'Go on,' Smith prodded.
'I got to thinking that he was making me do this stuff for a reason. Sort of a control mechanism.' The man smiled weakly. 'Just because someone's socially maladjusted doesn't mean they're stupid. Anyway, I secretly broke into Mr. Holz's phone line. You know, just to see what he was up to. I figured maybe I could use it to get me out of my obligation to him.'
'Blackmail,' Remo offered from behind them.
'I don't know,' the young man said. 'It didn't seem that way at the time. It's just that the stuff I was doing wasn't right. I was looking for a way to stop.'
'What did you learn?' Smith asked.
'Mr. Holz isn't exactly on the level,' the programmer said with a sardonic laugh. 'And neither is PlattDeutsche. The people who own it on paper aren't the real owners.'
'What do you mean?'
'There were a lot of telephone calls—back arid forth to Holz—from outside the country. They were scrambled, so I couldn't pinpoint from where, but the way Holz and this other guy talked, it was obvious the people who think they're running the company really aren't.'
'That is not possible. There is a command structure in every organization. Someone always answers to someone else.'
The man shrugged. 'All I can tell you is what I heard. The people on the board of PlattDeutsche think they're running the show, but sometimes they get overridden by something outside. Particularly this week. Holz got himself in trouble for the stunt at the bank. The higher-ups at the company were talking about suspending him or worse. But then everything got dropped. I'm the only one who knows that it is because somebody somewhere else saved his job for him. The real owners. And even they chewed him out for putting the company at risk. They were real mad until yesterday. That's when he called and told them about your friend there.' He nodded over to where Remo lounged against Smith's desk. 'I'm really sorry, by the way,' he said.
'Don't mention it,' Remo said sarcastically.
The young man looked chastened.
Smith was still thinking about containment. The contamination was spreading. There was no telling how much Holz actually knew or how many others shared his knowledge.
'Did he tell them of this place? Folcroft? About me?'
The young man shook his head. 'No. It was all just about the stuff he could do,' he said, pointing to Remo. 'And about the master of something-or-other. And he asked the man on the other end to send someone up to examine him.'
Smith was feeling a wave of relief wash over him.
There was still a chance to salvage this situation.
'Do you remember whom he sent for or when and where they would be arriving?' Already he was thinking of intercepting the individual at the airport.
'Holz called him Breslau or something. He's a doctor. I guess he's pretty old by the sounds of things. They said no at first, but Mr. Holz said it was an emergency. Breslau is supposed to be some kind of expert or something.'
Smith sucked in a rapid hiss of air. 'Breslau?' he demanded. 'Dr. Erich von Breslau?'
The young programmer brightened. 'That was it,' he said with a happy nod. 'Do you know him?'
Smith looked dazed. Woodenly he walked across the room and took his seat behind his desk.
'Von Breslau,' Remo mused. 'Why does that name sound familiar?'
The programmer glanced toward the open door.
'May I go now?' he asked hopefully. He rubbed his sweaty palms on the knees of his jeans.
'Erich von Breslau,' Smith said under his breath.
He stared at the top of his desk.
The computer programmer stood. 'I promise I won't tell anyone about this place.' He began edging toward the door.
Smith was shaken from his reverie. 'What? Oh, yes. Of course not. Thank you for your help.'
The young man seemed greatly relieved and
moved for the door. He didn't see Smith nod to the Master of Sinanju, nor did he feel the blow that stopped his heart muscle from working through his meaty back. He merely felt the sudden urge to take a long nap on the inviting floor of the sanitarium office. A wave of blackness washed over him, and he dropped to the floor. He didn't stir again.
'Smitty, why does that name von Breslau sound so familiar?' Remo asked as the Master of Sinanju joined him before the desk.
'It has historical significance. Erich Von Breslau worked in three of the Nazi concentration camps during the Second World War. He was answerable directly to Mengele. Many reports have it that his brutality toward his victims was far worse than his superior's.'
'Okay, that's right,' Remo said. 'I heard about him on a PBS documentary. But I thought he was dead.'
'It would seem he is not,' Smith said. 'And someone obviously feels the lure of Sinanju knowledge outweighs the risk of exposing him to the world.'
'But they don't have anything without me, right?'' Remo queried.
Smith considered. 'I am not certain.' There was something larger going on. Why would they bring von Breslau here now? What purpose would it serve?
He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.
'Holz not only has a duplicate file of my brain but yours, as well. Either would be enough to compromise CURE. We must organize a plan of attack. But we must first find a location to store the PlattDeutsche van. I presume it is nearby?'
'Beyond the walls of Fortress Folcroft,' Chiun said. 'I will have to see inside, but I must check a few things here first. Remo, could you make certain that there is nothing that will attract attention to the van?' He was thinking of the Master of Sinanju's usual thorough work.
'I'm on it.'
Remo and Chiun turned to go. Remo cast a glance at the programmer's body lying on the floor near the door.
'I'm not cleaning that up,' he said, shaking his head.
'That is of no concern to me. Of course, if I am forced to carry this fat white thing, the strain might cause me to forget the secret method I have devised to shield myself from the demon signals. But that should not be a concern to you. You have done such a fine job representing your House in this matter so far.'
'There's no secret method,' Remo insisted.
Chiun didn't say a word. He smiled at Remo, his face a placid pool. When Remo glanced back at Smith, he saw that the CURE director was hard at work at his computer's buried keyboard. The light from the monitor screen cast an eerie, possessed glow on his pinched features.
Remo sighed.
'This better be worth it,' he grumbled.
He hefted the body to his shoulders and carted it from the office.
13
The stewardesses all found him to be just darling.
He was so, so sweet. And polite? Everything was please and thank-you with him. He was positively the nicest little man they had had aboard the South American Air jet in a long time.
They just couldn't quite place his accent.
'Is it Swiss? It's Swiss, isn't it?' asked Bootsy.
She was thirty-two, blond and as perky as an Os-mond on uppers.
'You are very perceptive,' the old man conceded.
