"One of their politicians vanished during the night. Doubtless the victim of his own libido. Or of the lack of an alarm clock. The French do not know which."
"Oh," Remo said dejectedly.
"And," Chiun began again, raising an instructive finger.
"Yes?" Remo asked skeptically.
Chiun lowered his hand. "Nothing. That was all." He went back to staring out the window, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his thin lips.
Helene shouted a string of rapid-fire French before hanging up the phone. She growled in exasperation. When she glanced up, she saw Remo looking at her. "That man is-how do you say?-impossible."
"I've got a boss like that, too," Remo commiserated.
"What?" she snapped impatiently. She shook her head in sudden understanding. "No, that was not my boss. It was my lover. He is upset that I am not home."
Remo tried to be understanding. "Yeah, this job has rotten hours. Have you two lived together long?"
"What are you talking about?" Helene asked. "He lives with his wife. And what do you know of this job? Or have you abandoned posing as a State Department official?"
Remo decided that being understanding was for nitwits.
"I keep forgetting to ask you," he said, "where did you run off to when the fighting broke out yesterday?"
Helene waved to the statue of Nelson beyond the window. It was pitted with bullet holes.
"While you were scurrying up that statue like a monkey, I was on the phone."
Behind Remo, Chiun chortled loudly. "Like a monkey. Heh-heh-heh."
"Oh?" Remo asked, annoyed with both Helene and Chiun. "Make a date with an English soccer team? Better make sure they're all married first."
"There was another explosion in a Metro station in Paris yesterday afternoon," she snapped. "Since you listen in on all of my phone conversations, I am surprised you didn't hear that one."
"I was too busy not hiding," Remo said. "Hey, want to see the French army on maneuvers?" He threw both hands high into the air in the classic gesture of surrender.
"Arrgghh!" Helene snarled, pushing away from the desk in helpless exasperation. "I cannot take this!"
She stormed from the office.
"That went well." Remo smiled at Chiun. He felt cheerier than he had in several days.
"Like a monkey," Chiun said. "Heh-heh."
Remo felt his good mood fade as quickly as it had come.
"You're a real comfort, you know that, Chiun?"
"Ooo-ooo-ooo," said the Master of Sinanju with a distinctly simian sound.
HELENE BUMPED into Guy Philliston in the apothecary shop downstairs. He was hustling through the soot-smudged front door with a tin of East Indian tea he had liberated from the window display of a closed shop down the road.
"Ah," Philliston said, "leaving, are we?"
"I am going for a walk."
"Wouldn't go if I were you," Sir Guy warned. "Military rule and all that. They're supposed to shoot anyone on sight caught in the street. Questions later. Bad show all around."
"You seem fine."
Philliston straightened his spine proudly. "Yes, but I am British." This said, Sir Guy went into the back of the store, where the secret Source staircase was hidden.
Helene walked out into the empty square.
She hadn't gone more than a few yards before her cellular phone rang.
"Oui," Helene said, answering the powerful small phone.
Her face grew more and more shocked as the frantic voice on the other end of the line spit out a string of rapid-fire French.
"I will return immediately," she promised after the caller was finished. She pressed the button that disconnected the line and returned the device to the pocket of her leather jacket.
She glanced up once at the tinted Source windows two stories above. This was one phone call that the American agents didn't overhear.
Briefly Helene entertained the notion of going up and requesting Remo's help. After all, she had seen him do same amazing things over the past few days.
No, she finally decided. This was a French problem. It was best handled by Frenchmen.
She would deal with it herself.
A determined expression on her chiseled face, Helene hurried down the bombed-out street.
Chapter 22
The president of France arrived at the Palais de l'Elysee by limousine in the wee hours of the morning.
It was the day after the third aerial attack against London, and the president had political concerns that extended beyond the shores of his native land. France's neighbor across La Manche-the body of water the rest of the world stubbornly insisted on calling the English Channel-had been receiving a beating in her most famous city. Ordinarily this would have been a matter of indifference to France. Not this time.
There had been much bad blood between the two countries for many years. The president was acutely aware of the running feud between France and Great Britain, and he didn't wish to stir the embers by sleeping late after the worst of the three attacks against London. For this reason he came to the palace from the apartment of his mistress at a little after 6:30 a.m.
The limousine brought him through the high gates and around to his personal entrance. It stopped in the great shadow cast by the historic old building.
He was a man who liked to project a public image of independence. This streak of stubbornness was regularly demonstrated by his insistence that he open his own car door himself.
This morning, like every other morning since assuming office, his driver jumped out of the front seat and raced around the rear of the car to open the door. It was a daily race that the president invariably won. The president pulled at the door handle.
Odd...