They stood up.
"Have you learned to ride a horse since you sojourned here last?" the sheik inquired.
"Yes."
A twinkle of pleasure came into the old sheik's wizened eyes.
"Good. A man who cannot ride is not much of a man."
"That's what they told me in Outer Mongolia, where I learned horsemanship."
Sheik Abdul Hamid Fareem frowned in the shadow of his ceremonial headdress. "They do not possess sound horseflesh in Outer Mongolia," he spat. "Only runt ponies."
"A horse is a horse," Remo said, adding under his breath, "Of course, of course."
The sheik gave the tent flap an impatient jerk, stooping as he stepped out. Remo followed.
"You will ride one of these beauties," the sheik said with pride, patting the flank of one white horse, who flared his pink nostrils in recognition. "They are the finest steeds in all Araby-which of course means the world. Are you man enough?"
Instead of answering, Remo mounted with a smooth, continuous motion that brought a slight nod of the Arab chief's ghurta.
The sheik took to his own saddle. He turned his steed around and slapped it with his reins. The horse plunged away.
Remo followed suit. They rode off into the desert, two warriors carrying on their shoulders the weight of thousands of years of tradition and glory.
Chapter 27
Maddas Hinsein refused to come out of his office.
All day long, the nervous aides kept coming.
"Precious Leader, the UN have announced a new resolution."
"I do not care. They make resolutions because they are afraid to fight."
"This resolution has condemned the entire Irait command structure to be hanged for war crimes."
"Let them declare war if they wish to hang me."
"Precious Leader, there is no word from our ambassador in Washington. It is the third day."
"Have the defector's family hanged as collaborators."
"Precious Leader, the UN have decreed more sanctions against Irait unless Kuran is immediately relinquished and Reverend Jackman is allowed his freedom."
This required thought. Maddas Hinsein pulled his abayuh around himself tightly. It always helped him to think.
"We can defeat their tricks easily," he said at last. "I hereby decree that Irait and Kuran have merged into a single entity. We are henceforth to be known as Iran, and these cowardly resolutions no longer apply to us."
"But, Precious Leader," he was told, "there already exists an Iran."
"Who are our mortal enemies," Maddas spat. "Let them eat the UN sanctions."
The aide had no answer to that. He went away. Maddas grinned, pleased with himself. Throughout his career, he had always found a way around the laws of the civilized world. Why hadn't he thought of this before? Yes, if there were two Irans, they could not level sanctions against one without leveling them at the other. It was a diplomatic masterstroke, almost as brilliant as the mustache decree. The world could no more denigrate him as an ignorant, untraveled Arab again.
Then came the news that even Maddas Hinsein could not ignore.
"Precious Leader."
"What!"
"Word has just come from the villa of your mistress, Yasmini. It was attacked. The guards lie strangled, the contents of their bowels heavy in their pants. It is horrible."
"They died defending their leader's mistress," Maddas returned stiffly. "Greater love has no Moslem than this."
"There is good news, Precious Leader."
"What?"
"Your mistress, she is safe."
Maddas stopped his heavy pacing. "Safe?"
"Yes, the Renaissance Guard must have beaten off the attack with their dying breaths. For when the change of guard entered the villa, they found your mistress still living. Unstrangled. Is this not a glorious day?"
Maddas Hinsein blinked his moist brown eyes several times, his brutal mouth going slack in the privacy of his veil.
"Where is she now?" he demanded hoarsely.
"We have brought her here to the palace, where she is safe, of course. She awaits your pleasure."
"One moment," Maddas Hinsein said, climbing out of his abayuh. He hastily stuffed it into his briefcase and carried it out of the office. He emerged, his other hand on the pearlhandled pistol dangling in a hip holster.
"Take me to my beloved Yasmini," he ordered.
The aide hastened to obey. Two Renaissance Guards fell in behind, at a respectful distance. Respectful, because they knew that President Hinsein was in the habit of shooting on the spot guards who inadvertently stepped on the backs of his boots.
The aide brought them all to a black door on a lower floor. It opened on one of the fifty-five bedrooms he used in rotation.
"In here," he said, grinning with pride.
"How do you know that the woman inside is truly my beloved Yasmini?" Maddas Hinsein asked slowly.
The aide's grin collapsed. Obviously the possibility was a new one to him.
"I . . . she . . . that is . . ." The guard steadied his nerve with a deep breath. "When the guard entered the house, she sat quietly, as if awaiting rescue."