"Our Precious Leader begs to inform you that you will assist him in announcing his ultimatum to the infidel occupation forces in Hamidi Arabia," the information minister explained.
"Why do you need us?" blurted Reverend Jackman.
The question was conveyed to Maddas Hinsein in Arabic.
Upon receiving the answer, the information minister turned as pale as a burnoose. He was so flustered he made his protest in English, which his president did not understand.
"But, Precious Leader," he said, "how can you offer him the post of information minister? I am your loyal information minister."
"No way I'm settling for information minister," Reverend Jackman said indignantly. "It's the vice-presidency or nothing."
"What's the salary?" asked Don Cooder.
Before another word could be spoken, President Maddas Hinsein drew his pearl-handled revolver and shot his information minister dead in mid-protest.
His corpse fell across the shoes of Don Cooder and Reverend Juniper Jackman. Neither man moved.
Another council member stepped forward.
"Our Precious Leader has decreed that due to unforeseen losses among the Revolting Command Council," he said stiffly, "you, Cooder, and you, Jackman, have been offered the positions of information minister and vice-president respectively. Do you accept?"
Reverend Juniper Jackman and Don Cooder blinked. Slowly their heads turned toward one another. Their eyes met. Their mouths opened. They looked down at the twitchy corpse of the late Iraiti information minister, who looked back at them with eyes that did not see.
Their gaze jerked up to meet that of Maddas Hinsein, Scimitar of the Arabs.
"We-" Reverend Jackman started to say.
"-gladly accept," Don Cooder finished.
"Amen."
"Make that a salaam," Don Cooder said hastily. "No offense, effendi. Wallah!" He smiled weakly and threw in a loyal salute.
Chapter 21
Harold W. Smith happened to be home when the surprise telecast was satellited out of Abominadad. He was watching a National Geographic special on peep-toad migration in Rhode Island. It was so dull that his wife, Maude, had gone to bed ten minutes into the program. After the beaming features of Maddas Hinsein resolved on the screen, Smith was grateful for that minor blessing.
A mordant voice-over said, "This is Television Abominadad, broadcasting the glorious news that our Precious Leader Maddas Hinsein the First has reclaimed primacy over the ancient capital, soon to be the capital of Greater Arabia."
"My God," gasped Smith. "Chiun was correct."
The camera pulled back, showing Maddas Hinsein, one arm raised in a characteristic messianic gesture, standing on a balcony of the Palace of Sorrows. Below, a clapping crowd surged.
Maddas wore a white burnoose and flowing ghurta. He looked like a fat glowworm with a caramel-coated face.
"These pictures were taken early today, showing our precious leader bestowing his blessings on the people of Abominadad, who had just survived a cruel gas attack by criminal U.S. forces," the mordant voice went on in English as thick as blood pudding.
Smith started. "Gas attack? Impossible!"
"in a twist of kismet, the gas killed few Arabs but completely extinguished the lives of two foreign agents allied with the American imperialists," ran the mordant voice-over.
Another voice-Smith recognized it as belonging to BCN network anchorwoman Cheeta Ching-broke in to explain, "This transmission is coming to you live from Abominadad, Irait. Due to the importance of the Gulf crisis, BCN has elected to break programming at this time. A full wrap-up will follow, along with a late update on my heroic struggle to become impregnated."
The picture switched, showing two bodies in the rubble. One was of a young blond woman lying facedown. The fact that she had an extra set of arms was not obvious, but neither was it entirely hidden to viewers. Her skin was as black as coal tar-a certain symptom of nerve-gas poisoning. The camera panned over to another body, and Harold Smith saw a familiar face, one that had been beamed out of Irait once before.
The face of America's secret weapon, Remo Williams.
Remo lay on his back, attired in a torn profusion of purple and scarlet silks. His eyes were open, his mouth twisted. He neither moved nor seemed to see.
The panic that seized Smith's vitals at this latest exposure of CURE's enforcement arm subsided when he realized that Remo was clearly dead. His head lay at a crazy angle, indicating a broken neck. His throat was a livid purplish blue, like a great bruise. His skin, too, was the color of slate.
The picture went dark. Then the screen framed a podium on which the Revolting Command Council sat, attired in frog-green military uniforms. Smith frowned. They wore their military attire only when they were about to threaten some one.
Baroque martial music blared.
Abruptly the council members jumped to their feet and burst into applause. The light illuminated their mustaches. They looked odd and flat, as if painted on.
The camera swung around, catching Maddas Hinsein, a towering figure in a gold-and-white uniform and black beret, as he swaggered into the room.
On either side of him, looking for all the world like the condemned, walked Reverend Juniper Jackman and Don Cooder.
"My God!" Smith croaked.
Smith always kept his worn briefcase beside him. He reached for this now. Throwing the disarming latches, he lifted the lid to reveal a mini-computer and a portable telephone hookup. Smith stabbed a button that tied it into the dedicated line to the White House.
It took several rings, but the President of the United States finally answered, out of breath.
"Smith. Do you see what I see?"
"I am afraid so," Smith replied tightly. Like twin camera lenses, his gray eyes were focused at the flickering TV images.
The camera tracked the unlikely trio as they took their seats at the table, Jackman and Cooder settling on either side of the president of Irait. They looked like food tasters at the inaugural banquet of an extremely unpopular king.
"And now," the heavily accented announcer said, "his glorious excellency the Scimitar of the Arabs, President Maddas Hinsein."
Maddas Hinsein began reading from a sheet of paper. He read slowly, in a low, sonorous voice. Every word was in Arabic.
Smith held the phone to his chest, waiting for the usual English translation, but none was forthcoming. He assumed there was a problem with the audio.
The insistent buzz of the President's voice coming from the buried receiver forced Harold Smith to lift the earpiece to his own ear.
"What the heck is he saying?" the President wanted to know.
"I cannot say, Mr. President," Smith replied. "But Maddas Hinsein is extremely calculating. This is designed to play to an Arabic-speaking audience, and I suspect the presence of Jackman and Cooder is meant to warn us against interference."
"You think he's trying to break up the UN coalition?"
"It is possible," Smith admitted.
"And what was that stuff about a U.S. gas attack? We know his own people gassed Abominadad."
"This may be a propaganda position, possibly a pretext for whatever he plans next."
"But what the heck is he planning?"
"I do not know," said Harold W. Smith, who strained with his free ear to catch everything being said by Maddas Hinsein, despite his almost complete inability to comprehend the Arabic language.
Chapter 22
Yussef Zarzour would have given his right eye to have listened to the very important speech being given by President Maddas Hinsein over the Iraiti airwaves.
But as a colonel in the Renaissance Guard, he had his patriotic duty to perform.
The orders had come by radio from the Precious Leader himself.