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"You have come here at the behest of the U.S. government," Fareem resumed, "an
emissary of which told me to expect you. How may I repay the debt between
Hamidi and Sinanju?"
"I need to get into Kuran. And from there into Irait."
"Death awaits any American who ventures into either place."
"I bring death," Remo told him. "I do not accept it from others."
The sheik nodded. "Well spoken. You are a true son of your teacher. The House
is in good hands."
"Thank you," Remo said simply, feeling his heart swell with pride lust as his
stomach knotted in a sharp pang of grief. If only Chiun were here to hear the
sheik's words.
"I will personally ride with you to the frontier and deliver you into the
hands of the Kurani resistance. Would this serve your needs?"
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Remo nodded. "It would."
"Then let us depart," the sheik said, laying aside his pipe. "Two horses
await."
They stood up.
"Have you learned to ride a horse since you sojourned here last?" the sheik
inquired.
"Yes."
A twinkle of pleasure came into the old sheik's wizened eyes.
"Good. A man who cannot ride is not much of a man."
"That's what they told me in Outer Mongolia, where I learned horsemanship."
Sheik Abdul Hamid Fareem frowned in the shadow of his ceremonial headdress.
"They do not possess sound horseflesh in Outer Mongolia," he spat. "Only runt
ponies."
"A horse is a horse," Remo said, adding under his breath, "Of course, of
course."
The sheik gave the tent flap an impatient jerk, stooping as he stepped out.
Remo followed.
"You will ride one of these beauties," the sheik said with pride, patting the
flank of one white horse, who flared his pink nostrils in recognition. "They
are the finest steeds in all Araby-which of course means the world. Are you
man enough?"
Instead of answering, Remo mounted with a smooth, continuous motion that
brought a slight nod of the Arab chief's ghurta.
The sheik took to his own saddle. He turned his steed around and slapped it
with his reins. The horse plunged away.
Remo followed suit. They rode off into the desert, two warriors carrying on
their shoulders the weight of thousands of years of tradition and glory.
Chapter 27
Maddas Hinsein refused to come out of his office.
All day long, the nervous aides kept coming.
"Precious Leader, the UN have announced a new resolution."
"I do not care. They make resolutions because they are afraid to fight."
"This resolution has condemned the entire Irait command structure to be hanged
for war crimes."
"Let them declare war if they wish to hang me."
"Precious Leader, there is no word from our ambassador in Washington. It is
the third day."
"Have the defector's family hanged as collaborators."
"Precious Leader, the UN have decreed more sanctions against Irait unless
Kuran is immediately relinquished and Reverend Jackman is allowed his
freedom."
This required thought. Maddas Hinsein pulled his abayuh around himself
tightly. It always helped him to think.
"We can defeat their tricks easily," he said at last. "I hereby decree that
Irait and Kuran have merged into a single entity. We are henceforth to be
known as Iran, and these cowardly resolutions no longer apply to us."
"But, Precious Leader," he was told, "there already exists an Iran."
"Who are our mortal enemies," Maddas spat. "Let them eat the UN sanctions."
The aide had no answer to that. He went away. Maddas grinned, pleased with
himself. Throughout his career, he had always found a way around the laws of
the civilized world. Why hadn't he thought of this before? Yes, if there were
two Irans, they could not level sanctions against one without leveling them at
the other. It was a diplomatic masterstroke, almost as brilliant as the
mustache decree. The world could no more denigrate him as an ignorant,
untraveled Arab again.
Then came the news that even Maddas Hinsein could not ignore.
"Precious Leader."
"What!"
"Word has just come from the villa of your mistress, Yasmini. It was attacked.
The guards lie strangled, the contents of their bowels heavy in their pants.
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