"Because you are," said the Master of Sinanju simply.
Chapter 18
President Maddas Hinsein paused to light up a Cuban cigar with a cylindrical pipe lighter that emitted a blue flame almost a foot long. He took his time, rolling the clipped tip of the cigar in the flame, watching it darken and shrivel. Presently it caught like a slow coal. He collapsed the lighter, cutting off the high blue flame. The lighter went into a pocket and the cigar went into his mouth. He puffed thoughtfully while, beyond the window which, of those in the council room, only he faced squarely, the noxious yellow cloud of Sarin nerve gas rolled inexorably toward the Palace of Sorrows. The nervous antiaircraft fire had died down to an occasional colorful sputter.
Those sitting on either side of the long open meeting table were very aware of that window. Their eyes careened toward it often, only to be drawn inexorably back toward the too-calm figure of their leader.
Once the cigar was really going, Maddas Hinsein drew in a double lungful of aromatic tobacco smoke. His barrel chest swelled. He held the smoke deep within him.
Then, in a steady insolent stream, he released the smoke. It rolled down the long table, a bluish-gray harbinger of the death that would soon be theirs.
Everyone held his breath. To inhale the expensive tobacco smoke that had emerged from the Precious One's lungs was a transgression punishable by hanging.
"Go ahead," prompted Maddas Hinsein, "inhale. I do not mind. It is good smoke. And you have earned it, loyal ones."
Obediently the Revolting Command Council leaned into the rolling smoke, inhaling greedily. They recoiled, coughing and hacking. The stuff was wretched-worse than the nerve gas could ever be. Or so they imagined.
"The Arab who can inhale this heady smoke and not cough is the man who may succeed me one day," Maddas Hinsein said with a careless gesture. "When I am prepared to ascend into Paradise," he added.
"Precious Leader," said the foreign minister, "if we do not evacuate this building soon, we will all be dead from our own war gas."
"That is the beauty of our position," said Maddas Hinsein coolly.
"What is?"
Maddas Hinsein took the cigar from his mouth and bestowed upon his council a broad, toothy smile. "We are already dead. Therefore we are capable of anything-any valor, any grand gesture."
And he opened his smiling mouth to give vent to a low, humorless laughter. It sounded like something a mechanical carnival clown might utter. There was nothing human in it.
The Revolting Command Council had no choice. They joined in. Not to laugh was to die, and even though to stay in the palace meeting room was to die also, they unanimously preferred to die by gas than at the hands of the man they called Precious Leader.
"Brief me," Hinsein commanded, going instantly somber. He flicked cigar ash into the hole in the table, as if it were some great ashtray.
"The Americans have not attacked," the defense minister reported. "Their aircraft no longer fly. In fact, they are sending their carrier battle groups into open sea. We do not know why."
"They have not attacked because they fear our gases," Maddas pronounced. "Therefore, they will never attack. We are safe forever from the Americans."
Everyone knew that this was a colossal miscalculation.
"Then it was good that the former defense minister released the hostages," the defense minister suggested carefully. Maddas frowned darkly. "He was a fool. But Irait will survive his foolishness. For deep in the dungeons below us, we have two of the most important hostages anyway."
The council leaned toward their leader. "Precious Leader?" one muttered.
"I refer to the infidel black priest Jackman and the television reader Don Cooder."
At that, every man at the table paled under the caramel coloring of his Arab complexion.
"They are our insurance against further American aggression," added Maddas Hinsein.
"But you just said that the Americans will not attack," the foreign minister stuttered.
"They will not," Maddas said flatly. "But they may wish to after we enter the next phase of our annexation of Greater Arabia."
Around the table, jaws dropped. "Precious Leader?"
Maddas paused to draw on his smoldering cigar. "We are going to take Hamidi Arabia," he said with quiet confidence.
Jaws clicked shut. Silence filled the room. All thought of the approaching nerve gas fled. A tiny gurgle broke the silence. It was followed by another. Those whose bladders still held reached down to their laps to prevent their gall from joining that of their comrades on the floor.
"But . . . how?" This was from the defense minister, who would have to execute the operation-or be executed for refusing a direct order.
"By striking at the most vulnerable point of the infidel army of occupation," said Maddas Hinsein, as if suggesting a stroll along the banks of the Tigris.
"Can we do that with impunity?" wondered the education minister.
President Hinsein nodded. "Yes. Once the world understands as you do that Maddas Hinsein still lives-and that the most important of our foreign guests do as well."
"You propose a news conference, Precious Leader?"
"I do."
"Do you propose this soon?" he asked, eyes flicking to the window and the hazy mustard-colored sky beyond it.
Maddas nodded confidently.
"Then let me suggest that we conduct this conference down in the gasproof dungeon of this very palace."
Maddas wrinkled his nose. Outside the window, the yellow gas rolled closer. He placed his fingertips against his cheek in a thoughtful manner, as if reconsidering.
"To run from our own gas could be seen as a sign of weakness," he pointed out.
Every man in the room held his breath. For one reason or another.
When their Precious Leader at last spoke, they released it with closed eyes and muttered prayers to benevolent Allah.
"But it would be the last thing they would expect from brave Arabs such as we," decided Maddas Hinsein, smiling faintly.
"Then let us do this immediately," cried the information minister, pounding the table with his fist. "Why should we delay? The Americans must know we are not to be trifled with."
"Yes, we will go now," said the Scimitar of the Arabs as he stood up.
They let him go first. The Renaissance Guardsmen who had been standing sentry outside fell in behind him. There would be no opportunity to stab this madman in the back, they realized. It made them wish to weep.
The elevator ride to the dungeon took an eternity. No one could remember it having taken so long in the past. Their faces were a smoky lavender from holding in their breaths. All except Maddas Hinsein, who continued to breathe normally.
He was funny that way.