"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. But 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.