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brought into the base and dealt with every manner of off-the-wall order handed down by the brass, so he didn't so much as blink when he was given emergency top-security clearance to fly the Grumann to a destination known only to his civilian passenger. And he exhibited no surprise when the passenger told him to reroute the helicopter to the nearest airbase housing supersonic jets. Nor did he offer up any questions when he arrived at the base and was immediately handed a new set of top-security clearance papers to land a massive F-16 on a stretch of barren ground somewhere in western South Dakota and pick up two other civilian passengers who would direct him to his next destination. The pilot took one look at the amount of liquid oxygen and hydrogen peroxide fuel being pumped, boiling and steaming, into the F-16, and knew it was going to be a long flight, wherever he was going.
But it was all in a day's work. The pilot didn't much care who gave the orders, as long as they didn't try to fly the plane. He sat back in the flight lounge and poured himself a cup of coffee as the lemony-faced man called a taxi to take him to the nearest airport. He was probably some bureaucrat, sent to check out the efficiency of emergency operations, or some kind of nonsense like that. The two guys in South Dakota were probably doing the same thing.
The F-16 was going to be a ride and a half for them. Well, what the hell, the pilot thought. Let them have their thrill. It'll probably be the high point of their entire boring, ordinary lives.
Civilians, he thought, nodding off for a quick nap. They'll never know what real excitement is. He felt sorry for them.
Chapter Seventeen
Felix Foxx lit a slim cheroot in the anteroom to the Prince's Chamber in the Great Palace of Anatola in Zadnia. Prince Anatole had built the palace and named it, like his country's capital city, after himseif. During the corrupt and pagan days of Anatole's reign before Ruomid Halaffa and a handful of treasonous soldiers deposed him in the name of justice and decency, the Prince's Chamber had been shamefully misused as a playpen, where Anatole and his confidantes carried on affairs of state through orgies of drinking and gambling and wenching with a bevy of girls imported from the deserts of the south.
Halaffa heaped scorn on the playboy prince for his wanton ways. After Anatole's execution, when the prince's bloodied head was impaled atop a minaret tower for all to see and despise, Halaffa announced the roster of sweeping changes he would bring to Zadnia. One of the main points of his stirring speech that day was that never again would the urgent matters of state be discussed in an atmosphere as besot-ten and sinful as the notorious Prince's Chamber.
He fulfilled his promise. During Halaffa's own orgies of drinking and gambling and wenching, absolutely no
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affairs of state were discussed. Discussion of affairs of state were limited to Monday morning between 10:00 and 10:30 A.M., immediately following the morning executions and just before the palace's mid-morning hashish break.
Foxx tipped the ash off the cheroot onto the floor, where it joined the mound of butts already deposited at his feet. Behind him, the gilded double doors leading to the Prince's Chamber reverberated with raucous shouting and singing and the high screams of Halaffa's concubines.
"But it's important," Foxx had told the guard at the gate, who had received instructions to send away anyone who didn't bring a bottle. "It's an affair of state."
"Come back Monday," the guard said in a nasal singsong. "Affairs of state between ten, ten-thirty."
"It's an emergency."
"Emergencies between one, one-thirty," said the guard, sounding like an Eastern bagpipe.
"This could mean world disaster," Foxx said in desperation.
"World disasters between three, three-thirty."
Foxx was frantic. "Look, I've got to see him. Aren't there any circumstances where Halaffa would see me before ten o'clock Monday morning?"
"Only super-duper emergency-casualty-world-destruction priority come before Monday morning, ten o'clock," the guard said.
"Fine. I'll take that."
"Monday morning, nine-thirty," the guard said.
At last Foxx managed, with the help of a fifty-dollar bill, to persuade the guard to escort him to the anteroom. That was six hours ago. Since then, Foxx's agitation had blossomed into the beginnings of a nervous breakdown. His hands trembled. He saw spots in front
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of his eyes. His mouth was dry. With every swallow the membranes of his throat stuck together like two pieces of Scotch tape.
it was blown! The whole beautiful, foolproof cover of Shangri-la had been discovered and somehow infiltrated by some lunatic in a tee-shirt. The man named Remo had gotten as far as the Team itself. Of course, the Team would have made short work of the thin young man and his ancient Oriental partner, but it was the principle: They knew. After almost thirty years, someone knew about the Team. And if they knew, who else might know?
It was time to go underground, to hole up in Zadnia for a year, until things blew over. He'd brought enough procaine in his plane to last him as long as it was necessary to hide out. Of course, the Team didn't have enough to get them through the next week, but he couid form a new Team. It would take work, but it was possible. As for the fools at Shangri-la, there would always be more people with money, willing to trade their millions for Foxx's fountain of youth. The guests at the house in Pennsylvania were dead by now, anyway. He couldn't afford to waste time, worrying about them.
The double doors opened a crack, filling the anteroom with noise and the scent of stale smoke and whiskey fumes. Halaffa stood inside the doors, his back to Foxx, laughing and shouting in Arabic to the others in the Prince's Chamber. He was still laughing when he stepped into the anteroom.
"Your Highness," Foxx said, bowing on his knees before Halaffa. Halaffa's smile broke off and was replaced by a scowl.
"What do you want that is important enough to disturb me from the responsibilities of high office?" he bellowed.
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"I seek asylum, Magnificence," Foxx squeaked. "There is a madman who has learned of our plans. He pursued me to the secret lair of my soldiers. He knows all. Perhaps he has communicated with others. The plan has been ruined. I come to you now to ask, not for payment for the three assassinations already performed perfectly, but only for a place where I may hide from the authorities of my pig-governed country until we have disappeared from the minds of those capitalist buffoons."
"I beg your pardon?" Halaffa asked.
"They're onto us. We have to-"
"Us? We?" Halaffa roared. "Your idiot plan goes up in smoke, and you dare to implicate me, Halaffa himself?"
"But it was your pla-"
"You are stupid enough to get caught performing treacherous acts against your country, and you expect me to grant you asylum?"
"Well, I only thought-"
"Where are your soldiers?"
"They're at my base, sir, your Highness, sir."
"You left them?"
"Well, this man was after me, sir, quite an extraordinary man, really. He hung out of a window-"
"You are a bigger ass than I thought. By Allah, you must be the biggest, roundest, reddest ass in the world! Are you mad? Do you think I would give even one moment's consideration to a man who would desert his own soldiers, while he flees to safety?"
"Actually, it wasn't quite that dramatic," Foxx tried to explain.
"Would I trust for one second a man who, without hesitation, would expose me and my country in a scheme that would cast us as villains the world over?"
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"Oh, I think it'll all blow over in a few weeks-"
"Guard!" Halaffa screamed. "Take this vermin away. Place him before the firing squad at dawn tomorrow."