He still figured it was some kind of trap, but the look of sincerity never left his teacher's face.
"I am sorry for what you will have to endure," the Master of Sinanju replied simply.
Remo knew instantly what he was talking about. It made him wish Chiun was still giving him the silent treatment.
"You think this is it?" he asked quietly. "The hardship I'm gonna have to endure in the coming years?"
"I doubt my dead son made the journey from the Void merely to prophesy the burning of our home," Chiun replied. "But it begins with this. And for this and whatever is yet to come, I am sorry. You have a good heart, Remo. One undeserving of hardship. I will pray to my ancestors that it be strong enough to endure that which is to come."
Remo nodded numbly. "Thanks, Little Father," he said softly.
No other words were necessary. Chiun turned his attention back out the window. Remo stared at the back of the seat in front of him. Neither of them said another word.
When the conga line passed by this time, the copilot was shirtless and reeked of Budweiser. Remo tripped the stumbling man, and he collapsed under a pile of boozy sorority girls. Just because Remo's life was shit, it didn't mean someone else couldn't have a little fun.
Chapter 28
Mark Howard had never been a field agent. Straight out of college, he had gone to the CIA as an analyst and had spent seven years toiling in the bowels of the Agency's Langley headquarters. But he had early on learned the true meaning of the term counterintelligence. Anything that ran counter to whatever the smart thing was-that was precisely what the CIA did.
It had only gotten worse when the Agency was defunded in the 1990s. Everything was falling apart, and everyone at Langley was at risk from disgruntled employees who'd been downsized out of a job. Thus Mark had bought the Heckler wanted to be ready if someone sold him out. Though he'd never needed the weapon, he was glad to have it now.
He didn't wear the gun on the plane. It was wrapped in its X-ray repelling holster and tucked safely away in his bag in the overhead compartment.
He was wearing a simple sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers, so no one in coach gave him a second look. A lot of people seemed to be involved in a limbo contest up near the galley. Beer cans littered the aisle.
Mark caught up on his sleep on the flight down from Washington. A flight attendant awakened him to tell him that he had to put on his seat belt for landing.
At the airport, he rented a green Ford Taurus and drove to a distant corner of the rental lot.
He shut off the car.
Mark slipped off his worn leather jacket and pulled his gun and holster from his bag. He shrugged the smooth straps onto his shoulders. The gun settled in the moon-shaped sweat stain beneath his arm as he pulled his jacket back on. At his side, the gun was a lead weight.
There was no premonitory feeling at the moment. Unless he counted the tingle of fear in his belly. "Ready or not, here I come," Mark muttered. Turning on the engine, he backed out of the parking lot space. As he slipped the car into Drive, he was surprised to see that his hands weren't shaking. He hoped it was a sign.
Stepping firmly on the gas, Mark Howard sped off into the warm darkness.
REMO AND CHNN STEPPED through the terminal's automatic doors and out into the night.
Though the day had cooled somewhat at evening's fall, the mild New Orleans air was still a welcome change from the bitter cold that had greeted them in Chicago.
"I hope Smitty realizes the airfare we're racking up for this dumb-ass mission," Remo complained as they headed for the car-rental agency. "And I think half the flight crew was high. Which, the way air travel's going lately, is probably less than the FAA's one hundred percent stoned rule."
Walking beside him, the Master of Sinanju was unmoved. "Travel is a welcome distraction from waiting," he said. "You were growing too anxious."
"I'd rather wait at Folcroft than prance around America like the professional assassin's answer to Charles Kuralt, all for some President who's been giving Smitty the royal shaft these past few years."
His tone had grown angrier as he spoke. When he was through, the Master of Sinanju gave him a bland look.
"Thank you, Remo, for proving my point."
At his words, Remo felt some of the anger drain out of him. Chiun was right. He'd been storing it up ever since he'd seen Johnny Fungillo driving away from their burning house. Face growing dark, he fell silent.
A car was driving out of the lot as they headed into the small rental office.
Remo had barely pulled out his credit card when Chiun pushed his way in front of him. He addressed the smiling woman who stood behind the counter.
"We wish to retain a green conveyance," Chiun insisted.
"Oh, I'm sorry, sir," she said, "but we don't have any green units."
"I just saw one depart as we entered," the Master of Sinanju argued.
"That was our last one," she explained.
Chiun crossed his arms. "Bring it back."
"I'm sorry, we can't do that," the woman said. Her plastered smile was growing weak.
"What does it matter?" Remo exhaled.
"First your ears, then your tongue and now your eyes," Chiun said to him. "What is it like, Remo, to live in a body incapable of detecting beauty?"
"Right now, this is the body with the credit card," Remo said. He turned to the woman. "Anything's fine."
She was eyeing his lean frame with growing interest.
"Blue is nice," the woman nodded hopefully. "We have plenty of blue."
"Blue is a common gutter color favored by streetwalkers," Chiun sniffed at the woman, who was dressed entirely in blue. To Remo, he said, "Get whatever you wish. I will be outside."
"Sorry," Remo apologized once the old man had swept out the door. "He's been cranky ever since we lost our house."
The sour look that had trailed Chiun out the door faded to a lustful leer when she turned her attention back to Remo.
"Oh, that's terrible," she said with lascivious sympathy. "You can stay with me if you want. We can put your friend in a home. One with really strong locks. There's just the one bed at my place, but we'll muddle through somehow."
"Just the car will be fine," he assured her.
"Oh," she said, disappointed. "I'll slip my apartment key on the ring just in case you change your mind." She fumbled in her purse.
Remo closed his eyes, forcing patience.
He'd had this effect on women for a long time, but lately he'd been able to control his natural pheromones by consuming shark meat. But his shark tank had perished in the blaze at Castle Sinanju. Another reason to fuel his desire to see Johnny Fungillo pay. Yet here he was, wasting his time in New Orleans.
"There's electronic maps built into the dashboard of all our cars," the woman said as she handed her house keys to Remo. "I can program it to find my apartment for you." Her smile bordered on obscene.