"Look, sweetheart," said the American in his magnificent rough voice, totally American-city-butch, "I am looking for a woman. You are supposed to know things. You are the one who runs Source."
"Are you sure you want a woman? How about a really attractive boy?"
"I am looking for a knockout of a redhead. Her name is Dr. Kathleen O'Donnell."
"Oh, that little matter," said Lord Phiiliston, clutching his chest in relief. "I thought you wanted her as a bed partner. You mean it's business-related?"
Remo nodded.
"Well, of course you can have her. She is staying in one of my personal safe houses. You can have anything you want."
"Where is she?"
"Well, you've got to give me what I want first." Remo grabbed the smooth throat and pressured the jugular vein until the handsome features of Lord Philliston became red, then painfully blue. Then he released. "You'll need me to get in."
"I don't need anyone to get in anywhere."
"I can help you. Just do me one favor. Do that thing with your hands again. You know the spot."
Remo let Lord PhiIliston down on the stone and wiped his hands on the Britisher's cashmere sweater. He snared a bunch of it for a handle and dragged Lord Philliston with him back through the tunnel. Remo had questions to ask. Why were the British obstructing him? Didn't they know that the entire world was in jeopardy? What was going on? It was not difficult to ask these questions while moving quickly through the underground escape tunnel. The problem was in getting answers. Lord Philliston tended to bang against the rough rock walls as they moved. He was gashed. He was cut. He was brutalized. By the time they surfaced to where Remo had discovered the entrance, Lord Guy Philliston was battered and quivering.
He was also in love.
"Do that again. Once more. Please," said the head of the super-secret special British security agency. The car was still waiting for the American. The survivors packed into the back seat had decided that he had done his worst, and if they didn't move, would do no more.
They saw the American appear from the exact spot he had descended into. Behind him was the man they had all learned to respect and trust.
The British colonel thought he might try a desperate lunge toward the American. His body wouldn't move. The intelligence chief wondered what Sir Guy was doing.
"Is he following him or being dragged?" he asked. "Don't know for sure. Lord Philliston is biting his hand, I think."
"No. Not biting. Look."
"I don't believe it."
As the American opened the car door, they all saw the undeniable pressing of their chief's lips to the American's hand. The head of the unit to which they had devoted their lives was kissing the hand that dragged him.
"Sir," snapped the colonel.
"Oh, bugger off," said Philliston. He knew what they were thinking.
"A bit improper, what?" said the colonel.
The unit chief, who had been assigned an MI code but who had secretly worked for Source, gave Lord Philliston a big wink. He was sure this was some sort of maneuver of his, something so cunning that only a master of intelligence could think of it. He vowed to be ready to move against the American when the time came. The head of Source saw the wink, and returned it. Strangely he added another sign. It was his palm on the inside of the station chief's hand.
"Driver, to the Tower of London," said Philliston. He moved from the rear seat to the little pull-up seat just behind the driver facing the back. There was blood on a few of the men crushed there. One of them still pretended not to recognize him, as was the order with any secret personnel like himself. A bit silly, Philliston thought. The American seemed to sit without a chair. As the car lurched over the roads, everyone else seemed to bounce but the American.
"She's in the Tower of London?"
"Of course. Excellent safe house. Has been since 1066," said Lord Philliston.
"That's a tourist attraction, isn't it?" asked Remo.
"Whole bloody island is a tourist attraction," said Lord Philliston. "If we weren't using Philliston Hall as headquarters, we'd be bloody well selling tickets to it."
"Why are you holding back information from your allies?" said Remo.
"Everybody holds back information from everybody else," said Lord Philliston.
"Don't take it personally, please. Personally I would give you anything." He ran a tongue along his lower lip.
Brilliant portrayal of a flaming fag, thought the station chief. And the American just may be suckered in. But why is he giving away the location of safe house eleven?
"Are you aware that we all may be burning up in the sun's unfiltered rays if we don't go by nuclear holocaust first? Did you know that? Does it mean anything to you guys?"
"You are taking things personally," said Lord Philliston.
"I always take the end of the world personally," said Remo. "I am personally in it. So is everything I love personally in it. Also some things I don't like."
"What's this about filtered sun? Unfiltered?" asked the colonel.
"Ozone. Without that ozone shield no one could survive. I am trying to trace the source of a weapon that threatens it. I would appreciate your cooperation. Dr. O'Donnell was running the test on this side of the Atlantic. Now, why are you people withholding information from us?"
"Ozone? How are they doing that?" said the station chief.
Remo tried to remember whether it was fluorocarbons or fluorides, or spray cans, or what.
"We'll find out when we get there, all right?" he said. All the way to London, his men listened to Lord Guy Philliston portray a flaming fag in love with a brute. It was shameful and disgraceful, but every one of them knew he was doing it for England. Everyone except the station chief, who sat on Lord Philliston's other side and continuously had to protect the zipper on his fly.
Chapter 7
The message was clear, but brief. The American had not been misled in Great Britain. According to the fragments of information received in Moscow, the American was at this very moment outside the gates of the Tower of London, the perfect safe house he was not supposed to find. How he'd gotten there was not explained. Whether he realized the woman was being held at he Tower was not mentioned. Only the short notification of danger came through to British desk, KGB Moscow.
It came with a message equally brief, this from the psychological officer. The American woman was about to tell them everything.
The time had come to wrap all this up. KGB British desk Moscow immediately sent back a message regarding the American: "Put him down."
He was to be killed, despite all the ranting and raving from that old revolutionary leader Zemyatin, who seemed strangely concerned with the danger of one man. The KGB had more and better killers at its disposal today.
Very shortly, the American nuisance would be removed and the woman would lead them to everything they needed.
Kathy O'Donnell knew nothing of the messages going across the Atlantic or that someone was coming to rescue her. She didn't want to be rescued.
Until this day, she realized, she had not known real happiness. She was in a room whose floors and walls were stone, on a rough bed, with a man who really excited her. How he did it, she was not sure, but she didn't care. The excitement had started during the experiment at Malden and just hadn't stopped. It was wonderful, and she would do practically anything to keep it going.
Even as the rough hands pinched the soft parts of her body and the cruel mouth laughed, she remembered what had happened at the Valden site, where she met this Russian fellow. Perhaps he was the first real man she had ever known.