agree with what these people had done in the past, he would be foolish to refuse their help in the present.
The old man didn't scold. When his jaundiced eyes settled on Lothar Holz, the old man seemed curiously unsurprised. He smiled warmly at the ragged, emaciated boy.
Lothar returned to school.
He was housed with other boys in similar situations to his own.
For the first time in months, he was able to eat on a regular basis.
Lothar vowed at first to leave as soon as he was able to survive on his own. But that day never came.
As the years went by, his grandfather's friends secured him a position at the German PlattDeutsche.
Though he didn't merit advancement, he found himself moving inexorably up the corporate ladder. And why not? The primary stockholders in the company were all somehow involved in the group that had helped him out years before.
This group eventually consolidated its operations in the small village in South America. This was not long before Lothar Holz—with his flawless command of the English language—was sent to the firm's American plant to oversee the development of the Dynamic Interface System.
Lothar never realized he had been victim of the most subtle kind of indoctrination. What he despised in his youth he learned to accept as an adult. He rationalized that there would always be disagree-ments of opinion in the world and he merely held a different world view from others.
He often argued with his comrades that a different view was not necessarily a superior one. They were always shocked when he said this. It was Lothar's way of holding on to the shreds of his idealistic youth. To harken back to those few brief months when a warm bed and a hot meal did not matter to him. He felt it made him somewhat of a rebel, but the sad truth was that Lothar Holz justified his life the same way his mother had justified her misdeeds back before Lothar had been born.
Lothar Holz had heard the story of the Master of Sinanju during his youth in Bonn. It wasn't something that was public knowledge, but it was known to the men who controlled his group.
The aged Korean was notorious for an act he hadn't even committed. But the cowardly suicide of one man had dispirited his leaders, forcing them underground for half a century. It had been a crushing defeat. And the House of Sinanju was linked inexorably to that defeat.
Now it might be possible to use the same man to create a victory more far-reaching than any previously hoped for—lasting maybe for millennia.
It was all attainable. Right now.
But Lothar Holz was disappointed to find his hopes stifled by bureaucratic inaction.
44You must le t me do something, Adolf,' Holz pleaded into the phone.
'No. You will let the doctor continue his experiments.'
'The doctor can complete his experiments with or without them,' Holz said, using the same argument von Breslau had used against him an hour earlier.
'We have an opportunity here. We should begin to act now.'
'I am open to suggestions,' Adolf Kluge said.
'What is it you wish to do?'
Holz stammered as he searched for words. The truth was, he had nothing concrete in mind.
He had hoped that Kluge would suggest something. And Holz assumed that his experience with the interface technology, coupled with his imprisonment of the men of Sinanju, would make him more valuable to the organization. 'Surely something...' he said. 'We could go to Berlin.'
'And?'
'The government there is never strong. We could foster insurrection. We could even assassinate the new leader.'
Kluge laughed. 'Insurrection in Germany. Lothar, my friend, there is always insurrection in Germany.
at least the threat of it. You will have to do better than that.'
'I do not like this feeling of impotence.'
'The scientists are at work, and you feel left out,'
Kluge said sympathetically. 'Do not worry, Lothar.
You have done well. There are forces already at work that you do not know of. Having the services of Sinanju at our disposal is valuable to us in many ways.
Your success here will not be forgotten by me.'
Holz felt his chest swell with pride. Adolf Kluge said his goodbyes and severed the connection.
Kluge had practically promised him a higher post-ing. It was long overdue. He was stagnating here at his current job.
Today was the beginning of his inexorable climb up the inner command structure. And tomorrow?
Well, Kluge wouldn't live forever.
But Holz still wished he could do something with the awesome power at his disposal. It was like having unlimited credit and not being able to spend a dime.
There was a knock at his door. After a second's hesitation, his secretary entered. 'The custodial staff promises your door will be repaired by five o'clock, Mr. Holz,' she said. She carried with her a stack of envelopes and company correspondence. 'You were so busy this morning, you didn't have time to look at your mail.' She set the pile on his desk and exited the room.
Holz checked his watch. His assistant wouldn't have arrived at the sanitarium by now. Newton and von Breslau would be busy with their work, with the pair from Sinanju standing like statues in the corner of the fourth- floor lab. Even with his compliment from Kluge, he was beginning once more to feel left out. He needed something to do.
Holz shuffled through the mail halfheartedly. One of the daily New York papers was at the bottom of the pile of envelopes.
He glanced at the headline. Nothing of interest.
Besides, there could be nothing more important happening in the world than what was going on in this very building.
He was about to throw the paper in the trash when a minor article caught his attention. It was a sidebar column. A puff piece on United States Secretary of State Helena Eckert. It accompanied a larger story on proposed sanctions against the Middle East country of Lobynia.
He read the column more carefully, an idea evolv-ing even as he scanned down the lines.
He hadn't even gotten halfway through the article when he realized what he would do. It was a brilliant idea. Something that the higher-ups—especially the older ones—would savor for its irony.
In a way, it was fitting.
And most important of all, it was the sort of thing that would advance his career.
He left the newspaper on his desk and hurried downstairs.
To stir up the embers of the past.
18
Running, running...
Smith tried to catch his breath. It came in desperate spurts. The exhaled mist clung to the frigid winter air. The solid earth beneath his feet suddenly gave way.
Stumbling.
Groping for a handhold, he tumbled roughly down a rocky slope to the beach. He fell, sprawled across the hard-packed sand. The black grit was in his mouth. He spit viciously.
Smith pulled himself to his feet. Too late.
The Nazi captain. He saw the face. Menk was running toward him. His gun was drawn. His cruel features looked more haggard from the exertion.
Menk was upon him.
Smith still wore the stolen greatcoat. It was large, far too big for Smith's lean frame. Hopefully it was
