"That's an understatement," Remo snorted.
Sir Quincy cleared his throat. "I have heard rumblings," he admitted, "but every era has its lean periods. Things will bounce back, don't you fret. Everything will be all right if we simply keep our peckers up, as the young ones are so fond of saying."
"Unbelievable," Remo said, throwing his head back and staring at the yellowing ceiling. "This guy doesn't even live in the real world. He thinks it's still the eighteenth century."
Smith glared at Remo. In a calm voice he told Sir Quincy, "You must stop this. It's wrecking the British economy. "
"Oh, stuff and nonsense. England will endure. You must have faith in our traditions. We are too hardy a race to perish over some minor economic hiccup."
"The global markets are in turmoil," Smith said firmly. "There is financial panic in London. The pound sterling is depreciating by the minute."
"Confound it! Have those colonists mucked this up?"
Smith stared at Sir Quincy. "You don't even know the operational details of the plan," he said in a small voice.
"The Grand Plan," Sir Quincy corrected, "and no, I do not. History is my forte, not economics. I am merely the man who lights the lighthouse that will bring the colonial ship back to home port. The details are not my concern. "
"They should be," Smith said harshly. "Given the current economic situation, England will be ruined long before America if your people persist in this mad scheme. You must call them off."
"I cannot. There is no way to stop it. Nor would I. And on what authority? The word of a Yank who doubtless drinks his ale ice-cold and doesn't have the breeding to knot his necktie with a full Windsor?"
Smith touched his tie self-consciously.
"Dartmouth?" Sir Quincy asked, noticing the stripes.
"Yes," Smith said tightly.
"Worthy school, I hear. It's not Oxford, but what is?"
Smith noticed the oversize tea cozy on the writing desk. A gray electric cord snaked out from under it. He pulled the tea cozy off, revealing a computer terminal.
"This is your computer," Smith said. It was not a question.
"Yes," Sir Quincy admitted. "How did you know about that by the way?"
" I inserted a worm into the Mayflower Descendants network. It enabled me to trace this address."
"Jove! It must be a talented worm to do all that."
"A worm is akin to a computer virus," Smith explained, turning on the machine. "I designed it to follow the audit trail and replicate at every relay point, which I see it has."
On the screen appeared amber letters:
***WARNING!!!***
TUBE IMPLOSION IMMINENT!
STAND CLEAR!
***DANGER***
"Good God," Sir Quincy gasped. "It is about to explode." "No," Smith said. "The message is harmless. It's designed to prevent anyone from attempting to rid his system of my virus worm. And without their computers, no further stock transactions can be consummated by your people. They are effectively frozen out of the market, which is now rebounding."
"Dammit, man!" Sir Quincy said furiously. "You are one of us. Why would you do a dastardly thing such as that?"
"To save the world from a lunatic scheme hatched for an eighteenth-century political situation. You see, the British government knows nothing of this so-called Grand Plan."
"Rubbish! They have in their possession a copy of the Royal Reclamation Charter."
"Which was misfiled in 1877 and forgotten by successive governments," Smith snapped. "The signal you thought you received was just a coincidence. In a sad way, it was almost inevitable that this would happen. It was fortunate that it did on my watch. You see, Sir Quincy, the royal family has repudiated the charter."
"The deuce you say!" Sir Quincy Chiswick said in astonishment. "This would explain why the queen did not answer my letters. I was reduced to writing to the chancellor of the exchequer, who also does not bother to read his mail, it seems. This is a most unlikely turn of events, if true. "
"I have one more question for you, Sir Quincy. Then I must go. Of the people who have carried the torch over these last two centuries, who are the leaders?"
"Why, Percy is paramount. I have no idea whom he has selected as his lieutenants. Those decisions were made in 1776 by H. P. Looncraft, his great-great-great-"
"Never mind," Smith said. "I know all I need to know. Good-bye, Sir Quincy."
"Good luck, chap," Sir Quincy said. "But where are you off to?"
"America. There is work for me there."
"Glad to hear it. For a moment, I was fearful that you were not loyal."
"I have always been loyal to my country," Smith said coldly. He turned to Remo. "You know what to do. Meet me outside when you are finished with him."
"Now, just a moment, Smith," Sir Quincy said. "You can't leave me here with this . . . this Mediterranean type. As one Englishman to another, I implore you. What would your father say to this? Think on that, Smith. Listen to your heritage. It is calling you."
Dr. Harold W. Smith went out the door without a backward glance.
"Wait a minute," Remo called after him. "You can't stick me with the dirty work just like that."
Smith's leaden footsteps were heavy on the staircase. Down below, a door clicked open and then shut heavily.
Remo turned to Sir Quincy Chiswick.
"What happens if I don't kill you?" Remo asked.
"I do not die," said Sir Quincy as if speaking to an idiot.
That almost made up Remo's mind for him. "No, I meant now that this squirrely scheme has gone south, are you going to try it again?"
"Of course. I have received the signal-regardless of what your misguided friend believes."
"Smith's not my friend," Remo said coldly. "And neither are you." He took a fistful of Sir Quincy's gown front and pulled him to his feet.
"Unhand me, you . . . you rebel!"
"I'm an American," Remo said firmly. "Just like Smith. It's the one thing we have in common."
Sir Quincy sneered. " 'Common' is precisely the word for it. You are both commoners. Not a drop of Anglo-Saxon blood in either of you, you Yankee Doodle traitors."
"A lot of innocent people were massacred by your Cornwallis Guard," Remo said slowly, his eyes hard. "People I knew. What do you say to that?"
"Were any of them of British descent?"
"It never occurred to me to ask," Remo said bitterly. His mind was made up now. He led Sir Quincy Chiswick over to one of his dingy beds and asked, "Any last words?"
"God Save the Queen! Rule Britannia! For as long as one of us upholds crown and country, the English shall ever be free."
"That's enough," Remo said. He punched Sir Quincy in the exact center of his chest, stepping back.
For a moment Sir Quincy teetered on his heels. His eyes rolled up into his head and his face acquired a faint blue tinge at his jowls.
Remo decided it was taking too long, so he pushed the teetering corpse of Sir Quincy Chiswick onto the bed.
Remo took a moment to lift his feet onto the bed and tuck him in, where, when he was eventually found, his death would be taken for simple heart failure.
On his way out of the flat, Remo took a moment to type the word "CHECKMATE" onto the silent computer screen.
Out on the sidewalk, Dr. Harold W. Smith waited impatiently.
"Is it done?" he asked tonelessly when Remo emerged from the row house.
"Yeah," Remo said unhappily. "I've got a few bones to pick with you. First it's kill him. Then don't kill him, and then it's go ahead and kill him. And you walk out. Not wheel out, but walk out. And I'm still waiting for an explanation on that one."
"My country means everything to me," Harold Smith said, tight-lipped. "More than my heritage, more than the memory of a father who disinherited me because I dared to choose my own path in life. It's what I sacrificed for all my adult life. I do not like to lie. I abhor killing. And I did not ask for the responsibility that forces me to do one and order y
ou to do the other. But it was thrust upon me and I accepted. I have had to live with that choice for many years, and I do not regret it. Not a bit. There will be no other Harold Smiths to take my place when I die, in the family business or in government service. I must do as much as I can while I'm alive, because after I am gone there will be no one to take my place. Lying to you, even eliminating you if it serves the national interest, does not seem too high a price to pay for freedom."
Remo Williams stared at the man he had known for nearly twenty years. A cold rain began falling on Oxford's benighted spires.
"Sometimes I hate you, you bloodless son of a bitch," Remo said.
"But you understand me?"
"Too much."
"You were chosen for this work because your patriotic quotient was extremely high, you know."
"I like to think I just love my country."
"Many people love their country. You're privileged to serve it in a way no one has since the Founding Fathers."
"I never thought of it that way before," Remo admitted.
Smith opened his briefcase and logged onto his computer.
"The stock-market crisis seems to be over," he said absently. "The Far Eastern markets have opened up. Investor confidence should stay high. There will be some sorting-out to do, but that is the SEC's responsibility. If we eliminate Douglas Lippincott and DeGoone Slickens, the rest do not matter. Without leaders, they will revert to their sleeper status, passing their heritage on to the next generation, who will wait for a signal that will never come. You see, Remo, like myself, Sir Quincy is the last of his line. His landlady told me that. There will be no more Chiswicks to activate the Loyalists."
"You want me to take out Lippincott and Slickens?"
"It's your choice."
Remo considered. "Why not?" he said at last. "I'll do it for the Nostrum employees who died. What about Looncraft?"
"He should be arriving in London for what he thinks is to be a royal audience. The British are very unhappy with him and he will be dealt with severely, rest assured." Smith snapped his briefcase shut. "Then you are back with the organization?"
"Maybe. But we won't be friends."
"We never were. I won't hesitate to sacrifice you for the cause. If you keep that in mind, we will get along."
"You know, Smith," Remo said thoughtfully, "I never knew my father. I always thought that was pretty tough. But from what I heard back there, your situation was worse than mine."
"I threw away my last chance to make amends in the flat," Smith said, glancing up at Sir Quincy's window. He adjusted his glasses. "I will never forget that, but I will never regret it either. My duty was clear. I hope that you will come to see your duty more clearly, and with less pain. "
Remo smiled tightly. "Give you a ride back to London, Smitty?"
"No," Harold Smith said without warmth. "I bought a return bus ticket. I like to get my money's worth."
And Harold W. Smith walked away, looking old and stooped and very fragile.
Remo waited until he turned the corner before trudging off to his car. It started to rain, but he didn't notice this time. He had too much to think about.
Chapter 31
P. M. Looncraft arrived in London's Heathrow Airport confident that back in the soon-to-be-defunct United States of America, the balance of economic might had shifted to Crown Acquisitions, Limited, and its stockholders. It would take another year, possibly two, before everything was consolidated, Looncraft reflected, but it was better than running tanks in the street. The Conscripts would be a great help once the stubborn ones were brought into line by the impressment gangs.
As the Jetway ramp was moved into position to accept disembarking passengers, he adjusted his chalk-striped Savile Row coat and patted his tightly combed hair.
The stewardess said good-bye in a homey British accent and P. M. Looncraft stepped out into the waiting room, smiling thinly.
"British soil at last," he said.
He looked around, wondering if perhaps the queen herself might be waiting for him. He dismissed the happy thought as sheer vanity. Of course not. A coach from the Royal Mews would suffice, however.
Instead of a coach from the Royal Mews, there was a quartet of stern-faced London constables. One of them stepped up to him after glancing at a Forbes cover. Looncraft recognized it as the one that had first proclaimed him King of Wall Street. He wondered if he would be knighted.
"Percival Marylebone Looncraft?" the constable inquired with proper British civility.
"Precisely, my good man," Looncraft said, trying to match his accent. "I presume you are to escort me to my destination?"
"That we are. A car is waiting."
"Capital. "
The car proved to be a common police car.
At the sight of it, Looncraft's long face became positively sunken.
"I was hoping for something more . . . ah, ceremonial," he complained as the door was held open for him. "One does not normally go to Buckingham Palace in a common police vehicle."
"In you go," one of the bobbies said. "We'll explain it on the way."
Looncraft climbed in. The door slammed and the others entered the car.
The drive took them to the outskirts of London, and the car kept going. Perhaps they were taking him to Windsor Castle. Looncraft asked.
"You are not going to Windsor Castle, bloke," the man seated next to him said tartly. "Your destination is Wormwood Scrubs."
"Remarkable name," Looncraft said. "Is it the royal retreat?"
"Wormwood Scrubs is a prison," he was told. "For you have been detained in the name of the queen."
Looncraft's lantern jaw dropped. "Prison?" he bleated.
"The charge is perpetrating crimes against the crown."
"There must be some mistake," Looncraft insisted. "This is highly uncivilized. I understood I was to see the queen. "
The bobbies broke into raucous laughter at that remark.
They were still laughing an hour later as they unceremoniously threw him into a dank prison cell.
P. M. Looncraft grabbed the scabrous bars and stuck his long nose through two of them.
"A dreadful mistake has been made!" he called. "My family has been loyal to the crown for over two hundred years. The Looncrafts billeted the King's Own regiment during the Rebellion. You must get word to the queen. She knows who I am."
"Queen?" a mincing cockney voice asked from the creaking double cot directly behind P. M. Looncraft. "You've come to the right pew, mate."
Remo Williams pulled up in front of the Morton Court Hotel, wondering where all the SAS commandos had gone.
The Indian girl at the reception desk told him that the Master of Sinanju had checked out after receiving a telephone call from a man who said his name was Smith.
"Know where he went?" Remo asked, noticing that the girl was not returning his smile.
"No, I do not," she said coolly. "And he neglected to pay his charges."
Remo sighed. "Give it here."
After Remo had paid the bill, the clerk found her smile and her memory.
"Oh, I nearly forgot," she said. "He did leave you a note. "
The note was brief. It said:
"REMO: I AM TAKING TEA WITH THE QUEEN MOTHER. AWAIT ME OUTSIDE BUCKINGHAM PALACE GATES. CHIUN."
Remo took the underground to Green Park and walked up the tree-lined Queen's Walk to the Mall and Buckingham Palace. There was no sign of the Master of Sinanju, so he cooled his heels outside the gates until, nearly two hours and three intermittent rainstorms later, Chiun emerged from the gates, beaming contentedly.
A matronly woman in what Remo thought was a dowdy dress and a gold crown waved good-bye from the big front door.
"How did it go?" Remo asked grumpily.
"It went well," Chiun said airily. "The queen mother is a sterling woman. She accepted the Royal Sceptre with grace and without recriminations-unlike that common scold, her daughter."
"I saw Smith in Oxford," Remo said as t
hey began walking in the direction of Saint James's Park.
"I know. He told me everything. I understand the matter is settled."
"I got the head guy. And an earful from Smith about duty. "
Chiun looked up at Remo's set profile with lifted eyebrows.
"And what have you decided?"
"I haven't. I'm still pissed at Smith. But I'll string along with you until I figure out what I really want to do with my life."
"Then be good enough to string along with me for a few more hours," Chiun said. "Then we will leave this gray city of gray people and gray skies."
"An island full of Smiths," Remo remarked dryly.
"There is some good in all peoples," Chiun said, lifting a yellow forefinger. "Except possibly the Japanese."
"Don't forget the Chinese," Remo said good-naturedly. "Whom we are never, ever going to work for."
"The Thais also have their shortcomings," Chiun put in.
"I was never a fan of the Vietnamese. Or the French."
The Master of Sinanju led Remo to Oxford Street, near Oxford Circus, where he went into a store called Virgin Mega.
Remo waited outside, where he bought a copy of a tabloid which ballyhooed the realigning of the sphinxes at Cleopatra's Needle. He gave the vendor a fifty-pound note and received what seemed like a piggy bank's worth of coins in change. His pockets were already bulging with pound coins.
"Don't you have any pound bills?" Remo demanded.
"Sorry, sir. The pound note's been abolished."
"Keep the change, then," Remo said, letting the coins drop to the sidewalk. His pockets couldn't bear any more weight.
Chiun came out and crossed the street to another store called simply HMV. When he came out again, his arms were filled with plastic bags.
"Where to now?" Remo wanted to know.
"Heathrow," said Chiun. "I have summoned the Nostrum jet. Now that we are once again honored in this land, we need not leave as we entered, in secret."
"What do you mean-we? I was catching my death, as the British say, while you were sipping Earl Grey."
"Green tea," Chiun replied smugly. "The British may be uncouth, but their royalty continue to uphold certain meager standards-un-Korean as they are."
Chapter 32
The next morning, Remo Williams walked into the Lippincott Mercantile Bank. He wore a fresh black T-shirt and a businesslike expression on his high-cheekboned face.
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