Blood Lust td-85 Read online

"They were the flower of Iraiti manhood, how can this be?"

  "They were strangled, Precious Leader. Yellow silk knots about their strong Arab necks."

  "And my family? Of course they have escaped while their noble defenders held their ground, spilling their very red martyrs' blood."

  The silence brought Maddas Hinsein up from his couch. He yanked the abayuh hood from his face. Striding over to the door, he roared through it.

  "I have asked a question!"

  "I am sorry, Precious Leader. Your family is . . . dead."

  Maddas' soulful eyes went round.

  "My wife too?"

  "I am so sorry," the aide sobbed through the wood.

  "And her brothers, my brothers-in-law?"

  "Gone," he choked. "All gone. It is a day of mourning. But fear not, the Americans will pay. We will scorch the earth under their heathen feet. The blood of your martyred family will sear their lungs. You have only to give the word and we will repay the aggressors in blood."

  But Maddas Hinsein wasn't listening to his aide's grief-twisted voice.

  He was feeling a coldness settle into his stomach and lungs.

  "They want war," he said huskily. "The crazy Americans are trying to force me to attack. They must be insane."

  Chapter 26

  The Military Airlift Command C-5 Galaxy that carried Remo Williams from McGuire Air Force Base also carried a single cabled-down M-IA1 Abrams tank, the Army's latest. It was one of the last to be shipped in support of Operation Sand Blast.

  The bulky vehicle left little room for Remo in back. But he insisted on riding in the cavernous cargo bay, sitting on a tatami mat so he wouldn't get engine oil on his fine silk kimono, which he had had altered to fit him by a dumbstruck tailor.

  Remo sat in a lotus position, the drumming of the Galaxy's turboprop engines making everything in the cargo bay vibrate with soul-deadening monotony.

  Early in the flight, Remo had found the vibration and absorbed it until his body no longer vibrated in sympathy with the great propellers. Only the neat edges of his mat did.

  The flight was long and boring. Remo sat comfortably, the kimono fabric stretched tight over his lap. It hid his persistent erection.

  Even though he had left most of the yellow scarves that had belonged to Kimberly Baynes-or whoever she was-behind at Folcroft, Remo couldn't get her out of his mind.

  What would happen when they met again? He wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman, but not in a good way. He lusted for her. Yet he hated her, with her many arms and twisted neck. And most of all he hated the thing that animated her. For Remo understood that Kimberly had died. Like a ghoulish puppet, Kali made her live again. And Remo would have to finish the job. If he could.

  In the noisy back of the C-5, he closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. It helped push out the memories-of her burning-hot, sensual hands, her eager red mouth, her insatiable sexual appetite. Remo had feasted on sex while in her arms, and he knew as long as they both lived he could never rest until he returned to that feast-or destroyed the table.

  But it made him wonder. Would he lose Remo Williams at the feast? And would the spark deep within him that was Shiva the Destroyer consume all that was his identity?

  Remo shuddered. He had never felt so alone.

  Closing his eyes, he slept sitting up.

  And in sleep, he dreamed.

  Remo dreamed of feminine hands with canary-yellow nails. The hands surrounded him. First they caressed. Then they pinched at his soft tissues between caresses. Remo lay on a bed, his eyes closed. The pinching grew spiteful. The caresses dwindled. But Remo had already succumbed to the latter.

  As he lay helpless, the biting fingers began plucking the meat off his bones. Remo opened his eyes in his dream and saw that below the waist he was a skeletonized collection of gleaming red bones. He screamed.

  And Kimberly Baynes, her face painted black, snapped one of his bloody femurs in two and fell to sucking out the sweet yellowish marrow.

  The changing pitch of the C-5's engines saved Remo from his nightmare. He awoke drenched in sweat under the unfamiliar feel of silk.

  The plane was descending in a long gliding approach. The whine of the dropping landing gear pierced his drowsy ears.

  Remo remained in his lotus position until he felt the sudden bark and bump of the fat tires hit, as they bounced and then touched down. Momentum dying, the plane rolled to a slow stop.

  Remo stood up. He faced the rear gate. The hydraulics began to toil, dropping the gate and admitting a hot blast of desert air.

  When the gate had settled into a kind of ramp, Remo stepped out into the blazing sun.

  A cluster of people stood awaiting him. Spit-and-polish Arabian soldiers who looked dressed for a parade and civilians in flowing white thobes.

  And standing in front of them, his knotted brown hands clasped before the familiar red-and-brown robes of his clan, stood Sheik Abdul Hamid Fareem, ruler of Hamidi Arabia. Upon recognizing Remo, his long dour face broke into a pleased smile, his tufted chin dropping.

  Remo stepped forward with the assured pride of a Master of Sinanju. This was his first encounter with a head of state as Reigning Master and he wanted to make a good impression. He tried to remember the proper Arabic words of greeting. It had been so many years since he and Chiun had first met the sheik. Now, what was the word for "hello"? Oh, yeah.

  Remo stopped only a foot in front of the sheik. Giving a short bow, he said, "Shalom."

  The sheik started. All around, Arabic voices muttered darkly. A few surreptitious hands pointed down to the impolite bulge at the white infidel's midsection.

  The sheik forced his frozen smile to stay fixed on his weathered old face.

  "Ahlan Wusahlan," he said. "This means 'welcome.' "

  "I knew that," Remo lied. "Inshallah to you too." He remembered Arabs were always salting their sentences with inshallah. You couldn't go wrong with inshallah.

  "Perhaps it would be better to speak English," Sheik Fareem ventured.

  "Good idea," Remo said, wondering if he had gotten "hello" right.

  "Am I to understand that you carry on the affairs of the House of Sinanju now that the Master of Sinanju known as Chiun no longer walks the earth?"

  "I have that honor," Remo said gravely. He decided to keep his answers short so he sounded more like a Master of Sinanju. Inside, he was itching to cut through the B.S. But he was Master now.

  "The bond that binds the House of Hamidi to the House of Sinanju is too strong to be broken by death," the sheik intoned. "Come, let us walk together."

  Just in time, Remo remembered that it was Hamidi custom for men to hold hands when conversing.

  The sheik reached out for Remo's hand. Remo quickly stuffed his hands into his sleeves. They walked. The sheik's entourage trailed silently.

  Sheik Fareem led him to a nearby striped tent beside which two sleek Arabian horses stood tethered, walking very close. That was another thing about Arabs Remo didn't like. They did all their talking practically nose to nose.

  Remo only wished his breath didn't smell like liver and garlic mixed with Turkish tobacco.

  They entered the tent, the others remaining respectfully outside. Taking places on a Persian rug, they faced one another. Remo declined an offered plate of sheep's eyes, as well as a bubble pipe. The sheik indulged in the latter quietly for some moments before he resumed speaking.

  "You still serve America?" he inquired.

  "Yes."

  "We would pay more," he suggested, fingering his beard.

  Remo was no more interested in working for Hamidi Arabia than he wanted to eat sand, but Chiun had always cautioned him never to alienate a potential client. Remo might have the luxury of declining the sheik's offer, but one of Remo's successors might not be so fortunate.

  In his mind he said, You old slave trader. Sinanju is for hire, not for sale.

  Aloud he said, "This is possible. My term of contract with America will end soon."


  "We would pay much for the head of the Arab traitor Maddas Hinsein," the sheik suggested. "He who dares call himself the Scimitar of the Arabs." Fareem spat noisily in the sand. "We call him Ayb al-Arab-the Shame of the Arabs-a renegade who hides behind women and children rather than face the consequences of his foul overreaching appetites."

  "If I come into possession," Remo said with a slight smile, "I might just make you a present of it."

  The sheik took a quick hit on his pipe, the corners of his withered lips twitching. Remo realized he was trying to mask a grin of amusement.

  "You have come here at the behest of the U.S. government," Fareem resumed, "an emissary of which told me to expect you. How may I repay the debt between Hamidi and Sinanju?"

  "I need to get into Kuran. And from there into Irait."

  "Death awaits any American who ventures into either place."

  "I bring death," Remo told him. "I do not accept it from others."

  The sheik nodded. "Well spoken. You are a true son of your teacher. The House is in good hands."

  "Thank you," Remo said simply, feeling his heart swell with pride lust as his stomach knotted in a sharp pang of grief. If only Chiun were here to hear the sheik's words.

  "I will personally ride with you to the frontier and deliver you into the hands of the Kurani resistance. Would this serve your needs?"

  Remo nodded. "It would."

  "Then let us depart," the sheik said, laying aside his pipe. "Two horses await."

  They stood up.

  "Have you learned to ride a horse since you sojourned here last?" the sheik inquired.

  "Yes."

  A twinkle of pleasure came into the old sheik's wizened eyes.

  "Good. A man who cannot ride is not much of a man."

  "That's what they told me in Outer Mongolia, where I learned horsemanship."

  Sheik Abdul Hamid Fareem frowned in the shadow of his ceremonial headdress. "They do not possess sound horseflesh in Outer Mongolia," he spat. "Only runt ponies."

  "A horse is a horse," Remo said, adding under his breath, "Of course, of course."

  The sheik gave the tent flap an impatient jerk, stooping as he stepped out. Remo followed.

  "You will ride one of these beauties," the sheik said with pride, patting the flank of one white horse, who flared his pink nostrils in recognition. "They are the finest steeds in all Araby-which of course means the world. Are you man enough?"

  Instead of answering, Remo mounted with a smooth, continuous motion that brought a slight nod of the Arab chief's ghurta.

  The sheik took to his own saddle. He turned his steed around and slapped it with his reins. The horse plunged away.

  Remo followed suit. They rode off into the desert, two warriors carrying on their shoulders the weight of thousands of years of tradition and glory.

  Chapter 27

  Maddas Hinsein refused to come out of his office.

  All day long, the nervous aides kept coming.

  "Precious Leader, the UN have announced a new resolution."

  "I do not care. They make resolutions because they are afraid to fight."

  "This resolution has condemned the entire Irait command structure to be hanged for war crimes."

  "Let them declare war if they wish to hang me."

  "Precious Leader, there is no word from our ambassador in Washington. It is the third day."

  "Have the defector's family hanged as collaborators."

  "Precious Leader, the UN have decreed more sanctions against Irait unless Kuran is immediately relinquished and Reverend Jackman is allowed his freedom."

  This required thought. Maddas Hinsein pulled his abayuh around himself tightly. It always helped him to think.

  "We can defeat their tricks easily," he said at last. "I hereby decree that Irait and Kuran have merged into a single entity. We are henceforth to be known as Iran, and these cowardly resolutions no longer apply to us."

  "But, Precious Leader," he was told, "there already exists an Iran."

  "Who are our mortal enemies," Maddas spat. "Let them eat the UN sanctions."

  The aide had no answer to that. He went away. Maddas grinned, pleased with himself. Throughout his career, he had always found a way around the laws of the civilized world. Why hadn't he thought of this before? Yes, if there were two Irans, they could not level sanctions against one without leveling them at the other. It was a diplomatic masterstroke, almost as brilliant as the mustache decree. The world could no more denigrate him as an ignorant, untraveled Arab again.

  Then came the news that even Maddas Hinsein could not ignore.

  "Precious Leader."

  "What!"

  "Word has just come from the villa of your mistress, Yasmini. It was attacked. The guards lie strangled, the contents of their bowels heavy in their pants. It is horrible."

  "They died defending their leader's mistress," Maddas returned stiffly. "Greater love has no Moslem than this."

  "There is good news, Precious Leader."

  "What?"

  "Your mistress, she is safe."

  Maddas stopped his heavy pacing. "Safe?"

  "Yes, the Renaissance Guard must have beaten off the attack with their dying breaths. For when the change of guard entered the villa, they found your mistress still living. Unstrangled. Is this not a glorious day?"

  Maddas Hinsein blinked his moist brown eyes several times, his brutal mouth going slack in the privacy of his veil.

  "Where is she now?" he demanded hoarsely.

  "We have brought her here to the palace, where she is safe, of course. She awaits your pleasure."

  "One moment," Maddas Hinsein said, climbing out of his abayuh. He hastily stuffed it into his briefcase and carried it out of the office. He emerged, his other hand on the pearlhandled pistol dangling in a hip holster.

  "Take me to my beloved Yasmini," he ordered.

  The aide hastened to obey. Two Renaissance Guards fell in behind, at a respectful distance. Respectful, because they knew that President Hinsein was in the habit of shooting on the spot guards who inadvertently stepped on the backs of his boots.

  The aide brought them all to a black door on a lower floor. It opened on one of the fifty-five bedrooms he used in rotation.

  "In here," he said, grinning with pride.

  "How do you know that the woman inside is truly my beloved Yasmini?" Maddas Hinsein asked slowly.

  The aide's grin collapsed. Obviously the possibility was a new one to him.

  "I . . . she . . . that is . . ." The guard steadied his nerve with a deep breath. "When the guard entered the house, she sat quietly, as if awaiting rescue."

  "What has she said?"

  "Nothing. It is obvious she is in shock from her ordeal."

  "One last question," Maddas Hinsein asked, taking out his revolver and jamming it into the aide's Adam's apple. The heavy barrel fixed the man's larynx in place. "What color is her hair?"

  Since his jammed larynx couldn't move, the aide simply shrugged. He hoped it was the correct response. Knowing the color of the President of Irait's mistress's hair was probably one of the punishable-by-death offenses. Like shaving or cultivating a mustache larger than the President's.

  "You did not remove her abayuh?" Maddas asked.

  The head shook in the negative. That was definitely the proper response, he knew.

  The gun discharged and the aide shook all the way to the floor and after.

  "That was your mistake, fool," Maddas Hinsein told the crumpled body.

  Gesturing with his pistol, Maddas turned on his two guards.

  "You and you. Enter and secure the prisoner."

  The guards entered with alacrity. Maddas stepped away. If this was an assassination ploy, they would not emerge, and Maddas would run. If they did, he would have his answer to this puzzling turn of events. For one of Maddas Hinsein's deepest secrets was that he did not have a mistress. The abayuh-clad woman who sometimes sojourned in the suburban villa and sometimes in his ow
n palace was none other than Maddas Hinsein himself. Many were the tricks of survival, he thought grimly.

  The guards emerged. One said, "She is handcuffed, Precious Leader."

  "Did she resist?"

  "No."

  "Stay here," said Maddas Hinsein, stepping in with his pistol leveled, just in case they were co-plotters. It paid to be careful. Every leader of bait in the last sixty years had died in office, and none had died in bed.

  Maddas closed the door behind him.

  The woman wore a black abayuh and veil that covered her face except for a swatch around the eyes. She sat demurely on a great bed, her long lashes lowered, her arms tied before her with heavy rope. Her head was oddly tilted to one side, as if listening.

  Maddas paused to admire the cut of her abayuh. It was very fine. Perhaps he would add it to his collection.

  "You are not my mistress Yasmini," he said, advancing.

  The eyes looked up. They were violet.

  "I know this because I have no mistress named Yasmini."

  "I know," the woman said in perfect Arabic. Her voice was strange, somehow dark with portent.

  "Before I shoot you dead, tell me how you know this."

  "I know this," the woman said, "in the same way I know what fate befell your missing ambassador."

  "What of the defector?"

  "He did not defect. He was murdered. By an American agent. The same one who has been strangling your family and your advisers all over Abominadad."

  "You have arranged to come here just to tell me this?" Maddas asked slowly.

  "No. I have come to stir the Caldron of Blood. And you are my ladle."

  And as Maddas Hinsein pondered those words, the prisoner stood up.

  Maddas cocked his revolver. "I warn you."

  The woman's abayuh began to lift and spread like wings, impelled by what, Maddas Hinsein knew not, but it was done with such eerie deliberateness that he held his fire out of stupefied curiosity.

  The woman seemed to fill the room with her great black abayuh wings, and her shadow, palpable as smoke, fell upon him.

  "Who are you?" Maddas demanded.

  "I am your mistress."

  "I have no mistress," Maddas barked.

  "You do now," the woman said in American-accepted English. And both hands yanked off her veil, exposing tangled blond hair.