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."
"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.