"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 PJ 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 Naniu, the strong man, and Nemeroff, the stilt-walker and PJ 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 PJ 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 odour 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, glare-less light from long fluorescent lights, hidden behind diffusion panels high up on the walls.