California and Washington state did not exist under any name. Instead, British Columbia's southern border had been lowered all the way to Baja California. The entire territory was labeled "Dominion of Canada."
And across the entire length of the map, in Old English lettering, was the legend "UNITED COLONIES (CIRCA 1992)."
In one corner, a tiny notation mocked him: P. M. Looncraft, cart.
"My God!" Smith gasped. "How does that lunatic intend to make this happen?"
Smith abandoned the file and scanned the other file names. He called up the one called "CROWN," intrigued because it was also the password.
Smith got a table of organization for Crown Acquisitions, Limited. P. M. Looncraft was listed as president. There were two other names listed on its board of directors. Douglas Lippincott, whom Smith knew to be Looncrafts business banker, and, astonishingly, DeGoone Slickens.
"They're all in it together," Smith said. Then, in response to his own outburst, he asked the darkness. "But what are they in?"
Smith tried another file, this one called "GUARD."
This time, he got a roster, complete with military rankings, of something called the Cornwallis Guard.
"Cornwallis," Smith muttered. "He was the general who surrendered at Yorktown at the end of the American Revolution. "
Most of the roster names meant nothing to Smith. Except for seven of them. They were the killers from the Nostrum massacre. Smith saw that William Bragg was listed as a colonel.
Frowning, Smith abandoned the file and dug out the printout Remo had given him.
"Loyalists and conscripts," he muttered. He picked up the red telephone.
"What is it, Smith?" the President asked, out of breath. Obviously he had run into the Lincoln Bedroom to answer.
"Mr. President, I have nothing new to report," Smith told him. "But I do have a question."
"Shoot. "
"Are you a client of the investment brokerage of Looncraft, Dymstar d?"
"No. Why?"
"I can't tell you that," Smith said quickly. "Would you know if the Vice-President is one of their clients?"
"No idea. Want me to ask?"
"No," Smith said. "Do not even mention the name to him."
"Can I ask what this is all about?"
"No. "
"Well, is something wrong? You haven't lost the Social Security Trust Fund, have you?"
"No. It remains safe. For now. I must return to my work, Mr. President. I'll update you when I have something solid."
"But, Smith-"
Smith hung up, confident that the President, no matter how agitated, would not call back. He knew the ground rules. CURE was autonomous-a safeguard built in to protect the agency from being abused by a politically ruthless President.
Smith leaned back in his chair. A picture was beginning to form. No wonder Looncraft had acquired Slickens' interest in GLB so readily. They were in cahoots. Infamous business enemies on the surface, they were actually allies. As was Lippincott. Smith shuddered. The Lippincott family went back to the American Revolution, as did Looncraft's family. Slickens was another matter. He was from Texas. He didn't fit the profile.
Smith addressed his computer again. The night was young. He had much to do. But now he had the pieces. It was just a matter of fitting and refitting them until he had a coherent picture.
Chapter 21
"They are a gray people living in a gray land," Chiun was saying. The lights were low in the British Airways cabin. The window shades were lowered against the midAtlantic moonlight. The sound of the 747's engines had settled to a monotonous drone. "Gray and rude." Chiun's voice rose at that last, waking several dozing passengers.
A British Airways hostess came up the isle and bestowed upon Chiun an "I'm-embarrassed-to-bring-this-up, but" smile.
"Excuse me, luv," she said in an undertone, "but would you be a dear and lower your voice? Some of the others are trying to catch a bit of sleep."
"Be gone, daughter of Gaul."
"I'll talk to him," Remo said, smiling back with equal politeness.
"That's a dear. If you'd like more tea, let me know."
After the hostess had left, Chiun complained to Remo.
"Can you imagine the rudeness of that one?" he squeaked. "Interrupting our private conversation."
"You were disturbing the other passengers," Remo whispered back. "And I for one am getting tired of your carping. "
"I do not carp," Chiun said evenly. " I instruct. If we are to root out this foul plot, you must know the kind of people we are dealing with."
"I know what I'm dealing with," Remo said sourly. "I've been to England a couple of times. Without you. And I got along fine."
"How did you survive? The British know nothing of rice. They eat potatoes." Chiun spat the word like an epithet.
" I used to like potatoes when I was a kid," Remo said in a reasonable voice.
"What do children know? The English are the only people who consider the potato a delicacy. That is why their skins are so unhealthy. They eat too many potatoes, which they dig from the dirt."
"I thought it was the cloudy weather that made them pale. "
"A curse from the gods to punish them for excessive potato eating," Chiun sniffed.
Remo rolled his eyes. He noticed an empty seat across the aisle and decided to take it. Left alone, Chiun began to talk in a louder voice.
Remo tried to ignore Chiun's rantings. It was something about the First Great Idiocy of the Barbarians-which Remo knew to be Chiun's code phrase for the First World War-being a squabble between Queen Victoria's grandchildren, who had gotten out of hand and effectively closed down the West as a Sinanju client because all the killing was being done by mere soldiers and farmers, not professionals.
Muttering to himself, Remo returned to his original seat. Chiun resumed speaking in quieter tones so that only Remo had to endure them.
"Name one good thing about the British," Chiun said at one point.
"They drink tea, just like you."
Chiun snorted derisively. "They drink black tea. Not green. Black tea and dirty potatoes."
"I give up."
"Good. "
The 747 landed at Heathrow just as the sun was coming up. Remo had not slept a wink, but because night had lasted only four hours, his brain was tricked into thinking otherwise.
In the busy terminal, Remo exchanged his money for British pounds. He was about to phone Smith, when he heard the name Remo Stallone paged. He realized that was him.
Smith's voice came through the airport courtesy phone.
"Nice timing," Remo told Smith. "We're at Heathrow."
"Obviously," Smith said without sarcasm. "I've confirmed the worst. This entire plot does have British origins. And somehow the Vice-President is part of it."
"No kidding," Remo said.
"Remo, things are happening here. I'm picking up rumors about the instability of the U. S. treasury-bond market. I know they're false, but these rumors are spreading like wildfire. Once this hits the media, it may start something irreversible."
"Not my problem. What have you got for me and Chiun?"
Smith hesitated. "Nothing but a map of the United States as it will be if the plot succeeds. I pulled it off Looncraft's computer. I'm waiting for morning. Until Looncraft contacts his British superior through his office terminal, I have no way to trace these chess-code messages to their source."
"Source . . ." Remo said thoughtfully.
"Beg pardon?"
"You just gave me a first place to go. The Source. It's that British supersecret counterintelligence agency. I've dealt with them before. Let's see what Chiun and I can shake out of them."
"Do it."
Remo hung up and turned to Chiun.
"Smith says we shake up the place. We'll start with the dippy Source."