Kimberly smiled her blond smile.
"What does that matter?" she pressed. "Your generals know you have lost face. You must restore it. Why not loose this man upon your enemies, the Hamidis?"
"Because of all the forces arrayed on my southern border," Maddas Hinsein said truthfully, "only the Kurani Emir and the thrice-damned Hamidi itch for my skin. The Americans need provocation. The rest of the world follows their lead. But the Hamidis know that I covet their wealth and oil refineries. They know American staying power is limited." He shook his fleshy head slowly. "No, if I strike the Hamidi royal family, they will attack in turn. All of them will attack."
"So, you are a coward, after all."
Maddas flinched. "No Iraiti could call me that name and not be chopped into shish kebab," he flared.
"No Iraiti understands Maddas Hinsein as I do," Kimberly said. "If I disappear, there is no one strong enough to attend to your special . . . needs."
Maddas' dark features tightened in concentration.
And one hidden hand slipped from a slit in the black abayuh and roughly pinched Maddas Hinsein on the backside. He gave a little jump.
"Do not do that in front of the prisoner," he hissed, rubbing himself.
"Think of him as a tool. Just as I think the same of you."
Maddas Hinsein cocked a thumb at his broad chest. "I am the destined uniter of the Arabs."
Kimberly smiled. "And I am the only one who makes you purr. Your gas attack has failed. There has been no counterstrike. You are safe to strike again. This time in secret. Send this assassin to kill the one most dear to the sheik. It is a humilation he deserves."
"Agreed. But it will bring war down on my head. Is that what you want?"
"Yes," Kimberly Baynes said, drawing close to Maddas Hinsein like a black raven with a sunflower head. "War is exactly what I want."
Maddas looked aghast. "You want my ruin?"
"No, I want to see you lord of the Middle East, and if you obey me in every way, that is exactly what you shall be."
Maddas Hinsein furrowed his dark brow. His eyes went to those of the American assassin who was called Remo.
The man obviously worshiped Kimberly. He had obeyed her in every respect so far.
"How do we know that once he is free, he will carry out your will?" he asked at last.
"Very simply, Precious Leader. Because I will go with him."
"Why?"
"Because we are destined to dance the Tandava together."
"I do not understand. Is that an American word?"
"No. It is more ancient than even Arabic. And in time you will understand all."
"Very well. But do not spank him. You are my mistress now. Your ministrations are reserved for Maddas Hinsein alone."
"Of course. I only have hands for you."
Kimberly drew near Remo. Remo gritted his teeth. Sweat broke out over his face. Her nearness was unbearable. The way she swayed when she walked, the knowing, mocking light in her violet eyes. Hadn't they been blue before? He must have been mistaken. He wanted to run from her. He also wanted to push her down on the dirty floor and rut like animals.
But Remo did neither. He had been commanded to stand at attention, and so he stood, arms at his sides, his manhood at half-mast under his black kimono.
"I told you that you would come to me," Kimberly said in English.
"I came," Remo said dully.
"We are going on a trip together. To Hamidi Arabia."
"Yes."
"You know Sheik Fareem?"
"Yes."
Kimberly laid spidery hands on his shoulders, saying, "Tell me truly. Who is his closet relative?"
"His son, Abdul."
Cupping Remo's jaw, Kimberly turned his head around so their eyes met. "Then you will kill Abdul. Before my eyes. As a sacrifice to me. Do you understand?" "Yes." "Are you ready?" Remo's mind screamed no, but he was helpless. His mouth said, "Yes." But his heart told him that even the cold Void would be better than this living hell.
Chapter 35
Harold Smith tried to reason it through.
It made no sense, none of it. Why would Maddas Hinsein initiate a lame gas attack on the Hamidi Arabian front lines? It was as if he were trying to bait America into a war Hinsein could not possibly win.
His behavior was incomprehensible. He blustered and boasted and hurled desperate empty threats in a foolish attempt to forestall what the world thought was an inevitable all-out assault on bait now officially the Republic of Iran. That last decree, as nothing before it, told of the man's desperation.
Army intelligence dismissed the failed nerve-gas attack as the result of the usual confusion stress placed on a command structure when hostilities appear imminent. But Smith had run a thorough character analysis on Maddas Hinsein. He was fifty-four years old, nearly the top life expectancy of the average Iraiti male. A visionary, he would do anything to prolong his life and fulfill what he perceived as his destiny as the liberator of the Arabs.
He was not reckless, but ignorant. He had stumbled into this situation through miscalculation. It was not in his character to attack against such overwhelming odds.
And now he had Remo in his power. Somehow.
As the CURE terminal scrolled news digests emanating out of the Middle East, one report caught his eyes.
"My God," Smith croaked.
He read an AP digest of a rash of strangulations that had taken place in the Star in the Center of the Flower of the East base.
Two people had been throttled-an Arab motor-pool corporal and a U.S. servicewoman, Carla Shaner. They had both been strangled with yellow silk scarves. This fact was the cause of much speculation in the Arab press, inasmuch as yellow ribbons symbolized U.S. hostages. Infidel Moslem-hating elements in the U.S. armed forces were being blamed.
Smith ran an in-depth computer analysis of the incident. A picture emerged. A picture of a nameless non-Arab American woman who had strangled the U.S. servicewoman, stolen her uniform, and used it to gain entry to the base, where she subsequently strangled the Hamidi corporal and obtained a Humvee vehicle.
To what purpose? Smith wondered.
"To penetrate Irait," he said hoarsely in the shaky fluorescent light of his Folcroft office. "To incite the other side." And suddenly Smith understood why the Iraiti ambassdor had been strangled with a yellow scarf in Washington. That was simply phase one, designed to exacerbate U.S.-Irait tensions.
"Who is this woman?" Smith asked the walls. "What goal could she possibly have in doing this?"
He recalled with a brain-clarifying shock the pretext under which he had sent Remo into the Middle East. The Calley Baynes who had flown to Libya was also the woman pretending to be Kimberly Baynes. But who was she?
Smith shut off the news-digest program and went into the airline file. There, siphoned off the national network of travel-agency and airline reservation computers, lay the last six months' worth of passenger reservations.
Smith called up the Middle East runs and ran the name:
"BAYNES, KIMBERLY."
After a moment the screen said: "BAYNES, KIMBERLY, NOT FOUND."
He keyed in: "BAYNES, CALLEY."
Up came: "BAYNES, CALLEY."
Under the rubric was a record of a flight from Tripoli to Nehmad, Hamidi Arabia.
With a tight grin of triumph, Harold Smith logged off that file and began a global search of the name Calley Baynes.
His smile quirked downward. The computer spat out another "NOT FOUND."
"Odd," he muttered. He stared at the screen. The name was an alias. Why had she chosen it?
Smith reached into his in basket, where the FBI artist's reconstruction of the Washington strangler reposed. He stared at the face. It was a pretty face, almost innocent.
On a hunch, he keyed into the FBI nationwide alert for the true Kimberly Baynes-the thirteen-year-old girl who had been reported kidnapped from her grandmother's Denver house.