The difficulty lay in that it wasn't said which room the hypocrite cowered.
This was easily discovered, Farouk thought. Starting with the first numbered room, he knocked on all doors and, when someone answered, he handed them a piece of gaudy junk mail addressed to Occupant.
Many were surprised by him. Some shrank from his smiling face. And why should he not smile? This was his last day on the unhappy earth.
At the room numbered 1013, his knock was answered by a querulous "Who is it?"
"I have mail."
"Leave it."
"I must give this to you personally, for otherwise it will not be considered delivered by the mighty postmaster general."
"For whom have you mail?"
"I must look. One moment," said Farouk, feigning ignorance. "Ah, yes, here it is. I have a special- delivery letter for Abeer Ghula. Is there an Abeer Ghula at this address?"
"I will look."
"Thank you," said Farouk, smiling broadly. They were checking. No doubt they were being careful.
When the door opened, it did so without warning. And a thick-wristed hand snapped out, took hold of his throat and withdrew with amazing speed.
Farouk could feel his shoe soles actually burn and smoke so swiftly was he carried inside.
His back was slammed against a wall, and the air exploded from his stunned lungs.
At which point Farouk clawed for his well-hidden Uzi. Digging into the jumbled mail, he ignored the paper cuts and found the butt of the submachine gun. His fingers wrapped around it.
Then other unfamiliar fingers wrapped around his fingers. They squeezed. And the pain traveling up Farouk's right arm turned to crimson when it reached his eyeballs.
He screamed. The words were inarticulate. If they were even words.
The crushing hand withdrew, and Farouk whipped out his burning hand.
His eyes cleared of the red pain, and he stood stunned, looking at his gun hand.
It was not bleeding. This was very surprising. He associated the red haze before his eyes with the color of blood. His blood. But the hand was not bleeding. It was very black, actually. The fingers were bent in strange ways—as was the much more sturdy Uzi submachine gun.
Farouk was not absorbing the fact that his fingers and the Uzi were an inextricable lump of broken and fused matter when the face of his assailant loomed up in his line of sight.
It was a cold face, very pale and Western.
"Messengers of Muhammad?" he asked.
"I do not say yes and I do not say no," he said.
"That is a yes," a squeaky voice piped up.
And nearby, Farouk saw a little Asian, wrinkled features like a wise old monkey's, dressed for a funeral.
"My name is Patrick O'Shaughnessy O'Mecca," he said.
"He is a Moor," said the Asian.
"Truthfully I am Black Irish."
"His eyes do not smile," the Asian said.
"Before we punch out your lights," the other said, "who do you work for?"
"The postal service, of course. Do you not recognize my proud and honorable uniform?"
A hard hand backed by a thick wrist wrapped itself around the Uzi again and gave a forceful squeeze.
This time Farouk's eyeballs exploded into pin- wheels of colored light. The pain clutched at his stomach, and though he screamed, no words issued forth. It was that painful.
"Here we go again. Who sent you here to erase Abeer Ghula?"
"The Deaf One."
"The Deaf Mullah?"
"Yes, yes," he gasped. "None other."
"The Deaf Mullah's in solitary."
"The Deaf Mullah is wiser than infidels. He walks free, breathing clean air and eating food, which is denied him by his supposed captors."
"I'm going to say this one last time. Who gave you the order to come here?"
"The Deaf Mullah."
"You see him?"
"In the holy flesh."
"Where and when?" "Many months ago, in the storefront mosque in Jersey City. Although he sat behind a bulletproof screen to protect him from those who would do violence against him, it was unmistakably he. I swear by the Holy Beard."
The death's-headed one turned to the Asian. "How's he sound to you?"
"He is telling the truth. You can hear it in his pounding heart."
"I am telling the truth. Now I must kill and die."
"No killing, but you get to die."