"It is not. Holloway is American. The man is a neo-Nazi who has spoken a few times about a coming Fourth Reich."
"Him and about a billion other fascist wannabes," Remo said bitterly. As he talked, he waved his burned arm before his face. The reddish coloring the mustard gas had given it had faded to a light pink.
"Precisely why we need more information. Remember, Remo, with nothing more concrete to go on, this is all speculation at this time. I will continue to look into Holloway, as well as other potential sources of information."
"Speaking of Source," Remo said, "these guys haven't been much help. They got hold of some of the troops that were captured after yesterday's raid and came up dry."
"Perhaps you could persuade them," Smith suggested.
"No good," Remo said, shaking his head. "Chiun and I worked some of them over. They were just a bunch of stupid Nazi skinheads doing what they were told. No one who survived knows who's behind this. Somebody just aimed them at London and pushed them out of the nest."
"I am still puzzled as to how they were able to penetrate the air defenses around Great Britain," Smith said.
"You didn't hear?" Remo asked, surprised. "They didn't come from outside England. The planes were here the whole time."
"How is that possible?" Smith asked. "You were at the air base on Guernsey."
"I was at an air base on Guernsey. The last attack came from a hidden airfield on a sheep farm in Shropshire. They took off from the middle of merry old England. I guess it never occurred to these royal doofuses to look inside the yard once they built their fence."
"Hmm," Smith said thoughtfully.
"I need something a little more concrete than that to go on, Smitry," Remo countered dryly.
"I am afraid I have nothing to offer at present," Smith admitted.
"Whoever these people are, they're well financed," Remo suggested. "Maybe you can get to them that way."
"How?" Smith asked.
"I don't know," Remo said, exasperated. "You're the one who's supposed to be the brains of this outfit. See if anyone's been out there buying up a lot of antique planes lately. Maybe you can use their creditcard records or something to trace them." Remo snapped his fingers. "Hey, that's not a bad idea."
"Remo, it seems unlikely that a neo-Nazi group that has been careful enough to cover its tracks so effectively would purchase their air force with a credit card."
Remo had been very proud of his sudden burst of inspiration. His shoulders sunk visibly as the truth of Smith's words sunk in.
"I guess you're right," he grumbled. "Nonetheless, there might be other ways to track them using the planes. I have already initiated a computer search to that end. I must inform you, from what I have seen thus far, it is not encouraging." "Nothing has been lately," Remo groused. There was a brief pause over the line, as if Smith found his next words difficult to say.
"How are you feeling, Remo?" he asked.
"Since when are you concerned?" Remo asked.
"I am concerned with everything that might affect the efficiency of the organization."
"You're a real sweetheart, you know that, Smitty? I'm not quitting, if that's what you mean. Not until we get rid of these scumbags, anyway."
Smith seemed bolstered by this news. "I am glad to hear that," he said. "I might not have even sent you over here if you were not despondent at home. At least one small part of these events has been fortuitous."
"Yeah, good fortune smiles on us all," Remo said lightly. "And don't talk to me about being despondent. You're the one who should be getting counseling. What was that Rambo act you pulled yesterday afternoon?"
"Er, yes," Smith said uncomfortably. "There were no police present when the troops attacked. I merely saw an opening to assist. It was the proper thing to do, given the circumstances."
"Bullshit," Remo said. "I saw the look on your face. You were reliving your glory days. Smith versus the Axis powers. You could have gotten yourself killed."
Smith refused to be drawn in.
"I will be leaving England within the hour. I will try to find some information for you to go on before that, but it seems unlikely that any will be forthcoming. I suggest you stay close to Source headquarters. They will be the first to learn if there are any new attacks against England."
"I like to act," Remo muttered. "Not react."
"That is all we can do until we locate the shadow organization behind all this. By the way, is the French agent nearby?"
"Helene?" Remo asked. "She's upstairs. Why?"
"I will call you on her phone if I learn anything. If you need to make contact, you may page me." That said, Smith hung up the phone. It was always the same way with the CURE director. The simple courtesy of a goodbye was a waste of valuable time. Remo dropped the old phone in its cradle. Leaving the dusty apothecary shop behind him, he trudged up the stairs to Source headquarters.
REMO FOUND Helene Marie-Simone seated at a desk, talking in angry French into her cellular phone.
The Master of Sinanju stood near her. The old Korean had changed into a pale blue kimono. He was staring out one of the large tinted-glass windows that looked out over Trafalgar Square.
All of the fires had been extinguished. The crashed airplanes had been hauled away. Small remnants of shattered planes, piles of brick and gaping craters signaled some of the worst physical damage.
The bodies of those who perished in the attack were gone from the square. A total of 687 had died. The streets of London were empty. Martial law had been declared, and an eerie stillness had settled over all the British Isles.
The main office of Source looked like the sterile city room of a midsize newspaper. Neat desks were lined up in two rows. Except for the one Helene occupied, the desks were empty.
Sir Guy Philliston had left the building a few minutes before on an important mission. Source HQ was completely out of tea. He had vowed to remedy the problem or die in the attempt. Remo was hoping for the latter.
For now Remo sidled up to the Master of Sinanju. "Anything new?" he asked, nodding to Helene. Chiun shook his head.
"In the time you have been gone, she has placed seven telephone calls. Four were to her government, and three were of a disgusting personal nature."
"And?" Remo asked leadingly.
"And the French appetite for perversion and licentiousness is bottomless."
"And their beaches are topless," Remo said dismissively. "What about the calls to DGSE?"
"They know nothing," Chiun declared.
Remo exhaled loudly. "Great."
"Except..." Chiun began.
"Yeah?" Remo said, brightening.
"One of their politicians vanished during the night. Doubtless the victim of his own libido. Or of the lack of an alarm clock. The French do not know which."
"Oh," Remo said dejectedly.
"And," Chiun began again, raising an instructive finger.
"Yes?" Remo asked skeptically.
Chiun lowered his hand. "Nothing. That was all." He went back to staring out the window, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his thin lips.
Helene shouted a string of rapid-fire French before hanging up the phone. She growled in exasperation. When she glanced up, she saw Remo looking at her. "That man is-how do you say?-impossible."
"I've got a boss like that, too," Remo commiserated.
"What?" she snapped impatiently. She shook her head in sudden understanding. "No, that was not my boss. It was my lover. He is upset that I am not home."
Remo tried to be understanding. "Yeah, this job has rotten hours. Have you two lived together long?"
"What are you talking about?" Helene asked. "He lives with his wife. And what do you know of this job? Or have you abandoned posing as a State Department official?"
Remo decided that being understanding was for nitwits.
"I keep forgetting to ask you," he said, "where did you run off to when the fighting broke out yesterday?"