And Conn MacCleary was the key. The Israelis wouldn't let Conn fight his holy war against the Arabs after they had desecrated the sanctity of his still because, quite simply, Conn MacCleary was not in Israel to fight Arabs or even to train people to fight Arabs.
Conn MacCleary, master of the personal attack, was training people to seek a different enemy. And it would also explain why he volunteered and why Deborah had not listed the real name of her village, and why, if it was so secret, the presence of Arabs would in no way commit.
This little village was the first training ground for the agents who would follow those who had processed people in ovens, stripped human flesh for lampshades, tore off genitals with pliers, experimented on babies and women and men to see how long it took shock to set in when an organ was ripped off or when you tied a woman's legs together during labour. The village was a training site for people to track down Nazis and Deborah was on the trail of one.
And that one must be the killer, the one who had brought , about the deaths of McCarthy and Now Ratchett. Because they had somehow gotten in the way of his plan to get the compromising photos of the Forum's staff. But why did he want the pictures? Probably to blackmail the staff into giving him the little plan to conquer the world. Well, the joke was on him. The plan to conquer the world was a hoax, only Brewster's way of getting more federal funds.
Remo would have a good day off peak. And if Deborah asked him to, he would help set up a snatch or a kill on the one she was after. He would show her how good he was. And then they would make love.
"You know," Remo said to Dr. Brewster, "it's a beautiful day." They were at the phone booth on the corner. I'll be right out."
"You're not going to phone the police or something. I mean, what are you going to do?"
"I'll take care of it," Remo said assuringly.
"You're sure you're all right now? You were pretty shocked before, son. And I wouldn't want you to do anything that would embarrass you or anything. Not many people can accept the violence we saw today, and I want you to know that I don't hold it against you."
"Thank you," said Remo. "But I think I can handle it."
Brewster put a fatherly hand on Remo's arm. "I'm sure you can, son. I'm sure you can. And if the police need more information, I'll be right here."
"Oh, I think I've got most of the information they need," Remo said. "Somebody cut off Dr. Ratchett's penis and he died from shock caused by loss of blood, while flailing around in a pink puddle of gore. They'll find out for sure when they take his lungs out in the autopsy."
Dr. Nils Brewster nodded sagely and collapsed on the gravel before the booth in a dead faint. Remo removed the pipe from where it had fallen near Brewster's head. It was still lit and could have set the tumbleweed hair afire.
And that afternoon, the good Reverend gave Remo some delightful news. He was not only off peak, but he was to leave. Immediately. Remo spoke the number into the tape recording and waited. Dr. Brewster was blissfully in the land of out.
A car passed and the driver offered to help. It was Anna Stohrs, the blonde with the hard face. Remo waved her away, angrily, and with a hard glint in her eyes she gunned the gas pedal and sped off.
Remo whistled softly to himself as he kept the cradle down with his elbow. Some day he might set the record for holding down a receiver without moving. Guinness Book of Records: Remo Williams, three hours and fifty-two minutes. Let's hear it for clean living and expensive training. But how could somebody pose people in sex photos without their knowing? Hypnotism? Too hard. Too hard. It must be drugs.
The bing of the first ring and Remo released the cradle.
"What is it now?" Smith sounded angry. That meant he was happy.
"I'd like to stay a day. Here."
"No."
"I've got something I'm working on."
"No," said Smith. "Just do what you're supposed to do."
"One of the people here has met with an accident."
"That's all right. Doesn't matter."
"I know about the little plan."
"Forget it."
"Aren't you interested?"
"If I see you in a year or so, you can tell me all about it."
"Well, why the sudden go?"
There was silence. And then Smith said in a calm but pained voice: "You're asking me a why?"
"I'm sorry. I really am."
"So am I. I'll attribute it to the inordinately long peak."
"Well, screw you," Remo said. "You ding-dongs set the peak, not me."
"Look. Rest."
"I'm not getting off till I get the reason. I want to stay another day."
"If you must know, another agency had moved into it. Remember the paint shop? Well, it's become an international and they're working with an ally. In twenty-four hours that place is going to be crawling with agents. We're not needed now. So if you suddenly feel some need to perform some public service that is not your job, why don't you help with the garbage collection?"
"I want that extra day."
"Why?" Smith was getting annoyed.
"Would it surprise you if I told you I want to get laid." Remo used hard terms, lest Smith suspect affection.
"Anyone special?"
"One of the scientists."
"Not that fairy?"
"No. Doctor Hirshbloom."
"Remo." Smith's voice was suddenly harsh and imperious. "Stay away from her. She's an ally and she'll be working with our people to clear up this mess. She'll finger the targets."
"She'll work better if she's well-laid."
"Leave her alone."
"What about the sex photographer?"
"All part of the same thing. Blackmail against the government. I tell you, it's in good hands. Now get out of there before you get arrested for loitering. We're closing this number. We'll reach you. You get lost until we do. That's an order."
Remo hung up. Screw Smith and screw CURE. He was staying and he was having his day with Deborah. That was it. Insubordination. He had peaked too long. If he hung around, they would be after him to set him up. But a setup is not a follow-through and he was not a part to be replaced easily. Or was he?
Well, if it came to that, he couldn't think of a better reason to go. Conrad MacCleary chose patriotism. Remo Williams chose a woman. Maybe another day, he would feel differently. But today was today and it was August and he was going to stick it to Deborah, and then go to Henrici's Restaurant in Dayton, Ohio, for a Wednesday night meal, and keep going to Wednesday night meals until they found him.
On impulse, he dialled Dial-a-Prayer again. A tape retold him "The number you have reached is not a working number."
Fast.
Outside, Brewster was coming to. The first words he said to Remo as soon as he regained his balance were "Are you all right, son?"
"Yes, Nils. Thank you." .
"Do you need help?"
"I...." Remo paused. "Couldn't make the phone call to the police."
"That's all right. I understand. You've been through hell. It's a very difficult job to be security officer."
"I don't know if I can, can continue in the job. Not now."
"Yes, you can," Brewster said firmly. "Because we're doubling your salary. You're the first policeman good enough for the job. And that's that. Don't say no. I know men. You're the first one good enough for Brewster Forum. I'll make the phone call to the police."
Remo thanked Dr. Brewster who fumbled a dime into the telephone and dialled the emergency number listed on the board above the coin slots. He winked at Remo, made an okay sign with his right hand, and began to babble incoherently into the receiver.
Remo waved at Brewster, who was gesticulating wildly with his free hand, as he shouted into the phone: "Dead. Aaah. Dead. Ooooh. Help. Dead. Brewster Forum. Blood."
And Remo sauntered off, flatfooted, off balance and laughing at himself. The flush of relaxation might have explained why he was about to enter the first black-out period of his life.