"What have we done to deserve such a fate at your hands?" Chiun asked.
"Nothing personal, old man. My boss, Baron Nemeroff, says you go, so you go. That's it."
"And of course, like a good assassin, you must do your duty?" Chiun asked.
"Of course."
"Good," said Chiun. "I believe you have more character than Remo Williams. He is always letting sentiment interfere with his work."
"That's too bad for him," said the man who thought he was PJ Kenny. "There's no room for sentiment in this business."
"How true. How true. And what weapons have you reserved for our demise?"
"I haven't decided yet," Remo said. "Generally, I work with my hands."
"Very pure," Chiun said. "Purity is the essence of the art. I never liked this Remo Williams anyway. May I give you a hint as to his weakness?"
"Hint away," Remo said.
"Hit him in his gross American mouth."
"Can't take it in the face, huh?" Remo said.
"Probably his mouth will be filled with all kinds of forbidden foods. Sweetness’s and alcohols and meats with blood."
"Nothing wrong with those things," Remo said. "What else would he eat?"
"Why not rice? Why not fish?" Chiun asked.
"Hey," Remo said. "I had that last night for dinner. It wasn't very good. I don't even know why I ordered it."
"You would think so, my son," Chiun said in disgust. "Tell me of the assassin's life. Is it rewarding? Why do you do it?"
"I do it for the money. It's just a job."
"I see. And the money? Is it adequate?"
"It's more than adequate," Remo said. "I'm a rich man."
"I am sure you are," Chiun said. "Rich, not only in possessions but in purity of spirit. Your mother must be proud of you."
"I think you're on the snot, old man, for some reason I don't know," Remo said. "So why don't you just zipper your face."
"I am sorry, my son. It must be my nerves, stretched to the breaking point in terror at the thought of death at the hands of the one and only PJ Kenny." Chiun cackled like a chicken, in high good humour.
"Shut up a minute, will you?" Remo said. "We're being tailed." He kept his eyes on the rear-view mirror as he moved into the outskirts of the city, varying his speed. Sure. There was a black Jaguar on his tail, keeping up with him, sometimes right behind him, sometimes letting a car or two slide between them. He made a left turn and slowed. Seconds later, the Jaguar made the same left turn and dodged into a parking spot to hide, but the driver had gotten close enough to be seen.
It was Maggie.
"Now what the hell's she doing following us?" Remo said.
"Perhaps she heard you were going to give a demonstration of your killing prowess," Chiun suggested sweetly. "The whole countryside may come to watch you dispatch me and my poor friend, Remo."
"I'll give them their money's worth," Remo said.
"A noble ambition, my son. One I have attempted to follow all my life."
"Three cheers and a tiger for you. I always knew you Chinamen were smart."
"I am a Korean," Chiun informed him, haughtily.
"Same thing," Remo said. "Kissing cousins anyway."
"To have a Chinese for a cousin would make the strongest stomach ill. To kiss one would be beyond revulsion."
"Well, that's your hang-up," Remo said. "I always kind of dug their women."
"Yes," Chiun said. "You would."
Remo tooled the car, crisscrossing, in and out of the narrow streets of the old Mustapha quarter of the city, until he was sure that he had lost the Jaguar.
Nemeroff had told him the girl was a British agent, but he had not told him to kill her. And until that word came, the man who thought he was PJ Kenny wanted to keep Maggie alive, for personal reasons.
He glanced in the mirror again as the Porsche whizzed up the hillside, heading out of the city. The road behind him was clear, so he tromped on the gas pedal and headed for Nemeroff's castle. Today was the big day. The top level meeting of gangland with Nemeroff. The announcement that he would be the man running the show in Scambia. He wanted to be there for that.
At the castle, Nemeroff was bidding goodbye to a visitor.
He stood on the roof, under the gently revolving blades of a helicopter and clasped Vice President Asiphar's hand in both of his.
"I trust you have enjoyed your visit, my vice president," he said.
Asiphar's black face broke into a broad grin. "Very enjoyable Baron."
"I know that your pleasure was shared by your companions."
"They will not forget me," Asiphar said.
Nemeroff privately agreed. The two girls Asiphar had used would remember him forever. They would remember him on their trip into total drug addiction, and they would remember him as they were pressed into service in the cheapest of brothels. Perhaps-sometime-they would question their memories and ask if it had happened: if they had really stayed in a castle; if they had been mistresses of a man who became president of a country. But when they mentioned it, they would be laughed at and they would one day stop mentioning it. But they would always remember it. So would Nemeroff; he had television tapes of their performance.
He thought these things as he wished Asiphar god speed.
"Return to the palace now," he said. "And await our arrival. Within forty-eight hours, you shall be president. Within forty-eight hours, the world will know your name and begin to feel your power."
Asiphar smiled again, noontime teeth in a midnight face and then clambered heavily up the steps to the helicopter's front seat, the plane rocking as he climbed aboard, and strapped himself in for the ten-minute flight back to Scambia.
The helicopter was vanishing in the distance when Remo drove up the dirt road, leading to Nemeroff's castle.
The guards at the sentry post stepped in front of his car, and it skidded to a stop. The guards aimed their rifles at Remo and dogs chained to the sentry boxes began to snarl and pull at their bonds, to get at the car.
Remo rolled down his window and said to the nearest guard:
"Come on, for Christ's sake, you know the car."
"I know the car," the guard said, "but I don't know you. What's your name?"
"PJ Kenny."
"And the old geezer?"
"My prisoner."
The guard went back into the sentry box and picked up a telephone. While he called, Remo looked at the dogs. They had stopped snarling, and their snouts were lifted in the air. They sniffed the air, delicately, questioningly. Then they both lay down quietly, shivering, whimpering.
"What happened to the dogs, I wonder?" Remo said to Chiun.
"They know the hour of the cat is near," Chiun said softly.
"The hour of the cat? And who is the cat?" Remo asked.
Chiun turned slowly and met his eyes, and then he smiled. "You will soon find out," he said.
The guard replaced the phone and came back to Remo's side of the car. "All right, Kenny. You can go through. The baron's expecting you."
"Thanks for nothing," Remo said.
"Hey," the guard said, "what the hell'd you do to spook these dogs?"
Remo said: "It's almost the hour of the cat. Didn't you know?"
The guard said, "If there's any cat around here, they'll tear it apart and you better believe it."
Then Remo was gone, his car scratching gravel behind him. In the rear-view mirror, he saw the guards follow him with their eyes, and the dogs lying still, still cowering, frightened.
Remo pulled into the broad veranda area that served as Nemeroff's parking lot. Already half a dozen cars were there, all black Mercedes limousines identical to the one Namu had first picked up Remo in. The baron's visitors had started to arrive.
Remo left the car in front of the steps, got out, and motioned Chiun to follow. The old man slipped out of the car and slowly followed Remo up the broad stone stairs, his feet under his brocaded blue robe, shuffling softly on the steps.