Dark Ages полностью

“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.”

Remo looked. Sure enough, there was a tiny image of a street swarming with people and the little gold dot in the middle had to be Wylings’s carriage.

“I think he got more than he bargained for. Little Father,” Remo said.

“He shall soon,” Chiun said.

Sir James Wylings couldn’t help but be amused at the predicament. He was a victim of his own success.

Londoners were in a frenzy. The queen was marrying. They were getting a new king. Today.

Every royal watcher knew this was highly unusual. No sort of protocol was being followed. The queen didn’t just get married—not without long courtship, at least a full year for the engagement, and months of planning for the royal wedding. As for crowning a king on the very day of the wedding—outrageous!