"Precious Leader," said the foreign minister, "if we do not evacuate this building soon, we will all be dead from our own war gas."
"That is the beauty of our position," said Maddas Hinsein coolly.
"What is?"
Maddas Hinsein took the cigar from his mouth and bestowed upon his council a broad, toothy smile. "We are already dead. Therefore we are capable of anything-any valor, any grand gesture."
And he opened his smiling mouth to give vent to a low, humorless laughter. It sounded like something a mechanical carnival clown might utter. There was nothing human in it.
The Revolting Command Council had no choice. They joined in. Not to laugh was to die, and even though to stay in the palace meeting room was to die also, they unanimously preferred to die by gas than at the hands of the man they called Precious Leader.
"Brief me," Hinsein commanded, going instantly somber. He flicked cigar ash into the hole in the table, as if it were some great ashtray.
"The Americans have not attacked," the defense minister reported. "Their aircraft no longer fly. In fact, they are sending their carrier battle groups into open sea. We do not know why."
"They have not attacked because they fear our gases," Maddas pronounced. "Therefore, they will never attack. We are safe forever from the Americans."
Everyone knew that this was a colossal miscalculation.
"Then it was good that the former defense minister released the hostages," the defense minister suggested carefully. Maddas frowned darkly. "He was a fool. But Irait will survive his foolishness. For deep in the dungeons below us, we have two of the most important hostages anyway."
The council leaned toward their leader. "Precious Leader?" one muttered.
"I refer to the infidel black priest Jackman and the television reader Don Cooder."
At that, every man at the table paled under the caramel coloring of his Arab complexion.
"They are our insurance against further American aggression," added Maddas Hinsein.
"But you just said that the Americans will not attack," the foreign minister stuttered.
"They will not," Maddas said flatly. "But they may wish to after we enter the next phase of our annexation of Greater Arabia."
Around the table, jaws dropped. "Precious Leader?"
Maddas paused to draw on his smoldering cigar. "We are going to take Hamidi Arabia," he said with quiet confidence.
Jaws clicked shut. Silence filled the room. All thought of the approaching nerve gas fled. A tiny gurgle broke the silence. It was followed by another. Those whose bladders still held reached down to their laps to prevent their gall from joining that of their comrades on the floor.
"But . . . how?" This was from the defense minister, who would have to execute the operation-or be executed for refusing a direct order.
"By striking at the most vulnerable point of the infidel army of occupation," said Maddas Hinsein, as if suggesting a stroll along the banks of the Tigris.
"Can we do that with impunity?" wondered the education minister.
President Hinsein nodded. "Yes. Once the world understands as you do that Maddas Hinsein still lives-and that the most important of our foreign guests do as well."
"You propose a news conference, Precious Leader?"
"I do."
"Do you propose this soon?" he asked, eyes flicking to the window and the hazy mustard-colored sky beyond it.
Maddas nodded confidently.
"Then let me suggest that we conduct this conference down in the gasproof dungeon of this very palace."
Maddas wrinkled his nose. Outside the window, the yellow gas rolled closer. He placed his fingertips against his cheek in a thoughtful manner, as if reconsidering.
"To run from our own gas could be seen as a sign of weakness," he pointed out.
Every man in the room held his breath. For one reason or another.
When their Precious Leader at last spoke, they released it with closed eyes and muttered prayers to benevolent Allah.
"But it would be the last thing they would expect from brave Arabs such as we," decided Maddas Hinsein, smiling faintly.
"Then let us do this immediately," cried the information minister, pounding the table with his fist. "Why should we delay? The Americans must know we are not to be trifled with."
"Yes, we will go now," said the Scimitar of the Arabs as he stood up.
They let him go first. The Renaissance Guardsmen who had been standing sentry outside fell in behind him. There would be no opportunity to stab this madman in the back, they realized. It made them wish to weep.
The elevator ride to the dungeon took an eternity. No one could remember it having taken so long in the past. Their faces were a smoky lavender from holding in their breaths. All except Maddas Hinsein, who continued to breathe normally.
He was funny that way.
Chapter 19
Samdup watched a snow owl swoop into the valley and felt in his heart a sharp pang of hunger for the same boundless freedom the wild bird enjoyed.
Samdup was a Tibetan. No Tibetan was free, or had been since the Chinese People's Liberation Army had stormed in, killing the lamas, burning down the beautiful temples, and turning a land of peace into an outpost of barbarism. That was long ago.
Samdup was neither priest nor soldier. He was too young to remember the days of the gentle Dalai Lama, who once had exerted his benevolence over the mountain kingdom. The greatest destruction had occured before Samdup was born. The Tibet he knew was but a shadow of what it had been. So said the elders, whom Samdup revered.
The snow owl shook its dappled wings majestically, alighting on a high crag of snow and rock. When it seemed that it would not take wing soon, Samdup resumed his journey.
The high peaks of the Himalayas were quiet, with a lack of sound that a non-Tibetan would term loud. To a native, the mountains always expressed the silence in loud voices. It was a paradox, and imponderable. But it was pure Tibet.
So when strange sounds made the mountains ring like great gongs of brass, Samdup froze in his tracks.
The sound seemed to come from the east, moving west. It was a thunder of a sound. It began as a rumble. It continued as a rumble. A rolling, unending rumble. An eternal rumble.
And inextricable from that extended sound was another. It might have been the product of a thousand benevolent gods singing in chorus. The rising sun could conceivably author such a song, had the sun a throat. Beautiful maidens might produce such sounds, had they low, yet melodic voices.
It reminded Samdup of the lamas, whose surviving members sometimes congregated in the potala-the great temple of Lamism-to chant and pray to benevolent Buddha.
But this sound was so loud, so wondrous, that no ordinary lama brought it forth into the world, he knew.
It could mean only one thing, thought Samdup, his heart quickening. It was the song that heralded the return of the Dalai Lama.
Breaking into a run, Samdup ran to meet it.
After twenty minutes he was forced to slow to a walk. But it was a brisk walk, for his heart leapt high, his feet feeling as if they were encased in jade shoes.
The Dalai Lama had returned, and Samdup would be the first to greet him!
After many minutes of walking, a PLA truck column came up the road and roared past him, faces joyless.
Samdup stepped out of the way.
"Where are you going?" he shouted after them.
A young soldier only a few years older than he shouted back, "To defeat the aggressor."
And Samdup's brisk stride faltered. His wide peaceful face grew as dull as a weather-beaten gong. Tears started in a corner of one eye.
The Dalai Lama had come back only to fall before the godless Chinese barbarians, thought Samdup.
Still, it was a moment of high drama. Samdup quickened his pace. He must behold it. If only to tell the world of Chinese cruelty.