"Allah Akbar," chanted the young men. "God is great."
And then from the darkness of the Iranian night, from the cold sweeping winds, came a voice answering in English.
"God is great but you ragheads aren't."
The young men in the heavy wools looked around. Who had said that?
"This is the major leagues, lamb-breath," came the voice from the darkness again. "No jazzing yourselves up with chants so you can drive trucks into buildings where people are asleep. This is where real men work. In the night. By themselves."
"Who said that?"
The voice ignored the question. Instead, it replied: "Tonight, you will not be allowed to lie to yourself. Tonight, the chanting is over. The Mickey Mouse Ali Baba nonsense is over. Tonight you're in the majors and you're alone. You and me. Fun, isn't it?"
"Shoot him," yelled the leader. The sentries, numb with cold, saw no one. But they had been ordered to fire. The night crackled with little spurts from Kalishnikov barrels as ignorant farmboys performed the simple act of pulling triggers.
The sharp noise made the following silence seem even deeper and more profound. Now everyone heard the fire, but no one heard the man who had spoken from the dark.
The leader sensed he might be losing the group and he spoke out loudly.
"Cowards hide in the dark. Any fool can talk."
The younger men laughed. The leader knew he had them back. He had sent many men toward their end and he knew that to get a man to drive himself with a load of dynamite into a building, one had to be with him right up until the moment he climbed behind the steering wheel. One had to keep telling him about heaven. One had to help him put the prayer shawl around his shoulders and then one had to give him the kiss that showed that all true believers loved him. And then one had to stand back quickly as he drove away.
The leader had sent many hurtling toward heaven, taking with them the enemies of the Blessed Imam, the Ayatollah.
"Come out of the dark, coward," he called again. "Let us see you." His followers laughed. He told them: "You see, blessed ones. Only those with the kiss of heaven on their lips and Allah in their eyes can measure courage on this earth. You are invincible. You will be victorious."
The followers nodded. At that moment, each felt that he did not even need the warmth of the fire, so filled was he with the burning passion of righteousness.
"I tell you the voice itself may have been from Satan. And look how powerless it is now. Yet look how frightening it was, coming from the dark."
The young men nodded.
The leader said, "We alone are powerful. Satan only appears powerful, but like the night noise holds no meaning. Satan's power is an illusion, as slender a thing as the infidel's weak yearning for peace. There is but one peace. That is in heaven. On earth, there is another peace and that is the victory of Islam."
"Naaah, I don't think so." It was the voice, but it came from a vision. The vision in this cold night was pale of body, with high cheekbones and dark eyes. It had thick wrists and wore only a short-sleeved shirt and thin trousers. It did not shiver and it did not fear.
It spoke.
"I have very bad news for you kids. I am reality, sent from America without much love."
"Be gone, vision," said the leader.
Remo laughed. He moved into the reach of the fire so that their eyes followed him. Then he reached toward one Iranian fanatic and with a cupped motion of his palm under the chin brought the man back, away from the flames, and into the dark with him.
"See," the leader said. "A vision. Now it is gone."
But everyone heard a small wrenching sound like a pipe cracking inside a bag of water.
"Gone," insisted the leader.
Out of the night toward the campfire came something bouncing. It was a little larger than a soccer ball. It dripped dark liquid in its trail. It had hair.
The young men looked around the fire, then to the leader. They knew now what the sound of cracking had been. It had been a neck wrenching. The head had come back to them out of the night.
But even as they looked toward the leader, he moved back away from the firelight, and then he was gone into the night with that vision.
Remo could feel the man struggle inside the heavy coat and he let the coat be a bag that restrained the man more than protected him. He played the man beyond the sentries with little slaps, as simply as if keeping pizza dough spinning overhead.
Away from the campfire and the guards, Remo let the man down.
"Good evening," he said politely. "I have come with a message. The White House is off-limits."
"We have no harm against Americans. We have no harm."
"Lying isn't nice," Remo said. "Liars lose their coats."
He snapped the coat from the man's back, cracking an arm as he did so. He knew the man had broken an arm because he was trying to keep warm now with only one arm.
"Now know one thing. The White House is off-limits. The President of the United States is off-limits."
The leader nodded.
"Why is it off-limits?" Remo asked patiently.
"Because he is not the Great Satan?" said the Iranian.
"I don't care what goes on under those rags you wear on your heads. Call him the Greatest Satan if you want. Hell, you can call him Two-Gun Justice if you want. But know one thing and keep it warmly in your mind. You are not going to kill the American President. Do you know why?"
The man shook his head. Remo took off the man's shirt.
"Say why. Say why. Say why," said the man, reaching for the shirt.
"Because," said Remo. "That's why." He held out the shirt for a moment and then threw it over the man's shoulders. He added the big wool coat.
"Hear now something else. You do not represent God. You are little men and have been for a thousand years. You have come up, with all your talk of being God's anointed, you have come up against something that has found your camp in your country, ignored the bullets of your guards, and the fearsome cold of your winters. That ought to give you pause. Do you know the old legends?"
"Some," said the man. He clutched his coat tightly, hoping it would not be snatched from him again.
"Have you heard of Sinanju?"
"A new American airplane?"
"No. Sinanju is old. Very old."
"The Shah's men?" the Iranian said.