" 'Crazy,' " the general said quickly, hoping he would not be shot dead in the face.
He was not.
The President said, "Thank you." Then he shot the information minister in the face. The man's head snapped back with such force that it carried him and his hardwood chair backward.
The information minister's body jerked and quivered like a convict in an electric chair that had fallen over.
Calmly the President of Irait holstered his pistol, muttering solemnly "I will not accept lies to my face." He sat down. "So," he added, "the Americans think I am a crazy ass, no?"
"Allah will punish them," said the defense minister, not looking at the quivering body.
President Hinsein patted down the luxurious mustache that was repeated on every male face over the age of fifteen throughout the land. His solemn eyes grew reflective.
"Crazy Ass," he muttered.
"They insult all Arabs with such talk," spat the defense minister bitterly.
"Crazy Ass," repeated the President thoughtfully.
"We will pass a law condemning to death any who repeat this slander," a general vowed.
"Crazy Ass," Maddas said again. And he began laughing. "Maddas Hinsein, Scourge of the Arabs," he cried. "Scimitar of Arabia. Uniter of the Arab Nation. That is me. I am one crazy-assed Arab, am I not?"
"Yes, President," the assembled Revolting Command Council said in well-rehearsed unison, "you are one crazy-assed Arab."
He threw his head back and gave vent to an uproarious peal of mirth. Tears squeezed from the corners of his amused eyes.
The others joined in. Some tittered. Others guffawed. But no one refused to join in, though their laughter was not reflected in their eyes. Their eyes, instead, were sick with fear.
With a final burst of laughter, Maddas Hinsein settled down. He brushed his mustache. His strong chin found his folded hands once more as his elbows took their usual position on the table edge. A serious, intent expression settled over his dark, troubled features.
"I will show them what a crazy ass I am," he said darkly. "Issue the following proclamation through our Propaganda Ministry."
No one moved. When Maddas Hinsein saw that no hand picked up pen to transcribe his all-important words, he said, "Where is the minister of information?"
"Dead," he was told.
"You have shot him."
Maddas Hinsein peered past the man who last spoke. He saw the twitching knee in the air.
"He is not dead. He still moves," Maddas pointed out.
"He is dying."
"Until he is dead, he is not excused from his patriotic duty. Give him pen and paper."
The defense minister hastily obeyed, crushing the information minister's oblivious fingers around a pen and slipping a sheet of paper in the other hand. As his leader began to drone on in a monotone, he did not worry about the lack of animation on the dying man's part.
There was no ink in the pen. Irait had run out of ink in the fifth month of the international blockade, when it had been discovered that ink made an acceptable salad dressing.
Previously, they had pissed on their salads.
Chapter 19
Harold Smith paused at the door and cleared his throat before knocking briskly.
"Come in," Remo Williams said. Smith entered.
He found Remo seated cross-legged on a tatami mat in the middle of the bare floor, a half-eaten bowl of rice at one knee. Across the room, a TV set flickered and a world-famous face filled the screen. The rugged face was showing signs of strain, especially under the eyes. The dark pouches hung almost to his chin.
"This is Don Cooder, BCN anchor reporting live from Abominadad, Irait, reminding you that BCN was first to report from Abominadad, first with an exclusive interview with President Hinsein, and now we're proud to be the first to have an anchor taken hostage. BCN. We're here so you don't have to be."
"I hate that guy," Remo muttered, lowering the sound with a wave of his remote.
"He is not very popular," Smith said dryly.
"He was the jerk who helped that dipshit girl with the neutron bomb-Purple Haze or whatever her name was-get a working core just so he could boost his ratings," Remo said bitterly. "Chiun might still be here if he hadn't stuck his oar in. I hope he rots in Abominadad."
"Are you feeling any . . . um . . . better?" Smith inquired.
"Step around and take a look," Remo said. "But I warn you, it's not a pretty sight."
Coloring, Smith declined the invitation.
"The FBI laboratory results on the silk scarf came in," he offered.
"Yeah?" Remo grunted, shifting the mat around to face Smith. He kept one hand draped strategically across his lap.
"Other than human perspiration odors and other common organic chemical traces, they report no unusual odors attached to the sample."
"No? Well, their machines must all have broken noses or something, because the thing reeks of her."
"I smelled nothing when I took the scarf from you," Smith said firmly.
"Yeah, well, take a whiff of this," Remo said, snapping another scarf from his pocket. He sniffed it once before tossing it to Smith. Smith caught it and distastefully brought it to his pinched face. He sniffed shortly and lowered the cloth.
"I smell nothing. Absolutely nothing."
"See a doctor about that cold," Remo said, yanking the scarf back with a sudden jerk. He held it close to his nose, Smith saw. Remo's eyes reminded him of his own daughter's, back in the terrible days before she kicked her heroin habit. He shuddered inwardly at the smothering memory.
Smith adjusted his tie.
"I have other news."
"You find her?"