He knew it would protect him until the Soviets came to succor him.
When word came that the Soviets had joined the global embargo, Maddas Hinsein had taken to carrying the abayuh in a briefcase, and toting the briefcase wherever he went.
And at night, when he slept, he slept swathed in its protective folds. He told himself that this was to facilitate his escape in case of a coup, or worse. But the truth was far different.
The truth was that Maddas Hinsein loved to wear the abayuh.
He had first begun to suspect these tendencies in Egypt. Once he had assumed the presidential office-by doing away with the previous President, his mentor-President Hinsein had buried the abayuh in a trunk, where it would not tempt him. And most of all, where his wife, Numibasra, would never find it. The woman was a witch. And her brothers, Maddas knew, secretly plotted against him. Only because he would never have heard the end of it from his wife did Maddas refrain from having them beheaded.
One day, he told himself. One day.
But today Maddas Hinsein's thoughts were not of his wife and her cutthroat brothers, but of the reports he was receiving from his general staff.
Maddas paced his office. The aides would come to the door, knocking their timid, sycophantic knocks.
"I am receiving no one," Maddas barked. "Give me your report and go."
"They have found more dead soldiers," the aides called. "The yellow cords around their throats."
"Soldiers exist to die," Maddas spat back. "They are martyrs now and better off."
"The defense minister wants to know if you plan a military response to these outrages?"
Maddas Hinsein stopped pacing. The black abayuh skirt rustled against his shiny black paratroop boots.
This was the question he feared. He had brought the wrath of the world down on his head through his own ignorance, but he dared not admit it. So he had hunkered down, giving pronouncements, calling on rival Arab nations to join him in a jihad. And he had been ignored. Nothing that he had done worked. No threat. No bluster.
And now his own high command, the cowardly toadies, were demanding to know what response he would make to this CIA assassin who was terrorizing Abominadad.
"Tell him," Maddas said at last, "I will make a response to the world once this infidel strangler is brought to my door. And if he is not, then I will demand the defense minister's head instead."
The aide rushed away. Beneath the black cloth covering his face, Maddas Hinsein smiled suavely.
That would keep them occupied. Maddas Hinsein would not be stampeded into war by one mere CIA assassin-spy.
Lifting his hands over his head, he snapped his fingers in an ancient syncopation and performed the dance of the seven veils in the privacy of his office, throwing his hips out with each snap and humming under his breath.
"Mad Ass Mad Ass Mad Ass," he crooned. "I am one crazy-assed Arab, and the whole world knows it."
But as the hours passed, the aides kept coming.
"More dead, Precious Leader. Strangled."
"We have searched everywhere, Precious Leader. The she-wolf is not to be found."
"The minister of the interior, Precious Leader, has been found in his quarters. Assassinated with a yellow cord."
"Do you not see what the Americans are trying to do?" Maddas thundered back. "They are trying to trick us into war. I will not have war on their terms, but on mine."
That had held them another hour while Maddas luxuriated in the feel of the fine abayuh, bumping and grinding merrily.
Then came a knock unlike any other. More tentative, more faint of heart. The knock of a fear-struck coward.
"Precious Leader," the quavering voice began. "What is it?" Maddas barked.
"I am very sorry to report this to you, but the Renaissance Guard surrounding your home has been decimated."
"They were the flower of Iraiti manhood, how can this be?"
"They were strangled, Precious Leader. Yellow silk knots about their strong Arab necks."
"And my family? Of course they have escaped while their noble defenders held their ground, spilling their very red martyrs' blood."
The silence brought Maddas Hinsein up from his couch. He yanked the abayuh hood from his face. Striding over to the door, he roared through it.
"I have asked a question!"
"I am sorry, Precious Leader. Your family is . . . dead."
Maddas' soulful eyes went round.
"My wife too?"
"I am so sorry," the aide sobbed through the wood.
"And her brothers, my brothers-in-law?"
"Gone," he choked. "All gone. It is a day of mourning. But fear not, the Americans will pay. We will scorch the earth under their heathen feet. The blood of your martyred family will sear their lungs. You have only to give the word and we will repay the aggressors in blood."
But Maddas Hinsein wasn't listening to his aide's grief-twisted voice.
He was feeling a coldness settle into his stomach and lungs.
"They want war," he said huskily. "The crazy Americans are trying to force me to attack. They must be insane."
Chapter 26
The Military Airlift Command C-5 Galaxy that carried Remo Williams from McGuire Air Force Base also carried a single cabled-down M-IA1 Abrams tank, the Army's latest. It was one of the last to be shipped in support of Operation Sand Blast.
The bulky vehicle left little room for Remo in back. But he insisted on riding in the cavernous cargo bay, sitting on a tatami mat so he wouldn't get engine oil on his fine silk kimono, which he had had altered to fit him by a dumbstruck tailor.
Remo sat in a lotus position, the drumming of the Galaxy's turboprop engines making everything in the cargo bay vibrate with soul-deadening monotony.
Early in the flight, Remo had found the vibration and absorbed it until his body no longer vibrated in sympathy with the great propellers. Only the neat edges of his mat did.
The flight was long and boring. Remo sat comfortably, the kimono fabric stretched tight over his lap. It hid his persistent erection.