Warren Murphy: Failing Marks

"I have not taken leave of my senses, Herman," Kluge replied tightly. When he looked back from the sleeping village, his brow was furrowed. "Yet," he added. "Have you made certain the other defenses are fully operational?"

Herman nodded sharply. "We will give them more of a fight than they expect, Adolf. And we will prevail."

"Perhaps," Kluge said. He didn't sound convinced.

"Unquestionably," Herman said with a determined nod.

Kluge said nothing. Let the fool bury his head in the sand if he wished.

The head of IV looked out over the sea of identical faces. "Explain to them what is to be done," he directed. It seemed an effort for him to point a world-weary finger at his army. "I do not have the patience."

Clasping his hands behind his back, Adolf Kluge walked back across the field to the road. Shoulders hunched, the leader of IV strolled up the path toward the bridge.

The huge stone fortress loomed above him, a massive headstone for the grave that had been the IV village.

Chapter 8

With two connecting flights and various delays in between, Remo and Chiun didn't arrive in Montevideo until after 3:00 a.m. Instead of looking for Dieter Groth in the middle of the night, they decided it would be best to settle into their hotel for a few hours' sleep.

The hotel they chose was the Cabeza de Ternera, the place Smith claimed was operated by the potential Nazi.

Remo never slept in beds any longer, preferring a simple mat on a hard floor. However, since he had neglected to bring a tatami sleeping mat along with him, he instead tossed a half-folded sheet down onto the dull green wall-to-wall carpeting.

He had just settled down on his makeshift bed and was drifting off to sleep when a familiar sharp noise shook him from his slumber.

"Oh, no. Not here, too," he groaned, rolling over. In the living room of their spacious hotel suite, the Master of Sinanju was cackling loudly. The television hummed softly, with occasional bursts of laughter from a studio audience. Remo could almost see the pantomime antics of the British TV comic. Moaning, Remo pulled the pillow down from his bed, drawing it down tightly over his ears.

Remo could ordinarily blot out sounds as easily as a normal man might close his eyes. However, he had discovered several months before that the combination of the shrieking canned laughter of the TV soundtrack and the Master of Sinanju's own delighted cackle could penetrate his best auditory defenses.

After a sleepless half hour, Remo finally gave up. When he walked back out into the living room, another episode of the same sitcom was just beginning. On the television, the odd-looking English actor was driving desperately down the street in his pajamas. Remo didn't want to know why.

"I'm going to look for Groth now," he complained.

A bony hand waved impatient dismissal. "Fascinate the chambermaid with announcements of your comings and goings," Chiun snapped. "I am busy." His face grew more intent as he studied the screen.

Remo rolled his eyes as he stepped into the hallway.

He strolled down the hall past the elevator. Pushing open the fire door, he walked down the four flights of stairs to the hotel lobby.

It was only four-thirty in the morning, so the same night desk clerk who had checked Remo and Chiun in was still on duty. He was a thin boy of Spanish descent. Remo's best guess wouldn't have put him much older than seventeen.

"Me again," Remo announced, walking up to the desk.

The boy grinned earnestly. "Buenos dias!" he said.

Remo wanted to resent the clerk for being so cheerful, but the boy's guileless, eager face made it impossible to do.

"I'd like to see Dieter Groth," Remo said.

The desk clerk's cheerful expression evaporated. "Does senor know the time?" he asked.

"Too early for British sitcoms," Remo grumbled.

"Senor?"

"Nothing," Remo said. "Groth. Is he here?"

"Senor Groth does not come in until eight o'clock," the boy said apologetically.

Remo tapped an index finger against the desk. He glanced over at the stairwell door, considering. Did he really want to go back up and listen to Chiun's incessant hooting for the next three and a half hours? After a long, thoughtful moment, he shook his head.

"I'll wait," Remo insisted. He walked away from the front desk and settled into one of the plush chairs flanking the front door.

GROTH ARRIVED at the hotel at precisely 8:05 a.m. Remo spotted the German immediately. He was a barrel-chested man in his early seventies. Old age hadn't even considered sneaking up on Dieter Groth. At first glance, Remo guessed that it was afraid to. Groth's features were severe, his face darkly tanned. He wore a short-sleeved dress shirt, untucked, and a pair of pleated white pants.

"Guten Tag, Herr Groth," the young desk clerk said nervously as his employer approached across the lobby. "Wie geht es Ihnen?" He seemed uncomfortable with the German words.

It didn't matter. Groth didn't seem to even hear him as he collected the morning mail from the desk clerk without a word. The boy seemed relieved to not be singled out for attention. Groth left him alone, walking down the employees' corridor next to the desk.

At that moment, the regular morning desk clerk arrived, ten minutes late for his shift. He was calling out excuses in Spanish the instant he stepped through the door.

The night clerk was so eager to chastise his fellow employee for his tardiness that he failed to notice that the hotel guest who had been sitting by the door waiting for the arrival of Senor Groth for nearly four hours was nowhere to be seen.

GROTH DROPPED THE MAIL to his desk with a loud slap.

"Hot," he murmured, flapping his arms uncomfortably. "I hate this damned heat."

He turned to the wall where the air conditioner controls were located. He hadn't taken a single step before noticing something with his peripheral vision. He wheeled around.

"Good morning, starshine." Remo smiled. He was standing inside the closed office door.

It was impossible. Groth had shut and locked the door. He should have heard someone enter behind him. Were they asleep at the front desk? Heads would roll for this.

"I'm looking for directions," Remo said.

Groth scowled. "Front desk," he grunted, jabbing a thumb at the door. He sat down behind his own desk. When he looked up, he was agitated to see that Remo was still there.

"Kempten sent me," Remo said. He smiled tightly.

The look that passed over Groth's face was both subtle and telling. He knew. Old Kempten was dead and Dieter Groth already knew.

In the next instant, Groth was lunging for his desk drawer. He ripped it open, jamming his hand down atop the Luger pistol he stored there for emergencies.

Even before Groth opened the drawer, Remo was slipping behind the desk. As the German's fingers found the gun butt, Remo slapped his palm against the face of the drawer. It flew shut, with Groth's hand still inside. Wrist bones were instantly crushed.

The German tried to howl in pain. Before he could, Remo's hand snaked out and grabbed a spot on his neck. Though Groth tried desperately to scream, all that issued from the hotel proprietor's throat was a pathetic croak.

"I'm looking for Four, sweetheart," Remo pressed. "Where is it?" He eased the pressure on Groth's bull neck.

"Argentina," the German gasped. Sweat had broken out on his tanned forehead. The blinding pain in his shattered wrist was almost more than he could bear.

"Where?" Remo pushed.

Whatever Dieter Groth might have said was lost forever.

At the precise moment his thick lips were parting, the door to the office burst open. As Remo and Groth turned, a young woman leaped into the small room, brandishing a handgun.

Dieter Groth looked for a moment as if he had seen his salvation. The relief was short-lived. Groth's eyes grew wide as the gun leveled on him. A crackling explosion filled the small room. A single bullet struck Dieter Groth's forehead with a satisfying thwack.