"This was what they were after," Heidi Stolpe said, excited. She stepped past Chiun and made her way into the cell.
Heidi tugged at a rusted manacle that was secured to the wall. It pulled away easily, along with the facade of the rock beneath. A hollow behind revealed the contours of yet another section of the Siegfried carving. Heidi took out the wooden block, handling it with great reverence.
"Whoever they are working for must know at least part of my family's history to know of this hiding place," she said, examining the block.
"Of course," Remo said sarcastically. "Isn't everyone in on this dink-ass treasure hunt of yours?" Heidi and Chiun weren't listening to him. The Master of Sinanju had padded into the cell behind Heidi. Both of them were observing the carvings in the surface of the ancient petrified wood. They quickly left, arguing about the true location of a river.
Remo turned his attention back to the lone skinhead.
"Who sent you?" he asked Hirn.
"What?" Hirn asked, startled. He had been watching Chiun and Heidi bicker.
"If you're hard of hearing, I can match your ears to your nose." He reached for the sides of Hirn's head.
"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.