Remo was a Master of Sinanju. A man trained to the very height of physical and mental perfection. Most times, such a thing as an uncomfortable truck seat would not even remotely begin to bother him. But although Remo's perfectly attuned body did not experience the pains of ordinary men, he had ridden in this bouncing German truck so long that he was beginning to get a growing sense of prickling discomfort in his lumbar region.

This was the last truck in a seemingly endless convoy he had single-handedly driven from Bonn to Berlin. He could not remember how many times he had traveled the six-hundred-mile round trip in the past few weeks. This last journey was made to seem all the longer by the passenger who had insisted on chaperoning him.

"Cannot this carriage go faster?" the squeaky voice in the seat beside him demanded.

"I'm going as fast as the speed limit," Remo said with a sigh.

"The signs are configured in kilometers. You are used to miles. Perhaps you are improperly converting the speed in your mind."

"I'm going the speed limit, Chiun," Remo insisted.

"Humph."

The sound of displeasure emanated from the inscrutable face of the Master of Sinanju, Remo's passenger and teacher.

He was a delicate bird of a man. One hundred years old if he was a day, but possessed of piercing hazel eyes much younger than his wizened shell. Vaporous cotton-candy hair clung to a spot above each ear. His otherwise bald skull was enshrouded in an almost translucent film of walnut-hued paper flesh. A wisp of beard bobbed at his pointed chin.

The old Korean clasped his bony wrists with the opposing hands and stared glumly out the window. He remained silent for approximately ten seconds.

"Are we there yet?" Chiun asked.

"No!" Remo snapped. "Dammit, Chiun, why didn't you just wait for me in Berlin?"

"I did not trust you," Chiun said simply.