Warren Murphy: Hostile Takeover

"I have no sons, only a daughter," Smith said.

"Open it, please."

Smith opened the letter with a red plastic letter opener and extracted a thick sheaf of folded papers. He read the salutation. It was addressed to him.

Smith read along, his eyes widening.

To my son, Harold:

I write this to you in life, but I will be dead when and if you read it. We have had our differences, Harold. You have failed me as a son. I know you bear me ill will because I could not accept your refusal to take over the family firm. I could not tell you otherwise while I lived, but this letter will help you understand that my hopes and dreams for you had nothing to do with publishing those cheap, shoddy magazines, but with something immensely greater.

If there is any family loyalty left in you, Harold, if any particle of red Anglo-Saxon blood flows through your veins, heed it now. Put aside your differences with me, for queen and empire are calling to you with clarion voice to rewrite a terrible wrong that a band of ragtag lawless rabble perpetrated on this proud colony many years ago. I refer to the shameful severing of this country from Mother England.

"Good God," Smith choked. He looked up at Winthrop. "Do you have any idea what this says?"

"I do. Please finish the letter, Dr. Smith."

Smith read on. It was all there, in his own father's handwriting. How after the signing of the Treaty of Yorktown, ending the American Revolution, a cell of Tory sleeper agents had been created on order of King George III. They were to await the proper time, and a signal from the crown, to activate. And by whatever means possible, to bring America to financial ruin.

"My own father . . ." Smith said under his breath. The papers in his hands shook. He shook. His weak gray eyes seemed to recede into his gaunt patrician face.

"Your father is offering you a second chance," Nigel Winthrop was saying quietly. "Here is an opportunity to redeem yourself in his eyes, Smith. You loved your father. Like these colonies, you were strong-willed, stiff-necked, and stubborn. All that is past. I must have your decision now, for my inability to contact you has kept you from entering the fray like the true Englishman that you are by birthright. "

Smith looked up from the letter. There were tears in his eyes.

"But . . . I love my country," he said in a quavering voice.

"Surely you must love your father more," Winthrop said firmly. "And do not fear for America." Winthrop smiled, exposing tea-stained teeth. "It is our country too. We are merely returning it to its proper place in the grand scheme of things. Now, I must have your answer."

Chapter 28

Remo Williams got lost on the A40 and ended up in a pastoral hamlet called Aylesbury.

He had to ask directions of three different people-not because the natives weren't forthcoming with directions, but because he had to hear the same directions three times before the thick local accent was comprehensible to him.

As he got back on the A40, he understood what was meant by whoever had said that Americans and British were a people separated by a common language.

Oxford resembled a crumbling fairyland from a distance, but when he found his way onto its narrow ancient streets, he was surprised to see a Kwik Kopy photocopy outlet and the usual fast-food restaurants. There was even a store that dealt exclusively in comic books, called Comic Showcase.

Remo looked around for a place to park. He caught sight of a space in a long row of undersize European cars on High Street, and he pulled into it--only then noticing the bright red cast-iron device set in the sidewalk. It looked like an overgrown fireplug, and Remo wondered if he'd be towed for parking there.

He decided the economy of the world mattered more than being ticketed.

When he got out, Remo saw that the supposed fireplug was actually a postal drop box. It made him wonder what a British fireplug looked like-a litter basket?

The street was busy with passersby, many of them students carrying books. Remo decided to start with them.

"Excuse me, pal," he asked one. "I'm looking for a Sir Quincy. "

"Sorry. Never heard of the chap. And it is pronounced Quinsee, not Quin-zee, you know."

"Thanks a heap," Remo said, next approaching a middleaged woman, on the theory that no one knew a neighborhood better than a native housewife.

"Sir Quincy, you say, Yank?" she replied. "I don't believe there's ever been a Sir Quincy in these parts. Not as long as I've been here. Are you lost?"

"No," Remo muttered, "but Sir Quincy is. Any suggestions what I could do?"

"Yes. What you should do is have a good sit-down with a nice strong cuppa tea, while you get your bearings. You look positively knackered."

"Actually, I'm just wet," Remo said, wondering what "knackered" meant.

"Good luck to you, then," the woman said, walking away.

"I'll need it," Remo said glumly. "I'm wet, lost, and I barely speak the language."

It started to rain again, and Remo ducked into the nearest store. It was the comic-book shop.

Remo pretended to browse, wondering why there were no copies of Captain Marvel on the shelves. Maybe Billy Batson had finally grown up.

The bell over the door rang, and a pair of book-laden students came in, talking among themselves. One of them spoke American English in a distinctly Oklahoma accent, and to Remo it was as if he'd heard a foghorn in a sea mist.

"Hey, pal. Maybe you can help me," Remo began.

"Sure."

"Ever hear of a Sir Quincy? He's supposed to live around here."

"Sir Quincy Chiswick?" He pronounced it "Chizick."

"That's it," Remo said.

"I know him. He's a don."

"He's Mafia?" Remo said in surprise.

"No. He's a professor. Teaches history. They call them dons. Walk to the end of High Street and turn right. He's on St. John's Street."

"Thanks," Remo said, leaving the store. He ran through the rain, one hand over his eyes. He got lost immediately.

Remo stopped an elderly man in a tweed cap, who seemed completely oblivious of the downpour.

"Can you point me in the general direction of St. John's Street?" Remo pronounced it "Sinjin's Street," because, unlike the American student, he knew that the Brits pronounced "Saint John" as "Sinjin."

"sorry," the elderly man clipped out. "No Sinjin Street in Oxford."

Remo watched him go, muttering, "I must have accidentally blundered into the Twilight Zone or something."

Deciding the old man might possibly have misheard him, Remo entered a dark musty pub.

"Sinjin's Street," he called out. "Anybody ever hear of it?"

"It's pronounced 'St. John's Street,' Yank," a gruff voice called back.

"I thought you Brits pronounced 'St. John' as 'Sinjin,' " Remo complained.

"That we do. But 'St. John's' we pronounce 'St. John's.' "

"Do you people have a rulebook for this stuff; or do you just make it up as you go along?"

"Do you want directions or do you want to hang about complaining?" he was asked.

"I'll take directions. I can always complain later."

"Up the street, walk east and it's at the crosswalk."

Remo found St. John's Street just as the rain began to slacken off: He was soaked to the skin and cold. He willed his blood to move faster through his system to generate heat. Steam actually began to rise from his shoulders and back.

Instead of cold and wet, he felt hot and wet. It was not much of an improvement, and Remo started to look forward to leaving Great Britain.

At Number Fifty St. John's Street, Remo found several nameplates. One said "Chiswick." That couldn't be it. The student had said the last name was "Chizick."

Remo canvassed the street in both directions twice before he realized that finding Sir Quincy Chizick wasn't going to be easy.

It was all he had, and so reluctantly he pressed the bell under the Chiswick nameplate at number fifty.