Warren Murphy: The Empire Dreams

The skinhead on the road pushed blood from his eyes with shaking hands as he watched a pair of men spill from the cab of the less damaged truck.

As the men ran across the street, Chiun flounced up beside Remo.

"Nice work," Remo said.

"Of course," Chiun acknowledged, his tone indicating that he was surprised that Remo would have expected anything less. "Do you wish to save these pinheads for any reason?" he asked of the pair that were approaching.

"No, this one will do," Remo said, nodding to the man on the ground.

Wordlessly Chiun whirled forward to intercept the advancing skinheads.

They had their weapons drawn and aimed at the Master of Sinanju, ready to open fire. Chiun plowed straight into them faster than they could squeeze their triggers.

In a blur visible only to Remo, Chiun dropped his hands atop the helmets of the two men. A pair of simultaneous hollow plop-crunch noises followed. Their old-fashioned headgear collapsed like folding beach chairs around their ears. Quick as a flash, the Master of Sinanju carved a pair of smiley faces into the fronts of both helmets. Unlike Remo, he made certain his eyes were even.

He turned, holding the bodies by the necks for Remo's inspection. The helmet faces stared, unblinking, at Remo.

"Maybe you should try a nose," Remo suggested.

"You must develop an appreciation for minimalism," Chiun replied. He released the helmet-headed corpses. Leaving them in the street, he joined Remo and the injured skinhead.

The young man was suffering from only a few superficial wounds. He grew more frightened as the Master of Sinanju approached.

"Keep him away!" he begged fearfully.

"Not to worry," Remo said. "It's my turn." Grabbing a knotted fistful of neo-Nazi shoulder muscle, Remo squeezed tightly. The young man's eyes bulged so hard they looked as if they might pop from their sockets. The pain was too intense to even scream. Though his mouth was open wide, no sound emerged.

"That's level one," Remo said, easing back on the pressure. "Now tell me, who's behind this?"

"The fuhrer," the young man gasped.

Remo shot a look at Chiun. The Master of Sinanju stood more erect upon hearing the German title. "Do better than that, sausage breath," Remo said. He squeezed harder.

"Nils Schatz!" the man cried in pain. "He is an old leader! From the time of the first fuhrer!"

"Now we're getting somewhere," Remo said encouragingly. "Where can we find this Shits guy?"

"At the presidential palace," the skinhead answered.

Remo turned to Chiun. "You know where that is?"

"You refer to the Palais de l'Eysee?" Chiun asked the skinhead. The young man nodded. "I know the place," Chiun said to Remo.

Remo turned his attention back to the bloodied skinhead.

"When you meet the first fuhrer, tell him Sinanju says to keep a seat warm for his understudy."

He drove two hard fingers into the frontal lobe of the whimpering neo-Nazi.

"YOU ARE NOT in command," Kluge said. "I demand that you return with me to Argentina at once, before you further jeopardize our anonymity."

"We are no longer anonymous," Schatz sneered. "No thanks to you. Because of your cowardly leadership, we have squandered decades scurrying like frightened rats at the periphery of the world. I have accomplished that which you were afraid to do."

"I was not afraid, idiot!" Kluge screamed. "You've accomplished nothing. A stupid old man with a stupid old scheme of revenge against the world. 'Der Geist der stets verneint. '" Kluge spit the German words out like a curse. "'The The spirit that never dies.' Pah! You should have died. Along with these insane hopes of military domination."

Schatz had remained seated since Kluge had arrived in this small office in the Palais de L'Elysee. But at this last outburst from the IV leader, he pushed himself to his feet. Though it was unnecessary, he used his cane for support. He stared icily at Kluge.

"This insane hope is a reality," he said with cold simplicity.

"And what of Sinanju?" Kluge demanded. "Oh, yes, I know that both Masters of Sinanju have been here, on this very soil. And they were involved in your little-" he waved his hand impatiently "-foray into England."

Schatz shot a look at Fritz. The old man held his leader's glare for a few seconds before finally turning away. It was as good as an admission of guilt. Scowling, Schatz turned back to Kluge.

"They have yielded before the might of the reich."

"Hah," Kluge spit venomously. "They do not yield. They never yield. Do you have any idea the intricacies involved in our last encounter with those two? Whoever they work for in America tried to trace us through Platt-Deutsche. I managed to throw up a few computer roadblocks barely in time to keep them at bay. We lost that entire company. It was nearly a billion-dollar loss."

"Economics," Schatz snapped. "Technology. Your two mistresses. They have brought us to ruin."

"No, you have brought us to ruin. Face the truth, Schatz. I am the future of IV. You are its past."

"Do not be so certain of yourself, Adolf," Schatz said. He pointed to the pair of skinhead guards standing inside the door. "Take him," he ordered blandly.

Immediately the guards grabbed Adolf Kluge by the arms.

"Are you insane?" Kluge demanded, shocked.

"Have you not said so yourself?" Schatz asked with a simple shrug. He turned to his guards. "Put him in with the French prisoners. I will decide what to do with him later."

Kluge was too stunned to protest. The skinhead guards led him from the room and down the corridor. "Mein fuhrer, I am sorr-" Fritz began with a helpless shrug of his bony shoulders.

The cane was up in an instant, resting against Fritz's pointy chin. The old man was too afraid to push it away. The cold end sat there, held aloft by Nils Schatz's trembling hand. Fritz could see a faint film of dried blood and gore on its bronze tip. He swallowed in fear.

"Be relieved that you are not joining him," Schatz said menacingly. He lowered the cane to the floor. Fritz closed his eyes and heaved a sigh of relief. The second his eyes were shut Fritz felt a tremendous pressure against the side of his head. A blinding flash of light crashed in a furious wave from a point just behind his left ear.

Fritz reeled.

His eyes opened for a moment and he saw the room in a tilted haze. It took him a second to orient himself.

He realized that he had fallen to his knees. In the process he had somehow grabbed on to the chair that Nils Schatz had been sitting on in front of his computer.

His fuhrer and lifelong friend was before him, holding his favorite walking stick in a two-handed grip. To Fritz it seemed as if everything were moving in slow motion.

Schatz swung again. The metal end of the cane connected with a hollow crack.

Again the blinding pain.

Fritz lost his grip on the chair. He fell spreadeagled to the floor. With desperate hands he tried to push himself up to his creaking knees.

Above him Schatz swung a final time. The heavy tip of the cane landed square in the back of Fritz's head. At last the skull cracked obediently and the old Nazi fell once more to the floor. This time he didn't move.

Schatz withdrew a few steps from the corpse, panting excessively. He had to lean against the wall from his great exertion.

"In the future," Schatz said to the body, as if Fritz were still alive, "I would advise you, Fritz, to ask your fuhrer before giving out privileged information."

The young skinhead who had been aiding Schatz with the computer was still in the room. He stood at attention by the small terminal.

Schatz pointed at the body with his cane.

"See the field marshal to his quarters," he instructed. "I believe he is ill." He walked from the room and up the long corridor.