Angry White Mailmen

"And sending us in won't?"

"If what I suspect is true, you may find the Deaf Mullah there. He is overdue for a heart attack."

Chiun bowed again, a sly smile upon his face. "Spoken like a true Caesar."

"Think you can handle her?" Remo asked, jerking a thumb back in Abeer Ghula's direction.

Smith checked the knot of his Dartmouth tie un­easily. "Of course."

"If she gets cranky, slip her a pacifier. She likes those."

Smith's blank, lemony expression followed them out of room.

After they were gone, Harold Smith faced the woman called Abeer Ghula.

"You are not my blond infidel," she said petu­lantly.

"I am FBI Agent Smith."

"You are too stringy for my tastes. But if I am suf­ficiently bored, I may allow you to pleasure me in un­expected ways."

"I am married," Smith said uncomfortably.

"I am not afraid of the menage a trois. Are you?"

Harold Smith swallowed and tried to block the un­wanted images from his mind. He felt as though he were being scrutinized by a hungry bird of prey.

Chapter 32

The director of the FBI was dictating a memo explic­itly denying the existence of a Violent Postal Worker Task Force when his secretary informed him that an urgent call was coming out of Toledo.

The director looked surprised. He was unaware of a Toledo office. "I'll take it."

The voice on the line was tense. ' "This is SAC Rush. Toledo. We've secured the mosque."

"Mosque?"

"The al-Bahlawan Mosque. No one can go in or come out."

"What mosque? What are you talking about?"

"Operation Sound Surround."

"I authorized no such damn mission! Where are you? What mosque? What is this about?"

"Orders came out of your office, by telex."

The FBI director groaned. "Don't tell me. An as­sistant special agent named Smith."

"That's right. Smith."

The director leaned into the phone. "You wouldn't have a first name, would you?"

"One moment." When the SAC's voice came back on the line, it was to the accompaniment of a rustle of paper. "It's just a squiggle. I can't even make out the first initial." "Brief me from the top," the director said resign­edly.

"We've secured all approaches to the suspected HQ of the Messengers of Muhammad."

"And it's a mosque, you say?"

"Biggest one I've ever seen. Got two tall minarets that look like rockets ready for launching."

"Do nothing."

"Our orders were to hold secure until instructed otherwise."

"We can't have another Waco here. That's job one."

"We all understand that, sir. This is Ohio."

"Just hold on, I'll be back to you."

Hanging up, the FBI director called the President of the United States.

"Sir, I have good news and, I'm afraid, bad news, as well."

"Go ahead," the hoarse voice of the Chief Execu­tive said.

"The Bureau may have found the headquarters of the Messengers of Muhammad jihad group."

"Where is it? Iran? Iraq? Libya?"

"Toledo, Ohio. There's a mosque out there as big as a circus tent, and we believe the conspirators are bun­kered inside."

"Is that the good news or the bad?" the President wondered aloud.

"We have the place surrounded."

"Is ATF there?"

"They aren't in the loop."

"At all costs, keep them out," the President said savagely. "And whatever you do, don't do a damn thing. I'll get back with you," he added, his voice sounding as if the lining of his throat was coming up through his clenched teeth.

The President of the United States called Harold Smith, and it took an entire three rings before Smith's exasperated voice said, "Yes, Mr. President?"

"Do you know anything about a mosque being surrounded by the FBI?"

"It was my doing."

"Do you have any idea how this will play in the media?"

"Not if we contain the situation before the Mes­sengers of Muhammad strike again."

"But a mosque. It's a house of worship. If any­thing goes wrong, the entire Muslim world will be in­flamed like one gigantic, angry boil. We're just getting the Israelis and the Palestinians to simmer down."

"We have to think of U.S. security first, Mr. Presi­dent," Harold Smith said stiffly. "These jihad groups operate under the command of religious leaders seek­ing religious goals, and to a significant degree are sheltered by U.S. laws protecting freedom of worship. That can only be dealt with through extraconstitutional means."

"What the hell do these people want?"

"To establish a global Islamic theocracy by con­verting the entire world to their faith by force of arms and terror." .

"They're using our constitutional freedoms to take them away from us?" the President blurted out.

"It is for exactly such conscienceless predators that my organization was created."

In the background, a pouty voice said, "I want my blond infidel. I can taste his salty juices in the mouth of my face and my other mouth, which only he will be allowed to devour."

"Who was that?" the President asked.

"Abeer Ghula."

"You have her there with you?"

"No, in a secure room in the World Trade Center."

"Is this line secure?"

"It's a scrambled cellular patch-through from the dedicated line."

"Oh. I wondered why it took you three rings."

"Mr. President, I have just dispatched my people to the al-Bahlawan Mosque. If our intelligence is cor­rect, we will find the mastermind behind this jihad group within."

"Then what?"

"My people will penetrate it and come out unseen. After a while, the FBI will be withdrawn. And the bodies of the conspirators will be discovered by the appropriate parties. Dead of natural causes."

"Sounds foolproof."

"Nothing is foolproof, Mr. President."

"They saved my presidential butt once. I trust them to close this out quietly and with absolute deniability,"

"That is their function," said Harold Smith.

"Good. Gotta go. I got a grips-and-grins function in the Rose Garden, and it'll be the perfect opportu­nity to assure the voters we're working the problem to a successful wrap-up."

The line terminated, and Harold Smith went into the bathroom to check on the condition of Abeer Ghula, the most hated woman in the Muslim world.

He was relieved to find her hanging from the shower curtain just as he'd left her. Her gold eyes glared at him venomously.

"When you are agreeable to behaving properly, I will cut you down," Smith told her.

Smith stepped back just ahead of a naked kicking foot and decided the time was not yet right to untie her wrists.

The president was in the Rose Garden when the fax was handed to him.

The portable presidential podium had been set up and he was standing before it waiting for the grinning ghouls—as he was calling the White House press corps this week—to settle down so he could begin.

The President glanced at the fax. It was from the FBI and read, "Purported communique received from M.O.M. via fax at 11:11 today. No verification."

The President figured "no verification" meant it was not important. He was here to reassure the na­tion, not pass on new threats, so he didn't read the text of the communique.

Clearing his throat, he began to speak. "I just want to say a few words to reassure Americans everywhere that the nation is secure, the post office functions as it should and the FBI is working diligently to get to the bottom of yesterday's terrible events."

There. Short, concise and guaranteed not to be misquoted or misconstrued by the press.

Then came the barrage of questions.

"Mr. President, is it true you have ordered a postal holiday—effectively shutting down the mail?"

"Absolutely not."

"Then why has mail delivery virtually ground to a halt?"

"No follow-up questions today," the presidential press secretary inserted. "You know the rules."

"Mr. President, some airlines are refusing to trans­port mail for fear of mail bombs. Will you order them to reverse their decisions in the national interest?"

"Thaf s under advisement," said the President, who was hearing this for the first time.

The verbal tennis balls kept coming, and the Presi­dent lobbed them back with ease and aplomb. This was going to look great on the evening news.

"Mr. President, word is coming out of Justice that the so-called Messengers of Muhammad have threat­ened to launch what they claim is a nuclear missile called the Fist of Allah at an unidentified target on U.S. soil. What can you tell us about this report?" The President experienced a frozen moment in time. Off to one side, his press secretary was surrepti­tiously pointing to the fax lying on the podium.

"Let me refresh my memory," the Chief Executive said quickly.

Scanning the unread text of the FBI fax, his eyes widened.

The reasonable demandment of the Messengers of Muhammad not having been met by the god­less of America, we have no choice but to an­nounce this day the existence of the dread Islamic bomb. This bomb had been installed in a missile unlike any the Western world has before seen. And the name of this missile is the Fist of Allah. It is to be launched on this day at a target un­known to the Infidel Nation, for the purpose of destroying it utterly, thereby showing the West­ern world that Islam is as powerful as the pagan science of the West.

Ma sha'Allah!

The President actually paled three shades of color on national television. Every viewer with good color balance saw it. They also heard the White House press corps lob question after question the President could not convincingly answer, and they saw that, too.

"I want ail Americans to know that, while we can­not accept this threat at face value, neither do we dis­miss it out of hand. That would be unwise. We have no hard intelligence confirming the existence of any so- called Islamic bomb. But I have ordered our early- warning missile-defense systems on the highest state of alert possible as a precaution."

Then the President stalked off to give the order, hoping he was in time to do exactly that.

Harold Smith was hacking through the original FBI reports of the arrest of the Deaf Mullah in the Abu al-Kalbin Mosque in Jersey City in the after­math of the failed terror spree of three years ago when his computer alerted him of incoming mission-critical intelligence.

A fax intercept popped up at the touch of a key.

Smith read the Messengers of Muhammad warning of a nuclear missile called the Fist of Allah, and in one reading reached a firm conclusion.

There was no such missile, unless it was a war- surplus Scud. And for a short-range Scud missile to reach the continental U.S., it would have to be

launched from either Canada or Mexico, neither prospect very likely.

As for the Islamic bomb, it was also doubtful. M.O.M., most of its messengers of terror in FBI custody, was attempting to ratchet up the level of fear and anxiety among the American populace. Whether it worked or not depended upon how the media treated the story.

Smith went back to the FBI computer files, his gray

face frowning. The Deaf Mullah was in federal prison,

yet his followers were making no attempts to liberate him.

There had to be an explanation.

And Harold Smith was determined to find it.

Chapter 33

The clerk at the car-rental agency in the Toledo air­port proudly informed Remo Williams that his car was equipped with the latest satellite navigational system for his convenience.

"Just give me directions," said Remo.

"The Groundstar system will get you to your des­tination without fail or the rental is free," the clerk chirped.

"I like directions. They save me time and trouble and keep me from breaking things," said Remo, snapping in half with his thumb the pen he'd just used to sign the rental agreement. A squirt of ink speckled the clerk's white shirtfront.

Taking the hint, the clerk opened his mouth to of­fer clear directions when the Master of Sinanju piped up.

"I will be the navigator."

"You can't handle a navigational computer," Remo said quickly.

"A child could do it," the clerk insisted.

"You stay out of this," Remo snapped.

"I will navigate," Chiun repeated. "I have watched Smith work his oracle machine. It is very simple."

Remo rolled his eyes and hoped for the best.

Twenty minutes later they were on the banks of the Maumee River, south of Lake Erie, and Remo was saying, "We're lost."

"We are not lost," said Chiun, tapping the com­puter screen with his jade nail protector. "See? This is the strange lake."

"Lake Erie is not green," said Remo. "And the state of Ohio is not blue."

"The color does not matter. This is Lake Erie, and this red spot is us. For it moves when we do."

"So where are we?" asked Remo with more pa­tience than he felt.

"In a place called Havana."

"Havana, Cuba?"

"It only says 'Havana.'"

Remo looked at the screen. "That green 'lake' is the island of Cuba, Little Father. We are not anywhere near it."

"These machines do not lie."

"We'll ask at the next gas station," growled Remo.

"You would take the word of a smelly purveyor of chemicals to that of the Master of Sinanju?" Chiun asked indignantly.

"I'd like to wrap this up. According to the radio, militia crazies are trying to lynch letter carriers in Montana and Arizona. People are locking their doors when they see a mailman. They're grounding com­mercial flights everywhere because the mail goes by plane and nobody wants to lose a 747 to a letter bomb. Not to mention the fact that the mail has ground to a dead halt because postal employees everywhere are all singing 'The Serotonin Song.'"

"It is good when lowly messengers enjoy their toil."

On the Ohio Turnpike, a bus came barreling up on them at a high rate of speed, and Remo looked into his rearview mirror.

He did a double take. "Chiun. Look behind us."

Chiun turned in his seat. "I see an angry bus."

"Look at the guy inside," Remo suggested.

"I see a red-haired Egyptian."

"I mean the other guy. Tell me that isn't Joe Cam­el."

"That is not Joe Camel. But it is. Who could mis­take that nose?"

"What the hell is he doing driving a bus out here?" asked Remo.

"He is trying to ran us off the road, of course."

In a moment he nearly did.

The bus bore down like a silver juggernaut, horn blaring. Remo eased back on the gas, hoping to slow the bus down.

"He is not slowing. He is speeding up," warned Chiun.

Then the bus surged ahead, intent upon knocking them out of its path.

Remo cut to the shoulder of the road, bounced and came to a jolting stop. The rear tires spun in soft soil. Remo got out, cursing as the exhaust of the speeding bus filled the air.

Reaching under the rear bumper, Remo suddenly straightened. The car's rear end came out of the ditch, and Remo walked it over to hard asphalt, making it look easy. It was not a feat of strength so much as one of absolute physical harmony. Sinanju enabled one to harness one's mind and body so fully that any super­human capability was within Remo's reach, no mat­ter how extreme.

Getting behind the wheel, he heard the Master of Sinanju give the good news.

"We are back in Ohio. The computer has assured me of this. If we follow the yellow line, we will reach our destination."

"Count on us reaching our destination by follow­ing the big silver bus," growled Remo, throwing the car into gear.

Matt Brophy, FBI swat tactical commander, was confident he had the al-Bahlawan Mosque secured against invasion or egress. His black-clad forces had mustered a ring of Light Armored Vehicles around the gleaming mosque, whose opalescent dome changed hue as the sun climbed the Ohio sky.

No one in their right mind would try to get into the mosque now. Not with it surrounded by heavily armed FBI agents.

To get in was to be trapped.

And those trapped inside were not coming out. Not that Brophy was calling for that. He wasn't calling for anything. He was standing pat, as instructed. The last place he wanted to land was before an angry Con­gress. Or in a locked room with the attorney general of the United States, who, it was said, could break a man's back with a hard, steely glare, not to mention bust his career all to pieces.

Prepared for any contingency from within, the last thing Brophy expected was a hurtling bus from with­out.

The bus came roaring up the Ohio Turnpike and then down onto Route 75. Then it screamed onto the mosque access road.

Brophy took one look, and his heart stopped beat­ing.

"Incoming bus!" someone yelled.

"Anybody see any markings? Postal ser­vice. .. anything?" Brophy demanded.

No one did.

"How about explosives?"

"No," a countersniper called after consulting his scope.

"Could it be a bus bomb?" someone asked.

The thought alone was enough to freeze the blood.

And there was no time to think it through.

So, when the bus roared straight at them, Matt Brophy ordered the blocking FBI armored vehicles to pull apart which they did in the nick of time.

The bus roared through the impenetrable FBI cor­don and lumbered up to a big portal. It went through the door, breaking it down like so much old cake frosting. One slim minaret listed alarmingly. The other only quivered.

The bus did not explode.

That was the good news.

The bad was that the cordon had been broken, and no one knew by whom or, more importantly, why.

There was nothing to do but wait for the next de­velopment and hope this was not the last day of their FBI careers.

The summons cameby cell phone.

It was Yusef Gamal's turn at the wheel of the prac­tice missile. So Jihad Jones took the call.

"Yes, yes?" he said. "Yes, yes. Yes, yes!"

Then Jihad Jones hung up the cell phone.

"Yes?" Yusef said.

"It is Sargon. The criminal FBI has surrounded the mosque."

"Imbeciles! Have they learned nothing from Waco or Ruby Ridge? What are our instructions?"

"The Fist of Allah is to be launched immediately."

"But where is it?"

"We are told to return to the mosque with all speed and at all costs."

"Then it is the ordained hour for you and I, my brother."

"Do not call me your brother. I am not your brother."

"We are cousins, then."

"You are driving this practice missile now. There­fore, I will pilot the true Fist of Allah."

"That will be for Sargon to say," spat Yusef as he bore down on the gas and the big silver bus roared down the Ohio Turnpike.

It was a simple matter to reach the ring of FBI ar­mor. The infidel made it easy for them. Then, be­cause there was no time, Yusef threw the bus into the great portal as instructed.

The portal caved inward, despoiling the mosque. But this was the only way.

Inside they piled out, only to be met by the Afghan Taliban guards, who were pledged to protect the Deaf Mullah.

"Sargon awaits in the launch-preparation room," one thundered.

"Where is it?" asked Yusef.

"Two doors down. The green door. It is unlocked, inshallah."

Jihad Jones saluted. "May Allah protect you brave ones."

They raced on.

"The Fist of Allah is here!" Yusef said excitedly. "And we never suspected."

"Obviously it is one of the minarets," Jihad said.

"The left."

"No, the right. It is closer to Mecca."

"I favor the left minaret."

"And you may pilot it to foolishness if you wish while I pilot the true Fist of Allah into Paradise."

"The Deaf Mullah will decide this."

"He will decide nothing. It was ordained before the beginning of time."

"Then your prayers are but the yapping of the dogs that follow the caravan," Yusef growled.

The green door was thick but fell open at a touch. Inside there was gloom, and the sense of a great shape.

Jihad Jones lifted his voice. "Sargon, where are you?"

The Persian's voice said, "Wait. I am nearly done." It sounded as if it were coming from some vast, en­closed space—a cave or a chamber where giants might dwell.

"We are beneath the right minaret," Jihad whis­pered.

Yusef said nothing.

Then came a sound like that of a vast brazen portal clanging shut.

"Prepare yourselves for the sight that will freeze the blood of infidels the world over," proclaimed Sargon the Persian in a doomful voice.

The snapping of a light switch preceded a blinding burst of light and between that and the enormous shape that stood before them, Yusef and Jihad let out gasps of comingled awe and pride.

Remo parked the rental car on the green grass near where the Ohio Turnpike merged with Route 75.

Chiun got out first. His hazel eyes took in the aus­tere beauty of the al-Bahlawan Mosque.

"It is Seljuq," he said.

"What?"

"The architecture. Seljuq dynasty. A good period for Arabic architecture. Later they went mad with mosaics and arabesques."

The bus had already disappeared into the portal, breaking it down and leaving a gaping hole.

"Guess we got our work cut out for us," said Remo.

"If a blundering bus can breach those ninjas, we can do the same."

"Those aren't ninjas, Little Father, but an FBI SWAT team."

"After today, they will learn the true meaning of swat."

"Just remember they're on our side, okay?"

They were moving closer. The FBI's attention was fixated on the mosque, and no one noticed them slip­ping up a grassy incline.

Remo noticed Chiun sniffing the air.

"I smell Afghans," said Chiun.

"They'll die just as easy as Arabs," growled Remo.

"No, harder. But only slightly." .

They were very close now. Close enough that they had to part and move in separately so that they were less likely to be spotted.

Remo took a southerly approach, Chiun easterly.

Their techniques were similar. They found weak spots and exploited them. Remo slipped under the chassis of an LAV, and the Master of Sinanju made noises of distraction by breaking a twig with a san­daled foot. While FBI heads snapped one way, he flit­ted by the other with utter soundlessness.

They were neither seen nor smelled nor challenged as they reached the broken and gaping portal to­gether.

"Okay, let's see how easy this will be," said Remo.

"How difficult can it be when our foe is himself deaf as a post?"

"Good point," said Remo, starting in first.

Harold Smith was trying to assure the President that there was no such thing as the Fist of Allah and that an Islamic bomb, if it did exist, could not suc­cessfully be delivered against sovereign U.S. soil.

"How can you be sure?" the President demanded.

"Common sense. A low-technology jihad group such as the Messengers of Muhammad simply does not have access to the funding or tools to construct a working thermonuclear device. Their bombs to date have been crude but effective chemical bombs."

"I can't tell the nation this. Not without proof."

"You can point them in the direction of common sense."

"How are your people doing?"

"No report yet," said Smith.

"Keep me posted—ouch. Poor choice of words there."

"I will be back to you, Mr. President," said Smith, hanging up the handset of his attache-case phone and returning to his screen.

The deep background report on the Deaf Mullah included his penchant for using doubles to fool ar­resting authorities in Egypt and elsewhere. But he had used it one time too many, it seemed.

When the FBI had surrounded the Abu al-Kalbin Mosque in Jersey City three years before, they were prepared for a decoy double to be deployed.

A man wearing the gray garments and red felt tur­ban of the Deaf Mullah's particular religious school had in fact emerged and surrendered peacefully. He was being handcuffed when one arresting FBI agent noticed he wore a modern hearing aid. The agent was sharper than the others. He had read translations of several of the Deaf Mullah's sermons railing against Western science and technology.

Smith reasoned that the real Deaf Mullah wouldn't be caught dead wearing a hearing aid.

The double was detained on-site, and the siege con­tinued. It was broken only when cooler heads pre­vailed and the Deaf Mullah's lawyers convinced their client that to die in an Islamic Waco would not be in the best interests of the world Islamic movement.

The Deaf Mullah, carved horn ear trumpet in hand, staggered out of the mosque to be cuffed and taken away for arraignment.

Smith paused. He searched for the name and legal deposition of the double. There was no further men­tion of him. Clearly he had not been charged.

"I wonder," he murmured.

The Afghan guards toted Kalashnikov rifles and great curved scimitars, Remo saw as he slipped into the al-Bahlawan Mosque.

They were standing before a shut green door.

"If we take them quietly," Remo whispered, "the FBI won't come storming in to muck everything up."

Chiun nodded.

One of the guards was looking right at Remo and didn't see him until Remo took hold of his skull and shook it violently, until the man's unseeing eyes rolled up in his head.

His companion noticed this out of the corner of his eye and lifted his great filigreed scimitar.

That was when the Master of Sinanju stepped up to him and took the man's wrists in his own irresistible hands.

The Afghan was big. He struggled for control of his scimitar. His struggle was in vain.

On wide-planted feet, but without exerting himself, Chiun angled the scimitar up and around so that the Afghan realized he was about to decapitate himself just before his guided hands abruptly changed direc­tion and split his own face down the middle like a bony but ripe melon.

Both guards died standing up. Remo and Chiun moved on.

There were other Afghans farther down the corri­dor. Three this time.

Chiun caught their attention by raising his voice in an ancient Afghan insult. They snapped Kalashnikov rifles to bear, then, seeing Chiun's black silks and un- Westem face, called a curiously hesitant challenge at him.

Chiun returned the challenge in kind.

Moving along a parallel corridor, Remo popped out behind them and batted the butt ends of their rifle stocks.

The Afghans watched their rifles go skittering and spinning down the corridor, and when they turned to face their unexpected foe, even as their hands streaked toward the jeweled scimitar hilts, a smooth white palm

smacked their glowering faces to assorted jelly and pulp.

"So far so good," said Remo as the trio hit the ground with a dead thud.

Chiun moved ahead. "The Deaf Mullah is this way."

"If you say so," said Remo, glancing at the heavy green door. "But I'd say there's something important behind this door, too."

"It must wait."

The sudden light was piercing Yusef Gamal's clearing eyes as they came to rest on the grandeur of the Fist of Allah.

"It is magnificent," he breathed.

"It is colossal," said Jihad Jones.

It was a steely construct of slablike plates and an­gles, wide, tall and massive in its brutish lines. Every surface gleamed of chilled steel except a sheet of plate glass mounted high on a forward edge. It looked too heavy to move, never mind fly through the skies.

Then a thought struck them.

"Why does it rest upon great rolling wheels?"

"To carry it to its ultimate destination," explained Sargon the Persian.

"The launch pad?"

"No, to the target the Deaf Mullah most desires above all others."

"Abeer Ghula, of course," said Jihad Jones.

"No, more than that harlot."

"What could be more desirous of destruction than the hypocrite who insults the pure flame of Islam by her very existence?" "A target whose destruction will bring the heart of Zionist-occupied America to a standstill and maim infidels without number," said Sargon the Persian in a flat, dead voice.

"What saddens your voice?" asked Jihad.

"I have just armed the Fist of Allah, therefore I am doomed."

"Doomed?"

"I have placed its atomic heart within the missile without proper protection."

"The warhead?"

Sargon shook his head. "It is in the back. You will drive from the front."

"What will be your part, Sargon?"

"I will recite the countdown, at which point you will drive over my doomed body, saving me from an ago­nizing, un-Islamic death and catapulting me to Para­dise."

There was a heartbeat on the other side of an or­nate door, and Remo said, "Let's just bust in."

Chiun nodded.

Remo stepped back and lifted one foot. Kicking high, he sent the panel flying inward like a big wooden kite that skimmed along the floor to impale a far wall.

Two startled Afghan guards shrank from the un­expected commotion and wheeled, their Kalashnikov rifles dropping into line. Remo went for one, while Chiun took the other.

One got off a shot. Remo wove aside, avoiding the bullet by instinct more than conscious design, and broke the Afghan's spine by the indirect expedient of punching him in his stomach. When Remo's knuckles encountered hard bone, they withdrew. The Afghan folded in the middle like a pair of colorful pants, his bearded face slapping the tiled floor.

Chiun's Afghan was cocking his AK-47 when a flutter of sharp fingernails like a swarm of dragon- flies became busy about his face. They retreated, leaving stunned eyes staring from the rags and tatters of what had been a moment before a bearded human visage.

The man pitched forward on his face—what re­mained of it.

At the far end of the great room under the mosque dome was a chevron-shaped niche whose blue walls were a riot of Arabic calligraphy.

Before it stood a plain green glass shield. Behind the shield a seated figure moved like something seen through cloudy water.

A hand lifted an ear trumpet to one side of his head.

"Bingo," said Remo.

They advanced.

Adetachable ladder of steel hung from the for­ward portion of the towering hulk that was the Fist of Allah.

"This is the nose cone," said Yusef Gamal, patting it proudly. Hollow, it rang like a great bell.

"The nose cone points to the sky," Jihad coun­tered. "This points toward the east."

"Enter, both of you, quickly," said Sargon.

"I will go first," said Yusef.

"The pilot goes first," growled Jihad Jones.

"This does not matter. You must go now."

Yusef clambered up the ladder and entered through the stainless-steel hatch in the side of the multi- wheeled behemoth.

Inside were two bucket seats. He took the right one, where there was a steering wheel. Too late, he noticed a steering wheel before the left-hand seat. It was the type of steering wheel used on airplanes, a crescent rather than a circle, which reassured him.

Jihad Jones took the left seat. Both men wore their Islamic green pilot-martyr uniforms.

The door clanged shut, locking them in.

Then a voice came from the dashboard. It was Sar­gon.

"It is time to commence the countdown," he in­toned.

"We are ready to die."

"I am more ready to die than you," said Yusef.

"There is a red button. At the wordsifr,for 'zero', you will press it. That will be the launch."

"Should we not be pointing skyward?" asked Yu­sef.

"You are pointing east. When you press the red button, the great engines will start."

"More than one?"

"Many engines are needed to propel the Fist of Al­lah."

Yusef nodded. "Redundancy. It is a Western idea that is good."

"You are the redundant one, not I," spit Jihad Jones.

"When the engines are hot, you will press the floor pedal and go forward. Press it as hard as you can, for it will travel faster this way. Make the Fist of Allah travel as fast as possible."

"Yes," exclaimed Yusef. "Until it is airborne."

"No, until it achieves its destiny."

Yusef and Jihad exchanged questioning glances.

"Where is the brake?" Jihad wondered aloud. "I see no brake pedal."

"None is needed. For you are on a suicide mission with no turning back."

"Yes, yes, of course."

"When you reach your target, you will drive di­rectly into it while the other turns the great crank that sits between you and will cause the Fist of Allah to explode in atomic hellfire."

"Yes. I see the crank. But who is the blessed pilot- martyr and who is the holy crank-turner?" asked Yu­sef.

"You will drive by turns, and the one who is not driving when you reach the target turns the crank. Is this understood?"

"Yes, it is understood. But what is the target? How do we get to it?"

"Take the Ohiostan Turnpike east. The path to Paradise is marked on the map you will find in the glove compartment."

"Yes, yes. I see the map. What then?"

"The map will show you which roads to follow."

Jihad and Yusef exchanged another look of confu­sion.

"We are to fly over certain roads," Yusef whis­pered. "It is a good system, for there is no navigation system to fail."

"Stand by," Sargon called out.

"This is it," Yusef said excitedly. "We are going to die."

"Only if you drive correctly during your turn at the wheel," said Jihad Jones.

And Yusef Gamal settled into his seat, winding his kaffiyeharound his face, thinking,It is just my mis­fortune to spend my last living hours with this haughty snob of an Egyptian.

Then the countdown began.

"Ashra... tisha... tanany....sab 'a... sitta..."

Remo walked up to the bulletproof green partition and flicked a finger at it. The glass disintegrated into gritty pebbles like a windshield after a high-speed col­lision.

There sat a wizened-faced man with a frizzy iron gray beard and the signature red turban that had been a common TV sight only a few years before. He flinched, but otherwise showed no emotion.

"Looks like the Deaf Mullah to me," said Remo.

The ear trumpet angled in Remo's direction. "Eh?"

"Sounds like the Deaf Mullah, too."

Chiun snapped out a warning in Arabic.

The answer came back, spiteful and bitter.

"What's he saying?" asked Remo.

"That we are too late," Chiun relayed.

"Too late for what?"

"Too late to stop the launch of the Fist of Allah."

Remo frowned. "What's the Fist of Allah?"

Chiun put the question to the Deaf Mullah, and translated the answer, which was given freely.

"This Moslem says it is an atomic missile which will crush the infidel nation and break its heart," Chiun spit.

Remo lifted an eyebrow. "Thought it was 'Mus­lim.'"

"For this cruel shedder of innocent blood, I have used the correct pronunciation."

"He sound like he's telling the truth to you?"

"He does," said Chiun.

"Then we'd better strangle some facts out of him and get back to Smith. This sounds serious."

Before they could take the Deaf Mullah by his throat, the floor under their feet began to vibrate. It was a low vibration at first. Then it became a roar, and the roar swelled and swelled until the mosque shook and rattled, while on the floor the Deaf Mullah's face broke into a beatific "grin as the great dome above their heads began to fracture and drop large chunks of white building material.

Amid the quaking and breaking, the Deaf Mullah threw back his head and his beard split in the peal of triumphant laughter rolling out from his clenched teeth like crazed thunder.

"It is the Fist of Allah!" he shrieked as Remo's hands lunged for his neck. "Destined to burn away all un-Islamic corruption. And you can do nothing to stop it now!"

Chapter 34

FBI SWAT Tactical Commander Matt Brophy saw the side wall crack and bulge outward amid the shaking of the earth. "What's in there? What's doing that?" he screamed.

The answer came crashing out of the opposite side of the al-Bahlawan Mosque like a colossal rhinoc­eros.

It was as tall as a three-story building, as wide as a two-lane highway and ran lumbering out on eight wheels, each as tall as five men. The stubby-finned rear section ran on a giant, tanklike track system, giv­ing it tremendous earth-chewing traction.

At first Brophy thought of the giant missile trans­ports NASA used to move Atlas rockets. But there was no missile. It was only a carrier. Gigantic, plated and armored to the teeth.

"Open fire on that thing!" he ordered.

Sharpshooters opened up. Their bullets dinged and spanged off the angular plates without effect. Then the remorseless behemoth came lumbering at them.

There wasn't time to get the LAVs out of the path. So the men just scattered. It didn't matter. The giant monster of steel plate simply rolled over two LAVs, crushing them flat on exploding tires.

"What is that thing?" a sharpshooter howled, get­ting out of its way.

"I don't know. I better call this in."

"Call what in? What is it?"

"Damned if I know," Brophy muttered as they re­treated to watch the steely monster lunge across the median strip to straddle the Ohio Turnpike. "But if that isn't the postal-service eagle on one side, I'll eat my pension."

The word went from the director of the FBI to the President of the United States, who saw his political life melt down before his blinking eyes.

"What is it?" he croaked.

"Unknown. But it's big enough to hog most of the Ohio Turnpike. That makes it too big for the Bureau. I'd call in the Air Force, were I you.''

"I'll get back to you. Do nothing."

"Nothing sounds very safe right now," the FBI di­rector said. "Politically speaking."

The President reached out to Harold Smith.

Smith was in the middle of one awful epiphany when the President handed him another.

"Mr. President, I believe I have solved the riddle of the Deaf Mullah," Smith said, his gray eyes glued to his briefcase computer system as Abeer Ghula grunted helplessly in the background.

"I don't care about him."

"You should. He is behind this campaign of terror. My analysis of the facts indicates he tricked the FBI into arresting him and immediately letting him go, thinking he was only a double. Then the true double was arrested in his place."

"Your analysis also says there was no such thing as the Fist of Allah," the President said bitterly.

"What do you mean?"

"While NORAD has been combing the skies, the Messengers of Muhammad have launched the damn thing on the ground."

"Sir?"

The President described the gigantic vehicle that had rolled out of the al-Bahlawan Mosque.

"Why do you think this is the Fist of Allah?" asked Harold Smith.

"Because FBI says there's a clenched fist painted on one side of the thing. And on the other is painted We Deliver For You. There's also the USPS eagle and one of those Islamic red-crescent symbols on the hood or nose or whatever it is."

"A wheeled missile?"

"They think it's a converted missile carrier."

"It cannot be nuclear."

"Do you want to bet the farm on it?" asked the President.

"No, I do not. My people are on-site. Let me get back to you on this."

Hanging up, Smith waited. If what the President said was true, it would be only a matter of minutes before Remo checked in.

It was thirty-nine seconds later, by Harold Smith's Timex.

"Smitty. Something big just blew out of the mosque."

"I know, Remo. The President just informed me. Can you describe it?"

"Imagine a cross between the mother of all tanks and one of those monster missile carriers." "Do you see a missile?"

"No, it's armored up like crazy, though. And there are two guys driving it. One's Joe Camel."

Smith's voice turned low and incredulous. "Then it is the missile."

"What missile?" asked Remo.

"The M.O.M. have threatened to launch a nuclear missile called the Fist of Allah."

"If there's a missile inside that thing, I don't see how it can be fired. It looks like it's made out of welded surplus bank vaults."

"No, it is the missile."

"Huh?"

"A suicide-bomber ground missile," Smith said in a nail-chewing voice. "Riding below radar, too big to stop or interdict by ordinary means. A low-tech death- delivery system of destruction. No doubt the two men inside are the suicide drivers."

"So where's it headed?" asked Remo.

"Your guess is as good as mine. But you must stop it."

"It's too big to run off the road, but we'll give it a shot," Remo promised.

"Keep me informed."

Remo tore along the Ohio Turnpike in the wake of the Fist of Allah, saying, "It may be big but it sure isn't fast."

"We will stop the monster," Chiun said firmly.

Accelerating, Remo came up to the machine's rump, hung there pacing it while he said, "You can jump out and climb aboard, then I'll stop in front of it and do my thing."

"Stop in front of it. Then we will both step out with the serene dignity we deserve and do our awesome things."

"Suit yourself," said Remo, angling the wheel and nailing the accelerator to the floor.

Yusef Gamal saw the speeding sedan race around on his side of the Fist of Allah and gave the wheel a jerk to the left.

Seeing this, Jihad Jones gave his wheel a jerk to the right.

"What are you doing?" Yusef complained. "I have the wheel."

"I am trying to keep us on our Allah-blessed tra­jectory."

"And I am trying to squash an infidel bug."

Too late. The sedan pulled up alongside him and got in front.

"You may squash him now," said Jihad Jones, re­linquishing his wheel.

Up ahead, the car braked, slewing to a stop, block­ing the way, its tires smoking. The doors opened, and two men popped out.

"Those infidels are crazy. They think they can stop the Fist of Allah's wrath?"

"Squash them like the godless bugs that they are!" Jihad Jones exploded.

Remo and Chiun took up a position before the Fist of Allah like two matadors facing the bull of bulls.

"When they get close, break away and grab your side of that thing while I grab mine," Remo sug­gested. "Then we'll nail the guys inside."

Chiun nodded. "Yes. This is a sound plan."

And it almost worked.

The monster of plated steel rumbled toward them, and Remo broke left while Chiun slipped off to the right in a flutter of ebony skirts.

There were enough projections on the angular and irregular surfaces of the Fist of Allah that grabbing a handy one was no problem.

Remo got ready. Lifting his feet off the speeding asphalt, he grabbed a jutting projection and started to climb.

Partway up, he knew something was wrong.

His vision started to cloud over, and his arms be­gan to tingle. A numbness crept down his body like a slow-acting poison.

Fear touching his eyes, Remo looked up and saw the yellow disk with the three black triangles he knew from childhood fallout-shelter drills emblazoned on a sealed hatch.

This thing was as radioactive as Chernobyl, he thought just before his grip gave way.

Yusef Gamal made a point of crushing flat the car that had dared to block the path of righteousness, then settled down for the long drive east.

"You have the map?" he asked Jihad Jones.

"Yes. I am studying it now."

"Where do we go, then?"

"We follow this turnpike to Route 79 south, there. See?"

Yusef looked over. "Yes. I see. Then what?"

"Then we take the 80 to Wayne, New Jersey. Then south to Jersey City. From there, it is a short drive to our ordained target."

"What is our ordained target, O brother?" "That is for me to know," Jihad crowed. "For I will be the favored one to drive the last holy mile to

Paradise."

Yusef tried to mask his disappointment by bluff. "If you drive the last mile, I will have the honor of arm­ing the Fist of Allah."

"You are welcome to the honor. For he who pilots the Fist of Allah into Paradise will be the first to claim his houris."

"My houris will not mind waiting a few mere mo­ments longer, eager as they are."

"Attend to your driving, then. I must study my map."

After a while, Yusef said, "I do not think the Fist of Allah is going to take to the air, Jihad."

"Of course it will not," Jihad said, contempt in his voice.

"What manner of missile refuses to fly?"

Jihad was silent a long moment. At length, he said, "An Islamic missile, of course."

"Yes, you are undoubtedly correct. Only an Is­lamic missile is clever enough not to fly into heathen skies where it will be shot down before fulfilling its religious mission."

Remo lay shaking on the ground until his body fin­ished isolating and purging the foreign elements that had paralyzed it. Metallic sweat oozed from every pore, instantly soaking his thin clothes. He shook his head once violently, throwing off hot beads of radia­tion-poisoned perspiration.

Then he snap-rolled to his feet.

On the other side of the highway, the Master of Sinanju was climbing to his sandaled feet, his wrin­kled face like a sweat-varnished raisin.

"The brute is televisionactive, Remo."

Remo shook a few final droplets of sweat from his forearms. "Radioactive. Yeah, I know. Radioactivity is like Kryptonite to us."

"I do not know that word. But look. Our vehicle was destroyed by that lumbering steel beast."

Remo's gaze fell where the jade nail protector pointed. The rental looked as if an asteroid had flat­tened the entire trunk.

"Let's see if the car phone still works," Remo said, rushing toward it.

At the World Trade Center, Harold Smith scooped up the briefcase satellite telephone handset when it rang.

"You have succeeded," he said.

"We wish," said Remo. "That damn thing is so ra­dioactive we can't touch it."

"God blast it!" exploded Smith.

"But we will try again, O Emperor," squeaked Chiun in the background. "Never fear."

"Smitty, maybe you should just bomb the thing," suggested Remo.

"Impossible! It is a nuclear device—it will deto­nate."

"Well, the way it's barreling along, flattening ev­erything in its path, it's a sure bet it's going to deto­nate somewhere someplace soon."

"Well, right now it's following the Ohio Turnpike east."

"One moment."

Harold Smith brought up a map of the continental U.S. and created a red blip that signified the Fist of Allah.

He input its probable speed, trajectory and com­manded Ms system to extrapolate likely targets of na­tional significance, as well as times of impact.

The system was fast. It came up with the possibili­ties in less than a minute. The highways and inter- states turned red as if flooding with arterial blood.

There were three probabilities.

Washington, D.C.

New York City.

Or a less important third option, possibly even in Ohio.

The dilemma for Harold Smith was to identify the target and interdict the threat before the first nuclear strike on U.S. soil threw the West into collision with the Muslim world.

The President of the United State ordered Air Na­tional Guard F-16 Flying Falcons of the 180th Bomber Group scrambled out of Toledo, Ohio.

The aircraft launched, formed up into a screaming V and flew low cover down the Ohio Turnpike and back, ready to strike if ordered.

Harold Smith told the President, "We cannot de­stroy it by conventional means. The risk of nuclear fallout is too great.''

"Well, I can't just let it crash into any damn thing it wants to. This is worse than the mail crisis."

"This is the mail crisis," Smith reminded. "It has escalated."

The President's voice turned low and urgent. "I can't not take action, Smith. You know that."

"I need more time."

"How can I help?"

"I require instant updates on the Fist's progress."

"Last reports are it's skirting Lake Erie. You don't suppose it intends to vaporize the entire lake, do you?"

"That is impossible. I still cannot accept that they have a nuclear device on board."

"Your people said it was radioactive."

"Radioactive is not nuclear," said Smith.

The blue contact line light began blinking, and Smith excused himself.

"Remo, where are you?" he asked.

"About a mile behind the thing, or south of Dal­las, Texas—depending on whether you want to be­lieve my eyes or the satellite navigation system in this new rental car," Remo said wearily.

"You have a navigational computer in your car?"

"When it works."

"Remo, can you remove it and attach it to the Fist of Allah?"

"Can you tell me what to look for?"

"Yes."

"Gladly," said Remo.

"Jihad, my brother," said Yusef Gamal as his con­trol wheel turned before him and the crescent- emblazoned nose of the Fist of Allah ate white line.

"What is it now?" Jihad growled as he managed his wheel.

"I have to make water.''

"Why did you not go before we left?"

"We were rushed. I did not think. There was no time"

"I refuse to stop the vehicle now that I am pilot- martyr. Besides, there is no brake, as you know."

"Then what do I do? I cannot enter the gates of Paradise with my trousers stained. My sweet houris would be shocked. I would make a terrible first im­pression on them."

"I do not care what you do," muttered Jihad Jones, wrestling the wheel.

"Then I will do what I must," said Yusef, unzip­ping his fly from the throat down.

As a spattery tinkle filled the cockpit of the Fist of Allah, Jihad Jones muttered, "You are worse than a Jew. When we are dead and in Paradise, do not speak tome."

"I will not."

"Then do not, weak-bladdered one."

"My Arab tool is still bigger than your Egyptian tool," Yusef boasted, zipping up again.

Remo stayed on the tail of the Fist of Allah as it chewed up a long stretch of the Ohio Turnpike. The rear tracks spit gravel and gouged up pieces of as­phalt.

Remo steered around them as F-16s crisscrossed overhead, low and menacing. A wind was coming down off Lake Erie, clean as fresh laundry.

"Okay, I'll pull up alongside, you toss the naviga­tion thing. Just make sure it lands in one piece."

"I will not fail," Chiun promised.

"Because if you break it, it'll be no good and if it slides back off, it's useless."

"I am not a child," Chiun sniffed.

"Just don't blow it," said Remo, accelerating steadily.

It should have been easy. But they had been ex­posed to hard radiation, and their systems were hy­persensitive to it now.

Remo felt a tingling in his fingertips as he held the wheel straight.

Coming up in the gargantuan rear deck that resem­bled the back end of an aircraft carrier, Remo cut around to the left and paced the gigantic vehicle. Its whirling tires dwarfed them.

Chiun had one pipe-stem arm out the window and held the instrument package that Remo had extracted from under the hood.

Chiun gave it a casual toss. It veered out and up to land with a clink in the V of an angled tailfin.

Breaking, Remo watched.

The package did not slide off. He picked up the cell phone and called Harold Smith.

"Package delivered, Smitty."

"I have the navigational signal," said Smith.

"That didn't take long."

"I acquired it while it was still in your possession."

"Okay, what do we do now?" asked Remo.

"I have arranged for an Army helicopter to pick you up."

"Where are we going?"

"You will remain with the Fist of Allah until you are needed."

"Gotcha."

Harold Smith watched the red blip on his computer screen. The Fist of Allah was now crossing the Ohio-Pennsylvania border. That meant ground zero was not in Ohio. That reduced the pool of target options. The only question was where they would go when the Ohio Turnpike petered out.

"What are you doing?" Jihad Jones asked Yusef Gamal.

"I am consulting the map."

"I forbid this. I am custodian of the sacred map."

"You are pilot-martyr right now. The map there­fore reverts to the martyr-navigator."

"I am navigator."

"When I have the wheel again, yes," said Yusef.

"I forbid you to look at the target. It is haram. Es­pecially to a Jew such as yourself."

"I will agree not to look at the target if you stop calling me a Jew."

Jihad Jones was silent a long, fuming moment. "Very well," he snapped. "I will no longer denounce you as a Jew."

"Good."

"Gamal Mahour."

"You cannot call me Camel Nose, either."

"You did not stipulate this."

"I think we should take Route 6," said Yusef, changing the subject.

"The sacred map said to follow 80."

"The Six is also good."

"We will take Eighty."

"And I will take the wheel again soon, for it is al­most my turn," said Yusef.

"Until then, keep your camel's nose out of the sa­cred map."

Harold Smith saw the red dot take Route 80 east, and automatically the tracking program displayed a new bar graph of optimum targets. Washington, D.C. was still possible. New York City, however, looked more likely.

Smith input additional data and asked the system to narrow down the working list.

The system responded with the same list. Mostly post offices along the route and significant military targets.

Smith frowned. The limitations of the computer were the same as in his Univac days. To discover the truth, human reasoning would have to be brought to bear.

In the Huey helicopter Remo watched the Fist of Allah roll along Route 80 and felt helpless. Pennsyl­vania State Police cars were following the giant ma­chine at a discreet distance, roof lights pulsating.

"There's gotta be a way to stop that overgrown Tonka toy."

"I agree," said Chiun.

"But I can't think what that might be."

"In the days of the Mongol Khanates, a Master of Sinanju encountered such a conundrum."

"They had something like this back then?"

"No, but there were war elephants in those days."

"Yeah?"

"In the best way possible."

"I'm listening," Remo said.

And leaning over beneath the rattling main rotor, the Master of Sinanju whispered in Remo's ear.

"You're kidding!" Remo exploded.

Harold Smith tried to tell the Chief Executive there was a ninety-five percent probability that the Fist of Allah was targeted at New York City.

"Are you sure?"

"I said ninety-five," said Smith, wondering at the presidential educational level.

"What in New York City? Can they blow up the whole island?"

"Theoretically, yes. Practically speaking, I doubt it. There must be a specific target. One of practical or symbolic importance."

"In New York City, there have to be dozens. Wall Street. The UN. The Statue of Liberty. The Liberty Bell. No, that's Philadelphia, isn't it?"

Smith froze. His bone marrow suddenly turned to ice water.

"Mr. President, this is only an educated guess, but I believe I can postulate the likeliest ground-zero tar­get."

"What is it?"

"The same target the Deaf Mullah originally at­tempted to demolish. A target through which airline traffic-control phone lines, television broadcast sig­nals and other critical communications systems pass. By coincidence, the place where the Deaf Muilah's most hated enemy now resides."

The President started to ask the question when Harold Smith answered it for him.

"I am standing on ground zero."

In the mosque in Greenburg, Ohio, FBI Tactical Commander Matt Brophy picked through the wreck­age as his men cleared various chambers.

The mosque was a total disaster, and since that was probably going to be the ultimate state of everyone's careers, there was no point in standing on ceremony.

In the cavernous room from which the gigantic juggernaut had rumbled, they found a bearded man with his lower body pressed flat by the enormous treads that had cruelly rolled over him.

All around the room stood great empty drums with radiation warning signs and symbols plastered on them.

Matt Brophy decided that securing the room and getting the hell out was the safest option possible. Having a career train wreck was one thing, but going radioactive was another kind of career setback en­tirely.

The President got the word within ten minutes.

"Mr. President, we've found something at the mosque site."

"Go ahead."

"There are tons of steel barrels for storing nuclear waste—all empty."

Harold Smith got the word minutes later.

"You are certain of this intelligence, Mr. Presi­dent?" Smith asked tightly.

"That's what I'm told by FBI."

"There is only one conclusion I can draw from this. The Messengers of Muhammad have loaded the Fist of Allah with radioactive waste, effectively turning it into a radiological bomb."

"Oh, God!" the President moaned. "How bad is that?"

"Not as bad as a true nuclear device. They have no doubt packed the machine with a mixture of radioac­tive waste and conventional explosives. When deto­nated, the result will be not a true atomic explosion, but an ecological disaster in a contained radius."

"That doesn't exactly sound good, Smith."

' 'This changes the complexion of the threat but not the threat itself. I will get back to you."

Smith called up a close-up of the route for six miles ahead of the rolling juggernaut that was the Fist of Allah. The system showed him a bridge over the Al­legheny River in its path and he picked up the satellite handset.

After listening, the President said, "Consider that bridge history."

I have but one regret," said Yusef as the miles rolled by.

"I do not care about your regrets," said Jihad Jones.

"I regret that I never completed the pilgrimage to Mecca. But I was too busy spreading terror."

"I made my haj when I was young because I knew I would die young," Jihad boasted.

"I was too busy killing and driving a taxi," Yusef lamented.

"You would have been turned away or hung as an infidel anyway, Gamal Mahour."

Yusef swallowed the biting retort on his tongue. Being called a camel-nosed infidel was better than be­ing called a Jew. He wound his kaffiyeh more tightly around his jutting nose.

They were coming up on a great bridge. They could see it through the bug spatters on their giant wind­screen, which unfortunately lacked wipers. It looked substantial enough to accommodate their vehicle. This was a relief. The last bridge had been a tight squeeze.

Then out of the sky screamed three F-16 jets, re­leasing smoking rockets that made the bridge jump apart and collapse before their astounded eyes.

"The spiteful anti-Islamists have destroyed the bridge to Paradise!" Yusef complained.

''I can see that, fool!"

"What do we do?"

"We will go around it," growled Jihad Jones, throwing all his weight into the wheel.

The Fist of Allah began to grind and shimmy under the sudden strain of its new trajectory.

The Huey helicopter was dropping to the green field as Remo shouted into a cell phone, "The bridge is down. Time for Chiun and me to do our thing."

"Do not fail," Smith called back over the rotor roar.

"I can't guarantee this will work, but Chiun swears it will."

Then they were running across the tall grass to in­tercept the Fist of Allah, which was trying to slide off the highway and into soft earth. It was like a land battleship—easy to propel forward, difficult to steer and impossible to reverse.

"Here goes," said Remo, worry on his face.

They got in front of the behemoth, set themselves at either side and waited poised to get out of the way as fast as they could.

The Fist of Allah came on. Its big front tires were turning slowly, painfully. Behind the windscreen, the two drivers were throwing their upper bodies in the direction of the turn, as if their puny weights would help.

"Help me to steer," Jihad Jones howled.

"I am trying," Yusef grunted. "Which way?"

"Left. No, the other left, fool!"

"I am steering left. Why are the wheels not re­sponding?"

Then the two figures appeared in the road ahead.

"Jihad, look! Are those not the bugs we squashed before?" Yusef asked.

"Forget them. Steer! In Allah's name, steer!"

"I am steering!" shouted Yusef as the sweat of his struggle beaded his forehead.

On the ground, Remo set himself. The giant tires hummed toward him like big black Ferris wheels.

Poised, Remo watched the front tires loom over him. Then, kicking hard, he tapped the great lead tire, using the hard rubber to rebound away to safety.

On the other side, the Master of Sinanju per­formed the exact same maneuver in perfect synchro­nization.

Then Remo and Chiun were rolling away and into the soft earth just in case the worst happened.

The Fist of Allah gave a sudden lurch, and in the cockpit Yusef Gamal and Jihad Jones found their faces pressed suddenly into the thick windscreen with such force that their noses flattened and they could not breathe.

The impossible began to happen

Only the pilot in the waiting helicopter saw it clearly. The Fist of Allah, shuddering and veering away from the burning bridge that was no longer there, actually stumbled. Stumbled the way a giant stumbles. Stumbled like a mountain or an avalanche.

The front tires locked, the rear treads pushed and strained and, between the opposing forces and the tremendous momentum of the multiton vehicle, something had to give.

The Fist of Allah dug its blunt nose into the road, lifted its rear deck and in slow motion flipped end over end to go sliding into the burning river below.

It made a tremendous splash, and Remo and Chiun narrowly escaped being soaked by the waterfall that followed.

When no explosion came, they got out of the gul­lies where they had dropped for safety.

When Remo and Chiun returned to the waiting helicopter, the pilot wore a stupefied expression and said, "What the hell happened?"

"We tripped it," said Remo.

"Tripped?"

"That is how war elephants were bested in the days of the great Khans," said Chiun proudly.

"You can if you know where to stick your toe,'' said Remo, stepping aboard. "Come on, we have places to

go."

Grasping his stick, the pilot lifted the helicopter off the ground and took a long, hard look at the churn­ing water. Air bubbles the size of Hula Hoops were popping on the surface of the muddy river beside the burning mangle that had been a great span.

In the Fist of Allah, the water entered in a flood.

"We are drowning, Jihad," Yusef Gamal sput­tered.

"It is your fault."

"My fault! You were at the wheel."

"You were at the wheel, as well. Therefore, it is equally your fault."

They tried the hatch but found it had no inside handle. There was no escaping this watery tomb where the light was shrinking. The thought sunk in.

"Jihad, my brother, we are going to die."

"At least there is that."

"Yes, at least there is that."

"But first we must arm the Fist of Allah so that we die with dignity while inflicting terror upon the god­less," said Jihad.

"I will do this great thing," Yusef said, reaching for the holy crank.

"No, I have decided to do this wonderful deed."

But as they clawed and struggled in the upside-down cockpit, they found they could only brush the crank hanging over their heads.

"I will stand on your shoulders to reach it, then," Jihad said.

"No, you will not stand upon my Arabic shoul­ders. I will stand on your Egyptian back."

"If you do not do as I say, no one will die except us."

In the end, Yusef allowed the Egyptian to climb upon his shoulders. The crank was seized and turned. Three times. Four. To no avail.

"What is wrong?" Yusef sputtered as Jihad jumped down to join him amid the clammy, cold wetness that was now nearly to their shoulders.

"It does not work. The water. The cursed water has no doubt made the arming mechanism useless."

"Then only we will die," Yusef said dejectedly. "This is terrible. I am a suicide pilot-martyr. I must take my enemies with me or I will die unfulfilled."

That horrible thought sunk in, too.

As the water rose to the level of their mouths, Ji­had Jones looked to Yusef with agonized eyes.

"Remember, when we get to Paradise, I do not know you."

"When I get to Paradise, I will personally point out your Crusader blood to any who will listen," Yusef spat back.

"And I will partake of your unspoiled houris,stealing those I can."

"Pork lover!"

"Cross-kisser!"

Glub-glub-blub.

Bloopf

Chapter 35

Three days later, Remo and Chiun were in their bell- tower meditation room watching television when the telephone rang.

"I got it," said Remo.

It was Harold Smith. "The autopsy report came in on the Deaf Mullah," he said.

"What'd it say?"

"The FBI pathologist wanted to put down 'cause unknown,' but political pressures forced him to state a definite cause of death. He has it down as 'shaken baby syndrome.'"

"Yeah, before we left the mosque, I took the Deaf Mullah's head in my hand and shook it until his brains pureed like a milk shake."

"It will go down as a consequence of the launching of the Fist of Allah."

"They got it out of the water yet?"

"The Army Corps of Engineers are still working on that. Now that we know it was only a radiological bomb and not a true thermonuclear device, it is not so delicate a task. EPA should be able to contain any ra­diation leakage."

"Still, if it had gone off, it would have been pretty bad." "They could have brought down the World Trade Center, crippling the city, killing thousands and mak­ing lower Manhattan uninhabitable for decades to come. Except for one minor detail."

"What's that?" asked Remo.

"The Fist of Allah has been measured. It was five feet too wide to fit through the Lincoln Tunnel. It would never have made it onto the island."

Remo laughed. When he was done, he asked, "So where did they get Fist of Allah?"

"It was a NASA surplus missile carrier they con­verted for the purpose. I am still attempting to trace the radioactive waste they filled it with, but there are many unscrupulous waste-disposal companies per­fectly willing to allow such materials to fall into ques­tionable hands for a price.

"The FBI roundup appears to have gotten every re­maining Messenger of Muhammad, so that crisis is settled," Smith continued.

"What about the fake Deaf Mullah—the one in solitary?"

"He was willing to serve out the real Deaf Mullah's time for the cause. He will continue to enjoy that privilege."

"Is the mail moving again?"

"Given the current state of the postal service, it may be weeks before anyone can answer that question au­thoritatively," Smith said without sarcasm.

"That pretty much wraps things up, doesn't it?"

"Until the next crisis," Smith said firmly.

"Still smarting from baby-sitting duty?"

"Abeer Ghula should be drowned like an un­wanted kitten," Smith said bitterly.

"Guess you won't be watching her interview to­night."

"Hardly."

"Tamayo Tanaka's going to interview her. Chiun and I are planning to watch because we're the only ones who know who Abeer's blond infidel really is."

"You are welcome to do what you wish," said Harold Smith, hanging up.

After Remo returned to his floor mat, Chiun asked, "Emperor Smith was pleased?"

"Didn't say a word about Osaka."

Chiun nodded. "Then our positions are secure."

"Guess we watch no Woos tonight."

"One night is permissible," allowed Chiun.

"Then it'll be back to the same old Woo."

"The incomparable Woo."

"Somehow I don't think we're talking about the same Woo."

Tamayo Tanaka's heart was pounding. Her latest chance to go national was only ten minutes away, and the wall clock was ticking like a time bomb. She had an exclusive with Abeer Ghula, and all she had had to do was promise a couple of FBI guards a wild mid­night dance on a queen-size bed at the Helmsley Park Lane Hotel.

Which she never, ever intended to deliver. She had made the promise as Tammy Terrill.

Alone in the New York-affiliate interview studio, she smoothed her jet black wig and checked to see that her oblique eyes matched.

A technician poked his head in. "Ghula's here."

"All set," Tamayo said. This was it. All she had to do was keep that crazy witch from recognizing her voice, and she was home free.

Abeer Ghula swayed into the studio wearing a Nile green floor-length dress that threatened her modesty at three critical points.

Without a word, she sat down and regarded Ta­mayo with her baleful eagle's eyes.

"I'm Tamayo," Tammy said as the technician tried to find a safe place to attach Abeer's lavaliere micro­phone. Her cleavage was threatening to explode free at the slightest disturbance, so he just placed it on her lap while Abeer reached around to pinch his buttocks with her black-nailed fingers.

"Later we will talk about my womanly needs," she told the hastily retreating technician.

Then she noticed Tamayo's outstretched hand.

Coolly she lifted her own, saying, "Have you heard the wonderful news about Um Allaha?"

Tamayo smiled as hard as she could. "I want to hear all about her," she cooed as the director started throwing signals. "But let's save it for on-air."

At that point, Abeer relinquished Tamayo's hand, and suddenly she noticed the black-and-blue bite marks on Tamayo's thumb.

"What is this?" she demanded tightly.

"Caught my thumb in a strange zipper," Tamayo said hastily.

Abruptly, Abeer twisted Tamayo's wrist, bringing the wounded thumb closer.

"Teeth marks! I know these. I set such marks on the helpless tools of both my husbands. Where did you get these? How could you have these upon your body? I have never tasted you. I have never sampled any Jap­anese infidel."

One eye on the threatened cue and the other on the still-dead tally light, Tamayo started to protest when under the hot lights her right eye popped back into its naturally round shape.

This was not lost on Abeer Ghula, who said, "What is wrong with your eye, woman?"

"Oh, damn," said Tamayo, clawing at her face. A brown contact lens dropped into her lap, and this brought Abeer Ghula out of her chair and into Tamayo's hair.

"You have blue eyes! And yellow hair!" Abeer shrieked, whipping the wig away. "You are my infi­del!"

"And I'll be your faithful slave if you just sit still long enough to do this interview," Tamayo said fran­tically just before the hard slap knocked her off her chair.

"Deceiver! Um Allaha will punish you after you are dead!"

When the tally light came on, Abeer Ghula was al­ready out of the studio and in hot pursuit of the pinched technician.

The image broadcast to the nation lasted only ten seconds. But it was long enough for Remo and Chiun to absorb the indelible image of a blond Tamayo Tanaka trying to fumble her black wig onto her head while simultaneously sucking on her thumb.

"That's the biz," laughed Remo as Chiun reached for the remote control.