Uh-oh, thought Remo, who now had an inkling as to what was going on aboard the 737 that had just landed. Its pilot had relayed a passenger-disturbance complaint minutes before landing. That brought the sky marshals in a hurry, but after the aircraft landed the pilot called back to say the complaint had been retracted. The sky marshals weren't buying any "retraction."
"Let me get this straight;" the head sky marshal said to the ticket puncher. "This tour group issues a complaint against another passenger and asks for law enforcement. Then the passenger apologizes, so the Paris tour group says no hard feelings and expects us to just drop it?"
The ticket puncher seemed to shrink into herself. "Not exactly, Officer."
"Marshal."
"Not exactly, Marshal. From what I understand, the Paris tour group apologized to the passenger. You know, the one they issued the complaint about."
"Well, why'd the bejeezus they do that?"
Remc knew the answer. The answer strode out of the debarking door, scowling. The scowl became worse by degrees when Remo approached.
"Bad flight, Little Father?"
"Do you know what was on that flight, Remo? Can you possibly guess?"
"Hmm. When you screw your face up that tight, it's got to be, oh, French?"
"Yes!" Chiun exclaimed, pleased to share his outrage. "They spent the entire flight behaving like French. They spoke French. They smelled French. I was harassed for hours."
"It's a fifty-minute flight."
"They gave me no peace. They insulted me in their hideous tongue, thinking I could not understand their meaning. It was a mob of uncivilized nonbathers against a frail but hygienic elderly man. I was on the verge of being physically assaulted."
"You were lucky, I guess."
"Excuse me," asked the sky marshal, "where are the rest of the passengers?"
"There was some trouble with the lavatories after landing, Marshal," Chiun said, croaking out the words like the weak, failing senior citizen he wasn't. "Apparently a great many of them became wedged in the lavatory cubicles."
"Oh, my Gad!" the sky marshal said. "How did that happen?"
Chiun looked at the floor, a sad and pathetic old man. "They are French. Who can say with the French?"
CHIUN THE ELDERLY, Chiun the Frail, Chiun the Dying became Chiun the Obstinate when he was informed that he was to board another aircraft at once. His wrist bones, as brittle as sun-dried pine needles, nearly broke when the old Korean master illustrated his displeasure by backhanding the motorized cart that had just transported them to a two-engine prop plane.
The airport staffer on the cart knew his little putt-putt vehicle couldn't possibly go as fast as it was suddenly going, and it sure the hell couldn't do it in reverse. He was still trying to figure all this out a half second later when the cart stopped against the protective concrete pillar at the base of the airport gate. It was hours before he thought about anything again.
"Do you have my trunks?" Chiun demanded.
"Yes. The Reigning Master of Sinanju is faithfully jockeying all six of your trunks."
"The Master of Sinanju Emeritus expects no less," Chiun replied with an off-hand wave. "See that they are not scratched."
"They're not scratched," Remo said.
"You handle them irreverently," Chiun complained.
"Hey, you were lucky I grabbed those things just when you were sending the poor driver halfway across the tarmac. They'd have been scratched and dinged and who-knows-what all."
"Dinged?" Chiun stopped on the third step up into the charter plane. "You shall not allow my trunks to be dinged, or scritched or danged or any other thing."
"I didn't, no thanks to you."
"Of course there are no thanks to me," Chiun said with a sniff. "There have never been thanks to me, especially not from the adopted son to whom I have given everything." Chiun was speaking now for the benefit of the flight attendant who awaited them inside the doors at the top of the steps.
"I gave him my title. I gave him an education and a vocation," Chiun explained to her. "I gave him what orphans the world over dream of. What do I get in return?"
"Bellhop service for life," Remo answered.
"Disdain." Chiun's quivering head shook sadly.
"Oh, dear," the flight attendant murmured, her mechanical smile melting into genuine sympathy.
"Don't believe a word of it," Remo warned.
"You poor man."
"Ask him how poor," Remo called from behind. "He could buy this airport."
"Poor in the currencies that matter. Loyalty. Understanding. Respect."
"Yo, Emeritus! We got places to go."
Chiun leaned close to the young woman in the starched navy blue uniform. "You see how it is for me," he whispered, his lungs, weary from a century of breathing, were barely able to get the words out.
The flight attendant wiped away a single drop of moisture from the corner of her eye and tenderly embraced the little man's crippled body in her arms, then gently assisted him to the window seat. When she was sure he was comfortable-as comfortable as his weak, failing body could possibly be-she turned and shot a lethal look of disgust at Remo Williams, Reigning Master of Sinanju.
THE FLIGHT WAS chartered for just the two of them, and in no time they were taxiing to a stop at a tiny regional airport. A rental car was waiting, and Remo followed the directions that had been faxed to him, with a hand-drawn map, from Folcroft. Remo still felt disoriented by the three words that were printed in neat block letters at the big X that indicated their destination. He knew what "Saloon" meant. What was "Big Stomp?" Was Smitty experimenting with some more code words? If so, Remo missed the meeting. Or he'd missed paying attention at the meeting. Did Big Stomp indicate he was supposed to go in and assassinate everybody in the place? He was thinking he'd better call Upstairs and clarify the message before he actually carried out such instructions.
His destination came into view in the form of a massive lighted sign, fifty feet off the ground, bright red with white letters. Then he understood the words on the map.
"Big Stomp Saloon is the name of a bar?"
"The Big Stomp?" Chiun said, perking up from his introspective sulk. "Is it the Big Stomp Saloon?"
"Don't tell me you've heard of the place?" Remo asked as they parked amid squad cars and unmarked vehicles.
"Hey, you!" said a state trooper just inches from the driver's-side window.
"Who has not heard of it?" Chiun asked as they stepped from the car.
"Mister, I been waving you off since you started up the drive," the trooper said. "Now you tell me, you blind or just stupid?"
"I'm with the federal government, so you make the call," Remo said, pulling out an ID and giving it a quick glance before presenting it to the trooper. "Remo Baggins, National Tobacco, Firearms and Alcohol Association."