"Arrest me. See if I care that you do this," Abeer Ghula spat.
"You want to be arrested?"
She set her black-nailed hands on her dusky, lyre- like hips defiantly. "It does not matter. I have succeeded in entering America, where I am free to proselytize in the name of Um Allaha."
"Look, for the last time, do you have a visa or not?"
The woman spun in place, her arms outflung, firm breasts lifting to rubbery bullets as if in reply.
"Do you see a visa?"
"No," Dimmock admitted as an interested crowd gathered. "I guess I have no choice but to detain you for attempting to enter the U.S. illegally."
Abruptly the woman hopped up on the counter and spread her long legs.
"I come to America with my visa firmly clutched in my womanhood. Dare you pluck it out, godless unbeliever?"
"I believe in God," said Dimmock, trying to find a safe place to rest his eyes.
"Do you believe in Um Allaha, Mother of Mothers?"
"Not enough to stick my fingers where they don't belong," said Agent Dimmock as he signaled for INS backup.
They marched Abeer Ghula to a detention cell, where the problem of the visa was discussed vigorously.
"She says it's in there," Dimmock told his supervisor.
"Get a matron," his supervisor said.
"We're not sure if we can legally go in, the matron or not."
"She won't cough it up—so to speak?"
"Refused. Dares us to fish around for it."
"What did she say her name was?" "I didn't catch it. Last name Goola or something like that."
"Goola. Goola. Hold on. Let me call up the watch list of undesirables."
The watch list was checked on a terminal, and the supervisor asked, "First name 'Abeer' by any chance?"
"Yeah, that was it."
"Woman's a flake. Fundamentalist in Egypt want to hang her ass from the highest date palm."
"I'd pay to see that. She's a royal pain in the Allah."
"Let's kick this tarbaby upstairs."
"How far upstairs?"
"Far enough we don't have to mess with it."
The sticky matter of the Muslim heretic Abeer Ghula was kicked up to the head of the Immigration and Naturalization Service, then to the attorney general, who told INS, "I'd like to bring the executive branch into this."
"Fine," said INS, knowing there was no chance of getting a decision on political problems out of that permanent bottleneck.
The INS head was astonished less than an hour later when the attorney general's gravelly woman's voice came back and said, "Release her. We're granting emergency political-prisoner status."
"The President told you to say that?" the INS head sputtered.
"No. The First Lady. I went to the very top."
When she was first informed that she had been granted special-sexual-refugee-immigrant-victim status, Abeer Ghula had one question: "Does the press know of this?"
Abeer Ghula gave her first press conference in the nude, with the black chador wound around her waist for decorative purposes at the New York headquarters of the National Organization for Women, with a full-court press contingent in attendance.
"Cast down your male gods, your false prophets and your brazen phallic idols. I call upon all American women to embrace Um Allaha, the Mother of Us All, and compel their menfolk to take up the veil and kneel at her gold-painted toes."
A reporter asked, "Are you renouncing Allah?"
"No. I spit in his false face. There is no Allah. He is only a stern stone mask the imams and mullahs cower behind because they are too old to hide behind the skirts of their mother's chador."
"What about the fatwa?"
"Up here with the fatwa," said Abeer Ghula, pointing to her naked buttocks.
"Aren't you afraid?" a reporter from People asked.
"I am in America now. What can the mullahs do to me now that I enjoy the protection of the Second Commandment?"
"That's 'Thou shalt not take the Lord's name in vain.' "
"No, the other thing."
"That's the right to bear arms. You probably mean the First Amendment of the Constitution."
"I intend to wallow in all amendments as I prosecute my religious freedoms upon all Americans of every faith."
"Have you heard about the Muslim attacks in New York City?"
"I hear about them all the time. I left them behind in Cairo. Such male thunderings are behind me now."
"A jihad group calling itself the Messengers of Muhammad has infiltrated the post office. They're wreaking havoc everywhere."
Abeer Ghula didn't skip a beat. "I demand protection, then. If I am killed, a terrible blow will be struck against freedom of worship, not only here but in other countries where women are repressed by masculine oppression."
"This group has called for you to be sent back to Cairo in irons."
"They cannot compel me to go," Abeer sneered.
"They've made the demand on the White House."
"The Very First Lady has cast the iron shadow of her womanly protection over my mission."
"What happens if she's voted out of office next month?"
"They would not dare!" Abeer flared, gold eyes flashing.
"Happens almost every four years like clockwork," a reporter said dryly.
And before the eyes of the assembled press, Abeer Ghula paled from her shiny forehead to her ebony toenails.
Without another word, she unwound her chador and dropped it over her body, covering her face with her trembling hands.
"I am not afraid," she quavered.
Chapter 25
By 9:00 p.m. the postmaster general thought the worst was over.
There had been no more explosions up in Manhattan. The Oklahoma City situation had died down. They were still looking for the assailant, but no one was reporting his capture, and with luck the SOB would hold out until the New York story had blown over.
Best of all, the President had not called back. He would be easy to wait out. The man was at the end of his term of office, and he still hadn't filled some empty cabinet posts.
Post offices over the nation were on emergency sanity-maintenance programs. That would bring the mail stream to a near-halt for at least a week, but these days people expected sluggish mail delivery. After all, what did the American public expect for a lousy thirty- two-cent stamp? Personalized service?
The postmaster general was filling his briefcase with rolls of stamps intended as Christmas presents for immediate relatives when his executive secretary buzzed him.
"Boston postmaster on the line."
"Find out what it's about."
The secretary was not long. "A postal worker committed suicide."
"What's with these nervous nellies? I have a huge operation to run. Employees self-destruct every damn week."
"He's saying the man died fleeing FBI custody."
"Find out if he's the shooter from Oklahoma City."
The secretary was back in ten seconds this time. "He doesn't believe so, but he's really anxious to talk to you."
"Take a message. I've had a long day."
Shoveling the last sheets of mint Elvis stamps into his briefcase, the postmaster general of the United States got up and walked past his secretary as she was trying to record the message from the Boston postmaster on a yellow legal pad.
He was almost out the door when the secretary hung up, tore off the top sheet and turned in her seat.
"You might want to read this."
Growling, the postmaster general said, "Read it to me."
"Local TV station here is reporting that the USPS has been infiltrated by a Muslim terrorist group for the purpose of waging a campaign of terror on entire populace. No further details."
The postmaster general froze with his hand on the brass doorknob. His sweat turned cold in his palm.
"Get Boston back on the line. Right away," he barked, whirling back into his office, his long
face almost matching his tie in length.
The Boston postmaster was trying to explain himself when the postmaster general cut him off. "You just let the FBI walk off with an employee?"
"They were the FBI." "A branch of the Justice Department. USPS is part of the executive branch. Do I have to tell you what that means, Boston? We report to the President directly. We don't go through that ball-busting arsonist over at Justice."
"It seems un-American to stonewall the FBI."
"If it was good enough for Dick Nixon, it's good enough for me." Calming down, the postmaster general asked, "Did they say why they wanted him?"
"No. Only that one agent was with something called the Violent Postal Worker Task Force and the other was Counterterrorism."
"Violent Postal Worker—"
"Yes. I never heard of it, have you?"
"No, but I guarantee you by the time I'm done, it will be abolished. Is Justice crazy? They can't tar the service with that kind of bureaucratic slander."
"After today I wouldn't be so confident, sir," said Boston dispiritedly. "The man who jumped is on file as Mohamet Ah."
"And you didn't report him?"
"For what? Being a Muslim? We don't disqualify on the basis of religion. He's a citizen and he passed all tests."
"You get back to business, or I'll bust you down to mail sorter. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir," said Boston.
The postmaster general was in the middle of dictating a firm denial of the Muslim-infiltration rumor when Ned Doppler called.
"Damon, this is Ned," said the crisp voice of the host of "Nightmirror."
the years. Every time they raised the price of a stamp, as a matter of fact. Took the sting out of it whenever he hearkened back to the halcyon days of the Pony Express and two mail deliveries a day.
"Tonight's topic is the Manhattan bombings, and we'd like to give you the opportunity to present your side of the story."
"I don't have a side. None of those had anything to do with the service."
"We've booked Boston reporter Tamayo Tanaka, who broke the story of the Muslim infiltration of your organization."
"You can't go on the air with that wild rumor! There's no substantiation for any of it!"
"She broadcast it, it's news. Do you want to rebut or not?"
"I do not. It would be irresponsible to give credence to this crap. Do you want to terrify the American public? Do you want to sink the service? Do you, Ned? Do you?"
"No," returned Ned Doppler, cool and crisp as a celery stalk, "but you might be interested to know that highly placed sources at Justice are telling us they are in the middle of a roundup of elements of this jihad group, and a terrorist organization has taken responsibility and promises more strikes if Abeer Ghula isn't deported by tomorrow."
"Who's Abeer Ghula?"
"Imagine a cross between Salman Rushdie and Martha Stewart."
"Is that possible?"
Angry White Mailmen
"Why don't you be at the studio at eleven sharp and see? She's a guest, too."
"It doesn't sound like I have a damn choice, do I?" the postmaster general demanded.
Ned Doppler's chuckle was as dry as bone chips settling in a stopped blender. "The making of news is kinda like the manufacture of sausage. Watching the process doesn't make the product go down any better."
Stonefaced, the postmaster general of the United States replaced the receiver and tripped his intercom. "Contact all major city branches. Find out what you can about an FBI roundup of postal employees."
"Yes, sir."
Then the postmaster general sat back in his handsome red leather chair and felt as though he was shriveling inside.
Chapter 26
Tamayo Tanaka could hardly contain herself.
She was going to be on network TV. Better than that. On "Nightmirror." Even better than that. On "Nightmirror" during a genuine national crisis. Which meant both Letterman and Leno would be left trailing in the dust of the overnights. Her dust.
It was all she had ever dreamed of.
Which is why Tamayo Tanaka wanted to be extra, extra certain she had her face on perfectly.
It was not easy obliterating her com-fed white- bread looks every morning. There was the long, slinky black wig, the brown-tinted contacts and the pale golden pancake makeup. But hardest of all was keeping her eyes straight. The damn Mongoloid eye-fold had to be exactly right in both eyes, or she looked cross-eyed or Chinese or worse, like a female Two- Face from that Batman movie.
As the cab raced from Dulles Airport to the Washington, D.C., studios of "Nightmirror," Tamayo fussed with her eyes. In the early days of her career, she'd used Scotch transparent tape to effect the transformation. That had been during her pie-broadcast career when she'd discovered that she could earn her way through college by acting in skin flicks.
"A lot of actresses start out this way," she was told by a producer who tried to pick her up in a University of Indiana disco.
"I'm not going into acting, but TV journalism."
"Gloria Steinem once posed for Playboy."
"Nice try. She was a Playboy bunny, and it was an undercover assignment. Doesn't count."
"Suit yourself," the producer said, finishing his drink. "I was thinking of casting that cute little Jap trick in the corner anyway."
Tammy Terrill's blue gaze went to the smoky corner where a girl in a flame red slit dress was toying with a Bloody Mary as red as her lips.
"Her? I don't think she'd know how."
"Asian women are more supple anyway. I need a contortionist for this flick. She's gotta be able to blow the male lead while twisted into a pretzel shape."
"Not my department. I'm strictly missionary. Face- to-face, turn over and go to sleep. I have to be up in the morning for the rest of my professional life."
"Too bad," said the producer. "Pays five grand for three days' work—if you can call it work."
Tammy blinked. Five grand was her tuition for a whole quarter. And she was hauling a double major.
She caught herself muttering, "Never work. I do this and it ever gets out, I'm dead in broadcast journalism."
"We can make you look different," said the producer, sensing a chink in her armor.
"How different?" Tammy asked, stirring her C-breeze.
"Just like that almond-eyed fly-teaser over there."
"Sure. Our makeup guy once made Roxanne Roeg- Elephante look halfway fuckable. He can work miracles."
"No one will recognize me?"
"Myma Loy got her start playing Orientals, though not in skin flicks, that's for sure."
"Who?"
The producer beamed like a porcelain knicknack. "See? You just proved my point."
Over the next two years, Tammy Terrill made a half- dozen direct-to-video and pay-per-view films as Suzy Suzuki, including Jade Crack, Dildo Fury and her favorite, Ben-wa Ballbuster, where she got to lift a guy up by the scruff of his scrotum and drop him bodily into a car crusher—with a little help from the FX department.
No one at the University of Indiana ever caught on.
But when Tammy graduated, doors were slammed in her face everywhere she went.
"What's wrong with me?" she moaned at the end of six months of rejected resumes.
"Take a look around," her TV agent told her. "Deborah Norville's career just crashed, taking the whole perky-young-blonde trend with her."
"How could she? Didn't she know she was the Great Blonde Hope?"
'"Golden Lads and girls all must...' I think you know the rest. Anyway, the hottest thing going now are Asian anchorettes. That leaves you out."
"My maternal grandmother was one-eighth Asian," Tammy ventured.
"What was her last name?"
"Tanaka. They tossed her butt into an internment camp during WWI." "That was WWII."
"I got the initials right, didn't I?"
"Listen, Tammy, how do you feel about a name change?"
; "To what?"
"Tamayo Tanaka. It's legit. The name is in the family, just lying around unexploited. We update your resume, put you down as Japanese-American and you have your second chance."
"With this hair and these baby blues?"
"Squint."
Tammy squinted. Her face became a cream puff with sapphires for eyes.
"Can you read a cue card like that?"
"I can't even tell if you have one nostril or two."
Her agent sighed. "Well, it was a long shot anyway. Even with a wig, you'd never pass."
"Yeah, that kind of stuff only worked for Myrna Loy."
The agent's glum expression got interested. "Myrna Loy? I remember her. Thirties actress who got her start playing Chinese types. After she drank that well dry, she came out as a Caucasian and had a whole new career."
Their eyes met, collided, ricocheted and locked together with a growing but nervous interest.
"You know, they can do amazing things with makeup these days," Tammy said.
"You'd have to lead a double life," the agent warned.
"I could go undercover as myself!"
"What if you got caught?"
"Then I'd be the story! I'd go through the roof."
"We could sell your story. Sultry Japanese reporter unmasked as com-fed Iowa farm girl."
"I'm from Indiana," said Tammy.
"Flays just the same in Peoria. Let's give it a whirl. If it doesn't pan out, you're still Tammy Terrill."
"No, I'm going to be the next Cheeta Ching."
Four years and six local markets later, and she was on her way to a face-off with Ned Doppler on "Nightmirror."
"It's the American dream come true," she murmured, touching up her slim eyebrows. "It doesn't matter who you are, you can go anywhere you want in life if you just play by the rules of the moment."
"Eh?" asked the cabbie, who was some kind of Hindu.
"Someday your kind will get their turn," she said, snapping her compact closed.
Then they were at the studio, and it was time for Tamayo Tanaka's moment of truth. More or less.
A network page greeted her inside the studio, and she was taken to a soundproof booth where she was seated on a plain chair. A camera dollied up so close the glassy lens almost kissed the tip of her nose. The tally light wasn't on, so she relaxed and said, "When do I meet Ned?"
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