They were even respected by their foes.
The response was dizzying. People didn't run out into the street like angry mobs or even fire off guns in joy. Rather a new respect was sweeping through the Arab world, a confidence they had not known since Sal a Din.
Remo chased a guard away from the gate and was sorry there was no fight. He stormed in on a vast marble-floored perfumed room called the "Suicide Revolutionary Command Bunker."
The General, in a white suit with enough medals to have participated in fifteen major wars and a landslide, sat glumly listening to the announcers glorify his name as one of the greatest Arab leaders of all time.
Remo grabbed a handful of his curly black hair and shook him. Some of the medals fell off, making clinking sounds on the marble.
"Are you one of his men too?" said the General. "You've finally come to kill me."
"I've come to get back my carrier."
"I don't have it," said the General. Remo gave his neck a short twist between forefinger and thumb, pinching a nerve.
The General cried out.
"I don't control them anymore. I don't control them anymore."
"Well, try, sweetheart. I'm sure you can set up communications to the USS Polk."
"I already have, but they don't listen to me."
"Try again," said Remo. While servants ran to neighboring rooms to bring in communications equipment-the suicide command bunker was only equipped with liquor and food-Remo polished a bit of the marble with the General's face.
He would have killed him, but he needed him to talk. Remo even hated the walls. If he didn't watch out, the dangerous emotion of rage would take away his concentration, and without that he could just as easily kill himself as someone else with some of his moves.
It was the mind that made Sinanju Sinanju. Finally the equipment was brought in and the General, weeping, got through to the USS Polk and a colonel he recognized as Hamid Khaidy.
"Faithful brother, we command you to speak to a beloved guest."
"We're busy," came back the voice.
"What are you doing?"
"We're activating the nuclear warheads. We're in range of Jerusalem and we can penetrate their air cover."
The General put his hand over the receiver. "Should I ask them to stop?"
"Hold on," said Remo. "We've got to think about that one."
Chapter 6
"No. I'd better stop that one," said Remo after a moment. He thought of Jerusalem going up in a nuclear cloud. It was a sacred place to all three monotheistic religions and home to one of them. And besides, precious Yoo was under his protection; it had been announced in the village that she had nothing to fear because she was leaving with a Master. Chiun would never forgive him if she got hurt.
Was he going to save this sacred city, capital of a dear American ally, just because Chiun would hold it against him? Had he lost so much of his moral bearings? Had the work of the nuns in the Newark orphanage been so replaced by Sinanju that he would hardly give a second thought to the fact that Jerusalem was where Christianity was born?
Had it gone that far? Long ago, thought Remo. "Tell him you are sending an emissary to help."
"You will help, of course?"
"They don't need help, apparently," said Remo.
"What can one man do?"
"I'm here, ain't I?" said Remo, nodding back at the wounded at the entrance of the luxurious suicide command center.
"Can we come to an accommodation?" asked the General.
"No."
"What would you take to make sure those top officers never set foot on shore again?"
Remo smiled. He knew what was happening, but he pretended to be the innocent American.
"You want 'em dead?" asked Remo, feigning surprise.
"I am faced with a problem you might not understand. Of course I am the foremost battler against imperialism, Zionism, oppression, and capitalism, as I am against atheism. I fight for the Islamic way of life," said the General, taking a thoughtful sip of his Scotch and soda, which was as forbidden a substance to a Moslem as pork to a Jew. "But to lead the fight, one must not have someone else winning more victories. I cannot afford a stronger battler against these evils than I. Do you understand?"
"Golly, no."
"Let us suppose they defeat the Zionist entity in the sacred homeland of the Palestinians."
"You'll rejoice."
"Of course. A great and wonderful victory. Unfortunately, it will not be mine. It will be theirs. First Jerusalem will be theirs, then who knows? Damascus? Riyadh? Cairo? Where will they stop?"
"What are you saying?"
"I feel safe, on behalf of the struggling masses against Zionism, the independent Arab and Islamic nations working for Allah to restore our rightful sovereignty over Jerusalem and all of Palestine, to offer you any price to make sure those on the USS Polk, the heroic Arab strugglers for justice, never set foot on land."
"Kill them?"
"Any price, and I guarantee you will have the support of every Arab government. We are not poor, you know."
"There is something I want, General," said Remo, and from memory, from the droned recitations of the histories of Sinanju, he listed all the tributes he could remember, all that had been stolen while he was away doing the work of CURE.
"Even for a beginning price, this is astronomical," said the General realistically.
"No. All I want is any one of them, and for you to tell me where you got it. I'll get the rest."
The General promised undying love, and hoped the American and his own renegade soldiers would fight to the death. Then he wouldn't be obliged to search for such an extraordinary list of valuables.
The American certainly was no fool. He had been holding out for a treasure.
Once the American was off on an Idran plane to the USS Polk, now named the Jihad, or holy war, the General contacted the ship again and got Hamid Khaidy on the phone.