The man who thought he was PJ Kenny grinned. "I've scored some bullseyes on that range," he said.
"And now our Chinese friend," Nemeroff said, turning toward Chiun who still stood motionless in the center of the cell. "Bind him also," he told Remo.
Remo approached Chiun and led him to the ring in the back of the cell. The old man did not resist, and he showed no interest when Remo pulled down the manacles and chains from the wall. Instead, Remo could heard him talking under his breath.
The old man was praying. Remo grinned. He'd finally come to his senses and realized he was going to die, and now he was making peace with his ancestors. Well, good for the little chink, Remo thought, as he fastened the chains and locks.
And then he listened to the old man's words. They were soft and intended for the heavens alone.
"Oh, Masters of Sinanju who have trod this earth before, forgive me my patience with these butchers and animals. Close your eyes to my display of inaction, and consider instead that I suffer their insults so that I may yet save the one who will be the next Master of Sinanju.
"But my patience even now grows thin and the hour of the cat is near at hand. Guide my wisdom, as my experience will guide my hand."
"Say one for me, too," Remo said, as he stood up from fastening the last chain. Then he strutted from the cell into the passageway where Nemeroff and the guard waited.
To the guard, Nemeroff said, "You watch these two."
To Remo, he said, "You can dispose of them at your leisure later, but now you must come with me."
"I saw that your guests are arriving," Remo said, as he followed Nemeroff down the passageway.
"Yes," Nemeroff said. "Our meeting will begin soon. But we have another visitor. One of our New York operatives has arrived. He has seen this Remo Williams. Perhaps he may be of help to you in capturing him."
"Maybe," Remo said. "Who is this guy?"
"His name is O'Brien," Nemeroff said. "He is a guard at the New York federal prison. He has done invaluable service to us there."
"Good," Remo said. "I can't wait to meet him."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Remo followed Nemeroff up the steep flights of damp stone stairs to the first floor.
As they stood momentarily in the large entrance hall, Nemeroff walked away from him.
"Mr. Fabio. How are you? So happy you could come."
An olive-skinned man had just walked through the glass doors from the first floor patio. He looked up at Nemeroff with the Mafia's traditional look-halfway between cowardice and toleration-which passed for respect, and stiffly stuck out his hand.
"Who's that?," he asked Nemeroff, gesturing with his head over the baron's shoulder toward Remo.
The baron laughed. It was that evil whinny of a laugh that greeted things he thought were funny.
"Oh, yes," he said, still braying. "I want the two of you to meet."
He took his visitor by the elbow and led him toward Remo. Outside, Remo could see Fabio's bodyguard lounging on a chair on the patio, trying to appear unconcerned, but watching the activities through the glass, ready to move if it became necessary. He was exiled to the patio because it was considered bad form to bring one's bodyguard into another man's home.
Then Remo had his hand stuck into the hand of Fabio.
He looked hard at the face and knew he should have known it, but it was just another wop with the brains of an organ-grinder. Who he was just wasn't worth the effort.
He heard Nemeroff say: "This is Mr. Fabio. He is an important man in the United States."
Remo looked harder at him. The man had a fleshy face, and a small thin scar ran from the corner of his left eye to the bottom of his left ear. The skin was whiter than his normal skin, he had splashed powder on his face to try to equalize the colour but he was still scarred and hideous.
And then Remo heard Nemeroff say:
"And this is my associate, Mr. PJ Kenny."
Fabio's hand tensed in his and then removed itself, not recoiling suddenly as if from fear, but moving back deliberately as if for a reconsideration, and then he heard Fabio speak:
"Dat ain't PJ Kenny."
Nemeroff whinnied again, so Remo adopted his mood and smiled as Nemeroff said:
"Good. That is proof of how successful the plastic surgery was."
Remo watched as Fabio's little pig eyes burned into his. Then Fabio said:
"PJ. Is it really you?"
Remo nodded. Fabio stared a little longer. Then his pig features relaxed into a smile. He took a step forward, raised his right hand, palm up, to signify surprise, and then brought his hand around Remo's shoulders in a half bear hug.
"PJ," he said. "I've been wondering what happened to you. Everybody was."
"I was under the knife for the new face," Remo said, hoping that was the right thing to say. "And then the baron arranged for me to come here and join him."
"And join him," Fabio mimicked. "Maybe that doctor operated on your brain, too. You talk better than you used to."
"Thanks," said the man who thought he was PJ Kenny. "Part of my new image."
"I'll tell you, your new image is a lot better than your old image," Fabio said. "You was about the ugliest looking thing I ever saw."
"Wasn't I, though? I looked downright Italian," Remo said. When Fabio paused, unsure how to answer, Remo added, "and now I look Neapolitan," giving the word the extra Italian accent on the last syllable, guessing that Fabio was Neapolitan because of the way he had raised his hand in greeting.
Fabio laughed out loud. "Yeah," he said, "that's a real improvement. And you're in with the baron?"
"Right-hand man," Remo said.
Nemeroff moved quickly into the conversation.
"Mr. Kenny has agreed to join with all of us in insuring that whatever agreement we reach will be fairly kept. I think he has that reputation for fairness," Nemeroff said.
"You bet he has," Fabio said. "Hey, PJ—remember when you got my brother, Matty?"
"Sure do," Remo smiled. "It was some job."