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  Calmly the President of Irait holstered his pistol, muttering solemnly "I will not accept lies to my face." He sat down. "So," he added, "the Americans think I am a crazy ass, no?"

  "Allah will punish them," said the defense minister, not looking at the quivering body.

  President Hinsein patted down the luxurious mustache that was repeated on every male face over the age of fifteen throughout the land. His solemn eyes grew reflective.

  "Crazy Ass," he muttered.

  "They insult all Arabs with such talk," spat the defense minister bitterly.

  "Crazy Ass," repeated the President thoughtfully.

  "We will pass a law condemning to death any who repeat this slander," a general vowed.

  "Crazy Ass," Maddas said again. And he began laughing. "Maddas Hinsein, Scourge of the Arabs," he cried. "Scimitar of Arabia. Uniter of the Arab Nation. That is me. I am one crazy-assed Arab, am I not?"

  "Yes, President," the assembled Revolting Command Council said in well-rehearsed unison, "you are one crazy-assed Arab."

  He threw his head back and gave vent to an uproarious peal of mirth. Tears squeezed from the corners of his amused eyes.

  The others joined in. Some tittered. Others guffawed. But no one refused to join in, though their laughter was not reflected in their eyes. Their eyes, instead, were sick with fear.

  With a final burst of laughter, Maddas Hinsein settled down. He brushed his mustache. His strong chin found his folded hands once more as his elbows took their usual position on the table edge. A serious, intent expression settled over his dark, troubled features.

  "I will show them what a crazy ass I am," he said darkly. "Issue the following proclamation through our Propaganda Ministry."

  No one moved. When Maddas Hinsein saw that no hand picked up pen to transcribe his all-important words, he said, "Where is the minister of information?"

  "Dead," he was told.

  "You have shot him."

  Maddas Hinsein peered past the man who last spoke. He saw the twitching knee in the air.

  "He is not dead. He still moves," Maddas pointed out.

  "He is dying."

  "Until he is dead, he is not excused from his patriotic duty. Give him pen and paper."

  The defense minister hastily obeyed, crushing the information minister's oblivious fingers around a pen and slipping a sheet of paper in the other hand. As his leader began to drone on in a monotone, he did not worry about the lack of animation on the dying man's part.

  There was no ink in the pen. Irait had run out of ink in the fifth month of the international blockade, when it had been discovered that ink made an acceptable salad dressing.

  Previously, they had pissed on their salads.

  Chapter 19

  Harold Smith paused at the door and cleared his throat before knocking briskly.

  "Come in," Remo Williams said. Smith entered.

  He found Remo seated cross-legged on a tatami mat in the middle of the bare floor, a half-eaten bowl of rice at one knee. Across the room, a TV set flickered and a world-famous face filled the screen. The rugged face was showing signs of strain, especially under the eyes. The dark pouches hung almost to his chin.

  "This is Don Cooder, BCN anchor reporting live from Abominadad, Irait, reminding you that BCN was first to report from Abominadad, first with an exclusive interview with President Hinsein, and now we're proud to be the first to have an anchor taken hostage. BCN. We're here so you don't have to be."

  "I hate that guy," Remo muttered, lowering the sound with a wave of his remote.

  "He is not very popular," Smith said dryly.

  "He was the jerk who helped that dipshit girl with the neutron bomb-Purple Haze or whatever her name was-get a working core just so he could boost his ratings," Remo said bitterly. "Chiun might still be here if he hadn't stuck his oar in. I hope he rots in Abominadad."

  "Are you feeling any . . . um . . . better?" Smith inquired.

  "Step around and take a look," Remo said. "But I warn you, it's not a pretty sight."

  Coloring, Smith declined the invitation.

  "The FBI laboratory results on the silk scarf came in," he offered.

  "Yeah?" Remo grunted, shifting the mat around to face Smith. He kept one hand draped strategically across his lap.

  "Other than human perspiration odors and other common organic chemical traces, they report no unusual odors attached to the sample."

  "No? Well, their machines must all have broken noses or something, because the thing reeks of her."

  "I smelled nothing when I took the scarf from you," Smith said firmly.

  "Yeah, well, take a whiff of this," Remo said, snapping another scarf from his pocket. He sniffed it once before tossing it to Smith. Smith caught it and distastefully brought it to his pinched face. He sniffed shortly and lowered the cloth.

  "I smell nothing. Absolutely nothing."

  "See a doctor about that cold," Remo said, yanking the scarf back with a sudden jerk. He held it close to his nose, Smith saw. Remo's eyes reminded him of his own daughter's, back in the terrible days before she kicked her heroin habit. He shuddered inwardly at the smothering memory.

  Smith adjusted his tie.

  "I have other news."

  "You find her?"

  "No. But I know who she is now."

  "She's Kali."

  "Her name is Kimberly Baynes. There has been a nationwide APB out for her for nearly a month. It is believed she was abducted by a sex maniac who slew her grandmother and a next-door neighbor."

  "Tells us nothing," Remo said dismissively.

  "On the contrary, Remo, Kimberly Baynes is the only surviving offspring of the late president of Just Folks Airlines, A. H. Baynes III."

  "Another dynasty falls," Remo said bitterly.

  "I cannot pretend to understand it, but obviously the girl retains some memories of the Thuggee cult to which her family belonged."

  "What's the big deal? If you had been forced to join a cult that strangled travelers for their wallets, it would leave an impression even on you."

  "Kimberly," Smith said, "was only eight when she was liberated from the cult. That would make her thirteen now."

  Remo snorted. "Thirteen? She was twenty if she was a day."

  "Records do not lie. She is thirteen."

  "She had the body of a twenty-year-old. She was twenty. Maybe nineteen. I'm not into kiddie humping, Smith."

  "I am not suggesting you are. What I am trying to say is this. Kimberly did not have four arms. I have seen her school medical records. They are very clear on this point."

  "I told you-"

  Smith's hand shot up.

  "Let me finish, please," he said. "I have checked with the Watergate Hotel. The woman they describe as Kimberly Baynes-she used that name when she registered -was clearly more than thirteen years old. That leads to only one conclusion. That this woman is impersonating the abducted girl for some unfathomable reason."

  "It fits. So who is she?"

  "I have no idea. An FBI forensics team has checked her room for fingerprints. They are not on record. But I do have something to show you."

  "Yeah, what?"

  "This," Smith said, holding out a sheet of fax paper. Remo took it.

  "That's her," Remo said, looking at a charcoal sketch of the woman he knew as Kimberly. His dark eyes lingered on the image.

  "You are certain?"

  Remo nodded. "Where'd you get this?" he asked, returning the sheet.

  "FBI artist's sketch," Smith said, folding the sheet and returning it to an inner pocket. "It was constructed after extensive interviews with the hotel staff."

  "Oh," Remo said in a disappointed voice. "So that's it? You came here just to tell me you have zip?"

  "No, I've come to suggest that in your current state, it might be better if you do not prowl the Folcroft corridors. The staff are becoming nervous and inquisitive. I would like to suggest you return home."

  "No chance. He's just waiting for me."<
br />
  "I cannot understand this belief of yours, Remo. The Master of Sinanju is deceased. The dead do not trouble the living."

  "Tell that to Chiun."

  "I wonder if this is not merely a manifestation of your extreme grief. Your relationship with Chiun was a combative one. Are you certain you are not projecting your grief onto an empty house?"

  Remo stood up, his lower legs lifting his body with a scissors motion. Smith averted his eyes with embarrassment.

  "Why are you asking me all these idiot questions instead of doing your job?"

  "I am doing my job. The security of CURE depends on the inner circle of agents--you and I, as matters now stand-being effective."

  "Don't sweat my end. Find Kimberly before she starts this Caldron of Blood she warned me about."

  Smith's eyes flicked to the silent TV screen.

  "Is that why you are monitoring the Iraiti situation?"

  "Know any other global tinderboxes?" Remo growled.

  "Yes. Cambodia. Russia. And China. Among others."

  "None of which are steamed up about a missing ambassador. What's Washington planning, by the way?"

  "I do not know." Smith turned to go. "I will inform you once my computers have traced this Kimberly Baynes impostor. In the meantime, I would ask that you remain in this room as much as possible."

  "Count on it," Remo snapped, dropping back into his lotus position. He tapped the remote. The sound came up.

  "Day Four," the voice of Don Cooder intoned. "As I greet this new day, possibly the first of many that might be as countless as the desert sands themselves, I ask myself this one question: What would Walter Cronkite do in a situation like this? . . ."

  "He'd say 'Get a life,' " Remo told the unresponsive TV screen as the door silently closed after a troubled Harold Smith.

  Chapter 20

  Kimberly Baynes drove as deep into occupied Kuran as the Humvee's gas tank would allow. When it coasted, grumbling and sputtering, to a stop, she shouldered her bag and began walking.

  She came upon a detachment of uniformed Iraiti troops performing "security operations" in an outpost town.

  Security operations in this case consisted of dismantling the smaller buildings and loading them onto trucks as the weeping women and children watched helplessly.

  The larger buildings were being systematically dynamited. But only because they would not fit into the sand-painted military trucks. They jackhammered the street signs loose and tossed them in with the dismantled houses. Even the asphalt sidewalks were chewed into hot black chunks and thrown in.

  Kimberly walked up to the nearest Iraiti soldier and said, "I surrender."

  The Iraiti soldier turned, saw Kimberly's U.S. uniform, and shouted over to his commanding officer in incomprehensible Arabic.

  "I surrender," Kimberly repeated. "Take me to Abominadad. I know the secret U.S. plan to retake Kuran."

  The two men exchanged glances. Their guns came up. In Arabic they called for more men.

  After virtually every Iraiti soldier had surrounded her-some five in all-Kimberly realized that none of them spoke or understood English.

  One touched her pale cheek curiously. He pushed Kimberly's head upright. When he withdrew his dirty fingers, it tilted left again. They laughed uproariously.

  "They don't speak English," Kimberly muttered nervously. "What do I do, O Kali?"

  Go with them.

  Worry quirking her lips and violet eyes, Kimberly Baynes allowed herself to be taken to one of the half-standing large buildings, even though she was certain they were only going to gang-rape her.

  Her suspicions were confirmed when they stacked their rifles in a corner and started unbuckling their belts.

  One of them had her bag. He pulled out a long yellow silk scarf.

  "What do I do? What do I do?" Kimberly whispered.

  Show them your tits.

  "Here," Kimberly said, reaching for the scarf. "Let me show you how this works."

  The soldier let her loop the harmless silk around his throat. The others laughed, anticipating a long afternoon with the unsuspecting blond American servicewoman.

  "Ready?" Kimberly asked.

  Without waiting for an answer, she pulled the ends of the scarf in opposite directions. The fabric made his throat muscles balloon around it. His face went scarlet. The Iraiti gurgled his horror. His tongue slid from his gagging, yawning mouth.

  The Iraitis laughed, thinking their fellow soldier was having sport. The girl was very slim. She did not look strong at all. Besides, she was a female, and every Arab man knew how weak the other sex was.

  When his face turned blue, they changed their minds. They converged on the woman, who oddly enough let their comrade fall into a swoon and began unbuttoning her blouse to expose her prodigious brassiere.

  It was the type that fastened in the front. She unhooked it. The Iraiti eyes brightened in anticipation of the pale breasts that were about to be revealed.

  Their anticipation turned to horror when two long crablike arms unfolded themselves, snapping a silken scarf between them with nervous, predatory tugs.

  As one, they took a step back.

  By then it was too late. The unclean heathen thing leapt for them, and they all fell to the floor in a gang throttle in which everyone participated, but only one person survived.

  Kimberly Baynes emerged from the damaged building modestly buttoning up her uniform blouse and commandeered one of the sand-colored trucks.

  She drove due north.

  Somewhere, there would be an Iraiti detachment that spoke English. And she would find it.

  Not that Kali complained about the delay. She was enjoying the ride immensely.

  "Did I do better that time?" Kimberly asked.

  They writhed magnificently, Kali told her.

  Chapter 21

  The house was dark.

  Remo had walked all the way from Folcroft. He had not started out for the house. He had never expected to set foot in it. Ever again. Too many memories, as he had explained to Smith.

  What had happened was that he had started to feel the call in his blood. The call of Kali. He had first dragged out a silken scarf to satisfy his craving. But it had only made him yearn for her more.

  Jerking every scarf from his pockets, he threw them against the walls.

  "You don't own me!" he cried. "You'll never own me."

  The scarves slipped into little piles like limp discarded hand puppets'-which was exactly how Remo felt inside his soul. Limp. Helpless. Cast off.

  A cold shower had not helped, so he had stepped out into the hot night to walk, wearing underwear three sizes too small so his uncontrollable tumescence wouldn't be too obvious.

  The heat only fired his blood. So he walked.

  And in time he found himself on the tree-lined residential street that lay snug under the hills of the Folcroft Golf Course, where he had been living in a Tudor-style house. Remo had purchased it on recommendation from Chiun, only to learn later that he had been tricked into becoming Harold Smith's neighbor. For Smith owned an adjoining home. The Master of Sinanju had explained this away with a flowery platitude about the royal assassin needing to dwell close to the seat of power.

  Remo's was a modest house. Nothing fancy. Not even the white picket fence he had once dreamed he'd have. It wasn't a white-picket-fence kind of neighborhood.

  As he passed through the zones of the pale yellow streetlight illumination-nightfall had come to Rye, New York-Remo's eyes went to the dark blank windows.

  It looked empty, that house. As empty as Remo Williams felt.

  He walked past it, his eyes glued to the windows, half-hoping, half-fearing to see a familiar wrinkled face in a window. He had lived there less than two years-an absurdly small segment of his total life, but such an overwhelming wave of nostalgia washed over him that Remo abruptly turned up the walk.

  It was, he thought, as if he were drawn to the place.

  At the door, Remo dug around in his pocke
ts. Then he recalled that he had thrown the house key away in Tacomaor was it Chicago?

  The Yale lock cylinder resembled a brass medallion in the painted wood. Remo simply set his hard fingers around the edges. He twisted.

  Slowly the lock turned like a flush dial. Wood and metal squealed, settling into a long low groan of protest. A panel split under the powerful force exerted by his inexorable fingers.

  Wounded and beaten, the door fell open.

  Remo stepped over the theshold, flicking a light switch that produced no light.

  "Smith," Remo muttered. "Cut the electricity to save two cents." Remo grunted. At least Smith was consistent.

  He went from room to room, his visual purple adjusted to the darkness. In the bare living room the big-screen TV lay idle, a video recorder and several stacks of tapes resting atop it. Chiun's British soaps. His latest passion.

  No, Remo thought sadly, last passion.

  Remo's bedroom was a simple room with a reed mat. Remo glanced over it without feeling or connection. It had only been a place to sleep. He skipped Chiun's bedroom and went to the kitchen with its simple dining table and long rows of cabinets. He opened them, touching the sacks and canisters of uncooked rice of all varieties.

  It was here, Remo thought morosely, that he and Chiun had enjoyed their best times together. Cooking and eating.

  And arguing. Always arguing. It had become a ritual with them. And now he missed it terribly.

  Remo left the kitchen, going to the storage room.

  And he knew then what had impelled him to return.

  Chiun's steamer trunks. Fourteen oversize lacquered trunks in every ungodly color imaginable. Emblazoned with dragons, phoenixes, salamanders, and other exotic creatures. They had been a pain in the ass to truck around during their vagabond days. But Remo would carry them to the moon and back for another combative afternoon with Chiun, listening to his carping and eating steaming bowlfuls of pure Javonica rice.

  Dropping to his knees, he threw open a lid at random. Remo was not surprised to see that it contained an assortment of junk-restaurant giveaway toothpicks in colored cellophane, swizzle sticks, coasters, towels emblazoned with the crests of scores of hotels from around the world. Remo closed it, feeling sad. All this stuff carefully collected. And for what?