Warren Murphy - Hostile Takeover

It was there that Harold Smith would be forced to make the ultimate choice of his life-between loyalty to his country and duty to his father.

For the hundredth time, Smith read through the closely typed letter his father had written so many years ago.

Finally he put it back into its original envelope and closed the briefcase. He closed his red-rimmed eyes as well. The long ride from London to Oxford would be about one hundred minutes long. And Smith knew he'd need his sleep for the final resolution of this incredible matter.

Chapter 30

"Sir Quincy, I am Harold W. Smith. Harold Winston Smith."

Sir Quincy blinked. "Of the Vermont Smiths?"

"Exactly. I received my orders today."

"Well, dash it all, man. What are you doing here? You should be going about your business. There is work to be done."

"Hold the phone," Remo Williams put in. " I have a question."

Both Smith and Sir Quincy looked to Remo.

"What happened to your wheelchair?" Remo demanded hotly.

"Not now," Smith said peevishly.

"Yes, now. I've been working for you on this because you needed me. You couldn't use your legs, you said. And here you just stroll in like a frigging stork in a three-piece suit. "

"Remo, Please. I have to know about Sir Quincy's operation. "

"Be glad to fill you in," Remo snapped. "He's behind it, all right. Says the royal family put him up to it. He's some mastermind, too. He's not exactly up on the fine details. I was just about to take him out when you sauntered in."

"No," Smith said firmly. "You will not kill this man. That's an order."

"I don't work for you, so I don't take orders from you," Remo said, grabbing Sir Quincy by the collar. He lifted the man off the threadbare rug.

"Unhand me, you . . . you vulgarian!" Sir Quincy sputtered.

" I was thinking about a heart-stopping punch," Remo suggested. "Say, right about here." He stabbed Sir Quincy in the chest, above the heart muscle.

Sir Quincy went white. He looked like a crow that had gotten his head into a flour sack.

"Remo, no!" Smith said hoarsely. He grabbed for Remo's hand, desperately attempting to pry his fingers loose from Sir Quincy's gown collar. They might have been cast of metal.

"What's with you, Smith?" Remo asked in exasperation. "This is the head market manipulator. We take him out and it's over."

"No, it is not over. This man knows the secret behind a conspiracy that dates back to the days of the American Revolution."

"He said something about that, yeah," Remo admitted. "How'd you know that?"

"Put him down and I'll tell you," Smith said calmly.

Remo shook Sir Quincy like a drowned rat. "I like killing him better."

"You no longer work for the organization," Smith pointed out. "Killing this man is not your responsibility."

Remo thought about that. He released Sir Quincy from his grasp. The don struck the rug like a black sack of kindling.

"I don't like being manipulated," Remo warned Smith.

"This is important," Smith said, helping Sir Quincy to his feet. He sat him down on a faded lumpy sofa near the fireplace.

Remo folded his arms angrily, but he didn't interfere.

"Sir Quincy, first let me apologize for your rude treatment."

"What!" Remo exploded.

"I must ask you this," Smith went on "Who gave you the signal?"

"I can answer that," Remo said. "The Duchess of York, no less."

Smith shot Remo a harsh glance. "That is not funny."

"It is true," Sir Quincy said as he brushed off his gown.

"What? The Duchess of York? Prince Andrew's wife?"

"Quite. It was planned all along. As the Royal Reclamation Charter stipulates, when a member of the royal family gives birth to a girl and names her Beatrice, that will be considered the signal to begin implementing the Grand Plan."

"What?" Smith's haggard face was comical in its dumbfoundedness.

"It's really quite sound, my dear chap. As you know-as you should know-the royal family must obtain the approval of every branch of the family, no matter how distant, before a name can be decided upon. Not only the queen mother and the queen, but the distant relatives in the Netherlands and elsewhere must be consulted. And agreement must be unanimous. It is quite foolproof."

"I see," Smith said. "And the nature of the takeover?"

"Actually, I'm somewhat muddy on the details. The Loyalists handle that end of it, chiefly Percy."

"Percy?" Remo wanted to know.

"Looncraft," Smith supplied.

"Sterling lad. Like his forefathers. The Looncraft family quartered in the Fourth Regiment-the King's Own-during the Rebellion, you know. Yes, the Looncrafts were the family charged with the duty of effectuating the Grand Plan once they received the signal from me."

"By computer?" Smith asked.

"Confounded nuisance," Sir Quincy said gruffly. "I do not like the bloody things. Refuse to have a telephone. But the mails, you know, they're so dashed slow these days. "

"It's like that in the States too," Remo said sourly.

"Quiet " Smith said flatly. "Go on, Sir Quincy. What is the plan?"

"Why, dear boy, you must have an inkling by now. To compel the colonies back into the fold, of course."

"By force?"

"No, dear boy. Nothing so dreadful. We bear no ill will toward our wayward cousins. Even back to King George. He felt that the colonies couldn't survive without the protection of Mother England. That proved untrue, which he foresaw, and so he created the Grand Plan. The idea was brilliant. To force America into financial ruin, so that it must rejoin the empire. I imagine this stockmarket business has something to do with it."

"Sir Quincy," Smith said firmly, "you must know that the British economy is in very sorry shape right now."

"That's an understatement," Remo snorted.

Sir Quincy cleared his throat. "I have heard rumblings," he admitted, "but every era has its lean periods. Things will bounce back, don't you fret. Everything will be all right if we simply keep our peckers up, as the young ones are so fond of saying."

"Unbelievable," Remo said, throwing his head back and staring at the yellowing ceiling. "This guy doesn't even live in the real world. He thinks it's still the eighteenth century."

Smith glared at Remo. In a calm voice he told Sir Quincy, "You must stop this. It's wrecking the British economy. "

"Oh, stuff and nonsense. England will endure. You must have faith in our traditions. We are too hardy a race to perish over some minor economic hiccup."

"The global markets are in turmoil," Smith said firmly. "There is financial panic in London. The pound sterling is depreciating by the minute."

"Confound it! Have those colonists mucked this up?"

Smith stared at Sir Quincy. "You don't even know the operational details of the plan," he said in a small voice.

"The Grand Plan," Sir Quincy corrected, "and no, I do not. History is my forte, not economics. I am merely the man who lights the lighthouse that will bring the colonial ship back to home port. The details are not my concern. "

"They should be," Smith said harshly. "Given the current economic situation, England will be ruined long before America if your people persist in this mad scheme. You must call them off."

"I cannot. There is no way to stop it. Nor would I. And on what authority? The word of a Yank who doubtless drinks his ale ice-cold and doesn't have the breeding to knot his necktie with a full Windsor?"

Smith touched his tie self-consciously.

"Dartmouth?" Sir Quincy asked, noticing the stripes.

"Yes," Smith said tightly.

"Worthy school, I hear. It's not Oxford, but what is?"

Smith noticed the oversize tea cozy on the writing desk. A gray electric cord snaked out from under it. He pulled the tea cozy off, revealing a computer terminal.