"I know what I know," Remo growled. Smith put his hands in his trouser pockets.
"Hallucinogens induced in gas form could account for everything you have just described," he went on. "If fact, it is the only possible explanation, which you will see, once you calm down."
"Do hallucinogens cause permanent hard-ons?"
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"I rather doubt it," Smith said dryly.
"Then why can't I uncross my legs in mixed company?" Remo snapped.
Smith swallowed again. This time he nervously adjusted his rimless glasses instead of his tie. He retreated to his desk. Pressing the concealed stud, he brought his computer terminal up to view, where it offered its keyboard like an unfolding tray of white chocolates.
Smith attacked the keyboard.
"What are you doing?"
"I am beginning a trace of this woman Kimberly. That is what you want, is it not?"
"Yeah," Remo said thickly. He did not sound enthusiastic.
Smith looked up. "Are you prepared to execute my orders, Remo?"
"I guess so."
"Are you prepared to terminate this woman if the order is given?"
"No," Remo admitted.
"Why not?"
"Because I think I'm in love with her," Remo said miserably, slowly withdrawing a long length of yellow silk from his pocket. He brought it up to his nose and began to sniff it, his eyes growing avid and sick all at once.
Chapter 17
The customs inspector zipped open the shoulder bag with a fierce rip of his arm.
"Any contraband?" he demanded, not looking up.
"No," said Kimberly Baynes, holding her chin in one hand, as if in thought. It was the best way to keep her broken-necked head vertical.
"Alcohol? This is a Moslem country. No alcohol is allowed to enter."
"I'm not carrying any alcohol."
"Drugs?"
"No."
"Pornography?"
"Of course not."
The inspector pulled out a fistful of yellow silk scarves. He looked up, his dark sloe eyes questioning.
"So many. Why so many?" he demanded.
"It's an American custom."
"Explain."
"When we have hostages, it's customary to tie a yellow ribbon around a tree. These are my yellow ribbons."
The inspector considered this explanation. Wordlessly he stuffed the yellow tendrils of silk back into the bag and without zipping it closed returned it to Kimberly Baynes.
"Entry allowed," he said gruffly. "Three months. You must not work in that time and you cannot take more money from our country than you brought with you."
He stamped her passport with a pounding jerk of his rubber stamp, saying, "You are hereby permitted to enter Hamidi Arabia. Next!"
The bazaars in the Hamidi Arabian capital of Nehmad teemed with humanity. Arab men in flowing white thobes and headdresses tied with plaited ropelike agals moved like the lords of the desert. The women, mostly in black abayuhs that masked them from head to toe, gave silently before them, their eyes evasive and mysterious.
And joking and laughing U.S. servicemen and women moved through the spectral Arabs in twos and threes for protection, buying fruit from the stalls and sipping soft drinks to fend off dehydration.
Still carrying her bag, Kimberly returned their smiles and winks as they passed. Suggestions that she join them for a Coke were politely declined.
She wanted nothing from any of them. The person she needed to fill the Caldron with blood would show herself. Kali had promised her this. And Kali never lied.
Specialist Carla Shatter still couldn't believe she was in Hamidi Arabia.
Only a few weeks ago she had been a paralegal in Hingham, Massachusetts. Her Army Reserve status was good for nearly five thousand dollars per year in supplemental income-this in return for the weekend training sessions and a month each summer at Fort Devens.
When the call-up came, she had been scared. But her unit was not a combat unit. Their job was military justice, and the very fact that she had suddenly found herself stationed in Hamidi Arabia told her that the United States government had expected to be running war-crimes tribunals.
And since the U.S. Army didn't try war criminals until there had been a war, she had existed in a state of low-level apprehension, certain hostilities were about to break out.
Today her concern was the terrorist threat. U.S. service personnel had been warned that every time they entered the capital they were at risk to pro-Iraiti terrorist attack.
She walked through the bazaar with her eyes open. Despite the brutal heat, her sleeves were rolled down and her regulation blouse was buttoned up to the top button in deference to the sensitive Hamidi mores. She had been told to watch out for the Mutawain-the Hamidi religious police, who could insist upon her deportation for offenses ranging from holding hands with a man in public to brazenly displaying her seductive ankles.
Carla thought it was all a bunch of crap, but at least she didn't have to wear one of those medieval abayahs. They looked hot.
Few U.S. civilians prowled the bazaars these days, so Carla was surprised to see a blond woman in a flowing yellow chiffon dress walking through the dirty street like a Fifth Avenue mirage.
Carla walked up to her, smiling. An American woman to talk to. This was better than a letter from home.