Helene waved to the statue of Nelson beyond the window. It was pitted with bullet holes.
"While you were scurrying up that statue like a monkey, I was on the phone."
Behind Remo, Chiun chortled loudly. "Like a monkey. Heh-heh-heh."
"Oh?" Remo asked, annoyed with both Helene and Chiun. "Make a date with an English soccer team? Better make sure they're all married first."
"There was another explosion in a Metro station in Paris yesterday afternoon," she snapped. "Since you listen in on all of my phone conversations, I am surprised you didn't hear that one."
"I was too busy not hiding," Remo said. "Hey, want to see the French army on maneuvers?" He threw both hands high into the air in the classic gesture of surrender.
"Arrgghh!" Helene snarled, pushing away from the desk in helpless exasperation. "I cannot take this!"
She stormed from the office.
"That went well." Remo smiled at Chiun. He felt cheerier than he had in several days.
"Like a monkey," Chiun said. "Heh-heh."
Remo felt his good mood fade as quickly as it had come.
"You're a real comfort, you know that, Chiun?"
"Ooo-ooo-ooo," said the Master of Sinanju with a distinctly simian sound.
HELENE BUMPED into Guy Philliston in the apothecary shop downstairs. He was hustling through the soot-smudged front door with a tin of East Indian tea he had liberated from the window display of a closed shop down the road.
"Ah," Philliston said, "leaving, are we?"
"I am going for a walk."
"Wouldn't go if I were you," Sir Guy warned. "Military rule and all that. They're supposed to shoot anyone on sight caught in the street. Questions later. Bad show all around."
"You seem fine."
Philliston straightened his spine proudly. "Yes, but I am British." This said, Sir Guy went into the back of the store, where the secret Source staircase was hidden.
Helene walked out into the empty square.
She hadn't gone more than a few yards before her cellular phone rang.
"Oui," Helene said, answering the powerful small phone.
Her face grew more and more shocked as the frantic voice on the other end of the line spit out a string of rapid-fire French.
"I will return immediately," she promised after the caller was finished. She pressed the button that disconnected the line and returned the device to the pocket of her leather jacket.
She glanced up once at the tinted Source windows two stories above. This was one phone call that the American agents didn't overhear.
Briefly Helene entertained the notion of going up and requesting Remo's help. After all, she had seen him do same amazing things over the past few days.
No, she finally decided. This was a French problem. It was best handled by Frenchmen.
She would deal with it herself.
A determined expression on her chiseled face, Helene hurried down the bombed-out street.
Chapter 22
The president of France arrived at the Palais de l'Elysee by limousine in the wee hours of the morning.
It was the day after the third aerial attack against London, and the president had political concerns that extended beyond the shores of his native land. France's neighbor across La Manche-the body of water the rest of the world stubbornly insisted on calling the English Channel-had been receiving a beating in her most famous city. Ordinarily this would have been a matter of indifference to France. Not this time.
There had been much bad blood between the two countries for many years. The president was acutely aware of the running feud between France and Great Britain, and he didn't wish to stir the embers by sleeping late after the worst of the three attacks against London. For this reason he came to the palace from the apartment of his mistress at a little after 6:30 a.m.
The limousine brought him through the high gates and around to his personal entrance. It stopped in the great shadow cast by the historic old building.
He was a man who liked to project a public image of independence. This streak of stubbornness was regularly demonstrated by his insistence that he open his own car door himself.
This morning, like every other morning since assuming office, his driver jumped out of the front seat and raced around the rear of the car to open the door. It was a daily race that the president invariably won. The president pulled at the door handle.
Odd...
In his eagerness to serve, after popping like a cork from the front seat, his driver generally pulled the door away from the president from the outside. Today there was no such pressure from the other side of the door. In fact, when the president looked more closely, he noticed through the window that there was no sign of his driver at all.
Not only that, when he tried to push the door open, he felt an opposite pressure. As if something was holding the door closed.
He pushed harder.
The obstruction moved. As it did so, an arm flopped into view beneath the half-open car door. The hand was covered in a sheen of bright red. Blood.
The president immediately yanked the door back. This was a security limousine. He would be safe inside.
The door was just inches from being shut when a black boot jammed into the opening between the door and the frame.
The president pulled harder, now with both hands. His knuckles grew white from the force he exerted. Shouts came from outside. He recognized the language immediately. German.
Scuffling. He could see them now. Their angry faces outside the window. He pulled more furiously. Hands curled in around the door frame, prying the door open. Though he struggled hard, there were too many of them. The president felt the handle being tugged away from him with a sudden wrench. The door sprang open wide.
His chauffeur was sprawled, dead, on the ground beside the car, still bleeding from the chest. His eyes were open wide, his face a macabre mask of shock.
The men outside the car reached in and grabbed the president of France roughly by the arms. They dragged him out into the cool morning air.
There were dozens of them. They wore the drab green German army uniforms of World War II. Each of them had a familiar old-fashioned curving helmet atop his bald head. Leather straps held the helmets in place.
On their arms were the chillingly familiar bands of Nazi soldiers. The black swastika--circled in white-on a red background.
There was no sign of the French troop on guard detail within the protected walls of the palace. These silent soldiers apparently had free rein.
The president was held fast beside his limousine. "I demand to know the meaning of this!" he sputtered indignantly.
The uniformed soldiers didn't react to his shouted words. They seemed unconcerned that his voice might bring assistance.
But his shout did have a reaction.
A lone man stepped from the doors that led into the interior of the palace-into the very heart of the French elected government.
Older than the rest, he wore a uniform slightly different than the others. He had the high-peaked cloth cap of a Nazi officer. A silver eagle perched atop the front of the mint-condition antique headgear. He came down the ornate outdoor staircase to the president's car.
"I apologize that we must meet under these conditions, Mr. President. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Field Marshal Fritz Dunlitz." He clicked his boots together in a gesture that rattled the black iron cross at his tightly buttoned uniform collar. "Please accompany me inside." He spread his hand toward the door to the palace.
"Unhand me!" the president insisted, twisting wildly.
Fritz nodded to the men. Obediently the soldiers released him.
"I demand that you-"
Fritz raised a black-gloved hand. He did it with such fury that the president halted his protestations. When the leader of France grew silent, a brittle smile broke across the face of the gaunt old German. Again he motioned to the door to the Palais de l'Elysee.