Warren Murphy: Last Rites

"That's exactly what I was thinking."

"And you must go near no caves."

"That goes double for you, you know."

Chiun stroked his tendril of a beard thoughtfully. "And we must seek out a place where that busybody woman can vex you no longer."

"I'm quitting CURE, Little Father."

"Yes, yes, Let me think."

"For good this time. I mean it."

Chiun fluttered his winglike kimono sleeves like an ungainly, flightless bird. "Yes, yes. Of course you do."

"The organization can dragoon someone else if they want. Let 'em make an enforcement arm out of Arnold Schwarzenegger, for all I care. I've done my time, paid my dues. It's time to move on."

"We must pack."

"To go where?"

"You must trust me. Do you trust me?"

"Sure. You know I do."

"Then come. For I have been neglectful in my duties to the House. You have been a full Master long enough. It is time that you undergo the Rite of Attainment."

And the Master of Sinanju ran down to the lapping waters of Quincy Bay, leaving no sandal prints in the loose beige sand.

Remo followed, likewise leaving no trace of his passing.

When they reached the bay, it was in unison. They seemed to step up onto the calm water as if mounting a shifting ledge of rock. The water supported them. They ran out past the anchored sailboats and rounded Squantum headland, where legend had it Captain Miles Standish first met Squanto, the Indian who taught the pilgrims how to survive their first harsh New England winter by planting corn.

"Where are we going?" Remo asked as they ran under the long bridge to Moon Island and entered Boston Harbor, water barely splashing under their feet.

"There," Chiun said, pointing north.

And on the other side of Boston Harbor, Remo spotted the fat concrete radar tower of Logan Airport. A 747 was lifting off in their direction, trailing a dirty fan of exhaust.

"I thought you said we had to pack first."

"Pack!" Chiun spat. "There is no time to pack! Make haste, O slugabed."

"SO, WHERE ARE WE HEADED, Little Father?" Remo asked after the Boston-to-New York City TWA passenger jet lifted off over Boston Harbor.

"That is a surprise."

"If we're going to Sinanju, I'm grabbing my seat flotation cushion and getting off here."

"We are not going to Sinanju."

"Good."

"You do not deserve to visit the Pearl of the Orient."

"Oyster of the Yellow Sea is more like it," muttered Remo.

Chiun had the window seat and was looking out. "Wing holding up?" asked Remo.

"I am not looking at the wing."

"What are you looking at, then?"

"There!" said Chiun in the high, squeaky voice he used when excited. "Behold, Remo."

Remo leaned over to see out the window.

The wheels were up, and the TWA 747 was swinging back over land. They were south of Boston. Remo recognized the sinuous Neponset River separating Boston from Quincy.

Then he saw it.

Nestled beside the T-shaped high school was the unmistakable place they called home. Even from the air it stood out.

Once it had been a church. A real-estate developer had come along and replaced the stained glass with vinyl-clad replacement windows, added doghouse and shed roof dormers to the roofline and converted it into a sixteen-unit condominium. The Master of Sinanju had acquired it from Harold Smith two contract negotiations back.

"Castle Sinanju," said Chiun proudly. "Look how it dwarfs all lesser domiciles."

Remo folded his lean arms. "If I never see it again, it'll be fine with me."

"Philistine," sniffed the Master of Sinanju.

The 747 leveled off at two thousand feet and followed the coastline south. Remo recognized the hook of Cape Cod, the seat belt light winked off and he settled down to enjoy the flight.

A black-haired stewardess came up and leaned so far down, her cleavage almost plopped into Remo's lap. "Sir, you look like a strong man. We could use a strong man in the galley."

"Is there a problem?"

The stewardess looked up and down the aisles. "I don't want to alarm the other passengers. If you could just follow me."

"Sure," said Remo.

"It is a trap," warned Chiun. "On an airplane?"

"There are traps and there are traps," sniffed Chiun. Smiling, the stewardess led the way to the galley and, when Remo entered, she ran the curtain shut. "What's the problem?" asked Remo.

"My uniform zipper is stuck" And she turned to present her shapely back to him.

"It's all the way up."

"I know. Could you get it down for me?"

"If you say so," said Remo. The zipper came down easily, and the stewardess wriggled out of her uniform, turned and gave Remo the full sunshine of her radiant smile.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Your free initiation."

"Into what?" Remo asked suspiciously.

"The Mile High Club."

At that moment the curtain drew back and a honey blond head poked in. "What's going on?" the new arrival hissed.

"He's just helping me with my uniform zipper." The blond stewardess looked from the stewardess in her underwear to Remo and slipped in.

"My panty hose are sagging. Do you think you could do something with them?"

"I don't do panty-hose realignments," said Remo.

"You don't?" The blond stewardess looked stricken. The other stewardess crooked her fingers and looked as if she wanted to gouge the blonde's eyes out.

"He doesn't," she said tartly.

"He's strictly a zipper man. Now, get back to serving peanuts."

"Can I watch?" wondered the blonde.

"No!" Remo and the first stewardess said together.

"How about I just close my eyes and listen?"

"This is a private party," the first stewardess hissed.

"This is no party at all," said Remo.

"Excuse me." And he exited the galley.

Four hands reached out to pull him back but ended up clutching at empty air as Remo glided back to his seat and turned to the Master of Sinanju.

"You were right, Little Father. It was the oldest trap in the world."

"You resisted?"

"I don't take advantage of women who are drunk on my Sinanju pheromones."

"Unless they are hung like cows."

"Women are not hung. Men are hung. The expression is 'hung like a bull.'"

"Cows hang lower than bulls."

"Okay, cows are hung, too."

"They drag their udders through the grass."

"I get the picture."

"Just like the white women you fancy."

"I don't fancy stewardesses. Stewardesses are always hitting on me. That's another thing I don't like about my life. I can have any woman I want. They can't resist me. It's no fun. Where's the chase?"

"Coming up the aisle," said Chiun, nudging Remo with a bony, silk-covered elbow.

The entire complement of stewardesses bustled up the aisle, their reproachful eyes fixed on Remo.

"We're on strike until we get some satisfaction," one said.

"Don't look at me," returned Remo.

The stewardesses then sat down in the middle of the aisle-including the one still in her underwear.

"No satisfaction," she announced, "no peanuts or drinks for anyone" And she gave a clenched-fist salute.

"What's going on here?" a passenger dernanded. The underwear stewardess pointed an accusing finger at Remo and said, "That man disrobed and abandoned me."

"Shame on you!"

"I was helping her with her zipper," Remo said.

"Looks like you got carried away."

"And didn't have the balls to finish what you started," a little old lady added.

"Skirt teaser!" another woman accused.

"Remo, we will never get any peace unless you satisfy that poor waif," said Chiun.

"She's no more waif than I am Steven Seagal."

A passenger went forward to the crew compartment, and the copilot came back wearing a stiff expression.

He had to step over three stewardesses in order to reach Remo's seat.