They walked slowly along the street, arm in arm, not chattering, silently enjoying each other's company like old friends who were sure of each other. A black limousine was parked at the corner a hundred feet ahead, and Remo heard its motor start with the high-pitched shriek of a heavy-duty starter.
Curb-side was filled with automobiles and the car pulled out into the roadway, which was empty of traffic, and slowly came down the street toward them. Remo noted the car casually. Strange that its lights were out.
Then he and Maggie were walking along an open stretch of curb where there was a fire hydrant, a street sprinkler and no cars were parked, and the car which had been leisurely coming down the street, suddenly sped up.
The car's back window was open on the sidewalk side and before the car reached them, Remo saw the polished barrel of a gun suddenly extend from the window, gleaming blue and oily in the light of the street lamps. Almost as if it was happening in slow motion, he saw the barrel point toward them.
Remo changed direction in mid-step, pushing himself backwards, his body against Maggie's, bearing her backward, but keeping his body between her and the car. Then they were out of the open area, behind a parked car, and Remo pulled Maggie down with his arm. In one motion, he was on his feet, ready to draw the fire away from Maggie, making himself a target. Bullets started spraying from the passing car now. Bullets by the tens, the dozens, the scores-ignoring Remo, slamming through and over and under the car-toward Maggie. Remo heard them hit with dull thunks into the parked car; he heard them crack crisply off the stone wall behind them; and he cursed the marksman for trying to ruin his night.
He saw a shiny black, hugely-muscled arm holding the submachine gun out the car's window; then he lost his temper and started along the sidewalk, moving toward the front of the parked car which shielded Maggie, ready to go up onto its hood and over onto the roof of the passing limousine.
Crack!
Another bullet hit the stone wall behind him and this time it rebounded upwards and caught Remo in the head as he moved. It felled him. He saw a blue flash, but felt no pain. All he could think of was Chiun, telling him how inept he was not to anticipate a simple ricochet. He put his hand to his right temple, could feel the warm stickiness of blood, and then there was pain, as if he had been slapped by Chiun, as if his head had fallen off, and then he fell back, off the hood of the parked car, onto the sidewalk alongside Maggie.
He woke up, lying on his back on a pleasantly hard mattress.
A girl hovered over him. She was beautiful and built. She had wrung out a cloth in a dish of water at a bedside end-table and placed the chilly wet rag on his aching forehead.
He opened his eyes; the girl spoke. She had an English accent. "PJ? Are you all right?"
"PJ? he thought. He said, "Yes, I think so. My head hurts."
"Well it might." She wore a white dress and was really lovely, tanned with deep brown hair and the brightest of green eyes. He hoped she was not just a nurse. He hoped she was someone he knew well. Maybe a wife or a girlfriend.
"What happened?" he said.
"You don't remember?"
"I don't remember anything."
"We were walking down the street and someone fired shots at you. A bullet grazed your temple."
"Someone fired shots at me?"
"Yes."
"Why would anyone do that?"
"I don't know," she said. "I thought you might."
''I don't know anything," he said. He sat up in bed, ignoring the throb of pain in his temple, and looked around the room. It was a hotel room, luxuriously furnished. For some reason, he wondered who was paying for it.
"What is this place?" he asked.
"You're teasing me."
"No, I'm not." His tone was sincere and truthful, and quietly she answered: "This is the Stonewall Hotel in Algiers. Your room."
"Algiers?" he said in astonishment. "What am I doing in Algiers?" He paused for a long moment, obviously thinking hard. "Who am I, anyway?"
She stared at him for a full ten seconds. Then she removed the cloth from his head and looked at the wound.
"It doesn't seem too bad," she said. "Just a small bandage job."
"You didn't answer my question," he said. "Who am I?"
"Your name is PJ Kenny."
It meant nothing to him. "And this is Algiers?"
"Yes."
"What am I doing here?"
"I don't know."
He looked around the room again. Knowing your name was no good at all, not unless it had some convenient handles of memory attached to it. His had none.
"Who is PJ Kenny?" he asked.
"You are."
"No, I don't mean that. Really, who am I? What do I do? What am I all about?"
"You really don't know?"
"No, I don't."
She stood up and walked away from the bed. He sank back onto the pillows. Sudden movements hurt some, but he could not resist turning slightly on the pillow so he could watch her as she walked away. She was exquisite. But who was she?
At the foot of the bed, she turned and looked at him, leaning forward on the edge of the bed.
"I don't know who you are either," she said. "We just met. But you lie there and I'll look around the room. Perhaps I can find something to help. You've got amnesia."
"Amnesia! I thought that was just a hypnotist's trick."
"No," she said. "It's real enough. I used to be a nurse. I've seen many cases of it. Fortunately, it's generally only a matter of a few hours."
He grinned. "I'll wait it out if you promise to stay with me."
"I'd better look around," she said. She started with the dresser drawers. Expertly, she rifled them, looking under and behind each piece of clothing, between the individual garments. She felt the inside of his socks. Nothing.
In the bottom drawer, she found an attaché case. She pulled it out, put it on the dresser and unsnapped the lock. Remo watched her with interest, admiring her technique.
She hummed slightly as she looked through the case. He could see her hands moving. What was she doing? It hurt, but he got to his feet and walked to her side.
The attaché case held money, piles of hundred-dollar bills. He would guess the total at $25,000.
"I already like being PJ Kenny," he said.
"There's a telegram here, too," she said, pulling out a yellow sheet.
"Read it."
"It's addressed to PJ Kenny, Hotel Divine, Jersey City, N.J. 'Register at the Stonewall Hotel. Reservations made for you. Look forward to fruitful business relationship. Nemeroff.'"
"Who's Nemeroff?"
She hesitated, just a fraction of a second too long. "I don't know," she said. "But he's probably why you're here."
She walked away from him, and opened his closet, to look through his clothes. He went to follow; then, from the corner of his eye, saw his reflection in the mirror. He turned and looked into the glass.
It was the face of a stranger staring at him. A bad face. Not just the ugly-looking gash on his temple, but something else. His hair was short cropped and wavy. His eyes were hard and relentless looking; his lips long and thin. The face looked as if it were skin over bone, as if the flesh had been omitted. PJ Kenny was not a nice man. He knew that.
He leaned forward toward the mirror, looking closer. There was something else, too. He raised his fingertips to his cheekbone. The skin was a little too thin, as if it had been stretched taut. At the corners of his eyes, the skin had the same feel. Plastic surgery. He knew it. Without a doubt, he knew it.
She had finished her inspection of the closet, and she watched him as he examined his face.
"Well?" she said, with humour in her voice. "Do you pass?"
"It's odd. Looking at yourself and seeing a stranger. Did you find anything?" he said, shaking his head in puzzlement and returning to the bed.
She followed him, her hand at her side, hidden from view. He sat on the bed and she stood before him.