They were busy, nimble hands. He felt helpless in their sure grip. Feeling helpless was a new sensation for Maddas Hinsein.
He wondered, as he was pushed onto the sumptuous bed, how this American woman knew his deepest, most secret desire. For Maddas Hinsein had not been properly spanked since he had become the Scimitar of the Arabs, and he missed it sorely.
The guards outside the room grinned at the slapping sounds emanating from within. It sounded as if their mighty leader were literally beating his mistress to death. The slapping went on forever. It was well known that Maddas Hinsein knew how to keep his women in line.
After a long time the ugly sounds of violence ceased.
A voice rose in protest.
"Please, do not stop," it implored.
One guard turned to the other.
"Do you hear?" he asked laughing. "She is begging for the corrective mercy of our Precious Leader."
The other did not join in.
"I think that is our Precious Leader," he muttered.
They listened. It was, indeed, the rumbling voice of Maddas Hinsein. He sounded unhappy.
A low woman's voice answered him. It was firm and unyielding.
Presently the door opened. A red-faced Maddas Hinsein stuck out his head. His eyes were shiny and wide. Sweat beaded his mustache.
"One of you take word to General Azziz," Maddas barked. "I want a tank column to attack the U.S. front lines. They will pay for the crimes committed against Abominadad."
A low murmur of sound drew him back in. The door shut. When it reopened, Maddas Hinsein had a change of orders.
"Use gas instead," he said. His eyes flicked back to the room. In a hushed tone, as if in fear of being overheard, he added, "Do it quietly. A quick strike and then retreat. Try not to bring the Americans down on our heads. I do not want trouble."
The door closed again. Through the heavy wood they could hear their Precious Leader's voice.
"I did as you bade, glorious one," he whimpered. "Now let the mighty rain of your discipline fall upon my penitent cheeks."
Relentless slapping sounds resumed.
The guards exchanged peculiar glances. They flipped a coin to see who would bear the strange message to the defense minister. They decided not to mention any of this.
Chapter 28
Remo Williams shifted in the saddle, trying for a comfortable position. Normally, this was not a problem. Remo was trained to endure pain.
But enduring mere pain was one thing. Riding long hours in the saddle, a hard leather pommel rubbing into his tender crotch, was another. He had hoped leaving all but one of Kimberly's scarves would lessen his predicament. No such luck.
The one scarf he had brought was stuffed deep up one kimono sleeve. So far, he had resisted digging it out. But he thought about it constantly.
"You appear unhappy of cast," Sheik Fareem muttered, inclining his predatory face in Remo's direction.
"I still grieve for my Master," Remo said quietly.
"After so many years? In truth, you are a worthy son. Would that I had a son such as you."
Remo said nothing. He remembered back to the days when he and Chiun had first encountered the sheik. There had been a dispute between the sheik and Chiun on one side and Remo and the sheik's worthless son, Abdul, on the other. Remo's assignment had conflicted with an ancient understanding Sinanju had with the Hamid family.
During the confrontation, Remo and Chiun had been forced into mortal combat with one another. Chiun had pretended to be killed, sparing Remo. Since that day, the sheik had believed Chiun dead. Such was his sense of honor that he worshiped the Master of Sinanju's memory and honored Remo's continued existence.
"Whatever happened to Prince Abdul?" Remo asked after a while.
"He cleans stables in a pitiful border town called Zar," the sheik spat. "Allah is just. But I have taken into my heart a nephew, the son of my wife's sister, to be my son in spirit. He is called Prince General Bazzaz. He has brought the House of Hamid both joy and pride, for he commands my army."
Remo nodded. "I've seen him on TV." He neglected to mention that the prince general looked like an operatic buffoon strutting around before the cameras and claiming that the U.S. forces were in Hamidi Arabia merely to "support" the frontline Arab units.
"If Allah is good to us," Sheik Fareem murmured, "we will meet him on the frontier. For he is now engaged in installing the best defenses money can buy along the front lines."
"Look forward to it," Remo said without enthusiasm, his eyes on a trio of camels that had darted across the path. They galloped like ungainly antelopes, speedy but awkward, spitting and snorting as they passed from sight.
His eyes noting the awkward bulge at Remo's crotch, the sheik wondered if all Americans were so lusty in their grief. It was truly a riddle.
They were stopped by a column of Arab soldiers a few miles south of the Hamidi-Kuran neutral zone.
Upon recognizing the sheik, the Arabs fell to their knees. Instead of bowing to the sheik, who sat astride his Arabian steed, they faced a different direction entirely and touched the sand with their palms and foreheads, muttered words escaping their lips.
"I thought Arabs were used to the desert heat," Remo said, watching the peculiar display.
To Remo's surprise, the sheik dismounted. Unfurling a small Persian rug, he likewise faced the same way, joining in the muttered praying. For that was what it was, Remo realized. They were facing Mecca.
Their oblations done, Fareem climbed to his feet. The others got up, then knelt again. This time at the sheik's feet.
Remo sat impatiently in his saddle. The soldiers addressed their king. The king replied formally. All of it went in one ear and out the other where Remo was concerned.
When they were done, the soldiers found their feet and formed an escort. The sheik remounted and they got under way once more.
"What was that all about?" Remo asked.
"They were concerned for my safety, alone in the desert," Sheik Fareem supplied.
"You weren't alone," Remo pointed out.
The sheik smiled. "That is what I told them. And that I had all the protection a man could need in the honored one who rode at my side."
Remo nodded, his eyes on the undulating landscape ahead.
He squinted. On the near horizon, a line of strange shapes appeared in the shimmering, quaking heat.
"What the hell?" he muttered.
During their journey from the base, they had skirted several military positions, including a line of American Bradley Fighting Vehicles draped in sand-colored netting arrayed in battalion formation. The American line had been the innermost bulwark. Oddly, it was also the largest.
Beyond that had been an Egyptian platoon, a Syrian squad, and other pockets, including a group of extremely morose Kuranis. Remo had asked the sheik why the strongest force had not been on the front line.
"Because it is the privilege of our fellow Arabs to defend and preserve Arab soil from the godless aggressor," the sheik had said proudly.
"You picked the right troops," Remo had replied politely, recognizing cannon fodder when he saw it.
The Hamidi defensive line was the smallest of these, Remo saw. Barely a squad of overdressed soldiers in braided powder-blue uniforms, clustered around traditional desert tents and an assortment of military vehicles, mostly APC's. There wasn't a single tank on the line, as Remo had expected, considering the estimated fifty thousand Soviet-made Iraiti tanks that lurked somewhere beyond the undulating horizon.
The Hamidi Arabian first line of defense was a string of sand-camouflaged trucks with open beds. They faced away from the neutral zone, as if poised for an immediate retreat.
Mounted on the flatbeds, their giant blades facing enemy territory, were the largest fans Remo had ever seen in his life.