The Hamidi Arabian first line of defense was a string of sand-camouflaged trucks with open beds. They faced away from the neutral zone, as if poised for an immediate retreat.
Mounted on the flatbeds, their giant blades facing enemy territory, were the largest fans Remo had ever seen in his life.
They stood over twenty feet tall, gleaming blades protected by steel cages. Except for the size of the devices, they might have come off a Woolworth shelf.
"I don't believe it," Remo blurted out.
The sheik grinned his pleasure at the compliment.
"Awesome, are they not?" the sheik gloated. "Only a week ago, we had fans but half that size. My nephew, the prince general, conducted an inspection tour and saw the paltry blades and pronounced them inadequate to repel the Iraiti challenge. We have factories going twenty-four hours a day producing more. By autumn, the entire border-hundreds of miles long-will be so equipped."
"What good are fans against tanks?" Remo blurted out.
The sheik spat. "No damn good, by Allah. We do not fear Iraiti tanks. If the Iraitis send tanks, the Americans will bomb the hell out of them. It is their nerve gases that make even the most fearless of bedouins shiver in the hot sun. If they dare use their gases, we will blow them back into their cowardly faces. Inshallah!"
At the sound of that barked exclamation, a young man in an outrageous white uniform festooned with gold braid emerged from an air-conditioned tent.
"Uncle!" he cried, his dusky face lighting up.
"My nephew! Come, I have a great warrior you must meet."
As Remo and the sheik dismounted, Prince General Sulyman Bazzaz approached. He carried a bejeweled swagger stick and his radiant grin seemed like a hologram floating before his face. Even from a hundred yards away Remo could smell his after-shave. And he wasn't even trying.
"O long-lived one!" the prince general said, ignoring Remo. "You have come to see my handiwork."
"It is good, but it must wait. I must present an old friend of the Hamid family, the Master of Sinanju." The sheik indicated Remo with a flourish of his camel-hair thobe.
"Call me Remo," Remo said, putting out his hand. It was ignored. Remo tried to stuff both hands into his pants pockets, but the pocketless kimono resisted the gesture.
What a pain, Remo thought. I'm never going to get the hang of this diplomatic stuff.
"Who is this man?" the prince general asked in Arabic, eyeing Remo's hands with distaste. They were powdered by blowing sand.
"Look, let's cut to the chase," Remo said, abandoning decorum. "I need a lift into Kuran."
This brought a response from the prince general. "For what purpose?"
"He is on a secret mission for America," the sheik confided, drawing his nephew close to him with an insistent tugging on the prince general's braided sleeve. The two men huddled.
Remo folded his arms, but the swathlike kimono sleeves made it as impossible as pocketing them. He tucked them into his sleeves instead, feeling foolish as the wind kicked up, blowing powdery sand up his kimono skirt.
As the two Arabs talked, a whirlwind meandered by, seemingly coming from nowhere, a wavering column of whirling sand so dense it was impossible to see into its core.
No one paid it any special heed, although headdresses were pulled close to keep out the windblown grit. Interested, Remo watched the whirlwind blow past the position, dip into a shallow wadi, and carry airborne sand over the horizon.
When the two Arabs broke their huddle, the prince general stepped up to Remo and shook his hand with a loosefingered grip.
"I am delighted to meet an old friend of my uncle's. Ask and I shall grant your wish."
"How deep can you get me into Kuran?"
"As deep as you wish," Bazzaz said, surreptitiously wiping his right hand on the side of his immaculate thigh. "It is barren sand for hundreds of miles."
"Then let's go. I'm in a big rush."
Prince General Bazzaz led Remo and the sheik to a low-slung APC-type vehicle. It bristled with electronic sensors and spidery antennae. It might have been a NASA-surplus moon-rover.
"This is the perfect chariot for you," he said with toothy pride. "It is completely gasproof. It is German-made."
"Is that supposed to impress me?" Remo asked.
"Possibly. For you must understand that the Iraiti nerve gases are also made by Germans."
"The Black Forest must be hopping these days," Remo said.
"Not as much as Kuran is today. But we shall soon change that," Prince General Bazzaz promised, winking at his proud uncle, hovering nearby.
"Now you're talking," Remo said.
"Yes. Of course I am talking." The prince general looked puzzled.
"Skip it," Remo said wearily. "American slang."
The prince general and the sheik exchanged glances. They returned to muttering in Arabic. Remo wondered what they were saying, but decided it wasn't important enough to worry about.
"Is he CIA?" Prince General Bazzaz wondered, eyeing Remo. "I have heard they are not normal."
"No. You must forgive him. He is in mourning."
"He is a very lusty mourner," Prince General Bazzaz commented, noting the odd hang of the American's robe below the waist.
"I do not understand that either," the sheik admitted. "He has been that way for some four hours."
Bazzaz's eyes widened. "Truly? Perhaps he has Arab blood."
"Only Allah knows. Now, quickly, do as he bids. I do not relish being on the front lines."
The radiant smile returned to the prince general's well-tanned visage as he returned to Remo's side.
"All has been arranged. I will have my personal driver conduct you. Where do you wish to go? Exactly?"
"Abominadad," Remo said casually.
"Abominadad? You go to kill Maddas?"
"I wish."