"And maybe you should call England while you're at it!" he shouted after her. To the Master of Sinanju he muttered, "They might want to know they're about to get bombed for tea."
Chapter 14
Colonel E. C. T. Bexton was impressed at the civil tone the gentleman was taking-very proper, very British. Not like that frantic, shrieking scientist-type from Jodrell Bank. Probably a poofter, that one was.
But the colonel couldn't order the deployment of British planes over British soil on the say-so of one lone special agent. No matter how refined that one agent sounded.
"I am terribly sorry," Colonel Bexton drawled, "but the RAF cannot get involved in the matter at this time."
"I understand your situation," the gentleman argued.
"I am sorry, but I don't think you do. Did you see the morning tabs?" Bexton pulled one of London's tabloid newspapers from beneath a stack on his desk. He read the banner headline. "London Blitzed Whilst RAF Sits. We're getting positively murdered in the press."
"Perhaps you'll get a bit more ink on the positive side if you headed this squadron off before they actually reach the city."
"There is no other squadron," Bexton said patiently.
"Ah, there's where you're off, Bexton. I am assured by a very reliable source in the French intelligence community that a small attack force is winging its way Londonward even as we speak."
Bexton wanted to laugh in the man's ear. Somehow he restrained himself.
"There is no way a snail could fly out of Ireland, let alone a vintage Messerschmitt."
"Ireland?"
"Northern Ireland, to be specific," Bexton said smugly. "I gather you intelligence chappies don't know everything."
"You are monitoring Northern Ireland?"
"With everything we've got. The attack came in from over the Irish Sea. Makes sense, with all that's been going on there."
"But surely the planes flew north, then south."
"A ruse," Bexton said absently. He had pulled out another paper from the pile. The headline on this one read RAF-fing Stock! "Shameless. Honestly, these things sound more American every day." At that moment his private line lit up. That would be the wife to see if he was going out to his club later that evening. "Sorry, old man. Got to go. National emergency and all that. Wouldn't fret if I were you. Tah." He hung up on the caller before the polite gentleman had a chance to inform him that snails do not fly.
Chapter 15
The gas had cleared by the time Helene returned from the boat. Chiun opted to stay out in the fields beyond the small airstrip. Remo was inside the hangar.
He had already done a quick search outside of the camera's range before concluding that there was no triggering device connected to the bombs like the one that had been rigged up to the canisters of mustard gas in the floor. He was staring up at the remorseless red eye of the camera when Helene entered the building.
"I cannot get through to my government," Helene announced as she came through the door. "The boat radio is no good for direct communication."
She looked around the hangar for her phone. She found it in Remo's hand. When she tried to retrieve it, he twisted away from her.
"Business," he explained, cupping his reddish, burned hand over the receiver. "Hello, Smitty?" he said into the phone. "You've got a situation going on over there."
"Explain," Smith said.
Remo told him about the island airfield and the eight planes that had escaped.
"You need to let the English know what's coming," Remo said in conclusion.
"They already know," Helene volunteered.
"What?" Remo asked.
"Who was that?" Smith said at the same time. "I don't know, Smitty," Remo muttered into the phone. "Some French spy we picked up. What do you mean they already know?" he asked Helene. "I thought the radio didn't work."
"I said I could not contact France. My source in England was easier to contact from here."
"You can relax on that end," Remo said to Smith. "Source knows what's coming."
"You know of Source?" Helene Marie-Simone asked, surprised.
"Helene, everyone knows about Source. It's England's funniest worst-kept secret next to Prince Philip."
The fact was, Remo had had several brushes with Britain's top spy organization in the past. Each time he found himself less impressed than the last.
"She was talking to Sir Guy Philliston earlier," Remo said to Smith. "He's the one that told her to come here to Guernsey. She also says that a lot more bombs were stolen than what's here. Maybe you ought to get through to DGSE and let them know they've still got a hot potato on their hands."
"He can do that?" Helene asked.
Remo nodded. "I'd keep on his good side. He can really screw with your credit rating."
He heard Smith begin typing on his portable computer. While he waited, Remo glanced around the interior of the hangar.
He was still out of camera range. As it was, he wasn't entirely certain that it was not an automated system. The camera hadn't made a move to pan over to him since he reentered the hanger. If someone was watching, he would take care of them after he was through on the phone.
The skinhead Helene had shot still lay inside the door. If he hadn't died from the gunshot wound, the mustard gas had finished him off. The body had toppled over and was lying in a pool of damp oil.
There was tattooing all around the top of the man's head. Most of the ink marks were small, but two were larger than the rest. One of the large tattoos was a swastika. Remo couldn't help but show a look of disgust when he scanned the symbol. Leaving the twisted symbol of hate, his eyes alighted on the second large image.
Remo tipped his head to read the numbers. "Four," he mused aloud. Something about the number was strangely familiar.
"What?" Smith asked, still typing at his keyboard.
"Oh, nothing, Smitty," Remo replied. "It's just that some of these guys we've come up against have the Roman numeral IV tattooed on their scalps."
"On their scalps?"
"Yeah," Remo said. "They're skinheads or something. Didn't I mention that?"
Smith had stopped typing. "No, you didn't." There was a pregnant pause on the line, broken only when Smith muttered a single word.
"Four," he said, softly. He was deep in thought.
"Is that an unlucky number for you or something?" Remo asked with a puzzled expression.
Smith's voice had grown troubled. "Remo, you no doubt remember the incident this past spring concerning PlattDeutsche America and that company's mind-controlling product, the Dynamic Interface System?"
"Remember it," Remo scoffed. "I'll never forget it. They had Chiun and me wired up like a couple of robots."
"You remember at the time the individuals involved in that scheme referred to something called IV."
"Yeah," Remo said. It was coming back to him. "That old Nazi scientist boxed up duplicates of mine and Chiun's brain patterns and was going to ship them off somewhere. We never found out where."
"Precisely," Smith said. "I assumed when I could not find a reference to a IV group in any of the neoNazi literature that it was a minor splinter group. Perhaps I was in error. It is possible that we are dealing with a much larger organization than I had anticipated."
"You mean there's more of those skunks around?"
"Look at the evidence thus far," Smith said excitedly. "German warplanes armed with stolen German bombs. A new blitz on London. And skinheads sporting a particular and otherwise unexplainable tattoo. I think it is more than possible. I think it is a high probability that IV is an organization of either former Nazis or like-minded individuals."
"The guy that was in charge here looked old enough to be from the World War II generation," Remo offered.
"He most likely was," Smith answered. "I will do further research into IV. With any luck we will be able to work our way down from the top."