His speed continued to decrease as he came across the room. In the end, he was like a child's toy with worn-out batteries.
He froze a foot away from Newton.
'What is this sorcery!' the Master of Sinanju demanded. His hazel eyes were sparks of uncompre-hending fury.
Newton ignored Chiun. He tried to copy the old doctor's calm demeanor, though his heart pounded at the closeness of Chiun's attack.
He spoke directly to von Breslau.
'You'll be interested to know we've just refined the program to include speech. Before, we were forced to take hold of everything. It took up tons of computer space. Now we're able to be much more selective.'
Chiun's eyes were wide in shock as he tried desperately to move his limbs. He couldn't budge them an inch.
The test subject seemed baffled by the strange ap-parition in the kimono. Newton tapped him on the leg. 'Why don't you take off for now? We'll call you back when we need you.'
The man nodded his understanding. He hopped down from the gurney and began buttoning his shirt.
He paused a moment, startled. 'What—?'
He held his hands out in wonder. The pads of his thumbs and forefingers were covered with a faint white dust. He had crushed one of his plastic buttons to powder.
'A result of the test,' Newton said quickly. 'Just take it easy on things for the rest of the day. Until we can get back to you.'
The man left the room, staring in amazement at his own hands.
Von Breslau had shuffled over to Chiun. He brought his face to within inches of the old Korean. 'This one is very old,' he said to Newton. He looked even more unhappy than usual.
'An understatement, I'd say,' Newton agreed.
'His physical reactions are astounding for a man of any age. But they're even more astonishing for someone of his obviously advanced years.'
'You have lived a long life,' von Breslau said to Chiun.
'Longer than an apricot. Not nearly as long as a mountain.' The Master of Sinanju had contained his initial rage. Through a monumental effort, he held himself in check.
'You were Master when Berlin fell?'
Chiun did not speak. His eyes were as cold and barren as the belly of the deepest, iciest sea. His mouth was a razor slit.
'You murdered the chancellor.' It was a statement of fact, as well as an accusation.
'If you refer to the strutting little fool with the comical mustache, he ingested poison and shot himself when he heard the Master was coming. Double ignominy for a preening jackanapes. This, of course, after he had bravely taken the lives of a pregnant woman and a dog.'
'You lie!'
'He was a coward who sent fools to die for his base cause. His black-booted storm-poopers were de-valuing the market for true assassins.'
Dr. Erich von Breslau's normally bitter features had slowly churned into a burning fury. 'Liar! You are a murderer! And you will stand and watch, filthy Korean mongrel. You will watch while I wrap my hands around your own lying throat and squeeze the life from you.'
The arms of the Nazi doctor shook with rage as he reached for the unguarded throat of the Master of Sinanju.
Though von Breslau had the determination, it was unlikely he had the strength to follow through on his threat. He never found out. For at the precise moment his palms brushed Chiun's Adam's apple, Lothar Holz entered the lab, Remo in tow.
'Doctor, stop!' Holz raced across the room and grabbed von Breslau's wrists. His hands had just encircled Chiun's throat. Curt Newton, who until that moment was a spectator in the exchange between the pair, joined Holz. Together they pulled von Breslau away from Chiun.
'He will die!' von Breslau barked.
'That is not the plan!' Holz said.
'It is my plan!' von Breslau was furious. Spittle sprayed from his mouth as he spoke. His eyes were daggers of hatred aimed at Chiun.
'Curt, please see that this one is transferred down here.' Holz nodded to Remo.
Newton reluctantly pulled himself away from von Breslau. He called to the regular interface labs to have the signal controlling Remo switched over to the subordinate mainframe in the current lab.
When Newton was out of earshot, Holz lowered his voice. 'Four wants both Sinanju masters.'
'Those of Four do not understand,' von Breslau said.
'They understand,' Holz whispered harshly.
'This has been a costly investment. The Americans were not likely to buy into the interface technology anytime in the near future. With the abilities of these men at our disposal, we can recoup our investment a thousandfold. Immediately.'
'We don't need them. Your machines can give us what they have. I can make an army like them long after they are gone.'
'We don't know that yet. Are you willing to risk the fury of those in command on a single test?'
Von Breslau considered. At long last he nodded.
'Agreed. For now,' he whispered. To Chiun, he said loudly, 'Remember. You live at my convenience, Korean.'
'You die at mine,' the Master of Sinanju responded levelly.
Holz smiled warmly. 'Doctor?' he said to Newton. He pointed to Remo. He indicated the floor near Chiun with a nod.
Understanding, the scientist punched a few rapid commands into his computer. The interface signal brought Remo from his place near the door, over to Chiun.
The two men stood side by side, motionless. Neither was able to gain comfort from even a sideward glance at the other. They were blocks of deep-frozen ice. Holz clapped his hands together warmly. 'Imagine. I have the only two living Masters of Sinanju under my control. Yours is a tradition which spreads back, what, thousands of years?'
'You seem to know a fat lot about us,' Remo said. His words were thick with loathing.
Holz beamed. 'Actually I probably never would have heard of you,' he admitted, 'if not for my grandfather.'
17
Lothar Holz remembered being sickened when his father revealed to him what his family had been during the Second World War.
He was eight years old and attending a private academy in Bonn.
While the public perception was one of danger for unrepentant Nazis still residing in Germany after the war, the reality was quite different. During the 1950s, in the little enclave where Holz spent his formative years, there was safety. The authorities tended to look the other way when Lothar's father and friends were about.
Young Lothar knew some of what had happened.
Hushed words. Furtive whispers.
Oftentimes his father would drink to excess. Deep in drunken melancholia, he would curse those forces that had conspired to thwart his dreams. They had crushed all hope of the promised, glorious Reich.
It was only when Lothar had seen pictures of the atrocities committed by his countrymen that he confronted his father. He was a brave boy, in short pants and cuffed felt jacket, standing up to the world-weary drunkard.
He told of the photographs from the book of a boy he had met, the son of an American serviceman who was
