Part 27 (1/2)

”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.