Electronic mail inside France's premier spy organization was flying fast and furious. No one seemed to know precisely what was going on, but one thing was certain. The army was not conducting a door-todoor search for mustard-gas victims.
The explosions at the depots were not large enough, the resulting devastation not great enough, to account for all of the stored ordnance. According to reports, there were tire tracks leading away from every site.
All indications pointed to the fact that a massive amount of unstable surplus World War II explosives had been stolen. By whom and for what end had yet to be determined.
Smith was reading the most recent memos, dated 3:02 p.m. Paris time, when his computer beeped impatiently. His system had found something that warranted the CURE director's attention.
Smith quickly exited the DGSE network and returned to his own system. He found a fresh news report waiting for him.
The first stories were coming in of the bombing at the American Embassy in Paris. Smith read them with growing concern. Some members of the press were already connecting the Paris bombing with the explosions far north of the city.
When he had finished reading the news reports, Smith sat back in his creaking leather chair, considering. Through the one-way window behind him, Long Island Sound lapped lazily at the shore below Folcroft's rear lawn.
His plane took off from JFK International Airport at five that evening. It was a direct transatlantic flight to London's Heathrow Airport. His wife's itinerary wouldn't bring them to France for another two days.
If the situation there-whatever it might becould be cleared up before then, there wasn't much of a chance he and Remo would run into one another.
It would also give Remo something to keep his mind off quitting the organization.
The decision was made.
Chair creaking as he leaned forward, Smith reached for the phone.
Chapter 7
Helene Marie-Simone watched as the medical examiners pried the charred bodies from within the twisted remnants of the truck's cab. They cracked like crusted bread sticks.
There was practically nothing left. Black-smeared bones clutched a melted, U-shaped object that had once been a steering wheel. From the waist up, most of the soft tissue of the bodies had been burned completely away. Below, the skin had been turned to something resembling black leather. Clothing had been burned to ash.
Any attempt by the forensic scientists to do dental identification would be fruitless. If the doctors were able to find a single tooth, they would be lucky. The explosion had hit the men from behind. Their heads had been blown from here to Belgium.
"The lorry was rented from a place in Lille," a nearby police inspector informed Helene.
"Witnesses?" she asked sharply.
"Non, " the inspector replied. "It was not a first-rate establishment. The transaction was completed over the phone. Local police have informed us that the owner was involved marginally in drug trafficking. An envelope stuffed fat with franc notes, and he would not ask a question."
Her face was stern as she eyed her subordinate. "Bring him here," she ordered.
In the blown-out shell of the truck a brittle femur snapped. Helene winced angrily.
"Are you trying to destroy evidence?" she demanded.
The MEs looked apologetic. With greater care they resumed their work.
"The rental agent is already on his way," the inspector cut in. He looked back to his notes. "That is all we have so far." He stood, pen poised over paper, awaiting Helene's next orders.
Helene didn't offer any. She looked back toward the building behind her, biting her cheek thoughtfully.
She was the kind of woman who inspired resentment among professional men. Beautiful, arrogant. Helene knew that she was both of these things and cared not that she was either.
Her long, thin brown hair was a perfect frame for her pale, classically chiseled features. The designer clothing she wore clung to her every curve in the exact way it was supposed to but never seemed to do on ordinary women. She had been approached more than once by talent agents from the modeling business. Helene had laughed them all away. With her sharp mind and fierce patriotism, she preferred her job as a spy for the French government. Except on days like today.
The American Embassy lay in ruins. The entire front had been blown apart, exposing the interior to the street. The partially furnished rooms reminded Helene of a dollhouse she had had as a child.
Most of the outer portions of the floors in the multistoried building had collapsed after the blast, filling the courtyard with debris. Men in windbreakers were sifting carefully through the wreckage. Not one of them was French, Helene noted with agitation.
The Americans had flown in special investigative units that morning. Simultaneously an official offer had come from Washington to assist the French with their investigation of the bombing.
Of course, the French government had flatly refused the American offer. France was perfectly capable of handling the situation and had said so quite firmly. Stung, the Americans had left the local constabulary to clean up the aftermath in the street.
The French officials had begun to do just that. But when they expressed a desire to investigate the wreckage within the embassy courtyard, they were politely yet firmly rebuffed. The Americans had returned the rudeness of the French government in kind.
There was nothing that they could do about the embassy. Since it was officially United States soil, the government of France couldn't go in unless asked. The shortsightedness of Helene's superiors had effectively locked her out of a potentially vital aspect of this investigation.
Helene, an agent for France's DGSE, had been waiting impatiently on the street corner for the past three hours while the American men in their windbreaker jackets sifted through the charred ruins in the small embassy courtyard.
"If there is nothing else..." the inspector said leadingly.
Helene had been lost in thought.
She turned back to the man, perturbed.
"No," she sighed. "Nothing for now. Unfortunately." She indicated the blackened remains of the truck. "Go and tell those fools to be more careful with the bodies. There is little enough to work with as it is. They do not need to smash the skeletons any further."
Dutifully the inspector went off to comply with her orders.
As the man began arguing with the medical examiners, Helene stepped closer to the demolished embassy wall.
Chunks of brick lay strewed about the sidewalk and street. She picked her cautious way over these to the edge of where the embassy yard began. Yellow tape brought from America roped off the area. It fluttered and snapped in the stiff breeze.
Hopefully the Americans would soon come to their senses and allow her inside. This inactivity was killing her.
She was peering in around a broken yet still upright section of wall when with her peripheral vision she caught sight of a pair of men stepping toward her across the rock- and metal-strewn street. They were nearly upon her when she turned.
"You may not go in there," Helene insisted, her tone official.
"By the looks of it, most of in there is out here," said one of the men. He was looking at the rubble on the sidewalk.
"Oh. You are American," Helene said with some distaste.
"As American as apple pie and Chevrolet," said Remo Williams proudly.
"l, on the other hand, demand an apology for your coarse greeting," said Chiun, Reigning Master of Sinanju.
The old Korean stood at Remo's elbow, longnailed hands drumming impatiently atop the flapping sleeves of his fire-engine red brocade silk kimono.
He was five feet tall if he was an inch and had never seen the far side of one hundred pounds. Twin tufts of gossamer sprouted from a spot above each shell-like ear. The tan, taut flesh of his aged skull was otherwise bare. A wisp of beard adorned his wrinkled chin. Two young-appearing hazel orbs peered with bland malevolence from amid the knots of crumpled vellum that surrounded the old Asian'
s almond-shaped eyes.
Together the two men were an odd sight indeed. Helene was certain that these two were not associates of the Americans in windbreakers.
"I'd do it if I were you," Remo suggested knowingly to Helene.
"What?" Helene asked. She was genuinely confused.
"Apologize. It'll make things easier for all of us in the long run."
"Apologize?" Helene said. Her superior demeanor reasserted itself. "For what am I to apologize?"
"For a slur most base," Chiun sniffed.
"I said nothing to you," Helene insisted. "Much less insult you."
"She doesn't even know what she said, Little Father," Remo said.
"Typical for a Gallic wench. Their mouths are occupied in other depraved ways so much of the time, speech becomes secondary. Words of hate drip like poison from their weary tongues without even their knowledge." A single sharpened talon raised instructively. "Beware the daughters of Gaul, Remo. Their mouths are known for neither thoughtful consideration nor the ability to close when in the company of men, women or beasts of the field."
"I'll make a note of it," Remo said dryly. "Let's go."
Jumping, Helene barred them from entering the courtyard.
"Who are you? How did you get through the police cordon?" she demanded.
"Name's Remo. You just heard that. I'm with the State Department. I was supposed to be assigned here today." He looked at the bombed-out remains of the embassy building. "Guess I should have put in for that Bahamas assignment, huh, Chiun?"
The old man merely harrumphed, stuffing his hands inside the voluminous sleeves of his kimono. He stared at Helene.
"I demand to see some form of identification," Helene said officiously.
Remo shrugged. He pulled his and Chiun's dummy State Department ID from the pocket of his chinos.
Helene peered at the plastic-laminated cards for a full minute. At last she presented them back to Remo.
"These are in order. Though I am surprised that you would have come here today, considering what has happened," she added suspiciously.
"Diplomacy must go on." Remo smiled. He began stepping beneath the yellow tape.
"Wait," Helene said, struck with sudden inspiration.
"What?"
"Perhaps you could get me inside," she suggested, nodding to the embassy courtyard.
"There's really nothing to it," Remo said. "Look." He slipped beneath the tape, dropping it from his hand once he had reached the other side. "See?"
"You do not understand," she persisted. "There was an earlier misunderstanding between our respective teams. Your men have since stubbornly refused us entry."
"Perhaps you accused them of being American," Chiun offered, still on Helene's side of the flimsy barricade.
"They are American," Helene told him.
"Ah, but perhaps they do not like to be reminded of that fact," Chiun said sagely. Bending double, he joined Remo on the other side of the tape. The back of his kimono didn't even brush the tape.
"This is the point where you're supposed to figure out he wants you to say you're sorry for thinking he was American," Remo offered. "It's called the subtle approach."
Helene's eyes finally showed dawning understanding. She glanced at Chiun.
"I apologize," the French agent said. "Most sincerely. You are quite obviously not American." Her eyes narrowed, as if she were seeing the Master of Sinanju for the first time. "In fact, I would venture to guess that you are Korean, if I may be so bold."
Chiun's lined face brightened. "A woman of obvious good judgment," he said. "If somewhat delayed."
Helene knew at once that she had struck gold. She forged ahead.
"Forgive me, but sometimes my eyes are not so good," she lied. She nodded to Remo. "I saw this one and assumed you were both American. I see now that I was obviously in error."
Chiun studied her for a moment. "There is nothing wrong with your eyes," he concluded. Reaching out with a single curved fingernail-sharp as a titanium razor-he sliced through the yellow tape. The ends fluttered gently to the ground. "However, there is nothing a Frenchman does better than grovel." He indicated that Helene could join them within the courtyard.
Quickly she stepped over the split sections of tape. "The FBI isn't going to like this," Remo warned.
"You will talk to them," Chiun sniffed indifferently. "After all, they are Americans and are therefore better dealt with by their own kind."
Chiun and Helene stepped in through the wreckage, leaving a grumbling Remo to deal with the officials from Washington.
REMO DID TALK to the investigators. Rather than get into a hassle explaining why a low-ranking State Department official was stumbling about the remnants of the most significant foreign bomb attack since the Marine barracks explosion in Lebanon, he showed the agent in charge a different badge, this one identifying him as a member of the National Security Council. Chiun, Remo said, was with him. Helene was with Chiun.
There was surprisingly little said by the special agent within the cordon. He was far too busy directing his team of experts. His only warning was that Remo and his party should not destroy too much evidence in their pointless tour of the scene. A shot at the NSC. The harried agent had then gone back to work.
Remo found Chiun and Helene near the battered wall of the courtyard. The exploded truck was parked just on the other side. What was left of the men in the cab had at last been removed. The back of the truck was nothing more than a bare chassis. All around, the ground was charred black.
Helene was stooped down examining small fragments of debris on the ground. The Master of Sinanju was standing upright. His button nose was angled upward. He appeared to be doing some sort of deepbreathing exercises.
"We're okay with the Feds," Remo announced, coming up to them.
"Good," Helene said distractedly. Chiun ignored Remo altogether. He continued sniffing the air. "What's your name, by the way?" Remo asked Helene.
She seemed peeved by the interruption. "Helene Marie-Simone."
"Do you realize you have three first names?" No reply. Helene had become so engrossed in her meticulous search of the ground she no longer seemed to realize he was even there. Getting down on her hands and knees, she began brushing at the black grit that filled the spaces on the ground between the fallen embassy bricks.
Remo turned his attention back to Chiun.
The Master of Sinanju was still sniffing carefully at the air, drawing in delicate puffs of some distant scent.
"Okay, what is it?" Remo asked.
"I am not yet certain," Chiun responded. "But there is something here. Very faint. The boom devices have managed nearly to erase it." He turned ever so slowly in the direction of the battered truck, as if trying to sneak up on something long lost.
While they spoke, Remo caught Helene looking at them from the corner of her eye. When she thought that they were paying no attention to her, she pulled a small plastic bag from the pocket of her short leather jacket. Shielding her body from them, she quickly stuck something she had found from the ground in the bag and then hurriedly stuffed the whole bundle back into her pocket. Face flushed, she resumed her search.
"Back in a sec," Remo told Chiun. He wandered over to Helene. "What was that?" he asked, stopping above the kneeling agent.
She looked up at him, blandly innocent. "What was what?" she asked dully.
"Can the innocent act, Madam Clouseau," Remo droned, reaching down into her pocket and plucking out the small bag.
Helene jumped to her feet, eyes charged with horrified fury.
"That is evidence taken from the crime scene beyond the wall! It was collected on French soil!" She made a grab for the bag. Remo held it away from her grasping hands.
"I saw you pick it up from in here," he said. He held the bag up a few inches from his eyes.
Inside was a piece of jagged metal. It was a small fragment, no larger than a fingernail. It had survived the blast in surprisingly good condition, considering that c
orrosion had taken hold of it long before the explosives it had contained were detonated.
"Give me that this instant," Helene hissed. She snatched once more, missing again.
"Which world war is this from, do you think?" he asked aloud. He glanced over at her.
Helene's eyes immediately glazed over. It was a very deliberate affectation. She stopped jumping. "What do you mean?" she asked blandly.
"It's obviously part of the munitions that were stolen from your depots last night. I'd say it was World War I. That metal has seen at least seventy years' worth of air and water eating away at it."
Helene's stomach knotted. The thefts were not yet public knowledge. As far as everyone was concerned, the bombing at the embassy was separate from the explosions that were still designated as accidents at the deminage depots.
Helene scrutinized Remo carefully, as if seeing him for the first time.
"You are with your State Department?" she asked finally.
Remo smiled. "I guess I'm really a Jacques of all trades."
"That may be, but here you are mistaken," she said flatly. "First there was no theft at our storage facilities. Second there is no evidence to connect the two events. My government has no intention of linking those accidents with this act of terrorism."
"Tell that to the DGSE," Remo said. "They seem pretty certain there's a connection. And they're also sure that a huge amount of stuff was stolen off the bases. Those explosions weren't accidents, but I'm willing to bet that this one was."
Helene refused to give in to incredulity. She forced calm into her voice. "Who are you?" she asked.
Remo brushed off the question as irrelevant. "See where the truck is?" Remo instructed, waving the bag with the bomb fragment toward the street. "Stopped in traffic. It wasn't in a spot where it could have inflicted maximum damage. Look at the wrecked part of the embassy. Superficial on this side. They could have taken out a lot more of the place if they parked around the east wall. And here's the biggest proof. No one's taken credit for the explosion yet. Everyone knows the types of people who do this stuff on purpose love to see their names on page one. "Nope, I'm willing to bet that one of the trucks with the stolen bombs just happened to be waiting here when one of the things went off by mistake." Remo waved the bag in her face. "One of these things," he mocked.
The Empire Dreams td-113 Page 5