Warren Murphy Destroyer 085 Blood Lust

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like oasis flowers in the midday sun."
The secretary blushed, turning her dusky face even darker.
Ambassador Abaatira tore his avid eyes off that happy rose with a darkening
expression of his own.
"Very well, please inform them that I am on my way for my daily spanking."
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Turning on his heel, Turqi Abaatira stepped smartly to his waiting car. He
instructed the driver. The car pulled away from the curb like a sleek black
shark speeding toward a meal.
In the gilded State Department conference room, Turqi Abaatira used a silk
pocket handkerchief to conceal a yawn.
The undersecretary of state was truly wound up this time. The poor overworked
man was beside himself, pounding the table in his fury. He was not getting
much ink these days, Abaatira reflected. No doubt it rankled. He could
understand that. Not so many months before, he himself could not get a choice
table in the better restaurants.
"This is an outrage!" the man was raging.
"You said that yesterday," Abaatira replied in a bored voice. "And last week.
Twice. Really, what can you except me to do?"
"I expect," the undersecretary of state said, coming around the table to tower
over the ambassador, "that you act like a civilized diplomat, get on the
damned horn to Abominadad, and talk sense to that mad Arab you call a
President. The whole house of cards in the Middle East is about to come
tumbling down on his head."
"That, too, I have heard before. Is there anything else?"
"This mustache thing. Is Hinsein serious about this?"
Abaatira shrugged. "Why not? You know the saying, 'When in Rome, do as the
Romans do'?"
"Abominadad is not Rome," the undersecretary snapped. "And if your people
don't watch their step, it might just become the next Pompeii."
"As I was saying," Abaatira continued smoothly, "when in Abominadad, one
should respect the great traditions of the Arab people. In my country, there
is a law stipulating that all men should emulate our President in all ways,
especially in regard to facial adornment. If we expect this of our own people,
should we not also ask it of our honored guests?"
"Hostages."
"Such an overused term," Abaatira said, stuffing his handkerchief back into
his coat pocket. "So like calling everyone who disagrees with you a latter-day
Hitler. Really, sir. You ought to change your record. I believe it is
skipping."
The undersecretary of state stood over the Iraiti ambassador, clenched fists
trembling.
He exhaled a slow, dangerous breath. Words came out with it.
"Get the hell out of here," he hissed. "And communicate our extreme
displeasure to your President."
"I shall be delighted," Abaatira, said, rising. At the door, he paused. "He
finds my cables outlining your outbursts hugely entertaining."
Returning to his limousine, Ambassador Abaatira picked up the speaking tube.
"Never mind the consulate," he told the driver. "Take me to the Embassy Row
Hotel."
Then, getting on the car phone, he made two calls. The first was to reserve a
room at the Hotel Potomac.
"Just for the afternoon," he told the front desk.
Next he put in a call to the Diplomatic Escort Service.
"Hellooo, Corinne?" he asked cheerfully. "This is Turqi. How are you, my
dear?"
An unfamiliar voice said, "Corinne is indisposed. May I assist you in some
way?"
"I truly hope so. Is Pamela available for a few hours?"
"I'm sorry, but she is indisposed."
"Hmmm. I see. How about Rachel?"
"Rachel is out of town."
Abaatira frowned. They were passing the White House. A protest group was
assembled outside the east lawn, shouting, "Food, not bombs! No blood for
oil!" They waved placards: "U.S. OUT OF HAMIDI ARABIA." His frown melted. His
heart gave a little leap of joy. Such a civilized country.
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"I will tell you what," he said magnanimously. "I am feeling adventurous
today. Why not send over a selection of your choosing? Hotel Potomac. Room
1045."
"Kimberly is available. You'll like her. She's a fresh face. Very, very good
with her hands. And blond." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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