The line was dead for possibly fifteen seconds. "That is not funny," Smith said tartly.
"And I am not joking. We showed the blank FBI poster to the local postal manager, and all he could remember was that the guy had a nose like a camel. That was when Chiun whipped out a magazine, and the manager said-I swear to God-'That's him.' Hey, Chiun, where'd you get that ad anyway?"
"From a magazine on the airplane."
"Are you telling me that Yusef Gamal looks like the Joe Camel of the cigarette advertisements?" Smith asked.
"At least close enough to give us something to work with. Try what I said and give it to the FBI. How's it going on your end?"
"I have alerted FBI branch offices to the identities and whereabouts of the other conspirators on the Gates of Paradise bulletin board. The roundup has begun."
"How'd you find them so quick?"
"Their Gates of Paradise user names turn out to be the names by which they are operating in this country."
"Yeah ... ?"
"Most of them are listed in their local phone directories," added Smith.
Remo grunted. "Sounds like the World Trade Center screwups all over again."
"We cannot underestimate these people," Smith warned.
"Think picking them up will be as simple as that?"
"We can only hope."
Just then a single beep came over the line.
"Hold the line, please," said Smith, his voice turning tense. Remo recognized the sound of Smith's computer issuing a warning bulletin.
Smith's tone was urgent when it came back. "Remo, it appears that we have something. A SWAT team has cornered one of the suspect terrorists near the South Postal Annex in Boston. The man is up on the roof of South Station and will not come down. He is heavily armed."
"Can't they just pick him off?"
"That is what I am afraid of. I do not want him picked off before he can talk. We need to know who controls this terror group. You and Chiun fly to Boston."
"Let's hope we'll be on time," Remo said.
"His name is Mohamet Ali."
"No kidding. What do we do with him after we're done squeezing out information?"
"If the roundup goes well, his usefulness will be over once he talks," Smith said coldly.
Chapter 18
The mosque was a pristine vision of white stone capped by an alabaster dome. Two lofty minarets lifted to the heathen, unclean sky of Greenburg, Ohio. Mosaic tiles trimmed its supreme beauty.
All this, Yusef Gamal saw as the Egyptian who was tainted with Crusader blood and might or might not be a secret Copt drove him up the winding access road.
The road was immaculate. All was immaculate. There was only one strange thing.
The mosque appeared empty of all life. No gardeners tended the green grounds. No light showed anywhere, though it was growing dusky. It might have been deserted.
And there was something else, which Yusef could not put his finger on. It was there, but it was hidden. It was palpable, but it was also ineffable.
"What is this place called?"
"Al-Bahlawan Mosque," he was told.
"A good name."
"An Islamic name," the red Egyptian agreed as the car rolled to a stop and it was time to get out.
"Why have I not heard of this mosque?"
"You will be told this." "This is the greatest, most magnificent mosque in all of Christendom," Yusef marveled. "I have never seen its equal outside of the Holy Land."
"It is not a place of worship," Jihad Jones snapped.
"Is it not a mosque? Does it not possess magnificent minarets pointing the way to Paradise?"
"Yes, yes."
"Then why is Allah not worshiped within? Tell me this."
"I need tell you nothing, Jew. Except that Allah is served in other fashions by this mosque."
And because he never again wanted to be called a Jew by a man he suspected of being a Copt, Yusef Gamal ceased his questions. He was becoming very thin-skinned about this Jewish question. Also his side- lock-festooned wig itched, and he desired to remove the entire despised costume.
Inside, there was more magnificence. Arabesques. High ceilings. The clean smell Yusef always associated with the mosques of his homeland. Except here the smell was somehow... dead.
After they had removed their shoes and performed the ritual washing, they were greeted by Sargon, the Persian aide to the Deaf Mullah.
"Peace be upon you," they returned in respectful Arabic.
"You are expected, for you have done well."
Yusef turned on the Egyptian, Jihad Jones. "See? I have done well. I am not to be killed."
"My cousin's carnage was better than your carnage," the other sneered. "And my carnage will exceed his." "My carnage is not yet complete. You will see. The Deaf Mullah has further work for me."
"He has further work for of you," said Sargon the Persian.
"If I am to meet the Deaf Mullah, I must rid myself of these offensive garments," Yusef protested.
"Proper attire awaits both of you," said Sargon.
Yusef did not know what this meant. Jihad Jones looked down at his own Western clothes and looked vaguely embarrassed.
"What is wrong with my attire?" he wondered aloud.
"It is unsuitable for the work that lies ahead of you."
"He means you dress like a Cross-worshiper," Yusef sneered.
"I spit upon you and your lies!"
But to himself, Yusef only smiled. He had gotten under the Egyptian's thick red skin.
that looked as antiseptic as a hospital operating room, they were given strange garments of one piece. They were green, and the Western-style fly zipped up from crotch to collar.
"See?" said Yusef, pointing proudly. "This is an Arab's fly. For my tool is an Arab's tool."
'' My fly is also large,'' Jihad Jones protested.
"It is not the same as having a large tool. Obviously your fly is only a disguise to convince unbelievers you are not Egyptian."
And so angered did Jihad Jones become that he whipped out his tool to prove the lie to Yusef's words. Yusef met his thrust with a matching one of his own.
"I win," said the Egyptian.
"Only because you have coaxed its girth by rubbing," Yusef accused.
"This is its natural size."
"And you are a natural liar!"
Sargon barked, "Enough! Zip your flies and your mouths both. The Deaf Mullah awaits."
In silence, they donned black boots and were given green checkered to wear around their necks.
Yusef looked his over, very pleased with its length. It would be large enough to conceal his offensive-to-Muslims nose. This was good. Perhaps now he would obtain respect from this penis-envying Egyptian.
They were taken to a room where the air was cool and the light was weak. It was guarded within and without by burly Afghan warriors who held AK-47 rifles, while curved scimitars were thrust into the sashes of their native costumes. They stood like fierce statues whose eyes were black points of malevolence.
from the Afghan organization called Taliban," Sargon explained.
Yusef nodded. "Taliban" meant "Seekers of the Light." Such men as these had broken the back of the Russian Bear.
The Deaf Mullah sat in the chevron-shaped niche behind a partition of wavery green glass the color of the Red Sea in fall.
At their approach, he lifted his ear trumpet and placed it against his right ear, a pale, wavering shadow.
"As-salamu'alaykum, shuhada,