Chapter 25
In Oxford, England, Sir Quincy Chiswick sat in the dimness of the far corner table in the Wheatsheaf pub, away from the common herd. The pub buzzed with low voices. Occasionally a student would enter his field of vision to take away tea or a shepherd's pie from the worn wooden kitchen counter.
They never looked his way, even those who were his students. Sir Quincy preferred it that way. It was the reason he wore his raven-black professorial gown in the pub.
It was bad enough that he had to earn his bread teaching the spotted bastards, but to socialize with them was more than a body could bear.
Every year it became more of a chore.
Sir Quincy drained the last of his shandy, tossed a pound coin on the table, and rose to leave.
He overheard several people speaking about the stock market's travails, but paid them no mind.
"Oh, Professor," one of them called out.
Sir Quincy was so flummoxed by the lad's temerity that he forgot himself and turned.
Three young students were hunkered over their ale. One had his hand up, as if in a lecture hall. He looked like a right prat.
"Yes, what is it?" Sir Quincy deigned to say.
"You've doubtless heard of the economic chaos brewing in the States, Professor. Our own markets are coming a cropper. What do you suppose this augurs for the U. K. economy?"
"I have not heard of the economic chaos, as you so quaintly put it," Sir Quincy retorted. "And I pay no attention to the dreary modern world. My field is history. Now, if you will excuse me, unlike yourselves, I must prepare for tomorrow's classes."
And with that, Sir Quincy Chiswick, Regius Professor of History at Oxford's Nuffing College, turned about and fled the Wheatsheaf like a fugitive from an abbey.
He stepped out into the early dusk already blanketing Oxford's multitudinous spires.
His haggard fortyish visage was glum as he trudged along like an ebony-winged crow. He took no comfort from the sight of the witchlike spire of his own Nuffing College on his left.
He walked up High Street, past the Covered Market, and turned up Cornmarket Street. From Magdalen Street he took the Friar's Entry shortcut to Gloucester Street. Its blue lights were sepulchral tonight.
At the end of Gloucester, he crossed Beaumont to come, at last, to St. John's Street and its modest row houses.
Sir Quincy entered number fifty by a blue door in the scabrous white stucco facade, locked the door behind him, and glanced at the row of antique grandfather clocks at the foot of the stairs. The last one was a minute slow. He made a note to have it adjusted as he trooped up the stairs, one hand on the banister, the other lifting his black gown so as not to snag a step.
"Is that you, sir?" a middle-aged woman's voice called from the downstairs flat.
"Yes, Mrs. Burgoyne," he called down. "Has there been any mail today?"
"No, sir. I set tea and scones for you, as always."
"Odd," Sir Quincy muttered. In a normal voice, he said, "Thank you, Mrs. Burgoyne. You are very kind."
"Good night, Professor."
"Good night, Mrs. Burgoyne."
Sir Quincy unlocked the door to his shabbily genteel room. It was high-ceilinged, its eastern wall dominated by two beds, set like bookends, each covered by a yellowing bedspread.
In the center of the room stood a small writing desk burdened by a tea-cozy-covered object, a tarnished pewter tray heaped with scones, and two varieties of jam in serving compotes set beside the lion-patterned tea cozy.
Sir Quincy sat down. From a drawer he took a coilshaped heating element, plugged it into a floor socket, and dropped the reddening element into the china teakettle.
While he waited for the water to come to a boil, Sir Quincy plucked the oversize tea cozy from a tiny computer terminal. He hated to use the bloody device, but the mails to America were dreadful these days. He wondered what J. R. R. Tolkien, who had once occupied this very flat, would have thought of the infernal thing.
The water began bubbling as Sir Quincy turned on the computer. He logged on. The legend "MAYFLOWER DESCENDANTS" appeared at the top of the screen.
The board was busy with scrolling paragraphs. The Loyalists had become a chatty lot since he had given them permission to communicate amongst themselves. It worried Sir Quincy. He was a bit foggy on the security of these computer devices. Perhaps it was safe enough, but he would have thought that his principals would know enough to keep shtum until the matter was concluded.
When Sir Quincy felt the steam coming from the kettle warming his face, he knew that it was ready. As he poured, he watched the ever-changing cross-talk.
DO YOU SUPPOSE BEAR-MAN WILL SHOW HIS FURRY FACE AGAIN?"
"DID YOU ALSO RECEIVE A WARNING TOOTH FROM THE BLIGHTER?"
"I SHOULD SAY SO. BUT I AM READY FOR HIM THIS TIME."
"YOU BOYS HAD BETTER CIRCLE YOUR WAGONS. I TANGLED WITH THE VARMINT. HE DON'T TAKE NO CRAP FROM ANYBODY."
Sir Quincy frowned. What manner of English was that one communicating in? Must be some vulgar American slang. Well, that, too, would soon become a thing of the past.
He used a dull butter knife to separate a fresh hard scone into equal halves. The computer talk was focusing on the crisis in the New York stock market. Sir Quincy looked away, frowning. Economics was not his forte. And at the moment he faced a pressing problem. Mrs. Burgoyne had set out for him both of his favorite jams.
Which did he most fancy-greengage or plum?
Chapter 26
At five P. M. London time, crack British SAS counterterrorist commandos surrounded the Morton Court Hotel in London's busy Earl's Court district. They took up sniper positions on the rooftops of neighboring apartment buildings, behind shrubbery, and in the hotel's modest lobby.
Remo Williams peered over the sill of the third-floor room's single window. It looked down over the leaf-strewn yard of an apartment building.
"We're surrounded," he told Chiun, who sat cross-legged on the floor, the Royal Sceptre on his lap. The Master of Sinanju's shiny bald head was tipped back to see the high-shelved TV set.
"Shh," Chiun said.
"Will you shut that off?" Remo snapped. "These guys are heavily armed. I think they're getting ready to storm the place."
Chiun touched his wispy beard. "They will not invade the hotel without first asking our demands."
"What makes you think they give a flying jump about our demands?"
The phone rang before Chiun could reply.
Remo scooped up the receiver and barked out a rude hello. He listened. Then, turning to Chiun, he said, "They want to know our demands."
"Tell them that as a gesture of good faith, the sphinxes guarding the so-called Cleopatra's Needle will be set correctly."
"You're joking."
"And they will broadcast the fact," Chiun went on firmly, "or the Sceptre will be pulverized down to its smallest ruby and emerald."
Sighing, Remo relayed the message. Then he hung up.
"They said they'll get back to us. They're not going to do it, you know."
"They will, for they know that they are dealing with the House of Sinanju.
"What makes you think they'll care?"
"We performed a minor service for one of their recent queens. "
At Buckingham Palace, Her Britannic Majesty, the Queen of England, received the news with indignation.
"We will do nothing of the sort!" she said furiously.
She quieted down when the queen mother entered the sumptuous throne room, clearing her throat.
"Yes, Mum?" the queen said in a timid voice.
"This letter left at Whitehall bears the insignia of the House of Sinanju. They did a job of work for us during Victoria's reign. The Ripper matter."
"Ah," said the Queen of England, understanding perfectly. No wonder the rotter had never been captured. He had been assassinated.