Maddas Hinsein didn't hear the ringing telephone through the satisfyingly meaty smacking sounds. Then they stopped.
"Why do you deny me, my sweet?" he asked, lifting his face off the fluffy pillow, unhappiness writ large in his deep soulful eyes. They were in a torture chamber deep in the Palace of Sorrows, lying on a medieval iron bed. The spikes had been replaced by a mattress.
Poised above his naked beet-red behind, four hot-pink palms hovered. One disappeared from view. It returned, clutching a telephone receiver. The hand-its nails as yellow as banana peel-brought the mouthpiece to Maddas' unhappy lips.
"Attend to business first, and I will finish you after."
"Yes, O all-adept one," the Scourge of the Arabs said meekly.
Maddas' voice lost its submissive coloring. "Have I not told you I was not to be disturbed?" he barked into the phone.
"A thousand pardons, O Precious Leader," his defense minister replied in a shaky voice. "Our offensive has collapsed."
Maddas blinked. Of course. The gas attack. He had been having such a good time, he had forgotten he ordered it. In truth, he half-expected to die at any moment from U.S. blockbuster bombs, so he had left the operational details to his generals.
"What happened?" he wanted to know.
"The trucks fell over. Should we send more trucks?"
"No. Obviously they have larger fans than even our spies in Hamidi Arabia reported. Have all our spies recalled and executed."
"But that will give us no spies in enemy territory."
"No spies are preferable to wrong spies. Do this, or I will have your children hanged in front of your eyes."
"But I have no children. You are perhaps thinking of the previous defense minister's children, whom you had chopped up and served to his wife. Cold."
"Then I will have the previous defense minister's wife beheaded before your eyes," Maddas Hinsein bellowed. "Do this!"
"At once," the defense minister said crisply. He hesitated. "There . . . there is further intelligence, Precious Leader."
"Speak."
"Our brave forces have captured an American spy. He has promised to reveal all of America's attack plans."
"I have heard this before . . ." Maddas growled. "Man or woman?"
"Man. Definitely. He is one horny infidel, too."
"Is this man tall with dark hair and eyes, with wrists mightier than any Arab's?"
Thinking it was a trick question, the defense minister hesitated.
"Answer!" Maddas roared, unhappy that the delicious stinging sensation was deserting his overstimulated backside.
"Yes, Precious Leader. But how did you know?"
Maddas pushed the receiver aside with his chin. "You spoke truly. He has come."
"Never doubt me," Kimberly Baynes said sweetly. "All you desire will come to pass if you never doubt me."
He turned his mouth to the receiver again. "Have him brought to me."
"At once, Precious Leader."
Kimberly Baynes replaced the receiver on its cradle. She adjusted the black cords that kept Maddas Hinsein, absolute master of Irait and Kuran, spread-eagled and helpless on the four-poster bed. He lay on his stomach.
Maddas buried his face in the big pillow. "You may finish me," he said with a muffled sigh.
"The man who comes is an American agent."
"I know. Please, continue your patriotic duty."
"He is the one who tied the yellow scarves around the necks of your family and all the others now cooling their flesh in the Maddas Morgue."
"He will pay for this with his life," Maddas vowed. "No doubt he pretended to be a woman the first time because he is a cross-dresser. There is nothing lower. Except a Jew."
"No. There is a better fate in store for him."
Maddas lifted his head. "The best fate for a would-be assassin is to die as an example to other assassins who dream of taking my place."
"He is the finest assassin in the world. He could serve you."
"I have all the assassins I require. Now, please, my redlipped pomegranate. Continue."
"This one could strike at any enemy you name, fearless, without compunction, without any chance of failure."
Kimberly Baynes's words made Maddas Hinsein forget his stinging-backside.
"How can I control such a person?" he asked, interested.
"You need not. I will do that for you. For he is fated to be my soul slave forever."
"Just as long as you preserve your artful hands for the corporeal buttocks of Maddas Hinsein and none other."
"Of course."
A firm hand pushed his face into the scented pillow and the hands began their delicious rippling tattoo.
Maddas sighed contentedly. This was the good life. How could a man who felt this good not end up lording it over all Arabia?
Remo Williams was feeling good.
After he had convinced Colonel Abdulla to accept his surrender, there had been no delays. A helicopter had ferried him to a desert airstrip where a Sukhoi-7 airplane awaited him, its engines kicking up clouds of stinging sand.
Remo was escorted to a seat just behind the pilot's compartment and as an honored deserter was asked if there was anything he would like.