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  157

  He sat with his back to Remo, his feet up on the windowsill. A younger man sat in a chair next to the general's desk. On his lap was a high pile of papers in blue and white folders.

  He was reading from one when Remo entered.

  "The next order of business, General, is the RD-Twenty-two A."

  Without turning, the general asked, "What's the RD-Twenty-two A?"

  "You know, General. It's the satellite system to bomb enemy attack planes."

  "For crying out loud, Winslow, I know that. And you know that. Sometimes I think you're never going to be a soldier. Not a real soldier. Do you think these people are going to spend twenty billion dollars on something called an RD-Twenty-two A?"

  "I don't understand, General."

  "It's a satellite killer system. That's what you have to call it. They'll go for twenty billion for a satellite killer system. They won't go for twenty dollars for RD-Twenty-two A. These people don't trust letters and numbers. You have to give things names." General Jonathan Wentworth Bull chuckled. "I remember once ... it was one of my biggest battles. I was trying to sell them one of those things . . . you know, with the long thing sticking out, hice a mosquito's nose . . . what do you call it?"

  "A proboscis, sir?"

  "Not the mosquito's thing. This other thing. Gray metal."

  "A cannon, sir?"

  "Yeah, that's right. A cannon. It used that stuff..."

  "Gunpowder?"

  "Right. Gunpowder. But my brother-in-law who buys these up cheap, see, he enriched the gunpowder with plutonium. When he told me about it, I told him I thought he had something. I mean a surplus World War II Italian whatchamacallit..."

  "Cannon."

  158

  "Yeah, with regular gunpowder and some of that plumonium."

  "Plutonium," the younger man said.

  "Yeah. With some of that ground up in the gunpowder. Well, anyway, my brother-in-law called it the Advanced Artillery Unit Four-B. I told him it wouldn't sell, but he insisted. So I tried to sell it for a year, but they just wouldn't go for an Advanced Artillery Unit Four-B. I tried for a year, but they wouldn't move, so I put the plans away, and two weeks later I came back with them again, but this time I called it a Mobile Nu-cotronic Army Decimator. They bought it the same day. Twelve of them. Turned a cool twenty-four-million-dollar profit on those. I'm telling you, Winslow, if you want to be a success in this army business, you've got to learn how to sell. Forget the alphabet. Forget those numbers. Give things- names that sound good when they make anti-Israeli speeches. They love Mobile Nucotronic Army Decimators. They love satellite killer systems. Screw that A, B, and C shit. They don't sell anything." The general spun in his chair to smile warmly at Winslow and saw Remo in the doorway.

  "Sorry," the general said. "I only see salesmen on Fridays."

  "I'm not a salesman."

  "Oh. Who do you represent?"

  "The spirit of Napoleon."

  "Spirit of Napoleon," General Bull repeated. "I don't know that company. Big Board or American Stock Exchange?"

  "Neither," Remo said.

  General Bull looked at his aide, Winslow, with confusion on his handsome features. Winslow leaned forward and said, "Napoleon, sir. I think it's a kind of cake. A pastry." -

  Bull's face wrinkled more.

  "Pastry?" he said. "Oh. One of those things with that tissue paper crust?"

  "Yes, sir. With the creamy filling between the layers."

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  "And that hard white icing on top," the general said. "With brown swirls in it."

  "Yes, six," Winslow said proudly. "That's a Napoleon."

  General Bull cleared his throat and looked sternly at Remo.

  "Well, son, it's nice of you to stop by, but we already have a pastry chef. Hired him away from Lutèce's. He makes the best chocolate mousse you ever saw. Tomorrow is mousse day. You want to stay around, you can have some. I'll teÜ him to make some more for you."

  "You feed your army chocolate mousse from Lutèce's?" Remo asked.

  "No. Not the army. The officers. The army eats sheep or frogs or something. They like bread. I'm not sure. Something like that. So I don't need you for them, son, and I've got Emile from Lutèce's, and I don't much like Napoleons anyway. So I've got no real use for you here."

  He leaned forward suddenly with heightened interest.

  "You don't make a Charlotte Russe, do you?"

  "No," Remo said.

  "Too bad. That's what's" missing from our menu. A Charlotte Russe. God, I love that puffy whipped cream inside that cardboard tube. Winslow, take a note. Find us a Charlotte Russe chef."

  "Yes, sir," Winslow said.

  The general looked at Remo with an understanding smile. "Listen, you come up with a good Charlotte Russe, and maybe we've got something to talk about, okay?"

  "No," said Remo.

  "What do you mean, no?"

  "I didn't come here to hear you talk about goddamn cake," Remo said.

  General Jonathan Wentworth Bull rose to his feet. He wore a diamond-encrusted belt around his waist, and he hiked it up over his hips.

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  "What do you want to talk about?"

  "War," said Remo.

  Bull seemed confused and looked to Winslow. "War?" he asked.

  "Kind of like fighting, General. Between two armies."

  "Oh, yeah. I know. Like Space Invaders with people. What about war, fella?"

  "General, let's get to understand each other first," Remo said.

  "Okay. I'm very understanding. Everybody says that."

  "Oil is what keeps you alive. You know that, right?"

  "I wouldn't exactly say ..."

  "Yes, you would. All the Hamidi oil pays your salary. It helps them buy all that military junk that your brother-in-law sells. It's oil and oil money, right?"

  "Not exactly. I wouldn't..." General Bull started.

  Remo squeezed his earlobe.

  "Right. Right. Oil. It's oil. Easy on the ear, fella. Want to be a colonel? Just let go of the ear."

  Remo let go of the ear.

  "Okay. Oil keeps you alive. Now somebody wants to destroy the oil."

  "There's an awful lot of it. It'd be hard for them to do that," the general said.

  "They've got a way. I've seen it work," Remo said.

  "It'll destroy our oil?" Bull said.

  "Right."

  "No more money for salaries or new satellite killer systems?"

  "Right," Remo said.

  Bull pulled himself to his full height and hitched up his jeans again. "Winslow," he barked. "Scramble the air force. Get the tank divisions ready."

  "Should I tell them to get the Mobile Nucotronic Army Decimator ready?" Winslow asked.

  "No, don't mess with that crap. Just regular things ... you know, that go bang."

  "Guns?"

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  "Right. How many pilots are around?" the general asked.

  "We gave all the Americans the week ofl, remember?"

  "Oh, phooey," the general said.

  "You don't have Hamidi pilots?" Remo asked.

  "Son, there are no Hamidi pilots. The Hamidis think that planes are things that come with Americans inside them. The Hamidis are old slave traders. They buy people. They buy ambassadors. They've got some ambassador right now running around America on a speaking tour, warning about how officials might come under the pressure of the Israeli lobby."

  "I read about that," Remo said.

  "Sure, you would. That guy gets ten thousand dollars every time he makes that speech."

  "For ten thousand dollars, I'd make that speech too," Winslow said.

  "Well, I wouldn't," General Bull said. "I wouldn't because I believe in truth, justice, and the American way. And the free enterprise system, of course."

  "Dear God," said Remo, shaking his head. "Well, skip the air force. We won't need it anyway."

  "Who we going up against?" Bull asked. "I've heard that there's a chess club in
Nehmad and the members are planning sedition against the government. They're voting next week on printing a leaflet criticizing the king. Are they the ones?"

  "Not them. We're going against Arab soldiers."

  "Come on. There are no Arab soldiers," General Bull said.

  "Old-fashioned kind," Remo said. "Horses, swords, spears."

  "Real swords?" Bull said.

  "Yes," said Remo.

  "They'll be no match for our tanks if we can get some running. Winslow will lead them into battle himself. I'll stay here and man the central command post. Let me know as soon as the fighting's over."

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  "No," Remo said. "Winslow isn't leading. I'm leading. And you're coming with me."

  "Up until now, son, I kind of liked you. But why do I have to go?"

  "It'll make the troops feel good to know their general is there at their side, sharing the risks with them," Remo said.

  "You know what I hate?" Bull said.

  "What?"

  "All that old bullshit tradition in the army. All those traditions, they're general-killers, that's what they are. General-killers."

  "And so am I," Remo said.

  'TU go," Bull said. "You know, I never did ask your name."

  "Patton," Remo said. "George S. Patton."

  "Is that Irish?" Bull asked. "Sounds Irish."

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  Chapter Ten

  General Jonathan Wentworth Bull assembled the entire Hamidi army the next morning at a.m. Two hundred of them showed up.

  "This is it?" Remo asked him. "Two hundred men?"

  "Well, there are more, but it's hard to get messages to them right away. And especially before noon. I think we should have a thousand by this afternoon."

  "We'll need a thousand," Remo said. "Sheik Fareem's got a thousand men."

  "If I get you eleven hundred, can I stay here?" Bull asked.

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Do you want me to squeeze your ear?" Remo asked.

  "You don't have to be belligerent. We're not in a war yet," Bull-said.

  "What can these things do?" Remo said, waving toward the troops, some of whom stood in clusters talking, some of whom lay on the ground napping, in the large open area before the main headquarters building.

  "I think one of them is a ju-jitsu expert. Somebody told me once that a couple of them know how to use knives. They all have those little things that shoot . . . er, rifles. Right, rifles. I think there's a bunch of them who are good at jumping wires and starting parked

  cars.

  164

  "Maybe we can mug the other army," Remo said. He heard a faint tapping sound from the side of the building.

  "Do you hear that noise?" he asked.

  "Yeah. That's our press agent."

  "You've got a press agent for this army?" Remo asked.

  "Of course. How else is the world going to know not to mess with Hamidi Arabia unless we have a press agent working?" Bull said.

  "What's her name?"

  "Actually, she's not really a press agent," Bull said. "She's a journalist. But she's as good as a press agent."

  "Show me," Remo said. "Maybe she can fight. We can make her acting commander-in-chief in the field."

  They walked toward the corner of the building, and as soon as they saw General Bull turn his back, most of the soldiers ran away. The rest were sleeping.

  A small folding table was set up in the shade alongside the headquarters building. A woman sat at it, in front of a typewriter, tapping on the keys with a pencil she held in her teeth.

  Remo stopped to watch. He said to Bull, "Wouldn't it be easier if she typed with her hands?"

  "She can't do that."

  "Why not? Who is she anyway?"

  "Melody Wakefield. She's from The Boston Blade."

  "Christ, that explains it," Remo said. "I had to read that paper once. She's on your side?"

  "Mostly she's against the Israelis," Bull said. "I don't read her stuff myself, but that's what I think she's up to."

  "Why's she against the Israelis?"

  "I keep asking that. What I think is that out here the people most like the Americans are the Israelis. And she hates the Americans, so she takes it out on the Israelis by hating them too."

  "Bull, that's the first smart thing I ever heard you say," Remo said.

  He watched the young woman drop the pencil from

  her lips, lean forward and, with her teeth, pull the piece of paper from the typewriter. She placed the paper atop others in a pile and then with her nose pushed a small stone on top of the pile to prevent its blowing away. She stuck out her tongue and pressed it to another stack of paper. One clean sheet adhered to her wet tongue, and she lifted it to the typewriter. After three tries, she got the end of the paper to slip into the paper feed. With her teeth, she bit onto the carriage roller and turned the paper into the machine. Then she picked up the pencil again with her teeth and began typing, slowly, laboriously.

  Remo walked around behind the woman, who was concentrating deeply on her work. Her hands were stuck into the pockets of her thin khaki army-style bush jacket. Remo looked over her shoulder.

  On the last page, she had written: "The American media has invented an insensitive, cruel Islam to hate, just as it invented the dangers of communism in Vietnam and Cambodia."

  She felt Remo standing there and turned toward him.

  He nodded toward the page. "Good stuff," he said.

  She dropped her pencil. "This book is going to do for the Middle East what my last book did for Vietnam and Cambodia. It'll rip the mask of hypocrisy off the American imperialists and their Israeli lackeys and show all those with an eye for truth that the wave of the future is Islam, benevolent, just, kind Islam."

  "Sounds good to me," Remo said. The broad was a daffodil. He remembered that he had seen her byline and that her grandfather had run The Blade until he had died. Maybe there was genetic brain-softening in the whole family.

  "I just don't understand why you don't type with your fingers instead of with your mouth," Remo said.

  Melody Wakefield pulled her arms from the lower pockets of her jacket. She had no hands. Her arms ended at the wrists, in bandaged stumps.

  "Oh," Remo said. "I'm sorry. What happened?" 166

  "A merchant in the bazaar. He saw me take atv apple from his stand. I don't know what the big deal was. I always do that in Boston and nobody complains. Anyway, he called the police. They arrested me, and an Islamic court ordered the traditional sentence carried out."

  "They cut off your hands? For stealing an apple?"

  "It is written in their holy book. I shouldn't have taken the apple. But if I had sought special treatment, I would have been guilty of trying to undermine, by American power, all the truth and justice of the Islamic movement."

  "Don't forget benevolence and kindness," Remo said.

  "Right. Islam. True, just, benevolent, and kind."

  "Spoken like a dipshit without hands," Remo said. He looked at her shirt front. Maybe they had cut off her breasts too. She certainly didn't have any. Would they do that? Yes, they would, but they probably hadn't had to. She looked as if she had never had any.

  "What are you doing here today?" Remo asked.

  Tm here to interview soldiers. I want the world to know how progressive Islam really is. You know in America, they think jihad, a holy war, is a bad thing. But it's not like they want to kill everybody who's not a Moslem. Jihad really only means social reform. Far superior to any American reform. I'm going to prove that in my book by interviewing soldiers. Did I tell you my book on Vietnam and Cambodia won an award?"

  "I would have been astonished if it hadn't," Remo said. "Let's see. The American militarists, needing a war to keep their economy alive, tried to impose their decadent and corrupt will on the sweet, peace-loving people of Vietnam and Cambodia. But freedom-loving people all over the world banded together in the cause of liberty to drive out the ugly American invaders and turn their count
ries over to sweet agrarian reformers who promised land to all the peasants and free elections as soon as possible."

  '167

  Melody Wakefield squealed with delight. "You read my book," she said.

  "I didn't have to," Remo said. "I spent a year one day reading your grandfather's newspaper." He noticed that Bull was still standing by the side of the building, looking at them.

  "General?" Remo called. "Any objection if she interviews your soldiers?"

  "No, none at all. I told you, she's a press agent. She won't write anything to hurt an Arab. If she does, she'll get her tits cut off."

  "Too late for that," Remo said, looking again at Melody's flat shirt. "If you want to interview the Army, you'll find them over there in the parade grounds. Asleep. Some of them anyway. The rest ran away."

  "Thank you," she said.

  "When we go into war tomorrow, you want to go with us?"

  "Who are we fighting?" she asked.

  "Other Arabs," Remo said.

  "Not Israelis?" she said, disappointed.

  "No. Arabs."

  Melody's face brightened. "But they're Arab renegades whose minds have been poisoned by the corrupt Western beliefs and who are lackeys of the United States and therefore deserve death, right?"

  "Right," said Remo wearily.

  "It is my duty to go with you to let the world know of our army's glories," Melody Wakefield said.

  "Good. You can ride in the front car," Remo said. "Strapped over the hood."

  "All right," Chiun said. "Now jump up onto that stallion."

  "I don't jump so well," said Abdul, the son of Sheik Fareem. He was wearing a silk shirt and silk pantaloons.

  "It is time to learn," Chiun said. "You will lead your father's army into battle tomorrow."

  "I don't want to learn jumping," Abdul said.

  "Whenever I want somebody to jump, I hire a jumper. Why should I learn to jump? Give me a week or two. I'll advertise in the London Times. I'll get you jumpers. Probably in London right now, there are a couple of hundred people who can jump onto a horse. I'll hire one. Two if you want. I'll hire them all for you."

  "You must do it," Chiun said severely.

  "It'll make me sweat."

  "And I will make you cry," Chiun said.

  "Is that a threat?" Abdul asked.

  They were standing in a clearing in the rear of the oasis, far from the tents of the village.