What would happen when they met again? He wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman, but not in a good way. He lusted for her. Yet he hated her, with her many arms and twisted neck. And most of all he hated the thing that animated her. For Remo understood that Kimberly had died. Like a ghoulish puppet, Kali made her live again. And Remo would have to finish the job. If he could.
In the noisy back of the C-5, he closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. It helped push out the memories-of her burning-hot, sensual hands, her eager red mouth, her insatiable sexual appetite. Remo had feasted on sex while in her arms, and he knew as long as they both lived he could never rest until he returned to that feast-or destroyed the table.
But it made him wonder. Would he lose Remo Williams at the feast? And would the spark deep within him that was Shiva the Destroyer consume all that was his identity?
Remo shuddered. He had never felt so alone.
Closing his eyes, he slept sitting up.
And in sleep, he dreamed.
Remo dreamed of feminine hands with canary-yellow nails. The hands surrounded him. First they caressed. Then they pinched at his soft tissues between caresses. Remo lay on a bed, his eyes closed. The pinching grew spiteful. The caresses dwindled. But Remo had already succumbed to the latter.
As he lay helpless, the biting fingers began plucking the meat off his bones. Remo opened his eyes in his dream and saw that below the waist he was a skeletonized collection of gleaming red bones. He screamed.
And Kimberly Baynes, her face painted black, snapped one of his bloody femurs in two and fell to sucking out the sweet yellowish marrow.
The changing pitch of the C-5's engines saved Remo from his nightmare. He awoke drenched in sweat under the unfamiliar feel of silk.
The plane was descending in a long gliding approach. The whine of the dropping landing gear pierced his drowsy ears.
Remo remained in his lotus position until he felt the sudden bark and bump of the fat tires hit, as they bounced and then touched down. Momentum dying, the plane rolled to a slow stop.
Remo stood up. He faced the rear gate. The hydraulics began to toil, dropping the gate and admitting a hot blast of desert air.
When the gate had settled into a kind of ramp, Remo stepped out into the blazing sun.
A cluster of people stood awaiting him. Spit-and-polish Arabian soldiers who looked dressed for a parade and civilians in flowing white thobes.
And standing in front of them, his knotted brown hands clasped before the familiar red-and-brown robes of his clan, stood Sheik Abdul Hamid Fareem, ruler of Hamidi Arabia. Upon recognizing Remo, his long dour face broke into a pleased smile, his tufted chin dropping.
Remo stepped forward with the assured pride of a Master of Sinanju. This was his first encounter with a head of state as Reigning Master and he wanted to make a good impression. He tried to remember the proper Arabic words of greeting. It had been so many years since he and Chiun had first met the sheik. Now, what was the word for "hello"? Oh, yeah.
Remo stopped only a foot in front of the sheik. Giving a short bow, he said, "Shalom."
The sheik started. All around, Arabic voices muttered darkly. A few surreptitious hands pointed down to the impolite bulge at the white infidel's midsection.
The sheik forced his frozen smile to stay fixed on his weathered old face.
"Ahlan Wusahlan," he said. "This means 'welcome.' "
"I knew that," Remo lied. "Inshallah to you too." He remembered Arabs were always salting their sentences with inshallah. You couldn't go wrong with inshallah.
"Perhaps it would be better to speak English," Sheik Fareem ventured.
"Good idea," Remo said, wondering if he had gotten "hello" right.
"Am I to understand that you carry on the affairs of the House of Sinanju now that the Master of Sinanju known as Chiun no longer walks the earth?"
"I have that honor," Remo said gravely. He decided to keep his answers short so he sounded more like a Master of Sinanju. Inside, he was itching to cut through the B.S. But he was Master now.
"The bond that binds the House of Hamidi to the House of Sinanju is too strong to be broken by death," the sheik intoned. "Come, let us walk together."
Just in time, Remo remembered that it was Hamidi custom for men to hold hands when conversing.
The sheik reached out for Remo's hand. Remo quickly stuffed his hands into his sleeves. They walked. The sheik's entourage trailed silently.
Sheik Fareem led him to a nearby striped tent beside which two sleek Arabian horses stood tethered, walking very close. That was another thing about Arabs Remo didn't like. They did all their talking practically nose to nose.
Remo only wished his breath didn't smell like liver and garlic mixed with Turkish tobacco.
They entered the tent, the others remaining respectfully outside. Taking places on a Persian rug, they faced one another. Remo declined an offered plate of sheep's eyes, as well as a bubble pipe. The sheik indulged in the latter quietly for some moments before he resumed speaking.
"You still serve America?" he inquired.
"Yes."
"We would pay more," he suggested, fingering his beard.
Remo was no more interested in working for Hamidi Arabia than he wanted to eat sand, but Chiun had always cautioned him never to alienate a potential client. Remo might have the luxury of declining the sheik's offer, but one of Remo's successors might not be so fortunate.
In his mind he said, You old slave trader. Sinanju is for hire, not for sale.
Aloud he said, "This is possible. My term of contract with America will end soon."
"We would pay much for the head of the Arab traitor Maddas Hinsein," the sheik suggested. "He who dares call himself the Scimitar of the Arabs." Fareem spat noisily in the sand. "We call him Ayb al-Arab-the Shame of the Arabs-a renegade who hides behind women and children rather than face the consequences of his foul overreaching appetites."
"If I come into possession," Remo said with a slight smile, "I might just make you a present of it."
The sheik took a quick hit on his pipe, the corners of his withered lips twitching. Remo realized he was trying to mask a grin of amusement.
"You have come here at the behest of the U.S. government," Fareem resumed, "an emissary of which told me to expect you. How may I repay the debt between Hamidi and Sinanju?"
"I need to get into Kuran. And from there into Irait."
"Death awaits any American who ventures into either place."
"I bring death," Remo told him. "I do not accept it from others."
The sheik nodded. "Well spoken. You are a true son of your teacher. The House is in good hands."
"Thank you," Remo said simply, feeling his heart swell with pride lust as his stomach knotted in a sharp pang of grief. If only Chiun were here to hear the sheik's words.
"I will personally ride with you to the frontier and deliver you into the hands of the Kurani resistance. Would this serve your needs?"
Remo nodded. "It would."