"I should be very much surprised if they told a person like yourself any such thing."
Remo removed the brass door knocker with a savage wrench.
"Souvenir-taking is not allowed," the secretary said, repressing his horror.
Remo took the knocker between his strong white teeth and yanked again. He held up a tangle of brass in his hand. Another tangle gleamed between his teeth. He spit it at the secretary's injured face.
"Don't take me lightly," Remo warned. "I'm not in the mood."
"So I gather."
"Now, once again. Where did he go?"
"I haven't the foggiest. But I can tell you he was driving a black Citroen."
"I wouldn't know a Citroen if it joined me in the tub."
"Yes, of course. How silly of me."
"Any distinguishing marks?"
"Tallish. Hair sandyish. Eyes bluish."
"Rubbish. That describes half the inhabitants of this wet rock." Remo squeezed the remaining tangle of brass into a lump and placed it in the secretary's hand.
"Ouch!" he said, dropping the brass. It was very hot. Friction.
"Well?" Remo prompted, tapping an impatient foot.
"He did have a pipe. A meerschaum. I believe the bowl was modeled after Anne Boleyn."
"Who's Anne Boleyn?" Remo asked.
"I take it you are an American."
"Jolly right," Remo said. "Is she a famous British actress? Maybe I saw one of her movies."
"I rather doubt it," said the secretary, suddenly shutting the door in Remo's face.
Remo reached for the doorknob but had second thoughts. "Ah, the hell with it."
He took off into traffic. He started with the black cars. How many drivers of black cars would be smoking a pipe that looked like some frigging British actress? he reasoned.
After several minutes of knocking on the windshields of small cars to attract the attention of the drivers, Remo found exactly none.
"Damn." As he stood on a cobbled street corner, a double-decker bus prowled past. It was starting to rain again. It had rained three times in the few hours since Remo had arrived in London, and he was sick of getting wet no matter where he went and what he did, so he hitched a ride on the back of the bus, the way he used to back in Newark when he was a kid and didn't have a quarter for bus fare.
The top of the double decker was empty so he had it to himself. He had chosen the bus because it was traveling in the general direction of the Source office.
"When in doubt, reverse direction," he said as he blew cold rain off his lips.
The office of the Source was above an apothecary shop near Trafalgar Square. It was a well-kept secret within Britain, but virtually every other intelligence service knew what it concealed. Even Remo, who never paid attention to such details, knew about it.
They were waiting for Remo when he walked up the dingy stairs to the second floor.
"He's back. The cheeky blighter's come back!"
Remo looked over his shoulder before realizing they meant him.
The man who had spoken hit a desk buzzer and Remo folded his arms while he waited for the inevitable rush of armed guards.
The men all wore Bond Street. Their pistols were Berettas. James Bond fans, probably.
Remo didn't resist. Instead, he asked coolly, "Remember me?"
The pointing Berettas trembled. One man involuntarily reached for a bruise under one eye. Another turned green. A third started to back away carefully.
"I'll take that as a yes," Remo said. "Now, if no one wants a repetition of the rather frightful row that happened last time, I think we can come to an accommodation."
The man at the desk said in a hesitant voice, "What, precisely, do you have in mind?"
"Lord Guy what's-his-face. Five minutes with him."
"He's not here," one of the others said quickly.
A tallish, sandyish chap with blue eyes and a woman's face on his pipe poked his head out of an office door marked "Private" and demanded, "What are you chaps temporizing for? Capture that man at once. At once, do you hear!"
Remo pointed to the man who had told him that Lord Guy was not on the premises.
"You lied."
"Not my fault. Orders," he said in a feeble voice.
"Tell you what, I'll overlook it if you go home. It's probably teatime."
The man quietly left the room.
"Accommodating sort," Remo remarked. "Now, how about the rest of you?"
"Only five minutes?" one asked.
"Maybe six," Remo replied.
"What are you saying?" exclaimed Lord Guy Phiiliston. "That bugger is dangerous. I can't see him."
"We cannot stop him, sir."