As Chiun's luggage was being unloaded by careless, unseen hands, the two men deplaned. Side by side, they walked amid the other passengers to the main customs area. When they got there, a quartet of bizarrely dressed women was already screeching at a uniformed East African agent.
"I don't need my bloody passport!" yelled one. "I'm a bleedin' star!"
"Yeah!" shrieked two of the others in unison. "Girl domination!" screamed the fourth.
It was the trademark line uttered by the fourth woman that caught Remo's attention. Only when he looked closer did he realize he knew who they were.
The Seasonings had been a red-hot all-girl group for about eight minutes two years before. Assembled after a wily record promoter ran an ad in a small English porn magazine devoted to anal fetishes and bed-wetting, Tramp, Trollop, Ho and Slut Seasoning were still trying to recapture their glory days.
The girls had been livid when their bandmate Strumpet Seasoning had quit the group. After a failed solo act, a failed tell-all biography and six failed marriages, Strumpet was still the only member of the group anyone talked about. The other Seasonings had, thankfully, vanished from the world stage after their one and only hit. But for a terrible time two summers before, no one could get away from their signature song. Indeed, Smith had been repeatedly forced to pay to replace the radios Remo regularly smashed in his various rental cars whenever he found "I Know What You Need (Really, Really I Do)" blaring from his speakers.
"Girl domination!" shrieked Ho Seasoning at the East African agent. Ho, like the rest of the group, hadn't technically been a "girl" since the Truman administration.
"We're here for a bleedin' important gig!" screeched Trollop Seasoning.
"And if I lose my baby 'cause of you, I'll rip your fuckin' balls off and feed 'em to me cat!" screamed Slut Seasoning. She pointed to her very pregnant belly.
That was another thing about the Seasonings. In addition to their bimonthly tabloid-inspiring weddings, they all seemed to be perpetually pregnant without ever actually giving birth to anything. The four women each had a huge belly that hung out in colossal gestational fashion from beneath revealing halter tops and above skin-tight rubber capri pants of various bright rainbow colors.
After a few hushed words from the agent, the stewing Seasonings seemed to strike up some sort of bargain. When the customs official ushered the four women through a small door behind his counter, he was already unbuckling his belt.
Fortunately, there was another agent on duty. When they stepped up to the second uniformed clerk with his white shirt, black tie and wide-brimmed blue hat, Chiun pushed his way in front of Remo.
"Business or pleasure?" the customs man crisply asked the Master of Sinanju. His accented English sounded Australian, but with harsher emphasis on the consonants.
"Pleasure," Remo said.
"Business," the Master of Sinanju corrected. "Nature of business?"
Chiun spoke before Remo could answer for them. "I am an assassin on an important mission for the ruler of this land," the old Korean announced ominously.
Remo tried to mask his annoyance. Two minutes in East Africa and Chiun had already blown their cover.
"He's joking," Remo assured the agent. In Korean he whispered, "Quit screwing around, Chiun." At the customs checkpoint, the uniformed man had slowly raised his eyes beneath the brim of his cap. He ignored Remo. "You work for President Kmpali?" he asked seriously.
This was the man who had succeeded Willie Mandobar as East Africa's ruler.
"Pah!" Chiun spit, waving an impatient hand. "I have had my fill of presidents as secret assassin for America. My business is with the true ruler of this land."
"Oh, great," Remo grumbled. He was already thinking about how mad Smith would be after they busted out of some dingy African jail.
But the customs official only frowned at Chiun. "President Kmpali or not, you must register with the Finance Ministry if you intend to advertise your services in the Republic of East Africa," He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Next!" he called, waving Chiun and Remo through.
They passed through the metal detector and into the air-conditioned terminal's main concourse. As they walked along, Remo glanced back in bewilderment.
"What the hell just happened?" he asked. Chiun didn't reply. As they strolled across the tile floor, the old Asian avoided the baggage carousel where his luggage had just begun to slide into view. He steered a beeline to the terminal's main entrance. "This is amazing," Remo continued, shaking his head. "You told him you were an assassin, and he didn't bat an eye. And what was that about registering with the Finance Ministry? What kind of country registers its assassins?"
"A civilized one," Chiun replied tightly. They were through the doors and outside.
The oppressively hot East African air assaulted them immediately. The body temperature of both men instantly regulated to compensate for the change.
"We can debate that later," Remo droned. "And why aren't we getting your luggage?"
The Master of Sinanju was too distracted to reply. A glistening black limousine was parked by the curb at the far end of a broad carport. Standing beside the car was a somber young man with skin as dark as the limo's paint.
Although his blue suit was impeccably tailored, he fidgeted uncomfortably, as if unused to his garments. At Chiun's appearance, a curious frown crossed the man's face. Pushing away from the car, he took a tentative step forward.
"Master of Sinanju?" he asked, with the same British-influenced harshness of the customs agent. Suspicion creased Chiun's aged face as he stopped before the young man. "I am he," the wizened Korean replied, with a bow that was more perfunctory than ceremonial.
"What's going on?" Remo asked. "Who the hell is this?"
"Hush, Remo," Chiun hissed. Back straight, he addressed the native. "You were sent by Batubizee, son of Kwaanga?"
"I was, Master of Sinanju." He spoke Chiun's title hesitantly, as if uncertain he had truly found the right man.
"Then why are you dressed in that Western garb and not in the raiments of the glorious Luzu warrior empire?" Chiun asked, his face puckering in displeasure.
"The Luzu are greeted with disdain in the cities of East Africa. My clothing makes it easier for me to blend in."
His words did nothing to dispel Chiun's sour expression. Exhaling disapproval, the old man reached into the folds of his kimono. In a rustle of fabric, he produced the dagger embossed with the Sinanju symbol.
When he saw the knife, any doubts the black man had entertained fled. His features bloomed in pleasure, his smile revealing a row of perfect white teeth. He bowed formally at the waist.
"I bring you greetings from the son of the sons of Kwaanga, Chief Batubizee, of the line of the first great Luzu warrior chief. Hail to you, O awesome and powerful Master of Sinanju, he who graciously throttles the universe."
Chiun handed over the knife, hilt first.
"What's this all about?" Remo demanded, his face registering growing confusion. "And when the hell did you unpack that?"
"You ask too many questions," Chiun said from the corner of his mouth.
"And you haven't answered one yet. What the Belgium is going on here?"
This time, it wasn't Chiun who ignored him. "Come," the young man said. "The chief waits for you in the heart of the Luzu empire." He clapped his hands loudly.
There was a truck parked before the limo. Men spilled out, racing back to their small group.
"My luggage is inside," the Master of Sinanju said.