"What were you thinking?"
On the phone the lemony voice of Harold Smith had risen three octaves. He now sounded like tart citrus being squeezed through a rusted garlic press.
"Smitty, this sitting-around bullcrap was getting ridiculous," Remo said defensively. "Obviously I'm not the only one who thinks so. What, did you want me to just stand there and let a tank drive over that guy?"
"That was an option," Smith snapped.
"And one that I wished to take, Emperor Smith!" Chiun called from across the room.
"You might be interested to know you have made Mr. Hanlon a national hero," Smith said.
"The man you rescued from the tank." Smith's anger gave way to intense weariness.
"That guy?" Remo said, surprised. "He was just some drunk."
"Yes," Smith replied. "He was also airlifted out of the military cordon by a news helicopter. He is now appearing on every talk show around the country."
"There, you see?" Remo challenged. "It could have been a lot worse. Be happy it's Foster Brooks and not me on Oprah."
"I suppose we should count our blessings," Smith conceded dryly. "After all, the news helicopter was focused on Hanlon and the other rioters while you took care of the other tank and its crew."
"That's right, Smitty," Remo said. "This won't be as bad as you think. From what I can tell it's already blown over."
"Yes, but other pockets of insurrection are doubtless forming in the wake of this first successful counterattack," Smith pressed.
"Geez, Smitty, you make it sound like a bad thing we're fighting back," Remo groused. "I'm kind of glad to see Americans willing to risk something for once."
"Need I remind you that it was the President's hope for a diplomatic resolution to this situation?"
"Was his dingus in or out of the nearest intern when he cooked that up?" Remo asked, aggravated. "He must've seen the look on that crap-bag Omay's face when he shot that kid over in Ebla. He loved every second of it. That psycho's not going away until he's started a major war."
"The President has now conceded as much," Smith said. "In the wake of that incident he has privately given up on diplomacy. He is in the process of developing a military solution in conjunction with our allies to free the men who are being held captive."
"Good luck," Remo commented. "I remember what happened the last time we tried to rescue hostages in that neck of the world."
"It is a difficult situation," Smith admitted. "Made all the more difficult by what has now occurred on your end."
"Listen, that guy was out there blasting away without me even being there," Remo said, using his most reasonable tone. "Even if I'd let him get run over, the rest of those people wouldn't have stood by without reacting. He'd have become a martyr and they would have rioted anyway. And instead of Eblans being killed it would have been about a hundred Americans."
"Possibly," Smith replied vaguely.
The CURE director was distracted from their conversation by an electronic beep emanating from his desk computer. Remo heard the noise over the crosscountry line.
"One moment, Remo," Smith said.
Remo heard the sound of Smith's fingers drumming rapidly against the capacitor keyboard at the edge of his desk. When the noise of typing subsided, there was the briefest of pauses. All at once Remo heard a sharp intake of breath.
"My God, not again," Smith croaked.
"What is it?" Remo asked sharply.
"Put on your television," Smith insisted. His voice was flat, almost dead.
"Chiun, snap that on, would you?" Remo called. The Master of Sinanju was sitting in front of the TV studying the latest issue of People magazine. Without looking, he reached up and stabbed a finger at the pad on the front of the television. The screen came rapidly to life.
Remo knew at once why the CURE director's computer had alerted him. On the screen was Sultan Omay, more wild-eyed and sickly looking than ever.
The leader of Ebla was obviously somewhere out in the sandy wasteland of his small Mideast nation. The desert sun beat down upon him. Tents were framed behind him. Farther back along the horizon Ebla Arab Army troops could be seen conducting marching exercises in the sand.
There was someone kneeling on the ground before Omay. The man wore an untucked white dress shirt, open at the collar. He was blindfolded.
Chiun had turned the television on just as Sultan Omay was in the process of raising something to the back of the kneeling man's head. Remo knew in a sick instant what was happening.
As Remo watched, revulsion growing, Omay placed the gun to the back of the man's head. He pulled the trigger.
The forehead burst open like a ripe melon. Fortunately for most home viewers, the murder happened too quickly to be seen well. Ghouls would have to rewind and freeze-frame videotapes in order to see the gore clearly. The body slumped face first into the powdery sand.
Sultan Omay looked away from the body and up into the waiting camera. He seemed as comfortable with the medium as any American television star. When he spoke, his voice was weak. "A crime has been committed this day," Omay announced to the camera. His eyes were flat.
For a surreal moment Remo thought he was going to actually admit to wrongdoing. He couldn't have been more wrong.
"That crime has been perpetrated by the people of America against the peaceful men of the Ebla Arab Army," Omay continued. "America will be made to pay for every last drop of precious Eblan blood spilled. This is a down payment on retribution. There will be much more to come."
Without another word Omay turned away from the camera. On shaky, shuffling legs he walked back toward the tent immediately behind him. Eblan soldiers lifted the flaps and allowed the frail old man to pass inside.
Obviously there was some kind of prearranged system in place with the international news media. With no comment from any reporter at the scene, the image of the bedouin village merely winked out. It was replaced by a serious-faced anchorman at a news desk.
"Smitty," Remo said, voice flat as a desert horizon.
"One moment," Smith insisted.
There was the sound of urgent typing coming over the line.
Remo found the remote control to the TV. He flipped quickly through the channels looking for more of Sultan Omay.
Nothing.
The image that had been broadcast was from a single pool camera that all of the news services were using. Omay apparently didn't want the press corps following him into the desert.
Smith's voice came back on a moment later. "I have booked Chiun on a flight to Greece," the CURE director said. He was struggling to control his anger.
"What are you talking about, Smitty?" Remo demanded. "Chiun's not going-I am."
"No, you are not," Smith said firmly. "Chiun is more familiar with that part of the world than you are. Frankly at this point an American would attract far too much attention. Chiun can take a flight from Greece to Jordan. From there he will have to improvise."
"This is nuts," Remo complained.