"Good," said Remo, who hoped the glass partition between the driver's compartment and the back was airtight.
It turned out to be completely airtight. It also turned out that when the Master of Sinanju heard that Remo had insisted on sitting up front, he had dismissed the expensive rental driver so Remo could drive, and personally placed the trunk containing the Bunji Lama in the front passenger seat.
Remo found this out when he slid behind the wheel and almost gagged. He rolled down the windows, got in again and glared at the Master of Sinanju in the rearview mirror.
Chiun looked his blandest.
Remo started the limo, and soon they were humming along the Southeast Expressway, north to Logan Airport. It was normally called the Southeast Distressway, but this morning traffic was flowing smoothly.
Kula's voice boomed over the passenger intercom.
"There is no fermented mare's milk in the refrigerator."
"Remind me to give the limo company people a severe scolding when we get back," Remo said.
"You live in a very uncivilized country, White Tiger."
"No argument there."
"But do not worry. There will be plenty of fermented mare's milk in my personal skyboat. "
Remo blinked. "You have your own plane?"
"How did you think I came to this country-on horseback?"
And everyone laughed at the foolish white dolt whom the Master of Sinanju had kindly taken under his wing in the hope that he would one day become Korean, or close to Korean.
THE PLANE WAS a pristine sky blue with a silver stripe running along the windows on both sides. It was a 747 and it might have belonged to some exotic airline, except there was no company name and on the tail was the silhouette of a heavy wheel mounted on a pole, from which dangled nine horsetails. Remo knew it was a representation of the nine-horsetail standard of Genghis Khan.
The pilot and copilot stood at attention at either side of the door. They wore the traditional del of the Mongol nomad and bowed when the Master of Sinanju, Kula and Lobsang Drom stepped from the parked limousine.
As Remo got the trunks, the pilots yelled at him to hurry up.
"Hold your horsetails," muttered Remo, carrying Chiun's trunks to the open cargo bay. Once they were stowed, he brought the Bunji Lama's trunk into the cabin.
Inside it was dark. From the outside there had been the usual rows of windows. Inside, the walls were hung with colorful Mongol tapestries, which also covered the windows. There were no seats, just piles of overlapping rugs on the floor. Here and there were low taborets and chests.
Remo had been in Mongol felt tents before. They looked exactly like this, except they were round and spacious, with a stove in the center and a stovepipe leading to an open smoke hole in the ceiling.
There was no stove here, and the ceiling was intact, but otherwise it looked exactly like the interior of a very long ger.
"Place the Bunji Lama in the spot of honor," Kula called, indicating a gorgeous Oriental rug.
"And close the door after you," called the pilot from up front.
Remo did both and found a place on the floor.
"I'm glad to see you haven't let all that treasure spoil you, Kula," Remo told the Mongol.
Kula beamed. "You like my skyboat? It has every modern convenience. There is a microwave oven, and through that door behind you there is a flying well."
"Where are the stewardesses?" Remo asked.
Kula looked blank.
"He means the slave girls," said Chiun.
Kula scowled. "We do not allow Mongol women to fly. Otherwise, they will give birth to two-headed babies and other freaks. Only warriors are allowed to fly."
"Do American women fly?" asked Lobsang Drom.
"All the time," said Remo.
"And what is done with the babies that are born with two heads?" he asked in a puzzled voice.
"Oh, usually the mother picks the head she likes best and chops off the other one," said Remo.
"American women are very clever," said Kula.
"Perhaps the American woman with flame for hair is the Bunji Lama after all," muttered Lobsang Drom as the jet's engines began screaming, setting the wall hangings to shaking and shivering.
They were airborne a moment later. The rugs and chests shifted until the plane leveled out.
Lobsang Drom immediately closed his eyes and began moaning one word over and over.
"Aummm. "
In one hand he spun something that looked to Remo like a wooden cat-food can on a stick. The turquoise-studded teak can spun and spun. Other than a creaky whirring, it made no noise.
"How long does this go on?" Remo muttered.
"It is a prayer wheel," Kula explained. "One writes his prayer on a strip of paper and places it in the wheel. Each time it spins, the prayer goes forth, earning much merit."
Remo groaned. "This is going to be a long flight."
Kula blinked. "How many marches to this land called California?"
"Marches?"
"It is less than five hours," announced Chiun.
"On horse?"
"By air," said Chiun.
Lobsang Drom's eyes came open instantly. He and Kula exchanged startled glances.