The inhabitants of Paris had been remarkably submissive over the past twelve hours since the occupation had been announced. Smith had learned that this was due in large part to the fact that the elected president had appeared on neo-Nazi controlled local television and instructed citizens to stay indoors during this early part of the occupation. He had informed the population of the bomb and mustard-gas threats and told them that the leader of the group responsible had vowed to kill one hundred randomly chosen French civilians for every single neo-Nazi soldier killed. It was too dangerous for them not to comply.
And so the population remained as they had been told to remain. In hiding in their darkened rooms. Of course, it wouldn't last. Smith had known many fine men on the streets of this very city who would die before shrinking away from doing that which was right. At this very moment, one of them watched over his wife.
France would fight back.
When the time for rebellion finally came, there was no telling what the madman in command of this insane scheme would do to stop it. With his finger on the trigger of so many explosives, the resulting deaths could quite easily be tallied in the hundreds of thousands.
That was why Smith was on the streets alone now. For he had learned something in his youth that had been a cornerstone of his belief system his entire life. It was what he had tried to tell Remo a few short days before.
One man could make a difference.
Smith's footfalls were tiny clacks against the damp sidewalk. He walked as quickly as possible toward the president's palace.
He knew that there were patrols out. He had avoided two since leaving his wife several streets back. Just a few more blocks to go, and he would be home free.
Smith stepped down from the sidewalk and was hurrying across 4 Septembre Reaumur when he heard the sudden rumble of an engine.
He hadn't heard it coming soon enough.
Heart quickening, Smith ran across the street, still trying to conceal the awkward shape of the machine gun beneath his coat.
Too late.
All at once a large truck rolled into view around the corner from Sebastopol.
Smith was trapped in the headlights like a fly in amber.
There was a shout in German as the truck picked up speed, barreling toward him.
All hope of avoiding confrontation before reaching the palace was gone. Ever rational, Smith realized he had only one option open to him.
As the truck ate up the space between them, Smith pulled the machine gun from beneath his long coat. Without hesitation he raised the weapon and fired.
A short controlled burst shattered the windshield on the driver's side. The truck immediately began decelerating.
At the same time Smith saw a dark shape hang out of the passenger's-side window. A series of fiery bursts exploded from the darkness behind the bright headlights.
The bullets fired from the truck missed their mark. As Smith had expected, it was difficult for the man in the passenger's seat to aim while the vehicle was moving.
Smith had no such problem. He redirected his fire, this time at the skinhead with the gun. Bullets pinged off the truck's metal body, sending small ricochet sparks into the night.
Unlike before, however, his target was no longer where it had been.
Just as Smith opened fire, the passenger ducked back inside the cab as the truck continued to slow. Blind luck kept him from being shredded by gunfire.
Through the shattered window, Smith could barely make out the slumped form of the driver. He was obviously dead. The second man pushed the body out of the way and climbed in behind the steering wheel.
Smith fired again, but he saw at once that it was futile. His target was staying hidden beneath the dashboard.
By this time the truck was nearly upon him. Jamming the gun close to his chest, Smith ran the rest of the way across the street. He ducked inside a protective alcove between two buildings just as the truck careered past.
It squealed to a stop a few dozen yards beyond the spot where Smith had taken refuge.
He heard a voice hissing a stream of furious German. Most likely into a radio.
It was over. There would be dozens of reinforcements here in no time. Smith had failed.
Distantly he heard the truck engine shut off.
The German was creeping toward him. Although the man was walking lightly, Smith heard the occasional scuff of a boot heel against the wet street.
He was a sitting duck. The alcove he was hiding in went back only a few feet. If he tried to run, he would be plainly visible to his stalker.
Smith felt his heart thudding beneath his rib cage. It ached. As if someone had kicked him in the chest. His breathing from his exertions was ragged. He was an old man. Not suited to this sort of activity.
It wouldn't matter much longer.
Smith didn't consider himself to be a heroic man. He only ever did that which he thought was necessary. To "go out fighting" was an axiom that he felt was intended for fools. It had always had very little meaning to him.
But for the first time in his life, Smith found that he was out of options. And for the first time Smith realized the truth behind the words.
Back braced against the wall, Smith raised his gun level with his chest. He prepared to fire on the skinhead the instant he came into view.
As he stared out into the street, gunfire suddenly erupted from beyond his field of vision. Bullets raged against the side of the old building, spitting out jagged red chunks of brick and small puffs of mortar. Smith ducked farther back, plastering himself against the wall. He blinked to clear the dust from his eyes. And in that instant, he saw a dark shape glide into the alley beside him.
Wheeling, Smith turned the gun on the shadow. Before he could fire, he felt the weapon being pulled gently from his hands. He grabbed for it with arthritic fingers.
"You could hurt someone with that," Remo's familiar voice said. Smith spun to the sound. The face of CURE's enforcement arm was serious. Remo handed the weapon back over his shoulder.
The Master of Sinanju stood beyond Remo. He took the gun by the barrel, holding it at arm's length between his thumb and index finger.
"All hail, Emperor Smith," Chiun intoned. "Shooter of Guns. Vanquisher of the Pinheads." Chiun twisted the gun into a U-shape before tossing the weapon out into the street. It clattered loudly against the damp pavement.
"There is a Nazi soldier out there," Smith stressed, nodding to the street.
"I kind of figured," Remo said, "seeing as how he just tried to kill me and all." He ambled out toward the sidewalk.
"I believe he may have used a radio to signal others," Smith called after him.
"There aren't that many to signal," Remo said as he slipped from the alcove.
Chiun appraised Smith. A tiny hint of approval played in the light that reflected dimly in his youthful hazel eyes.
"You are looking well, Emperor," Chiun said.
"Thank you, Master of Sinanju," Smith replied tensely.
"In future, however, I would beg that you refrain from the use of firearms. They reflect poorly on both you and your humble servants." He bowed slightly.
Smith returned the bow with a faint nod. "I will do my best," he said.
Smith was waiting to hear the inevitable gunfire that would sound when the German soldier at last spotted Remo. As he strained to hear, however, the only noise that drifted into the alcove was a groan of metal and a dull cracking sound. Afterward there was silence.
"Remo has cleared a path for your noble self," Chiun announced, motioning to the street.
Smith knew better than to doubt the Master of Sinanju.
Chiun trailed him out to the road. Remo was trotting back from the body of the fallen skinhead.
The young man's remains didn't look right. From the angle Smith was viewing it, it looked as if the skinhead's helmet had swallowed up his head. Obviously it was a trick of the light. He was distracted from his observations by Remo.