o! We are not sneaking into the Museum dressed as Catholic school girls!" exclaimed The Preacher upon seeing The Poet enter his Chelsea study dressed in the hiked up kilt, knee high stockings, and crested sportscoat that have inspired men's hearts since the advent of Catholicism.
Tisiphone's Angels had retired to the comfort of The Preacher's west end flat in order to make the final preparations for the assault on the venerable British Museum. After the night's excitement, the virttuous trio settled down to hammer out a working plan to secure the blueprints of the RAF's "radar".
"Well, I don't hear you making any brilliant suggestions as to what we should disguise ourselves as," retorted The Poet as he removed the stylish platinum blonde wig that had taken him near an hour to adhere to his head.
"Look," threw in The Palaver, "we don't need a disguise for this mission. We're all allowed into the sub-basement where they are keeping the plans. All we have to do is walk in and take them."
"Wrong," corrected The Preacher, "Even if we do manage to do that, they'll notice that the plans are gone, and it won't take them long to put two and two together and send an entire division after us. No, we have to be subtle."
"Subtle? What subtle?" exclaimed The Poet, "Everytime we try to do a mission, we follow one of your well laid plans, then half way through it, the whole thing goes to hell, and we end up making lots of noise and causing lots of property damage."
"That's because you can't keep to the plan. If you followed your orders, then maybe we could pull something off without incident," scolded The Preacher.
"Hey, I'm not the one who got distracted with that bit of string that night in Malta."
"Shh! We're never talking about Malta again."
And so, kind readers, our Angels were reunited at long last.
The Poet settled into the overstuffed burgundy armchair of The Preacher's study, readjusting his brassiere, while The Palaver handed out geneous portions out of a new bottle of Burdon's Dry Sherry.
"I've got it," said The Preacher, contemplating the copperish hue of the fine spirit. "This is what we're going to do..."
As the day wore on over the bustling streets of London, our heroes tended to the task at hand. Occasionally pausing only to raid the cabinet where the rector kept the sherry and the sacramental wine.
At the same time, in the far off city of Berlin, a lone man wearing a black leather trench coat arrived at the headquarters of the SS. The man was Carl VonBeer. His parcel destined for the inner sanctum of Germany's highest ranking officials.
As the sun went down over the streets of London, three bearded men, wearing similar black trenchcoats, sunglasses, and carrying photographic camers, tourists maps of the city, and commemorative replicas of the Tower, paid the price of admission at the venerable Museum.
"Yes, vee are looking for zee King Tut exhibition, please," said one of the German tourists to the lady at the information desk.
"Yes, sir. Its right over there on your left."
"Zank you," said another one of the tourists.
The three men shuffled along to the exhibition and positioned themselves in front of the bust of the ancient Egyptian monarch.
"This is never going to work," said The Palaver to his companions.
"It will work. Trust me," replied The Poet.
"It better work," said The Preacher. "At least Dirk and I know German."
After a few minutes of ooing and ahhing in the Egyptology room, the three well disguised heroes moved along down the corridors of the Museum in a mock search of the restroom facilities. Before long, the three, "lost" men, came upon the door leading down to the basement and storage areas of the museum. The dark staircase wound down to the bowels of the city itself.
"You know," said The Palaver, "the more I think about this, the more foolish it seems. I mean, its a good enough idea to frame the Nazis for the job. At least they'll be searching for three Germans, and not for us. But then again, THEY'RE LOOKING FOR NAZIS ALREADY!"
"Shh!" replied The Preacher. "All we have to do is make it to the sub-basement. Once we're there, you use your Romantiziser, and Dirk will use his Rhetoriziser to keep the RAf guards at bay, while I snatch the plans."
"What about your Baptizer?" asked The Poet.
"Its no good against our own guys. Most of them are Church of England already. It will be a few more decades before us Anglicans recognize the baptismal rites of those other quack protestant religions."
"What about the Catholics?" asked The Palaver.
"Shh! There's the elevator to the sub-basement. Alright, Dirk, enter your access code," commanded Agammemnon.
"Um... Aggy?" asked The Poet.
"What is it?"
"Access codes haven't been invented yet. That's from the script of our next adventure, where we go around saving the world in a post-Apocalyptic environment. All you need is a key."
"Fine! Use your key, Dirk."
Dirk skillfully inserted his access key into the appropriate hole, allowing him to call up the lift that would transport them ever closer to their goal. As the elevator doors opened, our heroes readied and armed their weapons. The palaver, armed with his awesome Rhetoriziser. The Poet armed with his Romantiziser. A weapon of inspiring power. One blast from the Romantiziser and a roomful of hardened, illiterate criminals would find themselves reciting love poetry to one another, and pining away for mysterious young virgins sequestered far away from them, and inviting each other to candle-lit dinners, and moonlight walks in Hyde Park, and ordering roses by the dozens. Yes, The Poet had the power of love on his side. People of any station in life, and of any vileness of heart would soon forget their Machiavellian plans to dwell instead in the land of unrequited love and heartbroken longing.
Down our heroes went, until the lift's lights indicated that they had reached their destination.
"Ping!" went the elevator and the doors slid open.
At once The Palaver leapt into action, catching one of the four guards completely by surprise, and submitting him to a detailed discussion of Adam Smith's theories of economics. The guard screamed in terror, but it was too late! His feet were firmly planted to the ground. With all his might he tried to steady his arms but to no avail. His hand reached up for his chin, stroking it pensively, and attentively. He was trapped. All he could do now was wait and listen, and learn the intricacies of the origins of Laisez Faire economics.
Simoultaneously, The Poet fired his weapon, catching two more guards who were reaching for their side arms. Instantly, one guard dropped to one knee, and turned on his companion.
"You know, Phil, I have something to tell you," said the hapless romantizised guard. "Your eyes, Phil, burn through my soul like the fires of Hephaestos' furnace. Everyday that I come to work, oh lovely Phil, my heart is ravaged by the ardous thought of having you this close to me, yet being so far..."
The guard was done for. And Phil had not fared better.
"Stephen, if I may quote Ben Jonson, "Drink to me only with thine eyes..."
That took care of three guards, but the last one had managed to duck aside from both of the Angels' weapons. And as the action intesified, this lone guard reached out to tackle The Preacher who was on his way to snatch the rolled up blueprints sitting on the desk at the far end of the room.
The Preacher sidestepped the guard, but to no avail, as he soon found himself hitting the floor, being pinned on his back by the guard. As the two men struggled valiantly, The Preacher noticed the bit of bread that had slipped out of his utlility belt. This was it,. His only chance. With practiced dexterity he freed one of his arms from the guard's hold, momentarily throwing the pinner off balance. But that was all the time that The Preacher needed. With the speed of God, Agammemnon reached for the communion wafer and crammed it into the guard's mouth!
"The body of Christ," smiled The Preacher.
Instantly the guard fell back, off of the Preacher, spitting as best he could. He'd just recieved communion, and felt a distinct calmness of spirit, and rejuvination of the soul. Suddenly it all became clear to the guard, and he fell to his knees in devotional prayer, as specified in the traditions and practises of the Anglican Church.
But The Preacher had no time to lose, so he deftly raced to the opposite end of the room and grabbed the plans. Britain was safe.
Our heroes ran back to the lift, swiftly discarding the trappings that marked them as SS officers, and leaving them behind at the scene so as to confuse the authorities upon their investigation.
Within minutres, three men, one dressed in a tailored three piece grey suit, another clad in the vestments of the priesthood, and another wearing a tuxedo without a tie, emerged from the Museum's doors, and swiftly hailed a cab.
"To Victoria Station my good man!" exclaimed Agammemnon. "If we hurry we can still catch the overnight to Edinburgh."
And with that gentle readers, our valiant heroes were on their way to Scotland, and to the home of the McAllan. Britain's future had been secured. The plans for the radar were now in the hands of the good guys. Or were they?
"That was easy enough," said The Palaver, as they arrived at the train station.
"Too easy," replied The Poet.
Coming soon:
Part V: Scotland, (or, "Doesn't anybody speak English around here?")
