Wylings’s hired band played. The police struggled to hold back the crowds, and four attendants—four, count ’em—came to perform the act of opening the doors from the airport terminal to the drive. Delightfully, it was an automatic door and the assistance was purely ceremonial. This was getting grand indeed!
Of course Wylings was paying for all this attendance, just as he paid for the carriage restoration and rented the horses and hired the standard-bearers and even purchased the big Union Jacks they were carrying. He spent a mint on the virgin-red cad carpet upon which he strolled from the terminal doors to the waiting carriage.
The people threw confetti, which he had paid to purchase and distribute. He waved, with one hand, showing royal restraint, and gripped his thin briefcase in the other hand.
The world was watching it all on their televisions— even if they did not know what they were watching yet. There would be rumors flying, because Wylings had himself tipped off the media.
Maybe Buckingham Palace would confirm the rumor and maybe they would demure. They were probably trying to think their way out of this situation in a hurry. They wouldn’t be able to. Wylings had planned everything too carefully. He had even had a hand in writing the speeches of support to be delivered by his comrades, Dolan and Sykes, after the coronation festivities.
For now, the royals would be keeping mute—but they would not risk denying the rumors. That was as good as a confirmation. The media were receiving the carefully prepared portfolio on James Wylings, which emphasized that he was a royal insider and even had distant blood ties to the royal family. Given his position in English royal society, marrying the queen of England would seem like a reasonable explanation for Wylings suddenly rating a splendid royal processional.
Wylings relaxed into the seat of the carriage as the parade began to move, away from Heathrow and toward London. It was going to be a slow trip, certainly, but even that was a part of Wylings’s strategy. The media frenzy needed time to build into a mountain. There would be massive efforts underway to get teams into London capable of covering an event as major as an impromptu royal wedding and coronation. Wylings wanted them to have all the time they needed. The whole world should be watching when he achieved his station.
The trouncing was awful and the cushions were designed to be decorative, not comfortable. His tailbone was getting bruised. He tried to adjust his behind, but there just didn’t seem to be a comfortable place for his royal butt.
“I’m getting a royal pain in the ass!” he mumbled to himself, and he had to restrain himself from snorting aloud as he passed a bunch of cheering old ladies on the curb. Snorting was not the dignified behavior of a king of England, but the private joke was funny.
Wylings, old man, take control. You’re getting giddy.
Well, why in blazes couldn’t he get a little giddy? He was about to become the king of England! Nothing could stop that now.
But blast, his rump was sure complaining.
Chapter 35
The private jet landed smoothly, braked to about fifty miles per hour, and the hatchway flew off as if blown with explosives.
“What the hell?” demanded the air-traffic coordinator in the control tower. Something flashed in front of his vision and twisted. Was he seeing things? Was it a figure with a pale, raisin face in a brilliant, multicolored robe? It was moving so fast he couldn’t be sure—it slipped from the still-speeding aircraft and flattened, rolling under the aircraft and between the landing gear. It was like a squirrel trying to make a dash under a large truck going one hundred kilometers per hour on the autobahn. There was only one possible outcome.
But the Learjet Challenger was still rolling down the runway and there was no crumpled figure left behind on the tarmac. The figure was gone now. Where had he-she gone?
“Did you see—?” asked another controller, who was monitoring what seemed to be trouble aboard the chartered jet. The pilots didn’t seem to know why the hatch had popped off.
Another figure appeared in the hatch, then he stepped out of the Learjet, which put the bloody fool right where the wing should have chopped him in two. But the man hit the ground running—and he was running as fast as the jet was rolling, which was impossible. The man increased his speed, zipping up and alongside the cockpit. He seemed to be shrugging to the flight crew, as if to say he was sorry for the trouble.
Then—then he ran around the front of the Learjet and was gone. He should have been run over. He should have been squashed. But he was gone. No body, no nothing.
Funny thing. As amazing as it was, all the air-traffic control coordinator could think about was how much paperwork this was going to require, just to try explaining.
“You’re supposed to leave your seat belt on and stay seated until the aircraft has come to a complete stop,” Remo pointed out. “Where we going?”
“To London.” Chiun was setting a quick pace, determined to make up for the time lost to their late arrival. Every British television channel they could receive on the aircraft—even Eurosport—was covering the procession as their on-air reporters struggled to make sense of it.
Wylings had opted to make a royal parade of his journey to Buckingham Palace, and that gave Remo and Chiun some breathing room.
As soon as they came across some shops, Chiun headed into a storefront electronics store. Remo was four steps behind him, but Chiun met him coming in. Chiun’s hand was wrapped around a small silver gizmo of some kind or another, and it made the store’s alarm system screech.
“Uh, boy.” Remo jogged inside and tried to settle down the excited shopkeepers.
“Did you see that? That old fart had the fastest fingers I’ve ever seen!” The clerk was dialing the police.
“This’ll cover it,” Remo said, dumping a wad of bills on the counter.
“Those are American dollars,” the clerk pointed out.
Remo spread out the wad, so the clerk could see just how many American dollars there were. Many, many of them, mostly twenties. “Will that cover it or not?”
“And then some.”
Chiun reappeared, stepping up onto the counter and holding the clerk by a fold of skin pulled from his buzz-cut scalp.
“Batteries or death, cretin,” Chiun snapped, and shoved the little silver box into the clerk’s face. To his credit, the clerk managed to reach for the shelf behind him, find the correct package of batteries by feel, and hand them up to the little old man. Chiun snatched the batteries, ripped open the package and had them inserted in the electronic device before the clerk completed his messy landing behind the counter.
Then Chiun was gone again.
“Will this cover the batteries, too?” Remo asked.
Remo caught up to Chiun and found the old Master running and watching the screen of his tiny portable TV.
“His procession moves slowly. We will reach him soon,” Chiun announced. “We may be thankful that the fool has a grand ego and wishes to make himself the center of a spectacle before he comes to the palace. The people come to see him and he is caught up in their great numbers.”