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Warren Murphy: Failing Marks

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Warren Murphy Failing Marks

Failing Marks: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Golden Mirage The losers or World War II and their descendants have carved out their own little slice of heaven in the mountains of Argentina. In this staging area to the Fourth Reich, the promise of the dream reborn dawned as bright as a new German mark. But when the Destroyer's brain was downloaded onto disks, he took the whole matter very personally. That put an end to the whole affair - almost. Adolf Kluge, the head of the secret organization known as IV, has an eleventh-hour plan that may just refinance the whole sweet dream. He's come into some money: a centuries-old treasure belonging to the venerable house of Sinanju. But then, he isn't aware just how sensitive the Master of Sinanju is regarding this precious metal.... At first the idea of a trilogy turned me off.  But then I thought about what I'm doing now - reading all the Friend books , then all the Nuihc books, then the Mr.Gordons, and so on. Basically taking the super-baddies and reading them in series. The downside is the years that pass, the upside is the continuity in the character.  With this mini-series, it should be all upside!

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"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.

Gus nodded fervently, anxious to remain on Remo's good side. "Yes, yes. Absolutely. It's upstairs." He waddled past Remo deliberately-Gus was now a man with a mission.

"Good," Remo said, following him. "Because we have to call someone who's good with German."

Chapter 3

Harold W. Smith was submitting to the latest in the interminably long line of physical examinations he had been subjected to over the past three months.

He sat in his spotless white T-shirt on an examining table in one of the doctor's offices of Folcroft Sanitarium, a Rye, New York, mental-health facility of which he was director. Smith breathed calmly as the physician inflated the blood-pressure cuff around his left biceps.

The doctor watched the indicator needle on the gauge in his hand as he gently released the air from the bag. He nodded his approval.

"Your blood pressure is good," he said.

"I assumed it would be, Dr. Drew," Smith responded crisply. There was an icy edge in his voice. The doctor looked up over his glasses as he slipped the cuff from Smith's arm.

"Forgive me, Dr. Smith, but you were the one who insisted on these examinations."

"Yes," Smith replied. "However, they appear to be no longer necessary."

"You were in rough shape a few months ago," Dr. Drew cautioned, as if Smith had forgotten. Smith hadn't. There was no way he would ever forget his recent trip to London.

"It was a very stressful time," Smith admitted.

"Yes," Dr. Drew agreed, dragging his stethoscope from his ears. "I imagine it would be. It's a shame that on the first vacation you took since I came to work here at Folcroft, you wound up in the middle of a war zone. Do you and your wife plan to take another?"

Smith pursed his bloodless lips. He didn't appreciate the informal tone Drew had taken with him over the past few months. After all, the Folcroft doctor was Smith's employee.

"I fail to see how my private life is your concern," Smith said, getting down from the table.

Drew stiffened. "I didn't mean to pry, Dr. Smith," he said tightly.

Smith didn't even seem aware that he had insulted the physician. The older man had already found his shirt on a brass hook near the door. He had pulled it over his creaking shoulders and was in the process of buttoning it.

"If that is all, I will return to work," Smith said absently as he fastened the top two buttons. He drew his green-striped Dartmouth tie from the same hook and began knotting it around his thin neck.

"Of course," Dr. Drew replied without inflection. "Same time next week?"

"That will not be necessary," Smith declared officiously.

Drew raised an eyebrow. "If you wish to postpone, it's obviously at your discretion. Remember, my day off is-"

"Thursday," Smith supplied. "And that does not matter. Our appointments are no longer necessary." He finished with his tie, checking the perfectly formed four-in-hand knot with his aged fingertips. Satisfied, Smith took his gray vest and suit jacket from another hook.

"Are you sure?" Dr. Drew asked.

"Of course," Smith sniffed. "I will let you know if there are any changes in my physical condition. Please excuse me."

Without so much as a thank-you, Smith left the office.

Dr. Drew stared at the door for a few minutes. "You're welcome," he said with a sarcastic laugh.

He didn't know why he was surprised by his treatment at the hands of the sanitarium director. The real surprise was that Smith came to him for help in the first place. But the old man had been in pretty rough shape back then. Now that he was better, Smith was back to being his old nasty self again.

Dr. Drew realized that it was his own fault for expecting anything more than being treated as a servant. At this stage, there shouldn't be anything that Dr. Harold W. Smith could do to surprise him any longer.

With a sigh, Dr. Lance Drew began labeling Smith's latest blood sample.

HAROLD SMITH WALKED briskly to the administrative wing of Folcroft. He took the stairs up to his second-floor office.

Mrs. Mikulka, his secretary of many years, smiled maternally as he entered the outer room of his small, two-office suite.

"Dr. Smith," she said with a concerned nod. Smith didn't appreciate the familiarity her smile represented. Some in the staff had been treating him differently since he had returned from his week-long European vacation three months before. Dr. Drew and Mrs. Mikulka were the two worst offenders. Smith found it easier to remonstrate Drew than Mrs. Mikulka. After all, doctors were a dime a dozen, but good secretaries were impossible to find in this day and age.

"I will be in my office for the duration of the morning," he noted crisply as he passed her tidy desk.

There was no need to ask her if there had been any calls while he was downstairs. Eileen Mikulka was efficient enough to let him know immediately if there was anything that required his attention. When he pushed the door closed on the world a moment later, Smith felt a tide of relief wash over his thin frame.

This was Smith's sanctum sanctorum, his haven from the foolishness and trivialities of the outside world. In this sparsely furnished room, Harold Smith had created for himself a perfect, orderly environment.

He crossed over to his desk, taking his seat behind the smooth onyx slab. The desk was the only hint of intrusion by the modern world into the decidedly low-tech room.

Smith's arthritic fingers located a rounded button beneath the lip of the desk. When he depressed it, the dull glow of a computer screen winked on beneath the polished surface of the large desk. The monitor was angled in such a way to make it invisible to anyone on the other side of the desk.

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