"It's an outrage!" Bindle raved.
"Hank."
"I won't let them do it!"
"Hank, the mistake is in our favor," Marmelstein whispered. He shot a nervous glance at the Arabs. They weren't paying any attention to the pair of studio executives.
Bindle's eyes became instantly cunning. His voice dropped to a breathy whisper. "We can get more?" he asked.
"A lot more," Marmelstein said quietly. "They don't have much finance sense over in Ebla. The sultan's people tied his personal accounts in with his business and state accounts. I guess when you're a sultan they're one and the same. Anyway, by buying the studio and giving us power over discretionary spending, he's set it up in such a way that we can tap into everything."
"What do you mean, everything?"
"I mean everything. Every last rupee or kopeck or shekel or whatever the hell currency they use over in Ebla. Every account the sultan has belongs to Taurus."
"Is it legal?"
"Is our little videotape venture legal?" Marmelstein countered.
Bindle grew confused. "Is it?" he asked.
"No."
He grew concerned. "Is it prosecutable?"
"Gray area," Marmelstein said. "Probably not."
"Can we set Ian up to take the fall?"
"Absolutely."
Hank Bindle's eyes lit up like a kid's on Christmas.
"I'm finally going to get to make the movie I've always wanted to make!" he exclaimed.
"How much do you think you'll need?" Marmelstein asked.
"Seven hundred million at least," Bindle said. "But we could go as high as a billion if I need reshoots. And forget about Koala directing. This baby is all mine. C'mon, let's get over to Taurus. We have a lot of work to do before Oscar night."
Bindle's jeep had remained close by. The two men climbed rapidly aboard. Leaving the rows of military hardware in their dust, they hightailed it out of the main gate of the old Summit lot.
The tanks waited solemnly behind them, their silent turrets angled in the direction of Beverly Hills.
TAURUS'S HOLLYWOOD LOT had once been the property of Manco, Blomberg large grinning hyena known the world over as the MBM symbol had for years hung proudly above the studio gates. But in these days of high-stakes studio mergers and buyouts, the hyena had given way to the bull. The star-cluster symbol of Taurus now adorned the walls of the venerable old film studio.
Remo had an easy time finding his way back from Long Beach by taking the Harbor Freeway up to the appropriately labeled Hollywood Freeway. He'd been ready to stop to ask someone where he could find the Hollywood annex of Taurus, but before he did he spied the familiar studio logo.
He found that this Taurus lot was easier to get on than the first. The guard at the front booth waved him through without even looking up from his magazine. There had been so many people driving on and off the complex all day long that he'd given up checking IDs a little before noon.
Once inside, Remo came to the rapid conclusion that Taurus Studios should probably begin scouring the night sky for a camel constellation to replace its current bull. The substitute would be a better representative of the studio considering the huge number of the animals the filmmaking company had imported for its latest production.
There were camels everywhere. Arab wranglers had pulled them into something resembling disciplined lines. Still, the stubborn creatures were not completely cooperative. Men with whips and riding crops patrolled the ranks, lashing out whenever an animal broke from the line.
The strangest thing about the sight was that it was far from unique. In fact, on his way here, Remo had noticed similar activities in many of the other studio lots around town. Taurus had obviously rented space from nearly everyone for Sultan Omay's film.
He was surprised by the harsh treatment the animals were receiving. As he watched the cruel men going from line to line he began to doubt the "no animals harmed" disclaimer he'd seen for years at the ends of motion pictures.
He spied Hank Bindle and Bruce Marmelstein chattering animatedly near one of the canvas-topped studio jeeps. The vehicle was parked near the first in a line of faux-adobe bungalows near soundstage 3. As he approached, Remo thought he recognized the two people the executives were with.
Remo pulled in behind Bindle and Marmelstein's jeep. He left his rental car and wandered over to the small group.
Hank Bindle was in the middle of a sales pitch to the new arrivals.
"So what do you think?" Bindle asked excitedly. "It'll be a love story-war event. I was thinking we could even give it a futuristic touch. Maybe The Bodyguard meets Full Metal Jacket meets Stargate."
"I don't know," said one of the new arrivals-a man with a wide cherubic face. His dull imbecile's eyes were hidden behind an expensive pair of sun glasses. "Can we give it a human touch? Maybe something that has to do with saving the manatee or Mother Earth?"
"I like the earth angle," the other stranger said. She was a woman in her early sixties who looked as if she were dressing for this weekend's sock hop. She was tall and as thin as a pin. Her giant eyes seemed to cause her wrinkled lids discomfort with every blink.
Bruce Marmelstein checked a leather-bound notepad.
"We can work in the earth," he said with an enthusiastic nod. He smiled broadly to the couple. "Earth is great," Bindle agreed. "We can fit Earth in. Maybe Mars, too. Maybe even some of those other planets they've got up there."
"An outer-space epic!" Marmelstein cried.
"A Star Wars for the next century!" Bindle exclaimed.
"It's got to have heart," the man insisted. "And a message."
"We can put a message on Mars," Marmelstein said.
"Total Recall!" Bindle exclaimed.
"Perfect!" his partner enthused.
"I wonder what this industry was like for the poor slobs who actually had to come up with the ideas the rest of you have been stealing for the last hundred years?" asked a sarcastic voice. It came from where they'd left their jeep.
When he turned to find its source, the face of Bruce Marmelstein fell precipitously.
"Oh, no," the executive complained. "You again."
"Yeah, me again," Remo groused as he walked up to the others. "And believe me, I'm not exactly thrilled, either. Your little Koala buddy wasn't at the harbor. They told me he'd be here."
"He isn't," Bindle said quickly.
"I'm sick of traipsing around this cracker factory," Remo said. "I'll wait for him." He crossed his arms, appraising the two new arrivals. "Do I know you?" he asked the man and woman.
"Really, don't be insulting," Hank Bindle said with a nervous laugh. "Of course you do. This is Tom Roberks and his lover, Susan Saranrap." He indicated the man and woman, respectively.
"Dead Guy Strolling," Roberts sneered haughtily. "Director."
"Zelma and Patrice," Susan Saranrap sniffed snobbishly. "Star."
"Watched two minutes of each," Remo Williams said with a friendly smile. "Bored."
"Hah, what a joker," Bruce Marmelstein interjected anxiously. "He's a friend of Mr. Koala, our liaison with the new owner." He turned to Remo. "I'm sure I can find someone who'll hook the two of you up."
The studio exec tried to steer Remo away from the two celebrities. He found to his dismay that every time he tried to take hold of Remo's arm, the arm was somehow not where it had been a second before.
"So, have you made any progress on your latest bomb?" Remo asked sweetly.
Marmelstein stopped trying to grab his arm. "We've got a working title," Marmelstein said quickly. He glanced at Tom Roberts and Susan Saranrap.
"We love it," Bindle enthused.
"It's perfect," Marmelstein agreed.
"See if you love it, too," Bindle said. He raised his arms into the air, framing an invisible title between his outstretched hands. "The Movie." He intoned the words with the same reverence a priest used when referring to the Resurrection.
"The Movie," Marmelstein bubbled happily. "Forget 72 or ID4. We have
TM. And the beauty part is that legal thinks by calling it TM we've already given trademark warning without labeling it. We can wait a few months for the uncopyrighted TM fire to really heat up in the hinterlands silkscreen market and then swoop in with massive lawsuits for trademark infringement."
"Plus it'll be the movie," Bindle said. "The greatest event in cinematic history. The movie to end all movies."
"And it's going to star Tom Roberts and Susan Saranrap," Bruce Marmelstein added with a hopeful grin.
"What's the matter?" Remo asked. "The entire A-, B- and C-list of actors crap out on you?"
Tom Roberts had had enough. "Who is this clown?" the actor demanded. He whipped off his glasses, as if in preparation for a fight.
Remo's attention had suddenly shifted beyond the small cluster of Hollywood types. He thought he spied a familiar face through a break between the two nearest bungalows. It was near one of the lines of camels in the adjacent lot.
"Hey, I'm talking to you," Tom Roberts insisted. He sent a pudgy, angry finger into Remo's chest. The finger never reached its target. The chest and the man it was attached to were no longer where they had been.
Roberts, as well as Bindle and Marmelstein, was completely baffled. It took them a moment to locate Remo. When they finally did, what they saw was only a fleeting glimpse of the thin young man as he slipped rapidly down the hedge-lined alley between the pair of adjoining bungalows.
Remo was closing in on the gaunt, bearded figure of Assola al Khobar.
And, unbeknownst to Remo, the action he intended to take threatened to trigger a disaster of explosive global ramifications.
Chapter 11
This is where I came in.
It was this thought that passed through Remo's mind as he moved swiftly between the neatly trimmed hedges toward the familiar shape of Assota al Khobar.
Remo had had it with these Hollywood wackos. Smith wanted Remo to find out from al Khobar what Sultan Omay's interest was in Taurus Studios. Once he'd wrung this information out of the terrorist, he could zap the wholesale murderer once and for all and get back to something resembling a normal life.
Al Khobar had not yet seen him. The swarthy man's back was to him as Remo approached. The terrorist was in deep, angry conversation with several of Bindle and Marmelstein's war-movie extras. He pointed out beyond the walls of the old MBM studio, waving his free hand in a circular motion above his head. He then swept a broad hand out across the rows of patiently waiting camels. Assola al Khobar looked almost like a general preparing to lead his troops into battle.
Remo broke through the narrow hedge alley between the matching bungalows. A bleached-out sidewalk opened onto the vast, camel-filled lot.
There were Arabs everywhere. One, it seemed, for every camel present. And a rough count put the camel total somewhere near three hundred. A lot of men.
This was too tricky. Remo didn't know who all these movie extras were, but it seemed unlikely that they were all from Ebla. More than likely they were local hirelings-possibly illegal Mexican immigrants-who had been dressed in Arab garb. But there were certainly real Arabs mixed in. If he dragged al Khobar off in front of them, there could be a major riot on the Taurus lot.
Moving swiftly, Remo made a snap decision. He wouldn't ask al Khobar about Omay. Let Smith and his computers figure out what the sultan was up to. Remo would simply kill the terrorist and make his escape quickly, before the crowd could work up a head of angry steam.
He was only a few feet away from his target now. There weren't many men in Assola's immediate vicinity. Not enough to start a riot.
Kill him and get out. A good plan. Given the circumstances, the best plan.
The parking lot was thick with the stench of manure. A camel snorted hotly as Remo passed by. Al Khobar was yelling in some strange Arabic tongue.
Turning all at once. Seeing Remo.
A look of confusion turned to one of suspicion. Too late-Remo was already there, his arm tucked back, coiled to fire forward.
Fingers curled, palm flat, Remo drove his hand out. The blow was flawless. It launched like a well-oiled piston toward the chest of the Arab terrorist.
A hair before the point of impact Remo's hypersensitive skin felt the brush of material from al Khobar's robe. A fraction later he sensed the familiar negative pressure from the displaced air around the body.
Next would come the familiar crack of bone as the lethal assault propelled thin white chunks of the Arab's splintered sternum back into his vital organs.
Remo had delivered the same blow countless times in the past. Always with the same result. Until now.
The air around al Khobar dispersed obediently before Remo's killing hand. The chest was as open as an Iowa cornfield-the bone ready, eager to explode. According to everything his body was screaming at him, the blow should have worked flawlessly.
But when it was through, nothing had happened. It was over. Done. Al Khobar was dead. He must be.
But the terrorist still stood before him. Alive and suspicious. Angry eyes darted from Remo to a point beside Remo's right shoulder.
Remo's face darkened in instant concern.
The blow had to have registered. It was impossible for it to have gone unnoticed.
And then Remo felt it. So perfectly had the pressure point been manipulated, he had not even been aware that the blow remained incomplete. His mind told him that Assola al Khobar was dead. But his eyes told him that he was alive...
And that his arm was locked in place a fraction of a millimeter before the Eblan terrorist's chest. Someone had expertly overridden the network of nerves that controlled his arm and shoulder. He realized with a sinking feeling that there was only one man on Earth adept enough to break through his body's defenses.
Al Khobar was forgotten.
Remo turned, already knowing what to expect. He found himself staring into a pair of familiar hazel eyes. They were not pleased.
"You are a long way from Detroit," the Master of Sinanju accused coldly.
Chapter 12
Harold Smith could not have been more relieved to hear Remo's voice on the other end of the line. "Remo, thank goodness. Was Chiun able to stop you in time?" Smith asked urgently.
"Yeah, he stopped me," Remo complained.
He was in Bindle and Marmelstein's Hollywood office. The room was undergoing major renovations. The walls and the ceiling had been torn down. Crates of furniture with exotic-sounding names were piled in the outer room.
Remo had chased the work crews out in order to get a little privacy for his phone call. The Master of Sinanju had abandoned Remo to talk to the studio executives.
"Thank God," Smith exhaled.
"But now he's not talking to me," Remo went on. "He's ticked that I sneaked out here without him. What's the rhubarb, Smitty? I was a hair away from pulling the plug on that creep."
"No," Smith stressed, the passion in his voice an unusual departure from his customary measured, nasal tone. "Under no circumstances are you to injure Assola al Khobar."
"Okay, now you're beginning to annoy me. I thought that was the job."
"It was," Smith said. "But the circumstances have obviously changed. I had thought you would have called in, given the latest developments."
"What latest developments?"
"You did not hear of the abduction?" Smith asked.
"Smitty, I'm in Hollywood," Remo said sourly. "If the talk isn't about gross points, back-end deals or the new all-cabbage diet, it ain't talked about. What abduction?"
Smith took a deep breath. He went on to explain about the kidnapping of the secretary of state and her entourage in Ebla. He also told Remo of the threats against America's entertainment industry, Israel and the call for the cessation of funds to the Jewish state.
"Sounds like you called it right as far as the great Omay is concerned," Remo said once Smith was through.
"I have managed to tap into the computer files of his personal physician in New York," Smith continued. "What I lear
ned might explain the sultan's change. As you probably know already, he was quite ill more than a decade ago."
"Didn't he almost die?" Remo asked.
"Had he remained in Ebla he would have. Their medical technology is woefully inadequate. It was at this time that he began his peace overtures to the West."
"He made nice-nice with us because he wanted to save his own ass," Remo commented.
"That is the likeliest scenario. But after his recovery he remained a tenuous friend of Western interests."
Smith grew uncomfortable. It was always difficult for him to gauge the motivations of madmen. He pressed on. "It is possible that during this period he simply enjoyed the notoriety his role as peacemaker afforded him," the CURE director offered. He didn't seem convinced of his own argument. Years of toiling in anonymity did not afford Smith much insight into the minds of grandstanders.
"He liked the limelight," Remo said, accepting Smith's appraisal. "That's not a bad conclusion, especially considering the whacked-out town I'm in right now."
"Yes," Smith said. "In any event his cancer receded and he has since given lip service to peace. He has been allowed in and out of the United States for years."
"Then another possibility is that he was afraid of a relapse," Remo suggested. "If he went back to his old ways, we'd never let him back in this country again."
"That is true," Smith said. "And we will not, although given his current prognosis it seems no longer to matter one way or another."
"Why?" asked Remo. "Is he sick again?"
"According to his medical records he is terminal."
Alone in Bindle and Marmelstein's office, Remo frowned. "That's nuts," he said. "He's got to know we'd pop him the minute he comes in for treatment."
"He has forgone all treatments," Smith explained. "The prognosis was grim regardless. He opted not to endure radiation treatment or futile surgery. He has not been back to see his doctor in eight months."
"He's not coming back, is he?" Remo said glumly.
"Neither to New York nor from the abyss of madness, it would seem," Smith replied tightly.
"All right," Remo said. "I see where this is going. Book me on the first plane to Ebla"
The CURE director's response surprised him.
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