"You feed your army chocolate mousse from Lutèce's?" Remo asked.
"No. Not the army. The officers. The army eats sheep or frogs or something. They like bread. I'm not sure. Something like that. So I don't need you for them, son, and I've got Emile from Lutèce's, and I don't much like Napoleons anyway. So I've got no real use for you here."
He leaned forward suddenly with heightened interest.
"You don't make a Charlotte Russe, do you?"
"No," Remo said.
"Too bad. That's what's" missing from our menu. A Charlotte Russe. God, I love that puffy whipped cream inside that cardboard tube. Winslow, take a note. Find us a Charlotte Russe chef."
"Yes, sir," Winslow said.
The general looked at Remo with an understanding smile. "Listen, you come up with a good Charlotte Russe, and maybe we've got something to talk about, okay?"
"No," said Remo.
"What do you mean, no?"
"I didn't come here to hear you talk about goddamn cake," Remo said.
General Jonathan Wentworth Bull rose to his feet. He wore a diamond-encrusted belt around his waist, and he hiked it up over his hips.
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"What do you want to talk about?"
"War," said Remo.
Bull seemed confused and looked to Winslow. "War?" he asked.
"Kind of like fighting, General. Between two armies."
"Oh, yeah. I know. Like Space Invaders with people. What about war, fella?"
"General, let's get to understand each other first," Remo said.
"Okay. I'm very understanding. Everybody says that."
"Oil is what keeps you alive. You know that, right?"
"I wouldn't exactly say ..."
"Yes, you would. All the Hamidi oil pays your salary. It helps them buy all that military junk that your brother-in-law sells. It's oil and oil money, right?"
"Not exactly. I wouldn't..." General Bull started.
Remo squeezed his earlobe.
"Right. Right. Oil. It's oil. Easy on the ear, fella. Want to be a colonel? Just let go of the ear."
Remo let go of the ear.
"Okay. Oil keeps you alive. Now somebody wants to destroy the oil."
"There's an awful lot of it. It'd be hard for them to do that," the general said.
"They've got a way. I've seen it work," Remo said.
"It'll destroy our oil?" Bull said.
"Right."
"No more money for salaries or new satellite killer systems?"
"Right," Remo said.
Bull pulled himself to his full height and hitched up his jeans again. "Winslow," he barked. "Scramble the air force. Get the tank divisions ready."
"Should I tell them to get the Mobile Nucotronic Army Decimator ready?" Winslow asked.
"No, don't mess with that crap. Just regular things ... you know, that go bang."
"Guns?"
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"Right. How many pilots are around?" the general asked.
"We gave all the Americans the week ofl, remember?"
"Oh, phooey," the general said.
"You don't have Hamidi pilots?" Remo asked.
"Son, there are no Hamidi pilots. The Hamidis think that planes are things that come with Americans inside them. The Hamidis are old slave traders. They buy people. They buy ambassadors. They've got some ambassador right now running around America on a speaking tour, warning about how officials might come under the pressure of the Israeli lobby."
"I read about that," Remo said.
"Sure, you would. That guy gets ten thousand dollars every time he makes that speech."
"For ten thousand dollars, I'd make that speech too," Winslow said.
"Well, I wouldn't," General Bull said. "I wouldn't because I believe in truth, justice, and the American way. And the free enterprise system, of course."
"Dear God," said Remo, shaking his head. "Well, skip the air force. We won't need it anyway."
"Who we going up against?" Bull asked. "I've heard that there's a chess club in Nehmad and the members are planning sedition against the government. They're voting next week on printing a leaflet criticizing the king. Are they the ones?"
"Not them. We're going against Arab soldiers."
"Come on. There are no Arab soldiers," General Bull said.
"Old-fashioned kind," Remo said. "Horses, swords, spears."
"Real swords?" Bull said.
"Yes," said Remo.
"They'll be no match for our tanks if we can get some running. Winslow will lead them into battle himself. I'll stay here and man the central command post. Let me know as soon as the fighting's over."
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"No," Remo said. "Winslow isn't leading. I'm leading. And you're coming with me."
"Up until now, son, I kind of liked you. But why do I have to go?"
"It'll make the troops feel good to know their general is there at their side, sharing the risks with them," Remo said.
"You know what I hate?" Bull said.
"What?"
"All that old bullshit tradition in the army. All those traditions, they're general-killers, that's what they are. General-killers."
"And so am I," Remo said.
'TU go," Bull said. "You know, I never did ask your name."
"Patton," Remo said. "George S. Patton."
"Is that Irish?" Bull asked. "Sounds Irish."
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Chapter Ten
General Jonathan Wentworth Bull assembled the entire Hamidi army the next morning at a.m. Two hundred of them showed up.
"This is it?" Remo asked him. "Two hundred men?"
"Well, there are more, but it's hard to get messages to them right away. And especially before noon. I think we should have a thousand by this afternoon."
"We'll need a thousand," Remo said. "Sheik Fareem's got a thousand men."
"If I get you eleven hundred, can I stay here?" Bull asked.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Do you want me to squeeze your ear?" Remo asked.
"You don't have to be belligerent. We're not in a war yet," Bull-said.
"What can these things do?" Remo said, waving toward the troops, some of whom stood in clusters talking, some of whom lay on the ground napping, in the large open area before the main headquarters building.
"I think one of them is a ju-jitsu expert. Somebody told me once that a couple of them know how to use knives. They all have those little things that shoot . . . er, rifles. Right, rifles. I think there's a bunch of them who are good at jumping wires and starting parked
cars.
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"Maybe we can mug the other army," Remo said. He heard a faint tapping sound from the side of the building.
"Do you hear that noise?" he asked.
"Yeah. That's our press agent."
"You've got a press agent for this army?" Remo asked.
"Of course. How else is the world going to know not to mess with Hamidi Arabia unless we have a press agent working?" Bull said.
"What's her name?"
"Actually, she's not really a press agent," Bull said. "She's a journalist. But she's as good as a press agent."
"Show me," Remo said. "Maybe she can fight. We can make her acting commander-in-chief in the field."
They walked toward the corner of the building, and as soon as they saw General Bull turn his back, most of the soldiers ran away. The rest were sleeping.
A small folding table was set up in the shade alongside the headquarters building. A woman sat at it, in front of a typewriter, tapping on the keys with a pencil she held in her teeth.
Remo stopped to watch. He said to Bull, "Wouldn't it be easier if she typed with her hands?"
"She can't do that."
"Why not? Who is she anyway?"
"Melody Wakefield. She's from The Boston Blade."
"Christ, that explains it," Remo said. "I had to read that paper once. She's on your side?"
"Mostly she's against the Israelis," Bull said. "I don't read her stuff myself, but that's what I think she's up to."