Maddas Hinsein's dark eyes flashed as he took in Remo's translated words. A faint grin tugged at his cruel mouth.
Remo smiled inwardly.
That's right, he thought. Swallow it whole, you dumb hairbag. When I'm done with you, they'll be calling you Dead Ass.
Remo let his smile come to the surface. "So what do you say? Do we have a deal or what?"
Muttering under his breath, Maddas Hinsein lifted both hands, palms upward. He sounded like a priest giving absolution, and not the brutal dictator that had brought the world to the brink of World War IIl.
The defense minister lifted his head from the huddle.
"Our Precious Leader agrees to all this. But he has one question to ask you."
Remo folded his arms. "Shoot."
"What is the significance of the yellow scarf you carried concealed on your person?"
That was the one question Remo hadn't anticipated. His brow furrowed.
"I got a wicked cold," he said at last, sniffing loudly. "It's sort of . . .an industrial-strength handkerchief. Yeah. that's it. A handkerchief."
And at that, Maddas Hinsein's belly shook with laughter. He threw his head back.
All around the room, the guards acquired quirked expressions. They did not know whether to join in or not. Maddas, hearing their silence, threw up his hands in encouragement.
The uproarious laughter traveled around the room.
Only Remo's lips were not touched by it. He didn't see what was so funny.
And then an inner door came open.
One guard was alert enough to catch the sudden movement. He went for his pistol.
But Maddas Hinsein beat him to the draw. A single shot split the guard's breastbone and splattered fragments of his heart muscle against the wall behind him.
That killed the laughter. To say nothing of the guard.
Remo was barely aware of this. For in his ears was a dull roaring. And in the doorway stood a woman in black, her familiar violet eyes radiant and mocking in the ragged eyeholes of her abayuh. Her two visible hands were clasped before her, fingernails yellow and vicious.
And from her seductive but unclean body emanated an odor that found his nostrils like invisible tentacles.
"Oh, no!" Remo coughed, feelings his legs go weak as water.
He slammed to his knees, fighting the scented tentacles of Kali with frantic hands. But it was too late.
"Prostrate yourself before me, O Master of Sinanju," Kimberly Baynes said triumphantly.
And Remo touched his forehead to the Persian rug, squeezing hot tears from his eyes.
It had been a trap. And he had fallen for it. Sinanju was finished.
"I'm sorry, Chiun," he sobbed. "I blew it. I meant to fulfill my promise. I really did. Now I'll never see Sinanju again."
Chapter 33
The President of the United States paced the War Room of the White House like a caged tiger.
He had been there ever since the first report of a nerve-gas attack on the Kuran-Hamidi Arabian neutral zone.
"We have to strike now," the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was saying. He was nervous. The Washington Post had run a page-one feature that said his career hung in the balance over the outcome of Operation Sand Blast. Since everyone from Capitol Hill to Foggy Bottom believed the Post, he knew it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy if it wasn't already true.
"I need more facts," the President bit out. "If this thing spills across borders, we have a real mess. The whole Middle East could go up. There's no telling how Israel will respond. No telling."
"We have the men, the might, and the machines," the chairman rattled off. "All we need is the word."
The secretary of defense piped up, as the President knew he would. The rivalry between the JCS and the DOD was legendary.
"I want to advise caution, Mr. President. The Iraiti forces are dug in deep, in secure defendable earthen berm positions."
"Exactly why we should bomb Abominadad," the chairman put in. "We don't even have to move our troops. A quick decapitation and it's all over. No more Mad Arab."
"Not with a million Iraiti under arms, poised to move south, Mr. President." the secretary countered. "I agree with the chairman of the JCS. We can take out Maddas and his command structure overnight. Destroy his forward tank units and dismember his logistical tail inside of a week. But I'm thinking past that. We're dug in with Syrian, Egyptian, Kurani, Hamidi, and other Arab forces. If we bomb, who's to say that it won't be every man for himself out in that desert? The Syrians would turn on us in a flat second if they saw this as the U.S. bombing Arabs."
"Nonsense. The Hamidis have been egging us on to launch a preemptive strike since this thing began. The exiled Emir of Kuran has given us carte blanche to conduct offensive operations on his own soil. Nerve gas, neutron bombs, anything."
"And everybody knows the Emir has written off his own country," the secretary shot back. "He's gone north, trying to buy up Canada. He doesn't care. And other Arabian forces are with us only because the Hamidis have paid for them in hard cash. They're virtual mercenaries. And stabbing allies in the back is practically an Arabian tradition. Look at their history."
The President cut in on the brewing argument.
"What are the casualties?" he asked testily. "I want to see casualty figures."
Both men got busy. They worked the phones. When they came back, their faces were surprised.
"No casualties on our side," the chairman reported.
"That's my understanding as well," the secretary added.
"After a nerve-gas attack?" the President asked.
"Reports from the field indicate that when the gas blew out of the neutral zone, the Hamidi first line of defense advanced."
"The Hamidis stopped the attack?"
"No, their advance was tactical. It was actually some sort of a reverse retreat."
"Reverse-"
"They cut and run," the secretary of defense said flatly. "Away from the gas. It was Sarin. Bad stuff. A nerve agent. Fatal in seconds."
"So what took out the Iraiti forces?" the President wanted to know.
"No one knows," the chairman admitted. "They just collapsed."
The President frowned. He was thinking about his one wild-card asset on the ground over there. The CURE card. He wondered if Smith's special person had had anything to do with this.
"Any further action?" he asked.
"No," the chairman said. "It's been four hours now. It appears they simply made a halfhearted probe of the Hamidi line and pulled back."
"I think they're cranking up the pressure over their damned ambassador," the secretary of defense offered.
The President shook his head. "And all we have to offer them is a corpse. It's as if they've guessed the truth and are retaliating."
"Maddas is just the type to react like that," the chairman said tightly. "I say we pound him flat."
The President frowned. "It makes no sense. He knew that this would be the start of war. Why did he make a half-assed move like this one? What could possibly be gained?"
"Maybe he had no choice," the secretary said.
"Say again?"
"Maddas knows he's outgunned. Maybe he was responding to pressure from his inner council. There have been some pretty strange reports coming out of Abominadad. Rumors of attacks on the Hinsein household. One has it that his entire family got it. They've always been conspiring against him. Maybe they made their move and he struck back. Maybe it was internal opposition. Whatever, he's a strongman. He's got to show his strength or he gets toppled. There's a lot of pressure on him."
"Possibly," the President thought. "What's CNN been saying?"
The secretary of defense went to a nearby TV and turned it on.