"Yes, Precious Leader. It concerns me deeply."
At that, Maddas Hinsein drew his pearl-handled revolver and shot the worried minister full in the face. He fell forward. His face went splat on the table, breaking like a water balloon. Except the water was scarlet.
"Your fears are groundless." Maddas told him, "for you are beyond their bombs now." He looked around the room. "Are there any others who are concerned about falling before a U.S. bombardment?"
No one spoke.
"You are all very brave," Maddas murmured. "We meet in Arab Renaissance Square in one hour. After today, we will know who stands with us and who against."
Polite applause rattled the wall hangings, and Maddas Hinsein took his departure.
No more would they call him Kebir Gamoose.
Selim Fanek's visage was known throughout the world. His was the official face of Maddas Hinsein. When President Hinsein wished to give a speech over television, it was Selim Fanek who gave it. He had been chosen because, above all others, he most resembled Maddas Hinsein. It was an honored post.
So when Selim Fanek received a personal call from his beloved Precious Leader to officiate at the public execution of Reverend Jackman and Don Cooder, he took it as a great honor.
But as the official car whirled him to Arab Renaissance Square, he realized that this could be a double-edged honor.
For this made him a participant in what the Americans might call a war crime-and suddenly Selim Fanek had a vision of himself swinging from the end of an American rope.
Since his options swung between the rough bite of American hemp and the blistering wrath of Maddas Hinsein, he swallowed hard and beseeched Allah to strike the U.S. forces dead from thirst.
When the door opened on their Sheraton Shaitan suite, at first Don Cooder took the uniformed intruders for an American task force sent to personally liberate him. He had counted on his network to pull strings. He was paid whether he broadcast or not.
The grim mustachioed faces of two Renaissance Guards, like cookie-cutter Maddas Hinseins, stopped his shout of triumph in his throat.
"You . . . you guys aren't Americans," he blurted stupidly.
"We are the execution escort," he was told.
Ever the newsman, Don Cooder asked his question first and thought about it later. "Who's being executed?"
They seized him roughly, and two more went in after Reverend Jackman.
"I knew they'd free us," Jackman whispered as they were hustled down the stairs.
"They say they're the execution escort." Cooder hissed.
"Yeah? Who's being executed?"
"I think it's us."
"Is it us?" Reverend Jackman asked tightly of one guard.
"You have been condemned to die before all the world."
"Does that mean cameras?" Reverend Jackman and Don Cooder said a quarter-second apart.
"I believe it is called simulcasting," the guard offered.
The Reverend and the anchorman exchanged glances. The glances said that the news was bad, but at least they were going out as the centers of attention.
"Is my hair okay?" asked Don Cooder.
"Am I sweating?" asked Reverend Jackman. "I don't want my people to remember me all sweaty."
Then together they asked the escort if they had a final request.
"Yes," they were told.
Reverend Jackman requested a good makeup man. The best.
Don Cooder asked if he could go first.
Reverend Jackman decided going first took precedence over a good makeup man. "Let my people see me sweat. Sweatin's no sin."
They argued about who would have top billing at their mutual execution all the way to the crossed scimitars of Arab Renaissance Square.
Remo Williams, dressed like a scarlet-and-purple genie out of The Arabian Nights, stepped from the overheated armored car. His hair was wet, and the sweat crawled down his exposed and sunburned chest between the loose wings of his purple vest.
Kimberly Baynes led him past the crowd that surged on either side of the broad throroughfare that ran through Arab Renaissance Square like a sea of mustaches. He passed under the shadow of the upraised scimitars. It felt like the cold shadow of death falling over him.
Kimberly stopped at a wooden platform like a reviewing stand positioned in the middle of the thoroughfare, directly under the apex of the crossed sabers.
"Ascend," she commanded.
Remo mounted the stairs, his legs wood, but his Sinanju-trained feet as silent as a whisper.
The reviewing stand was awash with Renaissance Guards, AK-47's at the ready. They stood between the Revolting Command Council, who wore condemned expressions, and a knot of people at the front of the stand.
Still blinking the light from his eyes, Remo raked that group, looking for Maddas Hinsein.
He discerned a tall Arab woman in an abayuh surrounded by several persons who might have been Maddas Hinsein: one wearing an all-white suit that made him look like the Bad Humor Man, another in a khaki uniform, and a third in a green burnoose. Remo squinted, trying to identify which was Maddas.
He gave up. It was like trying to distinguish among dates.
The man swathed in a green burnoose abruptly stepped forward and, lifting his hands in the familiar palms-up benediction, faced the crowd. The crowd roared their response.
In the shadowy folds of his headdress, the familiar brushy mustache of Maddas Hinsein quirked in a cold smile. He spoke into the microphone. The crowd roared and the brown hands emerged from his robes to gesture toward Remo. The crowd went wild.
"The Iraiti people are very proud of you," whispered Kimberly Baynes, hovering behind Remo and translating. "They think you are the only righteous American in the world."
"Where'd you learn Arabic?" Remo thought to ask.
"Your future bride taught me." And she laughed.