"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 earth 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 PJ 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 PJ 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. PJ 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 laboured. 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-feet-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 PJ 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 PJ 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, PJ," 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, PJ," 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."