"Just speed it up," the old man growled. Spinning on his heel, he headed back to the small hangar at the end of the runway.
Still smiling, Paul climbed into his airplane. Clamping the dome-an added feature-down over his ruddy head, he began the start-up procedure. The other dozen planes arranged in a patient line on the tarmac nearby took this as a cue.
Thirteen plane engines coughed and smoked to life.
THEY HAD TAKEN a plane from Paris to Manche province. From there, a DGSE boat took them the thirty-five miles from Carteret to the cluster of England's Channel Islands.
They had already passed the small island of Sark. It seemed like little more than a speck as they raced by. Alderney was farther to the north, and the principal island of Jersey was to the south.
On the deck Remo watched, motionless, as the island of Guernsey rose up out of the sea before them. Chiun stood beside him. The rocking of the large boat on the choppy waves had no effect on the Master of Sinanju. The wizened Asian appeared to be more firmly rooted in place than the rocky island they approached.
The two men had been silent a long time. Salty water broke across the prow of the boat and sprayed their stern faces. At long last Remo spoke.
"That phone call she got said that London had been attacked," he said. "You think Smith is okay?"
"I do not have a psychic connection to Emperor Smith," Chiun replied simply.
Remo glanced over his shoulder. Helene was on the bridge of the large boat. She wasn't paying them any heed.
Remo pitched his voice low.
"You recognize the guy on the phone?" Remo asked.
"I did," the Master of Sinanju replied.
"I'm surprised Source doesn't handle this themselves," Remo mused. "After all, these islands are British property."
"He was likely too involved with selecting the proper wardrobe to wear as his nation's capital burned," Chiun suggested.
"Good point. My luck, he pulled through and Smith got creamed."
"Smith is fine," Chiun insisted.
"How do you know?"
"Because that is my luck," the old man said. He aimed a finger to the sea. "Behold! Our destination draws near."
Guernsey had grown even larger.
The shore seemed totally inhospitable. It was comprised largely of sharp igneous rock, heaped and angled to form a natural barrier against intruders. Remo wondered why the original settlers hadn't just turned around and gone back to wherever they came from.
Instead of heading north to St. Peter Port-the island's chief town-the French boat headed south. Waves crashed over the bow as they cut in as close to the shore as the hidden underwater rocks would allow.
Helene joined them on the rolling deck.
"That end looks more hospitable," Remo said, pointing to the northern side of the island.
"I have been in contact with my government. They have used satellite information to confirm that the illegal shipments were sent to the south."
"So you're admitting the stuff was stolen now?" Remo asked slyly.
"Not at all. Something was sent here from France during the night. I am merely here to find out what that something was."
"You've got the patter down," Remo said, impressed. "I'll give you that. You know, you remind me of another French agent I met a few years back. Remember Dominique Parillaud, Little Father?"
"Do not remind me of that dark time," Chiun sniffed.
They had met the French spy, whose code name was Arlequin, during an assignment that had taken them to the amusement park known as Euro Beasley. A weapon that used color to trigger heightened emotional reactions in its victims had caused both Masters of Sinanju to act in a less than heroic fashion. Neither man had been proud of his behavior during that crisis.
At the mention of the French spy's name, Helene's back stiffened.
"Looks like she knows her, huh, Chiun?"
"Knowing the proclivities of the French, it is no doubt in the biblical sense," the Master of Sinanju replied tightly.
"I do not know the person of whom you speak," Helene insisted.
"That's a load of crap," Remo said. "I'm a student of body language. And you just screamed volumes."
Helene bristled. "I am sure I do not know her," she said haughtily.
"She got drummed out of the spy biz after she failed to swipe the hypercolor laser, didn't she? Probably stuck doing full body-cavity searches at de Gaulle airport."
"And reveling in every depraved minute," Chiun chimed in.
"Poor Arlequin's persona non grata at DGSE HQ, isn't she?" Remo said sympathetically. "Better not screw up, Helene. She could be holding a seat for you."
"This is impossible!" the French agent announced, throwing her hands in the air. She marched a few yards away from the two men, dropping her hands on the slick boat railing. She kept her back to them.
"That was strangely unfulfilling," Remo said once Helene was out of earshot. In spite of the busy work at the American embassy and this unexpected side trip, he still found himself thinking about his earlier conversation with Smith. He and Chiun would track down a few stolen bombs and the world would continue to slide apace into the Abyss.
"You are still brooding," the Master of Sinanju said, nodding sagely.
Remo's mouth pulled into a tight smile. "I've managed to put on a happy face."
Chiun's own countenance was impassive. "Lamentably it appears to be the same as the ugly mask you always wear. The next time you change faces, you might try one with eyes of the proper shape. And the color is all wrong."
Remo sighed. "It was just a figure of speech," he grunted, dropping his knuckles to the railing.
"I would also trim the nose back by at least a foot." Chiun smirked.
THE SOUTH END of Guernsey rose three hundred feet to a rocky plateau. The small boat brought them into a harbor carved at the base of the foreboding wall of rock. A zigzagging staircase had been chiseled into the wall's craggy black face.
They found a dock that extended from a seawall of toppled stones. The boat moved in beside it, rocked all the while on the crashing waves. As soon as they were close enough, deckhands leaped out and began securing the boat to the dock.
The ship's pilot had barely cut the engines when Remo became aware of a collection of noises over the bluffs high above. There were thirteen distinct whines. Small engines.
He glanced at the Master of Sinanju. Chiun had heard the noise, as well.
The Master of Sinanju hopped from the deck of the rocking ship and onto the old wooden dock. He was running the instant his sandaled feet touched the pocked surface.
Remo jumped down after him.
"What is it?" Helene shouted from the deck.
"Planes!" Remo yelled back. "And by the sounds of it, they're ready for takeoff!"
PAUL NIEMLUR GAVE the young skinhead on the tarmac the thumbs-up sign. The youth pulled the canvas cord, wrenching free the oily wood chocks wedged beneath the wheels of the Gotha.
He ran over to the nearest Messerschmitt to repeat the procedure. Another skinhead was helping him, and between the two of them they quickly cleared the blocks away.
Paul began taxiing to the windswept runway.
The money that Nils Schatz had been skimming from IV accounts over the past several months had paid to construct this small runway on the site of a former Guernsey tomato farm.
It was somehow fitting that the attack against England should originate from here. After all, German forces had occupied the small island during World War II.
The runway was wide enough to accommodate two planes taking off at a time. The nearest Messerschmitt pulled in beside Niemlur. A second pair drew in behind.
Paul was certain to go slowly. The wind was heavy today. Ordinarily he wouldn't have risked taking off in gusts as strong as this. But this was different. The wind could go to blazes. After all, this was the dawn of the new reich. Anyway, once he was in the air it wouldn't be a problem.