"Scapegoat," corrected President Razzik Azziz, who was growing impatient with this too-smart education minister. "Whom should we offer them?"
On the roof of the Palace of Sorrows, the eyes of the Revolting Command Council flicked away from the face of their leader. Guilty looks made their expressions strange.
"Answer me!" demanded President Azziz.
It was, of course, the insolent education minister who offered a trembling opinion.
"It is not whom we will offer them, al-Ze'em," he said tightly. "It is whom they will insist upon hanging. And with our beloved Maddas in the merciful hands of Allah, you, al-Ze'em, are the natural choice."
President Razzik Azziz blinked, a nervous tic crawling along his mustachioed features. It started at his left eye, worked down diagonally, causing his nostrils to flare, and finally sent his mustache jerking like an inchworm on a hot plate.
Now, too late, he understood. It was all very clear to him. The reason no one else had leapt into the president's chair before him was a simple one. It was no longer the seat of power, but a throne of death.
And he had claimed it for his own.
Chapter 5
Harold Smith was surprised to find the Master of Sinanju seated on a tatami mat at the foot of his hospital bed.
Chiun wore a bone-white kimono which Smith had personally recovered from a steamer trunk in the Master of Sinanju's nearby home. He sat lotus-style, his back arched, his wizened features screwed up in concentration as he inscribed quick black brushstrokes on a parchment scroll. The overhead lights made hot blobs of light on his bald head. A covered wok simmered at his feet.
"The President has received an urgent communication from Abominadad," Smith began.
Without looking up, Chiun nodded.
"The defense minister of Irait has offered to release all hostages if the U.S. will call off the destructive forces they claim we have unleashed upon their city."
Chiun frowned, adding a brushstroke to the geometrical pattern he had been carefully creating on the parchment.
"The trouble is," Smith went on, "we have unleashed nothing. We believe the Iraitis are referring to Remo and Kimberly Baynes."
"This is not good," Chiun said, his frown making his face shrivel into a mummylike death mask. Leaping flames from a tiny Sterne, fire sent wavering blue shadows across the Master of Sinanju's dry features like the ghostly turning of the pages of history.
"Are you referring to the fact that we have no control over Remo and Kimberly?"
"No," said Chiun, "I am referring to the fact that your opponent, Maddas Hinsein, was born with the sun in Taurus. This is very bad. It means he is stubborn and intractable. He will not surrender until he is dead. And perhaps not even then."
"How can that be?" Smith wondered.
"For a true Taurus, this is possible."
After dipping a stiff writing stick into an ink stone, the Master of Sinanju made another brushstroke.
"The moon in Scorpio," he added.
"What does that mean?"
"He enjoys dressing as a woman." Chiun looked up, his eyes glinting. "That explains how he still lives."
Smith cleared his throat. "Er, Master Chiun, I must inform you that the word out of Abominadad is that Maddas Hinsein is dead. If he were not, why has his defense minister seized power?"
Idly the Master of Sinanju aimed a remote-control unit toward the nearby combination television and VCR unit. A tape began playing.
Smith watched intently as the last televised images out of Irait played again. He saw Remo pull back one arm to unleash the death blow that was meant to extinguish Don Cooder. Remo's hand, a spear of stiffened fingers, snapped out.
Too fast for even the camera to record it, a woman in a flowing black abayuh reached out to snatch Cooder from the blow's path. Remo's hand kept going, striking the grinning mustached figure in the green burnoose that stood directly behind.
"That man was not Maddas Hinsein," Chiun informed Smith as the tall burnoosed form was blown out of the frame with bone-breaking force.
"Why do you say that?" Smith asked as the camera caught a glimpse of the woman in the abayuh as she lifted her garment to expose her naked form and spidery limbs.
"Because," Chiun said, hitting the pause button, "that is Maddas Hinsein."
Smith leaned into the screen, blinking owlishly.
In one corner of the frozen image, a second abayuh-clad figure was vaulting over the reviewing-stand rail. Smith saw clearly the shiny black paratroop boots under the garment's wildly lifting hem.
"Boots," Smith said. "Very interesting, but hardly proof positive."
Wordlessly Chiun tapped the off switch and returned to his labors.
Noting the cool blue glow of the Sterno fire, Smith said, "I trust the wok was sufficient for your needs. Finding a brass brazier on short notice was not possible."
"We shall see if it accomplishes its purpose," was all the Master of Sinanju would say.
"The President has not yet made a military decision," Smith said when the silence had grown long. "The Hamidi officer in charge of the multinational coalition, Prince General Sulyeman Bazzaz, has refused to allow our forces to move. Politically, the President is stymied."
"Tell me of the other forces," Chiun suggested, still working on his scroll, which lay flat with its corners slightly curled under the weight of four stones.
"Well, currently the U.S.-led coalition includes the Hamidis, the Egyptians, the Syrians, the-"
"Speak to me not of Arab forces," Chiun snapped. "They are like the desert sands once the storm of war commences. They will sting the eyes and drag down the feet of your soldiers-those who do not turn against you."
"Well, there are the British, the French, the Greeks, the Italians, the Poles, the Canadians, and other European elements."
Chiun looked up. "No Mongols?" he squeaked in surprise.
"No Mongolian units were available to us."
"I do not mean uniformed footmen," Chiun retorted, "but sturdy horse Mongols."
"We do have the Turks on our side," Smith offered.
"Turks are acceptable," Chiun sniffed, "if one plans a slaughter. "
"The President is hoping to avoid any deaths."