"There is something very wrong here, I agree. I will get back to you."
"Can't be soon enough," said Remo.
A rippling ululation like a grieving woman at a Lebanese funeral came across the wire.
"What is that sound?" asked Smith.
"Oh, that's just Abeer Ghula going into paroxysms of ecstasy."
"Who is-?"
"It's Chiun's turn."
"You are joking, of course."
Then a squeaky voice rang out. "Remo! Come look. See the lips? They are relaxed. See how the mouth is parted? That is how a woman is pleasured."
"What is going on down there?" Harold Smith demanded.
"We're just keeping Abeer out of trouble our way," explained Remo.
"Do nothing to her that cannot be explained to the First Lady."
"I think the First Lady knows about this kind of stuff by now," said Remo, hanging up.
the untappable blue contact telephone to reach the warden of a Missouri federal prison.
"This is Assistant Special Agent Smith, FBI Washington."
"Go ahead."
"We are calling to confirm the security of Prisoner 96669." "How many times do I have to tell you people? He's in administrative detention. That's solitary to you."
"Can you assure me he has no contact with the outside world?"
"That's why they call it solitary. He's in a bare cell, with no loose items except a fireproof blanket and a paper prison uniform. He gets one hour a day to shower and exercise under armed guard."
"How does his counsel communicate with him?"
"He doesn't. The lawyers stopped coming around about six months ago."
"Do you know the status of his appeal?"
"Dropped."
"Dropped?" Smith asked sharply.
"Dropped cold."
"Doesn't that strike you as unusual?"
"Yeah. We assume his people are waiting for the day they can ransom him out through hostage taking or terror threats and are saving their money for blasting caps."
"I concur with that assumption," Smith said tightly.
"If I'm told to release him by a federal authority, I will. Until then, he's just Prisoner 96669 and a son of a bitch besides."
"You should consider doubling his guards."
"I can guarantee you they won't be busting him out."
"A simple precaution may save you embarrassment, if not serious career consequences."
"I am just pointing out a known fact. Jews do not eat shellfish. You do not eat shellfish. There may possibly be a connection. I do not know. I cannot say. I am just saying it."
"Say it to yourself," said Yusef. "I am wondering something else."
"And what is this you are wondering?"
"Why if we are to pilot a missile called the Fist of Allah into Paradise, Sargon is making us practice by driving a mere bus. A bus rides on wheels. A missile streaks through the air like an arrow."
"There is a good reason, never fear."
"I know there is a good reason. What I am wondering is what this reason is."
"I am wondering this same thing, too," Jihad Jones said as he pulled into the seafood restaurant in exotic Ohiostan.
Yusef took the cell phone with him because Sargon the Persian had insisted he carry it at all times in case they were to be summoned.
After they entered the restaurant, a convoy of official FBI cars and Light Armored Vehicles raced along the Ohio Turnpike in the direction of the Al-Bahlawan Mosque.
But neither man saw this.
Tamayo Tanaka wasn't going to take it lying down.
She was supposed to be the story. Now Abeer Ghula was the story. If Tamayo Tanaka wasn't going to be the story, then she had to get next to the story.
And that meant getting next to Abeer Ghula, distasteful as it was.
Not that it was going to be easy.
Everyone wanted to get next to Abeer Ghula. Especially after it was reported an attempt had been made on her life. The First Lady herself had denounced the attempt and thrown the awesome weight of her political power behind Abeer Ghula. That made it the lead story of the day. And Tamayo Tanaka had to own that story.