Armed guards knelt behind the barriers, chatting among themselves. From the shadows Helene scanned the fortifications.
There did not appear to be many guards. The force they had used to take the city was small. They must have expected reinforcements to come once the mission was under way.
Only two men were behind the sandbags. Occasionally a third man would stroll into view within the gates. A vicious-looking German shepherd walked at leash length before the final guard.
She watched the scene for half an hour. The rain grew heavier, pasting her brown hair to her face in thick sheets. She tugged it away from her eyes with impatient, shaking hands.
The guard with the dog completed his circuit every ten minutes or so. Within that interval the two guards were completely alone.
She waited until the dog guard returned one last time. As she watched his rain-slick back disappear beyond the high columns beside the gate, Helene moved out of the protective shadows. Her hand felt inside her coat, reaching for the butt of her gun.
She walked briskly across the wide street to the palace.
Her shivering now had nothing to do with the cold.
THERE WERE NO LIGHTS on inside the ground floor apartment. The windows were dark, the shades tightly drawn.
The figures approached from the east, up the dimly lit side street to the alley door. Rain dripped down from the roof three stories above, splattering in furious, uneven bursts against the pavement.
Somewhere distant two cats shrieked a sudden argument at one another. Afterward there were voices. A single loud laugh followed by a bawdy German shout. More laughter.
The dark, drenched shape in the lead came up to the old door, hugging the wall. A single knock, followed by three in rapid succession. Silence ensued. "Resistance," a voice called in a hoarse whisper. No response.
The rain continued to drain loudly into the alley. The German voices grew louder. They were coming closer.
Another knock.
"It is Smith," the dark shape hissed in English. Footfalls. Louder now. They were in the alley. But they were unhurried.
At the door a brief pause was followed by the sound of a dead bolt sliding back. The door opened an inch and a watery yellow eye peered out into the alley. All at once, the door swung open wide.
The Germans were nearly in view.
Without a glance down the alley, Smith hustled his wife inside the small apartment.
The door shut and locked once more.
Seconds later the German patrol strolled past the unlit apartment. They continued on without a glance at the silent alley door.
THE FRENCH ARMY HAD placed roadblocks around the city of Paris. The only people being allowed in so far were members of the press. By order of Fuhrer Schatz no one was being allowed to leave. Beyond their barricades, French authorities were helpless to do anything to liberate their capital city.
The president had been allowed to speak via direct satellite transmission to those members of the French senate and national assembly who hadn't been caught in the neo-Nazi web during the spate of kidnappings.
He informed them that he had indeed signed the document of surrender. He also told them that he was against their taking any action at this time to liberate the city. Of course, he was surrounded by eager young skinheads with plainly visible firearms, so the sincerity of France's chief elected official was suspect.
Of one thing, there was no doubt. France was facing a constitutional crisis.
The leaders of both houses of parliament were being held captive. The prime minister had been out of the city at the time of the takeover and had assumed control of what was left of the government. However, he was having difficulty rallying support among the remaining legislators.
In absence of a plan or a functioning government to support that plan, a vacuum had developed. And in that void nothing was getting accomplished, giving Nils Schatz and his tiny band of fascists more time to solidify their stranglehold on the famous city.
On one of the northwestern roads leading into Paris, a heavily armed convoy of French soldiers had stalled at the city's outskirts. Concrete barriers lined the road.
French army soldiers milled helplessly around trucks and jeeps on their side of the partition. On the other side a woefully outmatched force of neo-Nazi soldiers stood smugly at attention.
The French forces could easily have overrun the band of invaders, but hadn't yet been given instructions to do so. The Germans knew this. Like neighborhood milquetoasts given licence to taunt the local bully, the skinheads were milking their newfound power for all it was worth.
The Germans jeered and spit toward the French soldiers. The French could do nothing but stand back and stand down.
The standoff had gone on like this for several hours when Remo and Chiun finally drove up in their stolen Fiat.
They were waved to a stop by French guards. "We're in kind of a hurry," Remo pressed, leaning out the window as an armed French soldier approached.
"You are American?" the soldier said in English.
"Yep," Remo replied. "Hey, Frenchie, could you move that tank?" he called up ahead. He beeped the car's horn.
"I am Korean," Chiun said to no one in particular. Sensing he had a couple of potential lunatics on his hands, the French soldier took a step back from the car.
"Could you wait a moment, please?"
As Remo's car idled, the soldier walked briskly over to his commanding officer. The officer-a colonel-looked suspiciously at Remo and Chiun. He, in turn, went off to find his commander.
For a few long minutes, Remo tapped the dashboard anxiously. There seemed to be a dozen large vehicles in their way along with a dozen more huge concrete barriers.
He turned to Chiun.
"You want to walk?" he asked.
"It would be preferable to sitting here," Chiun admitted with a curt nod.
The two of them got out of the car and headed up the road alongside the stalled column of army vehicles.
By this point word of the car and its strange occupants had gotten up to the general in command of this particular detachment.
The general's name was Adrien Cresson. He was a wiry man with thick curly hair and a deep baritone that belied his size. He was also in a foul mood.
Suspecting they might have a pair of Nazi sympathizers on their hands, General Cresson had come personally down from his command post to Remo's parked car.
"Traffic into the city is restricted-" the general started to say as he approached the car, his hand perched on his side arm.
He stopped short. The vehicle was empty. General Cresson glanced angrily back at the colonel and private accompanying him.
"Where are they?" he demanded.
The men only shook their heads in confusion. Furious, he ordered the platoon to spread out along the road, searching under trucks and around the sides of tanks.
The scurrying French army soldiers located their prey in a matter of seconds. The two men from the car were seen strolling calmly through the barren stretch of road between the convoy and the first of the concrete barriers.
"No one stopped them?" General Cresson boomed, furious.
"No one saw them, sir," begged the colonel.
Cresson wheeled on his men. "Level weapons on those two!" he yelled.
The French soldiers obeyed.
On the other side of the line, the arrogance of the German soldiers melted into deep concern as the weapons of the French army detachment were pointed in their direction.
Remo and Chiun felt the pressure waves of rifles aimed at their backs.
"Beautiful country, isn't it?" Remo said.
"It reeks of fermented grapes," Chiun commented.
They strolled past the French barriers and over to the German end of the road.