La Haule Manor prided itself on the best, most extravagant cuisine its guests could imagine. The eager young waiter beamed with insouciant pride when the desirable Israeli reporter ordered the veal scaloppini with the saffron cream sauce and a bottle of vintage Rioja.
“And for the gentlemen?” he asked, beaming at Remo, who was hardly looking slovenly in his black turtleneck and tan chinos with matching jacket, but was decidedly underdressed contrasted to the lavender form-fitting gown that Avital had apparently painted on before coming down from her room.
Remo scanned down the menu, checking both sides, then checking the back. He finally zeroed in on the duck l’orange. “I’ll have this,” he said.
“An excellent choice, sir,” the waiter beamed.
“But hold the l’orange,” Remo added.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Duck. But no sauce. And no seasoning. And…Oh, what the hell, it’s a special occasion. You can bring the orange. Unpeeled.”
The waiter blinked. “Just…the duck and an orange, sir?” He looked at Remo as though he had just ordered a plain hotdog from a five-star steakhouse.
“That’ll do, gar-koney,” he said. “Unless you have a nice white rice to go with it? It has to be cooked just right, though. And no seasoning on that, either.”
The waiter took the menu and rolled his eyes. “I’m certain the chef will manage something, sir.” He quickly marched into the kitchen, shaking his head and wondering how to tell their Le Cordon Bleu-trained chef that he was to prepare a plain duck on unseasoned white rice with an orange.
Avital didn’t try to hide her amusement at the exchange. “You know, if you’d wanted Chinese, we could have gone to this lovely little place down the street from here.”
“Oh, I can’t stand Chinese,” Remo said. “Who fries rice? All that grease. It’s poison to the system.”
“You’re very health-conscious,” she said, sipping her Rioja.
Remo patted his stomach. “Delicate constitution,” he said.
“Now why do I think you’re being less than forthcoming?” she purred, leaning in across the table.
“Honest Injun,” Remo said, holding one hand up in the symbol of a solemn promise. “I was once hospitalized just from eating a hamburger.” He sniffed his glass of water before determining it was clean enough to drink.
“So how is your friend? Chiun, I believe you called him?” she asked. “Feeling more himself?”
Remo grinned thinly. “He’s acting more like his old self,” he said. “I actually thought about cancelling our dinner to stay with him.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening a bit as she sat up a little straighter. “I didn’t realize your relationship was…”
“No, no,” Remo said. “It’s nothing like that at all. He’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father. Practically raised me to be the man I am today.”
“Ah, I see,” Avital responded, visibly relieved. But she couldn’t truly understand just how complex was the bond between Remo and Chiun. Remo smiled fondly to himself as he recalled how he was introduced to the Master of Sinanju. He was given the news that he was going to be trained by the old man before him, and had been put quickly and painfully to sleep with an unseen hand after having called Chiun a “chink.” It wasn’t that Chiun minded the word; it was that Remo had insulted him by thinking him to be Chinese. Remo learned respect, of a kind, shortly thereafter, and Chiun had proceeded to cleanse his body and mind from the poisons of fast food and sloppy thinking, until Remo wasn’t just the most efficient killing machine on the planet—he was the most efficient human organism alive today.
“He really is doing much better,” Remo said. “When I left him, he literally was chasing me out of the room so that he could watch his soap operas in peace.”
She laughed at the image of the ancient Korean cozied up in front of the television, entranced by the unbelievably complex storylines.
“Oh, don’t do that,” Remo warned. “He takes them very seriously. He even has working theories on how a fifty year old CEO can attend the wedding of his great-grandson who was just born a few years ago.” She laughed again, musically. “He thinks they’re the highest art form Western culture ever cobbled together.”
“Which ones does he watch?” she asked. Remo was a bit embarrassed that he knew the names, and told her.
“Be thankful he doesn’t speak Spanish,” she said. “Telenovelas would absorb the rest of his world.” This time it was Remo’s turn to laugh. He didn’t tell her that Chiun could speak Spanish, but simply chose not to involve himself in one of the “mongrel languages” unless he absolutely had no other choice.
The waiter returned with their food. Avital’s was beautifully plated, with the saffron sauce artistically drizzled over the veal. To the side, there was a delicate pilaf, which had not been listed as part of the meal on the menu. In contrast, Remo’s plate landed with an unceremonious thunk on the table, bearing a naked slice of duck breast, the orange rocking back and forth from the small impact with the table. To the side was a heaping pile of white rice, delivering the unmistakable message of what the chef thought about Remo’s order.
In response, Remo sniffed the plate and wrinkled his nose.
“Is there a problem with the meal, sir?” the waiter asked, knowing full well there was indeed a problem with it, just not the one this American would recognize.
Remo sighed. “He salted the duck. Lightly, but he did it.” He forked at the rice, disheveling it a bit, then taking a nibble. “And he overcooked the rice. I thought you guys would have a good cook in a swanky joint like this.”
“If you would like me to take the plate back…”
“And get the same plate back, with extra spit? No, thanks,” Remo said. “This will be fine.” Using his fork, he pushed the duck breast aside, into the rice, and began peeling the rind off the orange in a thin, continuous strip using his fingernail. “It’s hard to screw up nature,” he said as the waiter stalked away in a huff.
Avital shook her head in amused disbelief. “You know, this is why the French don’t care much for Americans.”
Remo laid the coiled rind in loops on his plate and pulled out a wedge of orange. “Poor service is why the Americans don’t care much for the French,” he said, popping the wedge into his mouth. “Among other reasons.”
· · ·
After dinner, Remo and Avital stepped out of the elevator, just one floor shy of the top and Remo’s reserved floor of rooms. “I’m sorry for the mess,” Avital said as she opened the door. “I was displaced from my penthouse room the other day. Some child of privilege bought out the whole upper floor, and so…” she spread her arms at the luggage that was hastily moved and stored.
“Don’t apologize,” Remo said. “I’m used to navigating around steamer trunks.”
“Well, just find a seat…somewhere,” she offered. “I’ll be back in a bit.” With that, she left the sitting area through the French double-doors leading off to the bedroom, shutting them behind her. Remo paced idly through the room, looking at the two suitcases sitting side-by-side on the divan, the garment bag draped across the recliner, and three overnight bags occupying the length of the coffee table.
“You travel light,” Remo said.
“You’re teasing me, Mr. Robespierre,” Avital called from behind the doors.
“No, really,” Remo said. “You should see what I have to carry around when I’m on the road. Sure, there’s no place to sit in here, but that’s the hotel’s fault for being so cramped.”
The double doors opened, framing Avital’s curvaceous figure, draped in a gauzy sunflower fabric masquerading as lingerie. She had undone her braid so that her hair spilled over both shoulders. “If you can’t find a place to sit out there, you may want to look around in here,” she murmured.
Remo didn’t have to be asked twice. He stepped toward and through the French doors, and she stopped him with a hand on each of his shoulders. He paused, momentarily confused, until she began to push his jacket down his shoulders. Then he understood, allowing the jacket to slide down his arms and puddle on the floor. She liked to be in charge. Remo didn’t have a problem with that at all.
“You barely had any dinner,” Avital chided, as she began tugging the turtleneck out of Remo’s pants and lifting it over his head, dropping it to the floor with his jacket. “You must be hungry,” she said, running her fingertips down his bare chest.
“Ravenous,” he growled, locking eyes with her before leaning in for the kiss. Their lips remained glued together as Avital fumbled with the buckle of his belt, popped the snap of his chinos and carefully lowered the zipper. Then both her hands were around him and gravity did the rest as Remo slipped out of his loafers and stepped out of the fallen pants. Gravity continued her gentle assistance, as though eager to join in, pulling the two downward onto the plush mattress.
It was fortunate that the bed was oversized. Within moments, Remo and Avital had found themselves conjoined, with each striving to be on top. Remo finally relented and allowed her to straddle his waist, and then her hand began to trace a nerve in his inner thigh along his femoral artery, sending a jolt of pleasure through him.
He was aware of the technique, but he had never put it into practice and never planned to. However, the knowledge of it was part of his Sinanju training. This woman is a professional, he realized, just as he also realized that this fact made her even more desirable.
“So who do you really work for?” she asked coyly, undulating her hips, inner muscles gripping him firmly as she gently rocked.
“Didn’t we decide I was a reporter?” he asked, reaching forward and easily discarding the diaphanous lingerie. His eyes were drawn to her breasts as he made his own contribution to their carnal calisthenics.
She smirked, working the nerve in his inner thigh while reaching forward with her other hand to trace the perimeter of his pectoral muscle. “I think there’s far more to you than that.”
“So you thought you’d pump me for information?”
“Are you complaining?”
“Not in the slightest.” He watched her slender hand wend its way down his body.
“Does it start with a C?” she teased playfully.
Remo shifted on the mattress, his only response a sheepish grin of admission.
She smiled wide, predatory and hungry, as her hand traced the outline of his abdominal muscles, taking the scenic route to its destination further south. “And is the second letter a vowel?” she continued. She punctuated her question with a small kiss on his chest.
“You know, you’re pretty good at this,” Remo said. “I bet you never lost a game of hangman.” He gently took her wrist and began stroking the length of her forearm, feeling the beat of her pulse quickening at the touch.
Avital felt a tingling through her body and strove to ignore it. “And is…” She paused, gasped, and began again. “And is the last letter also a vowel?” she rasped out. Things were getting more heated than she anticipated. What is it about this American, she wondered as her mind began to fog, that affects me so? He’s not the most handsome man. His face is drawn, gaunt—it’s almost like a skull. And yet…
Remo feigned astonishment. “As a matter of fact, it is,” he said, as his body continued to mass-produce masculine hormones. His fingers were lightly tapping their way further up her inner forearm. “Do they teach you how to do that in the Mossad or is it a natural talent?”
“In what?” She swooned, her eyes rolling back. She began rocking faster, bouncing harder. Her body was acting first and choosing to tell her brain what had been done after the fact.
“You know,” he said, pushing up against her. “The Israeli spy agency?”
“I…” His fingers began exploring the sides of her breasts, his thumbs on her nipples. “Yes,” she admitted. And then she admitted it a dozen more times, each time a little bit louder than the last confession, as Remo learned all about ya Homaar.
· · ·
Much later, Avital laid back against a mound of pillows, with the back of Remo’s head nuzzled between her breasts. Her willowy arms draped around his shoulders, tracing his strong forearms, from his elbows to his wrists.
“They’re so thick,” she said.
“Product of a misspent youth,” Remo said airily. “I didn’t date much as a teenager.” He removed his wrist from her gentle grasp to stroke the side of one her breasts.
“That explains one wrist,” she teased.
“I’m ambidextrous.” And using his other hand, he began to trace the outer edge of her other breast.
“So,” she giggled, combing her fingers through his hair. “You like my tits, huh?”
Remo looked up at her. “That depends,” he said. “Is Mahtits another one of those ya Homaar goons? If not, then I’m going to go with a yes.”
She gave a small laugh, and wrapped her arms around his waist, massaging him back to full alertness. He let her fingers work their magic, resting his head between the two pillows nature provided her. He closed his eyes.
And a wave passed through his body, sending his balance reeling. A flush overtook his senses, and he felt momentarily as though his brains were going to drain out his mouth. He reached out his arms, grasping at the sheet to steady himself, just as the sensation subsided.
“Everything all right?” Avital asked.
Remo shuddered. “I think I just felt the Earth move,” he said.
She kissed his cheek. “You’re welcome.”
· · ·
Remo pressed the button for the elevator, then waited for Avital’s door to close before walking to the stairs and sprinting up to the next floor. He needed to talk with Chiun about the disconnectedness he experienced, and he was worried that it must have been even worse for the ancient master of Sinanju.
“Little Father,” he said, entering the room where Chiun still sat lotus-style on the floor in front of the television. The device was tuned into an international weather channel, where a very excited gentleman in a rumpled suit was talking rapidly.
“We’ve never seen activity like this before, Bryan,” he said to his off-screen partner. “In just the past hour, we’ve had tremors in Saint Louis, California, Mexico City, and Japan, ranging from 3.5 to an astonishing 5.2—in Montana, of all places!”
The camera cut over to a serious-looking man in his early forties. “Joe, is it possible that all this earthquake activity is the result of fracking? Is Mother Earth finally telling us to get our act together and stop raping and pillaging her natural resources?”
Joe coughed. “Well, it’s really hard to say at this point what’s causing all this activity, Bryan,” he said. “But it’s certainly going to be interesting finding out. We’re getting a report now that a mild tremor has even been felt in Iraq, near Baghdad.”
“That’s got to be hard for those poor people,” Bryan said. “I’ve been over there, you know, when the helicopter I was in got hit by…”
Remo turned the set off and squatted by Chiun. “Little Father,” he repeated. Chiun sat still, peaceful as ever, his wizened face more at rest than Remo had ever seen it before, his vellum eyelids fully closed. Normally, Chiun responded immediately to Remo walking in with some cutting observation or guilt-laden lament. That he remained still frightened Remo to his core.
He put his hands on Chiun’s shoulders gently, taking his life in his hands to give him the slightest shake.
Chiun did not wake up.