Warren Murphy: The Empire Dreams

"Get down!" Kluge yelled in French to the diplomats seated on the floor.

As the men and women flung themselves to the carpeted aisle, fingers interlocked above their heads, Adolf Kluge opened fire on the pair of Nazis at the front of the stage.

He took two shots at the nearest skinhead. The first bullet caught the man in the rear of his left shoulder. He tried to turn on his attacker, but only made it halfway around when the second bullet caught him with a violent thwack in the temple. He toppled over, bouncing first off the stage and then crumpling to the floor.

The second skinhead managed to get off a couple of shots from his rifle.

Kluge felt a few rounds pound against the body of the old man. The Nazi groaned no louder than if he had just awakened from a nightmare. He grew limp in Kluge's arm.

Another shot.

A single bullet ripped through Kluge's bicep. Lip curling in pain and anger, he flung the body of the dead Nazi to the floor, at the same time tossing the gun from his injured arm to his good left hand. He caught the weapon and squeezed the trigger once.

The bullet snapped into the chest of the skinhead. The force of impact was so great, the man swirled around toward the stage, flinging his gun to the floor. He sprawled across the stage, arms thrown wide. He didn't move again.

Ignoring his bleeding arm, Kluge turned on the gathered diplomats, including the president of France.

"Stay there," Kluge instructed.

The politicians weren't about to move. They looked on in fear as Kluge moved swiftly across the auditorium. On the way he gathered up one of the discarded rifles.

Kluge propped his back against the wall inside the open door. He took a deep breath. Thus steadied, he jerked his body around, sticking the muzzle of the gun experimentally into the hallway.

Instantly a hand that extended into a thick wrist reached into the room from the corridor.

"I'll take that," Remo said, coming into view.

He pulled the rifle from Kluge's hands, taking it in his own. Holding the barrel in one hand and the stock in the other, Remo brought the middle of the gun down across one knee. The rifle snapped obediently in two neat halves. Remo tossed them away. "All clear," Remo called behind him.

As Remo ambled into the room, Smith came in from the corridor in the company of Chiun. Smith immediately spied the computer that Schatz had had moved up on the stage after the death of Fritz. Leaving the others, he hurried up the steps, sliding in before the screen.

On the floor Kluge suppressed his surprise at seeing for the first time the man he knew to be the Master of Sinanju. When he saw Adolf Kluge, Chiun's eyes narrowed.

"You do this?" Remo asked, nodding to the bodies lying around the room.

"I did what was necessary," Kluge said. With difficulty he pulled his attention away from Chiun. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his bleeding arm.

"You're English," Remo said, noting Kluge's accent.

The head of IV nodded in response. "And you are American presumably," Kluge said.

"That's the first thing about me everyone seems to notice lately."

"I presume the palace is secure?"

"It looks that way," Remo told Kluge. "There were only a couple of guys outside and a couple more inside. It looks like everyone else bugged out before we got here."

"It is safe, Mr. President," Kluge called back to the assembled French officials. "They are Americans."

The crowd of people on the floor across the room became animated for the first time in almost a day. They pushed themselves up on cramped legs, rubbing aching backs as they tried to shake away the feeling of pins and needles in their lower extremities. Some left to find a bathroom. Not one of the lesser dignitaries expressed thanks for his release. Alone, the president came over to greet them.

"You have my gratitude," he said happily. Remo was about to say "you're welcome" when the Frenchman grabbed Adolf Kluge by the hand and began pumping madly. His face beamed appreciation.

"Hello," Remo said, perturbed. "Palace liberators this way." He waved his hand in front of the president's face.

"Ah, yes." The president reached for Remo's hand.

Chiun interjected. "This one is German," the Master of Sinanju said, his nose crinkling unhappily. He nodded to Kluge.

"Non," the French president said, his hand withdrawing. "He is with British Intelligence."

"That is an oxymoron," sniffed Chiun, "and beside the point. He has the stink of a Hun."

"Look, Chiun," Remo said, "he was helping out the good guys. Right now that makes him a good guy." He turned to Kluge. "So do you work for Source?" he asked.

"You've heard of it?" Kluge said, trying to sound surprised.

"Who hasn't?" Remo asked.

"Yes," Kluge said, uncertainly. "In point of fact, I cannot really say."

"Then it must be MIS. If you were Source, you'd say so."

Smith suddenly interrupted their conversation. "Remo, Chiun, come here," he called from the stage.

Remo immediately turned away from the others, hopping up atop the dais. He was followed by Kluge, the French president and a still suspicious Chiun.

"I have gotten into their system," Smith said excitedly as the others gathered around. "It is really quite simple." He punched a few keys. A screen of text was replaced by a map of Paris. "Everything is here. Locations, amounts stockpiled. Everything."

"Those blue and red dots are the bombs?" Remo asked.

Smith nodded. "They indicate both regular explosives and mustard-gas shells."

"It looks like a hell of a lot of bombs," Remo said worriedly.

Smith shook his head. "That is true," he admitted. "However, they have been placed in the subway, as well as government buildings and cultural centers. From what I have learned, all of these places are virtually if not completely abandoned at present."

"Can you tell from this what might be their primary target?" Kluge asked. "Schatz threatened to destroy it, as well as murder hundreds of civilians when he stormed away from here."

Smith looked back at the computer. "Possibly," he said. "I believe there is a numbering system." He used the cursor to initiate the proper commands. A ripple effect passed down the screen, leaving numerals in its wake. When it disappeared from the bottom of the computer, each dot was left with a small white number superimposed on it.

"Oh, my god," the French president said when he saw where number 1 was located.

Smith frowned. For confirmation he moved the cursor arrow up to the dot marked "1." When he depressed the plastic button, a fresh screen of text flooded the computer face. The text supported the conclusion of the president.

"I would guess that is the primary target," Smith said.

"So we know where he's headed," Remo said. He started for the stairs.

"Wait!" the French president called. He looked desperately down at Smith. "Is German occupation so bad?" he asked. "Can we not give him what he wants?"

Smith's face steeled. "Need I remind you, Mr President, that he wants to murder and enslave your countrymen?"

"Yes, but..." The president indicated the information on the computer screen with a helpless wave of his hand.

Disgusted, Smith turned his attention away from the Frenchman and back to Remo.

"The Metro is likely cleared of all civilians," he said. "As are the buildings on this list. The worst he can inflict on the city is a cultural black eye. Get him."

"Stop!" the president cried, flinging himself at Remo, blocking his exit. He turned his attention on Smith. "Who are you to issue orders in sovereign France?"

Remo looked at him distastefully. He took the president by the shoulders, lifting him off the floor. He placed him between Kluge and the still seated Smith.

"We're the good guys," Remo said. Without another word he and Chiun headed down the stairs and raced out the auditorium door.