To many the building was an ugly blot on the city landscape. The current president of France shared this view.
On the television screen, early-morning sunlight glinted off its many panes of glass. They were seeing the Paris Opera House as it looked right now. There were three trucks parked in close to the front of the building. They appeared to be unoccupied.
"We have taken control of your television stations," Schatz said, as if this were so obvious that the mere mention of the fact was superfluous.
Schatz nodded to the back of the room. In the rear yet another old Nazi bowed his understanding. He spoke furtively into a telephone in his gloved hand. Schatz turned his attention to the screen. Fritz and the other troops watched expectantly, sparks of eager anticipation in their eyes.
The president of France looked on with dread. For a long moment nothing happened.
Perhaps it will not happen, the president of France thought. Perhaps sheer will can keep this evil-There was a sudden flash, so huge, so shocking that all watching-with the exception of Nils Schatz-blinked their eyes in surprise.
The trucks with their stolen surplus ordnance exploded upward and backward. The face of the ugly glass building burst apart in a blinding, sparkling flash of fire and smoke.
In an instant the building seemed to hang in the air like a pointillist painting, then collapsed in on itself, filling the square before it with huge plumes of smoke and dust. Tiny sparkling glass crystals danced on the choking dust cloud as it raced forward like an angry gray fog. In seconds it had enveloped the stationary camera.
Schatz let the frozen French president dwell on the image for more than a minute. At last he switched the television off.
"You have seen the DGSE reports," Schatz said with a patient nod. "You know how much of our materials we have reclaimed. I need you to believe me when I say that I possess the capability to destroy major strategic and cultural portions of this city. You alone can stop me from doing this. You alone can save your people a great deal of pain and anguish." He again offered the gold pen to the president. "It will make my work so much easier," he added.
The president considered his options. He found he had none.
There was no telling where the bombs might be. And there were many. That the president knew beyond a doubt. They could be everywhere. Even in the palace.
Schatz had already demonstrated his might and his willingness to use it. His troops had commandeered French broadcasting. He had proved his seriousness in the destruction of the opera house. He had even taken over the palace of the president himself.
He was ruthless and efficient. With a small army at his disposal.
There was no other choice.
The president's hand shook with impotent rage. Without a word, he took the offered pen from the new fuhrer.
Chapter 23
Remo moped around the headquarters of Source until late in the afternoon.
Helene was gone. Apparently her fight with Remo had sent her back to France. Or perhaps she was elsewhere in England. For most of the day, he didn't care where.
He only became upset at around two o'clock when he realized that she had taken her phone with her. Without the phone Smith would have no way of contacting him.
Remo wished for a brief time that he had his own cellular phone. It seemed like everyone else had one. Helene. Guy Philliston. Even Smith had a pager.
However, he had never been very good at keeping track of gadgets. Smith had once given him an expensive two-way satellite communications device. Remo had broken it the first time he used it. After that Smith had relied on the telephone system.
It had always worked in the past. Until now. Remo paced back and forth before the windows along the Trafalgar Square side of the office. He rotated his thick wrists absently as he walked.
"You are making me dizzy," the Master of Sinanju complained. He was sitting cross-legged atop one of the empty desks. A bone-china cup filled with steaming tea sat in a gilded saucer. A delicate rose pattern adorned both cup and saucer.
"I can't just sit here," Remo grumbled.
"Why not?" Chiun asked, tipping his aged head. "Have you forgotten how?"
He picked up the teacup in his bony hand and brought it to his parchment lips. He sipped delicately. Remo stopped pacing.
He looked once more at the empty square and then back at the Master of Sinanju. After a moment's pause he walked over to the desk next to Chiun. Climbing atop it, he dropped into a lotus position on the desk's barren surface.
"You see," Chiun intoned sagely, "it is not as difficult as you might have remembered."
Once Remo was settled on the desk, Chiun clapped his hands two times, sharply.
Like a genie summoned from a lamp, Sir Guy Philliston appeared from a small office that was off to the side of the main Source information center. He carried with him a sterling-silver tea set.
Chiun had sent Sir Guy out for some proper herbal tea after the Englishman had returned that morning with the inferior, stimulant-laced East India blend. It took little effort for him to convince the Source commander to serve the tea when beckoned.
The objects on the tray rattled like a curio cabinet in an earthquake as Guy Philliston stepped nervously over to the Master of Sinanju.
"For my son," Chiun ordered.
Sir Guy gathered up the teapot and obediently filled a cup from the serving tray with the steaming greenish liquid. He handed it to Remo.
"The English make wonderful servants," Chiun commented. "I once had a British butler. He was a superb lickspittle."
"He tried to poison us," Remo reminded him, accepting the tea from Sir Guy.
"Yes, but he was polite about it," Chiun replied.
Sir Guy looked anxiously from one man to the other. "Does sir require anything further?" he asked.
Chiun waved a dismissive hand. "That is all, dogsbody."
Relieved, Sir Guy gathered up his serving set. He moved swiftly back inside the side office.
After he was gone, Remo sipped quietly at the tea. He stared out the window thoughtfully.
The Master of Sinanju watched his pupil looking vacantly off into space. A frown crossed his face. "You are troubled," Chiun said.
Remo glanced at him. "Shouldn't I be?"
"No. You should not."
Remo looked back out the window. "Sue me," he said softly.
"What is it that you find so distressing?"
Remo snorted, almost spilling his tea. "Haven't you been paying attention to what's going on?" He set the cup down at his knees. "We've got World War III threatening to erupt in Europe. Or at least a second installment of World War II. According to Philliston's latest intelligence reports out of Germany, every skinhead or skinhead buddy is lining up to march on England. We've got one of the sickest times in modern history resurfacing right before our eyes." Remo exhaled loudly. "That's what's bothering me."
"Ah, yes," Chiun observed, "but were you not also troubled before leaving America?"