Some people grew to rebel against that which they had been taught as children. Not Kluge. He fervently believed in the idea of the master race. He also fervently believed in his role as its eventual leader, a belief that became his driving ambition.
At the private German-only school he attended as a youth alongside the children of other refugee Nazis, he achieved the highest honors of any student in its history. He excelled at languages, mastering more than a dozen tongues by the time he graduated high school.
Kluge was sent to college abroad, studying in both England and the United States. The honors he received while away at school were such that, when his education was finally complete, he had left no doubt in the minds of his fellow villagers that he was the future of IV.
As the years peeled away, Kluge assumed a small position on the leadership council of the village. At that time, IV was still dominated by old-timers who thought that the vaunted Fourth Reich was on the verge of unfolding. Kluge knew that this was insanity. The old fools refused to admit to the political realities of an ever changing world. If IV was to survive, it would have to adapt.
Eventually and not unexpectedly, Adolf Kluge rose to his position as leader of IV. He was only the third in its history-the first from his generation.
At this point in his life, he no longer felt compelled to flaunt his superiority. Rather, he simply excelled at everything he put his mind to.
The life-styles of everyone in the village were enhanced because of Kluge's prudent investments. Unfortunately for the old surviving hard-liners, Adolf Kluge veered away from the principles of IV's founding.
Even though he was dedicated in spirit to the principles of Adolf Hitler, Kluge recognized the futility of trying to establish the Fourth Reich in the way IV's founders intended.
No one in the village seemed truly bothered by Kluge's leadership. Oh, they would scream and yell about the wrong-headed turn their nation of origin had taken, but they always returned to their cozy homes and warm meals. As long as their needs were met and their bellies were full, they didn't question the leadership of Adolf Kluge.
Until Nils Schatz.
One of the last of the original founders, Schatz had used stolen IV money to finance an invasion of Paris in a scheme that at its inception was doomed to fail. This maniac had brought the House of Sinanju down on all their heads.
Schatz was dead now, but his legacy lived on. It was a waking nightmare.
The money was all gone. The bank accounts were empty. The stocks and bonds were inaccessible. The companies were all under investigation. All IV assets were frozen.
Kluge thought he had been careful to cover his tracks. He should have known. Given the timetable under which he had been forced to work, something must have been left.
To his knowledge, every last scrap of information in the village had been destroyed. But some small thing must have survived. And whoever the men from Sinanju were working for had used that single thread to unravel the entire IV financial fabric.
IV was destitute. As was its leader.
With the companies all gone, Kluge had only a paltry hundred thousand dollars at his disposal. It was his innate intelligence that made him open the lone bank account in Germany. But it was his supreme arrogance that told him to put so little into it. Now even that money was gone.
He had spent nearly every cent he had on a ridiculous dream. A bedtime story.
But, in the end, it was all he had.
Kluge sat alone in the back of the Berlin restaurant, lamenting the sad turn his fortunes had taken. When he went abroad, he was used to dining in only the finest eating establishments. The place he was in today was part of a fast-food chain brought over from America. The thick smell of grease made his gourmet stomach churn.
Kluge kept his breathing shallow as he tried not to think about his sorry fate, but of course he couldn't help but dwell on it.
It was desperation.
IV would have been insolvent years ago if not for his leadership. His labors had always guaranteed him a lavish life-style. That life-style had been taken away from him in a flash. He could never hope to reclaim it without great risk.
But this risk...
It was insanity. Utter, foolish insanity. Yet what choice did he have?
Kluge's heart skipped a beat as he saw a familiar face pass before the brightly painted window. Keijo Suk glanced in once as he passed by before continuing along the sidewalk.
A minute later, he was inside the restaurant. Walking briskly across the virtually empty dining area, Suk slid into the booth across from Kluge. His fat face was flushed.
"You were successful," Kluge said. He stared at the wrapped package the man had placed on the table between them.
Keijo Suk nodded. "It was much easier than I thought." The Korean grinned and pushed the bundle over to Kluge.
"That is because they were not there," Kluge said.
He loosened the twine Suk had used to tie the bundle and carefully unfolded the paper. It fell away, revealing a slab of ancient petrified wood.
It was in perfect condition. Much more so than the quarter that had been in his possession at the IV fortress.
Kluge ran his fingertips across the uneven surface, feeling every ridge of the carved wood.
In spite of his better instincts, he began to grow more confident. Why would Sinanju have saved this scrap of wood for so many years if it wasn't significant?
He thought of the stained-glass window back at the ancient temple. How many times had he looked at it and not seen the piece of wood in Siegfried's hand? How could he possibly have missed something so significant for so long?
Suk tapped his hand on the table, shaking Kluge from his trance.
"I would like my money now," the Korean said.
"I am sure you would." Kluge smiled.
Looking down, he carefully folded the paper back up around the block carving. He stashed the bundle in a black leather valise that sat on the bench next to him. When he looked back up at Suk, his eyes were hooded.
"I do not have the money," Kluge stated simply. Suk was taken aback by the German's frankness.
"You do not have it with you." It was a statement, not a question.
Kluge shook his head. "I do not have it at all. I knew you would be greedy, Keijo. I did not have enough initially to split in half. If I had offered you half of that pittance up front and half after you gave the stolen object to me, you would have laughed in my face. Likewise, I knew that if I told you I had paid you everything up front you would have simply left with my money without performing the service for which you had been hired."
Keijo Suk shook his head in disbelief. "I have risked incurring the wrath of the Master of Sinanju for a scrap of firewood," he said, astonished.
"And a healthy sum of money," Kluge argued. "Eighty thousand is still a lot, Keijo."
"It was not enough," Suk snarled. He stood up, grabbing across the table for Kluge's valise.
As Suk snatched for the handle, Kluge locked his hand around the Korean's wrist. Twisting the fist around, the German thrust his other hand forward, fingers extended and rigid. They connected solidly with Suk's shoulder.
There was a crunch of bone and popping cartilage. Shocked air whooshed out of Suk's lungs.
Unable even to cry out in pain, the Asian dropped back into his seat. His lungs ached as he strained to refill them. He gulped for air, at the same time grabbing his injured shoulder with his good hand.
Kluge calmly retook his seat. He smiled grimly.