"Oh, it's you," Bindle grumbled. "Hi."
His college-age assistant had grabbed a towel from makeup. Wobbling in on both knees, she began vigorously wiping the tops of his expensive shoes.
"Witness, Remo," Chiun intoned. "The reputation of the mighty co-king of Taurus is such that women throw themselves willingly at his feet."
"It looks more like a crummy job than hero worship, Little Father," Remo commented.
The woman switched from one shoe to the other. Hank Bindle shifted his weight accordingly.
"Is there something you two want?" Bindle asked.
"Tell my doubting son what it is you are doing," Chiun said to the executive.
"I'm trying to direct an epic motion picture, but all I'm getting is bad light and a fountain of camel piss."
Remo looked over at the mock desert scene. No camels were relieving themselves at the moment. The men stood around impatiently, waiting to resume shooting.
Remo squinted up at the man on camelback. The eyes above the black veil looked vaguely familiar. By this point the man on the camel had had enough.
"Are we gonna try this again sometime this week?" the biting voice of Tom Roberts asked from behind the veil. "I'm sweating my hump off up here."
"No, Tom, luv," Bindle said with a sigh. "Take five."
Unctuous assistants appeared out of nowhere to assist the actor down from the camel's massive furry hump. Whipping off his veil, Roberts stormed off to his trailer.
Remo turned to Bindle. "Do you actually think you're making a movie?" he asked, amazed.
"Not just any movie," Bindle said. "This is the greatest story ever told." He kicked his kneeling assistant away.
"Wasn't that the life of Christ?" Remo asked blandly.
"Who?" Hank Bindle asked. He continued before Remo could reply. "We've got the financing to make an epic. And while this minor unpleasantness is going on around town, we're the only studio up and running."
"By 'minor unpleasantness,' I assume you mean the foreign invasion," Remo said dryly.
"Hey, one man's invasion is another man's opportunity."
"Spoken like a true collaborator," Remo told him.
"Listen, we've got a lock. No one else is producing jack-shit around here. If the Arabs can hold on to Hollywood long enough, Taurus will be the only studio with a film out next summer, aside from a few rinky-dink indie productions. But who cares about them? I'm talking major motion pictures. We're it."
"Bindle, there was never a movie," Remo explained slowly. "It was just a cover."
"What are you talking about? This is the movie," Bindle said excitedly. He waved his arm expansively to include all of Hollywood. "There's drama, action, a background love story. Plus we've got stuntmen and extras who'll work for nothing." He indicated the real Arabs who were milling about the phony desert with their camels.
"You're filming the occupation?" Remo said in disbelief.
"Isn't it great?" Bindle asked with a thrilled shudder. "Sultan Omay has given his blessing. I think he wants it as some sort of vanity project, but who cares. We'll ship off a print to him and then send four thousand copies around the rest of the country. Four? Hell, eight. Eighteen. It'll be the only thing playing."
The studio executive had a demented look in his eyes as he calculated the number of screens his movie would be appearing on around the country. It was almost too mind-boggling to consider.
"What of my film?" Chiun interjected.
Bindle blinked away his distracted expression. "What?" he asked. "Oh, that. Well, your pitch made it sound pretty good," he admitted. "But I've got to admit I'm a little skeptical. No offense, Pops, but it doesn't look like you've exactly got your finger on the pulse of the average American moviegoer. Hell, it doesn't even look like you've got much of a pulse of your own."
That was it. Bindle was as good as dead. Chiun would never accept a personal insult. Particularly one directed at age. Remo waited contentedly for the Master of Sinanju to decapitate the Taurus executive.
He was shocked by Chiun's response.
"What a delightful wit you possess," the old Korean said with a polite smile.
"You think so?" Hank Bindle asked.
"It is as insightful as it is unique," Chiun continued.
"You've got to be kidding," Remo griped.
"I am the funny one of the Bindle and Marmelstein team," Bindle confided to the Master of Sinanju. He glanced across the lot, making sure his longtime partner wasn't anywhere nearby. "Bruce doesn't have much of a sense of humor. I think it comes from his hairdresser days."
"He was a hairdresser?" Remo asked.
"Hairstylist, actually," Bindle said. "That's what he always called it. At least back in the days when we were allowed to mention it. He was the hairstylist to the stars."
"That certainly qualifies him to operate a major motion-picture studio," Remo said sarcastically.
"Do not belittle the profession of coiffeuse," the Master of Sinanju scolded Remo. "It is a valuable and noble service."
"Is there any damn thing you won't say to get that movie of yours made?" Remo demanded.
Chiun considered for a moment. "No," he admitted.
"Bruce worked on some of the biggest heads in town," Bindle continued, pitching his voice low. "In fact Barbra Streisand kept him on for years." Chiun's almond-shaped eyes grew wide.
Remo glanced worriedly at his teacher. He knew that the Master of Sinanju had harbored a secret crush for the actress-singer for years. But because of some alleged personal slight, the wily old Korean had turned his affections elsewhere a long time before. Remo could see by the look in his eyes that the Master of Sinanju had never truly lost his abiding affection for the celebrity.
A single bony wrist pressed against Chiun's parchment forehead. He reeled in place.
"Be still, my heart," he exclaimed. "Remo, prepare to catch me lest I faint."
"Get bent," Remo suggested, crossing his arms. Chiun didn't even hear him. The Barbra Streisand story was what did it. He was ready to sign with Bindle and Marmelstein-the only people he could trust to do justice to his screenplay. It didn't hurt that Taurus appeared to be the only game in town. "Here," Chiun sang. He had stashed his screenplay up one sleeve of his kimono. He pulled it out now, handing it over to the executive. "Take it, great Bindle. You are a man of refinement and artistry. Make magic of it."
Hank Bindle took the script. He immediately passed it off to the assistant with the urine-stained towel.
"We'll get back to you," he said.
"Of course. Tell me," Chiun asked, voice pitched low, "does your friend and colleague, Marmelstein the Fortunate, possess a lock of the Funny Girl's golden tresses?"
Bindle didn't have time to answer. They were distracted by the whine of a jeep engine.
It came from the direction of the main gate. In a decision surely intended to be the ultimate insult, the jeep had been painted in the drab green of the American Army. A sick joke on the part of the man inside.
Remo's eyes narrowed when he saw who was in the passenger's seat. His disgust was clearly visible when the jeep stopped a moment later and Assola al Khobar climbed out. Hurrying, the terrorist's driver reached into the back seat, recovering a long plastic garment bag.
The Arab's expression was superior behind his gnarl of facial hair. Pausing on his way to the main executive's building, the terrorist looked from Remo to Chiun. His face split into a wicked smile.
"I did not have a chance to thank you," al Khobar said to the Master of Sinanju, his tone condescending. He looked at Remo as he spoke. "I believe you saved my life."
Eyes flat, Chiun folded his hands inside the voluminous sleeves of his kimono.
"Do not thank me, murderer of women and children," he said coldly. "Had my emperor not dispatched me here, my son would have done the world a much needed service."
"Your son?" Assola said doubtfully. He walked over, standing toe-to-toe with Remo. "You are a government agent of some sort?" he pressed, jutting
out his scraggly beard.
"Actually I'm with William Morris," Remo said levelly. "We're going to have to redo those head shots of yours again. The film developers keep committing suicide."
The urge to strike out at the arrogant Saudi terrorist was almost overpowering. Remo clenched his jaw tightly as he stared into the eyes of the man whose acts of terror had cost countless innocent victims their lives.
Al Khobar's smile broadened. "Admit it. Do not admit it. It does not matter. There is nothing your nation can do to defeat our glorious plan."
"As a flag-waving jingoist, you'll find we can be pretty resourceful when we have to be," Remo said tightly.
Al Khobar didn't seem convinced. He wore the look of someone who had the winning hand and clearly knew it.
"Will you be so bold when your depraved land lies in ashes?" the millionaire terrorist smirked. Not waiting for a response, al Khobar wheeled so quickly his military boots made thick black scuffs on the pavement. Snapping his fingers, he marched into the nearest building. His aide followed dutifully, crinkling garment bag held carefully aloft.
As Assola al Khobar disappeared inside the Taurus office complex, Remo spied just a few inches of khaki material jutting from the bottom of the bag.
"He gets his fatigues dry-cleaned?" Remo grumbled. "And he says we're decadent."
When he turned to Chiun, he found the Master of Sinanju had begun to wander away with Hank Bindle. The wily Korean was discussing himself, his script and Barbra Streisand's hair. Not necessarily in that order.
As he stood there, a terrible feeling of aloneness engulfed Remo.
The movie people all around him were without a clue. The fate of the Middle East and possibly the world was hanging in the balance, and all they were worried about was losing the light.
"If ignorance is bliss, Hollywood's got to be the happiest place on earth," Remo muttered.
As yet another camel released the contents of its bladder, he wandered morosely away from the makeshift oasis, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his chinos.
Chapter 15
The wild celebrations in the streets of Akkadad put to shame any previous festivities. Even those of a few weeks ago commemorating Ebla's independence had not been so grand.
Men screamed in exultation. Gunfire ripped the air in bursts of frenzied jubilation. Day and night, torches burned from metal braziers around the Great Sultan's Palace. Their glow silhouetted revelers into misshapen shadows across the high walls of the Eblan seat of power.
The potshots that had pocked palace parapets from time to time over the past decade and a half were no more.
The West had been brought to its knees. America-desecrator of the Arabian Peninsula-was impotent, helpless to strike at the loftiest seat of righteous Arab power.
By the grace of Allah, the heart of Ebla's sultan had been returned to them. And with its return the people of Ebla had been whipped into a fever of jihad-inspired enthusiasm.
Sultan Omay watched his subjects from the Fishbowl.
The bulletproof glass was still firmly in place. The twin threats of American assassination and his own people's joyful, reckless aim kept it there. He had come too far to be stopped now.
The excitement of the past two days had taken its toll on the ailing sultan. Sleeplessness and fatigue seemed to have aged him another twenty years. More and more he was beginning to resemble the mummies of his ancient Eblan ancestors, found years before in ruins near modern Tel Mardikh in Syria.
The sultan's white-knuckled hands gripped the railing of his veranda for support as he thought of his forebears.
Those had been the glory days of the Eblan empire. Back then Ebla knew real strength. When they were alive, those mummies had presided over an empire both rich and powerful. Sultan Omay had inherited none of that ancient greatness. His was a kingdom of goat-herds and nomads.
The puny pools of oil that had been discovered in the desert outside of Telk Madsad had given him his great fortune. But those wells were long dry. A grand metaphor for Ebla itself.
Childless, the sultanate would end with him. Lately his prime minister and some other officials had been suggesting he establish free elections. Distant relatives of the sultan had been looking to ascend to the throne. There was even a push among the people to install an ayatollah as leader and create a fundamentalist Islamic republic.
He was not even dead, and they were already circling, snatching out with grabbing claws, eager to pick his parched, tired bones.
Let them.
It was all over anyway. They just didn't know it yet.
Ebla was destined to sink into the desert dust. But he would give them cause to celebrate first. Their ancient nation would rise again, if only as a dying gesture.
And Sultan Omay still had an ace up his sleeve. Something no one yet knew about. Not even the Saudi, Assola al Khobar, so proud of the millions he had spent in support of his fatwa.
The Great Plan...
The glass-enclosed box was hot. Sunlight beat down upon him. Omay felt light-headed in the intense heat.
Still much work to do.
Turning, he stepped from the balcony. He had the shuffle of a nursing-home patient.
How mocking a thing Death was. His mind was as sharp as it had ever been, yet his body was failing him. Much faster now, it seemed, than before.
Omay walked carefully out into the hallway. He took his private elevator downstairs. An Ebla Arab Army colonel was waiting for the doors to open.
"They are ready, Sultan," the colonel announced with a crisp, British-style salute.
Sultan Omay nodded. He continued walking in the same unhurried pace as before. The colonel fell in beside him.
"Have they been told why they are here?"
"No, Sultan."
Omay allowed himself a wicked smile. Around his eyes the waxy skin bunched into tangled knots. When they reached a set of doors at the end of the corridor, the colonel stepped abruptly ahead of the sultan.
Another soldier was there. Each military man grabbed a door handle. Standing at attention, they pulled their respective doors open wide. The leader of Ebla shambled slowly between them. Alone.
The room into which he stepped was large and ornate. Rich tapestries hung from walls. Banners in the traditional reds of Ebla's ruler stretched from high arches.
Huge, brilliantly lit crystal chandeliers stretched down from the ceiling's center beam. And beneath them sat hundreds of reporters from nations all around the world.
All were men. The sultan had forbade female reporters from attending. At the appearance of the sickly monarch the reporters clamored to their feet. Flashes from cameras popped from around the periphery of the crowd. Videocameras whirred endless spools of tape.
In the wake of the kidnappings, the international press had descended like a swarm of biblical locusts on Akkadad, but had been denied access to the palace since the start of the crisis. As a result the hunger for any scrap of information had grown exponentially with each passing hour. When it was announced by the palace that the sultan had finally consented to be interviewed, the thunder from the feet of a thousand stampeding reporters rattled windows as far away as Baghdad.
Almost every news outlet was set to broadcast the press conference live. Every camera in the room tracked the steps of the frail figure as he walked through the doors and onto the dais. He stepped up to the podium.
"Sultan Omay! Sultan Omay!"
The chorus of voices screamed the name of the aged ruler as he settled in behind the podium.
The Eblan monarch looked weaker to them than at any time in the past. Even back during the near fatal bout with cancer that had turned him from the path of terror. His eyes were bleary, his body shaky. He gripped the edge of the podium for support.
"Sultan Omay!" In the first row of seats a reporter from America's BCN network screamed the name so loudly, ropy veins bulged in his neck. In his desperation to be the first to shout a question, he stepped eagerly forward.
; It was the first and last break in protocol. The press rapidly discovered things were not as they had been during the sultan's days as the Great Peacemaker.
Armed soldiers had ushered the reporters into the room and now patrolled the edges of the large crowd. When the BCN man broke ranks, a guard jumped in front of him. With calm dispassion he slammed the butt of his rifle into the jaw of the reporter. The man dropped like the Tokyo stock market.
For the rest of the gathered press it was as though the palace servants had started pumping tranquilizer gas through the air vents. Catholic schoolchildren playing musical chairs could not have found their seats more quickly.
Soldiers dragged the bleeding and unconscious BCN reporter from the hall. The press dutifully filmed him up to the moment his legs disappeared through the rear door.
The door closed with a palace-rumbling thud.
At the podium the sultan waited for the room to grow completely silent before opening his mouth. When he finally spoke, his words were a pained rasp.
"Jihad is an individual duty," he began, soft voice barely audible.
Those in the room and around the world strained to hear him as he spoke into the angled microphone. "I act now as both an individual and as a leader of men. To the folly of peace have I dedicated myself these many years. But it was a peace dictated by the West in terms that satisfied only the interests of the enemies of all that Islam finds holy." The sultan coughed loudly, face seeming to grow weaker at the effort to speak.
"The Americans occupy our lands, plunder our riches, dictate to our rulers, terrorize our citizens, wreak cultural genocide against all Muslims and threaten by word and deed the very peace they claim to hold so dear. Enough. Enough!"
Omay seemed to grow stronger with the repetition. A frail hand slapped the podium.
"Enough!" he bellowed, voice so strong it startled in its ferocity.
More coughing. Cameras whirred, broadcasting the spasm to a global audience. Omay took a steadying breath. It seemed to restore some strength to him.
"The Aqsa mosque and Holy Mosque must be liberated. The Israeli occupation of the Prophet's Night Travel Land must end. The perversions of America must not be allowed to bleed into the Muslim world. To permit this is to declare war on God." Omay shook his head somberly. "Yet, in spite of the actions Ebla has taken to comply with God's order, America remains mute. It is time to loosen the infidel's tongue."
The Final Reel td-116 Page 11