They whispered conspiratorially. Maddas Hinsein's face frowned like a chocolate bunny melting in the sun.
Defense Minister Azziz turned to Remo.
"You may speak to our beloved Maddas. I will interpret."
"Tell him I know everything about the U.S. attack plans," Remo said in a staccato voice. "I know the date and exact time the U.S. will strike. I know where they will cross the border and I know every air target on every Pentagon contingency plan."
Remo paused. The defense minister rattled off a few dozen words in Arabic. Maddas never took his intent eyes off Remo as he listened. He nodded once, shortly.
"I'm willing to give this up in return for two things," Remo added.
The words were translated.
"First," Remo went on, "I want safe haven in Irait. A nice home. A couple of women. No dogs. Good food. A car. A handsome salary. And a tax exemption. What I have to say is worth a lot to you people. I expect to be compensated."
Maddas absorbed the translation in silence. He brushed at his mustache thoughtfully. When it was over, he mumbled a curt statement.
"If you expect to reside in our country," the defense minister said, "our Precious Leader insists that you grow the proper mustache."
"I'm not through here," Remo broke in. "But the mustache is okay. What I have to say, I gotta say in front of Don Cooder and Reverend Juniper Jackman. Nobody else. They gotta take everything that happens here back to the U.S. with them."
The defense minister's eyes shot up. "Why do you demand this thing?"
"Simple," Remo said. "I didn't just up and decide to go over. I was with the CIA. Some bureaucrats in my government screwed me over. I want them to know what screwing me over costs. Maybe they'll be sacked when the shit hits the fan."
Maddas Hinsein's dark eyes flashed as he took in Remo's translated words. A faint grin tugged at his cruel mouth.
Remo smiled inwardly.
That's right, he thought. Swallow it whole, you dumb hairbag. When I'm done with you, they'll be calling you Dead Ass.
Remo let his smile come to the surface. "So what do you say? Do we have a deal or what?"
Muttering under his breath, Maddas Hinsein lifted both hands, palms upward. He sounded like a priest giving absolution, and not the brutal dictator that had brought the world to the brink of World War IIl.
The defense minister lifted his head from the huddle.
"Our Precious Leader agrees to all this. But he has one question to ask you."
Remo folded his arms. "Shoot."
"What is the significance of the yellow scarf you carried concealed on your person?"
That was the one question Remo hadn't anticipated. His brow furrowed.
"I got a wicked cold," he said at last, sniffing loudly. "It's sort of . . .an industrial-strength handkerchief. Yeah. that's it. A handkerchief."
And at that, Maddas Hinsein's belly shook with laughter. He threw his head back.
All around the room, the guards acquired quirked expressions. They did not know whether to join in or not. Maddas, hearing their silence, threw up his hands in encouragement.
The uproarious laughter traveled around the room.
Only Remo's lips were not touched by it. He didn't see what was so funny.
And then an inner door came open.
One guard was alert enough to catch the sudden movement. He went for his pistol.
But Maddas Hinsein beat him to the draw. A single shot split the guard's breastbone and splattered fragments of his heart muscle against the wall behind him.
That killed the laughter. To say nothing of the guard.
Remo was barely aware of this. For in his ears was a dull roaring. And in the doorway stood a woman in black, her familiar violet eyes radiant and mocking in the ragged eyeholes of her abayuh. Her two visible hands were clasped before her, fingernails yellow and vicious.
And from her seductive but unclean body emanated an odor that found his nostrils like invisible tentacles.
"Oh, no!" Remo coughed, feelings his legs go weak as water.
He slammed to his knees, fighting the scented tentacles of Kali with frantic hands. But it was too late.
"Prostrate yourself before me, O Master of Sinanju," Kimberly Baynes said triumphantly.
And Remo touched his forehead to the Persian rug, squeezing hot tears from his eyes.
It had been a trap. And he had fallen for it. Sinanju was finished.
"I'm sorry, Chiun," he sobbed. "I blew it. I meant to fulfill my promise. I really did. Now I'll never see Sinanju again."
Chapter 33
The President of the United States paced the War Room of the White House like a caged tiger.
He had been there ever since the first report of a nerve-gas attack on the Kuran-Hamidi Arabian neutral zone.
"We have to strike now," the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was saying. He was nervous. The Washington Post had run a page-one feature that said his career hung in the balance over the outcome of Operation Sand Blast. Since everyone from Capitol Hill to Foggy Bottom believed the Post, he knew it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy if it wasn't already true.
"I need more facts," the President bit out. "If this thing spills across borders, we have a real mess. The whole Middle East could go up. There's no telling how Israel will respond. No telling."
"We have the men, the might, and the machines," the chairman rattled off. "All we need is the word."
The secretary of defense piped up, as the President knew he would. The rivalry between the JCS and the DOD was legendary.
"I want to advise caution, Mr. President. The Iraiti forces are dug in deep, in secure defendable earthen berm positions."
"Exactly why we should bomb Abominadad," the chairman put in. "We don't even have to move our troops. A quick decapitation and it's all over. No more Mad Arab."
"Not with a million Iraiti under arms, poised to move south, Mr. President." the secretary countered. "I agree with the chairman of the JCS. We can take out Maddas and his command structure overnight. Destroy his forward tank units and dismember his logistical tail inside of a week. But I'm thinking past that. We're dug in with Syrian, Egyptian, Kurani, Hamidi, and other Arab forces. If we bomb, who's to say that it won't be every man for himself out in that desert? The Syrians would turn on us in a flat second if they saw this as the U.S. bombing Arabs."
"Nonsense. The Hamidis have been egging us on to launch a preemptive strike since this thing began. The exiled Emir of Kuran has given us carte blanche to conduct offensive operations on his own soil. Nerve gas, neutron bombs, anything."
"And everybody knows the Emir has written off his own country," the secretary shot back. "He's gone north, trying to buy up Canada. He doesn't care. And other Arabian forces are with us only because the Hamidis have paid for them in hard cash. They're virtual mercenaries. And stabbing allies in the back is practically an Arabian tradition. Look at their history."
The President cut in on the brewing argument.
"What are the casualties?" he asked testily. "I want to see casualty figures."
Both men got busy. They worked the phones. When they came back, their faces were surprised.
"No casualties on our side," the chairman reported.
"That's my understanding as well," the secretary added.
"After a nerve-gas attack?" the President asked.
"Reports from the field indicate that when the gas blew out of the neutral zone, the Hamidi first line of defense advanced."
"The Hamidis stopped the attack?"
"No, their advance was tactical. It was actually some sort of a reverse retreat."
"Reverse-"
"They cut and run," the secretary of defense said flatly. "Away from the gas. It was Sarin. Bad stuff. A nerve agent. Fatal in seconds."
"So what took out the Iraiti forces?" the President wanted to know.
"No one knows," the chairman admitted. "They just collapsed."
The President frowned. He w
as thinking about his one wild-card asset on the ground over there. The CURE card. He wondered if Smith's special person had had anything to do with this.
"Any further action?" he asked.
"No," the chairman said. "It's been four hours now. It appears they simply made a halfhearted probe of the Hamidi line and pulled back."
"I think they're cranking up the pressure over their damned ambassador," the secretary of defense offered.
The President shook his head. "And all we have to offer them is a corpse. It's as if they've guessed the truth and are retaliating."
"Maddas is just the type to react like that," the chairman said tightly. "I say we pound him flat."
The President frowned. "It makes no sense. He knew that this would be the start of war. Why did he make a half-assed move like this one? What could possibly be gained?"
"Maybe he had no choice," the secretary said.
"Say again?"
"Maddas knows he's outgunned. Maybe he was responding to pressure from his inner council. There have been some pretty strange reports coming out of Abominadad. Rumors of attacks on the Hinsein household. One has it that his entire family got it. They've always been conspiring against him. Maybe they made their move and he struck back. Maybe it was internal opposition. Whatever, he's a strongman. He's got to show his strength or he gets toppled. There's a lot of pressure on him."
"Possibly," the President thought. "What's CNN been saying?"
The secretary of defense went to a nearby TV and turned it on.
In sober silence they watched the procession of reports and rumors coming out of the Middle East, as presented by a sober anchorman whose jet hair resembled a licorice sculpture.
"In a statement issued by the newly renamed Iranian Foreign Ministry today-that's the Arab Iran, not the Persian one-the Iraitis have assured the relatives of Reverend Juniper Jackman that he is well and is enjoying his new status as a guest of the state. Abominadad promises this will continue, but hinted that the reverend's fate is linked to that of the still-missing Ambassador Turqi Abaatira."
"What are the media saying about the Jackman thing?" the President muttered.
"They're unanimous," the secretary of defense returned.
"They think you should nuke Abominadad for daring to kidnap a former presidential candidate."
"If I do that, Jackman buys the farm. So does Cooder."
"A lot of reporters are hot to move into Cooder's chair," the secretary said flatly.
The President grunted. The chairman started to speak, but a graphic came on the screen just to the left of the anchorman's coiffed head. It showed a dead-eyed man with high cheekbones.
"A new mystery tonight is the identity of the American defector Abominadad has claimed went over to their side today. Although his name has not been released, a statement from the Information Ministry claimed it was a major defection, with grave repercussions for the U.S. effort to isolate Iran."
"Which Iran do they mean?" the chairman demanded.
"The bad one," the secretary replied, thin-lipped.
"I thought they were both bad."
The President shushed them angrily. He was very pale as he watched the screen.
The image switched to the familiar Maddas Hinsein clone who read all his prepared statements and speeches over the air-because Maddas was too assassin-conscious to enter a TV studio, it was rumored.
The spokesman read his prepared text in droning Arabic. Crude English subtitles flicked on and off the screen under him.
"The defector," it read, "is known to be the premier assassin in the direct employ of the President of the United States himself. But no more. President Maddas Hinsein announced today that this assassin has now seen the criminality of the U.S. stance and has agreed to perform necessary services for Irait-I mean, Iran. From this day forward, our Precious Leader has proclaimed, no head of state who has aligned himself with the un-Arab forces arrayed against us can sleep safely in his bed. For the-"
The President shut off the TV with a savage stab of his finger. His face was sheet-white.
"Maddas must be really desperate," the chairman said. "Imagine trying to convince the world that we have hired assassins on the White House payroll."
No one spoke.
"We don't, do we?" the chairman said.
Behind the President's back the secretary shook his head no. But the President was unaware of this.
"We remain on stand-down," he said hoarsely.
"Until when?" the disappointed chairman demanded.
"Until I say otherwise," he was informed.
The President left the room.
The secretary and the chairman stared at each other.
"That last report really got to him, didn't it?" the chairman undertoned.
"You know how that crazy Arab gets his goat. The guy's a barbarian."
"Well, if I had a crack at him, he'd be like Attila the Hun."
The secretary of defense looked at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff with a single eyebrow raised questioningly.
"History," the chairman said.
The President went to the Lincoln Bedroom and lifted the CURE line with trembling fingers.
Harold Smith picked up on the first ring.
"Smith, I have just seen your special person on television."
"You have?" For once, the usually unflappable Smith sounded perturbed. That did nothing to reassure the President.
"I did. On a news clip out of Abominadad. According to the report, he has gone over to their side."
"Ridiculous," Smith said instantly.
"Maddas is saying that every pro-Kuran world leader had better watch out. He's Irait's assassin now."
"Sir, I cannot believe-"
"Tell me this, Smith. If he has gone over to the enemy, am I safe?"
"Mr. President," Harold Smith said truthfully, "if Remo has become a tool of Maddas Hinsein, none of us are safe. He could remove you from office while you sleep and no one could stop him."
"I see. What do you recommend?"
"Go to an unknown location. Remain there. Do not tell me where it is. I have to assume I am at risk as well. And I could be made to talk if Remo was bent on extracting information from me."
"Good thinking. What else?"
"If I can verify this report, you have no choice but to order the organization shut down. If Remo has gone over, all knowledge of CURE and our working relationship is at Maddas Hinsein's disposal. He could make it public. All evidence must be eradicated."
"Shut you down, Smith?" the President said, aghast. "You're my only hope of surviving this thing. You know this man. How he works. What his weak points are. How to reason with him."
"Let me look into this, Mr. President. Please stand by."
The line disconnected abruptly.
The next ten minutes were among the longest of the President's life. No post-midnight waiting for election returns had ever dragged by with such heart-stopping slowness. Presently the red telephone rang.
"Yes," the President croaked.
Smith's voice was grave, with the suggestion of a quaver in it. "Mr. President, I have seen a replay of the CNN report with my own eyes. It is my inescapable conclusion that this is no hoax or ploy. Remo has defected. I can only suspect the reasons. But for the sake of your own political survival, CURE must cease."
"My political survival be damned!" the President retorted. "It's my skin I have to worry about first. And the nation's survival. I want you ready to advise me. There must be some countermeasure to this guy."
"The only countermeasure I am aware of, Mr. President," Harold W. Smith said slowly, "died several weeks ago. I see no good options."
"Stay by the phone, Smith," the President ordered tightly. "I will be in touch."
Chapter 34
"So," President Maddas Hinsein said, after the video crew withdrew from his office, "this is the assassin who has committed murder all over my fine nation."
"He does not understand Arabic
," Kimberly Baynes said.
Both of them were looking at Remo Williams.
Remo was looking at Kimberly Baynes with a mixture of desire and fear in his deep eyes.
Kimberly wore the abayuh, her face was uncovered, her blond hair cascaded over her shoulders. As she hovered near him, her hidden arms fluttered and disturbed the long lines of the abayuh with spidery grace. She had kept them hidden while the crew filmed Remo on display, and only removed her veil after they had gone.
"His eyes," Maddas told Kimberly. "I do not like the way he looks at you."
"He desires me with his body, but despises me with his mind," Kimberly said laughingly.
"He is too dangerous. He must die." Maddas reached for his revolver.
"No," Kimberly said quickly, one yellow-nailed hand intercepting Maddas' gun hand. "We have a use for him."
"What value can one man possibly have? Soon the Americans will know their finest assassin is under my control. That is all that is neccesary."
"You do not understand, Scimitar of the Arabs, this man is more powerful than your greatest division. He is the incarnation of the Destroyer, and in this form he will do anything I tell him to. Including eradicating the Hamidi Arabian royal family."
Maddas blinked.
"Would that not be fitting, O Precious Leader?" Kimberly said mockingly. "This man destroyed your family."
"And did me a tremendous favor," Maddas said quickly. "They were beasts, especially my wife's brothers. I am better off without them. And with you."
Kimberly smiled her blond smile.
"What does that matter?" she pressed. "Your generals know you have lost face. You must restore it. Why not loose this man upon your enemies, the Hamidis?"
"Because of all the forces arrayed on my southern border," Maddas Hinsein said truthfully, "only the Kurani Emir and the thrice-damned Hamidi itch for my skin. The Americans need provocation. The rest of the world follows their lead. But the Hamidis know that I covet their wealth and oil refineries. They know American staying power is limited." He shook his fleshy head slowly. "No, if I strike the Hamidi royal family, they will attack in turn. All of them will attack."
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