Blood Lust td-85 Read online

  "Why would they do that?"

  "Because they are bored, and they already know the color of Kurani entrails."

  "Gotcha. Where can I find the nearest detachment of Iraitis? I need guys who speak English."

  "There are Iraitis in the next town. Hamas. It was to Hamas that our young women fled, fearing rape. The Iraitis tortured some of the old women to learn where they went. Now they are dead and the flower of our womanhood are being defiled by these so-called Arab brothers."

  "Tell you what, point me to Hamas and I'll see if I can't break a few Iraiti skulls for you."

  "Done. But tell us, American, when will the Marines land?"

  "They would have landed ten years ago if you'd let them. But now, I don't know. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. But if I can get to Abominadad, maybe the Marines won't be needed."

  Hearing that, the old woman turned to the others. "By the command of Allah, help this righteous American to find his way to Hamas."

  The Iraiti checkpoint leading to Hamas consisted of a beige T-72 tank with a thrown track on one side of the road and a jeep up on blocks on the other. A reclining corporal snored on the tank's fender and another sat behind the jeep's tripod-mounted machine gun, smoking a Turkish cigarette that Remo could smell from three miles away. He was running with the air vents open.

  Remo pulled up. The two Iraiti soldiers blinked in stupefied surprise as Remo emerged from the APC, clapping his hands to get their attention.

  "This Hamas?" he asked. "Where all the women went?"

  Their eyes noticed the bulge below Remo's waist, and the two Iraitis jumped to an instant conclusion.

  "You are an American deserter?" one asked. The corporal on the tank. He looked sleepy.

  "Maybe."

  "You come to trade that fine vehicle for Arab women?"

  "That's it." Remo said. "You got it exactly. Take me to the Arab women and it's yours. The pink slip's in the glove compartment."

  The Iraiti in the jeep threw the charging lever on his .35-caliber. He sneered.

  "You are too late."

  "I am?"

  "The women wore out three weeks ago. But if you are so eager to have sex with Arabs, we have a few men who can accommodate you."

  Remo frowned. "How about we just skip that part and I just surrender?"

  "You are not in control here."

  "I have all of the secrets of the American offensive plans in my head. Just take me to someone in charge and I'll spill my guts to him."

  "You will spill your guts to me or I will spill your guts into the sand."

  "I'll pass," Remo said, moving on the jeep low and fast.

  The startled gunner jumped into action. The perforated barrel burped, spitting fire in all directions.

  Remo felt the shock waves of passing bullets fly over the back of his head. None struck him.

  He came up under the startled gunner's nose and took hold of the wooden barrel-changing handle, gave it a twist, and the barrel fell into the front seat, where it set the upholstery smoldering.

  "Did someone say something about guts?" Remo asked.

  "I am not afraid of you," the gunner spat. "I am a Moslem. Moslems welcome death."

  Remo gave the man the flat of his hand and something to thank Allah for at the same time.

  "I hope you're happy now," he said after the gunner collapsed, his nose inverted and his brain full of worm tracks made by driven bone chips.

  Remo went over to the tank. The tank soldier's legs were disappearing down the turret. Remo jumped up and caught them.

  "I suppose you're a Moslem too," he called down.

  A hollow voice echoed up from the tank's innards.

  "Yes, but I am a death-fearing Moslem."

  "Then you're not going to like what I'll do to you if I can't find someone in authority to surrender to."

  "See Colonel Abdulla. He will accept your surrender. Gladly."

  "Colonel Abdulla speak English?" Remo asked.

  "As good as me."

  "How many Arab women you wear out?"

  "Too many to count. I am sorry I have left none for you, lusty one."

  "Don't give it another thought," Remo said casually, pulling the soldier's legs in opposite directions. The splintering of his pelvic bone was louder than the soldier's anguished screams. It lasted longer too.

  Colonel Jassim Abdulla was reluctant to accept Remo's unconditional surrender. He was in the middle of fornicating with a goat and was at a critical stage. To withdraw, or not to withdraw. It was a question that haunted Iraitis in peace as well as in war.

  Remo, who had never seen anyone hump a goat before, had a question.

  "Why are you doing that?"

  "Because there are no more living Kurani men, and if I do this to my men, it would be bad for morale." The colonel's face was reddening with exertion.

  By that, Remo took it to mean that Colonel Abdulla was one of the sexually misdirected Iraitis the late gunner had offered him.

  The goat bleated in fear. Feeling sorry for it, Remo grasped one quivering horn and tugged. The goat slipped from the colonel's tight embrace with a slurpy pop! of a sound, leaving the colonel to pump his seed over the barren Kuran sand.

  His eyes were closed, so he didn't notice that he was humping dead air.

  When he was done, Colonel Abdulla came out of his crouch and noticed Remo's problem. His thick Maddas Hinsein mustache lifted with his grin.

  "Why did you not mention your problem?" he said, pulling up his pants. "The goat could have waited. Goats make excellent how do you say it?-sloppy seconds."

  "Pass," Remo said. "You don't seem surprised to find yourself face-to-face with an American," he added.

  "The Americans are overdue. I know this. Why do you think I am busy making time with a goat? After the Marines hit the beach, there will be no more goats for Colonel Abdulla, alas."

  "Spoken like an Iraiti with goatshit on his pecker. How about surrending-"

  "Where are the rest of your Americans?" the colonel asked.

  "Sorry to disappoint you, but there's only me."

  The colonel's face fell. "You must be mad. I cannot surrender myself to one lone American. My Arab pride would suffer."

  "You got it backward, Achmed. I've come to surrender to you."

  "Why?"

  "Don't ask me that question and I promise not to tell Maddas Hinsein when I see him in Abominadad that you like to bang goats."

  The colonel gave this proposition serious thought.

  "Deal," he said. He offered a hand that smelled of goat. "Shake?"

  "No. How soon can you get me to Abominadad?"

  His dark eyes going wistfully to Remo's bulge, the colonel sighed. "Long after your magnificent instrument has tired."

  "Don't bet the war on it," Remo said glumly.

  Chapter 32

  Maddas Hinsein didn't hear the ringing telephone through the satisfyingly meaty smacking sounds. Then they stopped.

  "Why do you deny me, my sweet?" he asked, lifting his face off the fluffy pillow, unhappiness writ large in his deep soulful eyes. They were in a torture chamber deep in the Palace of Sorrows, lying on a medieval iron bed. The spikes had been replaced by a mattress.

  Poised above his naked beet-red behind, four hot-pink palms hovered. One disappeared from view. It returned, clutching a telephone receiver. The hand-its nails as yellow as banana peel-brought the mouthpiece to Maddas' unhappy lips.

  "Attend to business first, and I will finish you after."

  "Yes, O all-adept one," the Scourge of the Arabs said meekly.

  Maddas' voice lost its submissive coloring. "Have I not told you I was not to be disturbed?" he barked into the phone.

  "A thousand pardons, O Precious Leader," his defense minister replied in a shaky voice. "Our offensive has collapsed."

  Maddas blinked. Of course. The gas attack. He had been having such a good time, he had forgotten he ordered it. In truth, he half-expected to die at any moment from U.S. blockbuster bombs, s
o he had left the operational details to his generals.

  "What happened?" he wanted to know.

  "The trucks fell over. Should we send more trucks?"

  "No. Obviously they have larger fans than even our spies in Hamidi Arabia reported. Have all our spies recalled and executed."

  "But that will give us no spies in enemy territory."

  "No spies are preferable to wrong spies. Do this, or I will have your children hanged in front of your eyes."

  "But I have no children. You are perhaps thinking of the previous defense minister's children, whom you had chopped up and served to his wife. Cold."

  "Then I will have the previous defense minister's wife beheaded before your eyes," Maddas Hinsein bellowed. "Do this!"

  "At once," the defense minister said crisply. He hesitated. "There . . . there is further intelligence, Precious Leader."

  "Speak."

  "Our brave forces have captured an American spy. He has promised to reveal all of America's attack plans."

  "I have heard this before . . ." Maddas growled. "Man or woman?"

  "Man. Definitely. He is one horny infidel, too."

  "Is this man tall with dark hair and eyes, with wrists mightier than any Arab's?"

  Thinking it was a trick question, the defense minister hesitated.

  "Answer!" Maddas roared, unhappy that the delicious stinging sensation was deserting his overstimulated backside.

  "Yes, Precious Leader. But how did you know?"

  Maddas pushed the receiver aside with his chin. "You spoke truly. He has come."

  "Never doubt me," Kimberly Baynes said sweetly. "All you desire will come to pass if you never doubt me."

  He turned his mouth to the receiver again. "Have him brought to me."

  "At once, Precious Leader."

  Kimberly Baynes replaced the receiver on its cradle. She adjusted the black cords that kept Maddas Hinsein, absolute master of Irait and Kuran, spread-eagled and helpless on the four-poster bed. He lay on his stomach.

  Maddas buried his face in the big pillow. "You may finish me," he said with a muffled sigh.

  "The man who comes is an American agent."

  "I know. Please, continue your patriotic duty."

  "He is the one who tied the yellow scarves around the necks of your family and all the others now cooling their flesh in the Maddas Morgue."

  "He will pay for this with his life," Maddas vowed. "No doubt he pretended to be a woman the first time because he is a cross-dresser. There is nothing lower. Except a Jew."

  "No. There is a better fate in store for him."

  Maddas lifted his head. "The best fate for a would-be assassin is to die as an example to other assassins who dream of taking my place."

  "He is the finest assassin in the world. He could serve you."

  "I have all the assassins I require. Now, please, my redlipped pomegranate. Continue."

  "This one could strike at any enemy you name, fearless, without compunction, without any chance of failure."

  Kimberly Baynes's words made Maddas Hinsein forget his stinging-backside.

  "How can I control such a person?" he asked, interested.

  "You need not. I will do that for you. For he is fated to be my soul slave forever."

  "Just as long as you preserve your artful hands for the corporeal buttocks of Maddas Hinsein and none other."

  "Of course."

  A firm hand pushed his face into the scented pillow and the hands began their delicious rippling tattoo.

  Maddas sighed contentedly. This was the good life. How could a man who felt this good not end up lording it over all Arabia?

  Remo Williams was feeling good.

  After he had convinced Colonel Abdulla to accept his surrender, there had been no delays. A helicopter had ferried him to a desert airstrip where a Sukhoi-7 airplane awaited him, its engines kicking up clouds of stinging sand.

  Remo was escorted to a seat just behind the pilot's compartment and as an honored deserter was asked if there was anything he would like.

  "Rice."

  He said it more as a wish than expectation. But to his astonishment, a tin tray of cold rice was brought before him. He ate it greedily, using his hands.

  He was feeling good. The hard part was over. Soon he would be in Abominadad. He had it pretty well worked out in his mind what he would do once he was there. They would take him to Maddas. He wouldn't take no for an answer. He would tell Maddas that he would give up his secrets only in the presence of Reverend Juniper Jackman and Don Cooder-so they would be witnesses that he was betraying his country freely and without torture.

  Once they were all in the same room, Remo would take total control of the situation. Maddas would be his lever. They would all be flown to safety or Maddas would get it.

  Maybe, Remo thought, handing his tray back to the uniformed orderly, Maddas would get it anyway. After what he had seen in Kuran, Maddas Hinsein deserved to be flayed alive and dunked in carbolic acid for a thousand years. Smith might not like it, but accidents did happen. Besides, he reminded himself, after this outing, he might not have to deal with Smith ever again. After he caught up with Kimberly Baynes in Hamidi Arabia, that is. He shoved that problem from his mind.

  The plane came in low over Abominadad. From the air it looked like any one of a number of third-world cities. Most of it consisted of the cheap, poured-concrete high-rises Russia had put up all over the third world. The green domes of mosques and minaret spires added an Eastern seasoning. Here and there gas fires blazed over idling refineries. Irait controlled a quarter of the oil produced in the world, but UN sanctions had deprived them of chemicals needed to refine the crude.

  Thus, Remo thought with pleasure, U.S. cars ran freely while in Irait no traffic flowed at all.

  Remo's gaze was arrested by the crossed scimitars of Arab Renaissance Square, held aloft by Brobdingnagian replicas of Maddas Hinsein's thick forearms. He recalled a recent television report that claimed the hands were identical to Maddas' own-right down to the fingerprint whorls.

  Noticing Remo's interest, an orderly boasted, "Those scimitars were forged by a famous German swordmaker and cost many millions."

  "The Germans were certainly getting their share of Maddas' party," Remo muttered.

  There was a military honor guard waiting to escort Remo to an armored car. Every one of them looked like a clone of Maddas Hinsein. There were fat Maddas Hinseins, skinny Maddas Hinseins, as well as the tall and short varieties.

  Altogether, Remo decided, the quicker he got the job done and got himself out of Abominadad, the better. A uniformed official stepped forward. He looked like Maddas Hinsein's third cousin. "Welcome to Irait," he said stiffly. "I am the defense minister, General Razzik Azziz." He did not offer Remo his hand.

  "Glad you could take me out of tourist season," Remo said dryly.

  The man's eyes pinched tighter. He smiled officiously. But deep in his eyes Remo could read contempt for his offer to betray his own country.

  Fine, Remo thought. Let him think that. At least until I pull this off.

  The car whisked them from Maddas International Airport and under the same upraised scimitars he had seen from the air.

  "I wouldn't want to be under those babies if there's an earthquake," Remo remarked as they passed under the shadow of the gleaming blades.

  "They are as sharp as the finest blades in all the world," General Azziz said proudly. "They are the swords that will slice through world opposition, leaving all the universe disemboweled before Iraiti power."

  "Catchy," Remo remarked. "You ought to have cards printed up saying that."

  The defense minister went silent. Remo had expected to be pumped in advance of the meeting with whomever they were taking him to first.

  "Where are we going?" Remo asked, remembering his plan. "I got a lot to say and I don't intend to waste it on flunkies."

  "Our Precious Leader, Maddas Hinsein himself, has requested your presence in the Palace of Sorrows."
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  "Suits me," Remo said, frowning. This was easier than he had thought. He wasn't sure he liked that. Still, maybe it was the will of Allah or something.

  The armored car slid down a ramp and into the bowels of the palace, a baroque stack of limestone and iron that seemed to hunker down as if expecting an imminent aerial attack.

  In the basement, Remo allowed himself to be frisked. They had done this before he got on the plane, and again before he had gotten off. He hoped this would be the last time. No telling what these guys did with their hands. He had not been impressed by Arab hygiene.

  This time, the soldiers discovered the yellow scarf of Kali he had tucked deep into one sleeve of his black silk kimono.

  For some reason, this excited them. They began chattering in Arabic, waving the scarf under one another's noses.

  "We must confiscate this," the defense minister said sternly. "For the protection of our Precious Leader."

  "Fine by me," Remo said, eyeing the scarf. "But I'll want it back after the interview. It's a good-luck charm."

  The look the Iraiti soldiers gave him told Remo that they expected there to be no "after the interview"-at least not for him.

  Fine, Remo thought. Let them think that too.

  They went up in an elevator, where black-bereted guards wielding AK-47's met them. Remo was surrounded and marched down a long corridor. At the end of it was a double-valved door of some dark, expensive wood.

  Remo assumed this was the President's office. He figured this would all be over in an an hour or two. Three, tops.

  Two guards stepped forward and threw open the doors.

  Remo entered.

  Two more guards stood at attention on either side of a wide bare desk, spines straight, chins up, their heads cocked back. Matched Iraiti flags framed the figure seated behind the desk.

  Remo had to look closely to be sure, but the seated figure differed from the identically mustached guards in his bulllike physique. The other guys were too skinny. There was no doubt.

  Remo was face-to-face with President Maddas Hinsein.

  The self-styled Scimitar of the Arabs stood up, one hand going habitually to a pearl-handled revolver.

  Remo suppressed a grin. A lot of good a six-shooter would do him when things got busy.

  The doors closed behind him. Remo sensed the trailing guards deploying themselves in front of the door and at other strategic spots around the room. He waited until they were in position, noted each heartbeat for future reference, and stood with his hands hanging at his sides while the defense minister strode up to the President of Irait.