Brain Storm (29 page)

Holz glanced around desperately. He had to get out. He couldn't be caught here.

Luckily the rear rooms all opened onto the fire escape. He'd get down to the van. He could not allow these men to capture him.

Quickly he turned toward the rear door. He was just fast enough to see his assistant flash from out of his peripheral vision.

The man's fist moved lightning fast, in a direct line for his face.

He was astonished by what happened next.

Lothar Holz looked on, bewildered, almost a spectator to the actions of his own body. The first Sinanju-enforced blow landed with a squishy thud.

One minute before, von Breslau had been fussing impatiently with the equipment in the van.

He couldn't get a lock on the Sinanju men. He had tried, but the Dynamic Interface System stubbornly refused to work. He didn't understand the intricacies of the system. If it didn't work, it didn't work. He had gotten some information from the young one.

That would have to suffice.

He only wished he had been responsible for the death of the Master of Sinanju. But that could still happen. Even in his lifetime. He had the information that could be used to ultimately destroy the old Korean. In a year, perhaps two...

But first things first. He used the interface system to enter a command into the mind of one of the men in the building. It was to Holz's assistant. He told the man to kill Lothar Holz. Von Breslau waited what he felt was an appropriate amount of time and then cut the signals to both ambassadors. If the blond mute was still in the room when the Sinanju men got there, it was his own fault. And anyway, he was expendable; von Breslau was not.

This task accomplished, the good doctor climbed up into the cab of the mobile interface van and started the engine.

Helena Eckert suddenly became slack in Remo's arms. He placed her on the floor and glanced at Chiun. Sir Geoffrey Hyde-Black had gone as limp as a plate of boiled noodles. Chiun dropped the man as if he were diseased. All at once, Remo became aware of an engine roaring from the lot at the rear of the building.

Running to the window at the end of the hall, Remo was just in time to see the rear of the Dynamic Interface System's van clear the side of the building.

Its twisted rear door bounced roughly along with the rest of the frame through the potholed driveway, sending up plumes of sandy smoke. A second later, it reached the road. Engine flat out, the truck thun-dered off.

It was gone.

Remo stood near the door from which he had sensed movement a few moments before. There was nothing now.

He hoped Holz hadn't gotten away again.

Remo pushed open the door. In the middle of the untidy room, a body lay twisted on the floor.

The face was an unrecognizable pulp. It resembled a pile of raw hamburger. The blood-streaked hair was wrenched out by the roots. All that remained were patchy, mottled clumps. The entire head, hands and torso were soaked with blood.

Remo looked more closely. He saw it. The tiny radio earpiece Holz was so fond of wearing. He heard Chiun enter the room behind him.

"His assistant must have killed him," Remo said.

"These are Sinanju moves." His nose wrinkled.

"Carried to the extreme, though. What a mess." He stood.

It was probably understandable. By now, Holz's assistant would have been experiencing the final side effects of the Sinanju download. He had been in better physical shape than the other test subjects, but he wouldn't be able to hold on to it much longer than the rest. He had already begun experiencing the same savage physical outbursts some of the others had had at the end. His wild, mindless attack was proof. He could no longer stop himself.

The killing blows had been repeated over and over even after Holz must surely have died. It was totally unfocused.

Remo went over to the window. He saw the rusty old fire escape.

He must have escaped out the window. It didn't matter. Wherever he was, the young man would be dead by morning. Remo turned to leave.

Chiun was standing by the bloody body, looking on with a curiously musing expression.

"We'd better get the ambassadors out of here,"

Remo said with a sigh. "Maybe Smitty can do something to get that programming out of them."

He headed out into the hallway. Chiun didn't move. "You coming?" Remo asked impatiently at the door.

Turning away from the body, Chiun slowly trailed Remo out into the hall. His mouth was a somber frown.

26

Von Breslau registered at the hotel under the name Heinrich Kolb.

No one asked him why he had no luggage. All he carried with him was a large box tucked under one arm and a brown grocery bag that swung from his gnarled hand by its handles. When the bellboy offered to carry the items for him, the elderly man cheerily declined.

Alone in his room, he placed the box on the neatly made bed. He set the bag on the floor.

Kluge had made arrangements for him to leave the country tomorrow.

He had a 9:00 a.m. flight out of JFK.

Von Breslau had spent the better part of the afternoon and early evening copying files from the van computers onto diskettes. What he ended up with filled a container twice as large as a standard shoe box. This was the box he placed on the bed.

From the bag he took several items—scissors, brown paper, a marking pen and a roll of packing tape.

He arranged the diskettes snugly in the box, shoving a hotel hand towel in around the cargo to fill up the vacant space. Taking great care, he wrapped and taped the box for shipment. He did not address it.

That could wait until morning. When he called down for a cab he would have someone at the front desk mail the package for him.

Von Breslau left the box on the nightstand and undressed for bed.

He didn't know what time he awoke.

At first he thought he was dreaming. It was a sensation of floating—of gentle hands bearing him softly through the balmy evening air. But all at once, the air turned cold.

He tried to get his bearings.

He saw a green metal door opened behind him. It had no handle.

It was cold here. The wind whipped his sparse hair. Von Breslau shivered in his underwear.

Up, around...

He saw the chimneys. Like something out of his past. Fifty years before. Then they had belched a thick, acrid smoke—the smell of burning flesh weighing heavy in the frigid winter air. The chimneys he saw now were idle.

He floated in close to one, very close. He saw the rough surface of the grimy bricks. Then he was up.

Sure hands guided him to the very top. He saw the New York skyline, dazzlingly white. A sea of lights spreading out brilliantly around him. Then he saw the gaping maw of the chimney. Up close. The blackness slid around his head. He felt the tightness at his bony shoulders. The blood rushed to his head.

His arms were pinned to his sides. He was unable to move.

"What is it you want?" he pleaded. His voice echoed in the confines of the chimney. "I can get you money. Gold. Anything."

"Gold is generally an acceptable form of payment."

Von Breslau recognized the voice. The Master of Sinanju. The young one spoke next.

"Gold is pretty good," the voice of Remo agreed.

"I can promise you a fortune. It is guaranteed."

Von Breslau tried to move his head. Fragments of black grit jarred loose from the chimney's wall and fell into his eyes. He blinked but could not dislodge the painful flakes.

"What do you think, Little Father?" he heard Remo say.

"It is a tempting offer, admittedly," Chiun said.

"But I do not feel it is time yet to do business with the Hun. My memory of the little jester with the funny mustache is too recent. Perhaps in another hundred years or so, my attitude could change."

Then the younger voice spoke down into the hole.

"Don't go anywhere, we'll get back to you."

Von Breslau felt the young one slip something around his big toe.

He didn't hear them climb down from the chimney. He only knew they had left when he heard the roof door slam soundly shut.

Six months later, when a maintenance crew discovered the body stuffed down into the mouth of the chimney, the story would make national news. Public interest in the case would generate an extensive investigation, and it would ultimately be discovered that the deceased was none other than the infamous Dr. Erich von Breslau. With the resulting media fire-storm, the hotel would begin to wish they had paid attention to the note left by the killer. Whoever had put the body there had kindly placed a Do Not Disturb sign on the old man's toe.

"You might have done it more neatly," Smith chastised.

"I don't want to hear it, Smitty," Remo said. "It felt right."

The look on Remo's face suggested that Smith not press the issue.

"This is all he had with him?" He had opened the box and removed the diskettes.

"That was it. Oh, here." Remo reached into his pocket and removed the object Smith had given him.

He tossed it on the CURE director's desk. "I'm not sure, but I think that little gizmo worked," he said.

Smith allowed himself a rare smile. "I thought it might." He put down the box and picked up the object. He flipped it over in the palm of his hand.

"So what is it?" Remo asked.

"It is a pacemaker. You recall I had one implanted recently. That was why I was in New York earlier this week. To see my doctor. The signal must have somehow interfered with the immobilizing aspect of the Dynamic Interface System signal. If it worked for me, I hoped that it would work for both of you, as well."

"Your talisman was most effective, Emperor,"

Chiun enthused. "It appears, though Sinanju be your greatest sword, that there are other weapons in your mighty arsenal."

"A pacemaker," Remo said, mildly surprised.

Smith replaced the flat object on his desk and picked up von Breslau's box. He frowned as he turned it over in his hands. "You know, Remo, this looked as though it was packed for shipping," he mused. "I wonder where von Breslau was sending it?"

"He and Holz talked about something called

'Four'," Remo suggested.

Smith nodded. "Yes, you mentioned that to me earlier. I did some checking and I could find no reference to a Four organization in any of the pro- or neo-Nazi literature. It is probably merely a minor splinter group. I would not be concerned."

"Well, if this is all wrapped up, Chiun and I will get going."

"Do not be too hasty," Chiun said, stepping forward. "There is still a minor item."

"What?" Remo knew the answer the instant the word passed his lips. "Oh, Chiun, can't you collect your autograph later?" Remo complained.

"Autograph? Oh, yes. Of course." Smith took a pen and piece of paper from his desk drawer and began writing. "You realize, Master of Sinanju, that due to the need for secrecy in the organization, you may not show this to anyone?" He looked up over the tops of his glasses as he spoke.

Chiun's expression grew concerned. "To no one at all?"

"I am afraid not."

"Therefore selling it is out of the question?"

"I must insist." Smith had finished writing and held the small slip of paper out to Chiun.

The Master of Sinanju looked down his nose at the paper as if Smith were offering him a rotted fish.

"I have just remembered that I have many of your autographs already. They grace the contracts you have signed with the House of Sinanju. Long live Emperor Smith."

When it became clear that Chiun had no intention of taking the sheet of paper, Smith returned it to his desk. "Well, if this matter is finished, we should all go home and get some rest. It has been a very long week"

Harold Smith rose from behind his desk. Chiun suddenly held up a staying hand.

"Actually there is another trifling item."

27

Harold W. Smith trudged wearily up the stairs to his bedroom. He had taken his shoes off at the door and carried them, so as not to wake his wife so late. Only when he entered the room did he remember that Maude had gone out of town to visit their daughter.

She had been telling him for weeks. Like so much of his life that did not revolve around his work, Smith had simply forgotten.

He removed his jacket and tie and lay down atop the bedcovers.

He was so drained he didn't have the energy to put on his pajamas.

He lay there for a few long seconds, in dress shirt and pants, staring at the shadows of the room.

It had been a grueling, grueling week.

He had denied his body sleep for so long, he began to see things in the room around him. Strange black shapes flitted out from the corners as car headlights dragged through the room and across the walls. A patch of darkness seemed to coalesce. It was a bizarre vision. He saw the face of Captain Josef Menk fade up out of the shadows. It was an eerie image in a week of foolish daydreams. His exhausted mind was playing tricks on him.

Suddenly Menk spoke: "You destroyed everything."

Smith was immediately alert. The voice was real.

It was in his room. He sat up in bed.

"You did it to yourself," he said crisply.

"No!" It was Lothar Holz who stepped out into the room. "It was you! You started this downward spiral! You ruined my life." His eyes glared hate-fully at Smith, and Smith fully saw the family resemblance.

"I refuse to be blamed for your personal failings."

Holz took another step. "At the lab, you spoke of Usedom."

Smith's nod was nearly imperceptible.

"You are the one. You killed Josef Menk."

"I did what I had to do," Smith said coldly.

"You killed my grandfather!"

"Your grandfather was a murderer."

"No! No!" His eyes were wild. "My grandfather was a great man!"

With no warning, Holz lunged for Smith.

At the last minute, a long-nailed hand swiped down from out of the shadows.

It met Holz in the abdomen, knocking him away from Smith. He fell against the wall beneath the window.

The Master of Sinanju stepped out of the shadows, talons raised protectively.