He would resume work after lunch.
Leaving his work behind him, Smith left the hotel in order to meet his wife in Trafalgar Square.
HELENE MARIE-SIMONE continued to give Sir Guy Philliston the precise sort of look Sir Guy was giving to Remo.
"Have you any leads on who might be behind this?" she asked, sighing heavily.
"Not a bally one, I'm afraid," Guy replied, ignoring the lust in her eyes. "Every last man jack of the blighters was killed in the new Battle of Britain. Shame, really. No idea who could have sent these Boche monkeys to the shores of old Albion."
Remo raised a hand. "Excuse me, but could you please speak English?" he asked.
"Hear! Hear!" Chiun cheered. He was still watching the tail of the crashed plane.
"These were obviously German made," Guy said, indicating the plane. "But a lot of them are now in the hands of museums, private collectors. That sort of thing. We're looking into that angle."
"I saw where one of your papers this morning said they were dropped off by Martians from a UFO and are still fighting the war," Remo said flatly. "Maybe you should look into that."
"There isn't any need to bring the popular press into this," Philliston said to Remo, as if mentioning the British tabloids were the height of rudeness. Helene sneered condescendingly at Remo. "He is like that," she confided in Sir Guy. "I have found him to be very American."
"Yes, very American," Philliston agreed. He licked his lips lightly as he eyed Remo's lean frame.
"Very, very American," Chiun piped in.
"Don't you start," Remo warned.
Sir Guy Philliston changed the direction of the conversation. "Has your government any idea where the balance of explosives has gone off to?" he asked Helene.
"They are investigating a minor explosion in a Paris Metro station," Helene replied. "My government believes the incident to be related to the thefts."
"Wait a damned minute," Remo interjected. "When did you get this piece of news?"
"Last night."
"And you didn't tell me?"
"Obviously not," she said in a superior tone. She turned and smiled warmly at Sir Guy Philliston, happy to be sharing this information with him first. He had to tear his gaze away from Remo when he realized she was talking to him.
Remo rolled his eyes. "He's gay as a parade, Helene," he sighed.
Helene became indignant. "You say that because you find your masculinity threatened in the presence of a true man." Her words were flung out as a challenge.
"Whatever," Remo replied indifferently. His tone made her even angrier.
"Well," Philliston said, clapping his hands together earnestly, "here we are. World War II renewed. The British and French along with their American cousins fighting the bally Jerry hordes."
"Yes, except if this was really a replay, you'd be begging for our help and she'd be surrendering to anything with a spike on its helmet."
As he spoke, Remo stared up at the pale blue London sky. Something wasn't right.
"I cannot imagine what it must be like to be American," Helene spit disdainfully.
"It's having drugstores with more than a hundred different kinds of deodorants," Remo said absently. "Do you hear that, Little Father?" he asked Chiun.
The Master of Sinanju had stopped watching the picture-taking crowds around the downed plane. He was staring up into the sky in the same direction as Remo.
"They are close," he said, nodding gravely. "This crowd should be dispersed at once."
Remo spun on Philliston. "You've got to clear this street," he said, voice suddenly taut with urgency.
"Clear it?" Sir Guy laughed. "Why, in heaven's name?"
"There's another German squadron heading this way. At least thirty planes."
"Thirty?" Philliston scoffed, stepping forward.
"Thirty-seven," the Master of Sinanju announced.
"I am sorry, my good boy, but nothing can get through the net we have established. The RAF has the shores of Old Blighty locked down tighter than the Queen Mum's bum."
"In that case I'd say it's about time to check the royal knickers," Remo suggested.
The first of the planes came into view, a mere speck against the distant clouds.
Helene stepped forward, mouth open in shock. The head of Source moved in beside her, eyes trained on the sky.
"Impossible," Philliston said, eyes wide.
"Get them out of here!" Remo snapped.
The tone jarred Philliston from his initial shock. He obediently charged over to a uniformed bobby who was posing for photographs beside the crippled plane.
"Have they gotten the phones working yet?" Remo asked, spinning to Helene. He was hoping that Smith might have some rapid way of contacting the RAF.
She fiddled with her cellular phone, stabbing out the number for London information. The line was dead.
"Not yet," she said, shaking her head.
By this time the planes were large enough to be seen for what they were. Some in the crowd began screaming and running for the Underground. Many more simply stood their ground, snapping endless pictures, as if they were participating in some sort of overblown amusement-park ride.
The air-raid sirens around London began sounding their relentless blare. The first dull thuds of distant impacting bombs reverberated through the pavement beneath their feet.
Sir Guy Philliston had convinced the bobbies that they should begin herding people to the Underground entrances. Those with cameras moved reluctantly.
"I vote we join them until this thing blows over, Little Father," Remo suggested.
"Agreed," said Chiun.
They had gone no more than a few paces toward the nearest Underground station when a familiar sound began emanating upward from the stairway. It was the pop-pop-pop of automatic-weapons fire.
There was a collective scream of panic from the mob. People began rolling back out of the staircase, stampeding directly toward Remo, Chiun and Helene.
Remo and Chiun easily avoided the crush of people. Helene wasn't so lucky. Though she tried to resist, she found herself helplessly swept along with the crowd as it surged back out into the blinding sunlight of Trafalgar Square.
By now the German warplanes were high above the square. They began dropping whistling bombs on the teeming throng in the square far below. Sections of pavement exploded upward, mixed with limp, bloodied bodies. A hail of shattered stones pebbled the ground for half a mile around.
At the Underground port, the sound of machinegun fire had grown louder.
On the sidewalk Remo glanced from the black rectangular opening of the Underground to the carnage in the square.
"I'll take the square," he announced grimly.
The Master of Sinanju nodded his agreement. "Have a care, my son."
As Remo ran into the thick of the bombing run, Chiun flew to the mouth of the subway station from which the gunfire had come.
FIVE MINUTES EARLIER Harold W. Smith was meeting his wife at a bus stop a few doors down from a small restaurant on Bond Street around the corner from Trafalgar Square.
"Oh, Harold," Maude Smith called. She smiled as he walked up the busy sidewalk toward her. Mrs. Smith actually seemed surprised to see her husband. "I wasn't sure you'd make it."
"Did we not agree we would meet at twelve?" Smith asked. He took the heavy paper bundles she held in her hands.
"Yes, but with your work and all..." She shrugged her round shoulders. It wasn't an admonishment. Maude Smith would never complain that his work kept him away from her. She was merely stating an obvious truth about their life together. Nonetheless, Smith felt a twinge of too familiar guilt.
"Shall we have some lunch?" he said quickly, indicating the restaurant door with a bony elbow. The straps of the bags weighed heavily against his hands.