Although he had declared himself president-in-exile of Palestine years before, he was not actually of the region. He was Jordanian, born to Palestinian parents. The land of his forebears was east of the Jordan. It was to this spot this haven-that Aruch and his army now rode.
The day was growing short. Night was sweeping in upon them, brushing the last of the white-hot desert day from the sky by the time they reached the oasis of the Aruch family.
In his youth, he had always thought of it as a place of coolness and shade. A sanctuary in the fire that was the desert. In his adulthood, he saw it for what it was. A pitiful lump of washed-out green in the Jordanian desert between As Salt and Madaba.
The sun was gone. Melted into fat blobs of orange as they rode into the oasis. Long shadows cast from ill-watered trees became specters of black across the sand.
The army pounded to a thundering halt.
They had no sooner stopped when the ragged tents that were speckled between the trees began to disgorge hordes of pitifully filthy men and women. Inhabitants of the oasis. The family of Nossur Aruch. They crowded around the army, pawing at boots and trouser legs, all the while wailing pathetically.
Aruch kicked at the faces of any who came near him. There were at least a dozen of his sisters jostling them. Even more nieces and nephews.
"Leave me, wanton trulls and whoresons!" Aruch shouted, viciously booting his older sister, Shaboobatez, in her fuzzy jaw. It would have knocked out her teeth had she had any left.
Hands raised in supplication, his family backed away.
Aruch slid off his horse.
The women of his clan were notoriously ugly, snagging as mates men who floundered at the stagnant end of the gene pool. The homely children they produced wouldn't have surprised anyone with a passing knowledge of genetics. The world would have been shocked to discover that Nossur Aruch had gotten the looks in his family.
The PIO head was like a movie star at his high-school reunion as he pushed his way through the sea of grabbing hands.
A filthy nylon tent checkered in white and black to match his kaffiyeh stood out in front of the rest. Aruch made it to the rear of the crowd, slipping through the closed tent flaps.
Inside was bare. It was no surprise. Years ago, on his first trip to the outside world, he had returned to find his tent completely stripped. His family had a tendency to steal anything that wasn't nailed down. Fortunately, their avarice was matched only by their laziness.
Dropping to his knees in the center of the tent, Aruch used his palms to push away the powdery sand that was the floor. A few short sweeps revealed a trapdoor. At one end was a wrought-iron loop.
Clawing for the handle, he pulled. At first it was a struggle, but soon the fused trapdoor hinges popped. He lifted the door.
At once a generator hummed to life. Fluorescent lights flickered on a moment afterward, revealing a steep staircase that ran down into an unseen chamber.
Aruch hurried down the stone steps.
Another metal door was at the bottom-a necessary precaution just in case his family found the heavy lead trapdoor above. A key hung in perpetuity around his neck. Aruch stuck it in the lock, saying a quick prayer to Allah that the neutrino wave hadn't somehow damaged the bolt.
With a satisfying click, the door rattled open. Aruch exhaled relief.
The lead construction of the upper door had shielded down below. And if things in the stairwell worked, that meant everything beyond did, as well. Including his radio. His conduit to the outside world. The thing that would make him king of all the Mideast.
Heart pounding a thrilling chorus in his ears, Nossur Aruch pushed open the door that led to his great destiny. With a devilish smile, he slipped inside the dimly lit chamber.
IF REMO WAS NOT POSSESSED Of the ability to unerringly judge direction by attuning himself to the gravitational force of the Earth, he would have been convinced they were riding in circles.
Every inch of desert they passed since riding across the Jordan looked exactly the same.
They were stopped now. Their horses whinnied, kicking up clouds of dust.
The sun had fled. The world around them had taken on shades of pale blue. Above them, the burning stars were close enough to touch off spot fires in the desert sand.
A cold night wind blew across their backs, sending up minicyclones of dust in the vast tracts of empty space before them.
As Remo and their PIO guide sat waiting on their mounts, the Master of Sinanju walked a few yards ahead. He was bent at the waist, staring thoughtfully at the ground.
"This sand is shifting so much you can't tell anything," Remo called to him. His horse gave an angry snort.
Chiun did not respond.
"It'd help if you knew where we were going," Remo accused the PIO soldier.
The Palestinian shook his head in apology. "I am from Hebron. I do not know the desert."
When Remo again looked to the Master of Sinanju, Chiun was kicking lightly at the sand. Puffs of dust swirled away from the toes of his sandals.
Turning back to the PIO man, Remo shook his head. "You're a sorry excuse for a guide, you know that?" he said. "Hit the road. But leave the horse."
He nodded to a second, riderless mount next to the Palestinian's.
The man eagerly unlooped the reins from his saddle, handing them over. Before Remo could change his mind, the soldier gave the ribs of his own horse a sharp kick. The animal began to beat a hasty retreat back toward Israel.
As the PIO soldier rode off in one direction, the Master of Sinanju came padding back from the other.
"Any luck?" Remo asked.
"They rode this way several hours ago," Chiun said as he pulled himself up into his saddle.
"How many?"
"It is difficult to tell. The tracks have degraded. Perhaps twenty-five score." His wrinkled face was troubled.
"Old Nosehair has pulled together quite a little army for himself," Remo said with a thin frown. "Whatever he's got planned, I say we nip it in the bud."
There was no disagreement from the Master of Sinanju. Nudging their horses with their heels, they rode off side by side into the silvery desert night.
THE STATICKY VOICE on the radio spoke English, but with a distinctly Russian accent.
"It will be our delight to aid the Palestinian people in this time of difficulty," the Russian colonel said.
"How soon?" Nossur Aruch asked furtively into the radio microphone. For some reason, he felt compelled to whisper.
It was cold in his bunker. He shivered in his artificial cavern far beneath the sand.
"The Pa-Roosski is off the coast of Lebanon now. We can airdrop you a shipment within four hours."
"What of the Americans?"