Hardwin had grown more fearful as the caller went through his obviously prepared speech. It almost sounded as if he was reading. Hardwin was practically in tears by the time the man finished.
"But I want to keep my money," he cried.
"You can, Reggie. Don't worry. I have no interest in taking it back from you. Not if you do as I say. You will do as I say, won't you, Reggie?" Hardwin had reluctantly agreed. The caller-whom he now knew only as Captain Kill-had convinced him that it was easier to do things as long as he stayed "in character." He was right. Hardwin was in character when he had taken over the reins of GlassCo in New Jersey, the dummy company set up by his phantom employer. Many of the men working under him there were actors in character, as well. The rest were just thugs hired by the voice on the phone.
In the gig set up by his mysterious employer, Hardwin stayed in character for the duration of their planting the explosives in the Regency Building in Manhattan. He had remained in character even after he had detonated the explosives and watched the thirty-second floor of the office building blast outward in a spray of fine crystalline glass.
It was rather liberating. And most importantly, it was acting. A big, meaty, over-the-top role. The kind of acting he had never been able to do in his professional career.
His employer had sent Reginald Hardwin the bio of his character, who also happened to be named Reginald Hardwin.
He was a member of the British aristocracy, according to the back-story. A former member of Her Majesty's Strategic Air Services, he had had a falling-out with his government. Stumbling into the underworld, he had gotten hooked up with the Irish Republican Army. One thing had led to another after that. The British wanted him. The Americans wanted him. It was all frightfully exciting. And very, very real. For fiction, that is.
The really wonderful thing was the way he had gotten lost in the part of Reginald Hardwin. For the first time ever, he felt that he had really found himself as an actor.
Of course, the fictitious Reginald Hardwin was responsible for some truly terrible things. But the real Reginald couldn't be blamed for anything that had gone on so far. He was an actor, hired to play a part.
A part he played brilliantly.
For both Reginald Hardwin the fictional character and Reginald Hardwin the actor, the explosion at the Regency Building was far behind. It was another day, another scene.
"Exterior, street, day," Hardwin muttered to himself as he strode confidently up the broad sidewalk. The metal fence rose high to his left.
It was overcast: Swollen gray clouds painted the bleak inverted bowl that was the sky. Here and there, patches of much deeper black threatened the thunderstorms local weathermen had predicted for later that afternoon.
As Reginald walked, he heard the first distant rumblings coming from the heavens. He wondered if it might not be a portent. After all, the weather always meant much to Shakespeare.
Around him, tourists began to eye the clouds with increasing concern. Some packed away expensive cameras, ready to dash for the cover of their parked cars or tour buses if it became necessary.
It would have to go quickly. The plan demanded that he and his men be mistaken for ordinary tourists.
As he strolled along, Reginald's wristwatch timer beeped abruptly. The moment it did, he stopped at the fence.
There were no guards here. The only ones he'd seen were at the entrance he had passed a dozen yards away.
There was a stone wall about two feet high just before the eight-foot-tall fence.
Reginald popped the latches on the briefcase he was carrying and reached quickly inside. He removed a light parcel that consisted of four small plastique charges, connected by wires. Adhesive was attached to each charge.
Efficiently, still in character, Hardwin stuck the charges to the two slender posts in the wrought-iron fence-two high, two low.
Already motion detectors and surveillance cameras would have picked him up. Inside they were already reacting. It didn't matter. There were too many of them out there. A veritable army all acting in unison.
All around the perimeter fence, dozens of men were repeating the same movements at precisely the same moment. They reached into raincoats and jackets, bags and knapsacks.
As Hardwin positioned the last charge, he felt a tug on his arm.
"What the hell are doing?" An accusation. He turned.
Fat face. Beet red. Angry.
So typically American; leaping blindly into the fray.
Reginald Hardwin smiled at the man. "Are you a cowboy?" he asked smoothly.
The tourist seemed baffled by the non sequitur. And in that brief moment of hesitation, Reginald pulled his Heckler ol from its shoulder holster, aimed it at the man's surprised face and pulled the trigger.
The man's brains hadn't even splattered across the neatly swept sidewalk before Hardwin was flinging himself in the opposite direction.
Poom!
The charges detonated just as he was rolling up against the protective squat wall.
He bounded up in the next instant.
The plastic explosives had ripped through the pair of metal bars. Gathering his briefcase, Hardwin quickly kicked what was left of the twisted metal out of the way. Turning sideways, he slipped inside the fence.
Others had been loitering on the sidewalk farther away. Guns drawn, they raced up now, sliding efficiently through the opening Hardwin had made.
It was the same all around the grounds. Armed men flooded in through the twisted bars at dozens of smoking openings.
The Marines charged from the residence, followed by Secret Service agents. Gunfire erupted all around the mansion. In minutes, the lush green lawns were awash in red.
It should never have happened. Most swore that it could never happen. But it did.
Reginald Hardwin and his men had the element of surprise working for them. Complacency on the part of their opponents proved to be the deciding factor.
The men protecting the President of the United States were overwhelmed in less than ten minutes. Thanks to the leadership of a failed motion-picture actor, for the first time since the War of 1812, the White House had fallen before a hostile force.
Chapter 19
While the American flag continued to flutter high above the heads of the captives cowering within the most famous residence in the world, Remo Williams was wandering, despondent, through the grounds of Taurus Studios.
The L.A. bomb squad had dismantled the timers on the Plotz truck bombs before hauling the vehicles off the lot. Beneath the tons of fertilizer in the back of one, they would eventually discover the bodies of the actors who had planted the trucks at Taurus.
Except for saving Chiun's life, this trip was a bust. Not only was Remo still no closer to learning who was behind the scheme, but also he was now stuck in Hollywood.
Hands stuffed into the pockets of his chinos, he walked back to the set where he'd driven the one live bomb.
Remo ignored the yellow police tape. Ducking underneath the fluttering plastic strip, he wandered onto the lot.
There were still many police and fire officials on hand. When one uniformed officer came running angrily over to him, Remo waved one of his many IDs at the man. He hoped it wasn't the one that said he was from the Motion Picture Association of America.
Apparently it wasn't. The cop left him alone. Remo meandered over to ground zero. He stopped at the very edge of the newly formed crater. The explosion had blasted a huge hole that looked like the excavation site for an Olympic-size pool. Several layers of asphalt had been ripped away in a jagged circle. The blast had dug down as far as the bedrock. Dirt was scattered everywhere. Black stains of charred ash stretched unevenly around the vast pit.
The set was demolished beyond repair. Phony building facades had been flung away like broken dominoes.