" Smith returned to the subject at hand. "May I ask what purpose this number serves?"

"That Kermit Ovitz guy bit the dust," Remo explained. "But he gave that up first. It's supposed to be a secret number to contact Four."

"I do not believe so," Smith said. "It appears to be no more than an ordinary number. It is something called the Hotel Cabeza de Ternera."

"That doesn't make sense." Remo shook his head. "I know he wasn't lying."

"One moment," Smith said.

Remo could hear Smith drumming his fingers against his keyboard. A moment later, he was back on the phone.

"The proprietor is not Spanish," Smith stated. He tried to keep an excited edge from his voice. "His name is Dieter Groth." The typing resumed, more urgently now.

"Let me guess," Remo said. "He's a German immigrant."

"Groth emigrated to South America thirty years ago. One moment, please, Remo." He paused. "I've accessed the records of the Committee to Bring Nazi War Criminals to Justice. They do have a file on Groth, but are not actively pursuing him at the present time."

"It's their lucky day. They're going to get a freebie," Remo said. "Book me a flight to Uruguay."

While Remo remained on the line, Smith quickly made the necessary arrangements.