"What are you trying to prove, Smitty?" Remo demanded, coming up to meet them. "You're going to get yourself killed."
"That was not my intention," Smith said brusquely.
"I'll tell that to your widow," Remo replied. "Where is she, by the way?"
"She is in the care of an old friend."
"Since when do you have friends?"
Smith's lemony voice became more tart. "That is irrelevant," he said sharply. "We must hurry. The architect of this nightmare is at the Palais de L'Elysee."
"We were already on our way there when we heard this nonsense," Remo said, waving to the bullet-riddled truck.
"In that case, let us continue."
Smith started down the street. Remo stopped him with a firm hand on the shoulder.
"Look, Smitty. Your wife is probably scared out of her wits right about now. Go back with her and sit tight. We can handle things from here."
"Remo, this is too serious," Smith pressed. "We cannot leave things up to chance. Parisian television is broadcasting scenes from Germany. This new fascist takeover has spawned a blood lust in that country. Even if you stop this new fuhrer, if he manages to first detonate his hidden stores of explosives, he could inspire his followers to further acts of violent aggression."
"The emperor is correct," Chiun said, nodding his agreement. "The Hun have been kept at bay for many years, but that will not last forever. Their desire for conflict originates in the womb. However dormant it might have been, a victory here could inflame it anew."
Remo sighed. "So what are you saying?" he asked Smith.
"Get me inside the palace. If there is a computer system or some other technological means used for detonation, you and Chiun will be out of your element. Perhaps I can stop the bombs before they go off. Without an explosive finale, those negative elements within Germany's borders might not have inspiration enough to attack."
"Can't you access it from outside?" Remo asked.
Smith shook his head. "My laptop was destroyed."
"Figures," Remo said, shaking his head. "Okay, we'll get you inside. But promise me, Smitty. No more of this Schwarzenegger crap."
"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.