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  The gathered crowd followed Sheik Fareem in applause.

  Remo clapped too, as did Chiun next to him.

  Fareem leaned toward Remo and said, "The finest light cavalry in the world. And now, only one hundred of them are left."

  Remo saw Zantos, the green-eyed girl, on the other side of the platform and nodded to her, but the girl looked away. He felt Chiun tapping his shoulder.

  "Pretend that this is good, Remo," Chiun whispered. "That those two horseback-riding monkeys impress you. It is good manners."

  "You desert me and go over to the enemy, and now you're worried about my manners?" Remo said.

  "Must you always argue with me?" Chiun said, still applauding vigorously.

  Dutifully, Remo put his hands together, clapping softly. He looked around the small platform. Beyond the sheik was Reva Bleem, still wearing a long desert robe. Next to her was a pudgy young Arab with beard and mustache, who looked as if running him through a ringer would produce enough oil to light Tacoma for a week. Prince Abdul. The sheik had introduced his son to Remo and Chiun when they arrived at the platform for the Arabian martial arts display, and the prince had acknowledged the introductions by looking away from them and walking to his seat.

  The sheik's wish for an Arab soldier, Remo thought. Too bad. Prince Abdul looked as if he would be more at home at the baccarat table in the MGM Grand than on a horse.

  Standing behind the sheik, leaning over, whispering in his ear, was Ganulle, his advisor. He was a rat-faced man with a long, pointed nose that he kept aimed in Remo's direction.

  Suddenly, over a large sand dune, came a dozen men on horseback, and Ganulle leaned back from the sheik as the ruler concentrated on the riders. They wore the red and brown robes that signified they were of the Hamidi tribe. Shouting war chants as they rode, waving

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  their swords over their head, they came down the side of the dune, their Arabian stallions plunging forward, not leaning back on the hills the way American cow ponies would, but using the hills to create even greater speed and forward momentum. The entire village of 500 people cheered their arrival, and their full-throated cheers overwhelmed the war cries of the horsemen. As they reached the flat table of desert in front of the reviewing stand, half the soldiers freed their feet from their stirrups, then rose up and stood on the horses' saddles, seemingly oblivious to the need to balance themselves, their swords still flashing hi the sun as they swung them over their heads. The other six riders released one foot from their stirrups, then hooked their free legs around their saddle horns. Then they fell backward until they were riding upside down, their heads dangerously close to the flashing hooves of the giant stallions. Easily, they transferred their swords to their left hands and kept swinging and slashing at air, eighteen inches above the ground.

  A great maneuver if they were fighting Munchkins, Remo thought to himself.

  The soldiers standing on the saddles jumped into the air and came back down in a seated position on the horses' rumps, behind the saddles, while the other horsemen executed a tricky maneuver by passing under the bellies of the horses and coming up standing in a single stirrup on the far side of the stallions.

  All twelve reached the far end of the level clearing. At full speed, the horses turned, and the men came riding back, side by side, two by two. In each pair of horses galloping shoulder to shoulder, the two riders moved up out of their stirrups and switched from one horse to the other. Then they turned neatly in their saddles, and as the horses galloped up over the dune and out of sight, the twelve horsemen were facing backward in their saddles, waving their swords over their heads in a farewell salute.

  The sheik leaned toward Remo.

  "Do you ride?" he asked.

  "No. But I can."

  "Like that?" asked the sheik.

  "Only with practice," Remo said. "They're good."

  Sheik Fareem nodded. "Once all our men could ride that way. They were feared from Persia to Libya. But now, no more. There are very few left." Remo heard the tone of regret and sorrow in his voice, and he found himself feeling a tinge of pity for the sheik. The Arab's world was vanishing, swallowed up by the twentieth century, and he didn't like it, and Remo understood how he felt. Fareem's world might be duty and barren and uncomfortable, but it was his. It was the devil he knew, and he preferred it to the devil he didn't know. That was his right.

  But he was wrong in trying to impose his devil on everybody else in the world. Fareem could choose to live out here in this sandbox forever, Remo thought, but he had no right to try to make everyone else's world into a sandbox. And that was why Remo would find that rapid-breeder bacterium when it arrived and bring it back to Harold Smith.

  Whether Chiun liked it or not.

  Remo leaned over to Chiun and nodded toward the last of the horsemen, who was vanishing over the crest of the dune.

  "What do you think, Little Father?" Remo asked.

  "The Koreans are very good horsemen."

  "These aren't Koreans."

  "I know they are not Koreans. I am just telling you that the Koreans are very good horsemen. We introduced horses into Japan. Did you know that?"

  "I didn't, but I'm sure I'm going to find out all about it now."

  "No, you won't," Chiun said, shaking his head. "I am finished telling you things that you do not appreciate or understand."

  "We've got to talk," Remo said.

  "About what?"

  "About this whole thing. You and I just can't go

  tangling with each other because of some damned oil-eating bug."

  "That's what am talking about," Chiun said.

  "Huh?"

  "Really, Remo, you are hopeless. What do you think would happen if you went into the capital city and told them that Sheik Fareem was going to destroy the country's oil supply?"

  "I think they'd send the army back here to wipe him out."

  "Exactly. And you would march with them?"

  "I don't generañy work with groups," Remo said.

  "Ahh, but you could," Chiun said. "You could lead them. And I could lead the sheik's men. We Koreans know all about horses. And we could let them fight, you and I, and we would not have to."

  "Why don't you just stay with me, let's get the bacterium and get the hell out of here?" asked Remo.

  "Because I have a contract. It is older than my contract with Smith and takes precedence over it I have to honor it."

  "Let's think about it," Remo said.

  Talking to Chiun, he noticed six men busy burying three posts into the sand twenty-five feet in front of the reviewing stand. The posts were padded, covered with cloth, and after their triangular bases were buried, they stood six feet high. They were spaced eight feet apart in a line and reminded Remo of striking dummies he had often seen in karate centers.

  This would be it, Remo thought. Because the girl, Zantos, had told him that there would be an attempt on his life, he had been on guard all day. But the sword-flashing displays and the rodeo riding had contained no threats to him. But these posts, obviously some kind of target and so conveniently set up in front of him, would provide the frilling attempt.

  He glanced over toward the sheik and saw Ganulle looking at him sharply. The pinch-faced Arab smiled at him condescendingly; it was a smile that told Remo

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  that Ganulle thought he knew something that Remo didn't.

  The try would come now.

  Did Chiun know about it?

  Would Chiun care?

  Were they now really enemies? He and Chiun on opposing sides. Did that mean that he could die and Chiun would not care?

  He wondered about that and leaned over to Chiun and said softly, "Little Father, I..."

  "Shhhh," Chiun hissed. "I want to watch my new army."

  Remo sighed and shook his head. To hell with it.

  Nine horsemen galloped into the clearing from the far end. They massed down there, a hundred yards away, then wheeled as a group and began
galloping toward the reviewing stand. In their right hands, they held six-foot-long lances; their left hands bunched the horses' reins, controlling them expertly as they raced across the powdery white sand.

  Twenty yards from the three target dummies, they lowered their right hands, and as the horses pulled abreast of the dummies, with the reviewing stand as the backdrop, the horsemen flung their spears in an unusual underhand motion.

  Remo could hear the thunk, thunk, thunk of lance after lance smashing into the dummies. And then one lance came over the top of the dummies, flashing toward the high-backed seat in which Remo sat, flashing toward his chest.

  Remo kept his hands at his sides.

  It was up to Chiun.

  It all seemed to pass in slow motion. He could see the lance moving toward his chest. In the bright Arabian sun, he could see the steel tip shining and glinting. The spear was revolving on its long axis, much like a bullet fired through a rifled barrel, rotating for stability. That was the reason for the underhand throw, to give the spear that rotation.

  The tip had almost touched him when, still in slow

  motion, he saw a long-nailed yellow hand move out in front of his chest and slowly, ever so slowly, close tightly around the spear. Its tip stopped just short of touching Remo's skin.

  "You fool," Remo heard Chiun snarl.

  The riders had wheeled around in front of the reviewing stand. The sheik was on his feet.

  "Stop that man," he shouted, pointing to one of the riders, but before anyone could move, Chiun was standing, and the spear, now turned around in his hand, was whistling back over the dummies. It struck one of the horsemen square in the chest. Involuntarily, his hands flew to the lance, but as the man's body turned, Remo saw that the spear had gone all the way through it.

  Slowly, the rider slipped to one side and then fell from his horse. The animal, trained for war, galloped on as his dead rider lay motionless in the sand.

  Remo turned toward Sheik Fareem. He was staring at the dead horseman. Behind him, Ganulle stood, shocked, his mouth open. He looked toward Remo, and Remo winked at him.

  Chiun stood in front of Remo. In Korean, he barked, "And you were going to let that stick impale you just to see if I would do anything about it?"

  "Naaah, it wasn't like that," Remo lied. "I would have taken care of it."

  "You are an idiot," Chiun said, "and an ingrate and white, but you are my son hi Sinanju. Do you think I would let anything be done to you by somebody who smells like sheep?"

  "Then let's get the bacterium and get out of here," Remo said.

  Chiun shook his head.

  "No," Remo said. "I know. You've got a contract."

  Chiun nodded.

  But Remo felt good. He turned around and saw the young green-eyed woman, Zantos, looking at him. He met her eyes only briefly and nodded slightly.

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  Remo had not heard a sound, but there was Chiun, standing inside his tent.

  "It is done," Chiun said.

  "What is?"

  "I have spoken to Sheik Fareem. He agrees. You will go to the capital city and bring back their army. I will train his. We will fight here, our two armies, as in the olden times, for the right to destroy this country's oil."

  "I guess this is the best we can hope for," Remo said, and Chiun nodded.

  "You will leave right away?"

  "I suppose so," Remo said. "You're not just waiting for me to turn my back and then dump that stuff in the oil, are you?"

  "No. The sheik is bound by his word. He looks forward to a war. And he looks forward to my training his son to be a leader."

  Remo said, "It's going to be funny, leading an army against you."

  "Any army you lead will be funny," Chiun said.

  Remo let it slide. "You know who was behind that spear-throwing today?"

  "Yes."

  "ItwasGanulle."

  "Why do you tell me that when I already told you I know who it was?"

  "I just wanted to be sure you knew," Remo said. "I want you to be careful. Did you tell the sheik it was him?"

  "No," said Chiun. "It is better for assassins when their emperors know nothing. Why do you think he ordered you killed?"

  "I don't know," Remo said. "Maybe because I'm opposed to the sheik's plans?"

  Chiun shook his head. "No, it is not that."

  "Keep an eye on him," Remo said.

  "I will."

  "We can't let him destroy that oil," Reva Bleem

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  said. She was sitting in the rear seat of her Rolls. Remo had ignored her open-door invitation and sat in the front next to Oscar, the thick-necked chauffeur.

  "You should have thought of that before you let your lunatic brother play in that factory and start shipping that bacterium around."

  "I know," she said. "I wish I knew where it was, why it isn't here yet. But that damned Wardley might have sent it by aborigine runner. We've got to stop it from being used. My Polypussides isn't ready yet."

  "No. We've got to get that tank price down and save us all from becoming dwarfs."

  "Right," she said.

  "And when we do that," Remo said, "what's to stop you from cooking up another batch of germs to stick in the oil supply?"

  Reva looked at him, and the chill she felt looking into his night-black eyes was mirrored on her face.

  "I won't have to," she said quickly. "By the time I'm ready, my price will be competitive. My prices will go down. Synthetics always do. Oil prices will go up. Natural resource prices also always go up. We'll be even."

  "And then you and the oil companies together will march the prices even higher?"

  "Right," she agreed. "But through the free marketplace. High prices are only bad when they're caused by governments. Not when they're caused by free market greed." She leaned forward and put her hand on Remo's shoulder. "But we've got to stop them now. That means it's up to you."

  "I'll do my duty," Remo said.

  "Just who it it you're working for?" she asked.

  "Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies."

  "Can you handle the old man and his army?"

  "I don't know. It depends on how good this Hamidi army is," Remo said.

  "It's considered the best in this part of the world," she said, and Remo said, "That's not saying much."

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  The Star in the Center of the Flower of the East Military Base was located three miles outside the capital city of Nehmad. Four uniformed Arabian soldiers stood in a guard shack located inside the main gate.

  Oscar did not bother to slow down, and none of the guards signaled to the Rolls Royce.

  "Hold it," Remo said to the driver, and the Rolls stopped. If he was going to lead this army into battle, he'd better find out just what kind of army it was. Remo walked into the guard shack and saw that the four guards were playing dominoes.

  None of them looked toward him, so he called out, "Is anybody here alive?"

  One of the soldiers glanced over. "Who are you?"

  "Why didn't you ask me that when I just rolled by in my Rolls Royce?"

  "I thought you were an officer."

  "In a Rolls Royce?"

  "All our officers drive Rolls Royces."

  "With chauffeurs?"

  "All with chauffeurs. I am told that is why Allah made sergeants. Who are you?"

  "George Armstrong Custer."

  "You will have to sign our visitor list," the soldier said, making a triumphant move from the little stack of dominoes standing on edge before him.

  Remo saw the visitors' book on a stand inside the door. He picked up the pen. It didn't work. He looked around for another pen, but there wasn't any. He looked inside the book. The last visitor had signed in three years earlier, almost to the day.

  It was going to be great leading this army into war, Remo thought.

  Unquestioned, unchallenged, unchecked, the Rolls Royce continued down the main road of the camp toward a cluster of large buildings, built around an It
alianate central fountain.

  Off to the right, Remo saw row after row of parked jet fighters. To the left, he saw tanks, hundreds of tanks, parked in so many neat columns that the area

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  looked like the parking lot of a suburban shopping mall.

  If this was typical, Remo thought, it was no wonder the Israelis always won the wars. One Israeli commando—check that, one reasonably bright Israeli high school student—could march in here at high noon with a pair of pliers and a wire cutter and disable the entire Hamidi army and air force.

  There were two dozen Rolls Royces parked in front of the largest of the buildings. Two uniformed Hamidi guards carrying rifles stood at the top of the stairs, in front of the closed door. Remo told Reva Bleem to wait for him, then walked up the steps. He brushed by the two soldiers, opened the door, and went inside. Neither of them had tried to stop him.

  The inside of the command building looked like the lobby of a first-class London hotel. There were potted palms around the inside, clustered at the ends of long brocaded couches and overstuffed chairs. Persian rugs covered every square inch of floor. A large fan rotated overhead, quietly and uselessly, because the area was chilled down into the low s by central air conditioning.

  At the head of the wide steps was a pair of double doors. Printed on them in gold was "The Office of the Commanding General." The gold was sprinkled with chips of multicolored stones. Spotlights, with revolving filters over them, played on the door, and the cut stones glinted back light, like an overhead disco globe.

  In equally large letters under the office name was the name of the commanding general: Jonathan Went-worth Bull.

  Remo found the commanding general in an inner office, past six bosomy American secretaries whose Civil Service specialty seemed to be: Doing Nails GS-14.

  The general was wearing designer jeans and hand-tooled brown boots with white stitching on them. He wore a large dark brown Stetson with feathers stuck into the band, and his white shirt was embroidered with red dragons.