Destroyer - The Empire Dreams Part 19

"Bulls.h.i.+t," Remo said. "I saw the look on your face. You were reliving your glory days. Smith versus the Axis powers. You could have gotten yourself killed."

Smith refused to be drawn in.

"I will be leaving England within the hour. I will try to ?nd some information for you to go on before that, but it seems unlikely that any will be forthcoming. I suggest you stay close to Source headquarters. They will be the ?rst to learn if there are any new attacks against England."

"I like to act," Remo muttered. "Not react."

"That is all we can do until we locate the shadow organization behind all this. By the way, is the French agent nearby?"

"Helene?" Remo asked. "She's upstairs. Why?"

"I will call you on her phone if I learn anything. If you need to make contact, you may page me." That said, Smith hung up the phone. It was always the same way with the CURE director. The simple courtesy of a goodbye was a waste of valuable time. Remo dropped the old phone in its cradle. Leaving the dusty apothecary shop behind him, he trudged up the stairs to Source headquarters.

REMO FOUND Helene Marie-Simone seated at a desk, talking in angry French into her cellular phone.

The Master of Sinanju stood near her. The old Korean had changed into a pale blue kimono. He was staring out one of the large tinted-gla.s.s windows that looked out over Trafalgar Square.

All of the ?res had been extinguished. The crashed airplanes had been hauled away. Small remnants of shattered planes, piles of brick and gaping craters signaled some of the worst physical damage.

The bodies of those who perished in the attack were gone from the square. A total of 687 had died. The streets of London were empty. Martial law had been declared, and an eerie stillness had settled over all the British Isles.

The main of?ce of Source looked like the sterile city room of a midsize newspaper. Neat desks were lined up in two rows. Except for the one Helene occupied, the desks were empty.

Sir Guy Philliston had left the building a few minutes before on an important mission. Source HQ was completely out of tea. He had vowed to remedy the problem or die in the attempt. Remo was hoping for the latter.

For now Remo sidled up to the Master of Sinanju. "Anything new?" he asked, nodding to Helene. Chiun shook his head.

"In the time you have been gone, she has placed seven telephone calls. Four were to her government, and three were of a disgusting personal nature."

"And?" Remo asked leadingly.

"And the French appet.i.te for perversion and licentiousness is bottomless."

"And their beaches are topless," Remo said dismissively. "What about the calls to DGSE?"

"They know nothing," Chiun declared.

Remo exhaled loudly. "Great."

"Except..." Chiun began.

"Yeah?" Remo said, brightening.

"One of their politicians vanished during the night. Doubtless the victim of his own libido. Or of the lack of an alarm clock. The French do not know which."

"Oh," Remo said dejectedly.

"And," Chiun began again, raising an instructive ?nger.

"Yes?" Remo asked skeptically.

Chiun lowered his hand. "Nothing. That was all." He went back to staring out the window, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his thin lips.

Helene shouted a string of rapid-?re French before hanging up the phone. She growled in exasperation. When she glanced up, she saw Remo looking at her. "That man is-how do you say?-impossible."

"I've got a boss like that, too," Remo commiserated.

"What?" she snapped impatiently. She shook her head in sudden understanding. "No, that was not my boss. It was my lover. He is upset that I am not home."

Remo tried to be understanding. "Yeah, this job has rotten hours. Have you two lived together long?"

"What are you talking about?" Helene asked. "He lives with his wife. And what do you know of this job? Or have you abandoned posing as a State Department of?cial?"

Remo decided that being understanding was for nitwits.

"I keep forgetting to ask you," he said, "where did you run off to when the ?ghting broke out yesterday?"

Helene waved to the statue of Nelson beyond the window. It was pitted with bullet holes."While you were scurrying up that statue like a monkey, I was on the phone."

Behind Remo, Chiun chortled loudly. "Like a monkey. Heh-heh-heh."

"Oh?" Remo asked, annoyed with both Helene and Chiun. "Make a date with an English soccer team? Better make sure they're all married ?rst."

"There was another explosion in a Metro station in Paris yesterday afternoon," she snapped. "Since you listen in on all of my phone conversations, I am surprised you didn't hear that one."

"I was too busy not hiding," Remo said. "Hey, want to see the French army on maneuvers?" He threw both hands high into the air in the cla.s.sic gesture of surrender.

"Arrgghh!" Helene snarled, pus.h.i.+ng away from the desk in helpless exasperation. "I cannot take this!"

She stormed from the of?ce.

"That went well." Remo smiled at Chiun. He felt cheerier than he had in several days.

"Like a monkey," Chiun said. "Heh-heh."

Remo felt his good mood fade as quickly as it had come.

"You're a real comfort, you know that, Chiun?"

"Ooo-ooo-ooo," said the Master of Sinanju with a distinctly simian sound.

HELENE b.u.mPED into Guy Philliston in the apothecary shop downstairs. He was hustling through the soot-smudged front door with a tin of East Indian tea he had liberated from the window display of a closed shop down the road.

"Ah," Philliston said, "leaving, are we?"

"I am going for a walk."

"Wouldn't go if I were you," Sir Guy warned. "Military rule and all that. They're supposed to shoot anyone on sight caught in the street. Questions later. Bad show all around."

"You seem ?ne."

Philliston straightened his spine proudly. "Yes, but I am British." This said, Sir Guy went into the back of the store, where the secret Source staircase was hidden.

Helene walked out into the empty square.

She hadn't gone more than a few yards before her cellular phone rang.

"Oui," Helene said, answering the powerful small phone.

Her face grew more and more shocked as the frantic voice on the other end of the line spit out a string of rapid-?re French.

"I will return immediately," she promised after the caller was ?nished. She pressed the b.u.t.ton that disconnected the line and returned the device to the pocket of her leather jacket.

She glanced up once at the tinted Source windows two stories above. This was one phone call that the American agents didn't overhear.

Brie?y Helene entertained the notion of going up and requesting Remo's help. After all, she had seen him do same amazing things over the past few days.

No, she ?nally decided. This was a French problem. It was best handled by Frenchmen.She would deal with it herself.

A determined expression on her chiseled face, Helene hurried down the bombed-out street.

Chapter 22.

The president of France arrived at the Palais de l'Elysee by limousine in the wee hours of the morning.

It was the day after the third aerial attack against London, and the president had political concerns that extended beyond the sh.o.r.es of his native land. France's neighbor across La Manche-the body of water the rest of the world stubbornly insisted on calling the English Channel-had been receiving a beating in her most famous city. Ordinarily this would have been a matter of indifference to France. Not this time.

There had been much bad blood between the two countries for many years. The president was acutely aware of the running feud between France and Great Britain, and he didn't wish to stir the embers by sleeping late after the worst of the three attacks against London. For this reason he came to the palace from the apartment of his mistress at a little after 6:30 a.m.

The limousine brought him through the high gates and around to his personal entrance. It stopped in the great shadow cast by the historic old building.

He was a man who liked to project a public image of independence. This streak of stubbornness was regularly demonstrated by his insistence that he open his own car door himself.

This morning, like every other morning since a.s.suming of?ce, his driver jumped out of the front seat and raced around the rear of the car to open the door. It was a daily race that the president invariably won. The president pulled at the door handle.

Odd...

In his eagerness to serve, after popping like a cork from the front seat, his driver generally pulled the door away from the president from the outside. Today there was no such pressure from the other side of the door. In fact, when the president looked more closely, he noticed through the window that there was no sign of his driver at all.

Not only that, when he tried to push the door open, he felt an opposite pressure. As if something was holding the door closed.

He pushed harder.

The obstruction moved. As it did so, an arm ?opped into view beneath the half-open car door. The hand was covered in a sheen of bright red. Blood.

The president immediately yanked the door back. This was a security limousine. He would be safe inside.

The door was just inches from being shut when a black boot jammed into the opening between the door and the frame.

The president pulled harder, now with both hands. His knuckles grew white from the force he exerted. Shouts came from outside.

He recognized the language immediately. German.

Scuf?ing. He could see them now. Their angry faces outside the window. He pulled more furiously. Hands curled in around the door frame, prying the door open. Though he struggled hard, there were too many of them. The president felt the handle being tugged away from him with a sudden wrench. The door sprang open wide.

His chauffeur was sprawled, dead, on the ground beside the car, still bleeding from the chest. His eyes were open wide, his face a macabre mask of shock.

The men outside the car reached in and grabbed the president of France roughly by the arms. They dragged him out into the cool morning air.

There were dozens of them. They wore the drab green German army uniforms of World War II. Each of them had a familiar old- fas.h.i.+oned curving helmet atop his bald head. Leather straps held the helmets in place.On their arms were the chillingly familiar bands of n.a.z.i soldiers. The black swastika--circled in white-on a red background.

There was no sign of the French troop on guard detail within the protected walls of the palace. These silent soldiers apparently had free rein.

The president was held fast beside his limousine. "I demand to know the meaning of this!" he sputtered indignantly.

The uniformed soldiers didn't react to his shouted words. They seemed unconcerned that his voice might bring a.s.sistance.

But his shout did have a reaction.

A lone man stepped from the doors that led into the interior of the palace-into the very heart of the French elected government.

Older than the rest, he wore a uniform slightly different than the others. He had the high-peaked cloth cap of a n.a.z.i of?cer. A silver eagle perched atop the front of the mint-condition antique headgear. He came down the ornate outdoor staircase to the president's car.

"I apologize that we must meet under these conditions, Mr. President. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Field Marshal Fritz Dunlitz." He clicked his boots together in a gesture that rattled the black iron cross at his tightly b.u.t.toned uniform collar. "Please accompany me inside." He spread his hand toward the door to the palace.

"Unhand me!" the president insisted, twisting wildly.

Fritz nodded to the men. Obediently the soldiers released him.

"I demand that you-"

Fritz raised a black-gloved hand. He did it with such fury that the president halted his protestations. When the leader of France grew silent, a brittle smile broke across the face of the gaunt old German. Again he motioned to the door to the Palais de l'Elysee.

His next words gave the president of France an involuntary chill.

"The fuhrer wishes to meet you."

THEY HAD BEEN KIDNAPPED during the night and in the early hours of the morning. Each abduction was accomplished quietly, expertly. It was amazing even to Nils Schatz, considering the men with whom he had been forced to work.

But his army of skinheads with their aged n.a.z.i leaders had proved their mettle in the most secret part of this shadow campaign.

On the ?oor of the small auditorium sat the mayors of the twenty arrondiss.e.m.e.nts of Paris. With them was the prefect of the Seine and as many members of the senate and national a.s.sembly as could be found.