Remo stopped before him.
"The guy on the roof said you were Gus Holloway."
"Me Gustav," Gus panted.
"Yeah, and me Jane," Remo said. "Tell you what. I think you are Gus. What do you think about that?"
The chubby neo-Nazi's eyes darted first left, then right. Blank walls stared back at him. There was not even a window behind him. He spun back to Remo, his ample belly jiggling like a sackful of kittens. Desperate, he opted for a different approach.
"I am an American citizen," Gustav Reichschtadt insisted. "I demand to see the United States ambassador." He tried to stick his chest out proudly, but even at its farthest point it remained a full foot behind his enormous stomach.
"That and bus fare will get you to Oktoberfest," Remo said flatly.
"I'm serious," Gus said arrogantly. "I want my lawyer. I know my rights as an American."
"Okay, let me explain your rights," Remo offered.
Reaching over, he grabbed a slick, glutinous mass of puffy flesh at the side of Holloway's neck. To Remo, it felt as if he had just grabbed a handful of shortening.
Remo squeezed.
A piercing feminine scream stabbed up through the mountain of semidigested pastries that filled Gus Holloway's ample pot. His eyes grew wide in pain and shock.
Remo eased off on the pressure. "Your rights at the moment are simple. You have the right to feel pain. You have the right not to feel pain. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?"
Remo squeezed again for emphasis. Gus shrieked, nodding his understanding. Three chins waggled helplessly.
"Good," Remo declared. "I need some information on a neo-Nazi organization called Four. What do you know about it?"
Gus licked his thick lips as he tried frantically to think of a clever lie. None came. He decided to bluff his way through.
"Never heard of them," he insisted.
The pain again. Far worse this time-it felt as if every nerve ending in his neck were being buffed with acid-dipped sandpaper. He howled in agony.
"I don't know!" Gus screamed. "They're a shadow group. In deep cover. I've only ever heard rumors." He was panting, swallowing thick, mucous-filled saliva.
"Tell me what you've heard," Remo pressed.
"They were responsible for the Paris takeover."
"I know that." Remo's expression was dark.
"And the London bombings."
"Ditto."
Gus's head was clearing now. Remo had eased the neck pressure. The pain wasn't as severe. "That's everything I know," Gus said feebly. The pain came in a white-hot burst. It shot up his spine, exploding in his brain. Gus sucked in his breath as his body contorted. He slapped his ink-smeared palms against the wall behind him, leaving streaks of sweat-soaked blue.
"There's a man," Gus hissed, "in Juterbog. He knows." He was breathing heavily now against the pain. "He's Four. He can get you to them."
"What's his name?" Remo asked.
"I don't know," Gus replied. The pain came again, as he knew it would. "I really don't!" Gus cried. Tears streamed down his swollen red cheeks. "It's Kempten Olmu-something. It's a really long old German name. I can't pronounce it. I've never been very good with German."
All at once, the pain stopped. Gus sucked in a tentative breath. It was truly gone. He had never before realized how good a feeling it was not to be experiencing agony.
His torturer was still standing before him. His brow was furrowed, casting an annoyed shadow over his dark eyes.
"Do you have a phone?" Remo asked.
Gus nodded fervently, anxious to remain on Remo's good side. "Yes, yes. Absolutely. It's upstairs." He waddled past Remo deliberately-Gus was now a man with a mission.
"Good," Remo said, following him. "Because we have to call someone who's good with German."
Chapter 3
Harold W. Smith was submitting to the latest in the interminably long line of physical examinations he had been subjected to over the past three months.
He sat in his spotless white T-shirt on an examining table in one of the doctor's offices of Folcroft Sanitarium, a Rye, New York, mental-health facility of which he was director. Smith breathed calmly as the physician inflated the blood-pressure cuff around his left biceps.
The doctor watched the indicator needle on the gauge in his hand as he gently released the air from the bag. He nodded his approval.
"Your blood pressure is good," he said.
"I assumed it would be, Dr. Drew," Smith responded crisply. There was an icy edge in his voice. The doctor looked up over his glasses as he slipped the cuff from Smith's arm.
"Forgive me, Dr. Smith, but you were the one who insisted on these examinations."
"Yes," Smith replied. "However, they appear to be no longer necessary."
"You were in rough shape a few months ago," Dr. Drew cautioned, as if Smith had forgotten. Smith hadn't. There was no way he would ever forget his recent trip to London.
"It was a very stressful time," Smith admitted.
"Yes," Dr. Drew agreed, dragging his stethoscope from his ears. "I imagine it would be. It's a shame that on the first vacation you took since I came to work here at Folcroft, you wound up in the middle of a war zone. Do you and your wife plan to take another?"
Smith pursed his bloodless lips. He didn't appreciate the informal tone Drew had taken with him over the past few months. After all, the Folcroft doctor was Smith's employee.
"I fail to see how my private life is your concern," Smith said, getting down from the table.
Drew stiffened. "I didn't mean to pry, Dr. Smith," he said tightly.
Smith didn't even seem aware that he had insulted the physician. The older man had already found his shirt on a brass hook near the door. He had pulled it over his creaking shoulders and was in the process of buttoning it.
"If that is all, I will return to work," Smith said absently as he fastened the top two buttons. He drew his green-striped Dartmouth tie from the same hook and began knotting it around his thin neck.