The momentary pause on the line made Remo think Harold Smith was fuming in silence. When he spoke again his tone was distasteful.
"Report as needed."
The line went dead.
On the way out, Remo tossed the red satin bed cover over Kinga's lush lines, telling her, "That's the biz, sweetheart."
Chapter 23
It was a long flight to Moscow from Orlando, Florida. The reservation clerk said, "It's a ten-hour trip. You'll have to fly to Berlin, then catch Aeroflot's Budapest flight to Bucharest and Moscow."
"Sounds like it involves a lot of stewardesses," Remo said unhappily.
"I'm sure they'll treat you right," the clerk said with a wink.
"Let me think about it"
"The next available flight leaves in fifty minutes."
"I'll get back to you on that."
Remo found the Master of Sinanju guarding the luggage carousel from thieves. He was doing a good job of it. Nobody was stealing any luggage. Nobody was getting their luggage back, either. The carousel kept going around and around as an angry mob pressed closer and closer like Transylvanian villagers confronting Frankenstein's dying monster.
"What are you doing?" Remo asked Chiun.
"I am protecting valuable property from thieves," said Chiun, swiping the air before him like an angry cougar. The ring of people flinched as one.
"They look like passengers to me."
"Let them prove it. I have seen on television how luggage is stolen daily by thieves pretending to be tourists."
"We don't have any luggage with us," Remo reminded.
"If we strike terror into would-be thieves now, the next time we bring luggage, my trunks will be safe."
"That's a nice theory, but we have to get to Moscow this year," Remo sighed.
"I cannot go to Moscow trunkless."
"Well, we can't go to Moscow until I figure out a way to get there without inciting stewardesses of five or six nationalities to commit crimes of passion against my body."
Chiun stepped in front of a woman who came slithering closer on her belly. She slithered back like a blue-jeaned serpent, hissing in defeated frustration.
"You must control yourself, Remo."
"It's not me who needs control."
"If you knew the secret of harnessing your natural allures, you would not have this problem."
Remo's dark eyes brightened. "Teach them to me?"
Chiun shook his aged head. "You are too young. You have not yet given me a suitable heir."
"There's gotta be another way to do this."
"There is. My way."
Having no other recourse, Remo decided to address the crowd. "Anyone here know a good way to fly without attracting a lot of attention?" he asked.
"Are you a terrorist?" a bright-eyed fat man asked.
"No. I'm just allergic to amorous flight attendants."
"That Tourister is mine. Hand it over, and I'll make special arrangements for you."
"It's a deal."
Remo handed over the Tourister, and the bright-eyed fat man beckoned Remo to follow him out of the terminal. A reluctant Chiun trailed.
After that, there was a mad rush for the carousel, followed by another mad rush for connecting flights and taxicabs.
In back of a moving cab, Remo asked the bright-eyed fat man, "You a travel agent?"
"In a way," he said happily.
"In what way?" asked Chiun.
"I ship people all over the world without a problem. But you'll have to rough it."
"I can rough it," said Remo.
"I will fly first class if you are roughing it," Chiun insisted.
"You can accompany him. I'll arrange that, too," the fat man said in a pleasant voice. Too pleasant for someone who had had his luggage held hostage, Remo thought. But he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
"Sounds like half a plan," said Remo.
He was more than a little surprised when the taxi let them off at a funeral home. The gilt sign said Popejoy Funeral Home. "You work here?" Remo asked the fat man.
"I own this establishment," the fat man said proudly. "Bob Popejoy is the name."
"Nice," said Remo in a tone that conveyed another impression entirely.
Inside, Bob Popejoy led Remo to a showroom and said, "Pick any casket from this room."
Then he took up the telephone, dialed a number and said, "Christine, this is Mr. Popejoy. I'd like a Jim Wilson fare."