"More treachery," said Maddas Hinsein, reaching through a slit in his black garment to grasp the ivory grips of his personal sidearm.
He considered executing the traitors where they stood, but realized he had only six shots in his pistol, while they had AK-47 assault rifles.
Reversing direction, Maddas Hinsein retreated like a furtive black specter.
The fireballs had expended themselves, he saw. Except for the regular roar of jet aircraft taking off, the city had grown quiet. It was like the lull before the storm.
As he rushed toward the U.S. embassy, the only source of hostages available to him, he vowed that Maddas Hinsein would be the storm of all storms.
Chapter 8
The President of the United States received with profound relief the news of the exodus of what were diplomatically called "guests under duress" by the Iraitis and "hostages" by everyone else.
"This means we're out of the woods, doesn't it?" he suggested to his defense secretary.
"Yes," the man said firmly.
"No," inserted the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, just as firmly. His dark handsome face was stiff with resolve. As the first black to hold the position, he was not about to become a yes-man to the defense secretary, whom everyone knew harbored presidential aspirations. So did he, but he was too sophisticated a strategist to tip his hand in advance.
The President's brow furrowed. "No?"
"Look at these satellite recon photos," said the chairman, laying down a folder stamped "TOP SECRET" on the polished table.
They were down in the White House Situation Room. The red threat-condition lights were ablaze.
The President extracted the photos. He looked at the one on top. So did the defense secretary.
What they saw was an overhead shot of Abominadad. They knew it was Abominadad because of the unmistakable latticework of a roller coaster that had been inexpertly thrown up on the western outskirts of the city, near the fixed antimissile missile batteries. The roller coaster had been part of the loot of Kuran. Taking it down and transporting it overland had proved easier than putting it up correctly. Most of the tracks stopped in midair, as if bitten off.
Closer to the center of the city was a large area of debris, much like a crater. Smoke smudges billowed up from this area.
"What is it?" demanded the President, shifting to the next photo. It showed a slightly larger crater. As did the one below it.
"Arab Renaissance Square," reported the chairman. "You can see the mangled scimitar in the upper-right-hand corner."
"Looks like a pretzel," the defense secretary commented.
"What caused this?" asked the President.
"Unknown, sir. But whatever it is, it's getting wider. The CIA believes this is why the Iraitis are so hot to capitulate."
"This is why they've asked us to cease hostilities?" the President asked, dumbfounded.
"I believe so."
"But we haven't started hostilities. This isn't our doing. "
"Must be the Israelis," said the defense secretary. "Their fingers have been on the trigger ever since this fracas started."
"If we ask nicely, do you think they'll stop?" the President wondered aloud.
The defense secretary called the secretary of state, who in turn called the Israeli ambassador to the U.S. Word was flashed to Tel Aviv and flashed instantly back.
"The Israelis say they are on stand-down," reported the defense secretary only nine minutes after the President had asked what had been a rhetorical question.
"The Iraitis blame us, huh?" the President said., laying aside the photos. "Is that good or bad?"
"If they consider it a provocation, they'll probably go to war over it. After all, Maddas is sandfill and Abombinadad is releasing everybody." "Exactly why we should launch a preemptive strike," the chairman said firmly.
"Last time I did that," the President said ruefully, "the damn Hamidis blocked us."
The chairman cleared his throat. "I understand that situation has been rectified. General Hornworks is once again in control of the situation on the ground. He informs me that based on new intelligence findings, he has repositioned forward units to counter any Iraiti advance."
"What findings?" the President asked, raising one eyebrow.
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff placed his hands behind his back and regarded the scarlet ceiling. He declined to give a yes-or-no answer. It was the military way when confronted with the imponderable. Also, he figured it was even money he would run against the President next election. No sense providing a future political enemy with ammunition in the form of a directly attributable quote.
The President drew his defense secretary aside. "What do you think?"
"Diplomatically, so far we're winning. We're getting our hostages back. Maddas is wormfood. I say we press the advantage. Demand they withdraw unconditionally from Kuran."
Frowning, the President tapped the sheaf of recon photos. "What about this crater thing?"
The secretary of defense shrugged his shoulders. "That's out of my bailiwick," he told his commander in chief.
The President excused himself and, in the privacy of the Lincoln Bedroom, put the same question to Harold Smith.
"I can only assume that, er-"
"The Caucasian," interrupted the President.
"-is active in Abominadad," finished Smith. "Only he is capable of such unchecked carnage."
"What could he be up to?"
"It's impossible to say."
"Well, whatever he's doing," the President mused, "he's winning hands down. You should see those photos. Abominadad looks like an earthquake struck. Smith, can you deactivate him somehow?"
"Only the . . . Oriental might be able to accomplish that mission."
"Smith, get on it. Do whatever you have to. We have a chance to avert war here. But only if we move fast."
"I'll do what I can."
Harold Smith found the Master of Sinanju sitting up in bed watching a videotape.
As Smith entered, Chiun clicked the image off.
"You have been replaying the tapes?" Smith asked.
"I have been bored," Chiun said aridly. "The nurses do not comfort me as they should."
Smith cleared his throat. "I have heard from the President. He is gravely concerned. Some agency has created a crater in the middle of Abominadad."
Chiun's tight expression went slack. "The dance has begun."
"Master?"
"The Tandava. It is the dance that will destroy the world. Nothing can stop it. Kali has lured Shiva into the Tandava, despite his wishes to the contrary."
"I understand," said Smith in a tone that plainly said that he was not comfortable with that understanding. "I was about to ask you to stop Remo."
"He is no longer Remo and he cannot be stopped," Chiun said, brittle-voiced.
"The Iraitis are threatening war unless Remo ceases."
"The jest is on them. War or no war, they are doomed. And they will be only the first. Shiva and Kali will trample and snuff out all life on this forlorn globe."
"I am sorry to hear that," said Smith, for lack of anything better to say. A thought occurred to him. "I suppose you will wish to return to Sinanju."
"Why?"
"Why, to be with your people when the end comes. Unless you think Shiva will spare Korea?"
Chiun's hazel eyes narrowed. "No," he said, his voice growing steely. "Shiva will not spare Sinanju."
"Shall I arrange for a submarine passage home?" asked Smith.
"No," the old Korean said after a pause. "I wish a telephone. For I must contact certain allies."
"I can arrange that," Smith said crisply. "Anything else?"
"Yes. Send word to Sheik Abdul Hamid Fareem, of Hamidi Arabia."
Smith's lemony face puckered. "What word?"
"Tell him two things. One, the Master of Sinanju yet lives. And two, he is coming to parley."