Summit Chase Read online

  “Bravo,” cried Nemeroff. But the man who thought he was P.J. Kenny realized something else. Knives were not his natural weapon either.

  “It appears your skill with the gun is exceeded only by your skill with the knife,” Nemeroff said.

  Remo walked down the stall, toward the target.

  Behind him, Namu stepped to the firing line, his eyes on Nemeroff, who had sunk back into his chair, munching on the last of the doughnuts. Nemeroff nodded.

  Remo reached his hand forward to pull a knife from the dummy, when he heard it. His ears measured the thrust, the direction, the speed and the force; he froze and the knife flashed through his open fingers, impaling itself deep into the dummy, next to the knife Remo had reached for.

  He turned. Namu stood twenty feet away, three knives in his left hand. Remo looked quizzically toward Nemeroff, who said; “Namu is proud of his prowess with the knife. He feels his reputation threatened by your prowess.”

  “He can have his reputation. The knife is not my weapon,” Remo said.

  Namu spoke. “Perhaps, Master, the problem is not in the weapons but in the heart.” The big man was poised on the balls of his feet, waiting, Remo knew for a word from Nemeroff.

  “Explain yourself, Namu,” Nemeroff said.

  “Cowardice,” Namu said. “It is cowardice that makes Mr. Kenny reluctant to decide on weapons. I have heard from the Black Panthers in the city that all white Americans are cowards, who can kill only with armies.”

  Remo laughed aloud. Nemeroff looked at him, a grin on his horse face. Namu spoke again. “Let me test him, master.”

  Nemeroff watched Remo’s face for emotion, but there was none. He looked at Namu and saw only blind, unreasoning hatred. “You forget yourself, Namu,” Nemeroff said. “Mr. Kenny is not only our guest, he is our partner.”

  “That’s all right, Baron,” Remo said. “If he was trained by the Panthers, I’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “As you wish,” Nemeroff said. He nodded to Namu. The big man turned again toward Remo and lifted a knife into his right hand.

  “Wait, Namu,” Nemeroff called. “Mr. Kenny must pick his weapons.”

  “I have my weapons,” Remo said.

  “Where?”

  “My hands,” Remo answered, and he knew the answer was right. Not guns, not knives, just hands.

  “Hands against Namu?” Nemeroff was incredulous.

  Remo ignored him. “Let’s go, Rastus. I’ve got a date in town.”

  “With the English trollop?” Namu said, raising the first knife slowly over his head. “It is only by chance that she is still alive.”

  He fired the first knife. It flashed at Remo, a silver streak, but Remo slowly swayed his body, and the knife passed harmlessly over his shoulder. He smiled, and took two steps toward Namu.

  “Maybe the range was too far,” Remo said. “Try again. By the way, did your Panther friends tell you the only way you can hurt a white man is to kick him in the shins?”

  “Swine,” Namu called, and the second knife was on its way toward Remo. Remo was advancing now, moving forward toward Namu, and the knife again missed. Confusion masked the black’s face. One knife left in his hand.

  He raised it again over his head. Remo moved closer. Twelve feet, then ten, then eight. Then Namu fired. The knife turned one lazy circle in air. But it was doomed to miss too. It went by Remo, alongside his waist, and then his hands flashed in air and the knife stopped, and Remo held it by its handle.

  Remo looked at the knife as if it were an insect he had plucked from the air. He took another step toward Namu. “If you were a man,” he said, “I’d put this knife where it would hurt.”

  He tossed the knife to the floor. It hit the wooden boards with a dull thump.

  “You’re the one who fired the shot at me, aren’t you?” Remo asked. He was only five feet from Namu now.

  “I fired at the girl. I was unlucky. I killed neither of you,” Namu snarled and then with a roar, he lunged at Remo. His giant arms encircled the top of Remo’s body, and then Remo, with a laugh, slid out from between his arms and was standing alongside Namu. He put a thumb knuckle into Namu’s temple, and the big man fell to the floor.

  He was up instantly, wheeling, again advancing on Remo. Remo saw he was coming slower now. He waited until he was up close, and then put a shoe tip in Namu’s left knee. He felt jelly under the leather of his shoe. Namu fell again. This time, he screamed, but the scream changed into a shriek: “Imperialist, fascist swine.”

  He lunged one more time toward Remo, but then went past him scurrying along the counters along the pistol alleys, trying to reach the Magnum and the Police Special that Remo had left at the end. He was too slow.

  He arrived at the same time as Remo, and then the ammunition drawer was opened, Namu’s hamlike hands were thrust into it, and Remo slammed the drawer shut on Namu’s wrists. He could hear the bones crack, and Namu slumped. Remo carefully picked up the Magnum, and fired the remaining shots into the drawer, through the thin wooden partition. The second shot hit bullets and was followed by a string of sharp cracks, Namu shrieked with pain, and then fell to the floor, his hands slowly sliding out of the drawer, the fingers missing, the hands only bloody stumps.

  Remo watched him drop, then dropped the empty Magnum onto his chest. “That’s the biz, sweetheart,” he said.

  He walked toward the baron. “You shouldn’t let your men go to Panther meetings,” he said.

  Nemeroff jumped off his seat in unabashed glee. He had never seen such a spectacle. He was pleased; P.J. Kenny was just the man he needed to work with him. And he worked with his hands. No wonder his name was feared in the United States.

  Nemeroff pumped his hands in congratulation. Remo noted that he did not even look at the fallen Namu, whose life was fast leaving his body. Just another piece of flesh to Nemeroff, Remo thought. That’s worth remembering.

  Remo said, “Now you said that there was a little housekeeping chore for me?”

  “Yes,” Nemeroff said.

  “Who is it?”

  “There are two men. From America. We have learned of them from our New York contacts. One is a white man; the other an Oriental.”

  “What are their names?” Remo asked.

  “The white man is named Remo Williams. The Oriental is aged. His name is Chiun.”

  “And you want me to…”

  “Exactly. To kill them. It will be child’s play for P.J. Kenny.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IT WAS NIGHT WHEN REMO headed back to Algiers in the new Porsche convertible the baron had given him. He drove slowly, reflecting on his newly-discovered status as professional killer.

  Strange thing: to go to sleep, to wake up knowing nothing, and then to find out that you’re an assassin. Oh well, a thing worth doing is worth doing right. He was apparently a good assassin and that was worth something.

  He had slowed down to stop at the gate, but two new guards had waved him through, apparently on telephone orders from Nemeroff. And then he was back on the main road, heading for the city, the stars twinkling overhead in a sky that was cold black. He thought of his first assignment.

  Remo Williams and Chiun. It was silly, he thought. What did he know about killing? Williams and Chiun might be tough customers. On the other hand, he had done pretty well with Namu. Perhaps some unremembered, but not forgotten, instinct would carry him through where conscious knowledge failed.

  Of course, on the other hand, the amnesia would probably begin to lift in the next day or so. Remo Williams and Chiun had not arrived in Algiers yet. By the time they had, P.J. Kenny might be in full control of his skill and experience. He smiled to himself. If that was the case, America would have two dead agents.

  Agents. Then he thought of Maggie Waters. She was an agent, too, but of the British. The shot that had wounded him had been meant for her. A flicker of memory passed into his mind. He had seen that big black arm that belonged to Namu holding the machine gun in the back of
the car, when the shots were fired at them. That was why Namu had put him on edge. Well, he would put no one on edge any more. Tough luck. He should have had better sense than to listen to the Black Panthers.

  He parked his auto in front of the Stonewall Hotel, leaving it unlocked, and walked up the few steps toward the front door of the hotel. He heard a whistle behind him, and turned.

  A uniformed policeman stood there, beckoning him with a crooked index finger. Remo stood his ground.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “That car. Whose is it?” the policeman asked.

  “Baron Nemeroff’s,” Remo said. “Anything wrong?”

  “No, sir,” the policeman said quickly. “Very good, sir. I just wanted to know.”

  “Keep an eye on it for me,” Remo said, turning away, not waiting for an answer, but hearing the policeman’s “certainly” over his shoulder.

  Nemeroff’s name had muscle in Algiers; that was apparent.

  Inside, the lobby of the Stonewall looked as if it had been taken over by a convention of Unione Siciliano. There was a line of men in blue suits, stringing toward the front desk, waiting to register. They spoke to each other with elaborate gestures and obvious courtesy. At their sides, stood other men, wearing lighter colored suits, and the guns under their left armpits were advertisements for their trade, which was killing.

  And all around the lobby, leaning against walls, sitting in chairs pretending to read newspapers, were more men, all of whom looked as if they needed shaves, and it seemed as if their major assignment was to watch one another, judging from the evil glances they threw toward each other.

  Their eyes turned to Remo as he entered the lobby, and he moved through the crowd of them toward the elevators.

  “Keep up the good work,” he told one who snarled at him.

  “Good going. You’re getting meaner-looking every day,” he told another.

  “If I didn’t know you were here, I’d never have noticed you.” And to another, “Seen anything of Mack Bolan around?”

  Someone should know P.J. Kenny, he thought. But no one answered him; there was no glimmer of recognition on any face. As the elevator door closed behind him, he saw two steamer trunks in front of the main desk. From behind it, he could see only two robed arms waving wildly through the air. The door closed before his curiosity had a chance to awaken.

  Going up, he remembered: it was the face. None of the men in the lobby had ever seen P.J. Kenny. Not the one wearing this face.

  The lock had been changed on his door and his key did not work, so he knocked, hoping Maggie was still there.

  He heard a click that he recognized as a phone hanging up and movement, and then her clipped voice asking: “Who is it?”

  “P.J.,” he said.

  “Oh, good.”

  She quickly unsnapped the lock on the door and pulled it back, Remo stepped into the room. She pushed the door closed behind him, then threw her arms about him. She wore a filmy gold negligee that left nothing to his imagination. Her body was as naked as naked and even sexier, and her arms around his neck warmed him. He reached down and pulled her close against him with both hands. She whispered in his ear, hotly, “I was worried. I thought I might never see you again.”

  “It’d take camels to drive me away from you.”

  “Bactrian or dromedary?” she asked.

  “What’s the difference?” he said.

  “One hump or two humps.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” he said.

  She stood back from him, her hands on his shoulders, and measured him with her eyes. “You don’t look any the worse for wear,” she said.

  “Neither do you.”

  “You just can’t keep me in the dark,” she said “Have you found out who you are?”

  “Yes. I’m P.J. Kenny.”

  “And who is P.J. Kenny?”

  “I’m still trying to find out,” he lied. “But whatever it is, I think it’s bad news.”

  “You couldn’t be bad news,” she said.

  “Are you trying to seduce me with your kindness?” he asked.

  “Seduction is for sissies,” she said. “I thought you he-men from America preferred rape.”

  “Have it your own way,” he said as his lips muffled her attempt to say “I will.” Then he was pulling off her flimsy gown and walking her backward to the bed.

  He carefully arranged her on the bed, but then stood up and slowly began to undress.

  “Are you trying to torture me?” she asked.

  “Eat your heart out.”

  “Only as a last resort,” she said. Then her hands were helping his him with his clothes, fondling zippers, caressing buttons, then she did the same thing with his flesh under the clothing, then the two were naked on top of the red satin coverlet and they melted together in a confluence of arms and lips and legs.

  If he hadn’t known better, the man who thought he was P.J. Kenny would have sworn that he had spent the last ten years in a monastery, building up his strength for this encounter.

  He was insatiable, unstoppable, undrainable. Every time Maggie tried to talk to him about Nemeroff, he stopped her with sex, and she finally gave up the effort and surrendered to him totally. He took her hour after hour computerishly calculating the effects of his movements on her body. She could only escape her own frenzied lust when she fell into an exhausted sleep at three o’clock in the morning.

  Remo slept too.

  He slept until eight a.m., when the telephone next to the bed rang softly.

  Who the hell would that be? He picked up the phone and growled, “Yeah?”

  “This is the bell captain.” a heavily accented voice said. “I was told to tell you when someone arrived.”

  “Who?” Remo asked.

  “An old Chinaman. Named Chiun. He registered last night. His room is on your floor. Room 2527.”

  “Anybody register with him?”

  “No. He was alone.”

  “Anybody register named Williams?”

  There was a pause, then: “No. And there are no reservations in that name.”

  “Room 2527, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks.”

  Remo hung up. So that’s what being a professional killer was like. Getting awakened at all hours of the morning. Next to him, Maggie slept on, and as he watched her, he felt lustful again. He reached a hand out and placed it on her left breast, slowly trailing his fingers over the pink-tipped mound, softly and delicately so as not to wake her.

  She smiled in her sleep, and her lips opened, then her teeth came down on her lower lip, sparkling white teeth. There was a sudden intake of breath and her body shook, then she sighed and her limbs relaxed, her teeth slid off her lower lip and she smiled again. Remo smiled to himself. Post-hypnotic orgasm. Maybe he could bottle it. The women of the world would find it irresistible. He’d liberate them all from the evil necessity of needing men’s bodies. What the battery-operated vibrator had started, P.J. Kenny could finish. Onward and upward. Liberation. Freedom now.

  He would have to look into it.

  But first, this Chiun.

  He slipped out of bed, showered and dressed in slacks, tennis shoes and a blue short-sleeved shirt. He looked at Maggie, still smiling, sleeping in the bed, and then slipped out the door. He got his bearings and headed for Room 2527.

  This Chiun was probably a Sumo wrestler. Well, that didn’t phase him. After Namu, nothing would.

  He stopped outside Room 2527, listening. Inside there was a faint buzzing sound. He listened again. It was someone humming. He reached out and touched the doorknob and slowly turned it. It was unlocked, and he turned the knob all the way, then pushed the door open slowly.

  He stood in the doorway, looked into the room and smiled.

  Kneeling on the carpet, next to the bed, his back to Remo, was a tiny wisp of an Oriental. Even from the back, the man who thought he was P.J. Kenny could see he was aged and delicate. He could not have
weighed a hundred pounds, and more likely, his weight matched his age which Remo would put at eighty.

  The old man knelt there, his head lifted, eyes apparently fixed on a window of the room, his hands folded in his lap, and Remo stepped inside the room and softly closed the door. The chink probably hadn’t heard him enter. He slammed the door shut. But there was still no movement from the chink, no sign that he had heard. If it were not for the humming, a tuneless chanting sound, Remo would have thought he was dead. But he wasn’t dead. Deaf. That was it. The old man was deaf.

  Remo spoke.

  “Chiun,” he said.

  The old man rose to his feet, in one smooth motion, and turned to face the man at the door. The parchment face creased into a small smile.

  And the man at the door said: “Where’s Remo Williams?”

  The room must be electrified for sound so he cannot speak, Chiun thought. He shrugged.

  “Don’t give me that, chink. Where’s Williams?”

  Remo did not speak that way to Chiun even in jest, and Chiun said: “You speak that way to the Master of Sinanju?”

  “Sinanju? What is that? A suburb of Hong Kong?”

  Chiun looked hard at the man who had Shiva’s face and Shiva’s vibrations but was strangely unlike Shiva, and he thought to speak in anger, then he thought to remain silent. He would wait.

  The man at the door took another step into the room. He was balanced on the balls of his feet and his hands had risen slightly toward his hips. It was the prelude to attack, and Chiun did not want him to attack.

  He had come to love the destroyer he had created; he had come to a grudging respect for the country which paid his wages.

  But he was the Master of Sinanju, and a village depended upon his life. He loved Remo, but if Remo attacked, Remo would die. And in that secret part of his heart, where he kept a love he never spoke, Chiun would die too. And he knew that never again would he create a destroyer.

  The man who thought he was P.J. Kenny sized up the old man. His brain told him to move in, to throw one blow, and it would all be over. He was too big, too young, too strong. His brain told him that.