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Warren Murphy: Arabian Nightmare

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Warren Murphy Arabian Nightmare

Arabian Nightmare: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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The Maddas Touch Everything that Maddas Hinsein touched turned to blood as the mad-dog dictator of outlaw Irait pursued his plans of conquest by taking over tiny oil-rich Kuran. Only Remo and Chiun could stop this man who was up to his mustache in gore. But Remo was possessed, slave to his immortal nemesis, the death goddess Kali. And the feeble Chiun was merely a shadow of his former awesome self. Unless CURE's terrific twosome could be restored to their full powers, Maddas Hinsein would turn the whole into one...

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The crowd attempted to go around it. But the momentum of their flight was too great, the multitude pressed too closely, for most to manage.

"Oh, shoot," Reverned Jackman moaned.

Part of the leading edge of the crowd actually smashed into the squat building like starlings into a 747's intakes. They made quite an ugly sound as they began piling up.

The more nimble members of this surging clot of fleeing humanity thinned, and broke in two directions.

Suddenly the way before Don Cooder and Reverend Jackman parted like the Red Sea. They saw the slumping bodies.

And they saw the limestone facade, a bulwark of bodies crushed before it, seemingly coming at them.

"I'm gonna die in a heathen land!" Reverend Jackman yelped.

"I'm gonna die," Don Cooder moaned, "and there's no one to film my tragic yet ironic conclusion."

Jackman turned around, eyes sick, anxious, as if a camera might somehow materialize to preserve their last heroic moments on earth.

Then he noticed it.

"Hey, showboat, wait up!" he yelled.

"Are you crazy? I'll be trampled."

"No, you won't," said Reverend Jackman, his voice suddenly far away.

Cooder's head snapped back, thinking Jackman had fallen under the remorseless feet of the crowd.

But when he looked back, he saw Reverend Juniper Jackman bent over, chest working like a bellows, retching as he tried to get his wind back.

The stampede that had been hot on their heels had veered away in both directions to avoid the squat building.

Realization dawned on Don Cooder. That meant he could stop too.

He no sooner signaled his brain to slide into a skid than the side of his head slammed limestone and he joined the pile of slumped Iraiti bodies.

"You dead?" Reverend Jackman asked after he had regained his breath and sidled up.

"Is my face still photogenic?" Cooder asked, clutching his head.

"No. Never was."

Cooder closed his eyes. "Then I'm dead."

"For a hick Texan with bags under his eyes clear down to his belly button, you make a lively noise, though," Reverend Jackman added.

"Then I won't ask you to put me out of my misery," Don Cooder said, sitting up.

"You won't have to. I'll bet any amount of money that folks think we're dead already."

Don Cooder's glowing black eyes lit up.

"Think of our triumphant return to the States: 'Hostage anchor and irrelevant black politician turned talkshow host return from the dead.' "

"Hey, cut that 'irrelevant' part out, hear? I'm shadow senator of the District of Columbus now."

"It's District of Columbia, and if they break programming when they get the glad news, it'll be on account of me, not you."

"Let 'em," Reverend Jackman muttered, looking up to the sky. "I just don't want to be dead for real. 'Cause if my people hear I'm a goner, they're gonna insist the President bomb the pooh out of this heckhole in retaliation. "

"We must find shelter!" Don Cooder's head jerked this way and that. "Do you see anything? Anything that looks substantial?"

"Nothing," Jackman said airily. "Unless you count this fine upstanding building you slammed into."

Cooder's eyes came into focus then. "Oh. Yeah," he said weakly. "That."

Jackman helped the anchor to his feet.

"You are one hell of a reporter, you know that?" Jackman growled. "You run smack into probably the best bomb shelter in town and you don't have sense enough to notice."

"Even Cronkite would be rattled after what happened to us," Cooder said, straightening his wrinkled suit. With a grandiose gesture he flung the door open. Then, recalling where he was, he executed a sudden reversal, saying, "Ministers before anchormen."

Cautiously Reverend Jackman crept in. Cooder counted to ten using his fingers. When he heard no gunshots, he followed.

The place was dark. The electricity was off. The signs were in Arabic so it was impossible to tell what purpose the building served.

"What did happen to us?" Jackman asked. "It came and went so fast, it was kind of a blur."

"That guy with the dead eyes was fixing to kill us," said Cooder.

"Yeah. The white guy with the wrists like two-by-fours. He looked like an American, except he was dressed like outta the Arabian Nights. He was gonna do us barehanded, too. I remember him saying he was sorry he had to do it."

They started up the stairs.

"That was to you," Don Cooder said. "To me he said my murder was going to be a pleasure."

Jackman grunted. "Musta been a right-winger. They all got it in for you."

"No, he seemed to know me from somewhere. And he looked kinda familiar, to boot. He said something else. But I think it was knocked out of me."

"Not the first time," Jackman grunted.

They climbed five flights before they gave it up and started going room to room, trying telephones. All were dead. Not that it mattered much. They were in enemy territory, and condemned to die by Maddas Hinsein's Revolting Command Council. Even it they knew the Iraiti equivalent of 911, it probably wouldn't help.

They found a window that faced toward the broad plaza of Arab Renaissance Square.

"Maybe we can see something from here," Jackman suggested.

The square was virtually deserted. The crossed scimitars that had pierced the sumptuous skyline still did, they were surprised to see. In fact, they were still crossed.

A harsh clang greeted their ears. Even through the sealed window, it made their teeth rattle in sympathy.

"Ouch, that hurt," Cooder said uneasily. The twin blades vibrated so much the phenomenon was visible even from their distant vantage point.

Then the blades unlocked, stood apart momentarily, and came at one another with renewed fury. The pane of glass broke before their eyes, so great was the shock wave that rippled from the clashing blades.

"They're not supposed to move!" Don Cooder blurted. "They're monuments."

"Well, they're moving now,", said Reverend Juniper Jackman, licking his scraggly mustache in worriment. His pop eyes seemed to stick out further than usual. He had the furtive look of a compulsive arsonist who, upon awakening from a bender, smelled gasoline on his fingertips and couldn't recall how it got there.

Don Cooder drew in his breath. "What could be causing this? What incredible power, unseen, unknowable, unstoppable-?"

"I'm gonna unstop you if you don't stop talking like you're reading the seven-o'clock lead," Reverend Jackman spat. "Where do you get that stuff, anyway?"

Cooder shrugged. "All our news writers come over from the Enquirer. Saves us breaking them in."

"Figures."

Their eyes returned to the glass. The scimitars were in motion again. Once more the glass popped, the air reverberating with a metallic clang and crash. The sparks that leapt from the joined blades were as big as snowballs.

"You know," said Reverend Juniper Jackman, "I can't see what's got hold of those pigstickers, but I got me a notion it has something to do with that guy who tried to off us."

Don Cooder nodded. "I wasn't gonna bring this up, but just before everything came crashing down around us, did you happen to notice an Arab gal rip her clothes clean off?"

"Maybe," Reverend Jackman said hesitantly.

"Did you notice her arms?"

"Arms? Yeah, I noticed arms. A few."

"How many did you count?"

"I stopped at three," admitted Reverend Jackman. "Three arms on a woman is unchristian. I didn't wanna see no more."

"I counted four," muttered Don Cooder in a thin voice.

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