"She's sleeping and doesn't want to be killed right now," said the Westerner in a serious voice, although his words were foolish in meaning.
"Then I will refuse to martyr myself."
"That's what they all say," said the white infidel.
And the irresistible vise of a hand on the Uzi-and- mangled-hand combination led him out into the rectangular corridor and to the low edge of the retaining wall.
"What are you going to do?" asked Farouk.
"Nothing. You're going to commit suicide."
"Gladly. If you tie Abeer Ghula's feet to my own."
"Out of rope today," said the man, peering down. "Not here," he muttered.
"Good. I am not ready to die just yet."
But Farouk's relief was short-lived. He was walked around the corner to another point of vantage.
The infidel leaned over. "This looks good."
"Why is this spot good and not the other?" Farouk wondered aloud.
"Because there's a restaurant down there, and I didn't want to drop you in somebody's Caesar salad." "I do not mind taking infidels with me when I go to my welcome death."
"But I do."
And though the infidel with the thick wrists was on the lean side and showed insufficient muscle for the task, Patrick O'Shaughnessy O'Mecca, a.k.a. Farouk Shazzam, found himself lifted bodily and dangled over yawning space.
"There is still time for you to relent and embrace Allah," Farouk offered hopefully.
"Have him give me a call," said the infidel, letting
go.
It was not so terrible. The force of gravity simply took hold of Farouk's stomach, and he fell, pulling the rest of him with it. He enjoyed the acceleration, the lightheadedness and the wild thrill that comes from free-falling at over one hundred miles per hour without a bungee cord.
When he struck the parquet floor, he became an instant bag of blood, brains and loose bone that lay flatter than it seemed possible for a fully grown human being to lie.
But he died with a smile of joyous expectation on his shattered face.
to the screams wafting up and told the Master of Sinanju, "That should give the FBI guys reason to tighten their security."
"They are not perfect," said Chiun, who was watching the local Korean-language channel on TV.
"They let one get through."
On the bed, Abeer Ghula stirred. She twisted one way and then the other like a cat, the royal blue bed clothes slipping off her supple, dusky form.
One arm flopped over the edge of the mattress, and as she began a subvocal murmuring that promised full wakefulness, Remo indicated the exposed underside of her wrist and said to the Master of Sinanju, "Your turn."
Chiun refused to drag his hazel eyes from the screen. "I will wait. It may yet be possible that the Messengers of Muhammad will succeed in their task and I will be spared the ignominy."
"Fat chance."
"Another five minutes will do no harm."
snapped up the receiver as soon as it rang. It was the blue contact phone.
"Yes, Remo?"
"M.O.M. just tried again."
"Did you interrogate the assassin?"
"I wouldn't dignify him with that word," Remo said dryly. "But yeah. He was dressed up like a mailman. Somehow he got through the FBI security ring. Or maybe the NOW bruisers."
"Go ahead."
"He swore on Allah's beard it's the Deaf Mullah."
"Allah is not known to wear a beard. You mean the Prophet."
"He swore, he spoke the truth as he saw it, and as a lesson to the FBI, we disposed of him after we were done. Expect to hear about another postal suicide before long."
"They will not give up this easily," warned Smith.
"Just look into the Deaf Mullah thing. Something's not right here."
"My thinking exactly." "If these people served the Deaf Mullah, wouldn't they be calling for his release rather than screw around with the Middle Eastern version of Bella Abzug?"
"There is something very wrong here, I agree. I will get back to you."
"Can't be soon enough," said Remo.
A rippling ululation like a grieving woman at a Lebanese funeral came across the wire.
"What is that sound?" asked Smith.
"Oh, that's just Abeer Ghula going into paroxysms of ecstasy."
"Who is-?"
"It's Chiun's turn."
"You are joking, of course."