The Empire Dreams td-113

by Warren Murphy

  Helene slipped between the wooden sawhorses and line of Paris policemen. Down the street a block she cut into a side boulevard near a florist shop.

  She glanced back around the corner. There was no sign of the two men in the busy sidewalk traffic. Good. She hadn't been followed.

  Helene quickly tugged the phone from her pocket and stabbed out the direct country code for England. "It's about bloody well time," a stodgy voice said by way of greeting.

  Helene didn't appreciate the superior tone. But she was in no position to complain about it now. "What has happened?" she asked furtively.

  "A bit of a mess in London," the male voice enthused. "We've got bally Jerry kites strewn all over Park Lane and Piccadilly."

  "Aside from the street names, I do not know what any of that means," Helene whispered impatiently.

  "Kites. Planes," the voice explained with a sigh. "Perfectly good English. Don't know what they teach you in those schools in Paris." He continued.

  "German planes attacked London not fifteen minutes ago. The RAF scrambled a squadron too late to stop them cold. They got off a few good runs before we managed to send them nose over knickers. RAF's official word is that they had trouble with their ground crews. Bad weather slowed them up. Good chaps, ordinarily, but there's not a cloud in the sky."

  "German planes?" Helene asked.

  "Why are you telling me this? Call the Germans."

  "That's the thing," said the voice. "They're not exactly German defense-force planes. They're more or less Nazi era-ish."

  "Nazi?"

  "World War II and all that. Surplus planes." Helene was trying to conjure up an image of airplanes fifty years out of date attacking modern London in broad daylight. She found it too out of her frame of reference to imagine.

  "What about survivors among the pilots?" she asked.

  "Not a bally one, I'm afraid," said the man on the phone. "Well, there was one. But the blighter went and blew the top of his head off with a Luger before we could get to him. Anyway, I was thinking that since you had a spot of trouble with your depots that you might be interested."

  "Why would I?"

  "I imagine it's more than coincidence that your surplus war bombs are stolen the day before London is bombed by surplus planes, don't you?"

  Helene was so caught up in the incredible scenario that she failed to deny that the explosives were in fact stolen.

  The voice pressed on. "Radar stations say the planes came down from the north, but local spotters saw them heading up from the south over the Irish Sea this morning."

  "They went up and then down?"

  "Most likely a trick to hide their true origin."

  "Would they have enough fuel?"

  "They could have been adapted to fly longer missions," the man said. "I'm really not sure what the range is on a Messerschmitt. However, if you're interested, after studying the possible origin of the flights we have traced them to only a couple of possible places. Mainland France or one of the Channel Islands. We have further learned that there were unusual shipments to Guernsey in the wee hours this morning."

  "Why do you not investigate?"

  "I've got quite enough to do here in London. And after all, they are your bombs. Therefore, they are your responsibility. Please do something about them, forthwith. There's a good girl."

  The line went dead.

  Helene clicked the small phone shut. She was frowning deeply.

  Guernsey. In the English Channel. If the missing explosives had been shipped there, she would have to investigate at once.

  Sticking the cellular phone in her pocket, she hurried back out onto the main street...

  ... and plowed straight into Remo.

  He was leaning casually against the wall just around the corner from where Helene had been hiding.

  "Hi." Remo smiled. "We missed you."

  "Speak for yourself," said a squeaky voice. Helene jumped at the sound of the old Asian's voice. Wheeling, she cast a glance at the spot where she had been standing. Somehow Chiun had gotten behind her. He stood on the sidewalk, arms tucked inside the broad sleeves of his kimono. His face was as unreadable as that of a cigar-store Indian.

  "I have important work to do," Helene said officiously. She pushed past Remo and began marching down the street.

  Remo kept pace with her. Chiun trailed behind. "I heard. Mind if we tag along?" Remo said.

  "Yes."

  "Oh. Mind if we go anyway?"

  "Yes."

  "Too bad," Remo said with a grin.

  Helene muttered a string of French phrases all the way to her official government car. Remo didn't bother to have Chiun interpret. Some things were universal.

  HERRE MICHTLER HAD BEEN a sergeant in the German army at the young age of nineteen. Back then his only brushes with the Luftwaffe had been unpleasant ones. He found the members of the German air force to be arrogant. "Bastards to a man," he was fond of saying.

  It was ironic, then, that at the ripe old age of seventy-five he found himself in command of fully half of IV's new German air forces.

  Michtler toured the tarmac on the tiny air base on the island of Guernsey.

  The wind off the English Channel grabbed strips of steel gray hair, which had been carefully plastered across his bald pate, and flung them crazily across his face.

  Around him were thirteen vintage aircraft. Ten of them were Messerschmitts, two were World War I Fokkers and the last-the lead plane-was a Gotha G.V.

  "How soon?" Michtler demanded in German.

  "Another five minutes," replied the mechanic who was in charge of seeing that the planes were airworthy. Michtler knew him only as Paul. He was forty-five years old with a thick neck and a face filled with burst capillaries. In private life he was an aviation buff. In an even more private life he was also a high-ranking member in Germany's underground skinhead movement.

  Michtler scowled.

  "They shot down the first wave," he snapped.

  "Did you think they wouldn't?" Paul asked in surprise. He didn't look up from the fuel line he was attending to. It led into the hungry belly of the mintcondition World War I Gotha.

  Michtler harrumphed impatiently. Paul sensed the old man's anxiety.

  "I have friends near Croydon," Paul said. He waved to the nearby tanker truck. A skinhead barely out of his teens began turning off the fuel. "Of course they have no idea who I am working for," Paul continued. "But they say over the computer that the Harriers have returned to their base. We will not have as easy a time of it this time, but it is possible."

  "It had better be more than possible," Michtler threatened.

  Paul smiled as he detached the fuel line from the plane. "Care to join us?" he asked. He knew full well Michtler's hatred of planes.

  "Just speed it up," the old man growled. Spinning on his heel, he headed back to the small hangar at the end of the runway.

  Still smiling, Paul climbed into his airplane. Clamping the dome-an added feature-down over his ruddy head, he began the start-up procedure. The other dozen planes arranged in a patient line on the tarmac nearby took this as a cue.

  Thirteen plane engines coughed and smoked to life.

  THEY HAD TAKEN a plane from Paris to Manche province. From there, a DGSE boat took them the thirty-five miles from Carteret to the cluster of England's Channel Islands.

  They had already passed the small island of Sark. It seemed like little more than a speck as they raced by. Alderney was farther to the north, and the principal island of Jersey was to the south.

  On the deck Remo watched, motionless, as the island of Guernsey rose up out of the sea before them. Chiun stood beside him. The rocking of the large boat on the choppy waves had no effect on the Master of Sinanju. The wizened Asian appeared to be more firmly rooted in place than the rocky island they approached.

  The two men had been silent a long time. Salty water broke across the prow of the boat and sprayed their stern faces. At long last Remo spoke.

  "That phone call s
he got said that London had been attacked," he said. "You think Smith is okay?"

  "I do not have a psychic connection to Emperor Smith," Chiun replied simply.

  Remo glanced over his shoulder. Helene was on the bridge of the large boat. She wasn't paying them any heed.

  Remo pitched his voice low.

  "You recognize the guy on the phone?" Remo asked.

  "I did," the Master of Sinanju replied.

  "I'm surprised Source doesn't handle this themselves," Remo mused. "After all, these islands are British property."

  "He was likely too involved with selecting the proper wardrobe to wear as his nation's capital burned," Chiun suggested.

  "Good point. My luck, he pulled through and Smith got creamed."

  "Smith is fine," Chiun insisted.

  "How do you know?"

  "Because that is my luck," the old man said. He aimed a finger to the sea. "Behold! Our destination draws near."

  Guernsey had grown even larger.

  The shore seemed totally inhospitable. It was comprised largely of sharp igneous rock, heaped and angled to form a natural barrier against intruders. Remo wondered why the original settlers hadn't just turned around and gone back to wherever they came from.

  Instead of heading north to St. Peter Port-the island's chief town-the French boat headed south. Waves crashed over the bow as they cut in as close to the shore as the hidden underwater rocks would allow.

  Helene joined them on the rolling deck.

  "That end looks more hospitable," Remo said, pointing to the northern side of the island.

  "I have been in contact with my government. They have used satellite information to confirm that the illegal shipments were sent to the south."

  "So you're admitting the stuff was stolen now?" Remo asked slyly.

  "Not at all. Something was sent here from France during the night. I am merely here to find out what that something was."

  "You've got the patter down," Remo said, impressed. "I'll give you that. You know, you remind me of another French agent I met a few years back. Remember Dominique Parillaud, Little Father?"

  "Do not remind me of that dark time," Chiun sniffed.

  They had met the French spy, whose code name was Arlequin, during an assignment that had taken them to the amusement park known as Euro Beasley. A weapon that used color to trigger heightened emotional reactions in its victims had caused both Masters of Sinanju to act in a less than heroic fashion. Neither man had been proud of his behavior during that crisis.

  At the mention of the French spy's name, Helene's back stiffened.

  "Looks like she knows her, huh, Chiun?"

  "Knowing the proclivities of the French, it is no doubt in the biblical sense," the Master of Sinanju replied tightly.

  "I do not know the person of whom you speak," Helene insisted.

  "That's a load of crap," Remo said. "I'm a student of body language. And you just screamed volumes."

  Helene bristled. "I am sure I do not know her," she said haughtily.

  "She got drummed out of the spy biz after she failed to swipe the hypercolor laser, didn't she? Probably stuck doing full body-cavity searches at de Gaulle airport."

  "And reveling in every depraved minute," Chiun chimed in.

  "Poor Arlequin's persona non grata at DGSE HQ, isn't she?" Remo said sympathetically. "Better not screw up, Helene. She could be holding a seat for you."

  "This is impossible!" the French agent announced, throwing her hands in the air. She marched a few yards away from the two men, dropping her hands on the slick boat railing. She kept her back to them.

  "That was strangely unfulfilling," Remo said once Helene was out of earshot. In spite of the busy work at the American embassy and this unexpected side trip, he still found himself thinking about his earlier conversation with Smith. He and Chiun would track down a few stolen bombs and the world would continue to slide apace into the Abyss.

  "You are still brooding," the Master of Sinanju said, nodding sagely.

  Remo's mouth pulled into a tight smile. "I've managed to put on a happy face."

  Chiun's own countenance was impassive. "Lamentably it appears to be the same as the ugly mask you always wear. The next time you change faces, you might try one with eyes of the proper shape. And the color is all wrong."

  Remo sighed. "It was just a figure of speech," he grunted, dropping his knuckles to the railing.

  "I would also trim the nose back by at least a foot." Chiun smirked.

  THE SOUTH END of Guernsey rose three hundred feet to a rocky plateau. The small boat brought them into a harbor carved at the base of the foreboding wall of rock. A zigzagging staircase had been chiseled into the wall's craggy black face.

  They found a dock that extended from a seawall of toppled stones. The boat moved in beside it, rocked all the while on the crashing waves. As soon as they were close enough, deckhands leaped out and began securing the boat to the dock.

  The ship's pilot had barely cut the engines when Remo became aware of a collection of noises over the bluffs high above. There were thirteen distinct whines. Small engines.

  He glanced at the Master of Sinanju. Chiun had heard the noise, as well.

  The Master of Sinanju hopped from the deck of the rocking ship and onto the old wooden dock. He was running the instant his sandaled feet touched the pocked surface.

  Remo jumped down after him.

  "What is it?" Helene shouted from the deck.

  "Planes!" Remo yelled back. "And by the sounds of it, they're ready for takeoff!"

  PAUL NIEMLUR GAVE the young skinhead on the tarmac the thumbs-up sign. The youth pulled the canvas cord, wrenching free the oily wood chocks wedged beneath the wheels of the Gotha.

  He ran over to the nearest Messerschmitt to repeat the procedure. Another skinhead was helping him, and between the two of them they quickly cleared the blocks away.

  Paul began taxiing to the windswept runway.

  The money that Nils Schatz had been skimming from IV accounts over the past several months had paid to construct this small runway on the site of a former Guernsey tomato farm.

  It was somehow fitting that the attack against England should originate from here. After all, German forces had occupied the small island during World War II.

  The runway was wide enough to accommodate two planes taking off at a time. The nearest Messerschmitt pulled in beside Niemlur. A second pair drew in behind.

  Paul was certain to go slowly. The wind was heavy today. Ordinarily he wouldn't have risked taking off in gusts as strong as this. But this was different. The wind could go to blazes. After all, this was the dawn of the new reich. Anyway, once he was in the air it wouldn't be a problem.

  For now he was concerned about the ancient bombs he was carrying. The Gotha had been designed to carry six one-hundred-pound bombs. He had that many aboard right now. They sat, rusted and beautiful, in the rear of the plane.

  Paul pushed down on the throttle. The plane began to skim forward. The rocky scenery whipped past the Plexiglas dome he had installed aboard the aircraft.

  For all he knew, some of the bombs he carried could have been dropped by this very plane over France more than eighty years ago. Back then they had been duds. There was no doubt about it this time, however. They were so fragile the slightest bump might set them off.

  They would find their targets. And they would rain fiery death upon them.

  As he picked up speed, this thought filled Paul with contentment while he carefully steered the plane toward the end of the runway. And into the jaws of history.

  REMO AND CHIUN had attacked the first stone stairs with a ferocity of purpose. The staircases were like a stack of giant Zs carved into the solid cliff face.

  Both men were buffeted by the cold ocean wind as they raced at top speed for the summit of the cliff. The stairs ended abruptly at a rock-hewed landing. Here the rock tapered off and split in either direction. From this vantage they were able to see farther inland.


  The runway was to their left. It cut off sharply toward the cliff face to the west. They could see the small tin hangar squatting in the scrub grass farther beyond the long asphalt strip.

  More than a dozen planes were heading away from the hangar area. Though he had no idea what kind they were, Remo saw that they were from a different era.

  Two had already picked up considerable speed and were racing for the edge of the bluffs. Others were moving obediently in behind them.

  Remo and Chiun didn't stop when they reached the summit. Cutting west after the fleeing planes, they loped through the tall grass toward the runway. They reached it in a few dozen quick strides.

  "Should we try to stop these?" Remo shouted to Chiun over the roar of the planes and the wind. They had pulled abreast of the field of slower-moving planes.

  Chiun shook his head. Wisps of hair flew wildly in the gale. "It is too dangerous. We will take those in the lead."

  Remo knew what Chiun meant. The bombs the aircraft doubtless carried made this a tricky matter. They didn't want to jolt the planes and accidentally set them off. It would be an easier matter to stop them when airborne.

  Although, Remo thought as he nodded his reluctant agreement, easier was a relative term.

  The two men raced past the slower-moving aircraft toward the pair of planes that were even now preparing for takeoff.

  Remo and Chiun were no longer running unnoticed. Radios aboard the planes squawked hurried questions in German.

  A gunner opened fire as they raced past. A single bullet nicked the fuselage of one of the Fokkers. The old plane instantly exploded in a ball of bright orange flames and a spray of jagged metal fragments.

  After that the other planes held their fire.

  Legs and arms pumping madly, the two Masters of Sinanju left the edge of the runway and moved into the center behind the foremost planes.

  The wheels of the Gotha had already left the ground. The Messerschmitt was outpacing it, but had not yet begun to skim the runway surface.

  Chiun broke to the right, tearing off after the newer plane. Remo stayed on course, running at full speed for the tail of the fleeing Gotha.