Throughout occupied Kuran and Irait, Kurdish warriors stole into aircraft revetments and Scud bunkers, writing their names invisibly and leaving the scenes of their depredations undetected by man or satellite.
And in Abominadad, Irait, a wooden crate arrived, addressed to President Maddas Hinsein.
Chapter 35
President Maddas Hinsein was no fool.
When the wooden crate postmarked Pyongyang, North Korea, was delivered to the Palace of Sorrows, he had his most valuable council members open it while he descended to the German-made bunker under the palace, nicknamed the Mother of All Bunkers. He always selected his best men for this duty, because he knew it would deter them from shipping him bombs themselves.
Today his favorites happened to be the foreign minister and Vice-President Juniper Jackman.
Jackman was only too happy to take a crowbar to the crate. The line of AK-47's pointed in his direction constituted tremendous motivation.
"Bet Dan Quayle doesn't pull this kind of duty," he complained, confident he would not be shot because no one in the room understood English.
The planks split with a crack and revealed a magnificent sword as long as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and encrusted with precious stones.
Maddas Hinsein was called up only after the sword had been safely removed, examined for venomous barbs, and dipped in a solution that would change color if a contact poison had been applied to the blade.
"It is a gift, Precious Leader," the foreign minister reported. "Truly. See?"
"The North Koreans obviously stand in solidarity with us," said the president of Irait with quiet satisfaction.
"Yet they claim otherwise. I have spoken with their ambassador and he knows nothing of this magnificent gift."
Maddas Hinsein frowned. "I will accept it anyway. Hang it over my desk in a place of honor."
"At once, Precious Leader."
When the sword was firmly in place, President Maddas Hinsein locked the door behind him and stood looking at the sword. He grinned. It was a worthy blade, and it gave him solace after the destruction of the crossed scimitars that had lifted so triumphantly over Arab Renaissance Square.
The sadness of that setback reminded the Scimitar of the Arabs of the treason of the four-armed Kimberly Baynes, and made him wistful for the corrective discipline of her quick, firm hands. With her gone, there was no one to spank him anymore.
Impulsively he went to a phone.
"The spider-armed girl," he demanded of his chief torturer, the minister of culture, "is her body still in the dungeon?"
"With the American assassin, as you commanded, Precious Leader."
"Do they . . . smell?"
"Strangely, no."
A quick smile broke over the president's dark face. "No? Hmmm. Perhaps I will torture them, then."
"Can one torture the dead?" wondered the culture minister, a hint of interest in his voice.
"If one has the stomach for it." Maddas Hinsein laughed, hanging up.
Down in the coolest part of the dungeon, the bodies lay on cold slabs of black basalt. Their skins were a remarkable flat black, as if powdered with coal dust.
The woman was completely nude. Maddas Hinsein dismissed the thought of mounting her. He had raped a cold corpse once, when he was a carefree young man. Never again, he vowed. He had caught a terrible cold.
The man lay composed in death, eyes closed, an austere look on his face. His colorful harem silks were in tatters, but Maddas Hinsein had no eyes for those. He noticed the large egglike bump in the center of his forehead. Obviously a bruise.
It was quite unusual, and the President of Irait could not resist poking it with his finger.
To his horror, it slid apart like a ruptured plum.
"Allah!" gasped the Scimitar of the Arabs, recoiling. For the bump had opened like a dead eyelid, revealing a sightless black orb. There had been no such organ on the man's brow in life, he recalled clearly.
As Maddas Hinsein backed away, black arms stirred like an upended lobster on the slab behind him. A naked chest shuddered, impelled by an indrawn breath.
The figure on the slab levered itself to a sitting position in silence, and blood-red eyes fell upon his unsuspecting back with a fiery regard.
"You live . . . " a dead voice whispered too low to be heard.
And a loud, frantic voice came from the corridor, crying, "O Scimitar of the Arabs! The impregnable Maddas Line is under attack!"
President Maddas Hinsein bolted from the torture room a mere flick ahead of grasping black nails.
Chapter 36
If there was someone he could complain to without being shot for questioning authority, Colonel Hahmad Barsoomian of the Renaissance Guard would have complained loudly and vociferously.
But he figured he was in enough trouble as it was. His orders to report to the Maddas Line and take command of the ragtag Popular People's Popular Auxiliary could only mean he was regarded with suspicion by the high command. Why else would they exile him to work among undisciplined shopkeepers and teachers in ill-fitting uniforms?
It was night, and Colonel Barsoomian stood atop an earthen-mound breastworks scanning the neutral zone with his Zeiss military field glasses.
There was a crescent moon hanging low in the sky. It augured well, he thought. What little light it shed was like a shimmering silver rain collecting in the desert wadis below.
There was no sign of the anti-bait UN forces. They would never attack. They feared to, Barsoomian was certain.
A low shape appeared in the sky. A glimmer of moonlight revealed it.
Colonel Barsoomian adjusted his glasses. It was silent and oblate as a strayed moon. And it was coming this way.
"Searchlight crew!" he called down. "Direct your beam that way, you donkeys!"
A powerful tungsten light sprang to life. The beam wheeled southward, sweeping the sky.
"Left. Now right! There! Hold it there!" Barsoomian ordered.
And when the hot beam transfixed the floating silent thing, Colonel Barsoomian trained his binoculars upon it.
His jaw fell slowly at the terrible sight. His eyes grew round as coins. He could feel his heart pumping high in his throat.