Was there any doubt that PJ Kenny was travelling on a professional mission? Nobody vacationed in Algeria. Not even Algerians.
Remo read, while the plane whistled on across the Atlantic, double-timing from day to night.
Remo heard steps behind him and glanced up as Kenny walked down the aisle of the plane, swaying from side to side, drunk from seven straight hours at the bar in the lounge.
He staggered to his seat, sat down heavily and looked around belligerently. His eyes caught Remo's and he tried to stare Remo down. He finally gave up, turned around and slumped back into his seat.
The blonde stewardess came from the pilot's cabin and walked slowly down the aisle, her head clicking from side to side, looking to see if passengers needed anything.
Remo heard PJ's guttural voice. "Come here, girl."
From his seat, Remo saw the young blonde step up to Kenny. "Is there something I can do for you?" she said, smiling, willing to let bygones be bygones, as they learned in lesson seven at stewardess school.
"Yeah," Kenny growled. He motioned for the girl to come closer and he spoke softly in her ear. Remo saw her face turn red with embarrassment, and then, just as suddenly, turn into a pain-filled mask.
PJ had his hand up under her skirt and Remo could tell he was squeezing her flesh. It must have hurt too much for her to yell.
PJ laughed and put his other hand on her wrist, then pulled her down toward him again. Her face was still pained, and his left hand was still working under her skirt. He spoke again into her ear, cruelly, viciously, and Remo could see tears welling in her eyes.
He got up from his seat and walked forward to the aisle seat where PJ Kenny held the girl prisoner in his grip.
"Johnson," he said.
There was a pause, then Kenny looked over his shoulder at Remo.
"Yeah. What do you want?"
"Let go of the girl. We've got to talk."
"I don't want to talk," he said thickly. "I don't want to let go of the girl."
Remo leaned close to Kenny's face. "Let go of that girl or I'll peel that scar tissue off your face and stuff it down your throat."
Kenny looked up again-annoyed this time, as well as surprised. He hesitated a moment and released the girl.
Remo took her hands in his. "I'm sorry, Miss." Tears streamed down her face. "Mr. Johnson had too much to drink. It won't happen again."
"Hey there," Kenny demanded. "Whaddya mean, too much to drink?"
"Just close your face," Remo said. He released the girl's hands with a comforting squeeze, then watched as she slowly walked away, up the aisle.
Remo slid past Kenny's knees and took the seat next to him.
"Your face looks pretty good," he said.
"Yeah?" Kenny answered suspiciously. "Yours doesn't."
"I'll have to get the address of your plastic surgeon. Maybe he can make me as distinguished looking as you."
"Look, mister," Kenny said. "I don't know who you are or what you want, but why don't you just fuck off?"
"I'm from Nemeroff," Remo said.
"Yeah? Who's Nemeroff?"
"Don't get cute with me," Remo said. "You know damn well who he is. He's the guy you're taking this trip for."
"Pal," Kenny snorted. "I don't know you and I don't like you. Already, I could find a reason to do some things to you that ain't pleasant. Now get lost."
"I'd love to. Except I'm your contact man. I'm supposed to get you to Nemeroff. In one piece. That means without being beaten up by some airline stewardess or arrested by airport police for having a phony passport."
"What's your name?" Kenny asked.
"Roger Willis."
"I never heard of you," Kenny said.
"I've heard of you, Mr. Kenny. So has the baron. That's why he sent me. To keep you out of trouble."
"You got any identification?" Kenny asked.
"In my briefcase."
"Get it," Kenny said.
Remo looked around him, then up at the overhead oxygen mask. It would be pleasant to give Kenny a demonstration of how it worked and cut off the air supply. Too risky. Too much chance of people wandering by.
"You've really slipped," Remo said. "Sure, I'll open my briefcase out here, so that every nosy bastard on the plane can come by and snoop into our business. The lavatory. Five minutes. The one on the left, leave the lock open."
He got up without waiting for an answer, stepped over Kenny's legs and returned to his own seat.
Remo glanced at his watch. The plane should be nearing its destination in a few minutes. He wanted to shave the time just right.
Five minutes later, Kenny got up and walked toward the center of the plane. Remo nodded to him as he passed. He waited a minute, then stood up and followed.
Kenny was washing his face at the sink when Remo entered the little cubicle and his eyes met Remo's in the mirror. There was a glint of metal at Kenny's wrist and Remo remembered he carried a knife in his sleeve.
Kenny patted his face delicately with a towel from a pile over the sink, put back on his eyeglasses, and turned to Remo.
"Now where's your identification?" he said.
"Right here," Remo said. His left hand flicked out and the fingernails raked the skin over Kenny's left eye, tearing up the tissue-paper thin scar tissue, and sending blood streaming down Kenny's face. "That identifies me as a guy who doesn't like to see women beaten up."
"Bastard," Kenny growled. He flicked his arm toward the floor, hard; the handle of the knife was in his hand, and then it was pointed at Remo's midsection. "When I'm done with you, they'll identify you by my initials on the inside of your stomach."
"You're forgetting Nemeroff. I'm his man," Remo said.