"The Iraitis blame us, huh?" the President said., laying aside the photos. "Is that good or bad?"
"If they consider it a provocation, they'll probably go to war over it. After all, Maddas is sandfill and Abombinadad is releasing everybody." "Exactly why we should launch a preemptive strike," the chairman said firmly.
"Last time I did that," the President said ruefully, "the damn Hamidis blocked us."
The chairman cleared his throat. "I understand that situation has been rectified. General Hornworks is once again in control of the situation on the ground. He informs me that based on new intelligence findings, he has repositioned forward units to counter any Iraiti advance."
"What findings?" the President asked, raising one eyebrow.
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff placed his hands behind his back and regarded the scarlet ceiling. He declined to give a yes-or-no answer. It was the military way when confronted with the imponderable. Also, he figured it was even money he would run against the President next election. No sense providing a future political enemy with ammunition in the form of a directly attributable quote.
The President drew his defense secretary aside. "What do you think?"
"Diplomatically, so far we're winning. We're getting our hostages back. Maddas is wormfood. I say we press the advantage. Demand they withdraw unconditionally from Kuran."
Frowning, the President tapped the sheaf of recon photos. "What about this crater thing?"
The secretary of defense shrugged his shoulders. "That's out of my bailiwick," he told his commander in chief.
The President excused himself and, in the privacy of the Lincoln Bedroom, put the same question to Harold Smith.
"I can only assume that, er-"
"The Caucasian," interrupted the President.
"-is active in Abominadad," finished Smith. "Only he is capable of such unchecked carnage."
"What could he be up to?"
"It's impossible to say."
"Well, whatever he's doing," the President mused, "he's winning hands down. You should see those photos. Abominadad looks like an earthquake struck. Smith, can you deactivate him somehow?"
"Only the . . . Oriental might be able to accomplish that mission."
"Smith, get on it. Do whatever you have to. We have a chance to avert war here. But only if we move fast."
"I'll do what I can."
Harold Smith found the Master of Sinanju sitting up in bed watching a videotape.
As Smith entered, Chiun clicked the image off.
"You have been replaying the tapes?" Smith asked.
"I have been bored," Chiun said aridly. "The nurses do not comfort me as they should."
Smith cleared his throat. "I have heard from the President. He is gravely concerned. Some agency has created a crater in the middle of Abominadad."
Chiun's tight expression went slack. "The dance has begun."
"Master?"
"The Tandava. It is the dance that will destroy the world. Nothing can stop it. Kali has lured Shiva into the Tandava, despite his wishes to the contrary."
"I understand," said Smith in a tone that plainly said that he was not comfortable with that understanding. "I was about to ask you to stop Remo."
"He is no longer Remo and he cannot be stopped," Chiun said, brittle-voiced.
"The Iraitis are threatening war unless Remo ceases."
"The jest is on them. War or no war, they are doomed. And they will be only the first. Shiva and Kali will trample and snuff out all life on this forlorn globe."
"I am sorry to hear that," said Smith, for lack of anything better to say. A thought occurred to him. "I suppose you will wish to return to Sinanju."
"Why?"
"Why, to be with your people when the end comes. Unless you think Shiva will spare Korea?"
Chiun's hazel eyes narrowed. "No," he said, his voice growing steely. "Shiva will not spare Sinanju."
"Shall I arrange for a submarine passage home?" asked Smith.
"No," the old Korean said after a pause. "I wish a telephone. For I must contact certain allies."
"I can arrange that," Smith said crisply. "Anything else?"
"Yes. Send word to Sheik Abdul Hamid Fareem, of Hamidi Arabia."
Smith's lemony face puckered. "What word?"
"Tell him two things. One, the Master of Sinanju yet lives. And two, he is coming to parley."
"Does this mean you will need transportation to the Middle Fast?"
"That is the last thing I would have you do, Emperor Smith," said Chiun, closing his tired old eyes.
Chapter 9
The call flashed eastward. It traveled along fiberoptic telephone cable from Folcroft Sanitarium, was microwaved to an orbiting satellite and bounced back to an earth station in the Far East, where the message was received, transcribed on a lambskin parchment in an ancient tongue, and carried by hand to the eyes for which it was intended.
The message was terse:
"Follow the Seven Giants to the Ishtar Gate. Bring the caliph's sack."
Wise eyes lifted skyward, where the stars continued in their ancient procession.