Warren Murphy: Failing Marks

"By the way, Smitty," Remo said after the flight was sorted out, "the old guy said something about a village down there that's supposed to be a refuge for Nazis."

"I will borrow satellite time to search the Uruguayan countryside," Smith said. "In the meantime, you and Chiun follow up the Groth lead."

"Can do," Remo said.

He hung up the phone. As he did so, there was renewed laughter from the living room of the suite. The Master of Sinanju shrieked in joy as a new program began. It starred the same British comic and was one the old Korean had seen at least a dozen times.

Remo wondered how he could pry Chiun away from the TV.

"I wonder if the gift shop sells extension cords that'd reach all the way to South America?" Remo asked with a sigh.

Already fatigued by the battle not yet fought, he got up from the bed.

IT TURNED OUT rousting Chiun was not as difficult as Remo imagined it would be.

The Master of Sinanju's umpteenth viewing of the same British sitcom episode ended an hour before their flight was scheduled to leave from Tegel Airport. Remo rounded up the seven steamer trunks Chiun had brought from the United States and herded them into two small European taxis. Remo and Chiun followed in a third cab.

As they drove through Berlin's crowded post-twilight streets, the Master of Sinanju detailed all that had occurred on the television while Remo was talking to Smith.

"When the ugly British woman removed the fowl from his head, he found to his delight that the item he sought was in his very mouth."

"Uh-huh," Remo said. He stared out the cab window.

"Did I mention that it was his wristwatch?"

"Yes, you did," Remo sighed.

"I ordinarily do not approve of the use of ornamental timepieces," Chiun cautioned. "They are for those too slothful to develop the inner clock in the minds of all men. However, for comic purposes it was quite amusing."

He looked over at his pupil. Remo remained silent. His sharp features were illuminated at regular intervals by Berlin's streetlights.

"You do not appear to be amused," Chiun challenged.

Remo shook his head. "I'm sorry. It's just that I saw that show before."

Chiun raised an eyebrow. "So?"

"So, I couldn't give a fat flying frig."

Chiun's wrinkled face drew into a deep frown. "You do not have a sense of humor," he accused.

"I do, too," Remo argued. "The first fifty times I saw those shows, I thought they were funny. But we've been in Europe now for over three months, and that's all every country seems to play, day in and day out. I can't take anything twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week."

The harsh frown lines were reshaped into a look of intense pity. "You are a humorless man, Remo Williams," Chiun pronounced sadly. "I knew it the day we met. Not that you made any effort to hide the fact."

"I do, too, have a sense of humor," Remo said defensively.

Chiun raised an instructive finger. His nail was long and fiercely sharp. "If one must say it, it is untrue," he declared. "For only the humorless man is ever accused of being so."

Remo could not think of a clever retort. Unfortunately this didn't prevent him from trying. "Blow it out your ears," Remo said sullenly. Crossing his arms, he hunched down in the seat and stared at the back of their driver's head.

Chiun clutched at his heart. "Oh, I am stung by your piercing wit," he moaned histrionically. "Forgive me, O King of Comedy, for ever doubting your jovial soul." The Master of Sinanju smiled happily, pleased at having made his point.

Remo felt the blood rise in his cheeks.

"Is it any wonder I'm annoyed right now?" he groused. "You ditched me weeks ago for that hotel idiot box. I've been clomping alone around this backward excuse for a country whacking every knockwurst-fueled spike-hat I find, while you've been having a hey-ho time watching Brit-coms and ordering room service. So forgive me, Chiun, if I've lost my goddamned sense of humor."

"I did not accompany you because I lost interest," Chiun said simply. "We are assassins, not exterminators. Smith had you scouring the countryside for all manner of vermin. In Germany, that could be a lifetime's occupation. And as for your second point-" the impish smile returned, "-one cannot lose what one never had."

The elderly Korean settled placidly back into the taxi's seat.

Beside him, Remo racked his brain for something witty to say. Most everything he came up with, however, involved surly references to biological functions. Any of these would doubtless inspire further derisive comments from Chiun.

With great reluctance, Remo remained mute for the remainder of their trip to the airport.

WHILE REMO HAD MADE a deliberate choice to remain mute for the duration of his ride to Berlin's airport, the man who intended to kill him had been born that way.

The assassin had been sent from the IV village, accompanied by three colleagues.

Lounging around the main terminal building of Berlin's Tegel Airport, the four of them were an odd sight. The casual observer would have assumed they were related somehow. And in a very real way, they were.

In order to keep the curious at bay, an attempt had been made to differentiate between them.

One had long hair and was dressed casually in blue jeans and denim jacket. Beneath the coat was a red flannel shirt.

Another man wore dark sunglasses and a tweed blazer. His hair had been pulled back into a ponytail and tucked down behind his jacket collar.

The hair of the third had been cut short. He wore a conservative business suit and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

The well seemed to have run dry with the fourth. He, too, wore a business suit, though of a different color than the third man. He had been allowed to keep his hair long, but not at the same length as the first two. It was trimmed and moussed and parted neatly in the middle like a young Hollywood star.

Even after all the effort at disguise, close inspection revealed a rather startling fact. These men did not simply look alike; they were each identical to the next.

Four interchangeable muscular young men with perfectly chiseled Aryan features.

The man in blue jeans was their leader. He watched the glass double doors to the airport terminal with hooded eyes.

They had come here immediately upon receiving their orders from Kluge's underling, Herman. The four men had sat virtually unmoving for almost three hours. Incapable of speech, they had passed the time in utter silence.

Oddly they didn't seem agitated in the least. It was as if nervousness or boredom were concepts completely alien to them. They had been given a mission and were waiting with absolute patience to carry out their assignment.

They were closing in on the end of the third hour when their long wait finally came to an end.

The man in blue jeans spotted the short line of cabs as the three vehicles drew up to the curb outside the door.

The first two cabbies sprang out of their cars. One raced to find a pushcart while the other began unloading his cargo of lacquered steamer trunks to the sidewalk. It was as if they had been rehearsed, so precise was their performance.

Remo and Chiun climbed out of the third cab along with their cabbie. Chiun immediately began issuing orders to the remaining drivers.

The blond man with blue jeans tapped once on his seat, and his three colleagues took note of the activity on the sidewalk.

Like well-rehearsed zombies, the trio got up and walked deeper into the terminal. Their leader remained sitting, waiting for the hectic scene on the sidewalk to spill inside.

The missing cabbie returned with a cart. He and the others loaded up the steamer trunks while Chiun flounced between them in his saffron kimono. The Master of Sinanju made copious use of both hands and feet to ensure that his luggage was properly attended to.