Once they were all in the same room, Remo would take total control of the situation. Maddas would be his lever. They would all be flown to safety or Maddas would get it.
Maybe, Remo thought, handing his tray back to the uniformed orderly, Maddas would get it anyway. After what he had seen in Kuran, Maddas Hinsein deserved to be flayed alive and dunked in carbolic acid for a thousand years. Smith might not like it, but accidents did happen. Besides, he reminded himself, after this outing, he might not have to deal with Smith ever again. After he caught up with Kimberly Baynes in Hamidi Arabia, that is. He shoved that problem from his mind.
The plane came in low over Abominadad. From the air it looked like any one of a number of third-world cities. Most of it consisted of the cheap, poured-concrete high-rises Russia had put up all over the third world. The green domes of mosques and minaret spires added an Eastern seasoning. Here and there gas fires blazed over idling refineries. Irait controlled a quarter of the oil produced in the world, but UN sanctions had deprived them of chemicals needed to refine the crude.
Thus, Remo thought with pleasure, U.S. cars ran freely while in Irait no traffic flowed at all.
Remo's gaze was arrested by the crossed scimitars of Arab Renaissance Square, held aloft by Brobdingnagian replicas of Maddas Hinsein's thick forearms. He recalled a recent television report that claimed the hands were identical to Maddas' own-right down to the fingerprint whorls.
Noticing Remo's interest, an orderly boasted, "Those scimitars were forged by a famous German swordmaker and cost many millions."
"The Germans were certainly getting their share of Maddas' party," Remo muttered.
There was a military honor guard waiting to escort Remo to an armored car. Every one of them looked like a clone of Maddas Hinsein. There were fat Maddas Hinseins, skinny Maddas Hinseins, as well as the tall and short varieties.
Altogether, Remo decided, the quicker he got the job done and got himself out of Abominadad, the better. A uniformed official stepped forward. He looked like Maddas Hinsein's third cousin. "Welcome to Irait," he said stiffly. "I am the defense minister, General Razzik Azziz." He did not offer Remo his hand.
"Glad you could take me out of tourist season," Remo said dryly.
The man's eyes pinched tighter. He smiled officiously. But deep in his eyes Remo could read contempt for his offer to betray his own country.
Fine, Remo thought. Let him think that. At least until I pull this off.
The car whisked them from Maddas International Airport and under the same upraised scimitars he had seen from the air.
"I wouldn't want to be under those babies if there's an earthquake," Remo remarked as they passed under the shadow of the gleaming blades.
"They are as sharp as the finest blades in all the world," General Azziz said proudly. "They are the swords that will slice through world opposition, leaving all the universe disemboweled before Iraiti power."
"Catchy," Remo remarked. "You ought to have cards printed up saying that."
The defense minister went silent. Remo had expected to be pumped in advance of the meeting with whomever they were taking him to first.
"Where are we going?" Remo asked, remembering his plan. "I got a lot to say and I don't intend to waste it on flunkies."
"Our Precious Leader, Maddas Hinsein himself, has requested your presence in the Palace of Sorrows."
"Suits me," Remo said, frowning. This was easier than he had thought. He wasn't sure he liked that. Still, maybe it was the will of Allah or something.
The armored car slid down a ramp and into the bowels of the palace, a baroque stack of limestone and iron that seemed to hunker down as if expecting an imminent aerial attack.
In the basement, Remo allowed himself to be frisked. They had done this before he got on the plane, and again before he had gotten off. He hoped this would be the last time. No telling what these guys did with their hands. He had not been impressed by Arab hygiene.
This time, the soldiers discovered the yellow scarf of Kali he had tucked deep into one sleeve of his black silk kimono.
For some reason, this excited them. They began chattering in Arabic, waving the scarf under one another's noses.
"We must confiscate this," the defense minister said sternly. "For the protection of our Precious Leader."
"Fine by me," Remo said, eyeing the scarf. "But I'll want it back after the interview. It's a good-luck charm."
The look the Iraiti soldiers gave him told Remo that they expected there to be no "after the interview"-at least not for him.
Fine, Remo thought. Let them think that too.
They went up in an elevator, where black-bereted guards wielding AK-47's met them. Remo was surrounded and marched down a long corridor. At the end of it was a double-valved door of some dark, expensive wood.
Remo assumed this was the President's office. He figured this would all be over in an an hour or two. Three, tops.
Two guards stepped forward and threw open the doors.
Remo entered.
Two more guards stood at attention on either side of a wide bare desk, spines straight, chins up, their heads cocked back. Matched Iraiti flags framed the figure seated behind the desk.
Remo had to look closely to be sure, but the seated figure differed from the identically mustached guards in his bulllike physique. The other guys were too skinny. There was no doubt.
Remo was face-to-face with President Maddas Hinsein.
The self-styled Scimitar of the Arabs stood up, one hand going habitually to a pearl-handled revolver.
Remo suppressed a grin. A lot of good a six-shooter would do him when things got busy.
The doors closed behind him. Remo sensed the trailing guards deploying themselves in front of the door and at other strategic spots around the room. He waited until they were in position, noted each heartbeat for future reference, and stood with his hands hanging at his sides while the defense minister strode up to the President of Irait.
They whispered conspiratorially. Maddas Hinsein's face frowned like a chocolate bunny melting in the sun.
Defense Minister Azziz turned to Remo.
"You may speak to our beloved Maddas. I will interpret."
"Tell him I know everything about the U.S. attack plans," Remo said in a staccato voice. "I know the date and exact time the U.S. will strike. I know where they will cross the border and I know every air target on every Pentagon contingency plan."
Remo paused. The defense minister rattled off a few dozen words in Arabic. Maddas never took his intent eyes off Remo as he listened. He nodded once, shortly.
"I'm willing to give this up in return for two things," Remo added.
The words were translated.
"First," Remo went on, "I want safe haven in Irait. A nice home. A couple of women. No dogs. Good food. A car. A handsome salary. And a tax exemption. What I have to say is worth a lot to you people. I expect to be compensated."
Maddas absorbed the translation in silence. He brushed at his mustache thoughtfully. When it was over, he mumbled a curt statement.
"If you expect to reside in our country," the defense minister said, "our Precious Leader insists that you grow the proper mustache."
"I'm not through here," Remo broke in. "But the mustache is okay. What I have to say, I gotta say in front of Don Cooder and Reverend Juniper Jackman. Nobody else. They gotta take everything that happens here back to the U.S. with them."
The defense minister's eyes shot up. "Why do you demand this thing?"
"Simple," Remo said. "I didn't just up and decide to go over. I was with the CIA. Some bureaucrats in my government screwed me over. I want them to know what screwing me over costs. Maybe they'll be sacked when the shit hits the fan."