Part 13 (1/2)
”That is an unspeakable evil,” Chiun intoned, nodding to the open door of the hangar. The mustard gas was seeping out in small dribbles, catching pockets of wind before swirling away across the gra.s.sy plains. ”It interferes with breathing.”
”That's putting it mildly, Little Father.”
”My phone!” Helene said suddenly. ”It is inside!”
She made a move back toward the hangar. Remo restrained her. ”Are you insane?” he asked. ”You'll have to wait for the gas to clear.”
”But I must warn France,” she insisted. ”There are many more bombs still unaccounted for.”
”Use the radio on the boat.”
By the look on her face it was obvious that Helene had forgotten about the boat. Wordlessly she spun around and began racing back toward the cliff and its long, zigzagging staircase.
”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 re?ned 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 a.s.sured 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 ?y out of Ireland, let alone a vintage Messerschmitt.”
”Ireland?”
”Northern Ireland, to be speci?c,” 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 ?ew north, then south.”
”A ruse,” Bexton said absently. He had pulled out another paper from the pile. The headline on this one read RAF-?ng 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 ?y.
Chapter 15.
The gas had cleared by the time Helene returned from the boat. Chiun opted to stay out in the ?elds 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 ?oor. 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. ”h.e.l.lo, Smitty?” he said into the phone. ”You've got a situation going on over there.”
”Explain,” Smith said.
Remo told him about the island air?eld 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.