"The Air Force had the model, year, and everything."
"Mere details," Chiun scoffed.
"Here's a drawing of it," Remo said, offering the page he'd torn out of the book on steam locomotives.
Smith took the page.
"Don't be ridiculous," he said. "This is a steam engine."
"That's what the thing was. Crazy, huh?"
" 'Absurd' was the word I was thinking of."
"The Air Force confirmed it."
"Nonsense," returned Smith. "I was just speaking with the President and he told me the first two had been identified. But he said nothing about steam engines."
"What did he say?"
"He said . . ." Smith's voice trailed off. "What did he say?" He reached for his keyboard. Remo seized his hands.
"Do you mind?" Smith said. "I input the confirmation."
"Can't you remember it without the computer's help?" Remo demanded.
"I've been handling so much data today that it's all a blur," Smith admitted.
Remo let go. Smith's fingers attacked the keyboard. He brought up the file.
"Odd," said Smith in a weak voice.
"What is it, Smitty?". Then Remo saw what it was. Smith's file indicated that the earlier KKV strikes involved an American Big Boy and a Prussian G12.
"Now, how could I have forgotten something like that?"
"What I want to know is how you could have put it aside. Those identifications may be our only lead."
"Yes, indeed. I imagine I was so preoccupied with file setup that I lost track of time."
Remo looked at the ES Quantum Three Thousand in the corner of the room. It gleamed under its tinsel and ornaments.
"Why don't you ask it?"
"Why don't you ask me yourself?" the ES Quantum said.
"Smitty?"
"Computer, File 334 contains hard data on the KKV situation. Can you correlate?"
"Affirmative."
"Then do so."
"Answer in memory."
"I cannot get used to how quickly you process data."
"This data was processed when you originally input the data."
Smith frowned. "Then why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you did not ask," the ES Quantum replied.
"Since when do I have to ask?"
"You always have to ask. I am not a mind reader."
"This is starting to sound like a bad marriage," Remo whispered to Chiun. The Master of Sinanju nodded.
"Please give me the answer," Smith said, brittle-voiced. "Both locomotives recently changed hands on the open market, passing from their original owners to a transshipment point in Luxembourg. There is no record of their final destination."
"Hmm," said Smith. "We have to know where they ended up. Where they came from is not that important."
"An agent handled each transaction."
"Who?" asked Smith.
"A conglomerate known as Friendship, International."
"More data."
"Friendship, International is a multinational conglomerate with interests in one hundred and twenty-two corporations, institutions, and holding companies. Current net worth is in excess of fifty billion dollars."
"Who is the CEO of record?"
"There is no record."
"Stockholders?"
"None. It is privately held."
"Offices?"
"Central office of record is in Zurich, Switzerland, 55 Booggplatz. However, that is a vacant warehouse. A phone line does connect with the Longines Credit Bank."
"That's our lead," Remo said.
"Go immediately. Find out who bought those engines and where they went."
"Now we're getting someplace."
"I will monitor your progress from this end. You still have your communicators?"
"Yes," said Remo.
"Yes," said Chiun. "Remo still has his communicator."
"Good," Smith said, returning to his terminal. That mesmerized expression came over his face again. Remo nudged Chiun. Chiun shrugged.
"If you need us, we'll be at Mount Rushmore, shaving off Teddy Roosevelt's mustache," Remo said.
"Have a safe trip," Smith replied vaguely. Remo sighed:
"Good-bye, machine," Chiun said to the computer.
"Farewell, Master of Sinanju. See you soon."
"Not if I see you first," Chiun said when they got to the hall elevator. "I do not like her," he told Remo firmly.
"Her? Now she's got you doing it too."
"You just called her a she."
"We're going to have to have a long talk with Smitty when we get back," Remo said as the elevator doors closed on his unhappy face.
Chapter 21
Henri Arnaud was very old. He had outlived his friends and every relative he cared about. All he had left were his trains.
He walked among them one last time, his cleft chin lifted in defiance to the cruelties of fate.
It was not so bad for himself. He would not live much longer. The zest for life had faded long ago. But his trains were different. He had hoped that they would survive him. But times changed. A hundred years ago, the train was as romantic as a fine auto. Fifty years ago, it was nostalgic. But in this age of Concorde jets and space shuttles, the train was an anachronism.
And the Arnaud Railway Museum was a conclave of anachronisms. Fewer and fewer people attended it each year. It had been ten years since Henri Arnaud had let go of his last greeter. Now he was greeter, accountant, and, when necessary, janitor.
No more.
Touching the shining flank of a 1929 four-cylinder de Glehn compound locomotive, Henri Arnaud reflected on how suddenly one's fortunes could be reversed.
He had survived the Depression and German conquest, and even the most recent stock-market crash had not diminished his family wealth. It was the Arnaud money that had enabled Henri Arnaud to assemble this collection-some purchased from dying rail lines, others reclaimed from the junkyards of the world. The 1876 Paris-Orleans 265-390 was his prize. It was the only surviving model. The 1868 L'Avenir was a treasure. He had purchased it in 1948. One wing contained American engines. Less aesthetically pleasing, but in their way fascinating because of their raw power:
A magnificent collection, rivaling the great railway museums of the Continent. Now it was about to be broken up and scattered to the four winds. Just like that.
Heaving a gentle sigh, Henri Arnaud wished that he could turn back the clock. Not much. Just a week. One last week to enjoy his collection. One final sunny weekend to greet the tourists. Even American tourists with their infantile questions would be welcome. But last week it had rained and no one had come. Then, Henri Arnaud had not thought much of it. There would be other weekends.
For Henri Arnaud, yes. For the Arnaud Railway Museum, alas, no.
It had all disintegrated with a phone call and a familiar voice.
"Ah, mon ami, it is good of you to call," Henri Arnaud had told his mellow-voiced friend. He had never met this wizard of an investment counselor. It did not matter. For years, Friendship, International had managed his portfolio. So when Monsieur Friend had called, Henri Arnaud's humor had brightened in spite of the lowering clouds over the Pyrenees.
"I have unfortunate news," Friend had said.
"Not a death in your family, I hope."
"No," Friend had said. "But I am deeply distressed to inform you that you are personally bankrupt."
Henri Arnaud clutched the telephone. Could it be? "How? Why?" he croaked, trying to get a grip on himself.
"An unforeseen repercussion of the crash. Some investments I selected for you have dried up. Others are faltering. I am divesting even as we speak."
"This is terrible. This is so unexpected."
"A pity," Friend had agreed. "I myself have lost millions."
"I am so sorry for you," Henri Arnaud said sincerely. And he meant it. After all, he was an old man. Friend sounded at best thirty-five. Very young. The poor unfortunate man.
"Thank you," Friend replied graciously.
"I will survive."