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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
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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
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