A cordon of Iraiti security officers in khaki and black berets kept the multinational press at bay. The press cheered the opening of the hatch door. They cheered the appearance of the Reverend Juniper Jackman as he stepped onto the top step.
They cheered because when they weren't reporting on events in Abominadad, they resided in the Abaddon Air Base, known to be a primary U.S. target in the event of hostilities.
Reverend Juniper Jackman lifted his hand to acknowledge the cheers. His pop eyes cast down to the reception committee and his youthful features broke into a frown.
"What is this crap!" he demanded. "I'm not going down there. I don't recognize anybody. They sent some flunkies!" His chief adviser looked out. "Yeah, you right, Juni. I don't see hide nor hair of the foreign minister. I don't even see the information minister. Maybe that's him-the one with the brushy mustache."
"They all got brushy mustaches," Juniper Jackman growled. "You get on the phone. Call everybody you gotta. I ain't steppin' off this plane until they send somebody important to shake my hand in front of all this media."
"Gotcha, Juni."
The Reverend Jackman put on his famous smile and waved with his other hand. Cheers went up from the press. Juniper Jackman beamed. What the hell. This wasn't so hard to take. Some of the same jerks who'd bad-mouthed him on the air were now cheering to beat the band. He hoped they'd remember this moment the next time he ran for President instead of claiming it was like making a fry cook chairman of the board of McDonald's without having to work his way up.
Reverend Juniper Jackman switched hands until they got tired. The press cheered until they were hoarse.
"What's keeping you?" Jackman hissed through his wilting smile.
"I'm being stonewalled," his aide called back. "I don't like this."
"Maybe you ain't dialed the right number yet."
Then a quartet of soldiers came up the stairs, trailed by the mustached man in the blue business suit.
They took Reverend Jackman by the hands. Smiling, he attempted to shake hands with every one of them.
But shaking hands was not what the Iraiti soldiers had in mind. They took Reverend Jackman by the upper arms and forcibly marched him down the steps.
Trying to put the best face on it because of all the cameras, the Reverend Jackman lifted his arms to wave. His arms were held down.
"What the F is goin' on?" Reverend Jackman undertoned in panic.
The Iraiti in the blue business suit spoke up.
"Reverend Jackman, so happy to see you. I am Mustafa Shagdoof, deputy information minister. On behalf of our benevolent leader, President Maddas Hinsein, I welcome you as a guest to our peace-loving country."
"Thanks, but I . . ." Reverend Jackman's eyes started suddenly. "Wait a minute! What do you mean by guest?"
"What we say," the deputy information minister said, displaying an officious smile. "You are entitled to our hospitality."
"You ain't by any chance plannin' on duressing me?"
"Do you feel duressed?"
"As a matter of fact . . ." Reverend Jackman nearly stumbled. He looked up.
They reached the bottom of the stairs.
The deputy information minister addressed the gathering TV cameramen. "On behalf of the Republic of Irait, I formally welcome Reverend Jackman as a guest of the state. He will remain our guest until our own ambassador is accounted for."
If anything, Reverend Jackman's staring eyes protruded further. They resembled hard-boiled eggs with sick black spots at one end.
Thinking "Might as well go for broke," Reverend Jackman sucked in a deep breath.
"I came to trade myself for Don Cooder," he shouted. "You hear me? I'm not afraid to take his place." The sweat crawled down the reverend's face like transparent worms.
From the back of the TV crew a familiar Texas drawl was raised in excitement.
"That's me! That's me! Let me on that damned plane!"
And hearing that familiar voice, Reverend Juniper Jackman turned to the Iraiti deputy information minister.
"Just between you and me, I don't suppose you'd take my assistant instead of me? I'll throw in the plane. You can keep Cooder too."
"You should be very happy here in Abominadad," the deputy information minister said.
"What makes you say that?"
"You already wear the politically correct mustache."
Word of the detention of the Reverend Juniper Jackman was satellited from Abominadad to Washington through the Cable News Network.
The President received the report in writing during a cabinet meeting. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. No love was lost between him and the reverend, but the man was a political figure of some standing. When word of this hit the streets, there would be enormous pressure that he take action. Especially from the black community.
"Excuse me," the President told his cabinet. "Gotta make a call."
The President walked the lonely halls of power to the Lincoln Bedroom. Perching on the side of the antique bed, he opened the nightstand drawer, revealing a dialless red telephone.
He picked it up, triggering an automatic connection.
Hundreds of miles north, at the other end of the dedicated line, an identical telephone rang on the desk of Harold W. Smith.
"Yes, Mr. President?"
"The Iraitis have taken Reverend Jackman hostage."
There was silence on the line as both men considered whether that was truly as bad as it sounded.
"They're threatening to give up Dan Cooder," the President added.
"Unfortunate," Smith said at last.
"They want their ambassador back. What do I do? If I ship them a corpse, they'll do the same. I don't want to go to war to avenge that glory-hound minister."
"I believe I can help you on this one," Smith said at last. "Leave the rest to me."
Harold Smith hung up the phone. An hour ago, he would have had to inform the chief executive of the United States that he couldn't send his special person to the Middle East. His special person refused to go anywhere unless it was into the arms-the four arms, according to his delusion--of a woman he believed was the reincarnation of the Hindu goddess Kali.
But in the last hour, Harold Smith had made a breakthrough. Unable to trace Kimberly Baynes-or the woman who used that name-through the usual computer taps, he had reprogrammed the search to trap any Baynes with a feminine first name.
An airline reservation in the name of Calley Baynes had bubbled to the surface of the vast active memory. He might not have paid it much attention, but the flight's destination was Tripoli, Libya.
And as he wondered what this Calley Baynes would be doing in Tripoli, it sank in that his computers had provided a way to convince Remo to accept this assignment.
Provided Harold Smith was prepared to lie now and blame his computers later.
He shut down his terminal and sent it retreating into its hidden desk recess.
Remo, he felt confident, would be more than happy to go to the Middle East. But Smith would not send him to Libya. He would send him to Irait.
He just hoped that in his present state Remo Williams was up to the task.
Chapter 24
"I have found . . . ah, your Miss Baynes," Harold Smith told Remo.
"Where?" Remo's voice was calm--calmer than Smith had expected.
It was dark in the room. Only the bluish TV etched Remo's head and shoulders in the blackness. The sound was off. Remo had not turned his head once in the darkness.
"Hamidi Arabia."
"I've been there. It's all sand. She'll be hard to track down."
"I am working on that," Smith said. "In the meantime, the President has asked that we intervene in the Juniper Jackman situation. He has been designated a guest under duress."
Remo grunted. "Another breakthrough for jive diplomacy. Maybe Maddas will draft him as his vice-president."