All through the cabin, the glaring of turned Japanese faces grew venomous.

"Look," said Remo, "can we get off this subject? No more Korean stories, okay?"

"If you insist," Chiun said thinly. Chiun was silent for only a short time.

"Have you noticed, Remo?" he asked over the windup whine of the 747's turbines.

"Noticed what?"

"How much Japanese faces are improving."

"Huh?"

"Not the older generation. They are too set in their ways. But the younger ones. They are marrying outside of the islands. New blood is flowing into their veins. I do not normally approve of mixing the blood, but for the Japanese it is a good thing. Their faces are slowly improving. They are not as good as Korean faces, or even Mongol faces. But in another century, perhaps two, Japanese will not be burdened with such morose countenances."

Assorted Japanese passengers turned in their seats and looked unhappily in Chiun's direction.

"I never noticed that," Remo said guardedly.

"It is a fact, Remo."

After that, the majority of the Japanese passengers found ways to change seats with others, and the midsection of the cabin was suddenly free of Japanese glaring.

The Master of Sinanju smiled with quiet satisfaction for the remainder of the flight.

Remo just hoped it would end soon. They were only now taxiing to the Logan Airport runway. And it was fourteen hours to Osaka.

Chapter 3

NYPD Patrolman Tony Guiterrez had just turned the corner of Eighth Avenue and Thirty-fourth Street when it exploded.

A hot blast of air picked him up off his feet and threw him down the side street as he was admiring the maddening swing and sway of a redheaded girl's walk. She had a nice behind. It wiggled. Normally Patrolman Guiterrez paid more attention to his surroundings, but you didn't see a lot of Anna Nicole Smith behinds on the streets these days. Women liked to keep themselves trimmer than that.