The fat man held up a staying hand. "I know another number," he promised. "Give me a moment." As the ministry man dug through his pockets for the second number, the chancellor turned back to the window.
He couldn't believe his bad luck. How many chancellors had there been since the last time? Any one of them should have had to deal with this. Mocking fate had dropped him in office at this time.
At first the German leader thought he could dispense with all of this in a quick, efficient German manner. But his first chosen champion-the talented Swiss assassin, Olivier Hahn-had met an untimely end. After a scramble to find a replacement, they found the best money could buy. Better, perhaps, than the dead Swiss killer. And now this.
Behind him, the defense ministry man had found the backup number. The chancellor heard the beeps of the cell phone. The German leader tried to tune out the sound.
Across the forest the sky continued to brighten. The castle was a sacred spot. Ever since the time of Frederick Barbarossa this had been the traditional meeting place between the leaders of Germany and the mysterious assassins from the East. The castle had been maintained better in the earliest centuries. The outer walls and outbuildings had begun to crumble four centuries before. The modern age had brought the inner hall to partial ruin. But through many years, from the rule of the Hapsburgs through the reunification of East and West Germany at the end of the twentieth century, much of the castle still remained.
In the modern age the upkeep expenses were part of a black budget. No one outside a tight circle within the government even knew of the castle's existence. The small stipend earmarked for the Barbarossa castle was barely enough to maintain the main structure. Still, in spite of the ravages of time, it remained one of the best preserved castles of its age in Europe. And one that no government bureaucrat, college professor or camera-carting tourist would ever see.
For an instant as he looked out the window of the great hall, the current chancellor of Germany felt a tiny touch of the specialness of this place.
And as quickly as it came, the bubble that was his brief connection to the history of his country popped. "Hey, Sergeant Schultz, is this Barbarella's castle?" asked an American voice.
The German chancellor whirled.
There was another man standing in the vast hall. The intruder had come up the east stairs. Silently, for neither the defense ministry man nor the chancellor had heard him approach. The stranger was addressing the fat man on the phone, a perturbed look on his cruel face.
The fat man looked desperately from the stranger in the black T-shirt and matching chinos to the chancellor of Germany. The ministry man didn't know what to do. He had not expected to be interrupted in so clandestine an affair.
"Yo, Pudding Pop, I'm talking to you," Remo said, waving a hand in front of the man's frightened face.
"You cannot be here," the chancellor called. Remo glanced up as Germany's leader approached. The chancellor got between Remo and the throne, as if partially blocking the massive piece of furniture in the ancient stone hall would somehow hide his purpose.
"This is not a place for tourists," the chancellor said.
"Tell me about it," Remo groused. "It's not on any maps. Next world war you guys should hide out here. It'd take us a hundred years to find you. You in charge?"
The chancellor wasn't sure what to do. He had brought no security. His helicopter pilot was the man with the phone. The fat man was shrugging helplessly.
The chancellor stood straight, stiffening his shoulders. "You are trespassing," he said. "I order you to leave this place at once."
"Sorry, Fritz," Remo said. "Not German. I don't do that whole blindly-follow-orders thing. And it sounds like you're in charge. Here's the deal. I'm the first Master of Sinanju in a thousand years who's had to do this on his own, I've got some spooky prophecy dogging me and I'm in the kind of mood you people get in just before you annex, invade or write an opera at someone. So let's get this over with."
The chancellor took a surprised step back. With one hand he steadied himself on the throne.
"You are the Master of Sinanju?"
"Transitional Master for the moment," Remo said. "And the faster I get through here the faster I can transition to Reigning Master. Not that that's going to be all peaches and cream, but it's time to move up and there's nothing I can do about it. So let's get this over with. Where's your guy?"
"Ahh..." the German chancellor said. He glanced worriedly at the defense ministry man.
"That him?" Remo asked. Frowning, he stabbed his thumb at the man with the cell phone.
"No!" insisted the fat man. Panicked, he fell back against the wall, clutching his phone to his chest.
"Calm down, pie haus," Remo said. He turned his attention to the chancellor. "So where is he?"
"We, ah, had someone in mind," the chancellor began.
"I bet. Must've been a real challenge finding a maniacal, bloodthirsty German killer. What did you have to do, look out the window?"
"Actually we had two people," the chancellor said. Despite the cold, sweat broke out on his forehead. "The first was a Swiss. Very good with mechanical devices. He would have presented a real challenge for you."
"Not much of one. That plug got pulled last year." The chancellor blinked dull understanding.
"Oh," he said, his voice small. "We did manage to find another. His skills were different than the one you-than the other one."
"And?" Remo asked, noting the man's fearful quaver.
The chancellor gave a helpless shrug. "Our contestant has not arrived." In German, he barked a question at the ministry man on the other side of the hail. "He has vanished," the chancellor admitted to Remo in English, his voice sinking to low levels of despair. Remo could see the man was telling the truth.
"Well, what am I supposed to do now?" Remo muttered at the cold stone walls of the ancient castle hall.
"Show mercy on we lowly ones, O great and awesome Master of Sinanju," said the chancellor. "Be quick, bitte."
The chancellor's voice sounded strange. Remo looked down.
The German leader was down on his knees, his face pressed to the mossy floor. There was a grunt behind Remo. When he turned he saw the fat man had prostrated himself, too.
"What are you nits doing?" Remo asked.
"We have insulted Sinanju by not finding an assassin," said the chancellor. "Don't you want to kill us?"
Remo frowned. "That what I'm supposed to do?"
"I do not know. In a thousand years my country has never failed to field a champion. I assumed the future head of the House of Sinanju would take our failure as an insult and exact a blood debt from us."
"Maybe," Remo said. "On the other hand, blood debts are a bitch to wash out of cotton fabric."
Frowning contemplation, he turned silently on his heel.
After a long moment, the German chancellor looked up from the ancient stones.
The American was gone.
The chancellor pulled himself to his feet. Nearby, the defense ministry man climbed up on wobbly legs. The fat man's face glistened with sweat. There seemed to be an odd pain shooting up his left arm. Not that it mattered. They were alive.
"Thank God," the overweight man whispered.
Remo stuck his head back around the corner. "Hey, can I hitch a ride back with you guys?" he asked.
He noted the fat man flopping to the stone floor clutching his chest.
"I hope Tubby the Tuba's not driving," Remo said.
HAROLD W. SMITH WAS at his computer in his Folcroft office when the phone rang.
It was still the dead of night on the East Coast. Through the picture window at his back, silver starlight sparkled across the inky black water of Long Island Sound.
Smith had sent Mark Howard home hours ago. It would be several hours before the younger man came back in to work.