"Kluge! His name is Kluge. Adolf Kluge." Remo's bloodless lips thinned to invisibility. Hirn recognized the predator's glint in his eyes. The skinhead again pressed a hand over his injured nose. His free hand he placed over an ear. He was forced to jam the other ear protectively into his shoulder. "Where is he?" Remo asked.
"What?" Hirn yelled.
"Oh, for heaven's sake." Remo slapped the skinhead's hands away from his face. "Kluge," he repeated. "Where?"
"At an inn," Him said, nervously rubbing his smarting hands. "Waiting for us. It's in the Black Forest." He gave Remo the name of the lodge. "I can take you there," he offered lamely.
"Thanks," Remo said, "I already have a guide." He launched a hard finger deep into Hirn Zeitzler's broad forehead. Surprisingly, the neo-Nazi's brain must have performed some function in life, for when it ceased to operate, so too did Hirn Zeitzler. As the skinhead was collapsing atop his neo-Nazi comrades, Remo was already heading up the dungeon stairs.
His cruel face held the promise of violent death.
Chapter 18
He sat alone on the terrace. Waiting.
The late-afternoon air was cold. Adolf Kluge watched his breath escape in tiny puffs of steam. He checked his watch.
Late.
Hirn should have been here hours ago. It was a simple matter. The only way Kluge could have made it simpler would have been to take them by the hand and lead them to the block carving himself. These skinhead creatures were moronic.
He would have sent one of the Numbers, but there were precious few of them left. Some were here. He had sent more with his aide, Herman, to help with the South American relocation of the IV villagers. Most of the genetically engineered men were dead. To Kluge's knowledge, only one was unaccounted for. He was the last of the four-man team Kluge had sent to Berlin weeks ago to intercept the two Masters of Sinanju at the airport. Presumably that one had ended up like his companions. All dead. All thanks to the men from Sinanju.
Kluge glanced at his watch again. Barely fifteen seconds had elapsed since the last time he checked. All the planning he had done would come to naught if Hirn failed to get the final piece of the ancient puzzle. The skinhead's friends were already camped in the woods up the road from the Pension Kirchmann. Only thirty-eight of them had shown up. In truth, that was more than Kluge had expected. He had augmented the band of skinheads with a few of the surviving Numbers from the IV village.
Kluge had the vehicles and the men. If the gold was in the right place, he would have that, too. But only if Hirn came down from whatever drug- or alcohol-induced stupor he was in today and brought Kluge the one thing he needed to make the whole plan come together.
Somewhere in the forest nearby, an animal snorted.
Kluge had never spent much time in this area of Germany, but in spite of his newness to the region he knew one thing: this part of the Black Forest had been appropriately named.
Staring into the woods from his terrace at the rear of the inn was like staring into the great abyss. The trees were ghastly, gnarled aberrations. As old, it seemed, as time itself. Kluge tried to see between the nearest ones, attempting to find whatever animal had made the noise. It was probably just a local dog.
He leaned forward, looking intently, but saw nothing.
The first snow had not yet fallen. It would have helped to have something light as background. Even just a dusting of powdery crystals would have reflected some light.
Whatever had made the noise, it was probably long gone now. Kluge settled back into his chair. His head hadn't touched the fanned wooden back of the handmade chair when Kluge felt a sudden, intense pressure around his throat.
It was as if all of the veins and muscles of his neck had somehow impossibly animated themselves and had wrapped snakelike around his throat. He felt the blood clog in his head. His eyes watered and bulged as he grabbed at the constricting force at his throat.
Instead of finding a neck, Kluge felt a hand. Woozily he followed the hand to an abnormally thick wrist. As his vision swirled around him, his spinning gaze somehow located the person at the other end of the hand.
Adolf Kluge found himself staring into the eyes of the Angel of Death.
"The gold rush is over, Kluge," Remo said tightly.
Kluge gasped for breath, but none could pass beyond Remo's clenching fingers. He pulled at Remo's hand, but to no avail. It was as powerful as a vise.
At the moment when he was about to black out, the strong grip relaxed slightly.
"Wait a minute," Remo said, peering intently at Adolf Kluge. "I know you."
Kluge sucked down a pained lungful of air. His head began to clear.
"Yes," Kluge rasped, nodding. He found the effort difficult with Remo's hand still clasped around his throat.
"From Paris, right? You claimed to be a British secret agent. You're the one who whacked Smith."
"Yes," Kluge panted. "I helped you stop Schatz."
"Helped, my ass," Remo said, remembering the neo-Nazi takeover of Paris. "He was a renegade from Four. The only reason you wanted to stop him was to cover your tracks. It didn't do any good. I'm here now. And you're checking out."
Remo increased the pressure on Kluge's neck once more.
A frantic voice shrieked suddenly from the corner of the inn. The Master of Sinanju had just come running into view near the well-tended shrubberies.
"Unhand him!" Chiun shouted desperately. Kimono sleeves flapped as he raced up along the rear of the building beneath the dining-room windows. Heidi trailed behind him.
Remo and the Master of Sinanju had gone in opposite directions when they arrived at the Pension Kirchmann. Remo had been lucky enough to stumble on Kluge first.
Chiun vaulted up over the low hedge that rimmed the terrace. He landed next to Remo and the seated Kluge.
"I'm not letting him go, Chiun," Remo warned evenly.
"Remo, your village needs that treasure," Chiun cried.
"That bunch of ingrates has so much loot they could eat it, wear it and smoke it for a hundred years and not make a dent in it," Remo retorted. He continued strangling Kluge.
Heidi Stolpe rounded the terrace and ran up the rear stairs. Sliding to a stop, she watched the drama unfold, helpless to do anything to stop Remo.
Chiun's tone grew soft. "Do it for me," he pleaded.
Remo's hand relaxed. He looked at Kluge's bright red bullfrog features. He glanced at the Master of Sinanju. The man who had given him everything in life. He hesitated.
"Smith's orders were clear, Little Father," Remo said.
"Pah! Smith's orders," Chiun mocked. "This gold will be with us long after Smith has issued his last demented decree."
Remo's grip had slackened to the point where Adolf Kluge was able to suck in a huge gulp of air. The IV leader wheezed painfully.
"Gold doesn't matter to me. Never has."
"It matters to me," Chiun insisted, eyes imploring. "Therefore it should matter to you."
Chiun had tossed down his trump card. Toying with Remo's affection for him. Remo knew that the wily Korean was only playing with his emotions. Unfortunately Chiun was right. Even though he was motivated purely by greed, it would hurt Chiun if Remo killed Kluge. For this reason alone, Remo couldn't bring himself to complete the act.
With great reluctance, he released his grip on the gasping IV leader.
Kluge hacked and wheezed alternately, dragging cold, ragged mouthfuls of air down into his oxygen-deprived lungs.
Chiun smiled. "You are a good son," he said proudly.
"No," Remo answered solemnly. His eyes were flint. "That's a load of baloney. You wanted to make me feel guilty, and it worked. End of story."
Chiun was taken aback by Remo's candor. "You were being rash. Sinanju needs that gold."
Remo shook his head sadly.
"I'm not buying it anymore, Chiun," he said. "You want the gold. Now you'll get it. The almighty buck has always been the love of your life. Maybe it'd be good for you to remember that that's what got Bal-Mung into trouble."