Chunks of brick lay strewed about the sidewalk and street. She picked her cautious way over these to the edge of where the embassy yard began. Yellow tape brought from America roped off the area. It fluttered and snapped in the stiff breeze.
Hopefully the Americans would soon come to their senses and allow her inside. This inactivity was killing her.
She was peering in around a broken yet still upright section of wall when with her peripheral vision she caught sight of a pair of men stepping toward her across the rock- and metal-strewn street. They were nearly upon her when she turned.
"You may not go in there," Helene insisted, her tone official.
"By the looks of it, most of in there is out here," said one of the men. He was looking at the rubble on the sidewalk.
"Oh. You are American," Helene said with some distaste.
"As American as apple pie and Chevrolet," said Remo Williams proudly.
"l, on the other hand, demand an apology for your coarse greeting," said Chiun, Reigning Master of Sinanju.
The old Korean stood at Remo's elbow, longnailed hands drumming impatiently atop the flapping sleeves of his fire-engine red brocade silk kimono.
He was five feet tall if he was an inch and had never seen the far side of one hundred pounds. Twin tufts of gossamer sprouted from a spot above each shell-like ear. The tan, taut flesh of his aged skull was otherwise bare. A wisp of beard adorned his wrinkled chin. Two young-appearing hazel orbs peered with bland malevolence from amid the knots of crumpled vellum that surrounded the old Asian's almond-shaped eyes.
Together the two men were an odd sight indeed. Helene was certain that these two were not associates of the Americans in windbreakers.
"I'd do it if I were you," Remo suggested knowingly to Helene.
"What?" Helene asked. She was genuinely confused.
"Apologize. It'll make things easier for all of us in the long run."
"Apologize?" Helene said. Her superior demeanor reasserted itself. "For what am I to apologize?"
"For a slur most base," Chiun sniffed.
"I said nothing to you," Helene insisted. "Much less insult you."
"She doesn't even know what she said, Little Father," Remo said.
"Typical for a Gallic wench. Their mouths are occupied in other depraved ways so much of the time, speech becomes secondary. Words of hate drip like poison from their weary tongues without even their knowledge." A single sharpened talon raised instructively. "Beware the daughters of Gaul, Remo. Their mouths are known for neither thoughtful consideration nor the ability to close when in the company of men, women or beasts of the field."
"I'll make a note of it," Remo said dryly. "Let's go."
Jumping, Helene barred them from entering the courtyard.
"Who are you? How did you get through the police cordon?" she demanded.
"Name's Remo. You just heard that. I'm with the State Department. I was supposed to be assigned here today." He looked at the bombed-out remains of the embassy building. "Guess I should have put in for that Bahamas assignment, huh, Chiun?"
The old man merely harrumphed, stuffing his hands inside the voluminous sleeves of his kimono. He stared at Helene.
"I demand to see some form of identification," Helene said officiously.
Remo shrugged. He pulled his and Chiun's dummy State Department ID from the pocket of his chinos.
Helene peered at the plastic-laminated cards for a full minute. At last she presented them back to Remo.
"These are in order. Though I am surprised that you would have come here today, considering what has happened," she added suspiciously.
"Diplomacy must go on." Remo smiled. He began stepping beneath the yellow tape.
"Wait," Helene said, struck with sudden inspiration.
"What?"
"Perhaps you could get me inside," she suggested, nodding to the embassy courtyard.
"There's really nothing to it," Remo said. "Look." He slipped beneath the tape, dropping it from his hand once he had reached the other side. "See?"
"You do not understand," she persisted. "There was an earlier misunderstanding between our respective teams. Your men have since stubbornly refused us entry."
"Perhaps you accused them of being American," Chiun offered, still on Helene's side of the flimsy barricade.
"They are American," Helene told him.
"Ah, but perhaps they do not like to be reminded of that fact," Chiun said sagely. Bending double, he joined Remo on the other side of the tape. The back of his kimono didn't even brush the tape.
"This is the point where you're supposed to figure out he wants you to say you're sorry for thinking he was American," Remo offered. "It's called the subtle approach."
Helene's eyes finally showed dawning understanding. She glanced at Chiun.
"I apologize," the French agent said. "Most sincerely. You are quite obviously not American." Her eyes narrowed, as if she were seeing the Master of Sinanju for the first time. "In fact, I would venture to guess that you are Korean, if I may be so bold."
Chiun's lined face brightened. "A woman of obvious good judgment," he said. "If somewhat delayed."
Helene knew at once that she had struck gold. She forged ahead.
"Forgive me, but sometimes my eyes are not so good," she lied. She nodded to Remo. "I saw this one and assumed you were both American. I see now that I was obviously in error."
Chiun studied her for a moment. "There is nothing wrong with your eyes," he concluded. Reaching out with a single curved fingernail-sharp as a titanium razor-he sliced through the yellow tape. The ends fluttered gently to the ground. "However, there is nothing a Frenchman does better than grovel." He indicated that Helene could join them within the courtyard.
Quickly she stepped over the split sections of tape. "The FBI isn't going to like this," Remo warned.
"You will talk to them," Chiun sniffed indifferently. "After all, they are Americans and are therefore better dealt with by their own kind."
Chiun and Helene stepped in through the wreckage, leaving a grumbling Remo to deal with the officials from Washington.
REMO DID TALK to the investigators. Rather than get into a hassle explaining why a low-ranking State Department official was stumbling about the remnants of the most significant foreign bomb attack since the Marine barracks explosion in Lebanon, he showed the agent in charge a different badge, this one identifying him as a member of the National Security Council. Chiun, Remo said, was with him. Helene was with Chiun.
There was surprisingly little said by the special agent within the cordon. He was far too busy directing his team of experts. His only warning was that Remo and his party should not destroy too much evidence in their pointless tour of the scene. A shot at the NSC. The harried agent had then gone back to work.
Remo found Chiun and Helene near the battered wall of the courtyard. The exploded truck was parked just on the other side. What was left of the men in the cab had at last been removed. The back of the truck was nothing more than a bare chassis. All around, the ground was charred black.
Helene was stooped down examining small fragments of debris on the ground. The Master of Sinanju was standing upright. His button nose was angled upward. He appeared to be doing some sort of deepbreathing exercises.
"We're okay with the Feds," Remo announced, coming up to them.
"Good," Helene said distractedly. Chiun ignored Remo altogether. He continued sniffing the air. "What's your name, by the way?" Remo asked Helene.
She seemed peeved by the interruption. "Helene Marie-Simone."
"Do you realize you have three first names?" No reply. Helene had become so engrossed in her meticulous search of the ground she no longer seemed to realize he was even there. Getting down on her hands and knees, she began brushing at the black grit that filled the spaces on the ground between the fallen embassy bricks.