I enjoyed looking at Miriam. She hadn't expected her boss to rebuff her. Now she sat as if stunned, the skin around her mouth tight and pale.
Looking cold-eyed at me, Karameh said scornfully, "Colonel Muammar al-Qaddafi is a traitor to the entire Moslem world. He has billions of dollars from oil at his disposal; yet he has done nothing all these years but talk and make empty threats. He could have invaded Egypt but didn't. He could have killed Sadat, who is even a worse traitor. He wants to make peace with the Zion imperialists in Israel!"
"Why complain about peace if the Palestinians get their state in the deal?"
"The hell with the dumb Palestinians!" Karameh said mercilessly. "Those fellahin never had a state at any time. Why should they have one now? All the talk about a state for the Palestinians is nothing but propaganda put out by that idiot Arafat and his PLO fools. They machine gun to death a bus load of women and children and call it a 'victory! I spit on that pig Arafat. Everytime he makes a move, he does Israel a favor by invoking world sympathy for the Zionists! My goal is more glorious and honorable. I intend to destroy Israel completely! I intend to push every damned Zionist into the Mediterranean! He laughed obscenely. "Those who can't swim, we'll cut their throats."
"I rather think that the Israelis will have something to say about that," I said drily.
"Not without America supplying them arms they won't!" he snapped. "It's impossible for the Israelis to fight a long war without their destroyed equipment being replaced immediately by the American government!"
There was no way around it: Mohammed Karameh was nuttier than the man who insisted he could make a fortune by operating a cemetery for pet rocks! But what he could do and what he thought he could were two different matters. He was deadly serious and that's what made him so very dangerous. It was not inconceivable that a fanatic like Karameh could accidentally trigger a full scale war, perhaps even World War III. My real worry was that I wouldn't be able to get to Pierre. To do so, I had to be alone. At the moment, I had to admit that my chances were zero. To compound my misery, my knees were beginning to ache, but I didn't want Karameh, and especially Miriam, to know it.
"You're using corkscrew logic, Karameh," I said. "Killing a million Americans with liquefied natural gas isn't going to make Uncle Sam stop supplying Israel with arms. The only thing you'll accomplish is to make the American people hate the entire Arab world. You might even cause Washington to drop an H-bomb on Damascus!"
"Your government of weaklings wouldn't dare!" sneered Karameh, thrusting his head forward. "Your leaders are midgets and cowards!"
"You might find that those 'cowards' are really Samsons," I countered, stalling for time while I tried to think of some solution.
"No matter," said Karameh, spreading his hands. "You will not be around to see it. I will tell you another reason why we leaked the gas project to AXE: to test their effectiveness. That is also why Comrade Miriam led you here and why you were not killed in Damascus. You are going to tell us everything you know about AXE Control, how its worldwide network operates."
"You're a dreamer, Karameh," I said.
"You are then going to contact the Hamosad Tel Aviv Control station by shortwave radio and supposedly give them the location of this base, only the coordinates will be many miles from here, across the border in Jordan."
"I would say that the Jordanians would be rather annoyed if Israeli planes blow hell out of the place," I said.
"Exactly. We're counting on that silly little nation to raise a stink in the U.N. against the Zionists. But that has nothing to do with you and your problem. I will tell you that, if you cooperate, after you tell us what we want to know, I personally will give you a bullet in the back of the neck and put you out of your misery."
The nerve of the son of a bitch! I felt like jumping up and trying to whack out Karameh with only my feet and legs. To even try would have been an exercise in futility. He was too far away, and he appeared to be a man of good reflexes, a man who was very fast. And what could I accomplish by getting myself half-beaten to death? I needed my strength for what I had to do. Provided I'd get a chance to do it.
I smiled condescendingly at Karameh. "In short, you're asking me to hurry up and die! Then again, maybe that's part of your Moslem or revolutionary philosophy?"
"Allah el Akbar!" Karameh said firmly. "I do what I must to defeat the enemies of Allah. The main enemy is world Zionism!"
"Well," I drawled, "I sort of favor that passage in the Bible that says, In my Father s house are many mansions. If I were you, I'd have second thoughts about moving day."
Within my own thoughts, I wasn't at all surprised that Karameh could combine Marxism with the religion of Islam. After all, the two murders of conscience, stupidity and fanaticism, are its best impersonators.
There were loud, angry mutterings from the circle of men surrounding me and it didn't take any stretch of my imagination to know what they would have liked to do to me, and probably would, if I couldn't get to Pierre. Freeing myself from the handcuffs was only the first part of the problem. Even with my hands free, what could I do? Where could I go? I could do plenty. And when it was all over with, I'd probably be in hell!
One of the men to my left spoke up in a loud voice. "Leader, the infidel has insulted Allah. For that we should punish him with torture!"
Dressed in qamiss and burnoose, the snow-white piece of cloth across his forehead indicated that the bearded speaker was a Khatib— who leads the Moslem community in daily prayer — of the fanatical Ismaili sect.
"The holy one is right!" thundered another man in the circle. Puffing on a narghile, a water-cooled pipe with several mouthpieces, he sat to my right. "The Western child of the devil has dared to compare the god of the Christians with mighty Allah. We cannot ignore such an insult."
Ahmed Kamel was more practical. "Mohammed, Carter is only stalling for time." he said, staring in hatred at me. "Make him give us the vital information, then kill the dog."
For a man who supposedly had been in the hospital, he looked remarkably well, I thought. I didn't enjoy the private joke. I was too close to death to be amused.
My eyes went to Miriam, who looked as if she could no longer contain herself. She turned to Karameh. "Nick Carter will never divulge anything of value." Her voice was out of rhythm and there was a slight tremor in it. "I tell you, I know him. All we'll get from him are lies and more lies."
All this time, Karameh sat with his cheeks drawn in, his mouth locked tight and his hands clenched into fists; yet I could detect amusement in his eyes. I suspected that he was one clever con artist who actually didn't believe in either Allah or Marxism, any more than I did, and that he was using the SLA for his own personal self-aggrandizement.
He finally said, "We will proceed in a manner I think best. I am the Leader." The tone of his voice indicated that the matter of my being tortured was settled and closed to further discussion.
He was so sure of himself, so confident and satisfied and convinced as he looked at me. "You're a realist. Carter. I know that a man like you is not afraid of death. I also know you're not a fool. You're not anxious to be tortured. Now tell me, where is AXE Control located in Tel Aviv?"
I looked straight at the Arab terrorists.
"Go to hell!"
Karameh jumped to his feet, rushed over to me and let me have a right cross to the jaw that knocked me on my back and sent comets rocketing back and forth inside my head, not to mention my jaw which felt as if it had been hit by a sledgehammer.