"Where is it?" asked Yusef.
"Two doors down. The green door. It is unlocked,
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.
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 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
"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.
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 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.
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