"Maybe the range was too far," Remo said. "Try again. By the way, did your Panther friends tell you the only way you can hurt a white man is to kick him in the shins?"
"Swine," Namu called, and the second knife was on its way toward Remo. Remo was advancing now, moving forward toward Namu, and the knife again missed. Confusion masked the black's face. One knife left in his hand.
He raised it again over his head. Remo moved closer. Twelve feet, then ten, then eight. Then Namu fired. The knife turned one lazy circle in air. But it was doomed to miss too. It went by Remo, alongside his waist, and then his hands flashed in air and the knife stopped, and Remo held it by its handle.
Remo looked at the knife as if it were an insect he had plucked from the air. He took another step toward Namu. "If you were a man," he said, "I'd put this knife where it would hurt."
He tossed the knife to the floor. It hit the wooden boards with a dull thump.
"You're the one who fired the shot at me, aren't you?" Remo asked. He was only five feet from Namu now.
"I fired at the girl. I was unlucky. I killed neither of you," Namu snarled and then with a roar, he lunged at Remo. His giant arms encircled the top of Remo's body, and then Remo, with a laugh, slid out from between his arms and was standing alongside Namu. He put a thumb knuckle into Namu's temple, and the big man fell to the floor.
He was up instantly, wheeling, again advancing on Remo. Remo saw he was coming slower now. He waited until he was up close, and then put a shoe tip in Namu's left knee. He felt jelly under the leather of his shoe. Namu fell again. This time, he screamed, but the scream changed into a shriek: "Imperialist, fascist swine."
He lunged one more time toward Remo, but then went past him scurrying along the counters along the pistol alleys, trying to reach the Magnum and the Police Special that Remo had left at the end. He was too slow.
He arrived at the same time as Remo, and then the ammunition drawer was opened, Namu's ham-like hands were thrust into it, and Remo slammed the drawer shut on Namu's wrists. He could hear the bones crack, and Namu slumped. Remo carefully picked up the Magnum, and fired the remaining shots into the drawer, through the thin wooden partition. The second shot hit bullets and was followed by a string of sharp cracks, Namu shrieked with pain, and then fell to the floor, his hands slowly sliding out of the drawer, the fingers missing, the hands only bloody stumps.
Remo watched him drop, then dropped the empty Magnum onto his chest. "That's the biz, sweetheart," he said.
He walked toward the baron. "You shouldn't let your men go to Panther meetings," he said.
Nemeroff jumped off his seat in unabashed glee. He had never seen such a spectacle. He was pleased; PJ Kenny was just the man he needed to work with him. And he worked with his hands. No wonder his name was feared in the United States.
Nemeroff pumped his hands in congratulation. Remo noted that he did not even look at the fallen Namu, whose life was fast leaving his body. Just another piece of flesh to Nemeroff, Remo thought. That's worth remembering.
Remo said, "Now you said that there was a little housekeeping chore for me?"
"Yes," Nemeroff said.
"Who is it?"
"There are two men. From America. We have learned of them from our New York contacts. One is a white man; the other an Oriental."
"What are their names?" Remo asked.
"The white man is named Remo Williams. The Oriental is aged. His name is Chiun."
"And you want me to… ."
"Exactly. To kill them. It will be child's play for PJ Kenny."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was night when Remo headed back to Algiers in the new Porsche convertible the baron had given him. He drove slowly, reflecting on his newly-discovered status as professional killer.
Strange thing: to go to sleep, to wake up knowing nothing, and then to find out that you're an assassin. Oh well, a thing worth doing is worth doing right. He was apparently a good assassin and that was worth something.
He had slowed down to stop at the gate, but two new guards had waved him through, apparently on telephone orders from Nemeroff. And then he was back on the main road, heading for the city, the stars twinkling overhead in a sky that was cold black. He thought of his first assignment.
Remo Williams and Chiun. It was silly, he thought. What did he know about killing? Williams and Chiun might be tough customers. On the other hand, he had done pretty well with Namu. Perhaps some unremembered, but not forgotten, instinct would carry him through where conscious knowledge failed.
Of course, on the other hand, the amnesia would probably begin to lift in the next day or so. Remo Williams and Chiun had not arrived in Algiers yet. By the time they had, PJ Kenny might be in full control of his skill and experience. He smiled to himself. If that was the case, America would have two dead agents.
Agents. Then he thought of Maggie Waters. She was an agent, too, but of the British. The shot that had wounded him had been meant for her. A flicker of memory passed into his mind. He had seen that big black arm that belonged to Namu holding the machine gun in the back of the car, when the shots were fired at them. That was why Namu had put him on edge. Well, he would put no one on edge any more. Tough luck. He should have had better sense than to listen to the Black Panthers.
He parked his auto in front of the Stonewall Hotel, leaving it unlocked, and walked up the few steps toward the front door of the hotel. He heard a whistle behind him, and turned.
A uniformed policeman stood there, beckoning him with a crooked index finger. Remo stood his ground.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"That car. Whose is it?" the policeman asked.
"Baron Nemeroff's," Remo said. "Anything wrong?"
"No, sir," the policeman said quickly. "Very good, sir. I just wanted to know."
"Keep an eye on it for me," Remo said, turning away, not waiting for an answer, but hearing the policeman's "certainly" over his shoulder.
Nemeroff's name had muscle in Algiers; that was apparent.
Inside, the lobby of the Stonewall looked as if it had been taken over by a convention of the Unione Siciliano. There was a line of men in blue suits, stringing toward the front desk, waiting to register. They spoke to each other with elaborate gestures and obvious courtesy. At their sides, stood other men, wearing lighter coloured suits, and the guns under their left armpits were advertisements for their trade, which was killing.
And all around the lobby, leaning against walls, sitting in chairs pretending to read newspapers, were more men, all of whom looked as if they needed shaves, and it seemed as if their major assignment was to watch one another, judging from the evil glances they threw toward each other.
Their eyes turned to Remo as he entered the lobby, and he moved through the crowd of them toward the elevators.
"Keep up the good work," he told one who snarled at him.
"Good going. You're getting meaner-looking every day," he told another.
"If I didn't know you were here, I'd never have noticed you." And to another, "Seen anything of Mack Bolan around?"
Someone should know PJ Kenny, he thought. But no one answered him; there was no glimmer of recognition on any face. As the elevator door closed behind him, he saw two steamer trunks in front of the main desk. From behind it, he could see only two robed arms waving wildly through the air. The door closed before his curiosity had a chance to awaken.
Going up, he remembered: it was the face. None of the men in the lobby had ever seen PJ Kenny. Not the one wearing this face.
The lock had been changed on his door and his key did not work, so he knocked, hoping Maggie was still there.
He heard a click that he recognized as a phone hanging up and movement, and then her clipped voice asking: "Who is it?"
"PJ," he said.
"Oh, good."