"Just this," she said.
She extended her hand toward him. She held a stiletto. He could tell the blade was razor sharp.
He took the knife from her and laid it on his palm. It was eight inches in length and it had a professional feel to it, but it was a feel that seemed foreign to him. He turned it around in his hand, looking at the twin, razor-sharp sides of the blade, turning it over-first handle, then blade, then handle again and then, without thinking, raised it over his head and let it fly at the wooden hotel door.
The knife transcribed one lazy, half-turn, flashing across the room, and then hit the door, chest high, point first, and it tore through the thin plywood covering of the hollow door, burying itself two inches deep along its blade before stopping. It hung there, imbedded, its handle quivering slightly.
The girl looked at it, then turned her eyes back to him. He watched the knife until it stopped vibrating, then smiled up at her.
"At last," he said, "I know who I am."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. I'm a knife thrower in the goddamn circus. I don't even know how I did that."
The girl sat on the edge of the bed and her dress hiked up on her thighs, revealing a lot of well-turned, well-tanned leg. She took her hands in his.
"It's apparent," she said, "that only this Nemeroff, whoever he is, will be able to clear up your identity. I'm going to go out for a few minutes and see if I can find out anything about Nemeroff. Who he is. Where he is. Then we can figure out what to do." She squeezed his hands gently. "Will you be all right for a few minutes?"
"Without you? I don't know."
She leaned forward and kissed him on the bridge of the nose. "I'll make it up to you when I get back," she said.
"Then hurry."
"I will." Then she was on her feet and out the door, closing it tight behind her, and as the door closed, the knife quivered again, and he lay there, looking at it, wondering just what kind of man he was to be able to throw a knife like that.
CHAPTER TEN
Maggie Waters jabbed impatiently at the elevator button, and while waiting, nervously tapped the sole of one high-heeled white shoe on the heavy beige carpeting in the hallway of the twenty-fifth floor of the Stonewall Hotel.
After what seemed an interminably long time, the elevator came, opened, and Maggie stepped in. She rode down to the twelfth floor, and with a key from her handbag opened the door to Room 1227.
She glanced around the room, which she now found distasteful after having been in Remo's room. Hers was like a cheap Alabama motel room, with linoleum tile floors, and thin drapes, and mica-finished furniture. She closed the door behind her, pressing it tightly, since she had noticed that it was warped and stuck, unlocked, in the dampness that pervaded the halls of the lower floors of the Stonewall.
Inside, she walked to the phone and dialled four short digits.
"Yes," a voice answered. It was a British male voice, professionally bored, and for some reason, it annoyed her as much as her room. The sun was indeed setting on the empire. Sensible people would prepare for night. The British had too much tradition to be sensible. They went on, unconcerned, and each one acted as if he were King Arthur.
"Maggie here," she said.
"Oh, yes," the man said. "What's new? How's the boyfriend?"
"The boyfriend took a bullet in the head," she said, viciously happy to be overstating the case, to see what reaction she could draw from the man on the other end of the telephone.
"Oh," he said.
She pursed her lips. "But he's all right," she said, after a pause. "Just a flesh wound. Now, dammit, he's suffering from amnesia. He doesn't know who he is."
"I say, that's interesting. What about Nemeroff?"
"He's never heard of him. I tried the name on for size."
"That's a piquant turn of affairs, isn't it?" the man said. "The baron hires a professional killer and now the killer not only doesn't know the baron, he doesn't even know that he's a killer."
If he chuckled, she thought she would die.
He chuckled.
"Yes," she said. "Very piquant."
"Yes, indeed," he said.
"Yes, indeed," she parroted. "But what happens when Nemeroff comes for him?"
"Well, my dear, that may very well be your entree to the baron's company." He chuckled again. "You can pose as PJ Kenny's private nurse. Would you like to play nurse with him?" he asked, his voice attenuated in the spoken equivalent of a leer.
"I would presume," she said coldly, "that it would be safer to play nurse with him than it would with you. He probably does not have a dose."
The man's voice sputtered slightly. "It was in the line of duty, Maggie."
"It's amazing how you're always running into five shilling whores in the line of duty. The top agent in her majesty's secret service." It was an accusation.
"The hazards of the trade," he said. "You should not forget that my discomfiture has given you the opportunity to carry out this mission and make your own reputation."
"Should I thank you or your trollop?"
"Thanks are not necessary," he said. "At any rate, see if you can get to Nemeroff through PJ Kenny. The Scambia plan must be stopped at all costs. Stop Nemeroff. And if that appears impossible…"
"Yes?"
"If that appears impossible," he repeated, "kill PJ Kenny."
She did not answer for a moment and he went on: "When his memory returns, and it will, he will kill you in a minute. He is a vicious cold-blooded maniac with a knife. If you must, kill him before he kills you. Don't hesitate." Then, he said: "Oh, I wish I were on this case instead of you."
"I wish you were too," she said.
"Unfortunately… my physical condition…" He left the rest of the sentence unspoken.
"Imagine," she said. "The secret service laid low by the clap."
"To hell with the service." He chuckled sardonically. "I was laid low."
"You are always laid low," she said. "Ta, ta. Don't forget your penicillin."
"Be careful," he said. "Remember, this is important. The stakes are mortal. An international crime empire stands in the balance. Nothing can be more important than stopping the evil Baron Nemeroff and his nefarious scheme. Nothing. Not your life. Not mine. Not…"
"Save it for your next book," she said, and hung up.
She looked at the telephone for a long minute after replacing it, then shrugged, and headed back toward the door. All right. To hell with it. She was an agent, and she would do what her boss had told her to do. There was no room for emotionalism in her trade.
But to herself she smiled. She relished the prospect of looking in on PJ Kenny and she looked forward to the opportunity to play nurse with him.
And Great Britain's top agent be damned. May his next dose be fatal.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dr. Harold W. Smith twisted around in his swivel chair, studied the waters of Long Island Sound, and felt sorry for himself.
Remo was overdue. He was supposed to have called at noon. He glanced at his watch. Two hours ago. Two hours in CURE could be an eternity. Five minutes of knowing Remo Williams could seem like an eternity.
He could have guessed that the wise bastard wouldn't call. Why did Remo Williams have to be a wise guy?
Why did he have to work for Dr. Harold W. Smith?
Why did Smith have to run CURE? Why did there have to be a CURE?
God, I feel sorry for me, he thought, as he continued to ask himself the unfamiliar questions, questions he had not really considered in the years he had headed the nation's most secret organization.
Smith was the quintessential bureaucrat. Given a task of the utmost stupidity, he would perform it capably. He would not worry about the innate stupidity of it.
Of course, he was the ultimate bureaucrat, but with a difference. First, he was intelligent. Second, he was honest. Third, he was an absolute patriot.