Warren Murphy - Failing Marks

The German's dark eyes blinked once in bewilderment and then rolled back in his head, closing forever. The soft hiss of startled air from his slack mouth petered to silence.

"Dammit!" Remo snapped, dropping the dead Nazi onto the desk. Groth hit with a fat thud. The German immediately began oozing blood onto the Hotel Cabeza de Ternera's morning mail.

"Do not move!" the woman threatened. She had twisted on the ball of one foot. Her smoking gun was now aimed at Remo.

"Not very bloody likely," Remo growled. Her eyes couldn't even begin to process his movements. Remo flew across the room, snatching the gun from her hand. He flung it to the office floor.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

She was trying to come to terms with what had just happened. Her beautiful face was shocked, but she quickly pulled herself together.

"I might ask you the same thing," she sniffed haughtily. Slender fingers pushed her blond bangs away from her eyes.

"Lady, you're this close to getting tossed out that window." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"We are on the ground floor," she said defiantly.

"Believe me, I can make it feel like the twentieth."

Her lips tightened as she studied Remo's cruel face. She finally seemed to decide that he wasn't making an idle threat. The woman put her hands on her hips contemptuously.

"I am Heidi Stolpe," she declared imperiously.

"German?" Remo asked, surprised.

"I am of German ancestry, yes," she replied. The admission seemed distasteful to her.

"That accent isn't German."

"It is Spanish," she said. "I have spent much time here in South America."

"I bet," Remo said, annoyed. "Okay, spill it. Why'd you aerate Countess von Zeppelin over there?"

Heidi sneered as she looked over at the body of Dieter Groth. "I make no apologies for my actions," she said, eyes hooded. "He was a Nazi. His kind deserve to die."

Remo closed his eyes. "Oh, great," he muttered. "A Nazi-hunter."

Heidi puffed out her chest. "I am proud of that fact," she stated firmly.

"Bully for you," Remo said. "And in principle, you're not going to get much of an argument from me. But couldn't you have waited another two minutes before you plugged him?"

"He avoided punishment for his crimes for more than fifty years," Heidi said boldly.

She obviously had decided that Remo was no longer a threat. At least not to her. Proud chin raised high, she marched over to the corner of the room to retrieve her gun. Stooping, she tossed the weapon into the handbag that was draped around her neck.

"Another minute would have done it," Remo said to himself with a morose sigh. He dropped back against the wall, staring bitterly at the body of Dieter Groth.

"What is it you wanted from him?" Heidi asked, coming back over to the door. She seemed barely interested. Her azure eyes didn't even look upon the man she had just shot in cold blood.

"Nothing," Remo said, shaking his head. Even as he was saying it, a thought suddenly occurred to him. "Hey, you said you spent a lot of time down here," he said, looking up.

"Most of my life," she admitted.

"Ever hear of a place called Four? It's supposed to be a village or town or something."

Heidi considered for a moment. "The Spanish word is quatro," she advised him.

"No," Remo explained. "This isn't Spanish. I guess it wouldn't even be in German. It's just the Roman numeral IV."

"And this is the name of a village?" she asked dubiously.

"According to him, it's in Argentina." Remo nodded to Groth's body.

She shook her head. "I do not know of this place."

"From what I've heard, it's brimming over with semiretired fascists," Remo said slyly. "A Nazihunter could have a field day there."

Heidi frowned. "This is true?"

"Absolutely."

He could see he had piqued her interest.

"And you are certain Nazi war criminals live there?" Heidi asked.

"It'd be like shooting fish in a barrel."

Heidi seemed to reach some inner decision. "I have contacts in the area. I will ask around for you and return here in an hour. You have a room at the hotel?"

"I did," Remo said. "It might not be a great idea to stick around here after your Ozark Annie act." He indicated Groth's body.

"Perhaps not," she agreed. "Do you know the Old City?"

"I'm new in town," Remo said.

Heidi gave him a few precise directions. "Meet me at the Artigas statue in the plaza at nine-thirty. What is your name, by the way?"

"Remo."

"Is that Spanish?"

"It's actually sort of like the name-game version of the Junior Jumble," he replied.

She peered deeply into his eyes, looking for any hint of sarcasm. Finding none, she nodded once. "Nine-thirty," she repeated. With that, she fled the office.

"Why do I feel like I'd be better off without any help?" Remo asked the body of Dieter Groth once she was gone.

Leaving the dead German to ponder the answer to his question, Remo slid silently from the room.

FORTUNATELY FOR REMO, the Hotel Cabeza de Ternera staff was fearful of their domineering German boss. The body of Dieter Groth would be left undisturbed for hours.

Remo managed to pry the Master of Sinanju away from the television and, through the generous application of gratuities, was able to pack up Chiun's trunks and check out of the hotel in less than twenty minutes. In another twenty, the old Korean's luggage was stashed in a less opulent hotel and the two Masters of Sinanju were walking the busy streets of Montevideo.

The city had truly earned its reputation as one of the most beautiful in Latin America. Its tree-lined streets were wide, and the business and residential sections were planned at a time when city planning actually meant something. The buildings were a mixture of both old and new architectural styles.

The Old City that Heidi spoke of was on a small peninsula that had been the city's original location. At the heart of this section was the Plaza Constitucion-the original square of Montevideo. The square was bracketed by the city hall and cathedral, the city's oldest buildings.

In the square was a statue of the national hero General Jose Artigas, leader of the people of the Banda Oriental, which later became Uruguay.

As they approached the statue, Chiun cast a withering gaze up and down the immortalized figure of Artigas.

"Soldiers," he sniffed unhappily. "It is beyond my comprehension why the people of any nation would revere a simple peasant with a boom stick."

"What would you prefer?" Remo asked, suspecting what the answer would be.

"I would prefer that the citizenry appreciate the pivotal role an assassin plays in the development of their society. Namely me."

"That's all well and good, Little Father," Remo said, "but when people think of assassins, they don't automatically think of you."

"They should," the Master of Sinanju said haughtily.

"That's not the point," Remo objected. "They don't. And I'm not sure the public would rally behind a statue for John Wilkes Booth in the Mall in Washington."

"If not an assassin, perhaps the honor should be given to one who brings joy to the hearts of men the world over."

"That would be you again, right?" Remo deadpanned.

"No," Chiun said. "Though it would be right to honor one such as myself, your beloved lunatic Smith insists we toil in anonymity. Therefore, we are not known to the masses. But there is one who brings joy to all in every nation we have ventured to in recent months. I speak of none other than the brilliant comic Rowan Atkinson."

"You're kidding," Remo said flatly. This was the Englishman whose television show Chiun had been watching incessantly for the past three months. "You want a statue to a British TV comic?"

"It does not have to be too large." He looked up disdainfully at the statue of Jose Artigas. "As long as it is bigger than this eyesore, that will suffice."