"She'd like to hear it herself. Call tomorrow at noon and reassure her."
"Okay if I reverse the charges?" Remo asked.
"Put them on your hotel bill," the puckered voice whined. "How was your trip?"
"All right. There was some snotty guy on the plane. Roger Willis or something. He had an accident."
"Yes, I heard about it. I was worried for a while."
"Nothing to worry about," Remo said. "It was just a perfectly pleasant flight for old PJ Kenny. Say, Uncle Harry, this is costing money. I'll call tomorrow at noon. Say hello to Ch… to Uncle Charlie."
"I will."
"Be sure. He worries."
"Be sure to call," Smith said.
They both hung up.
Smith would understand why he could not use the scrambler phone. If there was a tap on the line, using the scrambler would be more incriminating than anything he was likely to say.
At any rate, Smith knew his hotel, room and cover name. That should hold him. He hoped Smith would give the message to Chiun. The old Korean was a worrier.
CHAPTER NINE
Remo stood in front of the Stonewall Hotel, looking along the broad, clean Rue Michelet, the city's main street.
The oppressive heat seemed to coat the city with perspiration. If the humidity could be spooned out to the rest of the world it would end the deserts and turn them into farms. Against the light of the modem, overhanging street lamps, he could see droplets of moisture in the air, sparkling like tiny airborne diamonds.
Remo leaned against a light stanchion, facing the front of the hotel, waiting for Maggie to appear. He wore a white suit, and his hands were stuffed into his jacket pockets as they usually were, which ruined the line of his suits but made him comfortable and therefore, was, in his view, worth doing.
Remo glanced to the side as an auto drove by him, close to the curb, and he caught a glimpse of dark-brown hair in the back seat of a taxi.
He turned to follow the cab with his eyes. It stopped fifty feet down the street from him, under a streetlamp. The back door opened and a long leg slid out. It was Maggie. He recognized the leg, the long re-curve from knee to ankle. He looked through the cab's back window. It was Maggie all right. She had stopped-not out, not in-and turned again, and he could see her crisp profile through the window.
She was talking to a man and even at fifty feet, Remo could see his face was hard and lined, his hair so black it was almost blue, like a Superman comic strip.
He was gesturing to Maggie, imperiously, as if he were giving orders and Remo wondered idly who he was. Then she raised her hands toward him in the universal symbol of reluctant agreement, turned again and finished stepping from the cab. With undisguised admiration, Remo watched the long legs; the bust; the face and hair; the smooth, tanned skin. She wore a short, white sleeveless dress, and its contrast made her skin seem darker, healthier.
She smoothed her dress over her buttocks, pressing away wrinkles, then saw Remo watching her. Hurriedly, she shut the cab door, and it sped away. Turning on a smile, she walked toward Remo.
"Hi," she said, throatily.
"Evening. I expected you from inside. That a boyfriend?"
She smiled. "No. The local representative of Ramses II. Had to tell him that I was otherwise engaged this evening."
"You should have held the cab."
"We'll walk," she said. "It's a nice night."
"This is Algiers, honey. We might both wind up being sold into white slavery."
"Mr. Kenny," she began.
"PJ." He wondered, for the first time, what the initials meant.
"PJ," she said, "with you I'm not worried in the least. Let's walk."
She locked her arm through his and turned to walk off along the street, in the direction away from the taxicab.
"This is the tourist quarter," she said brightly. "There are places not far from here."
"Lead on," he said, "but if you take me to a belly-dancer joint, I'll lose all my respect for you."
"Perish forbid."
He liked her. It felt good to have her hanging on his arm. At times like this, he could almost imagine he was a real person, not someone whose name and fingerprints had vanished from the earth when he met death in the rigged electric chair. No, a real person. With a past, a present and a future, and with a pretty girl on his arm to share it with.
He liked her. It would be a pleasure finding out why she was interested in him, who the man was in the back of the cab, what she knew about Nemeroff and the upcoming meeting and if he had to drag her into bed to work his wicked will on her, why then, he was prepared to make that sacrifice for dear old Smith and CURE.
Smith, Smith, Smith. CURE, CURE, CURE. Three cheers and a tiger. Let's hear it for all professional killers.
Remo Williams. PJ Kenny. The colonel's lady and Judy O'Grady. Poor PJ just never had the good sense to go to work for the government.
They walked slowly along the street, arm in arm, not chattering, silently enjoying each other's company like old friends who were sure of each other. A black limousine was parked at the corner a hundred feet ahead, and Remo heard its motor start with the high-pitched shriek of a heavy-duty starter.
Curb-side was filled with automobiles and the car pulled out into the roadway, which was empty of traffic, and slowly came down the street toward them. Remo noted the car casually. Strange that its lights were out.
Then he and Maggie were walking along an open stretch of curb where there was a fire hydrant, a street sprinkler and no cars were parked, and the car which had been leisurely coming down the street, suddenly sped up.
The car's back window was open on the sidewalk side and before the car reached them, Remo saw the polished barrel of a gun suddenly extend from the window, gleaming blue and oily in the light of the street lamps. Almost as if it was happening in slow motion, he saw the barrel point toward them.
Remo changed direction in mid-step, pushing himself backwards, his body against Maggie's, bearing her backward, but keeping his body between her and the car. Then they were out of the open area, behind a parked car, and Remo pulled Maggie down with his arm. In one motion, he was on his feet, ready to draw the fire away from Maggie, making himself a target. Bullets started spraying from the passing car now. Bullets by the tens, the dozens, the scores-ignoring Remo, slamming through and over and under the car-toward Maggie. Remo heard them hit with dull thunks into the parked car; he heard them crack crisply off the stone wall behind them; and he cursed the marksman for trying to ruin his night.
He saw a shiny black, hugely-muscled arm holding the submachine gun out the car's window; then he lost his temper and started along the sidewalk, moving toward the front of the parked car which shielded Maggie, ready to go up onto its hood and over onto the roof of the passing limousine.
Crack!
Another bullet hit the stone wall behind him and this time it rebounded upwards and caught Remo in the head as he moved. It felled him. He saw a blue flash, but felt no pain. All he could think of was Chiun, telling him how inept he was not to anticipate a simple ricochet. He put his hand to his right temple, could feel the warm stickiness of blood, and then there was pain, as if he had been slapped by Chiun, as if his head had fallen off, and then he fell back, off the hood of the parked car, onto the sidewalk alongside Maggie.
He woke up, lying on his back on a pleasantly hard mattress.
A girl hovered over him. She was beautiful and built. She had wrung out a cloth in a dish of water at a bedside end-table and placed the chilly wet rag on his aching forehead.
He opened his eyes; the girl spoke. She had an English accent. "PJ? Are you all right?"