"It is safe, Mr. President," Kluge called back to the a.s.sembled French of?cials. "They are Americans."

The crowd of people on the ?oor across the room became animated for the ?rst time in almost a day. They pushed themselves up on cramped legs, rubbing aching backs as they tried to shake away the feeling of pins and needles in their lower extremities. Some left to ?nd a bathroom. Not one of the lesser dignitaries expressed thanks for his release. Alone, the president came over to greet them.

"You have my grat.i.tude," he said happily. Remo was about to say "you're welcome" when the Frenchman grabbed Adolf Kluge by the hand and began pumping madly. His face beamed appreciation.

"h.e.l.lo," Remo said, perturbed. "Palace liberators this way." He waved his hand in front of the president's face.

"Ah, yes." The president reached for Remo's hand.

Chiun interjected. "This one is German," the Master of Sinanju said, his nose crinkling unhappily. He nodded to Kluge.

"Non," the French president said, his hand withdrawing. "He is with British Intelligence."

"That is an oxymoron," sniffed Chiun, "and beside the point. He has the stink of a Hun."

"Look, Chiun," Remo said, "he was helping out the good guys. Right now that makes him a good guy." He turned to Kluge. "So do you work for Source?" he asked.

"You've heard of it?" Kluge said, trying to sound surprised.

"Who hasn't?" Remo asked.

"Yes," Kluge said, uncertainly. "In point of fact, I cannot really say."

"Then it must be MIS. If you were Source, you'd say so."

Smith suddenly interrupted their conversation. "Remo, Chiun, come here," he called from the stage.

Remo immediately turned away from the others, hopping up atop the dais. He was followed by Kluge, the French president and a still suspicious Chiun.

"I have gotten into their system," Smith said excitedly as the others gathered around. "It is really quite simple." He punched a few keys. A screen of text was replaced by a map of Paris. "Everything is here. Locations, amounts stockpiled. Everything."

"Those blue and red dots are the bombs?" Remo asked.

Smith nodded. "They indicate both regular explosives and mustard-gas sh.e.l.ls."

"It looks like a h.e.l.l of a lot of bombs," Remo said worriedly.

Smith shook his head. "That is true," he admitted. "However, they have been placed in the subway, as well as government buildings and cultural centers. From what I have learned, all of these places are virtually if not completely abandoned at present."

"Can you tell from this what might be their primary target?" Kluge asked. "Schatz threatened to destroy it, as well as murder hundreds of civilians when he stormed away from here."

Smith looked back at the computer. "Possibly," he said. "I believe there is a numbering system." He used the cursor to initiate the proper commands. A ripple effect pa.s.sed down the screen, leaving numerals in its wake. When it disappeared from the bottom of the computer, each dot was left with a small white number superimposed on it.

"Oh, my G.o.d," the French president said when he saw where number 1 was located.

Smith frowned. For con?rmation he moved the cursor arrow up to the dot marked "1." When he depressed the plastic b.u.t.ton, a fresh screen of text ?ooded the computer face. The text supported the conclusion of the president.

"I would guess that is the primary target," Smith said.

"So we know where he's headed," Remo said. He started for the stairs.

"Wait!" the French president called. He looked desperately down at Smith. "Is German occupation so bad?" he asked. "Can we not give him what he wants?"

Smith's face steeled. "Need I remind you, Mr President, that he wants to murder and enslave your countrymen?"

"Yes, but..." The president indicated the information on the computer screen with a helpless wave of his hand.

Disgusted, Smith turned his attention away from the Frenchman and back to Remo.

"The Metro is likely cleared of all civilians," he said. "As are the buildings on this list. The worst he can in?ict on the city is a cultural black eye. Get him."

"Stop!" the president cried, ?inging himself at Remo, blocking his exit. He turned his attention on Smith. "Who are you to issue orders in sovereign France?"

Remo looked at him distastefully. He took the president by the shoulders, lifting him off the ?oor. He placed him between Kluge and the still seated Smith.

"We're the good guys," Remo said. Without another word he and Chiun headed down the stairs and raced out the auditorium door.

The president tried to go after them once more, but Kluge interceded.

"It is necessary, Mr. President," he said with a somber nod. His voice was funereal.

The president's shoulders slumped in defeat. The ?ght drained out of him.

"Oui," he said sadly. He sat down at the long table atop the podium, eyes downcast. Kluge patted a supportive hand on his rounded shoulder.

After Remo and Chiun had left, Smith had turned back to the computer. His nimble ?ngers were typing madly away at the keyboard.

Once, unseen by anyone in the small auditorium, Adolf Kluge glanced up from consoling the president of France. He eyed Smith suspiciously.

Chapter 31.

The fuhrer of the Fourth Reich marched back and forth in front of the wide iron support column. Above him, illuminated by powerful ?oodlights, the latticework structure of the Eiffel Tower jutted almost one thousand feet into the postmidnight Paris sky.

There were two dozen men around him. A mixture of both old-time n.a.z.is and modern skinheads. They formed a protective phalanx around their leader.

As he paced between them, Nils Schatz banged his cane against the ground, creating angry dents in the dull bronze tip. He noted with displeasure that the walking stick had lost its l.u.s.ter. He would have to have someone polish it when he returned to the palace.

Perhaps the president of France himself. He whirled.

"Where are they?" Schatz demanded hotly, pacing up to a nearby subordinate.

"They radioed half an hour ago, mein Fuhrer," the skinhead said helplessly.

"I know that," Schatz snapped. He walked a few steps in the opposite direction before twirling back around.

They were awaiting the arrival of the ?rst hundred French victims. Chosen at random, the civilians would be shot in retaliation for the murder of only one skinhead. Afterward, Schatz intended to destroy the tower in order to demonstrate to the world the seriousness of his purpose.

He could see the pile of rusted old ordnance stacked beneath the nearby column. There were crates of sh.e.l.ls as well as loose aerial bombs and mines, the latter being too large to box. Schatz had been a.s.sured that this one blast would take out the supporting leg above it, after which the tower would topple like a three-legged horse. A small digital detonator glowed red from a shadowy spot between the pile of explosives. It was the same kind of manually set device that was on all of his cases of stored ordnance.

He would not allow his dream to slip away from him. Not now. Not when it was so close to becoming a reality.

Paris was only the beginning. Soon the rest of France would fall. Germany would certainly join him then. After that it would take only a push to force the rest of Europe into line. And afterward. .. ?

Schatz knew. This modern world wasn't like the one that had given birth to him. These people were weak. They were crying out for a leader. For him.

He turned again on the skinhead.

"Raise them!" he commanded, pointing at the portable radio set with his cane.

"As I told you before, I have been unable to, mein Fuhrer," the skinhead said.

"Do not make me angry, boy," Schatz sneered, striding over to the young man. He pushed the skinhead viciously in the chest with the end of his cane.

Schatz was distracted by the sudden rumble of an engine. It came from the Seine side of the tower. He rose to his full height, glaring unhappily at the approaching two trucks.

"At last," he snorted. He marched over between the line of men to meet the vehicles.

Coming in one after the other, the trucks were approaching fast.

Schatz saw as they barreled toward him that the cab of the lead truck was empty. His face puckered unhappily as his twisted brain attempted to understand the signi?cance of two empty trucks.

The vehicles didn't slow.

Teeth clenched in a rictus of fury, Schatz jumped from the path of the oncoming vehicles just in time, landing in a heap on the ground. The nearest skinheads pulled him to his feet, brushing the dirt from his clothing. He pushed their hands aside, spinning around in time to see the speeding trucks slam into the Eiffel Tower.

The ?rst truck crashed into the base of the column beneath which the ordnance was stored. Even as the lead truck's nose crumpled painfully, the second truck was slamming it from behind, twisting the ?rst truck to one side and toppling it over onto the base.

The engines of both vehicles hummed softly.

Schatz stormed over to the trucks. He saw immediately that the undamaged second vehicle was empty. The Parisian men, women and children who were to be an example to their fellow citizens not to challenge the glorious n.a.z.i Reich were nowhere to be seen.

"What is this?" Schatz demanded, whirling on his men.

"It's goodbye, schnitzel face," said an American voice.

The ?ihrer's blood turned to ice.

As Schatz watched in horror, the two of them appeared out of the shadows. Like avenging angels. It was them. The ones from Sinanju.

The young one who had threatened Schatz over the Guernsey video camera grabbed a pair of skinhead soldiers by their necks and slammed their heads sharply toward one another. The resulting sound was like two pots being banged together. When he was ?nished, two helmets were fused together as if by a welder's torch. The skulls beneath were pulverized to mush.

At the same time the Reigning Master of Sinanju had leaped in front of four startled German soldiers.

His arms shot back and forth like pistons, piercing the foreheads of the men with deadly talons. The men dropped like wet bags of potting soil to the damp ground.

Schatz stumbled backward as the two Masters of Sinanju fell on his remaining skinhead and n.a.z.i guards.

This couldn't be happening. Not now. Not when he was so close to success.

A single gunshot exploded behind him. There was a shriek of pain as the n.a.z.i who had ?red the weapon fell, his neck spurting blood from a wound in?icted by a sharpened ?ngernail.

The ?ring weapon sparked an idea in the back of Nils Schatz's perverted mind.

Exploded.

There was still a chance.

"Protect your fuhrer!" Schatz ordered the portable-radio operator. He hurried past the idling trucks toward the stack of explosives.

REMO JERKED the barrel of the gun around, forcing it back into the face of the attacking n.a.z.i. The old man's teeth cracked to splinters as the muzzle tore through his mouth, continuing on into the back of his throat. It exited the rear of his neck.

"You'd have thought some of these guys would have called it quits after the last world war," Remo commented as he went to work on another old n.a.z.i.

"Madness does not admit defeat," Chiun said. He cracked the kneecaps of two nearby skinheads. "Remind me to embroider that on a pillow," Remo said, ?nishing off Chiun's wounded with two precise toe kicks.

The area around them was littered with the dead of the Fourth Reich. There was only one man left alive. It was the skinhead radio operator.

Remo grabbed him by the throat. "Where's that old guy that was here a minute ago?" he demanded. "s.h.i.ts."

"Fuhrer Schatz...is...there," said the man, his face turning deep red beneath Remo's squeezing hand. He pointed beyond the trucks to the base of the Eiffel Tower.

"Thanks," said Remo.

A ?nal squeeze snapped the skinhead's spine. Remo dropped him to the ground. Running, he and Chiun headed for the tower.

SCHATZ HAD SET the digital timer on the stack of explosives to go off in four minutes.

Luckily for him, he had insisted that the detonators they had purchased with stolen IV funds be modeled after the small digital alarm clock that sat beside his bed in the sleepy IV village in Argentina. Schatz wasn't good with many of these new contrivances, but he certainly knew how to operate an alarm clock.

He was running now in the direction opposite the men from Sinanju.

Schatz had no idea how far he could get in four minutes. He hoped it would be far enough. One thing was certain, though. There was no way the two Masters of Sinanju would be able to escape the blast.

He ran for half a minute before realizing that he had left his treasured walking stick behind. It was too late to return for it.

He would get another. When the bomb exploded and the tower fell. Once the world recognized that the Fourth Reich would not be tri?ed with. The fuhrer would have his choice of the ?nest walking sticks in the world.

His aged lungs burned as he ran. His arms and legs moved in pained, jerky motions.

How much farther would be safe?

He ?xed his gaze on a tree far ahead. That would be the point. Surely if he reached that, he would be free of the blast zone. And he would most certainly reach it.