"Does this mean you will need transportation to the Middle Fast?"
"That is the last thing I would have you do, Emperor Smith," said Chiun, closing his tired old eyes.
Chapter 9
The call flashed eastward. It traveled along fiberoptic telephone cable from Folcroft Sanitarium, was microwaved to an orbiting satellite and bounced back to an earth station in the Far East, where the message was received, transcribed on a lambskin parchment in an ancient tongue, and carried by hand to the eyes for which it was intended.
The message was terse:
"Follow the Seven Giants to the Ishtar Gate. Bring the caliph's sack."
Wise eyes lifted skyward, where the stars continued in their ancient procession.
A voice was raised.
"I hear, and obey, friend of the old days," it said.
And then the thunder began to roll.
Chapter 10
As they slunk through the streets of Abominadad, Don Cooder and Reverend Juniper Jackman noticed a strange thing.
Cars were streaming by. A constant parade of them. Buses too. Each was filled with Americans and other non-Arab nationals. All under heavily armed guard.
"What do you think's going on?" Reverend Jackman wondered in a low, uneasy voice.
"I think it's a mass execution," Cooder said. "They must be taking them to a central location. Probably in retaliation for the A-bombs that are dropping all over."
Reverend Jackman cupped a hand behind one ear. "I don't hear no more bombs, A, B, or C. And if I'm gonna be executed, it ain't gonna be with plain folks. I want center stage."
"And I want the U.S. embassy. We're public figures. They'll give us sanctuary."
"You mean they'll give me sanctuary," snapped Reverend Jackman. "But I'll try to put in a good word for you."
Arguing, they pushed on.
When they reached the U.S. embassy, they were shocked to their core to discover the main gate was chained closed.
"What's this?" Reverend Jackman bleated. His eyeballs protruded like shelled eggs being squeezed from fists.
Don Cooder's eyes, on the other hand, narrowed over his waxy bags as if not wishing to face reality.
Both men had to read the sign three times before its full import was brought home to them.
The sign read:
ATTENTION, ALL CONCERNED:
THE IRAITI GOVERNMENT HAS DECREED THAT ALL U.S. CITIZENS AND OTHER THIRD-STATE NATIONALS ARE FREE TO EVACUTE IRAIT. IF YOU FALL UNDER EITHER CATEGORY AND DESIRE EVACUATION, PROCEED IMMEDIATELY TO MADDAS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. THIS EMBASSY HAS BEEN CLOSED FOR THE DURATION OF HOSTILITIES.
-THE U.S. AMBASSADOR
"Does this mean we're stranded?" asked Don Cooder in a tight dry voice.
Swallowing an indigestible lump in his throat, Reverend Juniper Jackman looked toward the west, where the airport lay.
An Air Irait 747 lifted off, trailing a sooty plume of exhaust. In a matter of seconds, another launched itself after the first. A third followed.
"Not yet," said Reverend Jackman. "But from the way they're hightailing it outta here, I'd say procrastinating ain't a good idea."
They stepped out into the street in search of a cab. Don Cooder whistled through a mouthful of fingers. Reverend Cooder, recalling the sixties, looked for a clean patch of asphalt where he could stage a one-man civil-disobedience sitin.
Maddas Hinsein galumphed along like a big ungainly scarecrow draped in a black cape. His all-concealing veil-lifted and fell with each puffing exhalation. He was running out of breath. Even though he had appointed himself field marshal of the Iraiti Armed Forces, he had never seen military service. Consequently he was a tad out of shape.
It happened that a green cab careened around a corner just as Maddas Hinsein had reached the limit of his endurance. Three short blocks.
He stepped out into the path of the cab, crying, "Halt!" in a high-pitched voice.
The cab screeched to a halt, the driver leaning out of the driver's window to hurl abuse at him.
"One side, kebir gamoose!" he yelled.
Maddas Hinsein strode up to the driver. Still keeping his voice high, he asked, "What did you call me, effendi?"
"I called you a big water buffalo," the other snarled. "Now, get out of my way. I have Americans to fetch. The new president has decreed that they be released before the bombs begin to fall."
"New president?" Maddas asked, for the first time noticing that the driver lacked the politically correct mustache all Iraiti men by law had to cultivate.
"Yes," the man said impatiently. "AI-Ze'em. Razzik Azziz."
"That is very interesting," said Maddas Hinsein, surreptitiously reaching into his abayuh. "But that name you called me-is not the nickname certain disloyal elements have bestowed upon the last president?"
"He is dead, and Allah curse his bones," spat the driver. "Now, be off, woman. There is money to be made."
"And you have earned your last dinar, traitorous one," intoned Maddas Hinsein in his normal gruff tone. And he shot the cabdriver through the temple with such exquisite precision that both of the man's eyes were whisked from their sockets like magic.
Opening the door, the Scimitar of the Arabs reached in to yank the corpse from his seat. He took the man's place. Such had been his skill that little blood and no brains decorated the front seat. Killing was one thing to Maddas Hinsein. Wallowing in the result, another.
Placing one heavy foot on the gas, he wrenched the wheel around. He was bound for the U.S. embassy, where no doubt the traitorous son of a pig had been headed. And woe to any American who fell into his hands.
It was not that there was any lack of taxicabs in the heart of Abominadad. There were plenty, Don Cooder and Reverend Jackman found. And they were all going the right way-to the airport.
The trouble, they discovered upon being ignored by the seventh speeding cab, was that they were all crammed to the windows with Western evacuees.
"Why do they got rides when we don't?" Reverend Jackman demanded from the safety of the curb. His sitin had not survived his first brush with a cab's hurtling grille.
"Because you're still stuck in the sixties," Don Cooder said, determination creeping into his voice. "Watch how a nineties man does it."
He stepped out into the middle of the street. A cab came along. He lifted his arms and waved them frantically.
The cab slowed to a stop. The driver leaned on the horn.
Ignoring the sound, Don Cooder confidently strode over to the rear window. He knocked. It rolled down.
"Hi, I'm Don Cooder, legendary BCN anchorman," he said brightly.
"I don't have time to be interviewed," said the man in back. His Phillies baseball cap identified him as an American. "We're on the way to airport. They've set us free."
"Got room in back for two?" Cooder asked through a fixed smile.
"No. My wife is with me." A redhead with a drawn face gave him a brave little wave, adding, "I watch you all the time, Mr. Brokaw."
Pitching his voice lower, Cooder added, "How about just one?"
"Sorry. Driver, let's go. Wallah!"
Don Cooder had been holding on to the cab's chrome trim when the passenger gave the order. The trim was torn from his hands, taking part of a fingernail with it. "Yeoow!" he screamed, anguish gullying his craggy features.
Reverend Jackman came running up, horror writ large on his own pop-eyed face.
"Are you shot? Did he shoot you?"
"A fingernail! I lost a fingernail! How will this look before America?" Reverend Jackman put his hands on his hips and a frown on his face.
"You know what? You are wound tighter that the mainspring of my granddaddy's old turnip watch. Never mind your damn manicure. We gotta fetch us a ride."
"All America looks up to me for personal grooming guidance," said Don Cooder, sucking on the injured digit, which happened to be his thumb. He looked very comfortable sucking his thumb.