Taking the receiver back, Remo held open the door as the FBI SWAT team trooped out, looking dejected and unappreciated.
"Remember, keep this floor clear. The last FBI team had really sloppy security habits."
Then Remo shut the door.
Abeer Ghula was huddled in a chair, the blue blanket slipping off her dusky shoulders, exposing portions of her anatomy neither Remo nor Chiun cared to contemplate at that particular time.
"I want my blond infidel," she muttered darkly.
"Your turn, Little Father," said Remo.
Hearing this, Abeer Ghula tucked her wrists protectively under her hairy armpits.
"I know what it is you desire," she spat. "But you cannot touch my precious new erogenous zones."
"I do not want them," Chiun sniffed.
"I want my blond infidel."
"It's going to be a while," Remo explained. "Would you rather sleep through the long wait?"
"I am very hungry."
"We'll order up. What do you want?"
"Blond infidel
"Settle for steamed rice?"
still whining an hour later when Harold Smith walked in unannounced.
Remo was moving toward the door, ready to take out the intruder when the sound of Smith's familiar heartbeat reached his sensitive ears and he pulled back.
"Nice going, Smitty. I almost took your head off."
"It is a good test of security," Smith returned.
The director of the FBI was dictating a memo explicitly denying the existence of a Violent Postal Worker Task Force when his secretary informed him that an urgent call was coming out of Toledo.
The director looked surprised. He was unaware of a Toledo office. "I'll take it."
The voice on the line was tense. ' "This is SAC Rush. Toledo. We've secured the mosque."
"Mosque?"
"The al-Bahlawan Mosque. No one can go in or come out."
"What mosque? What are you talking about?"
"Operation Sound Surround."
"I authorized no such damn mission! Where are you? What mosque? What is this about?"
"Orders came out of your office, by telex."
The FBI director groaned. "Don't tell me. An assistant special agent named Smith."
"That's right. Smith."
The director leaned into the phone. "You wouldn't have a first name, would you?"
"One moment." When the SAC's voice came back on the line, it was to the accompaniment of a rustle of paper. "It's just a squiggle. I can't even make out the first initial." "Brief me from the top," the director said resignedly.
"We've secured all approaches to the suspected HQ of the Messengers of Muhammad."
"And it's a mosque, you say?"
"Biggest one I've ever seen. Got two tall minarets that look like rockets ready for launching."
"Do nothing."
"Our orders were to hold secure until instructed otherwise."
"We can't have another Waco here. That's job one."
"We all understand that, sir. This Ohio."
"Just hold on, I'll be back to you."
Hanging up, the FBI director called the President of the United States.
"Sir, I have good news and, I'm afraid, bad news, as well."
"Go ahead," the hoarse voice of the Chief Executive said.
"The Bureau may have found the headquarters of the Messengers of Muhammad jihad group."
"Where is it? Iran? Iraq? Libya?"
"Toledo, Ohio. There's a mosque out there as big as a circus tent, and we believe the conspirators are bunkered inside."
"Is that the good news or the bad?" the President wondered aloud.
"We have the place surrounded."
"Is ATF there?"
"They aren't in the loop."
"At all costs, keep them out," the President said savagely. "And whatever you do, don't do a damn thing. I'll get back with you," he added, his voice sounding as if the lining of his throat was coming up through his clenched teeth.
of the United States called Harold Smith, and it took an entire three rings before Smith's exasperated voice said, "Yes, Mr. President?"