"Don't worry," Remo muttered. "Wait a few years and you'll see." He sighed deeply. "I'll go, Smitty. Because that's what I do. But I'm not happy about the world right now or my place in it, so don't come bitching to me when I rack up a body count on this one."
"Yes," Smith said cautiously.
Periodically during his tenure with the agency, CURE's enforcement arm had lapsed into melancholia. The last time had been about a year ago. But Smith could not remember Remo ever sounding this bad.
"Er," Smith ventured carefully, "perhaps it would be wise if you brought Chiun with you on this assignment."
Across the room, the Master of Sinanju was examining the bottom of his pot in the sunlight that poured in through their kitchen window. At Smith's suggestion, the old Korean scowled. He shook his head violently. The wisps of hair above his ears were cotton blurs.
"He can't," Remo said. "He's already packing for some other trip he won't tell me anything about."
The pot went flying at Remo's head. Remo snagged it before it cracked his skull.
"What?" he asked as the old man bounded across the room.
"I will what you," Chiun whispered, yanking the receiver from Remo's hand. "Remo is in error, Emperor Smith, whose every word is a pearl that enriches my unworthy ears," he announced in dulcet tones. "I am merely in the process of reorganizing my meager possessions. A task suited to one as old and frail as I."
"Frail?" Remo whispered. A sharp elbow caught him in the belly.
"Yes, frail, Emperor," Chiun said, suddenly weary. "I have toiled happily in your employ lo these many years, yet lately a fatigue has set in. Not uncommon for one of my advanced years." He forced a pathetic cough.
"Oh, brother," Remo muttered.
"I hope it is only temporary," Smith said seriously.
"At my age, who knows?" Chiun said. The words were an effort to get out. "My Masterhood has gone on much longer than the norm. Perhaps it is the start of the end for me. We will not know if this is merely a passing debility until I have taken to bed for a week or two. Make it two. And please do not come to visit during that time, for I fear I will be too weak to answer the door. Or the telephone," he added quickly.
"I am sorry to hear that," Smith said. "Remo doubtless could have made use of your expertise as a cultural guide while in East Africa."
Chiun had been handing the phone back to Remo. But at the mention of the country's name, the receiver flew back to one shell-like ear.
"You are sending Remo to East Africa?" he asked, his brow furrowing.
"Yes," Smith said. "But I understand if you cannot-"
"Wait!" Chiun interrupted, breathless. "Is it possible? Yes. My lassitude of body and spirit has vanished. I do not know how you accomplished this miracle, but simply by conversing with you, O Emperor, has my robust health been restored. Your lilting voice alone must act as remedy."
"So you will be able to accompany Remo after all?" Smith asked, confused.
"On wings of doves I do your bidding, Smith, Son of Hippocrates," Chiun proclaimed.
He threw the phone back at Remo.
"Make the arrangements, Smitty," Remo said blandly. "In the meantime, I'll see if his transmission held together with that sudden shift into reverse." He hung up the phone.
Chiun had gathered up his cast iron pot and was on his way out the door.
"What was that all about?" Remo called after him.
"It is called conversation," Chiun replied. "It is a bit more advanced than the grunts and rude hand gestures you are used to."
"Ha-ha. You know what I mean. What was with that line of pap you were feeding Smith? You haven't been tired since I've known you."
"That is not true. I cannot begin to count the times you have exhausted my patience." He slipped from the room.
Hopping down from the counter, Remo dogged him to the bottom of the main staircase.
"I know you," he accused as Chiun mounted the stairs. "You're up to something."
"Yes," Chiun agreed without turning. "I am up to packing my eighth trunk. Summon a carriage to take us to the airport, and you may load the first seven for our trip. I must make haste!"
With that, the old Korean vanished into his room, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter 5
Fortunately for Remo, Chiun packed light, taking only nine of his usual complement of fourteen steamer trunks.
The Master of Sinanju made it Remo's responsibility to see to it that the trunks were undamaged on their transfer flight to New York from Boston's Logan International Airport. After much arguing and a few well-placed bribes, he was allowed to retrieve the cases from the belly of the 747.
"I'm not used to being a luggage monkey anymore," Remo complained as he hauled the trunks through the terminal at JFK International Airport.
The Master of Sinanju marched at his side. "The monkey part should be second nature," Chiun said. "As for the other, bend at the knees, not the waist."
"Har-de-har-har," Remo replied. "What are you taking all this garbage for, anyway? You've been leaving these stupid trunks home the past couple of years."
"You have admitted yourself that you have allowed your baggage transporting skills to deteriorate. What kind of teacher would I be if I let your slide into indolence continue without addressing it?"
"A merciful one?" Remo suggested, annoyed. The dolly on which the trunks were balanced hit an uneven spot on the broad floor. Remo had to hold the yellow trunk steady to keep it from falling.
"Be careful of that one," Chiun cautioned.
It was the trunk he'd dropped the parchment and dagger into. His voice betrayed more than normal concern.
"You didn't answer me back home," Remo ventured.
"Sometimes I ignore you in the hope that you will go away," Chiun replied blandly.
"About the knife," Remo pressed. "That was the symbol of Sinanju carved in the handle. And it was done by a Master other than you. The fingernail downstroke was sloppier than your work. And that ivory was stained from age."
As they walked, Chiun appraised the proud expression on his pupil's face. "Who died and appointed you Sherlock Holmes?" the Master of Sinanju said flatly.
"I'm right, aren't I?" Remo challenged.
Chiun looked away. "I will tell you what I told you last night," the old Korean said. "Mind your own business."
"Sinanju is my business, Little Father," Remo insisted.
With that, the old Korean fell silent. Remo attributed it to his general moodiness. He didn't notice the contemplative look on his teacher's weathered face.
As he pulled the dolly across the terminal floor, Remo was suddenly distracted.
There was a line of seats across from a ticket counter. Seated in one of them was a small boy. He was so little, his feet didn't touch the floor. The toes of his sandals hung to a V in the air.
"What's he doing here?" Remo puzzled, recognizing the little Korean boy from the Carlson wake.
The boy still wore the same black clothes and the same sad expression. Far too reflective for a child his age.
"Who?" the Master of Sinanju asked, uninterested.
"That kid," Remo said. "I saw him with that weird old lady at the wake in Peoria last night. What do you suppose he's doing here? And all alone, by the looks of it."
Chiun followed his pupil's gaze. His bright eyes narrowed as he scanned the plastic chairs.
"I see no child," he said.
"Of course you do," Remo insisted. "A little Korean kid. He's right-"
But when he went to point him out, the boy was gone. The seat he had been sitting in was empty. As Remo watched, a middle-aged man sat in it.
"Well, he was there," he said. "I wonder where he went?"
As they walked, he scanned the area. He didn't know why, but the air of the terminal seemed suddenly very cold. And despite his Sinanju training, Remo felt an involuntary shudder.
SMITH HAD RESERVED them two first-class seats on a direct flight to Africa. After hours in the air, a long nap and a short conversation during which the Master of Sinanju warned Remo to keep his musings about the strange dagger to himself, the plane touched down on the simmering black tarmac of the main airport in Bachsburg, the capital of East Africa.