"Tell him to go away," Smith snapped.
"I've tried to, but- Wait! You can't go in there."
Smith hit the concealed stud that sent the CURE terminal dropping into his desk interior. The desktop panel clicked into place just in time. The office door flew open.
Smith rose from his seat angrily.
"What do you mean by barging in like this?" he demanded.
The man who paused at the open door was well over six feet tall and built along the lines of Ichabod Crane. His face was red with indignation.
"I am Nigel Winthrop, Dr. Smith," he said testily. "And I will be put off no longer. This matter is urgent."
Smith hesitated. "Urgent?"
"If you will give me but a moment of your time . . ."
"Make it quick," Smith snapped. "I'm extremely busy. It's all right, Mrs. Mikulka," he added, nodding to his secretary, who hovered behind Winthrop like a nervous hen.
The door closed and Nigel Winthrop pulled a chair up to Smith's desk.
"I don't know if you remember me, Dr. Smith . . ." Winthrop began.
"Your name is familiar," Smith admitted.
"I managed your father's estate."
Smith blinked. Yes, it came back to him now. Winthrop and Weymouth. His father's law firm. He could remember seeing the letterhead on his father's desk many times as a boy.
"My father's estate was settled years ago," Smith said, stiff-voiced.
"And you were cut off."
"Ancient history," Smith snapped. He didn't like to be reminded that his own father had disinherited him.
Winthrop opened a leather briefcase and took out a sealed letter. He handed it to Smith.
"This letter was entrusted to me by your father, Dr. Smith. It was to be given to you, or to your eldest son in the event of your decease."
"I have no sons, only a daughter," Smith said.
"Open it, please."
Smith opened the letter with a red plastic letter opener and extracted a thick sheaf of folded papers. He read the salutation. It was addressed to him.
Smith read along, his eyes widening.
To my son, Harold:
I write this to you in life, but I will be dead when and if you read it. We have had our differences, Harold. You have failed me as a son. I know you bear me ill will because I could not accept your refusal to take over the family firm. I could not tell you otherwise while I lived, but this letter will help you understand that my hopes and dreams for you had nothing to do with publishing those cheap, shoddy magazines, but with something immensely greater.
If there is any family loyalty left in you, Harold, if any particle of red Anglo-Saxon blood flows through your veins, heed it now. Put aside your differences with me, for queen and empire are calling to you with clarion voice to rewrite a terrible wrong that a band of ragtag lawless rabble perpetrated on this proud colony many years ago. I refer to the shameful severing of this country from Mother England.
"Good God," Smith choked. He looked up at Winthrop. "Do you have any idea what this says?"
"I do. Please finish the letter, Dr. Smith."
Smith read on. It was all there, in his own father's handwriting. How after the signing of the Treaty of Yorktown, ending the American Revolution, a cell of Tory sleeper agents had been created on order of King George III. They were to await the proper time, and a signal from the crown, to activate. And by whatever means possible, to bring America to financial ruin.
"My own father . . ." Smith said under his breath. The papers in his hands shook. He shook. His weak gray eyes seemed to recede into his gaunt patrician face.
"Your father is offering you a second chance," Nigel Winthrop was saying quietly. "Here is an opportunity to redeem yourself in his eyes, Smith. You loved your father. Like these colonies, you were strong-willed, stiff-necked, and stubborn. All that is past. I must have your decision now, for my inability to contact you has kept you from entering the fray like the true Englishman that you are by birthright. "
Smith looked up from the letter. There were tears in his eyes.
"But . . . I love my country," he said in a quavering voice.
"Surely you must love your father more," Winthrop said firmly. "And do not fear for America." Winthrop smiled, exposing tea-stained teeth. "It is our country too. We are merely returning it to its proper place in the grand scheme of things. Now, I must have your answer."
Chapter 28
Remo Williams got lost on the A40 and ended up in a pastoral hamlet called Aylesbury.
He had to ask directions of three different people-not because the natives weren't forthcoming with directions, but because he had to hear the same directions three times before the thick local accent was comprehensible to him.
As he got back on the A40, he understood what was meant by whoever had said that Americans and British were a people separated by a common language.
Oxford resembled a crumbling fairyland from a distance, but when he found his way onto its narrow ancient streets, he was surprised to see a Kwik Kopy photocopy outlet and the usual fast-food restaurants. There was even a store that dealt exclusively in comic books, called Comic Showcase.
Remo looked around for a place to park. He caught sight of a space in a long row of undersize European cars on High Street, and he pulled into it--only then noticing the bright red cast-iron device set in the sidewalk. It looked like an overgrown fireplug, and Remo wondered if he'd be towed for parking there.
He decided the economy of the world mattered more than being ticketed.
When he got out, Remo saw that the supposed fireplug was actually a postal drop box. It made him wonder what a British fireplug looked like-a litter basket?
The street was busy with passersby, many of them students carrying books. Remo decided to start with them.
"Excuse me, pal," he asked one. "I'm looking for a Sir Quincy. "
"Sorry. Never heard of the chap. And it is pronounced Quinsee, not Quin-zee, you know."
"Thanks a heap," Remo said, next approaching a middleaged woman, on the theory that no one knew a neighborhood better than a native housewife.
"Sir Quincy, you say, Yank?" she replied. "I don't believe there's ever been a Sir Quincy in these parts. Not as long as I've been here. Are you lost?"
"No," Remo muttered, "but Sir Quincy is. Any suggestions what I could do?"
"Yes. What you should do is have a good sit-down with a nice strong cuppa tea, while you get your bearings. You look positively knackered."
"Actually, I'm just wet," Remo said, wondering what "knackered" meant.
"Good luck to you, then," the woman said, walking away.
"I'll need it," Remo said glumly. "I'm wet, lost, and I barely speak the language."
It started to rain again, and Remo ducked into the nearest store. It was the comic-book shop.
Remo pretended to browse, wondering why there were no copies of Captain Marvel on the shelves. Maybe Billy Batson had finally grown up.
The bell over the door rang, and a pair of book-laden students came in, talking among themselves. One of them spoke American English in a distinctly Oklahoma accent, and to Remo it was as if he'd heard a foghorn in a sea mist.
"Hey, pal. Maybe you can help me," Remo began.
"Sure."
"Ever hear of a Sir Quincy? He's supposed to live around here."
"Sir Quincy Chiswick?" He pronounced it "Chizick."
"That's it," Remo said.
"I know him. He's a don."
"He's Mafia?" Remo said in surprise.
"No. He's a professor. Teaches history. They call them dons. Walk to the end of High Street and turn right. He's on St. John's Street."
"Thanks," Remo said, leaving the store. He ran through the rain, one hand over his eyes. He got lost immediately.
Remo stopped an elderly man in a tweed cap, who seemed completely oblivious of the downpour.
"Can you point me in the general direction of St. John's Street?" Remo pronounced it "Sinjin's Street," because, unlike the American student, he knew that the Brits pronounced "Saint John" as "Sinjin."