Warren Murphy: Failing Marks

In a movement that was notoriously undercharged in the sparking-synapse department, Gus Holloway-with his high-school GED and unerring ability to accurately spell Mein Kampf-became a shining star.

Eventually Gus renounced his American citizenship and followed the movement to its birthplace. The home of the fuhrer himself. Germany.

He was promptly thrown in jail for distributing illegal Nazi literature. Gus learned the hard way that the current German government wasn't like the one to which he had pledged his undying fascist allegiance.

While in prison, Gus met up with many individuals like himself. After his release, he joined his newfound friends in the underground skinhead movement. He was reborn as the leader of the neoNazi Goring Brotherhood. Changing his name was part of that rebirth.

He was working in his capacity as leader of this secret group when the whole world came crashing in. When the dust cleared, Gustav realized that it wasn't the world after all just most of the ceiling of his apartment.

Fortunately for Gustav, he had been standing on the other side of the room at the time.

The neo-Nazi leader had been running off his latest propaganda leaflets from an old-fashioned printing press that his mother had given to him for his eighth birthday. His fat fingers were smeared with blue ink as he crept over to the pile of collapsed building material.

When he looked up through the hole in the ceiling, he found himself staring into the coldest eyes he had ever seen.

It was him! One of the two men who had been spotted slaughtering members of neo-Nazi groups all around Germany. The German government's politically correct hit squad had finally come to claim the great Gustav Reichschtadt!

The fascist leader had immediately lumbered from the room.

The tenement in which the brotherhood conducted its holy work was overrun by neo-Nazis. Gustav waddled frantically down the urine-soaked flight of stairs to the fourth floor. He pounded a desperate fat fist against the door across from the bottom of the landing. The ink on his hands left marks like toeless baby footprints across the thick metal door.

"Help me!" Gustav screamed in English. He was hyperventilating. "They're here! Good God, they're coming to kill me! Hurry!" He pounded harder.

Finally the door opened a crack. A suspicious eye peered out at him from within the apartment. Somewhere unseen, an aged scratchy recording of Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries" was building to a warped crescendo.

"What is it?" a voice asked in thickly accented German.

"The killers!" Gustav hissed. "The government hit squad that's out to destroy all our work. They're here."

The eye peered first left, then right. It finally looked back at Gustav.

"I do not see anyone."

Gustav flapped a large mitt toward the ceiling. "They're on the roof. Let me in!"

He forced his meaty palms against the door. Although the old man within the apartment was far from strong, he didn't need to be; there was precious little strength behind the push. Gustav only succeeded in spreading more ink across the face of the door. He pulled away, panting at his exertions.

"I need help," Gustav begged. He was on the verge of tears.

There wasn't a hint of sympathy in the eye. Obviously its owner had had a run-in or two with Gustav Reichschtadt before. But that was not to say that there was no sign of emotion in the orb. It suddenly blinked once, as if in great surprise. All at once, the door slammed shut.

Gustav wheeled around, ready to run panting for the next door. He didn't get an inch down the hallway before he saw what had made his fellow neoNazi slam the door.

The government killer with the dark, dead eyes was coming down the stairs from the fifth floor. He steered a path to Gustav.

Gustav broke into a dead run down the corridor. To his horror, his pursuer trotted easily up beside him.

"Are you Gus?" Remo asked as they both ran.

"Nein, nein!" Gus insisted, wheezing heavily. It was the only German word he had mastered in his nine years in that country. "Me no Gus. Me German."

They had come to the end of the corridor. Gus's face was coated with a sheen of sweat. His few remaining strands of hair were plastered to his pasty scalp. He looked desperately for a place to run, but there was nowhere to go.

Remo stopped before him.

"The guy on the roof said you were Gus Holloway."

"Me Gustav," Gus panted.

"Yeah, and me Jane," Remo said. "Tell you what. I think you are Gus. What do you think about that?"

The chubby neo-Nazi's eyes darted first left, then right. Blank walls stared back at him. There was not even a window behind him. He spun back to Remo, his ample belly jiggling like a sackful of kittens. Desperate, he opted for a different approach.

"I am an American citizen," Gustav Reichschtadt insisted. "I demand to see the United States ambassador." He tried to stick his chest out proudly, but even at its farthest point it remained a full foot behind his enormous stomach.

"That and bus fare will get you to Oktoberfest," Remo said flatly.

"I'm serious," Gus said arrogantly. "I want my lawyer. I know my rights as an American."

"Okay, let me explain your rights," Remo offered.

Reaching over, he grabbed a slick, glutinous mass of puffy flesh at the side of Holloway's neck. To Remo, it felt as if he had just grabbed a handful of shortening.

Remo squeezed.

A piercing feminine scream stabbed up through the mountain of semidigested pastries that filled Gus Holloway's ample pot. His eyes grew wide in pain and shock.

Remo eased off on the pressure. "Your rights at the moment are simple. You have the right to feel pain. You have the right not to feel pain. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?"

Remo squeezed again for emphasis. Gus shrieked, nodding his understanding. Three chins waggled helplessly.

"Good," Remo declared. "I need some information on a neo-Nazi organization called Four. What do you know about it?"

Gus licked his thick lips as he tried frantically to think of a clever lie. None came. He decided to bluff his way through.

"Never heard of them," he insisted.

The pain again. Far worse this time-it felt as if every nerve ending in his neck were being buffed with acid-dipped sandpaper. He howled in agony.

"I don't know!" Gus screamed. "They're a shadow group. In deep cover. I've only ever heard rumors." He was panting, swallowing thick, mucous-filled saliva.

"Tell me what you've heard," Remo pressed.

"They were responsible for the Paris takeover."

"I know that." Remo's expression was dark.

"And the London bombings."

"Ditto."

Gus's head was clearing now. Remo had eased the neck pressure. The pain wasn't as severe. "That's everything I know," Gus said feebly. The pain came in a white-hot burst. It shot up his spine, exploding in his brain. Gus sucked in his breath as his body contorted. He slapped his ink-smeared palms against the wall behind him, leaving streaks of sweat-soaked blue.

"There's a man," Gus hissed, "in Juterbog. He knows." He was breathing heavily now against the pain. "He's Four. He can get you to them."

"What's his name?" Remo asked.

"I don't know," Gus replied. The pain came again, as he knew it would. "I really don't!" Gus cried. Tears streamed down his swollen red cheeks. "It's Kempten Olmu-something. It's a really long old German name. I can't pronounce it. I've never been very good with German."

All at once, the pain stopped. Gus sucked in a tentative breath. It was truly gone. He had never before realized how good a feeling it was not to be experiencing agony.

His torturer was still standing before him. His brow was furrowed, casting an annoyed shadow over his dark eyes.

"Do you have a phone?" Remo asked.