"What on earth?" Smith said to himself as he read the state names. At first he thought he was looking at a foreign-language map of America. On closer inspection he realized "Bolton" was the city of Boston. The name was written with the Old English long 's', which resembled an 'f'.
There were other differences. The border with Canada was hundreds of miles lower, cutting deep into Maine and the Great Lakes region. Vermont and New Hampshire were combined under the name New-Hampshire Grants. Massachusetts was bisected vertically. The western half was called Springfield and the eastern portion labeled New Ireland Protectorate. Rhode Island's capital was Providence-Plantations. Further south, there were other changes. Pennsylvania was Cornwallis. Virginia was Victoria. Washington, D.C., had been renamed Wellington. Miami was Kingsport.
"This is insane," Smith muttered, bringing the rest of the map into view again. He put his nose to the screen. Further west, the familiar squarish state lines had been redrawn into arbitrary zones bearing names such as King
John's Land, the Princess Diana Grants, New Wales, and, most bizarrely, the Benedict Arnold Mountains were where the Rocky Mountains should have been. Great Churchill Lake occupied the former site of Great Salt Lake.
California and Washington state did not exist under any name. Instead, British Columbia's southern border had been lowered all the way to Baja California. The entire territory was labeled "Dominion of Canada."
And across the entire length of the map, in Old English lettering, was the legend "UNITED COLONIES (CIRCA 1992)."
In one corner, a tiny notation mocked him: P. M. Looncraft, cart.
"My God!" Smith gasped. "How does that lunatic intend to make this happen?"
Smith abandoned the file and scanned the other file names. He called up the one called "CROWN," intrigued because it was also the password.
Smith got a table of organization for Crown Acquisitions, Limited. P. M. Looncraft was listed as president. There were two other names listed on its board of directors. Douglas Lippincott, whom Smith knew to be Looncrafts business banker, and, astonishingly, DeGoone Slickens.
"They're all in it together," Smith said. Then, in response to his own outburst, he asked the darkness. "But what are they in?"
Smith tried another file, this one called "GUARD."
This time, he got a roster, complete with military rankings, of something called the Cornwallis Guard.
"Cornwallis," Smith muttered. "He was the general who surrendered at Yorktown at the end of the American Revolution. "
Most of the roster names meant nothing to Smith. Except for seven of them. They were the killers from the Nostrum massacre. Smith saw that William Bragg was listed as a colonel.
Frowning, Smith abandoned the file and dug out the printout Remo had given him.
"Loyalists and conscripts," he muttered. He picked up the red telephone.
"What is it, Smith?" the President asked, out of breath. Obviously he had run into the Lincoln Bedroom to answer.
"Mr. President, I have nothing new to report," Smith told him. "But I do have a question."
"Shoot. "
"Are you a client of the investment brokerage of Looncraft, Dymstar d?"
"No. Why?"
"I can't tell you that," Smith said quickly. "Would you know if the Vice-President is one of their clients?"
"No idea. Want me to ask?"
"No," Smith said. "Do not even mention the name to him."
"Can I ask what this is all about?"
"No. "
"Well, is something wrong? You haven't lost the Social Security Trust Fund, have you?"
"No. It remains safe. For now. I must return to my work, Mr. President. I'll update you when I have something solid."
"But, Smith-"
Smith hung up, confident that the President, no matter how agitated, would not call back. He knew the ground rules. CURE was autonomous-a safeguard built in to protect the agency from being abused by a politically ruthless President.
Smith leaned back in his chair. A picture was beginning to form. No wonder Looncraft had acquired Slickens' interest in GLB so readily. They were in cahoots. Infamous business enemies on the surface, they were actually allies. As was Lippincott. Smith shuddered. The Lippincott family went back to the American Revolution, as did Looncraft's family. Slickens was another matter. He was from Texas. He didn't fit the profile.
Smith addressed his computer again. The night was young. He had much to do. But now he had the pieces. It was just a matter of fitting and refitting them until he had a coherent picture.
Chapter 21
"They are a gray people living in a gray land," Chiun was saying. The lights were low in the British Airways cabin. The window shades were lowered against the midAtlantic moonlight. The sound of the 747's engines had settled to a monotonous drone. "Gray and rude." Chiun's voice rose at that last, waking several dozing passengers.
A British Airways hostess came up the isle and bestowed upon Chiun an "I'm-embarrassed-to-bring-this-up, but" smile.
"Excuse me, luv," she said in an undertone, "but would you be a dear and lower your voice? Some of the others are trying to catch a bit of sleep."
"Be gone, daughter of Gaul."
"I'll talk to him," Remo said, smiling back with equal politeness.
"That's a dear. If you'd like more tea, let me know."
After the hostess had left, Chiun complained to Remo.
"Can you imagine the rudeness of that one?" he squeaked. "Interrupting our private conversation."
"You were disturbing the other passengers," Remo whispered back. "And I for one am getting tired of your carping. "
"I do not carp," Chiun said evenly. " I instruct. If we are to root out this foul plot, you must know the kind of people we are dealing with."
"I know what I'm dealing with," Remo said sourly. "I've been to England a couple of times. Without you. And I got along fine."
"How did you survive? The British know nothing of rice. They eat potatoes." Chiun spat the word like an epithet.
" I used to like potatoes when I was a kid," Remo said in a reasonable voice.
"What do children know? The English are the only people who consider the potato a delicacy. That is why their skins are so unhealthy. They eat too many potatoes, which they dig from the dirt."
"I thought it was the cloudy weather that made them pale. "
"A curse from the gods to punish them for excessive potato eating," Chiun sniffed.
Remo rolled his eyes. He noticed an empty seat across the aisle and decided to take it. Left alone, Chiun began to talk in a louder voice.
Remo tried to ignore Chiun's rantings. It was something about the First Great Idiocy of the Barbarians-which Remo knew to be Chiun's code phrase for the First World War-being a squabble between Queen Victoria's grandchildren, who had gotten out of hand and effectively closed down the West as a Sinanju client because all the killing was being done by mere soldiers and farmers, not professionals.
Muttering to himself, Remo returned to his original seat. Chiun resumed speaking in quieter tones so that only Remo had to endure them.
"Name one good thing about the British," Chiun said at one point.
"They drink tea, just like you."
Chiun snorted derisively. "They drink black tea. Not green. Black tea and dirty potatoes."
"I give up."
"Good. "
The 747 landed at Heathrow just as the sun was coming up. Remo had not slept a wink, but because night had lasted only four hours, his brain was tricked into thinking otherwise.
In the busy terminal, Remo exchanged his money for British pounds. He was about to phone Smith, when he heard the name Remo Stallone paged. He realized that was him.
Smith's voice came through the airport courtesy phone.
"Nice timing," Remo told Smith. "We're at Heathrow."
"Obviously," Smith said without sarcasm. "I've confirmed the worst. This entire plot does have British origins. And somehow the Vice-President is
part of it."
"No kidding," Remo said.
"Remo, things are happening here. I'm picking up rumors about the instability of the U. S. treasury-bond market. I know they're false, but these rumors are spreading like wildfire. Once this hits the media, it may start something irreversible."
"Not my problem. What have you got for me and Chiun?"
Smith hesitated. "Nothing but a map of the United States as it will be if the plot succeeds. I pulled it off Looncraft's computer. I'm waiting for morning. Until Looncraft contacts his British superior through his office terminal, I have no way to trace these chess-code messages to their source."
"Source . . ." Remo said thoughtfully.
"Beg pardon?"
"You just gave me a first place to go. The Source. It's that British supersecret counterintelligence agency. I've dealt with them before. Let's see what Chiun and I can shake out of them."
"Do it."
Remo hung up and turned to Chiun.
"Smith says we shake up the place. We'll start with the dippy Source."
"Dippy?" Chiun asked as they entered the underground station.
"They're sort of the British version of CURE. Except everyone knows their address. When I'm in town and I need information, I always go there first. They know everything-except how to keep secrets."
Standing on the platform, oblivious of the occasional arched English eyebrow, Remo and Chiun waited for the next train.
"We're going to Trafalgar Square," he told Chiun. "Any idea if we're on the right line?"
Before Chiun could answer, a man in a bowler and wearing a red carnation in his lapel piped up, "Trafalgar Square, Yank? Be delighted to direct you. You have the right line. Take the Cockfosters train to Piccadilly Circus. It's a short hop, skip, and jump from there."
"Thanks, pal," Remo told him.
"Enjoy your stay, Yank. Cheerio."
A gunmetal train rumbled into the station and they boarded, ducking first to avoid bumping their heads on the low doorframe.
"See?" Remo said. "The British are very friendly."
"Perhaps he was Irish," Chiun snapped, looking around at the passengers' faces. There were as many Indians and blacks as English.
As the train rattled from station to station, Remo remarked, "I'll say one thing. Hearing an authentic English accent is a relief after listening to Looncraft and his pseudoBritish crap. At least these people sound the way they should. "
Checking the car's railway map, he remarked, "We just left Gloucester Road Station. It's only five more stops."
"It is pronounced 'Gloster,' " Chiun sniffed. "They only spell it that ridiculous way to confuse the unwary."
Minutes later they emerged at Piccadilly Circus. It was a busy six-way intersection of stores and restaurants.
"Which way?" Remo wondered.
"You are asking me?" Chiun said, annoyed.
A turbaned East Indian happened to pass by and Remo grabbed him by the sleeve.
"Excuse me, pal, but we're looking for Trafalgar Square."
"Trafalgar, gov?" the man asked in a thick cockney accent. "Hit's just down 'Aymarket. You can't miss hit, eh?"
"Yeah, thanks," Remo said in a vague voice. He saw the street sign that read "HAYMARKET." He figured that was what the man meant. Maybe.
"You were saying?" Chiun asked.
"Nothing," Remo said. "This place takes some getting used to."
As they walked through the bright English morning, a red double decker bus trundled by.
Chiun, looking at a billboard on its side, let out a shriek of disbelief.
"The barbarians!" he cried.
Remo followed his shaking finger. The billboard showed a lady's hand dangling a piece of string over a cup rim. It said: "Do the Jiggle Dip Dunk." Remo couldn't imagine what was being advertised, and said so.
"Tea bags!" Chiun spat. "The British never stooped this low before."
"Tea bags?"
"It is barbarism at its worst."
As they walked along, they passed a McDonald's, a Kentucky Fried Chicken, and a British fast-food establishment called Wimpy.
"This is unbelievable," Chiun said shrilly. "They are sinking into . . . into . . ."
"Americanism," Remo suggested.
"Exactly! Americanism. It is beyond understanding. A century ago the world suffered under what they called Pax Britannica. Now it is Shop American that rules."
"I don't see why you're getting so worked up about a people you don't like in the first place," Remo said reasonably. "Besides, I hear they even have Kentucky Fried Chicken in China now."
"The British used to have standards, miserable as they were," Chiun complained. "But this is a new low even for them. "
Chiun didn't stop complaining until they came to Trafalgar Square and its four proud lions guarding Nelson's Column. Remo looked around for the apothecary shop that occupied the ground floor of Source headquarters.
"There it is," Remo said. He led Chiun to a door that connected to the second floor. The door was locked. Remo popped it with the heel of his hand. They walked through cobwebs and up the steps to the musty second floor. It was unlocked. The suite of offices on the other side was empty.
"I don't get it," Remo said wonderingly.
"What is there to get? They moved."
"Hold on," Remo said, heading back down the stairs.
At the apothecary shop Remo put a question to the chemist.
"I'm looking for Guy Phillistone."
"Would you mean Sir Guy?"
"That's the one. Know where he lives?"
"That I do. He has a flat at Number One Buckingham Place."
"How long ago? He might have fixed it by now."
The chemist looked doubtful. "I was referring to his digs. "
"You mean his apartment."
"I imagine that I do."
"That near Buckingham Palace?" Remo asked.
"Righteo. "
"Much obliged."
Remo joined Chiun outside, where a brief morning sprinkle was just beginning.
"Want to take a bus?" Remo suggested.
"No," Chiun retorted. "When one comes to London, one must expect to get wet."
"Suit yourself."
They strolled under the massive Admiralty Arch and down the tree-lined Mall, past the Queen Victoria Monument, which faced Buckingham Palace's huge forecourt.
"It's gotta be around here somewhere," Remo said outside the Buckingham Palace gates. The sidewalk was thick with tourists.
" I will ask that one," Chiun said, slipping between bars that a child could not squeeze through. He strode up to a red-uniformed guard whose tall bearskin hat resembled a black licorice cotton-candy cone.
"Forget it," Remo called after him. "Those guys never talk."
"You, potato eater!" Chiun accused. "Direct us to Buckingham Place."
The guard stood stolidly, looking neither right nor left.
"I told you so," Remo said.
"You are well-trained," Chiun told the man in a quiet voice. Then, his tone darkening, "But I am in a hurry." And he took the guard's rifle from his rigid two-handed grasp.
The guard looked to either side frantically. The nearest guard looked stolidly ahead, pretending to be unaware of his comrade's predicament. The first guard took a crouching step toward the Master of Sinanju. Chiun swatted him on the head with the butt of his own rifle. The hat swallowed his head. The guard reached up with both hands to remove it.
Chiun took that opportunity to trip him. He stepped onto the guard's squirming stomach.
"Buckingham Place!" Chiun repeated. "Where is it?"
"Go left. Off Buckingham Gate!" his muffled voice said.
"Thank you," the Master of Sinanju said, dropping the rifle on the guard's black-furred head. He stepped off his scarlet stomach and joined Remo outside the gate.
As they walked off; Remo said, "That wasn't necessary."
"That man was rude. The economy of the world is hanging in the balance and he is playin
g soldier."
Number One Buckingham Place was a Georgian brick town house at the end of a row of town houses. Remo knocked on the door and waited politely.
The man who answered was tall and had sandy hair and eyebrows. A meershaum pipe whose bowl was carved to represent Anne Boleyn's decapitated head smoldered before his sharp nose.
He took one look at Remo and dropped his pipe. He couldn't get the door closed fast enough.
Unfortunately for Sir Guy Phillistone, head of Britain's supersecret Source, he couldn't get it closed ahead of Remo's strong arms. Remo pushed his way in, Chiun trailing.
"Remember me?" Remo asked brightly.
"Rather. You are that American lunatic."
"That's not polite. And here I've been telling my friend how nice you British are."
"How did you find me? What do you want of me?"
"In answer to number one, I asked at the apothecary shop. "
"Drat!" said Sir Guy Phillistone.
"That's not the word I would have used," Remo said. "But to answer number two, I want everything you know about the plot to wreck the world's stock exchanges."
"What plot is that?"
"Wrong answer," Remo said, taking Sir Guy Phillistone who knew exactly what Remo Williams could do with those terrible thick-wristed hands of his-by the throat.
"What is the correct answer?" Sir Guy choked out. "Tell me and I shall tell you."
Remo turned to Chiun. "Did that make any sense to you?"
"No. But he is telling the truth."
"Look, Guy. It's a British plot. I know it, even if you don't. Someone in your government is trying to create economic panic. Whom should we be looking for?"
Sir Guy hesitated. Remo squeezed.
"The queen!" Sir Guy bleated. "The prime minister! Perhaps the foreign secretary! The chancellor of the exchequer has always struck me as a right berk. Anyone but myself. I know nothing of this. I really do not."
"I believe you, Sir Guy," Remo said. "Be a good chap and don't warn anyone."
"I was just on my way to the pub around the corner. I feel the urge for a pint of stout."
"Don't let us keep you," Remo said.
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