"I've been watching too many gangster movies. Now how about that dinner?"
"I really haven't been able to make contact with Ramses yet. So yes, why not? Shall we make it nine o'clock?"
"Fine. Here?"
"In front of the hotel," she said.
Remo smiled down at her again. He noticed for the first time that her bust was every bit as good as her legs and her face.
"Until then, Maggie," he said, then turned and walked toward the elevators. His trip to Algiers was already a success. The girl was lovely. He was glad now that Chiun had not come; he would have already been harping about Remo's preoccupation with the opposite sex.
He pushed open the door to his room, and stepped into a six-inch deep rug. The entire window wall was of glass, and stepping toward it, Remo could see all of Algiers laid out in front of him, stretching from the hills on the left to the hills faraway on the right. He noticed, too, the small number of lights in the city, compared with an American city.
The bed was set into the floor, and Remo flopped down onto its mattress. It was first rate and hard.
The apartment's living room furniture was off to the left; to the right was a dining table and kitchenette. The air was washed clean and air-conditioned cool. The quarters were better than those he had in the Hotel Palazzo in New York. PJ Kenny, might he rest in peace, would have approved.
He probably would have approved of Maggie Waters at nine o'clock, too.
Sometimes Remo wished he had not been the recipient of such extensive training, because his initial impulses were all masculine and all correct, but his follow-through gave way to discipline, except in very rare cases.
Trust Chiun, that old torturer. He had managed to take the pleasure out of sex, while taking none of the enjoyment out of the anticipation. It was one of the things for which he'd have to make amends before he went to meet his ancestors, all those earlier Masters of Sinanju.
Remo glanced at his watch. He had not reset it. It was 1:30 New York time. Time to call Smith.
He had the hotel operator start the long routine of an overseas call to Mrs. Martha Cavendish in Secaucus, New Jersey, who if she had existed, would never have realized that she was supposed to be the aunt of Remo Williams.
But as the call was being made, the line would be switched and transferred, and eventually it would find its way to Smith's desk in Folcroft Sanatorium, overlooking Long Island Sound.
It was half an hour before the operator called back.
In heavily accented English that made Remo think she had a scrambler attachment on her mouth, she said, "We have your party."
He heard a click, and said, "Hello."
"Hello," came the nasty lemony voice.
"Uncle Harry?" Remo said. "This is your nephew. I've arrived safely. I just wanted to let you know. I'm in Room 2510 at the Stonewall Hotel in Algiers. Should I call Aunt Martha tomorrow?"
"Yes. Call her at noon."
"Sure. Tell her I'm all right."
"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.