The anarchy would come quickly. He was too late. There was nothing more he could do here. The President turned, hurrying back the way he had come. He would get back to Israel. To safety. Aruch hadn't brought the bomb to Hebron. The wind had been to the President's back. He had planted it somewhere closer to the border with Lebanon.
After forty-five minutes of running back and forth in this squalid city, he was growing dizzy from his exertions. The frustration of failure piled atop the strain of effort.
An old man. He never should have tried. Never should have taken the risk.
Even as he thought the words, he knew they were wrong. They were foreign to him. Not what he expected from himself.
He had tried. He had failed, but he had tried. Sweating profusely. The chaos in the streets growing around him with each tortured step. Gangs grabbing strangers. Fearful shouts. Sudden bursts of anger. Somewhere nearby was a cheering mob.
His heart pounded. Mind swirled. Couldn't breathe. Too much effort.
Have to stop. Have to rest. If only for a minute. He paused against the side of a building at a quiet intersection. Panting, he leaned against the hard wall. A wrinkled hand pulled the veil from his face only for a moment.
Fresh air. He breathed deeply a few times.
The air was like sandpaper on his raw throat. Still, it felt good. Refreshing. Bracing.
Keep moving.
He pushed away from the wall, reaching to replace his veil as he did so.
The President took a step around the corner... ... and plowed directly into Nossur Aruch. Colliding with the rushing figure, the PIO leader was forced to take an awkward step back. He was slammed from behind by Bryce Babcock.
When he saw whom he had bumped into, the whites of Aruch's eyes became visible above his dark sunglasses.
"What is this!" the terrorist demanded, fumbling a curving dagger from a scabbard at his waist. He pressed the knife to the belly of the ex-President.
The President was too out of breath to reply. Wheezing, he allowed the veil-which he had not fully reattached-to drop from his hand. It swung down to his shoulder.
"No. Put it on," Aruch commanded.
Nodding weakly, the elderly man did as he was told. Once his face was hidden, the PIO leader nodded.
"I do not know how you got here, but you are coming with me, ancient one," Nossur Aruch growled. With a shove, he propelled his captive forward. All the while, he held the knife menacingly close to the older man's side.
The former President was too weak to resist. He allowed the PIO leader to guide him at knifepoint. Bryce Babcock fell in behind the others.
Together, the unlikely trio hustled off through the growing chaos of Hebron.
Chapter 32
The Master of Sinanju rode into the ancient city of Hebron like a conquering hero, perched carefully atop his magnificent galloping desert-brown camel.
Remo's camel was struggling to keep up. The animal spit and hissed and made a general nuisance of itself as it clomped on broad-toed, furry feet into the chaotic streets. It would have stopped running altogether if not for the judicious coaxing Remo occasionally applied.
"Why is my camel so winded?" Remo complained as they waded into the surly crowds of Arabs.
"You are too fat," Chiun called back. "See how my beast accepts its precious feathery cargo with speed and grace."
"It's as graceful as a frigging camel, Little Father," Remo said. "We would have been better off saddling two pigs." His own mount wheezed suddenly. Remo grimaced at the sickly sound. "I think mine has asthma."
"Stop complaining. Camels all make similar noises."
"Wanna trade?"
"Why would I want your sick camel?" They rode deeper into the city.
Packs of men with mischief as their purpose prowled the streets. Apartment windows had already been smashed on most buildings. Cars whose engines had been frozen by the neutrino wave sat abandoned in the middle of roadways. Molotov cocktails had been tossed into some of the vehicles. From the open car windows, orange flames licked up into plumes of thick black smoke.
Remo was nearly shocked by the speed at which the inhabitants of the town had descended into feral behavior, but then he realized that-at least according to the regular images on the nightly news-they hadn't been too far away from it to begin with.
Riding down a particularly ravaged street, a group of men took evil interest in Remo and Chiun. One Arab with a board in his hand separated from the rest. He ran over to the Master of Sinanju, screaming a torrent of unintelligible Arabic while waving the chunk of wood menacingly.
With a toe-kick to the nose, Chiun sent the man sailing backward onto the hood of a stalled car. After that, the crowd cut them a wide swath.
In the next three city blocks, they passed seven rock fights, five knife imbroglios, three immolations by fire, an impalement, six savage chain beatings and two stonings.
"It's nice these people haven't forgotten their roots." Remo commented aridly as they rode past a group of Arabs who were pounding one another over the head with particularly thick copies of the Koran.
"Man has raised hand against his fellow man since the beginning of time." Chiun nodded. "Be thankful it is so, for if it was not, we would be out of work." The old Korean's eyes narrowed. "There," he announced abruptly.
He aimed a tapered finger down the road to where the street curved away between tightly packed buildings. A group of five Arabs was working near a jeep. "What about them?" Remo asked.
"They are of the Aruch clan," Chiun replied.
"How can you tell?"
"Do you not recognize the kaffiyeh?"
Remo looked over at the black-and-white-checkered headdresses some of the men wore. He shrugged. "One dirty dishrag's the same as the next to me," he said.
Chiun fixed him with a hooded stare. "Observe, O educated one," he said dryly.
Using his ankles, the Master of Sinanju gently pinched his camel's furry hump. The beast lowered obediently to the ground. Chiun had no sooner slid off the animal than he was marching over to the Arabs.
Remo's camel wasn't at all obliging. Even though he copied Chiun's technique exactly, the animal only spit and snorted. It even twisted its head around, trying to bite him. He finally gave up altogether and hopped to the ground. He trotted up beside the Master of Sinanju.
"I miss having a car," Remo complained as they walked.
"Cars are filthy inventions," Chiun replied.
"Camels are filthier," Remo said. "And I never had a Chrysler try to bite me on the leg."
The Arabs heard them talking. The men had been fussing about, attempting to figure out why the jeep would no longer run. But at Remo and Chiun's approach, they grew instantly alert.
AK-47s had been abandoned to the hood of the car. They grabbed them now, brandishing the weapons like clubs.