Warren Murphy: Failing Marks

The work that Smith found so important was that which was conducted without the knowledge of any of his underlings. This included his search through neo-Nazi files. Indeed, Folcroft could be consumed in flame and burn to the ground and Smith's true work would continue.

For in truth, Folcroft Sanitarium was only a front. Beyond the high brick walls and the attendant dignified stone lions that guarded the somber iron gates, within the ivy-covered walls of Folcroft itself, beat the heart of an organization so secret its existence was known to only a tiny handful of people.

The organization was CURE, a group sanctioned by the highest level of America's elected government and whose operational parameters granted it virtually unlimited discretion in dealing with the nation's enemies. Smith was CURE's director.

It was a thankless posting for a rigid bureaucrat whose devotion to patriotism was as rock solid as the granite hills of his native Vermont. It was this patriotic bent that had nearly gotten him killed.

Although the press would never know the truth, CURE had been responsible for the defeat of the neo-Nazi force that had taken control of Paris in August. On vacation with his wife at the time, Smith had gotten personally involved in the mission. As a result, he had suffered various scrapes and bruises, as well as a rather severe concussion.

He hated to admit it, but the emotionless Smith had been stirred to passion by a level of revulsion he hadn't felt since his youth, when he had helped topple Germany's Nazi regime. This past summer when he had been thrown in among a crowd of jackbooted neo-Nazis, it was as if the years had been stripped away. Smith had reacted as he would have in his youth.

But he was no longer a young man.

The reckless fury he had directed at the army of young skinheads in August was now channeled to an activity more suited to a man of his advanced years. With the aid of CURE's basement mainframes he was attempting to locate the shadow organization behind the Paris coup.

Smith typed furiously for nearly an hour. When he was finished, he had found nothing. He knew that the group he was looking for was called IV, but there was nothing his computer could turn up that might help him zero in on the organization.

He was only succeeding in covering old ground. So that was that. The answers he sought were obviously not in Germany. Smith steeled himself for what he knew he must do. He had been dreading the thought of it, but there were no other options left.

He would have to expand his search.

Wearily Smith began typing the preliminary commands into his computer. He was distracted from his work by the jangle of a telephone. One hand remained poised above the keyboard as he retrieved the blue contact phone from its cradle. He tucked the receiver between shoulder and ear.

"Report," Smith said pointedly, returning to his work.

"I think I've got something, Smitty," Remo's voice announced over the international line.

"What is it?"

There was a strange gurgling noise over the line. It stopped abruptly. The instant it did so, a voice that was unfamiliar to Smith wheezed out a foreign-sounding name.

"Kempten Olmutz-something-with-a-hyphen." The man struggled for breath.

Smith had been accessing police records in the Netherlands, Denmark and Poland. He quickly switched over to his German neo-Nazi file. He began scanning the list of names.

Remo's voice came back on the line. As soon as it did, the bizarre gurgling noise resumed.

"Did you get that, Smitty?" he asked.

"Yes," Smith said tightly. He was having no luck with the known neo-Nazis on file. There were several Kemptens, but none with a last name remotely like the one the voice had given him. "Are you still in Berlin?" Smith asked Remo.

"Uh-huh."

Smith accessed the Berlin phone directory. He scrolled rapidly down to the Os. Still nothing. "This man is in Berlin, presumably," Smith commented.

"I don't think so," Remo said. His voice grew more faint as he addressed someone nearby. "Where'd you say he was?" he asked.

The low gurgle had continued until now. It stopped. "Juterbog," the strange voice rasped. The gurgle resumed.

"Jitterbug," Remo said to Smith.

Frowning, Smith accessed the proper phone book. He found the name immediately.

"Kempten Olmutz-Hohenzollerkirchen," he said.

"Wow. He must have to print that on both sides of his business card," Remo mused.

"Confirm this before you proceed," Smith pressed.

"Okeydoke," Remo said. The gurgling grew very loud now. It was the sound of someone being strangled. "Say that name again, Smitty?" Remo called from somewhere beyond the gurgle.

Smith repeated the name. There was a choked "yes" on the other end of the line.

"He's our man," Remo said, coming back on the phone.

"I will see what I can uncover about him," Smith said. "You and Chiun proceed to Juterbog."

Remo sighed. As he did so, the strangling grew louder. Frantic. "We'll go there, but I bet I end up doing most of the work."

"Why? Is something wrong with Master Chiun?"

"I don't know," Remo griped. "He hasn't been much of a help lately." The gurgling sound reached a fevered pitch and then stopped suddenly. There was a heavy thump, audible even over the satelliteto-fiber-optic-cable telephone feed. "Are you still keeping a kill record?" Remo asked.

Smith winced at the term. "Yes," he admitted. "Add Gus Holloway," Remo said, then hung up the phone.

Smith found that his headache had gotten worse during his phone conversation with Remo. He removed an aspirin bottle from one of his desk drawers and took out two pills. He swallowed them without water.

Smith's throat-dry as dust-had a difficult time accepting the two aspirins. He finally felt them drop from a point beneath his protruding Adam's apple. They plopped into his acid-churned stomach.

Medicated, Smith returned to his computer. Calling up his list of neo-Nazis, he located the name of Gus Holloway. Beside his name, Smith wearily recorded the day's date.

Chapter 4

The old man had been a fixture in the musty corner of the ratty Juterbog beer hall for as far back as anyone there could remember. He sat in the same chair, in the same back booth wearing the same reeking clothes every single night of the week. His yellowed eyes rarely strayed from the door.

A smoldering cigarette hung in perpetuity from between his brown-smeared chapped lips. The blackened stumps of teeth that remained attached to his mucky gums were held in place seemingly by damp ash alone.

He smoked in deep drags, blowing great hazy clouds at the smoke-yellowed ceiling. There his relentless exhalations would join the massive fog created by the assembled drinkers in the Schweinebraten Bier Hall.

Kempten 0lmutz-Hohenzollerkirchen stared at the door as the young men around him reported the latest news.

There were three of them, all dressed in skintight black leather with a multitude of zippers. Their heads were shaved smooth, and their noses and ears were adorned with a variety of safety pins, chains and earrings.

"That fat American was found dead this morning," an earnest skinhead named Hirn whispered. The pin and chain in his flat nose wiggled enthusiastically as he spoke.

"How?" asked another.

"Strangled with his own armband."

Hirn tapped his biceps. Beneath his long-sleeved black shirt was a Nazi band similar to the one that had been found wrapped around the bloated neck of Gustav Reichschtadt. Hirn and his companions were forced to hide their armbands when they ventured out in public.

Aged Kempten pulled his cigarette from his mouth. Bits of skin on his lip tore away, stuck to the unfiltered end. Kempten didn't seem to notice the bleeding.

"Where was this latest attack?" he inquired, voice thick with phlegm.