Those men in the room elected to national of?ce were not as important to him as the others. They were, as the Americans said, gravy.

The mayors were the elected representatives of each division of France's most important city. They were the ones who separately controlled each small portion of Paris.

During the darkest hours of the morning, Schatz had persuaded all of them to sign an of?cial doc.u.ment he had personally prepared.

In order to do this, he had torn a page out of his own past history as Himmler's favorite torturer. Indeed, many of the men around him still tended the wounds he had in?icted upon them.

Schatz had enjoyed convincing them to see the wisdom of his position. The truth was, as he watched each man sign the important- looking sc.r.a.p of paper, he had felt more alive than he had in years.

The doc.u.ment itself was only a few dozen lines, written both in German and in French. In effect it turned the city of Paris over to Nils Schatz. Now the fuhrer.

Schatz was sitting on a small dais at the front of the auditorium when the president of France and his n.a.z.i entourage entered the room.

The new fuhrer placed onto the long table before him the doc.u.ment that relinquished control of the city to his army of skinheads.

He rose politely as the French president was brought up onto the stage with him.

"Mr. President," Nils Schatz announced, clicking his heels formally.

"What is this outrage?" the president demanded. He noted the bruised and bloodied men and women seated near the far wall of the room. Guards sporting red-and-black-swastika armbands were posted all around them.

Schatz ignored the question. Instead, he continued speaking as if the French president were a silent guest.

"I thought that it would be more appropriate for us to meet in the railroad car of Marshal Foch," Schatz said. He shrugged helplessly. "However, there are still security issues for us."

"Foch?" the president echoed.

A national hero, Marshal Foch had received the surrender of the Germans in a railroad car at the end of World War I. Hitler had commandeered the car during World War II after the fall of Paris.

Schatz nodded. "Yes. His statue will, of course, be taken down at our earliest opportunity. For now I have a simple request. One your people have mastered over your long and-" distaste ?lled his face "-distinguished history. Please sign here."

Schatz drew the doc.u.ment toward the president. At the same time he offered the leader of France a gold pen.

The president quickly scanned the words on the large sheet of paper. He saw the signatories at the bottom. All of the highest authorities in the city. While Paris would certainly survive without them, their easy capitulation would be a major propaganda tool.

"Non," the president of France said, proud chin jutting forward. "I will not sign this."

Schatz nodded, as if his refusal wasn't unexpected.

"Technology is marvelous, would you not agree, Mr. President?" Schatz asked.

The president was baf?ed by this sudden change of topic. He remained silent.

Schatz continued. "I confess to being completely baf?ed by all of these new inventions. Satellites, cameras. Even television."

There was a large TV on a metal cha.s.sis at the end of the conference table. At a sign from Fritz, an armed skinhead switched the set on. The screen was ?lled with an image of the famous Paris Opera House. Still a relatively new addition to the city, it had been constructed during the tenure of the president's predecessor.

It was a huge, curving semicircle of gla.s.s and metal. The facade of the building arced up from its cold concrete foundation and swung high into the air, stabbing back down sharply on the far side.

To many the building was an ugly blot on the city landscape. The current president of France shared this view.

On the television screen, early-morning sunlight glinted off its many panes of gla.s.s. They were seeing the Paris Opera House as it looked right now. There were three trucks parked in close to the front of the building. They appeared to be unoccupied.

"We have taken control of your television stations," Schatz said, as if this were so obvious that the mere mention of the fact was super?uous.

Schatz nodded to the back of the room. In the rear yet another old n.a.z.i bowed his understanding. He spoke furtively into a telephone in his gloved hand. Schatz turned his attention to the screen. Fritz and the other troops watched expectantly, sparks of eager antic.i.p.ation in their eyes.

The president of France looked on with dread. For a long moment nothing happened.

Perhaps it will not happen, the president of France thought. Perhaps sheer will can keep this evil-There was a sudden ?ash, so huge, so shocking that all watching-with the exception of Nils Schatz-blinked their eyes in surprise.

The trucks with their stolen surplus ordnance exploded upward and backward. The face of the ugly gla.s.s building burst apart in a blinding, sparkling ?ash of ?re and smoke.

In an instant the building seemed to hang in the air like a pointillist painting, then collapsed in on itself, ?lling the square before it with huge plumes of smoke and dust. Tiny sparkling gla.s.s crystals danced on the choking dust cloud as it raced forward like an angry gray fog. In seconds it had enveloped the stationary camera.

Schatz let the frozen French president dwell on the image for more than a minute. At last he switched the television off.

"You have seen the DGSE reports," Schatz said with a patient nod. "You know how much of our materials we have reclaimed. I need you to believe me when I say that I possess the capability to destroy major strategic and cultural portions of this city. You alone can stop me from doing this. You alone can save your people a great deal of pain and anguish." He again offered the gold pen to the president. "It will make my work so much easier," he added.

The president considered his options. He found he had none.

There was no telling where the bombs might be. And there were many. That the president knew beyond a doubt. They could be everywhere. Even in the palace.

Schatz had already demonstrated his might and his willingness to use it. His troops had commandeered French broadcasting. He had proved his seriousness in the destruction of the opera house. He had even taken over the palace of the president himself.

He was ruthless and ef?cient. With a small army at his disposal.

There was no other choice.

The president's hand shook with impotent rage. Without a word, he took the offered pen from the new fuhrer.

Chapter 23.

Remo moped around the headquarters of Source until late in the afternoon.

Helene was gone. Apparently her ?ght with Remo had sent her back to France. Or perhaps she was elsewhere in England. For most of the day, he didn't care where.

He only became upset at around two o'clock when he realized that she had taken her phone with her. Without the phone Smith would have no way of contacting him.

Remo wished for a brief time that he had his own cellular phone. It seemed like everyone else had one. Helene. Guy Philliston.

Even Smith had a pager.

However, he had never been very good at keeping track of gadgets. Smith had once given him an expensive two-way satellite communications device. Remo had broken it the ?rst time he used it. After that Smith had relied on the telephone system.

It had always worked in the past. Until now. Remo paced back and forth before the windows along the Trafalgar Square side of the of?ce. He rotated his thick wrists absently as he walked.

"You are making me dizzy," the Master of Sinanju complained. He was sitting cross-legged atop one of the empty desks. A bone- china cup ?lled with steaming tea sat in a gilded saucer. A delicate rose pattern adorned both cup and saucer.

"I can't just sit here," Remo grumbled.

"Why not?" Chiun asked, tipping his aged head. "Have you forgotten how?"

He picked up the teacup in his bony hand and brought it to his parchment lips. He sipped delicately. Remo stopped pacing.

He looked once more at the empty square and then back at the Master of Sinanju. After a moment's pause he walked over to the desk next to Chiun. Climbing atop it, he dropped into a lotus position on the desk's barren surface.

"You see," Chiun intoned sagely, "it is not as dif?cult as you might have remembered."

Once Remo was settled on the desk, Chiun clapped his hands two times, sharply.

Like a genie summoned from a lamp, Sir Guy Philliston appeared from a small of?ce that was off to the side of the main Source information center. He carried with him a sterling-silver tea set.

Chiun had sent Sir Guy out for some proper herbal tea after the Englishman had returned that morning with the inferior, stimulant- laced East India blend. It took little effort for him to convince the Source commander to serve the tea when beckoned.

The objects on the tray rattled like a curio cabinet in an earthquake as Guy Philliston stepped nervously over to the Master of Sinanju.

"For my son," Chiun ordered.

Sir Guy gathered up the teapot and obediently ?lled a cup from the serving tray with the steaming greenish liquid. He handed it to Remo.

"The English make wonderful servants," Chiun commented. "I once had a British butler. He was a superb lickspittle."

"He tried to poison us," Remo reminded him, accepting the tea from Sir Guy.

"Yes, but he was polite about it," Chiun replied.

Sir Guy looked anxiously from one man to the other. "Does sir require anything further?" he asked.

Chiun waved a dismissive hand. "That is all, dogsbody."

Relieved, Sir Guy gathered up his serving set. He moved swiftly back inside the side of?ce.

After he was gone, Remo sipped quietly at the tea. He stared out the window thoughtfully.

The Master of Sinanju watched his pupil looking vacantly off into s.p.a.ce. A frown crossed his face. "You are troubled," Chiun said.

Remo glanced at him. "Shouldn't I be?"

"No. You should not."

Remo looked back out the window. "Sue me," he said softly.

"What is it that you ?nd so distressing?"

Remo snorted, almost spilling his tea. "Haven't you been paying attention to what's going on?" He set the cup down at his knees.

"We've got World War III threatening to erupt in Europe. Or at least a second installment of World War II. According to Philliston's latest intelligence reports out of Germany, every skinhead or skinhead buddy is lining up to march on England. We've got one of the sickest times in modern history resurfacing right before our eyes." Remo exhaled loudly. "That's what's bothering me."

"Ah, yes," Chiun observed, "but were you not also troubled before leaving America?"

"That was different. I was ticked at that incident in New Hampshire. I didn't think I was making a difference back home. I'm over that now. This is a big deal."

Chiun nodded. "If you had been able to save the life of that woman who summoned images of your troubled youth, would you have been pleased?"

Remo shrugged. "Yeah. I guess so."

"You will never change, Remo Williams." Chiun smiled sadly. "Though I have labored lo these many years to alter your narrow perception of the world, my efforts have come to naught. The image you have of yourself is that of a fat sowboy in a white hat riding your trusty steed hither and thither in the defense of justice. I tell you this now, Remo. You are not here to root out injustice. You are here at the request of your emperor. The job of an a.s.sa.s.sin is a simple one. It is you who make it complex."

"I don't know," Remo said sullenly. "Maybe."

"It is fact," Chiun stated simply. "You were angry before coming here. Now you are no longer angry about the thing you were ?eeing-you are angry at something new. When our work here is ?nished, you will ?nd something even newer to be angry about.

You are like a child ?itting from one shiny toy to the next, never satis?ed with what he has."

Remo knew that there was a great deal of truth in what Chiun was saying. He nodded reluctantly. "So what should I do?" he asked.

"Learn from my example," Chiun said. "See what we do as the business it is. And never take your work home with you."

Remo wanted to laugh. Chiun was talking about a.s.sa.s.sination like a bookkeeper talked about the company's accounting ledger.

"I'll try," Remo promised, shaking his head.

"You will ?nd that such an outlook lessens the complications in life greatly," Chiun offered. He lifted his teacup and took a thoughtful sip.

Remo glanced back to the of?ce where Guy Philliston was hiding with his tea set.

"Tell me the truth," Remo asked, pitching his voice low. "Wasn't there a little part of you that wanted to zap Hitler all those years ago just for the satisfaction?"

"Absolutely," Chiun replied. "For the satisfaction of a job well done. The little Hun's head on a post outside my village would have brought much work to our House. Lamentably it was not so."

Remo shook his head. "You'll never convince me that you didn't want to b.u.mp him off for the sheer pleasure of it."

Chiun's sad smile deepened.

"That is where we will forever differ, my son," the old Korean said.

There was a sudden stomping on the staircase from the apothecary shop. Both Masters of Sinanju grew silent as a young Source agent came running into the main of?ce area. Ignoring the men on the desks, he went racing into the side of?ce of Sir Guy Philliston.

"Jilted boyfriend?" Remo asked, with a nod to the gla.s.s of?ce door.

"I do not wish to think about it," Chiun sniffed. A moment later Sir Guy appeared from the room, the young man following obediently in his wake. He marched over to a large television set in the corner of the room.