"You don't have to be belligerent. We're not in a war yet," Bull-said.
"What can these things do?" Remo said, waving toward the troops, some of whom stood in clusters talking, some of whom lay on the ground napping, in the large open area before the main headquarters building.
"I think one of them is a ju-jitsu expert. Somebody told me once that a couple of them know how to use knives. They all have those little things that shoot . . . er, rifles. Right, rifles. I think there's a bunch of them who are good at jumping wires and starting parked
cars.
164
"Maybe we can mug the other army," Remo said. He heard a faint tapping sound from the side of the building.
"Do you hear that noise?" he asked.
"Yeah. That's our press agent."
"You've got a press agent for this army?" Remo asked.
"Of course. How else is the world going to know not to mess with Hamidi Arabia unless we have a press agent working?" Bull said.
"What's her name?"
"Actually, she's not really a press agent," Bull said. "She's a journalist. But she's as good as a press agent."
"Show me," Remo said. "Maybe she can fight. We can make her acting commander-in-chief in the field."
They walked toward the corner of the building, and as soon as they saw General Bull turn his back, most of the soldiers ran away. The rest were sleeping.
A small folding table was set up in the shade alongside the headquarters building. A woman sat at it, in front of a typewriter, tapping on the keys with a pencil she held in her teeth.
Remo stopped to watch. He said to Bull, "Wouldn't it be easier if she typed with her hands?"
"She can't do that."
"Why not? Who is she anyway?"
"Melody Wakefield. She's from The Boston Blade."
"Christ, that explains it," Remo said. "I had to read that paper once. She's on your side?"
"Mostly she's against the Israelis," Bull said. "I don't read her stuff myself, but that's what I think she's up to."
"Why's she against the Israelis?"
"I keep asking that. What I think is that out here the people most like the Americans are the Israelis. And she hates the Americans, so she takes it out on the Israelis by hating them too."
"Bull, that's the first smart thing I ever heard you say," Remo said.
He watched the young woman drop the pencil from
her lips, lean forward and, with her teeth, pull the piece of paper from the typewriter. She placed the paper atop others in a pile and then with her nose pushed a small stone on top of the pile to prevent its blowing away. She stuck out her tongue and pressed it to another stack of paper. One clean sheet adhered to her wet tongue, and she lifted it to the typewriter. After three tries, she got the end of the paper to slip into the paper feed. With her teeth, she bit onto the carriage roller and turned the paper into the machine. Then she picked up the pencil again with her teeth and began typing, slowly, laboriously.
Remo walked around behind the woman, who was concentrating deeply on her work. Her hands were stuck into the pockets of her thin khaki army-style bush jacket. Remo looked over her shoulder.
On the last page, she had written: "The American media has invented an insensitive, cruel Islam to hate, just as it invented the dangers of communism in Vietnam and Cambodia."
She felt Remo standing there and turned toward him.
He nodded toward the page. "Good stuff," he said.
She dropped her pencil. "This book is going to do for the Middle East what my last book did for Vietnam and Cambodia. It'll rip the mask of hypocrisy off the American imperialists and their Israeli lackeys and show all those with an eye for truth that the wave of the future is Islam, benevolent, just, kind Islam."
"Sounds good to me," Remo said. The broad was a daffodil. He remembered that he had seen her byline and that her grandfather had run The Blade until he had died. Maybe there was genetic brain-softening in the whole family.
"I just don't understand why you don't type with your fingers instead of with your mouth," Remo said.
Melody Wakefield pulled her arms from the lower pockets of her jacket. She had no hands. Her arms ended at the wrists, in bandaged stumps.
"Oh," Remo said. "I'm sorry. What happened?" 166
"A merchant in the bazaar. He saw me take atv apple from his stand. I don't know what the big deal was. I always do that in Boston and nobody complains. Anyway, he called the police. They arrested me, and an Islamic court ordered the traditional sentence carried out."
"They cut off your hands? For stealing an apple?"
"It is written in their holy book. I shouldn't have taken the apple. But if I had sought special treatment, I would have been guilty of trying to undermine, by American power, all the truth and justice of the Islamic movement."
"Don't forget benevolence and kindness," Remo said.
"Right. Islam. True, just, benevolent, and kind."
"Spoken like a dipshit without hands," Remo said. He looked at her shirt front. Maybe they had cut off her breasts too. She certainly didn't have any. Would they do that? Yes, they would, but they probably hadn't had to. She looked as if she had never had any.
"What are you doing here today?" Remo asked.
Tm here to interview soldiers. I want the world to know how progressive Islam really is. You know in America, they think jihad, a holy war, is a bad thing. But it's not like they want to kill everybody who's not a Moslem. Jihad really only means social reform. Far superior to any American reform. I'm going to prove that in my book by interviewing soldiers. Did I tell you my book on Vietnam and Cambodia won an award?"
"I would have been astonished if it hadn't," Remo said. "Let's see. The American militarists, needing a war to keep their economy alive, tried to impose their decadent and corrupt will on the sweet, peace-loving people of Vietnam and Cambodia. But freedom-loving people all over the world banded together in the cause of liberty to drive out the ugly American invaders and turn their countries over to sweet agrarian reformers who promised land to all the peasants and free elections as soon as possible."
'167
Melody Wakefield squealed with delight. "You read my book," she said.
"I didn't have to," Remo said. "I spent a year one day reading your grandfather's newspaper." He noticed that Bull was still standing by the side of the building, looking at them.
"General?" Remo called. "Any objection if she interviews your soldiers?"
"No, none at all. I told you, she's a press agent. She won't write anything to hurt an Arab. If she does, she'll get her tits cut off."