"My safe-deposit box," Kluge said, jaw clenched tightly. His eyes shot fiery daggers at the portly bank manager.
"Of course." The man smiled nervously. Riefenstahl waddled rapidly away from the desk. Kluge followed, hands clasped behind his back, fingers clenching and unclenching anxiously.
They detoured around the teller windows, heading through a doorway at the end of the long row of glass-enclosed booths. A long hallway lined with several offices led to yet another door-this one polished steel. Riefenstahl used a special key from a chain hooked to his ample midsection to gain admittance into the room.
A short hallway led to a bare archway. This opened into a large inner room. The bank's safe-deposit boxes were lined up along three of the four walls. There were hundreds of simple metal doors, each with two slots designed for two separate keys.
It was always cool in here, even in the summer. In winter, it was worse. Kluge shivered as they passed the rows of identical boxes and walked over to the larger cabinets that lined the narrowest wall. These were as big and plain as high-school lockers.
"Which was it, Herr Kluge?" Riefenstahl asked nervously.
"Achtzig," Kluge said.
Riefenstahl went to the eightieth locker and inserted his master key into the right slot. Kluge inserted his own key from the chain he had taken from his pocket.
They turned the keys simultaneously. The locks popped obediently. Kluge pulled down on the handle, and the door sprang open, revealing a large metal box.
"Let me know when you are finished," Riefenstahl said.
When Kluge said nothing more to him, the grateful bank manager hurried from the chilly room. Once Riefenstahl was gone, Kluge hefted the large box from the bottom of the locker. Bearing it ahead of him like a sacred relic, he placed it on one of several tables that were arranged around the center of the floor. Inserting the same key he had used on the safe deposit box door, Kluge opened the lock on the top of the large box.
There was not much inside. Just a dusty collection of useless things his father had been proud of. Things that Kluge had never really bothered with since assuming his position as head of IV.
His family's lineage had been lovingly recorded and preserved. Not that Kluge had ever believed that he was a direct descendant of the Nibelungenlied protagonist Siegfried. The entire history had been recopied sometime at the end of the last century. The pages of the book in which the Kluge family tree had been written were yellowed with age.
Kluge had only recently begun to lend credence to the old stories. Encountering the Sinanju Masters had been the catalyst. If they were real, then perhaps his father's fanciful stories were true, as well.
Looking down on those pages, he only wished that someone had had the sense of history to save the original manuscripts from which this one book had been compiled. They would have been priceless. Kluge placed the book to one side.
Aside from the lone manuscript, there was a folded Nazi flag tucked into a corner of the box. A memento of his late father's war days. There was other assorted junk-the Iron Cross, old letters. Kluge went instinctively to the two letters that were written and signed by Hitler himself. He had always sought these two out, even as a boy. He examined their dog-eared edges for a moment before putting them aside.
It was a paltry pile of useless junk.
The item Kluge had been looking for was at the bottom. Atop it, half-tucked into a yellowed envelope, was an old photograph.
Kluge picked up the envelope. Pulling the photo out, he examined it carefully.
He was disappointed to find that it was not as he hoped it would be. Most of the details of the map were clear; however, there had been an unintentional blurring in the lower right-hand corner of the picture.
He cursed himself inwardly for not being certain the box containing the IV section of the map had been spirited away with the rest of his personal belongings. There had been so much planning at the end, and-truth be told-even though he imagined early on that the village was doomed, he had never expected that the men from Sinanju would find a way to bankrupt the secret Nazi group. He had always thought to set up IV elsewhere. Now that his businesses were gone and he was forced to resort to archaeological sleuthing, all he had to go on was a blurry old photograph.
Well, not all, he realized.
The final item in the box was in an old black felt bag, which Kluge lifted gently from the bottom of the metal container. Unknotting the dingy cord at the neck of the bag, Kluge slipped a flat square object from inside.
Kluge examined the details of his family's section of the Siegfried block carving. It was in excellent shape. Better shape, in fact, than the IV square.
That piece of the puzzle-now missing-had been collected by his father during the height of Nazi Germany's power. The descendants of Hagan's family were weak. And, as an odd quirk of fate would have it, they had found themselves at that unfortunate time in history to be of a particular religious sect that was not in line with the progressive reforms of the fascist government.
After they were dead, Kluge's father had pillaged their belongings. His search had turned up not only the block carving, but also the stained-glass windows which would eventually be installed at the South American fortress of IV.
Kluge supposed he owed the Hagan family a favor. If not for the picture of Siegfried holding a piece of the block in that window, he might never have realized the significance of the sections already in his possession.
Kluge quickly slipped the block, as well as the picture of the missing piece, inside the cloth bag. Replacing the other items inside the safe-deposit box, he secured the lid. He put the container back inside the locker, shutting the door tightly.
After he locked the door, he collected the black bag from the table.
Though the Hagan block was no longer in his possession, he did have a photograph of it. That, along with his family's section and the Sinanju section so thoughtfully provided by Keijo Suk, had already given him a fairly strong idea where the treasure might be hidden.
But he needed to know for certain. There was one section left. And Adolf Kluge knew where it would be.
He hurried from the room, not bothering to tell the obese bank manager Riefenstahl that he was through.
Chapter 17
The North Korean government was surprisingly generous in loaning its plane to the Master of Sinanju and his party. Provided, of course, that the Master of Sinanju not blame the actions of Keijo Suk on the North Korean government.
Via the pilot's radio, Chiun had flatly stated that there would be no provisions. Government authorities had said that this was good; too, and told the pilot to do as he was told.
The jet had been cheerily refueled and allowed to take off from Pyongyang airport without delay. To Remo's delight and Chiun's dismay, there were no British situation comedies being played on the plane.
The long flight back to Germany was uneventful. As the plane finally began its descent over Berlin, Remo looked out the window at the rapidly growing rooftops.
"It feels like we just left here," he griped.
"I will not complain," Heidi said in her soft Spanish accent. "I spend far too little time here."
"Do not talk of spending, swindler," Chiun accused from the seat behind them.
"Is he going to start again?" Heidi asked Remo.
"One thing you should know about him," Remo explained. "He may quiet down for a continent or two, but he never really stops."
"Really, Remo, I do not know why you would converse with this flimflammer," Chiun called over the top of the seat. "We merely agreed to do business with her-we do not have to be nice to her. Look on her as you would a rat catcher or the Rooty Rotor man."