"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 she 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.