"So now as you eat, let me tell you why you are here," Nemeroff said. He picked up his coffee cup and saucer in his left hand then raised the cup to his mouth, and slurped a noisy mouthful.
Remo spooned silently through his rice. It was white rice; he preferred brown. At least, he thought he did. He could not even remember liking rice.
"You are here," Nemeroff said, "for several reasons. The first, frankly, is because of your reputation in your country. I think that will guarantee the close attention of your countrymen… who share our profession." He slurped and Remo wanted to shout, "what profession?"
"The second reason you are here is of a much more Immediate nature. There are people in Algiers now who would do anything to stop our plan from going into operation. It would be your responsibility to stop them, if you decide to join with me."
Remo looked up and nodded, hoping the nod was not too equivocal. It sounded like PJ Kenny was a professional assassin. Balls, that was no fun. He had hoped that he managed a Playboy Club somewhere.
Maybe he was way off base. Maybe it was a circus act. There was Naniu, the strong man, and Nemeroff, the stilt-walker and PJ Kenny, the knife-thrower.
Nemeroff, for the first time, noticed the bandage on Remo's temple. "What happened?" he asked. "I hope you're not hurt."
"No," Remo said. "A little incident last night. Somebody pegged shots at me in front of the hotel."
"Oh, dear. That's too bad. It means someone knows you're here and is already afraid of your presence."
"Occupational hazard," Remo said, hoping that was the right thing to say.
"Yes, indeed," Nemeroff agreed. He was finally finished with his coffee. He wiped his mouth with a napkin.
"You perhaps are wondering why I have not mentioned money, Mr. Kenny," Nemeroff said. "Frankly, I wanted to see you at first hand before I committed myself. But now I am quite sure." He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table, his horse face staring ahead at Remo's. "I want you to be more than just an employee," he said. "I want you to be a partner in this little enterprise."
"Why me?" Remo asked, carefully chewing a piece of the boiled trout.
"Have you ever heard of Nimzovich?" Nemeroff asked.
"A chess player," Remo said, wondering why he knew that.
Indeed," Nemeroff said, "He once mentioned a 'passed pawn's lust to expand.' In setting up my plan to make the nation of Scambia a haven for criminals from all over the world, the one lingering problem has been your nation's Mafia and its own 'lust to expand.' I could readily see how, within months, I would be fighting off your nation's criminal interests who would try to seize the nation of Scambia for their own purposes. While this would not be difficult for me to do, it would be time-consuming and troublesome, and I did not want this kind of trouble."
"Of course not," Remo agreed.
"So I began to look around," Nemeroff said. "And everywhere, I ran across your name." He raised a hand to silence any show of modesty that might be coming. None was.
"You are trusted in your country," Nemeroff said. "Even more important, you are feared. With you on the scene in Scambia, all from your nation will know that it is, how do you say, on the level. And with you on the scene, no one will attempt any takeover. In addition, Vice President Asiphar of Scambia will perform much more creditably, I believe, if he knows I have an agent there who would not hesitate to take the most extreme measures, should Asiphar fail us. And finally, there is of course, your own personal interests. You are, I understand, being sought in your own country now. This would be an opportunity for you to start life afresh. Untold wealth and power could be yours. You could be almost a king." He looked at Remo and his horse face asked questions.
Remo put down his fork. "You mentioned wealth. How much wealth?"
Nemeroff guffawed. "A practical man. I like that. Ten percent of all that comes into Scambia is yours."
"And that would be?"
"Millions a year," Nemeroff said. "Millions."
So he was a professional assassin and now he was being offered the jackpot. Strange, it produced no outrage in the man who thought he was PJ Kenny, no sense of revulsion. Just a calm acceptance of his role in life. It was as if he had been created to destroy. But he wished he knew more about the techniques of assassination.
"Earlier, you said that it would be my job now to stop some people who are interested in stopping us. What people?" Remo asked, sipping tea without lemon or sugar.
"I take it then that you agree to my proposition?"
"I do."
Nemeroff stood up and again extended his hand, pumping Remo's. "Good," he said. "Your partnership is all we need for success. And now let us go to my storeroom. You may find some useful weapons in my arsenal there, and we will discuss the necessary housekeeping problems that you will have to resolve in the next several days."
The arsenal was in the basement of the castle, and Nemeroff and Remo reached it by elevator from the main floor. They stopped outside a locked iron door, and while Nemeroff fumbled on a ring looking for the key, Remo could smell the firecracker odour of cordite. Somehow, it was a familiar smell.
They stepped through the gate and Nemeroff touched a light switch. The room was bathed in a soft, glare-less light from long fluorescent lights, hidden behind diffusion panels high up on the walls.
The room they stood in was fifty feet long and equally wide; it looked to Remo like a bowling alley. But instead of wooden highways, leading to wooden pins, the room was broken up by low walls, separating the room into six, long, thin slices. At the end of each slice was a life-sized dummy of a man.
"My shooting gallery," Nemeroff said. "And my weapons are here." He opened the door to another room and flicked on the light. Rack after rack of machine guns, automatic rifles, bazookas, pistol display-cases, knifes, swords, bolos, machetes, all met Remo's eyes.
"Equipped for anything," Remo said.
"Actually," Nemeroff said, "this is just hobby material for me. I have a factory in West Germany which provides, on demand, any large store of weaponry I might require. But go ahead, test the merchandise."
Remo went to one of the wall racks and looked at the handguns. They were clean and oiled; there was not a trace of dust on any of them. From the rack, he selected a .357 Magnum and a German Luger. He hefted the Luger in his hand, then replaced it on the rack and took down a .38 calibre Smith and Wesson police revolver. It had a familiar feel as he balanced it in his hand.
"My own favourites, exactly," Nemeroff said. "Come. The ammunition is at the firing line. You must show me your proficiency."
He took Remo by the elbow and led him back to the first of the six gun stalls. He pressed a button on the side of the stall and a panel in its polished formica surface slid back, revealing racks of ammunition.
"Help yourself," he said.
"Everything for the tourist," Remo said.
"Yes, of course," He settled himself into a seat five feet away from the loading table and watched as Remo drew careful arm On the stuffed dummy at the other end, holding the Magnum carefully at arm's length. Remo squeezed the trigger. The shot felt true. The dummy shuddered as the slug hit. Above the figure of the dummy, outlined on the wall, came another silhouette of the dummy. A flashing red light on the silhouette, just below the heart, showed where Remo's bullet had gone.
"Good shot," Nemeroff said. "Particularly with someone else's weapon."
Remo was somehow annoyed that he had missed the heart. He realized that he was wrong to aim, but he did not know why. He extended the gun in front of him and slowly began to move it from side to side, trying to get the feel of the dummy, and then when he felt zoned in, he squeezed off three shots more, rapid fire, and the forehead of the silhouette lit up with three flashing lights, each within an inch of another.