The missile ate up the space between the two mismatched planes in an instant. The Messerschmitt took the full force of the explosion in a spot to the rear of its cockpit. The fragile explosives within the old plane detonated a split second after the fiery impact of the missile.
The plane erupted in a ball of flame, screaming down out of the sky in the direction of Hyde Park Corner. It hit earth a moment later.
Other Harriers roared in across the tall buildings. The small planes were outdated and outmatched. They broke off the attack and headed away from the skies above Piccadilly. Some looped away from the others, streaking off in the direction of Buckingham Palace.
Two Harriers pursued the rogue planes; the rest gave chase to the largest group of fleeing aircraft. It was over.
Not that it mattered to the terrified crowd.
Smith tried to move away from the wall in order to climb back up the stairs. He found it impossible to negotiate through the sea of running people.
Though the danger had passed, Smith was caught up in the rushing tide. Against his wishes he found himself being swept down into the subway along with the rest of the frightened crowd.
Chapter 11
Helene Marie-Simone had to be certain she had lost Remo and Chiun before she could talk freely. She had just received an urgent call from a most delicate source and had been forced to put the matter off for a few minutes until she was certain she was away from prying ears. Somehow-impossibly-the two men from America had been able to eavesdrop on her private conversations with the DGSE.
After hissing to the caller that she would return the call immediately, Helene had clicked off the cellular phone.
She shot a look at Remo and Chiun.
They didn't appear to notice. The old one was engrossed in the work of the American investigators. The young one didn't seem very interested in anything that was going on at the scene. He was yawning as he stared at the edge of the cordon.
Quickly she ducked out through a gap that the truck explosion had created in the courtyard wall. She headed down the street.
Helene didn't know who these men represented, but she knew one thing for certain. They were not with the American State Department. The men were obviously spies. Though for what agency she had no idea. They didn't seem like CIA. They were certainly not FBI. Probably they were with one of the more obscure American security agencies.
The Paris police had established a wide cordon around the bomb scene. Barricades had been constructed in the streets. Uniformed gendarmes kept the curious at bay.
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.