At the base of a small white metal stairwell, he saw the only other people in the mosque: two black-suited young men, their faces expressionless, their heads shaved and gleaming blue-black under the dun lighting. They appraised Remo coolly, acknowledging his presence by no more than a cold glance from heavy-lidded eyes.
They moved toward him like two panthers, silent, deadly. They were the best of the lot, thought Remo as he watched them move. Obviously trained to stay with Gloria as her personal guard.
Without a word, one of them snaked toward Remo in a flying arc, legs tucked tightly to his chest. Remo stood still, waiting for the inevitable foot to come jutting out at his solar plexis. When it did, Remo caught the heel of the man's foot and swept it upward to lock the knee. Then, with the leg straight and locked, he pressed the foot with his palm in a small, potent move that dislocated the man's hip and sent him howling down the length of the corridor as fast as a bowling ball, until he came to rest with a splat on the far wall.
The other man moved, never taking his eyes from Remo, his face registering nothing.
He was fast. As he prepared his blow a shoulder spin designed for use with a weapon Remo noticed the man had good balance. "Not bad," Remo said. "Shame to have to kill you just to get to that white kitty in there."
The man began the spin, as evenly weighted as a cat.
"Beautiful," Remo said, as he pulled a packet of matches from his pants pocket and tossed them to the floor. They slid precisely between the tiles on the floor and the man's shoe. It threw his balance totally, so that when he came out of the spin all his energy had spun into his feet to stay upright. The man twirled to a stop, momentarily drained. Remo stepped in close to the man.
"Hold it, sweetheart," Gloria called from the landing. She was dressed in a diaphanous white sari that only partly concealed her body, and she carried a revolver.
Remo stopped. "At your service," he said with a bow.
"That's better," she said, and squeezed the trigger.
As Remo saw the tension in her hand, the small muscles of her index finger beginning to contract over the trigger, he collared the remaining guard. In a motion too swift for the guard to resist or Gloria to see, he put the man's body between himself and the bullet, and before the guard could register surprise, he was dead and Remo was up the stairs, the gun crumbling to pieces in his hands.
"Get in," he said to Gloria, shoving her inside her apartment.
"What for? There's nobody else around," she said disgustedly. "You knew that."
"I want to see the map... Miss Sweeney."
"Map?" She laughed. "Sure. Help yourself." She threw out her arm in a Bette Davis gesture to indicate the map on the wall. "Have an eyeful, sugar."
It was an ordinary world map. A little old, maybe, Remo thought as he scanned its worn folds, but nothing special.
"Barney Daniels is alive and talking, I suppose," Gloria said, a look of resignation settling over her features and rendering them haggard as she slumped into an overstuffed white chair.
"That's right. His memory's back."
She lifted a weary eyebrow. "It was bound to happen. Care for a drink?" She cocked a frosty glass in his direction.
"No thanks."
"It's only mineral water. Here. Try some." She eased herself out of the chair and poured a tall tumbler for Remo at the bar.
The glass felt cold in his hand. The moisture on the outside of the glass wet his skin. "I guess water wouldn't hurt," he said.
Then he smelled it. It was faint, almost nonexistent, just a tinge. "Ethyl chloride," he said, bewildered. "And something else. Something common."
"Don't be silly. That's just plain old H2O, straight from the hidden springs of New Yrok City. Now bottoms up." She drained her own glass in one nervous gulp.
"And what was that?" Remo asked.
"Gin. I'm tapering off water," she said with a smile.
Remo smiled, too. He held his glass toward her. "Go on. Have a taste."
"No, thanks."
"Come on," Remo said. "You only live once." He squeezed her jaw open and poured the liquid down her throat. "Ethyl chloride and mesquite," Remo said. "Mesquite like in tequila. That's what you hooked Daniels on, wasn't it? The mesquite. First, you fudged up his brain with ethyl chloride, then hooked him on the mesquite. And he kept getting enough of it in his tequila to keep the chloride pumping in his tissues, keeping him under. Until he dried out in the clinic."
Gloria sputtered and coughed. Remo squeezed the junctions of her jaws harder. Her mouth popped open wider. "Let's try this all one more time," Remo said and poured the rest of the decanter into Gloria's mouth. "Let's see what's in your system."
The liquid bubbled over her teeth. It sprayed. It dribbled down her chin and plastered her gauze drape to her breasts.
Abruptly, the woman stopped struggling. As Remo watched, a wild, happy glint lit her eyes. He released her jaw and she winked and smiled at him. She seemed unaware of the spittle running down her face.
"It good," she said, clapping her hands together.
"The ethyl chloride's in you too," Remo said. "Is that why you're involved in this? They got you with drugs?"
"Just a little drinkie now and then," Gloria said.
"Want to talk now?" Remo asked.
"Rather play feelies," she said. She raised her breasts toward Remo.
"Where is everybody?"
Coyly, she waggled a finger at Remo. Her face was twisted in a leer that she must have thought was a smile. "No, no, never tell." She giggled, then said, "All the niggies gone. Niggies, niggies, niggles. All gone to Washington to get blown up."
"Who's going to blow them up?"
Her face lit up. "Me. Gloria. And Robar."
"Estomago?"
She nodded. "The one with the big hose." She rolled her eyes appreciatively.
"Why do you want to blow them up?" Remo asked.
"Not just them. Everybody. All in Washington."
"I thought you loved the Afro-Muslim Brotherhood," Remo said.
She blurted a raspberry. "A game. Niggies got me sent to jail. Robar got me out."
"What'd you do to go to jail?"
She bent her neck down, then peered up at Remo as if she were looking over a fence. "Shot me a niggie and they sent me to jail."
"Poor little thing," Remo said.
"Poor Gloria," she said. She sniffed eloquently. Suddenly a tear blossomed from the corner of her eye. "Gonna blow them up; gonna blow everybody up."
"How are you going to blow them up?"
Gloria giggled. "With bombs, silly, Robar's got bombs. Lots of bombs. Let's play ficky-fick. Too much talk."
"First talk," Remo said, "then ficky-fick. Are the bombs in Hispania?"
She nodded. "At the installation. The girls put them together. Built the camp too."
"What girls?"
"The girls Robar got from the prisons. Like me. Only I didn't have to work at the camp 'cause I'm so pretty." She patted her platinum hair.
"When are you going to explode the bombs?"
"Maybe next week. Maybe never. Whenever the Russians say so."
"What's going to happen to Hispania?" Remo asked.
Gloria shrugged. "Who cares? Robar and me, we going away. El Presidente, he going to Switzerland. Who cares? We got lots of money and we get lots more when the Russians come into Hispania and take the island over."
"Where are the girls now?"
"All dead. We shot 'em. Bang. I like shooting."
"Then why didn't you shoot Barney Daniels?"
Her eyes opened wide. "Cause he got away and came to America. So we sent him a bomb, but he didn't blow up. And then we made him kill Calder Raisin so he would go to jail and rile up the niggles. But he didn't kill Calder Raisin. He can't do anything right."
"Just a deadbeat, I guess," Remo said.
"Good ficky-fick though," Gloria said.