Warren Murphy - Failing Marks

"Let's make like the German band and blow," Remo suggested.

They hurried back out the rest-room door.

They hadn't even gone around to the bottom of the escalator before they were again assaulted. This killer attempted to use a dagger.

The man jammed the knife toward Remo's ribs. Rather than dodge the blade, Remo tightened his muscles at the point of impact, flattening out the skin above as he did so. The knife blade slammed against Remo's back, but-much to his attacker's consternation-his back was incredibly unyielding. The knife failed to even puncture Remo's tight skin.

The abrupt manner in which the knife was stopped caused its wielder to lose his grip. His hand inadvertently skipped up beyond the hilt, gripping down again automatically. Unfortunately the portion of the knife he managed to grab on to was the sharpened, double-edge blade.

Remo was surprised that the man didn't cry out in pain. His mild surprise turned to utter bewilderment when he turned around to face his attacker.

It was the same man as before. This time the young blond killer wore a sedate blue business suit. His hair was shorter, and a pair of glasses sat atop his nose.

"What the hell?" Remo said, glancing at Chiun. The Master of Sinanju seemed confused, as well. That was good. At least Remo knew he wasn't going nuts.

The man was bleeding profusely from twin gashes in his hand. Like the first time, Remo gathered the killer up and carted him off to the men's room. This time he didn't get as far as the bathroom before the third killer attacked.

This assassin used a high-powered rifle. Unseen by passersby, he was on the upper tier of the terminal building wedged between a pair of tall plastic signs that advertised two competing international credit-card companies.

The silenced bullets from the rifle ripped into the wall beside Remo and Chiun, who fluttered and danced to avoid the spray.

"I will attend to this facsimile," Chiun announced sharply. Like an orange typhoon, the Master of Sinanju flew toward the escalator to the second floor.

This was getting tricky. Although the people passing through the airport didn't know exactly what was going on, Remo and his bleeding companion had caught their attention. A few raised curious eyebrows. Fortunately the assassin didn't ask any of them for help.

"Let me give you a hand," Remo said, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. He was careful to keep this one alive as he led him into the men's room.

Remo was positive he had killed the assassin on the first attempt, but had to be certain. Leaving the man to attend to his bloody hand at the sink, Remo peeked under the stall door just in case. The dead killer was still there. His sightless blue eyes stared into Remo's.

"That's a relief," Remo muttered, getting to his feet. "Okay, spill it," he said as he turned to the second thug.

The man was in the process of binding his injured hand with a handkerchief. Remo caught his reflection in the long mirror that stretched above the row of sinks. His resemblance to the first attacker was disconcerting.

As he examined the face, Remo caught a hint of something sinister in the man's eyes. All at once, the man wheeled around, his unbandaged hand flashing forward.

The knife that Remo had failed to take away flew toward him now, eating up the space between them in a flash. At the last minute, Remo leaned back, snagging the knife from the air. He tossed it over his shoulder, and it landed with a splash in one of the unseen commodes.

"That's enough of that," he said, marching over to his assailant. Reaching around, Remo snagged a knot of muscle at the base of the man's skull. "Who sent you?" he demanded. A hand like a vise squeezed tight on all the neck's pressure points at once.

The killer's eyes sprang open wide. But though the pain should have been unbearable, he didn't even attempt to speak.

Remo was surprised. This technique had never failed to induce a response in the past. He increased the pressure.

This time, Remo got a reaction. The man opened and closed his mouth in a desperate attempt to communicate. No words came out. He gulped helplessly and silently at the air, giving a flawless impression of a fish gasping for breath in the bottom of a boat. And the light finally dawned on Remo.

"You're a mute, aren't you?" he asked.

There was still no response. The man looked at him with helpless, pleading eyes.

"Great," Remo said. "You're a mute who doesn't understand English."

He tightened his grip on the man's neck. Vertebrae popped away from one another like beads on an abacus. The thug immediately went limp.

Remo carted the dead man over to the stall where he had ditched the first attacker. He threw the second killer up over the top and tucked random protruding arms and legs back in under the door.

Remo quickly left the men's room. He met the Master of Sinanju at the stairs. Chiun was just coming down from above.

"Was your guy mute, too?" Remo asked.

"He did not say," Chiun replied blandly.

"Har-de-har-har," Remo said. "Where did you put him?"

"He will not soon be discovered," the Master of Sinanju insisted. "Unless these cuckoo-clock makers have invented some special means to unseal maintenance closet doors. In case of that eventuality, I would recommend we make haste."

"Yeah," Remo agreed. He and Chiun stepped onto the escalator. "If nothing else, this proves we're on the right track," he said as they rode upstairs.

"Perhaps," Chiun replied.

"Perhaps, nothing," Remo said. "The guy we met six months ago couldn't talk, either. That makes four identical guys who are all mutes. I think I smell a pattern here."

"Here no longer matters," Chiun sniffed. "We are leaving."

The elderly Korean was right. And Remo was surprised at how good it felt to finally be leaving German soil.

They found the proper gate and made their way onto the plane. When they were settled into their seats, Chiun was delighted to find that the in-flight movie was a feature-length version of the sitcom he had enjoyed watching virtually the entire time they had been staying in Europe. Remo hunkered down, steadying himself for a long, long flight.

As the plane taxied for takeoff, neither of them noticed the young blond man seated in the rear of the cabin.

Chapter 7

Smith wasn't certain if it was the aspirins that had done the trick, but his pounding headache had eased somewhat since morning. He massaged his gray temples delicately with his fingertips as he studied the satellite images that stretched across his computer screen.

Through circuitous means, Smith had gotten time on a military satellite that was in geosynchronous orbit over the massive northern section of South America. The surveillance device was put in place to monitor drug activity in that part of the continent.

The satellite had been redirected ostensibly at the request of the CIA, which was working in conjunction with the Drug Enforcement Administration on mapping the latest U.S. inroads being made by the powerful La Cosina drug cartel. When the order to reposition the satellite came through via computer, no one questioned why the Colombian drug lords would ship their product south when their ultimate destination was north. The technicians simply shifted the satellite as directed.

Smith wore an unhappy expression as he studied the grainy images. He couldn't seem to find anything in the rolling hills and wide prairies of Uruguay that even remotely hinted at a hidden Nazi village.

At first blush, the existence of such a place was an idea that seemed to border on fantasy. But Smith had seen much recently that lent credence to the claim of the old German from whom Remo had gotten the information. With the facts they had thus far confirmed, Smith conceded that it was very likely there was a secret community tucked away in some dusty, long forgotten corner of the world.