Remo sighed. "Never mind. Let's get this caravan on the road."
"Truly." The prince general lifted his voice in Arabic. "Isma!"
A corpsman approached, looking more like a hotel doorman than a soldier. He listened to the prince general's rapid instructions with bright black eyes.
The prince general turned to Remo.
"It has been settled. You will be driven to the town of Fahad. We have resistance contacts there. You will find them on Afreet Street. Ask for Omar. He will get you into Irait."
"Great. Let's go."
The driver opened the side door of the APC for Remo.
He was surprised to find that the front seat was covered in white mink. The dashboard looked like Spanish leather.
"Let me guess," Remo asked the prince general. "This is your personal chariot?"
"Yes. How did you guess?"
"It's wearing the same perfume you are," Remo said, climbing in.
"It is Old Spice. I bathe in it daily."
The sheik drew up to the open door. He took Remo's hand in both of his. Before Remo could stop him, the old sheik kissed him twice. Once on each cheek. Remo let this pass.
"Salaam aleikim, Master of Sinanju," he said.
"Yeah, shalom to you too," Remo said.
Then a warbling siren jumped to life. It came from the prince general's tent. Every light on the APC's high-tech dashboard blinked and blazed like a Christmas tree.
"What the hell is going on?" Remo shouted.
"La!" Prince General Bazzaz shouted in a horrified voice. The sheik paled so fast his beard seemed to darken.
All over the camp, Arab soldiers jumped into rubberized chemical-warfare garb. Others, more brave, leapt for the trucks. Some manned the great fans. Others climbed into the cabs, where they shut themselves in, hitting dashboard buttons that engaged the great northward-pointing fans.
They roared into life, kicking up billows of obscuring sand and confirming for Remo what he had only begun to suspect.
It was a gas attack. And Remo was caught in the middle of it.
Chapter 29
In the darkness, there was nothing. No sound. No taste. No light. No heat. Cold was a mere recollection, not a palpable sensation. Only the memory of coldness and wetness and a bitter, bitter metallic taste.
Yet it was cold in the darkness. There was wetness. Water. It, too, was cold. But it did not feel cold because there was no feeling.
Somewhere in the darkness a spirit spark flickered. Awareness returned. Was this the Void? The question was unspoken. The answer nonexistent. Awareness faded. This was not the correct time. Perhaps the next time, he would try. Again. If there was a next time. If an eternity had not already crawled by since the last period of awareness.
As consciousness dimmed, a voice, female and discordantly musical, like a bell of basest metal, cut through the soundlessness of the abyss.
You cannot save him now. He is lost to you. He is mine. You are dead. Finish your dying, stubborn one.
The voice descended into low, diabolical laughter that followed his sinking mind into the blackest of pits that should have felt cold, but didn't.
Yet it was.
Chapter 30
Remo shut the APC door against the blowing sand. The dashboard was going crazy-gas-warning instruments, he decided. Either that or Old Spice had leaked into the electronics.
All around him, Arab soldiers flew into action. He was surprised at their discipline. Soon, every fan was roaring. The noise was like a million airplanes preparing for takeoff.
Prince General Bazzaz raced for a nearby helicopter. Its rotor roar blended with the rest. In a swirl of sand it took off, the sheik on board. Instead of retreating, however, the helicopter flew toward the north. Both members of the royal family were wearing gas masks. Remo was surprised at their apparent bravery.
Everyone had gotten into a gas suit by this time, including Remo's driver. Remo searched the cockpit for a mask of his own. He found one clipped under the dashboard. He pulled it over his head. It was a filter mask, with no attached oxygen tank. When he inhaled, the air smelled of charcoal, but it was breathable.
For several minutes the Arabs tended their fans, manually rotating them so their airstreams overlapped.
"Modern warfare," Remo grumbled. "Maybe next year they'll have automatic turning gears. Like K-Mart."
The helicopter quickly returned, blowing up more sand and adding to the confusion. Remo decided to wait for the sand to settle down before driving off. If anything, it got worse. Oddly, the sand seemed to be blowing back from the front lines, despite the fans' furious output. The blades were completely enveloped in dusty clouds.
Through the triple-paned windshield Remo could hear panicky exclamations in Arabic, none of which he understood.
Prince General Bazzaz fought his way through the gathering grit. He pounded on the door.
Remo opened it. "What's wrong?" he shouted over the din.
"We must retreat." His voice was muffled by his mask.
"Why? The fans are doing fine."
"The Iraiti are advancing. It is war."
"With tanks?"
"No, they have outsmarted us. They have fans too. And theirs are bigger than ours."
"You're joking," Remo exclaimed.
"I am not. This vehicle is needed for the retreat. I am sorry. You are on your own."
"Thanks a bunch," Remo said dryly.
"You are welcome a bunch. Now, please, step out."