“Save it for your next book,” she said, and hung up.
She looked at the telephone for a long minute after replacing it, then shrugged, and headed back toward the door. All right. To hell with it. She was an agent, and she would do what her boss had told her to do. There was no room for emotionalism in her trade.
But to herself she smiled. She relished the prospect of looking in on P.J. Kenny and she looked forward to the opportunity to play nurse with him.
And Great Britain’s top agent be damned. May his next dose be fatal.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DR. HAROLD W. SMITH TWISTED around in his swivel chair, studied the waters of Long Island Sound, and felt sorry for himself.
Remo was overdue. He was supposed to have called at noon. He glanced at his watch. Two hours ago. Two hours in CURE could be an eternity. Five minutes of knowing Remo Williams could seem like an eternity.
He could have guessed that the wise bastard wouldn’t call. Why did Remo Williams have to be a wise guy?
Why did he have to work for Dr. Harold W. Smith?
Why did Smith have to run CURE? Why did there have to be a CURE?
God, I feel sorry for me, he thought, as he continued to ask himself the unfamiliar questions, questions he had not really considered in the years he had headed the nation’s most secret organization.
Smith was the quintessential bureaucrat. Given a task of the utmost stupidity, he would perform it capably. He would not worry about the innate stupidity of it.
Of course, he was the ultimate bureaucrat, but with a difference. First, he was intelligent. Second, he was honest. Third, he was an absolute patriot.
Patriotism was sometimes the last refuge of scoundrels who hid themselves by wrapping themselves in the flag. But Smith wrapped himself around the flag to protect it and shield it. So the simple fact was that when a President made a judgment that CURE was necessary in the fight against lawlessness, there was only one man in the government with the background, the honesty, the patriotism, the espionage skills, the administrative know-how, to run it. Dr. Harold W. Smith.
And that was many years ago, and here he was, near pension age, but he knew now there would never be a pension, his children were grown now and he had missed their childhoods, and he was denied even the usual out of the wayward parent: the right to tell his now-grown children, well, this is the way it was and that’s why I couldn’t be there. Even that was denied him.
With a conscious effort of will, he forced the whole package of resentment out of his mind. His problem now was—where was Remo?
He had not called from Algiers, and despite his antics, missing a check-in was something Remo did not do. Somehow, it had penetrated even through Remo’s thick skull that missing a call-in might trigger whole series of events and actions that, once started, would be impossible to call off. So he always called. But today he hadn’t and he was two hours overdue.
That meant trouble. Smith had no faith in the ability of the secret agencies of other countries to stop Nemeroff. He had regarded it as CURE’s assignment, as America’s problem. He had assigned his biggest weapon, Remo Williams, and given him a free hand, hoping that that free hand would be used to kill Nemeroff.
Nemeroff’s name had moved through the CURE crime computers too many times and Smith, probably better than any other man in the world, had a fair idea of the full extent of the baron’s illegal influence. The world would be better rid of him. And Scambia would be better off without its assassination-minded vice president, Asiphar.
He had hoped that that solution would occur to Williams. But now, as the minutes had lengthened into hours and Remo had not called, he began to worry that somehow the solution had become part of the problem.
He watched the waters of the sound for a few minutes longer, then picked up the telephone and gave his secretary a number to call.
In a few minutes, the buzzer rang. He picked up the phone, prepared for his country’s sake, to perform a distasteful service.
“Hello, Chiun. This is Doctor Smith.”
“Yes,” Chiun said. How many times had Smith spoken to him on the phone; how many times had Chiun responded merely, “yes?” It was like talking to a wall.
“I have not heard from your student,” Smith said.
“Nor have I.”
“He has missed his noon check-in.”
“That is apparent if you have not heard from him,” Chiun said.
“What was his mood when he left?”
“If you mean, has he fled from you, the answer is no.”
“Are you sure?” Smith asked.
“I am sure,” Chiun said. “I informed him of a great honor soon to be his. He would not now flee.”
“Perhaps he’s drunk some place?” Smith suggested.
“I think not,” Chiun suggested.
And then, because there was simply nothing left to say by either of them, each hung up. Neither thought to say goodbye.
Smith depressed the receiver with his finger, then called his secretary again. Within a minute, he had set in motion procedures to quietly check upon the whereabouts of a P.J. Kenny who was registered at the Stonewall Hotel in Algiers.
The sun was beginning to dip over the sound when the answer came back. Mr. P.J. Kenny is still registered at the Stonewall Hotel in Algiers. On the previous evening, he was wounded in some sort of shooting incident. The extent of his injuries is unknown, since no doctor was called into attendance, and he has not yet left his room.
“Thank you,” Smith said. Then, himself, without his secretary, dialed the number of the Hotel Palazzo in New York. He must seek Chiun’s advice.
The hotel operator answered.
“Room Eleven-eleven,” Smith said.
The operator hesitated a moment, then Smith heard a phone ringing.
“Front desk,” came a man’s voice.
“I asked for Room Eleven-eleven,” Smith said, annoyance leaking from his voice.
“Whom did you wish to speak to?” the clerk asked.
“Mr. Park. The elderly Oriental gentleman.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Park has left word that he will be gone for a few days.”
“He has? Did he say where he was going?”
“As a matter of fact, he did. He said he was going to Algeria.”
“Thank you,” Smith said slowly, and hung up. Well, that was that. Remo had called Chiun, told him he needed help, and Chiun was on his way. Nothing to do but wait.
And at the front desk of the Hotel Palazzo, a young, blond-haired clerk looked into the hazel eyes of a wizened old Oriental, who smiled at him.
“You have performed me most valuable services,” Chiun said.
“It was a pleasure to serve you,” the clerk said.
“It is a pleasure equally as great to meet a servant who understands that his function is to serve,” Chiun said. “You have made my flight reservation?”
“Yes.”
“And my steamer trunks will get to the airport on time?”
“Yes.”
“And a taxicab is waiting for me?”
“Yes.”
“You have indeed done well,” Chiun said. “I must show you my appreciation.”
“No sir,” the clerk said, waving a hand at Chiun, in whose hand a small money-purse had magically appeared. “No sir. Just doing my job,” he said, wishing it were not the policy of the hotel and that he could accept whatever gratuity this wealthy old looney-tune were about to force upon him.
Chiun hesitated.
“No sir,” the clerk said again, less vigorously this time.
Chiun snapped his purse closed again. “As you will,” he said, feeling rather good about it. A quarter saved is a quarter earned.
Two hours later, Chiun, with the passport in the name of C.H. Park, was aboard a jetliner heading for Algiers. He sat quietly in a window seat, looking out at the bright afternoon clouds. His whole life was spent in doing errands, it seemed. Like now. Going across half the ear
th to chide Remo for not calling in on time.
Only fleetingly did it occur to Chiun that Remo might be in some kind of trouble. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. After all, was not Remo the embodiment of Shiva, the Destroyer? Was he not Chiun’s pupil? Would he not be the Master of Sinanju one day? What could happen to such a one?
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE MAN WHO THOUGHT HE WAS P.J. Kenny had been unable to remember anything at all from his past. Even if he had, he was sure it would not be nearly as pleasant as his present.
He had inspected his wallet the night before while the English girl was out of the room. It contained $4,000. Except for a passport made out in the name of P.K. Johnson, which was obviously a phony, he had no papers, no indication of just who or what P.J. Kenny was, no reason for anyone to have pegged shots at him. Just the telegram from Baron Nemeroff, whoever he was.
Then the English girl was back and he lost all interest in Nemeroff. She was Maggie Waters, she was a British archaeologist, he had picked her up in the hotel lobby and she seemed to think that she had some obligation to make love to him. As Englishmen everywhere, she discharged her obligation.
So did he. Over and over. Through the night. Into the second day. On and on. P.J. Kenny, whoever he was, was quite a man. He knew tricks she had never seen before; things to do with his fingers and his lips and his knees that reduced her to jelly, to babbling insensibility; that drove her to peaks of pleasure that were unbearably intense. And then he made them even more intense.
He taught her a new position called the Yokohama YoYo and a new technique called the Capistrano Swallow and he denied having learned them from an American book, called the Sensuous Pervert.
“Be quiet and keep working,” he said.
So she labored. Winston Churchill, he thought, would have been proud of her.
They had breakfasted in bed, and lunched in bed and were on their way toward dinner in bed.
“It was never like this,” she said.
“I don’t know if it was ever like this or not,” he said. “But I doubt it.”
“I know now you’re not a knife thrower.”
“What am I?” he asked.
She put her face close to his ear and told him.
“Maybe that’s just my hobby,” he said. “Maybe knife throwing’s my profession.”
“Then you’re in the wrong trade,” she said.
“Can I give your name as a recommendation?” he asked.
“You’ll never need one.”
“Thank you,” he said and put his lips over hers.
Then the door was flung open as if it had not been locked. In the doorway stood a black giant, wearing pantaloons and a vest without a shirt. His muscles dripped muscles. He was six-foot-five and weighed at least 250 pounds. The red fez on his head made him seem even taller; linebackers would have thought twice before tackling him.
He stood in the doorway, a bulging lump of glistening black power, his white eyes shining out of the darkness of his face, looking with disinterest at Remo and Maggie.
Remo rolled on his back and looked at him as Maggie pulled the sheet over her. Then Remo said:
“You made a mistake, pal. You swam ashore too soon. The Empire State Building is 5,000 miles that way.” He jerked a thumb toward what he considered to be west. “Call us if you need help fighting off the aircraft attack.”
The black stood there impassively, his big white eyes taking in the scene slowly.
The man who thought he was P.J. Kenny got out of bed and padded, naked, toward the door to slam it in the big buck’s face.
Then the black spoke. “You P.J. Kenny?” Remo laughed aloud. The man’s voice was high pitched and musical, higher pitched than a woman’s. He sounded like a munchkin, a six-foot-five, 250-pound munchkin.
Still laughing, Remo said: “That’s me.”
“Baron Nemeroff wants you.” He spoke precise English but the voice was pure soprano.
“About time,” Remo said. Good, he thought. Time to find out just who he was and where he had come from.
He turned toward his closet. Maggie, shamelessly, had gotten up from bed. She walked naked across the floor, without embarrassment, head high, shoulders back, breasts erect. “Let’s go, P.J.,” she said, “we don’t want to keep the baron waiting.” She had her dress on then, was raising it over her head and then sliding it down her arms, aided by a wiggle that Remo decided was exceptionally sexy. He felt outraged that she might have hid it from him. He wondered if Nemeroff, whoever he was, would mind waiting.
He asked the black.
“The baron wants you now,” the black said.
Remo shrugged. “I thought as much.” He went to the closet and got out slacks and shirt, and dressed quickly. He wore white tennis shoes without socks, a new European glove-leather type that did not make the feet sweaty. Maggie leaned over the dresser, putting lipstick on. While all this was going on, the black stood motionless in the doorway, like a lawn ornament. He needed a lamp, Remo thought.
“Let’s go, P.J.,” Maggie said cheerily. The black took a step into the room and held up his hand in the traffic policeman’s universal gesture for stop. “Not you,” he said. “The Baron wants only him.”
“But I’m his constant companion,” Maggie said. “We go everywhere together.”
“Not you.”
Remo was listening to the words with only half his mind. The black’s upraised arm had bunched his bicep into a huge lump and it glistened bluish in the sunlight coming through the windows. It bit at Remo’s mind, that somewhere he had seen just such a giant black arm as that, someplace just recently. But he could not remember where.
A cold stare passed between Maggie and the black. Remo stepped into the chill.
“That’s all right, Maggie,” he said. “I’ll go alone. And I’ll get right back to you. I promise.”
Remo glanced at his reflection next to Maggie’s in the dresser mirror. He looked all right. Except for a small bandage on his temple, there was no sign of his wounding last night. He had no headaches, no pain, no problems—except the biggest one. He didn’t know who he was.
Where had he learned to throw a knife like that? And make love like that? Maybe he was an international white slaver? Well, there were worse ways of making a living, he supposed. Baron Nemeroff might be able to straighten it out.
Then Maggie was in his arms, her arms around his neck, kissing him hard, and then nuzzling her face against his neck. She whispered into his ear: “P.J., be careful. Nemeroff’s dangerous. I can’t tell you anything, but don’t let on about your amnesia.”
He held her away from him. “Don’t worry about a thing,” he said, smiling. So she knew more about him than she’d let on. Okay, he’d get that out of her when he came back. In the meantime, it was on to Baron Nemeroff.
“Let’s go, son of Kong,” he said, brushing past the black and out into the hallways.
The black did not move and in the hallway Remo turned to see what was delaying him. He saw the huge man place a big hand against Maggie’s chest and push her backwards onto the bed, then stand there looking at her. Even from the side, Remo could see the smile that lit the black’s face. It was a smile of evil hatred, not of lust but of something stronger than lust. Maggie lay on the bed, a look of fright on her face. The black stepped toward her. He put his hand on the wooden post at the end of the bed and made as if to climb over it onto the bed after her. Then a knife whizzed into the wood of the bed post, between his fingers. It stuck there quivering. The black froze, and then turned to the doorway.
Remo’s arm was just returning to his side. “The next time, Rastus,” he said, coldly, “it’ll be in your throat.”
The black’s saucer eyes glared at Remo. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of charging, then he dropped his hands quietly to his sides and walked past Remo out into the hall, striding purposefully toward the elevators.
As Remo closed the door, he told Maggie: “Call the desk and get this door l
ock fixed. There may be more of these things around,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the black escort.
Then he turned and followed him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“LISTEN, ALI BABA. IF YOU ever want to come to the States, you can make a fortune as a cab driver. Imagine. A cab driver who doesn’t talk.”
“And with that costume you could get all the gay trade, running to their latest liberation rally so they can squeak at each other. Man, I’ll tell you. You’d be a winner.”
Having divested himself of that opinion, the man who thought he was P.J. Kenny leaned back in the passenger’s seat in the Mercedes Benz limousine, enjoying the scenery.
The black had not spoken since they had left Remo’s room in the Stonewall Hotel. Remo had kept up a stream of chatter. He knew he had some reason to dislike the black; he just didn’t know what it was. He knew he disliked him even more after he manhandled Maggie. That was one Remo owed him. Was P.J. Kenny a vindictive man? The man who thought he was P.J. Kenny hoped so.
Algiers is a long, busy city, stretching from hills on the left to hills on the right. The Stonewall Hotel was located on the city’s main street, the Rue Michelet, which undergoes two name changes as it winds its way up to the hills on the eastern end of the city. The streets were lined with dwarf evergreens and were spotlessly clean. But they were still all roads leading from nowhere to nowhere. Maybe P.J. Kenny was a poet.
They were moving now toward the crests of the hills, and then the black turned off the main paved road, onto a dirt road, and up ahead, atop a hill that looked down over Algiers, Remo could see a massive castle, white against the white sky, its windows massive cutouts in stone. A touch of Transylvania, Remo thought.
He leaned back again in the seat, looking around him. Up ahead, he saw a helicopter flying lazy circles around the castle, like a housefly looking for a sweet landing-spot.
And there was another helicopter on the roof, its rotor barely visible from this angle.
So Baron Nemeroff had his own air force. It wasn’t much, Remo thought, but in an all-out war, it could probably lick the whole Algerian army. Come to think of it, the whole Pan-Arab Union.
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