"Frail?" Remo whispered. A sharp elbow caught him in the belly.
"Yes, frail, Emperor," Chiun said, suddenly weary. "I have toiled happily in your employ lo these many years, yet lately a fatigue has set in. Not uncommon for one of my advanced years." He forced a pathetic cough.
"Oh, brother," Remo muttered.
"I hope it is only temporary," Smith said seriously.
"At my age, who knows?" Chiun said. The words were an effort to get out. "My Masterhood has gone on much longer than the norm. Perhaps it is the start of the end for me. We will not know if this is merely a passing debility until I have taken to bed for a week or two. Make it two. And please do not come to visit during that time, for I fear I will be too weak to answer the door. Or the telephone," he added quickly.
"I am sorry to hear that," Smith said. "Remo doubtless could have made use of your expertise as a cultural guide while in East Africa."
Chiun had been handing the phone back to Remo. But at the mention of the country's name, the receiver flew back to one shell-like ear.
"You are sending Remo to East Africa?" he asked, his brow furrowing.
"Yes," Smith said. "But I understand if you cannot-"
"Wait!" Chiun interrupted, breathless. "Is it possible? Yes. My lassitude of body and spirit has vanished. I do not know how you accomplished this miracle, but simply by conversing with you, O Emperor, has my robust health been restored. Your lilting voice alone must act as remedy."
"So you will be able to accompany Remo after all?" Smith asked, confused.
"On wings of doves I do your bidding, Smith, Son of Hippocrates," Chiun proclaimed.
He threw the phone back at Remo.
"Make the arrangements, Smitty," Remo said blandly. "In the meantime, I'll see if his transmission held together with that sudden shift into reverse." He hung up the phone.
Chiun had gathered up his cast iron pot and was on his way out the door.
"What was that all about?" Remo called after him.
"It is called conversation," Chiun replied. "It is a bit more advanced than the grunts and rude hand gestures you are used to."
"Ha-ha. You know what I mean. What was with that line of pap you were feeding Smith? You haven't been tired since I've known you."
"That is not true. I cannot begin to count the times you have exhausted my patience." He slipped from the room.
Hopping down from the counter, Remo dogged him to the bottom of the main staircase.
"I know you," he accused as Chiun mounted the stairs. "You're up to something."
"Yes," Chiun agreed without turning. "I am up to packing my eighth trunk. Summon a carriage to take us to the airport, and you may load the first seven for our trip. I must make haste!"
With that, the old Korean vanished into his room, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter 5
Fortunately for Remo, Chiun packed light, taking only nine of his usual complement of fourteen steamer trunks.
The Master of Sinanju made it Remo's responsibility to see to it that the trunks were undamaged on their transfer flight to New York from Boston's Logan International Airport. After much arguing and a few well-placed bribes, he was allowed to retrieve the cases from the belly of the 747.
"I'm not used to being a luggage monkey anymore," Remo complained as he hauled the trunks through the terminal at JFK International Airport.
The Master of Sinanju marched at his side. "The monkey part should be second nature," Chiun said. "As for the other, bend at the knees, not the waist."
"Har-de-har-har," Remo replied. "What are you taking all this garbage for, anyway? You've been leaving these stupid trunks home the past couple of years."
"You have admitted yourself that you have allowed your baggage transporting skills to deteriorate. What kind of teacher would I be if I let your slide into indolence continue without addressing it?"
"A merciful one?" Remo suggested, annoyed. The dolly on which the trunks were balanced hit an uneven spot on the broad floor. Remo had to hold the yellow trunk steady to keep it from falling.
"Be careful of that one," Chiun cautioned.
It was the trunk he'd dropped the parchment and dagger into. His voice betrayed more than normal concern.
"You didn't answer me back home," Remo ventured.
"Sometimes I ignore you in the hope that you will go away," Chiun replied blandly.
"About the knife," Remo pressed. "That was the symbol of Sinanju carved in the handle. And it was done by a Master other than you. The fingernail downstroke was sloppier than your work. And that ivory was stained from age."
As they walked, Chiun appraised the proud expression on his pupil's face. "Who died and appointed you Sherlock Holmes?" the Master of Sinanju said flatly.
"I'm right, aren't I?" Remo challenged.
Chiun looked away. "I will tell you what I told you last night," the old Korean said. "Mind your own business."
"Sinanju is my business, Little Father," Remo insisted.
With that, the old Korean fell silent. Remo attributed it to his general moodiness. He didn't notice the contemplative look on his teacher's weathered face.
As he pulled the dolly across the terminal floor, Remo was suddenly distracted.
There was a line of seats across from a ticket counter. Seated in one of them was a small boy. He was so little, his feet didn't touch the floor. The toes of his sandals hung to a V in the air.
"What's he doing here?" Remo puzzled, recognizing the little Korean boy from the Carlson wake.
The boy still wore the same black clothes and the same sad expression. Far too reflective for a child his age.
"Who?" the Master of Sinanju asked, uninterested.
"That kid," Remo said. "I saw him with that weird old lady at the wake in Peoria last night. What do you suppose he's doing here? And all alone, by the looks of it."
Chiun followed his pupil's gaze. His bright eyes narrowed as he scanned the plastic chairs.
"I see no child," he said.
"Of course you do," Remo insisted. "A little Korean kid. He's right-"
But when he went to point him out, the boy was gone. The seat he had been sitting in was empty. As Remo watched, a middle-aged man sat in it.
"Well, he was there," he said. "I wonder where he went?"
As they walked, he scanned the area. He didn't know why, but the air of the terminal seemed suddenly very cold. And despite his Sinanju training, Remo felt an involuntary shudder.
SMITH HAD RESERVED them two first-class seats on a direct flight to Africa. After hours in the air, a long nap and a short conversation during which the Master of Sinanju warned Remo to keep his musings about the strange dagger to himself, the plane touched down on the simmering black tarmac of the main airport in Bachsburg, the capital of East Africa.
As Chiun's luggage was being unloaded by careless, unseen hands, the two men deplaned. Side by side, they walked amid the other passengers to the main customs area. When they got there, a quartet of bizarrely dressed women was already screeching at a uniformed East African agent.
"I don't need my bloody passport!" yelled one. "I'm a bleedin' star!"
"Yeah!" shrieked two of the others in unison. "Girl domination!" screamed the fourth.
It was the trademark line uttered by the fourth woman that caught Remo's attention. Only when he looked closer did he realize he knew who they were.
The Seasonings had been a red-hot all-girl group for about eight minutes two years before. Assembled after a wily record promoter ran an ad in a small English porn magazine devoted to anal fetishes and bed-wetting, Tramp, Trollop, Ho and Slut Seasoning were still trying to recapture their glory days.
The girls had been livid when their bandmate Strumpet Seasoning had quit the group. After a failed solo act, a failed tell-all biography and six failed marriages, Strumpet was still the only member of the group anyone talked about. The other Seasonings had, thankfully, vanished from the world stage after their one and only hit. Bu
t for a terrible time two summers before, no one could get away from their signature song. Indeed, Smith had been repeatedly forced to pay to replace the radios Remo regularly smashed in his various rental cars whenever he found "I Know What You Need (Really, Really I Do)" blaring from his speakers.
"Girl domination!" shrieked Ho Seasoning at the East African agent. Ho, like the rest of the group, hadn't technically been a "girl" since the Truman administration.
"We're here for a bleedin' important gig!" screeched Trollop Seasoning.
"And if I lose my baby 'cause of you, I'll rip your fuckin' balls off and feed 'em to me cat!" screamed Slut Seasoning. She pointed to her very pregnant belly.
That was another thing about the Seasonings. In addition to their bimonthly tabloid-inspiring weddings, they all seemed to be perpetually pregnant without ever actually giving birth to anything. The four women each had a huge belly that hung out in colossal gestational fashion from beneath revealing halter tops and above skin-tight rubber capri pants of various bright rainbow colors.
After a few hushed words from the agent, the stewing Seasonings seemed to strike up some sort of bargain. When the customs official ushered the four women through a small door behind his counter, he was already unbuckling his belt.
Fortunately, there was another agent on duty. When they stepped up to the second uniformed clerk with his white shirt, black tie and wide-brimmed blue hat, Chiun pushed his way in front of Remo.
"Business or pleasure?" the customs man crisply asked the Master of Sinanju. His accented English sounded Australian, but with harsher emphasis on the consonants.
"Pleasure," Remo said.
"Business," the Master of Sinanju corrected. "Nature of business?"
Chiun spoke before Remo could answer for them. "I am an assassin on an important mission for the ruler of this land," the old Korean announced ominously.
Remo tried to mask his annoyance. Two minutes in East Africa and Chiun had already blown their cover.
"He's joking," Remo assured the agent. In Korean he whispered, "Quit screwing around, Chiun." At the customs checkpoint, the uniformed man had slowly raised his eyes beneath the brim of his cap. He ignored Remo. "You work for President Kmpali?" he asked seriously.
This was the man who had succeeded Willie Mandobar as East Africa's ruler.
"Pah!" Chiun spit, waving an impatient hand. "I have had my fill of presidents as secret assassin for America. My business is with the true ruler of this land."
"Oh, great," Remo grumbled. He was already thinking about how mad Smith would be after they busted out of some dingy African jail.
But the customs official only frowned at Chiun. "President Kmpali or not, you must register with the Finance Ministry if you intend to advertise your services in the Republic of East Africa," He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Next!" he called, waving Chiun and Remo through.
They passed through the metal detector and into the air-conditioned terminal's main concourse. As they walked along, Remo glanced back in bewilderment.
"What the hell just happened?" he asked. Chiun didn't reply. As they strolled across the tile floor, the old Asian avoided the baggage carousel where his luggage had just begun to slide into view. He steered a beeline to the terminal's main entrance. "This is amazing," Remo continued, shaking his head. "You told him you were an assassin, and he didn't bat an eye. And what was that about registering with the Finance Ministry? What kind of country registers its assassins?"
"A civilized one," Chiun replied tightly. They were through the doors and outside.
The oppressively hot East African air assaulted them immediately. The body temperature of both men instantly regulated to compensate for the change.
"We can debate that later," Remo droned. "And why aren't we getting your luggage?"
The Master of Sinanju was too distracted to reply. A glistening black limousine was parked by the curb at the far end of a broad carport. Standing beside the car was a somber young man with skin as dark as the limo's paint.
Although his blue suit was impeccably tailored, he fidgeted uncomfortably, as if unused to his garments. At Chiun's appearance, a curious frown crossed the man's face. Pushing away from the car, he took a tentative step forward.
"Master of Sinanju?" he asked, with the same British-influenced harshness of the customs agent. Suspicion creased Chiun's aged face as he stopped before the young man. "I am he," the wizened Korean replied, with a bow that was more perfunctory than ceremonial.
"What's going on?" Remo asked. "Who the hell is this?"
"Hush, Remo," Chiun hissed. Back straight, he addressed the native. "You were sent by Batubizee, son of Kwaanga?"
"I was, Master of Sinanju." He spoke Chiun's title hesitantly, as if uncertain he had truly found the right man.
"Then why are you dressed in that Western garb and not in the raiments of the glorious Luzu warrior empire?" Chiun asked, his face puckering in displeasure.
"The Luzu are greeted with disdain in the cities of East Africa. My clothing makes it easier for me to blend in."
His words did nothing to dispel Chiun's sour expression. Exhaling disapproval, the old man reached into the folds of his kimono. In a rustle of fabric, he produced the dagger embossed with the Sinanju symbol.
When he saw the knife, any doubts the black man had entertained fled. His features bloomed in pleasure, his smile revealing a row of perfect white teeth. He bowed formally at the waist.
"I bring you greetings from the son of the sons of Kwaanga, Chief Batubizee, of the line of the first great Luzu warrior chief. Hail to you, O awesome and powerful Master of Sinanju, he who graciously throttles the universe."
Chiun handed over the knife, hilt first.
"What's this all about?" Remo demanded, his face registering growing confusion. "And when the hell did you unpack that?"
"You ask too many questions," Chiun said from the corner of his mouth.
"And you haven't answered one yet. What the Belgium is going on here?"
This time, it wasn't Chiun who ignored him. "Come," the young man said. "The chief waits for you in the heart of the Luzu empire." He clapped his hands loudly.
There was a truck parked before the limo. Men spilled out, racing back to their small group.
"My luggage is inside," the Master of Sinanju said.
The men dutifully ran inside the terminal. Through the tinted windows they could be seen swarming for the luggage carousel.
"Please wait with me in my vehicle," the native offered, opening the door to the limousine.
Chiun took a step toward the car.
"Everybody freeze for one goddamn minute!" Remo snapped. "Chiun, you are not getting in that car."
"If the Master so wishes, you may accompany us in the limousine," the young native offered helpfully. "Where do you wish your servant to ride, Master?"
"That other vehicle is good enough for him," Chiun said, waving toward the parked truck. "But I would be certain to keep the windows down," he added in a low voice.
The men appeared through the terminal doors, bearing Chiun's trunks. They loaded the baggage into limo and truck.
"This is why you were so quick to change your mind," Remo snapped as the men worked. "You were coming here already."
"For a mere servant, your deductive skills are impressive," Chiun droned near the open car door.
"Servant my ass," Remo growled. "This is incredible, even by your standards. You bilked Smith for the airfare. You were coming to freaking East Africa anyway, so you just hitched a ride at his expense."
Chiun's face was stone. "Mad Harold's coffers are deep," he said dismissively.
"He even sent us first class," Remo muttered to himself. "Smith never sends us first class."
Chiun had been scrutinizing the men as they loaded his luggage. The trunk and front seat of the limo were crammed full. There was only a little space left in the ATV as the men climbed inside. Hiking up his kimono skirts, Chiun started to get into the rear of the li
mousine.
"You can't just leave, Chiun," Remo said, exasperated.
"I must," the Master of Sinanju said seriously. "For I have an appointment in Luzuland. You may come if you wish. But this one is correct." He nodded to his driver, who was even now getting behind the wheel. "It would not be seemly for a servant to accompany me in my vehicle. You may follow with my luggage." He slammed the door.
"Smitty sent you here to help me," Remo insisted through the open window.
"You are a full Master of Sinanju," Chiun said impatiently.
"And you're a thief. Don't think you're gonna get away with this. I'm telling Smith."
"Tattletale."
''Fraud."
"I do not have time for this," Chiun hissed. "You will be fine without me. There are only two things one needs to know to survive in East Africa."
"Yeah," Remo snapped, "what's that?"
"Do not trust anyone. White or black." "And the other?"
Chiun considered. "Perhaps there is only one thing."
He powered up the window, and the limousine drew away from the curb. The truck waited for it to pass, then fell in behind. The miniconvoy headed away from the Bachsburg airport terminal and out into the sweltering street.
Remo Williams could only stand helplessly on the sidewalk and watch them go.
Angry. And alone.
Chapter 6
Nunzio Spumoni was melting in the heat.
It was East Africa. The heat and humidity were infernal. Oppressive. Relentless.
Although he kept the air conditioner cranked up to its maximum, the air in his hotel room was still wet enough to wring out by hand. Outside, it was like trying to breathe underwater. And more aggravating than the heat itself was the fact that it didn't seem to bother anyone as much as him.
"Try wearing a lighter suit, Nunzio," his cousin Piceno Spumoni suggested.
"This one is one hundred percent cotton," Nunzio snapped in reply. He mopped his forehead with a paper napkin.
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