"Sure," he replied. "Why not? It's on the approved list of countries we Americans are still allowed to hate."
''Hmm."
"What 'hmm'?"
"I probably am wrong and I don't want to insult, but you don't seem to like anyone."
Remo frowned. "What do you mean?"
"It's just an observation. But judging from your comments about the countries we've been to in the last couple of days-the way you've acted when we've been there-you don't really seem to be very happy with, well, anyone."
Remo shrugged. "Arab countries are like giant cat boxes, except it's people shit, it's everywhere and the people doing the shitting haven't bothered to bury it or scoop it up for the last six thousand years."
"And with a statement like that, I'd say you were bigoted against Arabs."
"Just telling it like it is."
Rebecca didn't condemn. She smiled. "But from what you've said, you don't like any of the places you went to before we met. And they were all white European countries."
"White shmite," Remo grunted. "Paint them plaid, they're still living in inbred squalor."
"And it's statements like that that make me think you don't really like anyone. I'm not judging you," she added quickly. "Actually I find it refreshing. It's not really bigoted when you think about it. I don't think you can really be bigoted if you don't like anyone at all."
"I'm not the bigot in my family," Remo said. "Guy who taught me? Now, he's a bigot."
Rebecca wasn't listening. The stewardess appeared in the plane's lounge to whisper something to Rebecca.
"They have a ride waiting for us at the airport," Rebecca said to Remo, opening up her cell phone once more.
"I like plenty of people," Remo insisted. "I've saved the world a bunch of times. I didn't do it for spotted owls or kangaroo rats. I did it for people."
"I'm sure you did," Rebecca said, patting his knee. They landed at a small airport in northern Iraq.
In the years following the Gulf War, Iraq's leader had built dozens of opulent palaces around the country. A five-minute limo drive from the airport deposited Rebecca and Remo on the steps of one of the dictator's lavish new homes.
Rebecca wore sunglasses against the desert sun and windblown sand. Remo's eyes were wide open and filled with disgust as they climbed the palace steps.
"Isn't this just peachy?" he complained. "You know, back in the States we've got this stupid Sunday-night TV show that pretends to be news and it's got this ditzy old fart who likes to talk about things like elevator doors that don't open fast enough and the black stuff under ketchup caps. Nobody pays any attention to him 'cause he's just a crazy old fool who ought to be at the dog track. But now all of a sudden he's a big political expert. They all get to be big political experts, all these morons ...the cartoonists, their talk-show wives, all of them. Well, anyway, this guy, like all the big political experts, suddenly he knows what's wrong with the world. You know what's wrong with the world? America's what's wrong with the world. Every time some kid in some Cairo slum gets a sniffle or the Managua Y runs out of Band-Aids, it's somehow Uncle Sam's fault. But over here we've got Iraq, where this tinpot caterpillar-puss has built himself a hundred Taj-freaking-Mahals while his people are allegedly going hungry and not one of those blowhards can get their sucking mouths off of Castro's craphole long enough to say one bad word about the rape of Iraq."
"You care about Iraq now?" Rebecca asked.
"I told you," Remo said. "I care about people."
"Mm-hmm," Rebecca said, clearly not buying.
Remo shook his head angrily. "Forget about the wedding," he grumbled. "I don't think I love you anymore."
This time when Rebecca laughed her heavenly laugh, there was something else behind it.
They were met by guards who led them to a grand audience chamber. The Iraqi leader was there, grinning tightly beneath his bushy mustache.
Rebecca handled the introductions. When it came time to translate Remo's "screw you," Rebecca apparently sweetened it into something that made the Iraqi leader smile happily.
The meeting was quickly concluded. Barely five minutes had passed before the two of them were back out in sunlight.
"I don't think you translated me right," Remo groused as they climbed down the steps.
"Right and accurately are two different things," Rebecca said absently as she glanced around the large courtyard. "I might not have been accurate, but for the impression Sinanju wants you to give, I was right."
"How do you know so much about what Sinanju wants?" Remo asked. "I'm not even sure what Sinanju wants."
As he spoke, he thought of the Masters who surrounded him even as they walked through the courtyard.
"I know things, Remo," she said, squinting in the sun as she scanned the yard. "There it is."
There was a Jeep parked over near a row of garage stalls. The Iraqi flag was painted across the hood. The keys were in the ignition. Rebecca climbed in behind the wheel. Remo felt the press of all the Masters of Sinanju surrounding him as he got in beside her.
They didn't leave the palace grounds. Instead, Rebecca drove around the main buildings within the high walls.
Although there were guards in towers and along the walls, they kept their distance.
The palace had been built against some low mountains. In the shade of the rear towers, a wide shaft had been tunneled through the solid rock. A paved road led inside. Rebecca steered the Jeep through the opening.
"I like humanity okay," Remo announced abruptly.
Rebecca seemed distracted. "But you don't like people."
"I did," Remo said. "I mean, I still do. I like people well enough as individuals. It's when they come at me in groups that I don't like them so much." Rebecca didn't answer. She drove on.
The paved tunnel road had a single white stripe up the middle. The walls and ceiling were rough-hewn, as if formed by men with iron tools. The road angled downward. Remo could feel the change in pressure in his ears.
"Whose turn is it to kill me now?" he asked, exhaling.
She didn't have time to respond. Before Rebecca could answer, Remo suddenly latched on to the dashboard with one hand. The other hand he slapped flat to his temple.
"Whoa," he said, wincing.
"What's wrong?"
He looked at Rebecca. She was only a foot from him, but all of a sudden she seemed a million miles away. Her words echoed as if carrying across a great chasm. For a moment Remo couldn't speak. He felt dizzy, nauseous. And alone.
The Masters' Tribunal was gone. Just like that. In this desolate cave in the middle of Iraq, the thing he had been awaiting for almost a year finally happened. The spirits of the deceased Masters of Sinanju had finally vanished. For the first time in ages Remo didn't feel the collective disapproving gaze of countless generations of Korean assassins. The Hour of Judgment had ended with a whimper.
"Guess that's it," Remo said, his hand pressed firmly to his suddenly throbbing head. "I must have finally done something right." His own voice sounded far away.
The pain was bearable. The disorientation was something he hadn't expected. He thought when the moment finally came it would be a relief. But the sudden departure of his silent companions seemed to have thrown his senses into diearray.