"Sultan Omay! Sultan Omay!"
The chorus of voices screamed the name of the aged ruler as he settled in behind the podium.
The Eblan monarch looked weaker to them than at any time in the past. Even back during the near fatal bout with cancer that had turned him from the path of terror. His eyes were bleary, his body shaky. He gripped the edge of the podium for support.
"Sultan Omay!" In the first row of seats a reporter from America's BCN network screamed the name so loudly, ropy veins bulged in his neck. In his desperation to be the first to shout a question, he stepped eagerly forward.
It was the first and last break in protocol. The press rapidly discovered things were not as they had been during the sultan's days as the Great Peacemaker.
Armed soldiers had ushered the reporters into the room and now patrolled the edges of the large crowd. When the BCN man broke ranks, a guard jumped in front of him. With calm dispassion he slammed the butt of his rifle into the jaw of the reporter. The man dropped like the Tokyo stock market.
For the rest of the gathered press it was as though the palace servants had started pumping tranquilizer gas through the air vents. Catholic schoolchildren playing musical chairs could not have found their seats more quickly.
Soldiers dragged the bleeding and unconscious BCN reporter from the hall. The press dutifully filmed him up to the moment his legs disappeared through the rear door.
The door closed with a palace-rumbling thud.
At the podium the sultan waited for the room to grow completely silent before opening his mouth. When he finally spoke, his words were a pained rasp.
"Jihad is an individual duty," he began, soft voice barely audible.
Those in the room and around the world strained to hear him as he spoke into the angled microphone. "I act now as both an individual and as a leader of men. To the folly of peace have I dedicated myself these many years. But it was a peace dictated by the West in terms that satisfied only the interests of the enemies of all that Islam finds holy." The sultan coughed loudly, face seeming to grow weaker at the effort to speak.
"The Americans occupy our lands, plunder our riches, dictate to our rulers, terrorize our citizens, wreak cultural genocide against all Muslims and threaten by word and deed the very peace they claim to hold so dear. Enough. Enough!"
Omay seemed to grow stronger with the repetition. A frail hand slapped the podium.
"Enough!" he bellowed, voice so strong it startled in its ferocity.
More coughing. Cameras whirred, broadcasting the spasm to a global audience. Omay took a steadying breath. It seemed to restore some strength to him.
"The Aqsa mosque and Holy Mosque must be liberated. The Israeli occupation of the Prophet's Night Travel Land must end. The perversions of America must not be allowed to bleed into the Muslim world. To permit this is to declare war on God." Omay shook his head somberly. "Yet, in spite of the actions Ebla has taken to comply with God's order, America remains mute. It is time to loosen the infidel's tongue."
This was a cue. A door at the side of the stage opened.
The sultan afforded a single, bland look toward the open door. A few soldiers stood beyond, unseen by the press. Strong hands held fast a quaking, blindfolded figure.
Omay's rheumy eyes were dead. "To America I say this-there is no discussion. There will be no brokered deal. There will be total capitulation or there will be death."
The soldiers offstage reacted as they were meant to. Off came the blindfold. With a shove the man they'd been holding was propelled out onto the raised platform.
It was Helena Eckert's aide.
The man who'd awakened America's chief diplomat on that last flight to Akkadad blinked away stabs of pain caused by the unaccustomed light. Between the blindfold and his pitchblack cell, he'd seen little light since being taken captive.
Flashbulbs popped at his appearance. Reporters remained in their seats, eyes riveted to the stage. The young diplomat staggered to within a few feet of the Eblan ruler. Close enough for Omay's purposes.
A small semiautomatic handgun had been left on the shelf beneath the upper angled platform of the podium, the safety off.
When the young man had stumbled close enough that there was no chance for error, Sultan Omay sin-Khalam calmly removed the weapon and pointed. Bang!
The crackle of the gun over the microphone jolted the assembled press.
A hole erupted in the neck of the Great Peacemaker's victim. Choking blood, the diplomat grabbed his throat.
Bang!
The chest this time.
The man didn't fall. He seemed dumbfounded at what was going on. He blinked hard over and over, blind to his own murder. Tears of pain and fear streamed with rivers of blood.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Over and over again Omay shot, eyes growing more and more wild with each concussive blast. Blood splattered the first three rows of reporters. A few clutched stomachs and mouths, turning their faces away from the carnage. The rest stared, wide-eyed, at the grisly sight. In shock.
Bang! Click-click-click
The hammer struck hollowly against the empty clip. Omay didn't notice.
As the sultan continued to pull uselessly against the trigger, the diplomat's eyes finally found focus. And as soon as they did, they rolled back into the young man's head.
The body dropped, bleeding, to the stage. Feet kicked feebly as the last electrical impulses from the brain fired before death. Crimson bubbles popped as blood gurgled from wounds in neck and chest, soaking the carpeted surface of the podium.
Only when the body fell did Omay seem to break out of his trance. Looking down on the dead man, the sultan smiled.
Blood had exploded back, flecking his disease-ravaged face with spots of glistening red. The liquid was like an energizing elixir.
Gun in hand he turned, beaming, to the gathered world press.
"Any questions?" Sultan Omay asked.
Chapter 16
Face a stone mask of disgust, Dr. Harold Smith watched the murder as it was broadcast live to the entire world.
He watched the body stand impossibly upright for far, far too long. Watched the young man, barely out of his twenties, stagger and turn away from the hail of bullets. Watched as the secretary of state's aide felt numbly at his own wounds, eyes blind from the sudden stab of bright light.
The aide made a valiant effort to stand, but in the end he could only go the way that all men eventually must. His legs simply buckled beneath him and he fell. Seemingly in slow motion. He landed almost gently.
On the screen Omay licked his dry lips delightedly as he cast his eyes across the bloodied corpse. He then turned back to face the gathered press. When he asked for questions, murmurs of confusion rippled across the room. It was as if to Omay the dead man at his feet were no more than a prop to make a point.
As Smith watched the televised conference unfold, he was astonished to hear an actual question.
The speaker was a reporter from Independent Television News.
"Sultan Omay, does this action on your part place the rest of the hostages in any further danger?"