"This had better be important," Philliston complained. He shot a nervous glance at Remo and Chiun. "The lad is worked up about something on the telly," he explained. He scanned the front of the set. "How does one activate this box thingie?" he asked his underling.

The young a.s.sistant turned the TV on. The audio came on before the picture. The stentorian voice of a Thames television announcer blared across the room.

"...the scene in Paris this afternoon is a page torn from the history books. A doc.u.ment of surrender that has been authentically veri?ed as being signed by the president of France himself was released to the world press not half an hour ago. In it control of Paris is ceded to the invasion force you see behind me now...."

The picture slowly congealed into recognizable shapes.

Remo blinked in disbelief as the camera image settled on a column of marching soldiers led by a single man on horseback.

He had seen the footage before. But always in the grainy black-and-white of decades-old newsreels. This was in full, glorious color and surround sound.

The Arc de Triomphe stood in the background, surmounting the hill of Chaillot in Paris. Before it, the soldiers marched proudly through the street, black boots kicking high in the familiar n.a.z.i goose step. Red-and-black armbands were the single spots of brightness on their drab uniforms.

It was an image of historical deja vu.

"Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?" Remo asked angrily.

"I'm sure I don't know," Philliston said nervously. He quickly turned to his underling. "Is this some sort of Gallic prank?" he demanded.

The young man shook his head. "No, Sir Guy. It's everywhere on the radio and telly. The World Service, ITN, BBC television, Thames. It became of?cial at noon today. The French have surrendered Paris completely."

The column of men-Remo could see there were only about two hundred of them in all-turned in a wide arc as they pa.s.sed by the camera. The long white tail of the lone horse in the lead waved merrily in the late-summer air.

"Thought they would have learned their lesson last time out," Sir Guy Philliston commented.

The television report next cut to a scene of raucous cheering near the Brandenburg Gate in Germany. The joy and optimism that had been displayed by the German people at the fall of communism on this very site was replaced by a dance of sheer blood l.u.s.t by a huge crowd of skinheads.

The television announcer droned on. "This was the scene in Germany just minutes after the announcement of French surrender came. Obviously word of the impending bloodless coup had been deliberately leaked to fascist groups throughout the republic of Germany. Men who had until yesterday planned to join forces with the attack on London, have since switched their allegiance to the group that now controls Paris. The new regime has welcomed them with open arms. However, it remains to be seen whether they will encounter resistance upon reaching the French border."

Remo hopped down from the desk.

"I think we can guarantee them that," he said somberly.

Chiun had alighted to the ?oor also in a ?utter of silk. Together they headed for the door.

"The two of you are going in alone?" Philliston's youthful aide asked, surprised. He turned to his commander. "Might that not be just a touch dangerous, sir?"

Remo and Chiun were just sliding out into the hallway. They vanished down the staircase.

As they were leaving, Sir Guy had taken a longstemmed meerschaum pipe from his pocket. It was carved in the shape of Anne Boleyn's head. Tiny ?ssures indicated where the pipe had once been cracked and glued back together. Guy stuck the pipe between his lips and lit the already stuffed bowl with a single wooden match. He blew a thoughtful puff of smoke at the ceiling as he shook the ?ame off the match with a gentle back-and-forth movement.

"Yes," Sir Guy said ?nally, nodding. "For the n.a.z.is."

THE IMAGE of the marching neo-n.a.z.i forces was beamed via satellite to a small television set in a neat little of?ce in the ancient stone fortress that perched on a small South American mountain peak separate from the rest of the IV village.

The bright blue eyes of Adolf Kluge turned a ?inty gray as the line of goose-stepping soldiers marched beyond the camera's range.

Hands clenched in bloodless white knuckles, Kluge rose slowly from behind his large desk. Wordlessly he stepped from the of?ce into the huge stone corridor.

He did not turn the television off.

Chapter 24

Harold Smith pushed aside the heavy drapes in his hotel room, revealing an inch-wide strip of dirty gla.s.s.

His vantage point afforded him a fairly un.o.bstructed view of the street three stories below. Occasionally a rental truck whose sides had been repainted red and emblazoned with an enormous black swastika would drive slowly down the road, turning off on a distant side street.

They were making their presence known. A lazy victory lap for the mighty conquerors.

At the moment two sets of armed guards had converged before the hotel. They stood on the quaint cobbled road, chatting and laughing. Three of them smoked cigarettes, casually ?icking ash, like students sitting in some fashionable French sidewalk cafe.

Their n.a.z.i uniforms propelled Smith backward in time. Unlike yesterday, he didn't feel an overwhelming compulsion to race out and ?ght the men. In fact, he admitted now that he had taken leave of his good senses in the London Underground the day before.

No, what Smith was feeling now was the old sense of cold moral outrage he had experienced in his youth as a member of the OSS.

He hadn't realized that time had dulled his ability to be viscerally offended. He supposed his duties as CURE director were to blame. After seeing so much of the vile underbelly of American society, it was dif?cult to work up a stomachful of bile over anything. It had taken neo-n.a.z.i storm troopers on the streets of Paris to rekindle the ?ames of revulsion that had burned away in youth.

"Is it safe, Harold?" his wife's timid voice asked from behind him. She sat in a chair next to the bed. Her face was ?lled with confusion and tension.

"No," Smith said simply.

The neo-n.a.z.is on the street laughed once loudly and then parted company. A group of four walked down the street; the other three headed into the hotel. Smith watched them disappear beneath the windowsill.

He couldn't allow his emotions to dictate his next few steps. If they were to get out of this alive, he had to approach the situation rationally.

"Maude, please go in the bathroom," he instructed.

She didn't object. She didn't question why. Maude Smith merely stood dutifully and walked into the small room to one side of the bed. The door shut a moment later.

Smith looked at the night table. The cheap phone sat on the varnished wood surface. It was useless.

The invaders had disrupted Paris phone service during the night. He wouldn't be able to contact Remo. Smith crouched down beside the bed. His legs and back ached as he reached beneath the dangling edge of the dust ruf?e. He slid his briefcase out onto the worn rug.

Standing, Smith placed the briefcase on the neatly made bed. This accomplished, he sat down in the overstuffed easy chair his wife had vacated moments before.

Smith patiently stared at the cracked painted surface of the old wooden door.

Alone in the room, he waited.

PIERRE LEPOTAGE'S grandfather had bought the small hotel for a modest sum in the early part of the twentieth century. Since that time it had been a tradition for all members of Pierre's family to work there.

Young Pierre had gotten his start in the kitchen during World War II. Back then, the LePotage family had been forced to make the best of a bad situation.

During the Occupation; his grandfather had retired to doing light duty around the hotel. Pierre's father had taken charge behind the desk. And in the kitchen young Pierre had the awesome duty of personally spitting in every meal prepared for the occupying German force. By the end of a busy day, his mouth would be as dry as the North African desert.

Both father and grandfather were long-since dead. Pierre had many years ago a.s.sumed the vaunted family position of desk clerk for Hotel de LePotage. So much time had pa.s.sed since his youth that he had a.s.sumed his days of spitting into diners' meals were far behind him.

Pierre was surprised, therefore, when he felt a welling need to expectorate. It came to him the moment the three German soldiers came through the front door of his small family-owned hotel.

"We are under orders to search every building," the leader snarled in crude French as the trio approached the desk.

"Of course," Pierre said. He didn't smile.

"You will accompany us," the skinhead commanded.

Pierre nodded his understanding. He went to the door behind the desk. Reaching around the wall into the small of?ce, he took the big ring with the master key from its special hook above the desk that had been his grandfather's.

Key in hand, he came out from behind the desk and joined the trio of neo-n.a.z.i soldiers.

"Have you men eaten?" Pierre asked.

"No," admitted the German soldier.

The party entered the small elevator. Pierre reached up to grab the gate.

"In that case I invite you to dinner. I will prepare the meal myself."

He pulled the old-fashioned metal gate down with a resounding clank.

SMITH HEARD THEM coming down the hallway. They were stopping at each room in turn.

It had become obvious to the people staying there what was going on in the hotel. The objections tapered into a dull acceptance.

Guests submitted their rooms and their personal belongings to the indignity of a search at the hands of the brutish skinhead soldiers.

When they at last came to his door, Smith had been sitting patiently for more than an hour.

He heard the footfalls on the old carpeted ?oor. There was not a rattle of keys as he expected. Just the sound of a single key sliding into the lock.

Smith got hastily up from the chair and reached for the briefcase on the bed.

The door sprang open into the room. Smith was caught like a deer in headlights. He was leaning over the bed, his frozen hand extended over the battered briefcase with its portable computer. He glanced at the door with a look of desperation.

Coming in from the dingy hallway, the neo-n.a.z.is immediately sensed they had stumbled onto something valuable.

"Move away from there!" one of the soldiers ordered in French.

"Non!" Smith said. He lowered his hand farther. The briefcase was enticingly in reach.

Three machine guns raised threateningly.

"I will not tell you again," the skinhead in command said with sneering coldness.

Defeated, Smith withdrew his hand. Shoulders hunched, he stepped obediently over to the far side of the bed.

The three men hurried across the room. At the door Pierre LePotage looked mournfully at Harold Smith. This was terrible for business. He apologized to his guest with a wordless shrug.Smith responded with an odd look. He was edging farther to the wall. He glanced down at the ?oor. It was the subtlest of gestures, but Pierre somehow caught the meaning in Smith's eyes at once. With a casualness that would have impressed the greatest living actor, the desk clerk eased himself back out into the hallway. He disappeared beyond the wall. "What do you suppose it is?" one of the skinheads said to his fellow soldiers, intrigue and greed in his voice.

"Probably more junk," said the lead soldier, studying the metal hasps. He glanced at Smith. "How do you open these?" he demanded.

"They are on a spring. You simply have to twist them," Smith explained.

The soldier placed his thumbs against the pair of locks. He pressed against them, hard. The split second he did so, Smith threw himself to the ?oor.

Only one of the men saw Smith go down. He watched the American drop from sight behind the bed the instant a wall of ?ame erupted around all three storm troopers.

The sound was no greater than that of a loud ?recracker, but the result was far more violent. Behind the protective shield of the bed, Smith was safe from the brunt of the explosion.

He came up off his stomach a moment later, moving rapidly around the bed.

Pierre came in from the hallway. On the bed a small ?re burned atop the charred comforter. The Frenchman expertly pulled the ends of the bedcovers up over the ?re, extinguishing the ?ames.

Coldly rational now, Smith went over to the German soldiers. Only the one who had opened the briefcase was dead. His face and hands were reddish black ma.s.ses of gore. The other two had been severely wounded. They lay dying on the old hotel rug.

Smith detested killing. But he also was a man who didn't shy away from doing what was necessary. Smith didn't know if he would have to ration bullets. He drew a knife from a scabbard at the waist of one soldier. With the dispa.s.sion of someone carving a Thanksgiving turkey, Smith plunged the knife into the hearts of the dying men.

Gathering up the soldiers' Walther MPL German submachine guns from the ?oor, he dropped them to the bed. Smith stripped the guns of their ammunition. He was about to damage them beyond use when Pierre stopped him.

"I believe I will have need for them," the Frenchman said levelly.

Smith glanced at the concierge. Quickly he handed over two of the guns. Dividing the ammunition into two equal amounts, he gave half to the desk clerk. "Merci," Pierre said. "Now we must get you to a safe place."

"I will be ?ne," Smith insisted.

Pierre glanced down at the three dead skinheads. When he looked back up, he wore a faint smile. "I have no doubt," said the desk clerk. Carrying his two submachine guns, the Frenchman left the room.

Smith hurried to the bathroom door.

"It is safe, Maude," Smith said. "Please close your eyes before you come out."

Mrs. Smith did as she was told. The door crept cautiously open, and Maude stepped back into the hotel room. She appeared sh.e.l.l- shocked.

"I heard an explosion, Harold." She trembled, eyes screwed tightly shut.

He knew that any lie he might come up with would be pointless. After all, his wife wasn't stupid. "We must hurry," he urged ?rmly.

Taking her by the arm, Smith led her hastily past the bodies and out into the hall. She didn't ask to bring her luggage.

Chapter 25