Remo looked out the side window at the heavy undergrowth that licked its way up to the road’s edge. He saw an armed man wearing hunting clothes walking through the brush. But he was no hunter—not unless hunters had begun to use machine guns.
On the other side of the car, it was the same, Remo noticed. Men moving through the brush, heavily armed men. Remo’s eyes glanced down again at the huge black bicep of the driver, as he flexed it while steering the hard-sprung limousine over the bumpy road. The sight of the arm raised a tingle in Remo’s head; something he should remember, but couldn’t. He had seen that arm before. Oh well, he would remember it eventually. Maybe Baron Nemeroff would tell him.
It would be interesting to find out who P.J. Kenny was. He knew the amnesia would wear off soon, but he wanted to know now who and what he was, what he did, and what he was doing here. Maggie had warned him to be careful.
The narrow road, already wide enough for only one car, suddenly became even narrower, and then, as they turned a curve, they came to a gatehouse.
Two armed men stood in the roadway, rifles folded in the crooks of their arms, but they moved aside when they recognized the car and driver. Without slowing, the black sped between the two men, and then the road lifted sharply upward and they neared Nemeroff’s castle.
At that same moment, a huge jet appeared over the castle, coming in for a landing at the Algiers airport. Remo glanced at it and wondered what kind of people would come to Algeria if they didn’t have to.
The Mercedes spit up gravel as it swerved again, and then it was pulling into a large opened area, at the bottom of stone steps leading up to the first floor level patio of the castle. The parking area was paved with flagstones of different colors and there was room for fifty or sixty autos to park there. The black jammed on the brakes and seemed disappointed when Remo did not go through the windshield. He turned off the motor, got out and headed up the steps toward the patio, crooking a finger at Remo, motioning him to follow.
Remo left the car and walked up the broad stairway to the patio. Its deck was cut from rough unfinished marble and it looked like a Parisian outdoor restaurant, with clusters of small, black wrought-iron tables, each with two chairs at it. At the side of the patio, sliding glass doors opened into what appeared to be a large study, and from the patio, more stone stairs rose outdoors to a second floor, where there was another balconied patio.
“You wait here,” the black squeaked in his high-pitched voice, which brought a grin from Remo.
Remo perched himself on the stone wall surrounding the patio and looked out over the grounds. His eyes spotted more men out in the underbrush, all armed, all in hunter’s garb, and from the good vantage point, Remo could see them talking to each other over walkie-talkie radios. They seemed to be in four waves; two rows of men on the far side of the gatehouse which blocked the only road, and two rows of men working closer toward the castle. They worked back and forth in a zippering kind of search action, which Remo somehow, instinctively, knew was highly disciplined and highly effective.
Then he heard the whoosh of the glass door opening, and then steps on the patio behind him.
He turned.
The man coming toward him was almost seven feet tall. He was stringy, but his greyhound stride, the angles of his face, his mannerisms, all exuded power. There was strength in his grip, too, as he reached forward and grabbed Remo’s hand in his own and began to pump it up and down.
He looked searchingly into Remo’s face, his own face wearing a slight questioning look. Then he stared some more at Remo.
He knows, Remo thought. He knows I’m not Kenny.
Then he smiled, his big horse-face breaking into a humorless grin, and said, “Mr. Kenny, well, well. I’m Baron Nemeroff.”
So they had never met.
“Glad to be here,” Remo said, smiling.
“The plastic surgery is excellent,” Nemeroff said. “You look nothing like your photographs.” Proof they had never met.
“That was the idea,” Remo said, hoping that that indeed had been the idea.
“I trust you had a good trip. Namu did not misbehave in any way?”
“Namu?”
“My eunuch,” Nemeroff said.
“So that’s it. I thought he was on leave from the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.”
Nemeroff smiled weakly. “No. It is an ancient custom of the land. To emasculate one’s manservant.”
“Then how do you sleep at night?” Remo asked. “Knowing he’s loose and what you did to him?”
“It’s strange, perhaps, to us. But a eunuch’s devotion to his master is absolute. It becomes almost a form of worship. Perhaps the loss of their own masculinity makes them seek out others’ masculinity. Who is more masculine than the man who mutilated them?”
“Who indeed?”
He clapped Remo on the back. “But enough of that. Come join me in a pre-dinner snack.”
He turned and walked toward the nearest table, slapping his hands together once with a report like a pistol shot. He sat, and gestured that Remo sit at the table, too but before Remo was in the seat, a male servant, dressed in butler’s garb, appeared on the patio, bearing a silver tray, laden with food.
Remo sat in the wrought-iron chair and watched the food being unpiled from the tray. There was a wicker basket of rolls and even before the basket stopped vibrating on the table, Nemeroff had seized a roll, thrust it into his mouth, tearing off a large chunk and chewing animatedly.
He called the meal a snack. It included soup, salad, a rare steak—no, make that two rare steaks —milk, yogurt, shrimp salad, and coffee laced heavily with cream and sugar.
The baron had attacked the first roll in what seemed to be a piranhic frenzy. But now he was calmer and as the butler stood there, he asked Remo: “What will you have?” slightly accenting the “you,” making it clear that the food on the table now was the baron’s own ration.
The sight of the food had made Remo hungry. The sky was the limit, he knew. Any kind of food. Why did he lust for food?
He hesitated, and Nemeroff said: “Our larder is well stocked, Mr. Kenny. Just name your wish. Steak. Frogs’ legs. Hummingbirds? Lobster. Caviar. Your desire.”
And without knowing why, Remo said: “Rice.” Then, because he did not want to seem ungracious, “and a piece of boiled fish.”
The butler looked startled. “Boiled fish, sir?”
“Yes. Trout, if you have it. If not, haddock will do. Nothing oily. And do not season the rice.”
The butler gave the closest thing to a shrug that a butler could give. “Very good, sir.” He walked away.
Nemeroff was now deep into his soup, slopping it up from a bowl in a large spoon. Drops fell from his spoon, but the spoon seemed to be on a treadmill, from the bowl to Nemeroff’s mouth, continuously, and the spoon seemed to get back to the bowl even before the spilled drops did.
“Strange diet,” Nemeroff hissed, then swallowed. “Rice and fish.” Another spoonful. “Still…” Another spoonful. “I guess…You know…What you like.”
He looked up as if waiting for agreement,
Remo nodded, smiling.
The rice and fish returned in ten minutes. By that time, Nemeroff’s eating frenzy seemed to have waned, and he contented himself with picking at his food, leaning back in his chair expansively. He said, “I’m really glad you could come. I trust the financial arrangements were satisfactory.”
“Yes, very,” Remo thought, remembering the $25,000 in his briefcase.
“So now as you eat, let me tell you why you are here,” Nemeroff said. He picked up his coffee cup and saucer in his left hand then raised the cup to his mouth, and slurped a noisy mouthful.
Remo spooned silently through his rice. It was white rice; he preferred brown. At least, he thought he did. He could not even remember liking rice.
“You are here,” Nemeroff said, “for several reasons. The first, frankly, is because of your reputation in your country. I think that will guarantee the
close attention of your countrymen…who share our profession.” He slurped and Remo wanted to shout, “What profession?”
“The second reason you are here is of a much more Immediate nature. There are people in Algiers now who would do anything to stop our plan from going into operation. It would be your responsibility to stop them, if you decide to join with me.”
Remo looked up and nodded, hoping the nod was not too equivocal. It sounded like P.J. Kenny was a professional assassin. Balls, that was no fun. He had hoped that he managed a Playboy Club somewhere.
Maybe he was way off base. Maybe it was a circus act. There was Namu, the strong man, and Nemeroff, the stilt-walker and P.J. Kenny, the knife-thrower.
Nemeroff, for the first time, noticed the bandage on Remo’s temple. “What happened?” he asked. “I hope you’re not hurt.”
“No,” Remo said. “A little incident last night. Somebody pegged shots at me in front of the hotel.”
“Oh, dear. That’s too bad. It means someone knows you’re here and is already afraid of your presence.”
“Occupational hazard,” Remo said, hoping that was the right thing to say.
“Yes, indeed,” Nemeroff agreed. He was finally finished with his coffee. He wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“You perhaps are wondering why I have not mentioned money, Mr. Kenny,” Nemeroff said. “Frankly, I wanted to see you at first hand before I committed myself. But now I am quite sure.” He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table, his horse face staring ahead at Remo’s. “I want you to be more than just an employee,” he said. “I want you to be a partner in this little enterprise.”
“Why me?” Remo asked, carefully chewing a piece of the boiled trout.
“Have you ever heard of Nimzovich?” Nemeroff asked.
“A chess player,” Remo said, wondering why he knew that.
Indeed,” Nemeroff said, “He once mentioned a ‘passed pawn’s lust to expand.’ In setting up my plan to make the nation of Scambia a haven for criminals from all over the world, the one lingering problem has been your nation’s Mafia and its own ‘lust to expand.’ I could readily see how, within months, I would be fighting off your nation’s criminal interests who would try to seize the nation of Scambia for their own purposes. While this would not be difficult for me to do, it would be time-consuming and troublesome, and I did not want this kind of trouble.”
“Of course not,” Remo agreed.
“So I began to look around,” Nemeroff said. “And everywhere, I ran across your name.” He raised a hand to silence any show of modesty that might be coming. None was.
“You are trusted in your country,” Nemeroff said. “Even more important, you are feared. With you on the scene in Scambia, all from your nation will know that it is, how do you say, on the level. And with you on the scene, no one will attempt any takeover. In addition, Vice President Asiphar of Scambia will perform much more creditably, I believe, if he knows I have an agent there who would not hesitate to take the most extreme measures, should Asiphar fail us. And finally, there is of course, your own personal interests. You are, I understand, being sought in your own country now. This would be an opportunity for you to start life afresh. Untold wealth and power could be yours. You could be almost a king.” He looked at Remo and his horse face asked questions.
Remo put down his fork. “You mentioned wealth. How much wealth?”
Nemeroff guffawed. “A practical man. I like that. Ten percent of all that comes into Scambia is yours.”
“And that would be?”
“Millions a year,” Nemeroff said. “Millions.”
So he was a professional assassin and now he was being offered the jackpot. Strange, it produced no outrage in the man who thought he was P.J. Kenny, no sense of revulsion. Just a calm acceptance of his role in life. It was as if he had been created to destroy. But he wished he knew more about the techniques of assassination.
“Earlier, you said that it would be my job now to stop some people who are interested in stopping us. What people?” Remo asked, sipping tea without lemon or sugar.
“I take it then that you agree to my proposition?”
“I do.”
Nemeroff stood up and again extended his hand, pumping Remo’s. “Good,” he said. “Your partnership is all we need for success. And now let us go to my storeroom. You may find some useful weapons in my arsenal there, and we will discuss the necessary housekeeping problems that you will have to resolve in the next several days.”
The arsenal was in the basement of the castle, and Nemeroff and Remo reached it by elevator from the main floor. They stopped outside a locked iron door, and while Nemeroff fumbled on a ring looking for the key, Remo could smell the firecracker odor of cordite. Somehow, it was a familiar smell.
They stepped through the gate and Nemeroff touched a light switch. The room was bathed in a soft, glareless light from long fluorescent lights, hidden behind diffusion panels high up on the walls.
The room they stood in was fifty feet long and equally wide; it looked to Remo like a bowling alley. But instead of wooden highways, leading to wooden pins, the room was broken up by low walls, separating the room into six, long, thin slices. At the end of each slice was a life-sized dummy of a man.
“My shooting gallery,” Nemeroff said. “And my weapons are here.” He opened the door to another room and flicked on the light. Rack after rack of machine guns, automatic rifles, bazookas, pistol display cases, knifes, swords, bolos, machetes, all met Remo’s eyes.
“Equipped for anything,” Remo said.
“Actually,” Nemeroff said, “this is just hobby material for me. I have a factory in West Germany which provides, on demand, any large store of weaponry I might require. But go ahead, test the merchandise.”
Remo went to one of the wall racks and looked at the handguns. They were clean and oiled; there was not a trace of dust on any of them. From the rack, he selected a .357 Magnum and a German Luger. He hefted the Luger in his hand, then replaced it on the rack and took down a .38 caliber Smith and Wesson police revolver. It had a familiar feel as he balanced it in his hand.
“My own favorites, exactly,” Nemeroff said. “Come. The ammunition is at the firing line. You must show me your proficiency.”
He took Remo by the elbow and led him back to the first of the six gun stalls. He pressed a button on the side of the stall and a panel in its polished formica surface slid back, revealing racks of ammunition.
“Help yourself,” he said.
“Everything for the tourist,” Remo said.
“Yes, of course,” He settled himself into a seat five feet away from the loading table and watched as Remo drew careful aim on the stuffed dummy at the other end, holding the Magnum carefully at arm’s length. Remo squeezed the trigger. The shot felt true. The dummy shuddered as the slug hit. Above the figure of the dummy, outlined on the wall, came another silhouette of the dummy. A flashing red light on the silhouette, just below the heart, showed where Remo’s bullet had gone.
“Good shot,” Nemeroff said. “Particularly with someone else’s weapon.”
Remo was somehow annoyed that he had missed the heart. He realized that he was wrong to aim, but he did not know why. He extended the gun in front of him and slowly began to move it from side to side, trying to get the feel of the dummy, and then when he felt zoned in, he squeezed off three shots more, rapid fire, and the forehead of the silhouette lit up with three flashing lights, each within an inch of another.
“Quite good,” the baron said. “The Magnum must be your weapon.”
His voice sounded muffled and Remo turned. Standing behind him, alongside the baron, was Namu. In his hand, he held a tray of doughnuts and the baron was busy stuffing one into his mouth.
Namu stared at Remo, smirking. Again, unaccountably, Remo hated him.
“Don’t you approve of my shooting, Sambo?” he asked.
Namu was silent.
“I’m sorry, Baron,” Remo said. “I forgo
t he doesn’t speak until you pull his chain.”
He turned again to the target and picked up the Police special, flipping bullets into it with practiced hands. “This is in your honor, Namu,” he said, and emptied six shots, rapid fire. All hit into the groin of the dummy.
He placed the gun down and turned. Namu stood there, still silent, but his eyes glowered with hatred.
“Very, very good, Mr. Kenny,” Nemeroff said.
“Sorry, Baron,” Remo said. “These are not my weapons.”
“No? What is?,” Nemeroff asked, and Remo wished he knew. He just knew that the guns, for all his apparent proficiency, had not felt right in his hand. Somehow he knew too that a weapon to be used best, must feel as if it were a part of him, not just a tool. The pistols seemed like tools.
Remo walked back into the storeroom, without answering the baron’s question. Nemeroff, his mouth still crammed with doughnut, and Namu followed, watching Remo from the doorway as he looked through the racks of knives.
He held them by their handles, then by their tip; he felt their weight in the palm of his hand. He replaced those that did not feel right. Finally, he had selected four. He had done it individually and was surprised to see that all four were almost identical to each other and to the knife he had found in his hotel room.
He walked back outside, brushing past Nemeroff and under the nose of Namu, but he was able to see Namu look questioningly at Nemeroff who paused, then gave a slight nod of his head.
The alley on the far right of the range was smaller than the others, with a target only twenty feet away, and Remo stepped up to the opening, carrying the four knives by their tips in his left hand.
He reached down with his right hand, took a knife, hefted it once in the palm of his hand, and then raising his hand over his head, fired it at the stuffed dummy. It hit into the waist and buried itself up to the hilt.
He threw the second next to the first, and the third next to the second. He held the fourth knife in his left hand, tip downward, looking at the three knives which formed a small triangle at the center of the target dummy. Then with a flash of his hand, he fired the knife underhand, and it buried itself deeply between the other three knives.
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