Warren Murphy: Failing Marks

"Berlin."

Kempten nodded. "Did anyone see his killer?" The ball of brown goo that he coughed up and spit to the floor of the beer hall was as large as a small mouse.

Hirn nodded and glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the room. "It was him," Hirn said in a hushed voice. Shivering, he took a pull from the large beer stein which sat on the table before him. No one seated in that cramped booth needed to ask who "him" was. They all knew the stories of the unstoppable killer who was carving a bloody path through the neo-Nazi underground.

Kempten made a mental note. He had been reporting each of these incidents as he heard them. He would have to make another phone call tonight.

"Have there been any others since then?" Kempten asked.

"Today?" Hirn said. "No, none today. The American was the only one. I heard the killer was seen chasing him at nine o'clock this morning."

"That dumpling would not be very hard to catch," one of the other young men joked.

The group around the table joined in an uncomfortable chuckle. All except Kempten.

The old man made a sudden supreme effort to clear decades of mucous buildup from his smoke-ravaged throat. An awful, ragged wet rumble poured up from deep within his withered chest. Whatever this maneuver managed to dislodge was swallowed back down an instant later in a slippery-sounding gulp. Kempten nodded across the crowded room to the door.

"My eyes are not so good," he said to the disgusted group of young men. "Who is that who just came in?"

Hirn looked back across the hall to the distant entrance. Through the haze of smoke he saw a thin young man framed in the doorway. The new arrival was scanning the room with a pair of eyes buried so deep within their sockets they lent him the appearance of an angry skull.

Hirn turned back quickly, his heart beating madly. He glanced at his two younger companions. They had seen the stranger, as well. All three skinheads were looking anxiously at one another.

"It's him," Hirn whispered anxiously.

Old Kempten was still straining to see the door. "Who is it?" Kempten repeated. "Is it Rolph?" He squinted at the figure that was even now scanning the many faces around the crowded room. Try as he might, Kempten couldn't see who the strange outsider was.

AS SOON AS HE STEPPED through the door of the Schweinebraten Bier Hall, Remo's body automatically doubled the number of times he ordinarily blinked per minute. The air in the cramped bar was thick and grimy and his eyes were forced to work harder than usual just to cleanse themselves of the accumulation of smoke and attendant airborne particulates.

He had assumed that he would be bothered most by the stench of fermented grains, but he had forgotten the European love affair with carcinogens. If they weren't mining them, building shanties on them or being irradiated by them, they were damned well determined to smoke them.

Fortunately Chiun had declined to join him on this expedition to Juterbog, preferring the solace of their Berlin hotel. The Master of Sinanju would have been impossible to deal with in a place like this. As it was, Remo's body was having a hard enough time filtering out the airborne toxins.

He would have to get in and out fast.

Keeping his breathing shallow, Remo began making his determined way across the room.

"HE IS COMING this way!" Hirn whispered urgently.

"Who?" Kempten demanded. The others still hadn't told him the reason for their sudden concern.

"Holloway's murderer," Hirn explained. It was all the warning he planned to give Kempten. As neo-Nazi sympathizers, they were all in danger. Hirn included.

Hirn jumped to his feet, joined by his two skinhead companions. Without another word to Kempten, they hurried off through the crowd. They circled over near the bar, cutting a wide swath around the intruder.

The killer was nowhere near them. He was walking through the cluster of tables in the center of the main floor. Although the room was thick with stretched-out legs and bent elbows, the man moved through the tangle without so much as a single sidestep. It was as if he had no more substance than the smoke-filled air around him.

"He doesn't see us," one of the young men said, braver now that the shadowy door loomed closer.

The chain in his nose tinkled softly as he nodded dully.

"Shut up," Hirn hissed.

As he spoke, he watched in horror as the killer's dead eyes turned their focus on him. It was as if he had somehow been able to single out the skinheads' hushed voices in the clamor of beer-fueled shouting. Hirn's stomach twisted into frozen knots.

"Hurry up," he whispered urgently to the others. They had seen the change in the stranger, as well. The trio hurried to the exit.

They were two yards away from the door when a terrifyingly familiar face appeared as if summoned by magic from out of the smoke before them.

"What put the goose in your step?" Remo asked, eyesleaden.

"Excuse us, sir," Hirn begged, swallowing nervously. Over Remo's shoulder, the door remained enticingly out of reach.

"Hmm. Polite for Germans," Remo mused, nodding. "I guess you three must be all putsched out. I'm looking for someone. Kempten Oatmeal-Hasenpfeffer, or something like that. His landlord said I'd find him here."

Three index fingers decorated with black nail polish stabbed in unison to the rear booth.

"Back there," Hirn insisted anxiously. "Very old. Yellow eyes. Bad teeth. You cannot miss him."

"Thanks," Remo said. "I don't intend to. By the way, bad teeth hardly narrows the field in this country." He began gliding past them.

There was a collective sigh of relief from the three skinheads.

"That is all?" one of them whispered, relieved. Hirn could have killed him.

Remo stopped abruptly.

"Actually, this is your lucky day," Remo said, turning back to the trio. "I was told to cut back on my killing."

There was a look of nervous relief on the faces of two of the skinheads. Hirn remained stone-faced. "But that doesn't mean I'm not allowed to vent a little righteous indignation."

Remo's hand shot forward three times. Each skinhead was aware of a blur of movement beneath his eyes and of a sudden, wrenching sensation at the center of his face.

The pain followed at once.

All three skinheads grabbed at noses that were suddenly gushing blood. Loose, frayed flaps of skin hung wet beneath their fingers.

As they watched in agony, Remo dropped three identical nose chains to the nearby bar.

"Hang Hitler," Remo announced with a sharp click of his heels and a crisp Nazi salute. Smiling, he headed back across the hall. Toward old Kempten.

THOUGH HIS EYES WERE no longer perfect, they didn't need to be. Kempten Olmutz-Hohenzoller-kirchen clearly saw his three companions point him out to the vile Nazi killer.

The old man had hoped to hunker down behind his cigarettes and beer until the intruder left the bar. He saw now that this was no longer possible.

Climbing uncertainly to his feet, he began hobbling quickly to the rear of the beer hall. He was vaguely aware of a door back there. At least there had been one about fifty years ago. He hoped it was still there.

As he walked, Kempten leaned against the side wall for support. He was an emaciated figure in out-of-date clothing. A few patrons glared angrily at him as he stepped steadily over feet and handbags in search of a door that might or might not be there.

He was surprised when he stumbled upon the ancient fire exit a moment later. His discolored eyes squinted suspiciously as he reached for the long metal bar.

Kempten rattled the handle. The door stubbornly refused to budge. He leaned his bony shoulder against the painted door and pushed with all his might. Still nothing.

He couldn't allow his exertions to get the better of him. Every moment brought the assassin closer to him.