The report continued.
"In other news today, the citizens of La Plomo, Missouri, today held a rally in support of U.S. hostages in Irait and occupied Kuran, tying yellow ribbons around every tree in the tiny farm community, struggling to return to normalcy after last spring's catastrophic poison-gas-storage accident."
His chin cupped in his strong hands, his elbows on the table, Maddas Hinsein narrowed his liquid brown eyes at the words.
This warning signal went unnoticed because all eyes were on the TV screen and the flickering images of U.S. farmers busily tying yellow ribbons around a huge oak tree.
They were shouting at the top of their lungs.
"Mad Ass Mad Ass Mad Ass."
"See?" Maddas Hinsein crowed. "Even the American farmers support me. They despise their criminal government for denying them the right to sell their grain to the proud but hungry Iraiti people. It is just like Vietnam was. A bottomless pit of sand."
No one dared contradict the President. They knew, whereas their leader did not, that Americans had learned a bitter lesson in Vietnam and would go to any length to avoid repeating the experience. Including pulverizing storied Abominadad.
Then the camera panned to an obvious caricature of Maddas Hinsein hanging from a noose. A boy in a green-and-brown-checkered shirt brushed the straw-stuffed effigy with a lighted torch. Licking flames crawled up its legs. In moments the effigy was blazing.
The cry "Mad Ass Mad Ass Mad Ass" swelled.
And every sweaty face along both sides of the conference table jerked back to take in their President's reaction.
Maddas Hinsein leapt to his feet, hands gripping the table edge, ready for anything. A few more attempted to choke off bladder releases by crossing their legs.
"Why do they call my name so strangely?" Hinsein demanded. "Do they not know how to pronounce my name, which is revered by all Islam and feared by the infidels who dwell beyond Dar al-Harb?"
No one answered at first. Then, seeing the growing darkening of their leader's face, everyone attempted to answer at once.
Maddas Hinsein brought order to the room by whipping out his sidearm and waving the muzzle at every face. Hands that had been under the table surfaced. The trickle of running water came. No one wanted to be mistaken for an assassin with a concealed pistol-the chief reason that the Revolting Command Council met around a large square table with almost no top other than a thin border around the edge.
Silence clamped down like an aural eclipse. The weapon stopped pointing at the information minister, who wore a military-style uniform and about a gallon of sweat where his face should be.
"You. Tell me."
"They are making fun of your name, Scimitar of Islam," he said in a shaking voice.
"Maddas is my name."
"In English, 'mad' means something else."
Maddas Hinsein's meaty face gathered in puzzlement.
"What?"
"It means 'angry.' "
"And the other word?" Maddas asked slowly.
"This word, O Precious Leader, has the same sound as the backside of a man."
Maddas Hinsein blinked his deadly emotionless eyes.
"Angry Ass?" he said in English.
The information minister swallowed. "Yes," he admitted.
"Me?" he said, pointing at his chest with his own gun. Everyone silently beseeched Allah for the gun to discharge and preserve Irait from this madman. It did not.
"Yes," the information minister repeated.
Maddas Hinsein threw his head to one side, thinking. His eyes crinkled. His mouth gave a meaty little pucker.
"I have heard this English word," President Hinsein said slowly. "Somewhere. But it did not mean 'angry.' "
The gun whipped back toward the information minister. "It means 'crazy'!" he snarled.
The Revolting Command Council gasped as one.
"Both!" the information minister bleated. "It means both!"
"You lie! How can a word mean two things?"
"The American are like this! Two-faced! Is it not so?" the information minister asked of the room.
The Revolting Command Council was silent. No one knew the safe answer, so no one spoke.
And getting no response, the President turned his pistol toward a perspiring general. "Answer this. Does 'mad' mean 'angry' or 'crazy'?"
" 'Crazy,' " the general said quickly, hoping he would not be shot dead in the face.
He was not.
The President said, "Thank you." Then he shot the information minister in the face. The man's head snapped back with such force that it carried him and his hardwood chair backward.
The information minister's body jerked and quivered like a convict in an electric chair that had fallen over.
Calmly the President of Irait holstered his pistol, muttering solemnly "I will not accept lies to my face." He sat down. "So," he added, "the Americans think I am a crazy ass, no?"
"Allah will punish them," said the defense minister, not looking at the quivering body.
President Hinsein patted down the luxurious mustache that was repeated on every male face over the age of fifteen throughout the land. His solemn eyes grew reflective.
"Crazy Ass," he muttered.
"They insult all Arabs with such talk," spat the defense minister bitterly.
"Crazy Ass," repeated the President thoughtfully.
"We will pass a law condemning to death any who repeat this slander," a general vowed.
"Crazy Ass," Maddas said again. And he began laughing. "Maddas Hinsein, Scourge of the Arabs," he cried. "Scimitar of Arabia. Uniter of the Arab Nation. That is me. I am one crazy-assed Arab, am I not?"
"Yes, President," the assembled Revolting Command Council said in well-rehearsed unison, "you are one crazy-assed Arab."
He threw his head back and gave vent to an uproarious peal of mirth. Tears squeezed from the corners of his amused eyes.
The others joined in. Some tittered. Others guffawed. But no one refused to join in, though their laughter was not reflected in their eyes. Their eyes, instead, were sick with fear.
With a final burst of laughter, Maddas Hinsein settled down. He brushed his mustache. His strong chin found his folded hands once more as his elbows took their usual position on the table edge. A serious, intent expression settled over his dark, troubled features.
"I will show them what a crazy ass I am," he said darkly. "Issue the following proclamation through our Propaganda Ministry."
No one moved. When Maddas Hinsein saw that no hand picked up pen to transcribe his all-important words, he said, "Where is the minister of information?"
"Dead," he was told.
"You have shot him."
Maddas Hinsein peered past the man who last spoke. He saw the twitching knee in the air.
"He is not dead. He still moves," Maddas pointed out.
"He is dying."
"Until he is dead, he is not excused from his patriotic duty. Give him pen and paper."
The defense minister hastily obeyed, crushing the information minister's oblivious fingers around a pen and slipping a sheet of paper in the other hand. As his leader began to drone on in a monotone, he did not worry about the lack of animation on the dying man's part.
There was no ink in the pen. Irait had run out of ink in the fifth month of the international blockade, when it had been discovered that ink made an acceptable salad dressing.
Previously, they had pissed on their salads.
Chapter 19
Harold Smith paused at the door and cleared his throat before knocking briskly.
"Come in," Remo Williams said. Smith entered.
He found Remo seated cross-legged on a tatami mat in the middle of the bare floor, a half-eaten bowl of rice at one knee. Across the room, a TV set flickered and a world-famous face filled the screen. The rugged face was showing signs of strain, especially under the eyes. The dark pouches hung almost to his chin.