Taking a deep breath, Curt Newton initiated the procedure that would download the Sinanju information into his latest test subject.
It was after dark. The waning sunlight had ceased shining through the spaces around the damaged door nearly an hour before.
He used the tiny penlight on his key chain to check the time.
His Timex read 9:18 p.m. It was nearly time.
Harold W. Smith had sat patiently in the back of the interface van for most of the day. Of course, there was no guarantee that anyone would return for the vehicle. It was logical to assume, though, that if Remo and Chiun had failed, Holz would come back to reclaim his expensive equipment. He would know full well that there was nothing to prevent Smith from giving the PlattDeutsche vice president whatever he wanted.
Smith had opted not to struggle when Holz returned. Using a strategy that dated back to the Trojan War, Smith had stowed away in the rear of the van, waiting. He knew the back door was solid, though it didn't appear to be. Remo had seen to that.
Smith had blocked the door from the cab, hoping that whoever collected the vehicle would assume that it had been damaged in the fight.
Smith's assumption had been a good one. He heard the cab door open at about one-thirty.
There was one tense moment when the handle rattled. Smith held his breath, hoping his barricade would hold. It had. An hour and a half later he was driven safely through the gates of PlattDeutsche America. And he had waited in anxious silence the rest of the afternoon.
He heard Holz arrive about an hour before dusk.
From the way he spoke, Smith knew Remo must be with him. But Holz never even checked the cab door.
He had left the truck and gone inside the nearest building. After he had disappeared, more silence.
That had been several hours before.
Nine twenty-two. Almost time.
The feeble light from his key chain fell upon the glassy-eyed face of one of the men sent to Folcroft the previous night. The man was dead, as were the others in the back of the truck. Smith had been unable to dispose of them in broad daylight at Folcroft and so had sat in the seat next to the corpses for the past nine hours.
Nine twenty-three.
Smith clicked off the light and replaced his key chain in his pocket. A few rays of yellow, washed-out light spilled into the back of the truck around the spaces in the rear door. Feeling around in the semi-darkness, Smith found the flat metal bar he had propped up against the cab door. It was jammed solidly beneath the door handle, its far end butted up against one of the computer tables.
With the heel of his right hand, he knocked the bar loose. It held for a moment, as if it could not be budged. With a second shove, it popped free. He caught it in his left hand and set it quietly to the floor.
Hoping the door didn't squeak on its hinges, Smith pulled it open. He checked his watch again. 9:25.
Five minutes more.
He opened the cab door a crack and glanced around the immediate area. The lot was devoid of cars save for a few stragglers.
Hoping that he had not waited too long, Smith climbed down into the empty parking lot.
'We're going too fast.' Newton said suddenly.
'His vital signs are perfect,' von Breslau countered.
'We didn't download at this rate with any of the others.'
'He is different. They were tainted specimens. His physiology is as flawless as is scientifically possible.'
Lothar Holz watched the entire procedure delight-edly. 'The information? He's absorbing it?' He nodded toward the blond man who sat rigidly on the gurney.
'It looks that way,' Newton admitted.
'It does not look' any way, Doctor. It is,' said the Nazi doctor. His usually dour expression had given way to one of rare satisfaction.
Newton could only grudgingly agree.
A minute later, von Breslau had the scientist shut down the interface. The flood of information ceased.
Holz's assistant showed no reaction.
Muttering happily to himself, von Breslau bustled over to the table and began examining the young man.
Holz turned to Remo and Chiun. 'It seems the vaunted men of Sinanju are no longer unique.' He indicated his assistant. 'In an hour, he has captured your essence. So much for all your years of training, hmm?'
'Release me, thief, and I will test the effectiveness of your device on that one,' Chiun said coldly. Von Breslau looked up as Chiun spoke. Sneering at the Master of Sinanju, he continued to administer his tests to the blond-haired man.
Holz smiled broadly. 'Aren't you a little concerned?'
Chiun's eyes were as level as a hawk's. And promised far more peril.
'Your servant does not merit Sinanju. Therefore he possesses it not. What you have given him is but a pale reflection of the original glorious light That light resides in me and my son.'
'Are you willing to stake your life on it?'
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Holz's confident smile broadened. 'A fine attempt, Master of Sinanju,' he said. 'But only a fool would release you. And I, if you had not noticed, am not a fool.'
'You're doing a damned good impersonation,'
Remo offered tightly.
Holz looked at Remo. 'I would not be so confident if I were either of you,' he said, raising an admonishing finger. He whispered something to Curt Newton. The scientist nodded and punched a few brief instructions into his computer.
Chiun immediately sprang to life. The old man's back arched, and he flung himself toward the center of the room. He landed flat on the soles of both sandals.
Holz put on his best Western accent. 'Dance, pardner,' he drawled. He bowed to Newton and the scientist reluctantly began entering commands.
Chiun's pipe-stem legs began stomping the floor of the lab. He twisted his reed-thin arms wildly around, his kimono sleeves flapping like wind socks in a gale. It was like a strange, computer-generated form of the Twist.
Newton chuckled in spite of himself as he watched the sharp contortions of the desperately gyrating old man. Holz clapped his hands and tapped his foot, keeping time with a noiseless band.
Remo watched the entire proceedings stoically, but inside him a hot, roiling pool of anger began to swell.
His eyes burned with tears of impotent rage. He knew it was wrong. He knew that Chiun would have told him that it was unprofessional for an assassin to feel such visceral fury. But as he watched the man he had come to love as a father humiliated for sport, he couldn't stop the emotion.
He hated Lothar Holz. And in that moment more than any other since these days of torment had begun, he vowed that he would destroy Holz.
All at once, Chiun stopped his strange cavorting.
His twisting arms fell to his sides, and he began to wobble slowly in place. For a moment, Remo thought it was part of their sick show. But all at once, Chiun's legs seemed to roll up inside the skirt of his kimono. Like an aluminum lawn chair, the Master of Sinanju folded in half and fell to the cold laboratory floor. He didn't move again.
Holz stopped clapping. He screwed his face up, angry to have his fun interrupted.
'Why did you stop?' he demanded of Newton.
The scientist was tapping rapidly at his computer keyboard. 'I didn't,' he said nervously.
Holz looked beyond the Master of Sinanju. He was shocked to find that Remo had dropped to the floor, as well.
'What's going on?' Holz demanded, wheeling.
Newton seemed hopelessly confused. 'I have no idea,' he replied desperately. 'They're both off-line.'
