"Dippy?" Chiun asked as they entered the underground station.
"They're sort of the British version of CURE. Except everyone knows their address. When I'm in town and I need information, I always go there first. They know everything-except how to keep secrets."
Standing on the platform, oblivious of the occasional arched English eyebrow, Remo and Chiun waited for the next train.
"We're going to Trafalgar Square," he told Chiun. "Any idea if we're on the right line?"
Before Chiun could answer, a man in a bowler and wearing a red carnation in his lapel piped up, "Trafalgar Square, Yank? Be delighted to direct you. You have the right line. Take the Cockfosters train to Piccadilly Circus. It's a short hop, skip, and jump from there."
"Thanks, pal," Remo told him.
"Enjoy your stay, Yank. Cheerio."
A gunmetal train rumbled into the station and they boarded, ducking first to avoid bumping their heads on the low doorframe.
"See?" Remo said. "The British are very friendly."
"Perhaps he was Irish," Chiun snapped, looking around at the passengers' faces. There were as many Indians and blacks as English.
As the train rattled from station to station, Remo remarked, "I'll say one thing. Hearing an authentic English accent is a relief after listening to Looncraft and his pseudoBritish crap. At least these people sound the way they should. "
Checking the car's railway map, he remarked, "We just left Gloucester Road Station. It's only five more stops."
"It is pronounced 'Gloster,' " Chiun sniffed. "They only spell it that ridiculous way to confuse the unwary."
Minutes later they emerged at Piccadilly Circus. It was a busy six-way intersection of stores and restaurants.
"Which way?" Remo wondered.
"You are asking me?" Chiun said, annoyed.
A turbaned East Indian happened to pass by and Remo grabbed him by the sleeve.
"Excuse me, pal, but we're looking for Trafalgar Square."
"Trafalgar, gov?" the man asked in a thick cockney accent. "Hit's just down 'Aymarket. You can't miss hit, eh?"
"Yeah, thanks," Remo said in a vague voice. He saw the street sign that read "HAYMARKET." He figured that was what the man meant. Maybe.
"You were saying?" Chiun asked.
"Nothing," Remo said. "This place takes some getting used to."
As they walked through the bright English morning, a red double decker bus trundled by.
Chiun, looking at a billboard on its side, let out a shriek of disbelief.
"The barbarians!" he cried.
Remo followed his shaking finger. The billboard showed a lady's hand dangling a piece of string over a cup rim. It said: "Do the Jiggle Dip Dunk." Remo couldn't imagine what was being advertised, and said so.
"Tea bags!" Chiun spat. "The British never stooped this low before."
"Tea bags?"
"It is barbarism at its worst."
As they walked along, they passed a McDonald's, a Kentucky Fried Chicken, and a British fast-food establishment called Wimpy.
"This is unbelievable," Chiun said shrilly. "They are sinking into . . . into . . ."
"Americanism," Remo suggested.
"Exactly! Americanism. It is beyond understanding. A century ago the world suffered under what they called Pax Britannica. Now it is Shop American that rules."
"I don't see why you're getting so worked up about a people you don't like in the first place," Remo said reasonably. "Besides, I hear they even have Kentucky Fried Chicken in China now."
"The British used to have standards, miserable as they were," Chiun complained. "But this is a new low even for them. "
Chiun didn't stop complaining until they came to Trafalgar Square and its four proud lions guarding Nelson's Column. Remo looked around for the apothecary shop that occupied the ground floor of Source headquarters.
"There it is," Remo said. He led Chiun to a door that connected to the second floor. The door was locked. Remo popped it with the heel of his hand. They walked through cobwebs and up the steps to the musty second floor. It was unlocked. The suite of offices on the other side was empty.
"I don't get it," Remo said wonderingly.
"What is there to get? They moved."
"Hold on," Remo said, heading back down the stairs.
At the apothecary shop Remo put a question to the chemist.
"I'm looking for Guy Phillistone."
"Would you mean Sir Guy?"
"That's the one. Know where he lives?"
"That I do. He has a flat at Number One Buckingham Place."
"How long ago? He might have fixed it by now."
The chemist looked doubtful. "I was referring to his digs. "
"You mean his apartment."
"I imagine that I do."
"That near Buckingham Palace?" Remo asked.
"Righteo. "
"Much obliged."
Remo joined Chiun outside, where a brief morning sprinkle was just beginning.
"Want to take a bus?" Remo suggested.
"No," Chiun retorted. "When one comes to London, one must expect to get wet."
"Suit yourself."
They strolled under the massive Admiralty Arch and down the tree-lined Mall, past the Queen Victoria Monument, which faced Buckingham Palace's huge forecourt.
"It's gotta be around here somewhere," Remo said outside the Buckingham Palace gates. The sidewalk was thick with tourists.
" I will ask that one," Chiun said, slipping between bars that a child could not squeeze through. He strode up to a red-uniformed guard whose tall bearskin hat resembled a black licorice cotton-candy cone.
"Forget it," Remo called after him. "Those guys never talk."
"You, potato eater!" Chiun accused. "Direct us to Buckingham Place."
The guard stood stolidly, looking neither right nor left.
"I told you so," Remo said.
"You are well-trained," Chiun told the man in a quiet voice. Then, his tone darkening, "But I am in a hurry." And he took the guard's rifle from his rigid two-handed grasp.
The guard looked to either side frantically. The nearest guard looked stolidly ahead, pretending to be unaware of his comrade's predicament. The first guard took a crouching step toward the Master of Sinanju. Chiun swatted him on the head with the butt of his own rifle. The hat swallowed his head. The guard reached up with both hands to remove it.
Chiun took that opportunity to trip him. He stepped onto the guard's squirming stomach.
"Buckingham Place!" Chiun repeated. "Where is it?"
"Go left. Off Buckingham Gate!" his muffled voice said.
"Thank you," the Master of Sinanju said, dropping the rifle on the guard's black-furred head. He stepped off his scarlet stomach and joined Remo outside the gate.
As they walked off; Remo said, "That wasn't necessary."
"That man was rude. The economy of the world is hanging in the balance and he is playing soldier."
Number One Buckingham Place was a Georgian brick town house at the end of a row of town houses. Remo knocked on the door and waited politely.
The man who answered was tall and had sandy hair and eyebrows. A meershaum pipe whose bowl was carved to represent Anne Boleyn's decapitated head smoldered before his sharp nose.
He took one look at Remo and dropped his pipe. He couldn't get the door closed fast enough.
Unfortunately for Sir Guy Phillistone, head of Britain's supersecret Source, he couldn't get it closed ahead of Remo's strong arms. Remo pushed his way in, Chiun trailing.
"Remember me?" Remo asked brightly.
"Rather. You are that American lunatic."
"That's not polite. And here I've been telling my friend how nice you British are."
"How did you find me? What do you want of me?"
"In answer to number one, I asked at the apothecary shop. "
"Drat!" said Sir Guy Phillistone.
"That's not the word I would have used," Remo said. "But to answer number two, I want everything you know about the plot to wreck the world's stock exchanges."