Warren Murphy: Blood Lust

"Here he comes now, sir," a diver offered.

The medic took one look and said, "Hopeless."

Smith climbed to his feet with arthritic difficulty and put his face into the medic's own. He spoke one word.

"Rescuscitate."

"Impossible."

Smith took the man's khaki tie in one trembling fist. He pushed the knot up to uncomfortable tightness.

"Do as I say or lose your rank, your pension, and possibly your life."

The medic got the message. He got to work.

A scalpel parted the fine purple silk of the kimono, exposing a chest whose ribs could be counted through translucent bluish-white flesh. The heart-starting paddles came out their box.

"Clear!"

He applied the paddles to the chest. The body jerked.

"Clear!" the medic repeated.

This time the body jumped. As everyone held his breath, it settled back-sank, really-into macabre repose.

Three times the galvanized corpse spasmed, only to settle back into inertness.

After the fourth try, Smith got down and pinched off the nose. He blew air into the dead mouth.

The medic joined in, somehow inspired by Smith's determination. It was impossible, ridiculous, and yet . . .

The medic manipulated the chest. Smith blew in the air.

After an eternity of moments, Smith felt a return breath-foul and distasteful. He turned away. But in his eyes tears welled.

Everyone saw the sharp rise of the naked chest. It was repeated.

"He's breathing!" the medic choked out. His voice was stupefied.

"He lives," Smith sobbed, turning away, ashamed of his display.

And in the dimness pierced only by crossed underwater flashlights, a rattling voice spoke up.

"You . . . understood."

It issued from the paper-thin lips past discolored teeth like Indian corn.

The lids split open, revealing filmy reddish-brown eyes.

The Master of Sinanju had returned from the dead.

Chapter 44

The dawn that shook the world began like any before it.

The sun lifted over Abominadad's storied minarets like a resentful red eye. The muezzin wailed out their ageless cry, calling the faithful to prayers, "Allaaah Akbar!"

God is Great.

In this hot dawn, Remo Williams' thoughts were neither of dawn nor of God nor of greatness.

The darkness had borne witness to his despair. He had not slept. His mind was a frozen eye of fear.

Then a crack of light. The ironbound door creaked open on his cell deep in the Palace of Sorrows.

Remo looked up, shielding his sunken eyes against the unwelcome light.

And was struck by a cold shower of water thrown over his body. Another followed. And soon he was drenched.

"Dry yourself." a voice commanded.

It was Kimberly Baynes's voice, no longer breathy and childish, but strong and confident.

Remo removed his soaked kimono, now heavy as a rainsoaked shroud. He dried himself slowly. He was in no hurry.

Something landed at this feet with a plop!

"Put these on," Kimberly instructed.

In the raw light, Remo struggled into the strange garments, not fully aware of what he was doing, and not caring. The pants were gauzy. He saw that. The shoes soft. What he mistook for a shirt proved to be a sleeveless vest. He looked for a matching shirt, and found none. Shrugging, he donned the vest.

"Step out, Red One."

Remo entered the light, which was coming through an iron-barred window high in the stone basement wall of the palace.

"You look perfect," said Kimberly Baynes in approval.

"I feel like . . ." Remo looked down. He saw that his purple slippers curled up at their tips. The vest was purple too. He wore scarlet trunks with gauzy reddish leggings. His bare sunburned arms almost matched the color of the gauze.

"What is this?" he asked, dumbfounded.

"The proper costume of the official assassin of Abominadad," Kimberly said. "Now, come. You have victims to claim."

She turned with a swirl of her abayuh, drawing the hood over her head and restoring her veil.

"Who?" Remo asked, following her with wooden steps.

He was ignored until she let him out a side door to a waiting armored car. The door slammed shut behind them. Remo took a fold-down seat.

"The very ones you came here to save," she told him then.

"Oh, God!" Remo croaked in disbelief.

Maddas Hinsein stood before his Revolting Command Council, attired in a splendid green burnoose, Nebuchadnezzar's heroic portrait behind him.

"I have made a decision," he announced.

"Allah be praised."

"Reverend Jackman and Don Cooder must be liquidated before all mankind so that the world knows that I am a crazy ass not to be trifled with."

The Revolting Command Council blinked in stunned silence, eyes like fluttering, frightened butterflies.

As hot-blooded Arabs, they understood the need-no, the absolute necessity--of repaying the stinging insult the United States had inflicted on Arab pride by shipping home the murdered and desecrated body of their patriotic ambassador, along with the bald lie that he had drowned in a car accident.

But as rational men, they knew that this could, more than anything else, put them under the cross hairs of the American fleet lurking in the Arabian Gulf.

"Are there any here who think this is not the proper response?" Maddas demanded. "Come, come. Speak truthfully. We must be of one mind on this."

A lone hand was raised. It was the agriculture minister. Maddas nodded in his direction.

"Is this not dangerous?" he wondered.

"Possibly." Maddas admitted. "Are you concerned that the U.S. will retaliate?"

"Yes, Precious Leader. It concerns me deeply."

At that, Maddas Hinsein drew his pearl-handled revolver and shot the worried minister full in the face. He fell forward. His face went splat on the table, breaking like a water balloon. Except the water was scarlet.

"Your fears are groundless." Maddas told him, "for you are beyond their bombs now." He looked around the room. "Are there any others who are concerned about falling before a U.S. bombardment?"

No one spoke.

"You are all very brave," Maddas murmured. "We meet in Arab Renaissance Square in one hour. After today, we will know who stands with us and who against."

Polite applause rattled the wall hangings, and Maddas Hinsein took his departure.

No more would they call him Kebir Gamoose.

Selim Fanek's visage was known throughout the world. His was the official face of Maddas Hinsein. When President Hinsein wished to give a speech over television, it was Selim Fanek who gave it. He had been chosen because, above all others, he most resembled Maddas Hinsein. It was an honored post.

So when Selim Fanek received a personal call from his beloved Precious Leader to officiate at the public execution of Reverend Jackman and Don Cooder, he took it as a great honor.

But as the official car whirled him to Arab Renaissance Square, he realized that this could be a double-edged honor.

For this made him a participant in what the Americans might call a war crime-and suddenly Selim Fanek had a vision of himself swinging from the end of an American rope.

Since his options swung between the rough bite of American hemp and the blistering wrath of Maddas Hinsein, he swallowed hard and beseeched Allah to strike the U.S. forces dead from thirst.

When the door opened on their Sheraton Shaitan suite, at first Don Cooder took the uniformed intruders for an American task force sent to personally liberate him. He had counted on his network to pull strings. He was paid whether he broadcast or not.

The grim mustachioed faces of two Renaissance Guards, like cookie-cutter Maddas Hinseins, stopped his shout of triumph in his throat.

"You . . . you guys aren't Americans," he blurted stupidly.

"We are the execution escort," he was told.