The Empire Dreams td-113 Read online

  "I promise to do only that which is necessary," Smith said tightly.

  "A typical nonanswer," Remo sighed. "Let's go."

  The three of them headed for the parked German truck.

  Chapter 29

  The deaths of the three soldiers at the Hotel de LePotage were reported by radio to the Palais de l'Elysee.

  After the treatment old Fritz had received, the aged Nazi who was manning the radio station would have been happier to keep this information from Nils Schatz. But since the fuhrer was standing directly behind him when the news came in, that proved impossible.

  "Send in reinforcements," Schatz ordered.

  "We haven't many men to spare, Fuhrer," the old man said. "Several patrols have failed to report in."

  "How many are at the murder scene now?"

  "Only two, mein Fuhrer."

  "Give me that," Schatz said, grabbing the microphone from his henchman. The old man at the radio hurried to stab the Transmit button. "Listen to me," Schatz intoned. "This is your fuhrer speaking. I want everyone in that hotel shot as a traitor to the fatherland."

  Four staticky words came back over the oldfashioned radio setup.

  "The hotel is empty."

  "What?" Schatz demanded.

  "That is why it took so long to find them," the radio operator explained. "No one reported the crime."

  Schatz's face twisted into an angry scowl. "Burn the hotel to the ground!" Schatz ordered.

  "Yes, mein Fuhrer!" came the scratchy reply. Schatz threw down the mouthpiece.

  In the instant before the portable transmitter that the skinheads at the hotel were using cut out, the radio operator swore he heard a surprised shout and a sudden burst of machine-gun fire. He glanced at Schatz.

  Stomping down from the stage, the fuhrer hadn't heard. The radio operator decided to remain silent. Schatz marched back and forth in front of the dais, his cane tucked up beneath his armpit like a swagger stick. He finally stopped on the side of the room where the hostages had been forced to sit since they had been taken captive.

  Some of the men were asleep. Many more sat on their haunches, hugging their knees to their chests. Adolf Kluge sat silently behind the president of France, trying to remain inconspicuous.

  "See how the Fourth Reich deals with murderers and saboteurs?" Schatz said to the president.

  The president said nothing.

  "Soon a legion of brave Aryan soldiers will swarm across your borders," Schatz sneered. "Perhaps if you behave, I will reinstall you as puppet president."

  The leader of France spoke softly.

  "I assure you that sovereign France will never allow those men to cross into this country."

  Schatz laughed. "We will see."

  "Even if it were true, NATO will not stand idly by," the president added. "You would be wise to surrender now."

  "NATO?" scoffed Schatz. "NATO is nothing without the United States and Great Britain," he said dismissively. "At the moment England has its own problems with which to contend. As for the United States, it would perhaps have been wise if your predecessor had allowed the Americans to fly over your country on their Libyan bombing raid. Since that time it has been difficult for the giant in North America to rouse itself to French causes."

  The president agreed privately that the words had some validity. The current president's party had not been in power at the time. If it had been up to him, French planes would have joined their American allies in the bombing of the terrorist Arab state.

  "We will see," the president said simply.

  The radio on the stage suddenly crackled to life.

  Schatz abandoned the president, marching back across the floor to the dais.

  Behind him the president of France heard a soft voice.

  "You would be advised not to incite him," Kluge whispered in English. His accent was distinctly British. "He is unstable."

  The president was surprised. He had thought Kluge to be a subordinate who had lost favor with the Nazi leader.

  "You do not work for him?" the president whispered.

  Kluge managed a sour laugh. "Hardly," he said. "I was sent to help by your good friends across the channel. Have you heard of Source?"

  The president didn't have time to admit that he had. All at once Nils Schatz thundered loudly from atop the dais.

  "This is an outrage!" he screamed. The radio operator cowered beneath him. "How many are dead?"

  "We do not know yet," the radio man said. "Two trucks have been located on Rue de Clichy. Their drivers are both dead. One gruesomely."

  "How?" Schatz demanded.

  "His head was crushed beneath his own helmet, Fuhrer." He hesitated a moment. "I received news of similar deaths at one of our checkpoints earlier in the evening. Forgive me, Fuhrer, but I assumed these men who are working for us were inebriated. After all, what force could collapse a skull this way?" Schatz's mouth had become an angry, bloodless line. He spun away from the radio operator, looking down on Kluge.

  On the floor Adolf Kluge's expression remained bland. He knew what must be going through the old man's crazed mind.

  Sinanju. They were on their way.

  It was his folly that had brought him to this. Kluge wasn't about to risk exposure by telling the self-titled fuhrer this in front of half the French government. Sitting cross-legged behind the French president, Adolf Kluge remained mute.

  Schatz turned his wild-eyed attention from Kluge to the French president. He was silent for a long moment, reeling in place. Pale blue veins throbbed frantically beneath the dry skin at his temples.

  So agitated did he appear, Kluge actually thought he might drop dead on the spot. Sadly it was not to be.

  Finally, Nils Schatz spoke.

  "Your people will be taught a lesson for this-" from the stage he aimed his cane at the president "-for this ...this ...outrage!" He screamed himself hoarse, wheeling around to his skinhead attendants.

  "Collect one hundred prisoners for every murdered soldier! I will give them a demonstration of our might at the primary target. When they see it destroyed, the world will know not to trifle with the Fourth Reich!"

  He pushed away young hands that wished to help him down from the stage. Waving his cane like a bare flagpole, Nils Schatz stormed from the room.

  His insane shouting echoed down the empty corridors of the Palais de l'Elysee.

  Chapter 30

  As they drove up in their borrowed truck, Remo was surprised to find that someone had moved the line of concrete barriers that had been placed before the gates of the presidential palace. They were resting now to one side of the road. The bulldozer that had pushed them there sat quietly beside them. Huge tears had been made in the road, scraped up by the heavy concrete slabs.

  "Maybe someone already took care of things," Remo suggested from the driver's seat.

  A hail of bullets against the front of the truck a second later told them otherwise.

  Smith was crouched down in the rear of the truck. Chiun had been riding shotgun. When the men on the grounds of the palace opened fire, Chiun sprang from the truck and raced up the path that led inside the huge mansion. Remo paused only long enough to advise Smith to keep out of sight before he joined the Master of Sinanju outside the vehicle.

  There were a few more bursts of automatic-weapons fire from inside the grounds. Soon these fell silent.

  After a minute Remo returned to the side of the truck.

  "Coast is clear, Smitty," he called.

  Smith got up from the floor and climbed into the cab. Remo helped him down to the ground.

  At the front of the truck they met up with Chiun. "How does the emperor wish to proceed?" he asked.

  "The fastest route inside," Smith stressed.

  "Of course," Chiun said. "But it is customary at this time to do either one of two things. You may wish to rule from this place-which, as palaces go, is not without its charm. Or you may opt to sack the priceless artifacts from within and burn the building to its foundation."<
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  "Neither," Smith said urgently. "We are not here as conquerors."

  "Be advised, Emperor," Chiun said slyly, "the French are known the world over for the courtesies they extend to those who plunder and enslave. It is the only time they shine as a people."

  "No, Chiun," Smith said firmly. He sidestepped the Master of Sinanju and ducked through the gates. Remo shrugged and trailed Smith inside.

  Chiun shook his head in disapproving bewilderment.

  "Americans," he muttered to himself. He wandered inside the palace grounds after Remo and Smith.

  THEY HAD COME a few dozen yards up the drive when Smith literally stumbled across the first body. Remo grabbed him before the CURE director toppled to the ground.

  Smith looked down at the dead skinhead. Presumably he was one of those who had fired on them upon their arrival. The young man's head appeared to have shriveled up beneath his helmet. An indented smiley face had been pressed into the drab metal exterior.

  There were two others lying nearby who had been similarly dispatched.

  "That is unnecessary," Smith said, looking down at the helmet with a displeased expression.

  "Hey, I don't tell you how to do your job," Remo remarked, defensively. He walked past Smith. They encountered no more resistance between the spot where the bodies lay and the palace.

  "Hang back, Smitty."

  Remo approached the door first. The Master of Sinanju came up from behind, standing protectively next to the CURE director.

  They could see Remo pause on one side of the staircase that led into the palace. He tipped his head oddly, looking over the side railing into a small landscaped garden beyond.

  Abandoning the stairs, Remo slipped over the railing and disappeared from sight.

  "What butterfly does he chase now?"

  Perturbed, Chiun led Smith to the base of the stairway. They skirted it, going around the far side. The smell of death hit them immediately.

  Smith saw dozens of bodies lying in a tangled bunch amid the roses and rhododendrons. They were French soldiers. The men who until yesterday had successfully guarded the palace.

  Remo crouched at the edge of the pile of corpses. He was looking down at a particularly mangled body. The face was unrecognizable. It had been smashed repeatedly with a fierce glee that was clearly unnecessary. The first few blows had done the job. Most of these wounds had been inflicted after death.

  When he stepped around Remo, Smith was surprised to see that it was the body of a woman. Remo looked up, face hard.

  "You knew her?" Smith asked.

  "I borrowed her phone a couple of times," Remo said tightly.

  Smith understood immediately. "We must stop him before he kills again," he said softly.

  Remo glanced back at the corpse. Nodding, he got to his feet. They left the body of Helene Marie-Simone in the small garden and continued inside.

  ADOLF KLUGE SPOKE in German. Lest any of the French officials present understood the language, he pitched his voice low.

  "You realize now that this operation is doomed to failure," he whispered.

  The old radio operator glanced at the pair of skinhead guards near the door. Swallowing, he looked back at Kluge.

  "We did not know it would come to this, Herr Kluge," he admitted sadly. "He promised glory."

  "The time for glory has passed, old friend," Kluge said. "The best we can hope for now is simply to survive."

  He could see that he almost had the man on his side. Schatz had left ten minutes before. Kluge had been working hard to get the old Nazi radio operator to see the futility of this insane campaign.

  "I did it all for the fatherland," the old man said. His bloodshot eyes were moist.

  "I'm sure you think that," Kluge replied. "But I assure you that you have done more harm here than good. Please help me to undo some of that damage. While there is still time."

  The old man cast a glance at the pair of skinhead guards who were standing over near the dais. Each of them held a Gewehr assault rifle. Proud of their rather limited role in the neo-Nazi occupation, they stood at attention. They stared blankly ahead. Kluge suspected they were on some sort of drug.

  The old radioman had made up his mind. Turning away from the soldiers, he unclipped the single silver snapper on his hip holster. He was about to reach for the gun in order to turn it over to Adolf Kluge when he was distracted by the sound of gunfire down the corridor.

  The soldiers at the stage immediately grew alert, spinning toward the open door.

  Kluge would never have a better chance.

  He ripped the gun from the old Nazi's holster, twisting the man around and using him as a human shield. To the French it looked as if his long secret conversation with the radioman had caused the old soldier to drop his guard.

  "Get down!" Kluge yelled in French to the diplomats seated on the floor.

  As the men and women flung themselves to the carpeted aisle, fingers interlocked above their heads, Adolf Kluge opened fire on the pair of Nazis at the front of the stage.

  He took two shots at the nearest skinhead. The first bullet caught the man in the rear of his left shoulder. He tried to turn on his attacker, but only made it halfway around when the second bullet caught him with a violent thwack in the temple. He toppled over, bouncing first off the stage and then crumpling to the floor.

  The second skinhead managed to get off a couple of shots from his rifle.

  Kluge felt a few rounds pound against the body of the old man. The Nazi groaned no louder than if he had just awakened from a nightmare. He grew limp in Kluge's arm.

  Another shot.

  A single bullet ripped through Kluge's bicep. Lip curling in pain and anger, he flung the body of the dead Nazi to the floor, at the same time tossing the gun from his injured arm to his good left hand. He caught the weapon and squeezed the trigger once.

  The bullet snapped into the chest of the skinhead. The force of impact was so great, the man swirled around toward the stage, flinging his gun to the floor. He sprawled across the stage, arms thrown wide. He didn't move again.

  Ignoring his bleeding arm, Kluge turned on the gathered diplomats, including the president of France.

  "Stay there," Kluge instructed.

  The politicians weren't about to move. They looked on in fear as Kluge moved swiftly across the auditorium. On the way he gathered up one of the discarded rifles.

  Kluge propped his back against the wall inside the open door. He took a deep breath. Thus steadied, he jerked his body around, sticking the muzzle of the gun experimentally into the hallway.

  Instantly a hand that extended into a thick wrist reached into the room from the corridor.

  "I'll take that," Remo said, coming into view.

  He pulled the rifle from Kluge's hands, taking it in his own. Holding the barrel in one hand and the stock in the other, Remo brought the middle of the gun down across one knee. The rifle snapped obediently in two neat halves. Remo tossed them away. "All clear," Remo called behind him.

  As Remo ambled into the room, Smith came in from the corridor in the company of Chiun. Smith immediately spied the computer that Schatz had had moved up on the stage after the death of Fritz. Leaving the others, he hurried up the steps, sliding in before the screen.

  On the floor Kluge suppressed his surprise at seeing for the first time the man he knew to be the Master of Sinanju. When he saw Adolf Kluge, Chiun's eyes narrowed.

  "You do this?" Remo asked, nodding to the bodies lying around the room.

  "I did what was necessary," Kluge said. With difficulty he pulled his attention away from Chiun. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his bleeding arm.

  "You're English," Remo said, noting Kluge's accent.

  The head of IV nodded in response. "And you are American presumably," Kluge said.

  "That's the first thing about me everyone seems to notice lately."

  "I presume the palace is secure?"

  "It looks that way," Remo told Kluge. "Th
ere were only a couple of guys outside and a couple more inside. It looks like everyone else bugged out before we got here."

  "It is safe, Mr. President," Kluge called back to the assembled French officials. "They are Americans."

  The crowd of people on the floor across the room became animated for the first time in almost a day. They pushed themselves up on cramped legs, rubbing aching backs as they tried to shake away the feeling of pins and needles in their lower extremities. Some left to find a bathroom. Not one of the lesser dignitaries expressed thanks for his release. Alone, the president came over to greet them.

  "You have my gratitude," he said happily. Remo was about to say "you're welcome" when the Frenchman grabbed Adolf Kluge by the hand and began pumping madly. His face beamed appreciation.

  "Hello," Remo said, perturbed. "Palace liberators this way." He waved his hand in front of the president's face.

  "Ah, yes." The president reached for Remo's hand.

  Chiun interjected. "This one is German," the Master of Sinanju said, his nose crinkling unhappily. He nodded to Kluge.

  "Non," the French president said, his hand withdrawing. "He is with British Intelligence."

  "That is an oxymoron," sniffed Chiun, "and beside the point. He has the stink of a Hun."

  "Look, Chiun," Remo said, "he was helping out the good guys. Right now that makes him a good guy." He turned to Kluge. "So do you work for Source?" he asked.

  "You've heard of it?" Kluge said, trying to sound surprised.

  "Who hasn't?" Remo asked.

  "Yes," Kluge said, uncertainly. "In point of fact, I cannot really say."

  "Then it must be MIS. If you were Source, you'd say so."

  Smith suddenly interrupted their conversation. "Remo, Chiun, come here," he called from the stage.

  Remo immediately turned away from the others, hopping up atop the dais. He was followed by Kluge, the French president and a still suspicious Chiun.

  "I have gotten into their system," Smith said excitedly as the others gathered around. "It is really quite simple." He punched a few keys. A screen of text was replaced by a map of Paris. "Everything is here. Locations, amounts stockpiled. Everything."