Fade to Black td-119

by Warren Murphy

  Remo was stunned. "Don't tell me you're directing this mess?"

  "Sure as shootin'," Tortilli said with a broad smile.

  "What about that parking-lot Battleship Potemkin you were presiding over in Seattle?"

  "That little thing?" Tortilli dismissed. "A lark. I like to indulge my artistic whims. At the height of my Penny Dreadful fame I directed an episode of OR and guest-starred on an episode of China Girl. I like to drive my agent nuts with stuff like that."

  "Your agent and everyone else who's ever seen you act," Remo commented dryly.

  Tortilli's eyes darted nervously to the others. "Hey, everybody," he called, leaping out of his seat, "get lost." The men and women scattered like billiard balls after a break. "Didn't want them to get the wrong impression viz your little verbal jests re me," Tortilli confided after they were gone.

  "Tortilli, human beings don't talk like that, no matter what Kevin Williamson says. And if you're worried about everyone thinking you're an asshole, you probably shouldn't have hosted Saturday Night Live. Why didn't you say this movie was yours?"

  "I didn't know," Tortilli insisted. "I mean, I knew I was director, but I didn't know I was, like, the director. Of your friend's movie, that is. At least, not until you mentioned him in the car."

  "So why didn't you tell me then?" Remo asked. He remembered Tortilli's twitchy reaction to Chiun's name. At the time he'd been so concerned for the old Asian's safety that he'd chalked it up to Tortilli's general twitchiness.

  "I was going to. But people have an amazing knack of winding up dead around you, man. I figured you'd be ticked at me somehow." He quickly changed the subject. "But, hey, that was some ride today, right? I mean, real bombs. That whole 'blown to bits' thing looming over our heads. Armageddon City. I mean, far out!" Jumping up and down, the director gave Remo an idiot's grin.

  "You must put sugar on your Cap'n Crunch," Remo commented absently as Tortilli hopped excitedly before him. He had just spotted Chiun across the set. Leaving the director to his frantic calisthenics, he walked over to the Master of Sinanju.

  The old Korean had doffed his uniform. As he turned to Remo, he was dressed in a simple marigold kimono.

  "Do I need to flee?" the Master of Sinanju asked dryly.

  Remo held his hands out wide. "No bomb this time." He smiled. "Promise."

  Chiun nodded. He didn't seem very interested in Remo. He was looking past his pupil.

  Remo glanced back over his shoulder. All he saw was Quintly Tortilli and Arlen Duggal. When he turned back to Chiun, there was a look of anticipation on the old man's face.

  "You might be a little happier to see me, Little Father," Remo groused, annoyed that his teacher seemed more interested in the director than in him. "We've hardly spoken twice in the past two months."

  "And yet you still take the time to try to blow me up."

  He persisted in ignoring Remo. All at once, a dejected expression settled on his parchment face. When Remo looked, he saw that Tortilli and Duggal were walking away. Only when they vanished around a distant corner did Chiun look at Remo. "Oh, you're back," Remo deadpanned.

  "Do not be childish," Chiun sniffed. Remo didn't want a repeat of the scene back at the New York lot. The truth was, it felt good to be with Chiun again. Even if the old Korean was distracted.

  "They've given you a costume change, I see," Remo said more lightly, nodding to Chiun's kimono.

  "The genius Tortilli told me that my uniform did not look authentic," Chiun replied.

  Remo's eyes went flat. "The what Tortilli?"

  "The genius director of my film." Just talking about Quintly Tortilli seemed to relax the Master of Sinanju. A smile kissed his vellum lips. "You do not know what I have been through with the buffoon who had been overseeing this project. Another day and he would have had my hero dangling from the Statue of Liberty or straddling a tree trunk. But now that is all over." He pitched his voice low. "The genius Tortilli has told me that the camera loves me. He insists the eye is drawn to me even without exotic apparel."

  "Okay, let's put that whopper aside for one minute," Remo said. "What's with all this genius crapola?"

  "That is how he is referred to by his peers," the Master of Sinanju said, nodding sagely. "They do not speak his name without uttering his honorific."

  "Little Father, according to Hollywood people, everyone in town is a genius."

  "Ah, but it is the way they intone the word when they apply it to my director," Chiun explained. "They speak the word with conviction."

  "Unless you count Robert Downey Jr., there are no convictions in Hollywood, Little Father," Remo insisted. "Tortilli made a movie five or six years ago that all the critics loved but was a piece of crap, and since then he's been coasting on his name."

  The Master of Sinanju snapped alert. "Listen, Remo!" he announced, suddenly intensely worried. Bony fingers gripped his pupil's forearm.

  Remo was instantly alarmed. "What?" he asked, anxious.

  Worried about another bombing attempt, he broadened his normal auditory range, expanding beyond the immediate vicinity. The soundproofing of the building limited his scope, but as far as he could hear there was nothing unusual out on the farther lot.

  "I don't hear anything," he whispered after a moment.

  Chiun brought a slender finger to his lips. "It is there," he hissed. "The Leviathan awakes. Hark! It is a fearsome green beast, Remo. The Dragon of Jealousy."

  Smiling placidly, he released Remo's arm. "That's not very damn funny," Remo complained.

  "I agree," Chiun said, smile unwavering. "Your enviousness of the genius Tortilli is a very serious matter. Almost as serious as your jealousy of my writing talent."

  Remo exhaled an angry burst of air. "Fine," he said, shaking his head. "I'm not getting into this with you. If you think a moron's brilliant, that's your business."

  "Fine," said Chiun happily.

  "Fine," repeated Remo angrily. "So what does your resident genius have you doing anyway?"

  Chiun raised a forewarning eyebrow. "I will tell you if you promise not to get jealous."

  "That's it. I'm outta here."

  As he spun to go, Remo felt a restraining hand grab on to his wrist. Chiun held him firmly in place. "I have been given a wondrous place in this film," the Master of Sinanju said without missing a beat. "Tortilli, who is a genius, has told me that it is a crucial location for any actor making his motion-picture debut." His singsong became a conspiratorial whisper. "I am to be installed on the cutting-room floor." His awesome revelation unveiled, he released his grip on Remo's arm.

  Remo didn't know whether or not he was making a joke. When he saw the look of blissful enthusiasm on the old man's face, he realized that Chiun wasn't kidding.

  "Who told you that?" he asked slowly. "Tortilli?"

  Chiun's bald head bobbed eagerly. "He said that my scenes will be the first to go there," he said proudly.

  For a moment, Remo considered telling Chiun the truth. But the Master of Sinanju seemed so elated. In the end, he decided to let Chiun enjoy his moment in the sun.

  "I'm happy for you, Little Father," he said. There was a warmth to his pupil's tone that caught the Master of Sinanju off guard. A smile of appreciation curled the edges of the aged Korean's thin lips.

  "Perhaps I can convince the genius Tortilli to put you on this floor of cuts, as well. Of course, you would have to take second billing to me," he added quickly.

  "Pass," Remo said. "One star in the family is enough."

  "You are probably right," Chiun admitted. "One brilliant actor-writer is sufficient."

  "Speaking of writing, I heard an awful lot of swearing going on," Remo said. "Your handiwork?"

  Chiun shook his head, "Changes were made prior to production. Tortilli says that the language is now more realistic."

  "What about the premise? It looks like some kind of cop movie. After you ditched the dinosaurs and aliens, I thought it was supposed to be about assassins."

  The old Asian'
s tone grew vague. "A script physician was enlisted to clarify certain aspects of my glorious tale."

  "Out went the assassins, in came the cops," Remo said.

  "Yes," Chiun replied. "But I retain screen credit."

  "Smitty'll love that," Remo commented.

  Chiun's eyes narrowed. "You did not tell Emperor Smith?" he asked levelly.

  "Not me," Remo said. "This is your show."

  Chiun nodded. "That is good. He will be honored when it is released, of course. For any increase in my flame will only shine more light on him."

  "As the head of an ultrasecret agency working outside the confines of the Constitution, I'm sure he'll appreciate that," Remo agreed.

  Chiun stroked his thread of beard. "I had something about that in the original story but, sadly, it was lost in subsequent drafts," he lamented.

  "To the eternal gratitude of Smith's pacemaker," Remo responded. "Speaking of Smitty, I should check in. He was trying to track down whoever was behind the bombing here."

  "I am curious about that, as well," Chiun said thinly. "At first, I thought our production was ruined, but then the genius Tortilli arrived on the scene. He has said that he can salvage much from that which has already been filmed and will be able to shoot around the rest."

  "Chiun, you've taken a pretty big leap of faith with a guy you never met before," Remo complained.

  "Have I not mentioned that he is a genius?" Chiun asked. "I must hie to him now, lest that pretender fill his brilliant head with dross." The Master of Sinanju took off in the direction Tortilli and Arlen Duggal had gone.

  "I'm glad I'm not gonna be in Tortilli's shoes when this bill comes due," Remo muttered.

  He turned to go. As he was leaving, he spied a script lying on a stool. On the hard leather jacket was a label reading Assassin's Loves: Taurus Project # K128. Oddly, they had changed everything yet retained Chiun's title.

  Pausing, Remo glanced around. There was no one in the immediate vicinity.

  He had been curious for quite some time. Chiun had been so damn secretive about the details. "What the hell," Remo said to himself.

  He quickly gathered up the script, tearing it from its heavy binder. Rolling the paper into a tight tube, he stuffed the script into his back pocket.

  Jamming his hands in his pockets, he began whistling tunelessly. Forcing a look of nonchalance, Remo strolled off the set toward the soundstage door.

  Chapter 20

  Alone in his darkened Folcroft office, Harold Smith was scanning the latest list of motion-picture studio phone numbers flagged by the CURE mainframes when the dedicated White House line jangled to life. He attempted to find correlations between numbers and names even as he pulled the phone from his desk drawer.

  "Yes, Mr. President," he said crisply.

  The hoarse voice on the other end of the line was panicked. "They're here, Smith," the President whispered urgently.

  Smith's chair squeaked as he sat straighter. Save the almost inaudible hum of his desk computer, it was the only sound in the tomb-silent office.

  "I beg your pardon, sir?" he asked, puzzled.

  "They're here!" the President repeated. "At the White House!"

  "Forgive me, but who is there?" The frightened tone of America's Chief Executive had already sent the first sparks of concern through Smith's fluttering heart.

  "I don't know!" the President pleaded. "It could be anyone. The Indonesians, the environmentalists, the gays, the Chinese, the RNC, the DNC, the Democratic Leadership Council. They're all mad at me for one reason or another. Nobody likes me," he wailed.

  "Mr. President, please," Smith said, trying to inject a rational note into a most irrational call. "Why don't you begin at the-"

  "My wife!" the President burst out. "That's who's behind this! She's wanted to rule this roost from day one. She's always threatened a coup, but I figured she'd at least have the decency to do it while I was out of town."

  In the far distance, Smith heard the sound of muted pops.

  "What was that?" he asked, instantly wary.

  "Gunshots!" the President cried. "What do I do, Smith? My God, I see them. They're coming across the lawn."

  America's Chief Executive sounded as if he was about to burst into tears.

  "Who is coming across the lawn?" Smith pressed.

  Too late. The line had already gone dead. Quickly, Smith tried to reestablish contact. The phone, which was located in the Lincoln Bedroom, rang the instant the connection was restored. But the call went unanswered.

  Smith hung up, swiveling hurriedly to his computer. His hands hadn't even brushed the buried keyboard before the computer alerted him to a new crisis.

  Fearing that he already knew what his mainframes had discovered, Smith opened the pop-up window.

  The CURE mainframes had intercepted dozens upon dozens of messages and memos flying across the endless streams of the Internet. Computer lines from the CIA to the NSC, from the Pentagon to the Secret Service, from the FBI to the NSA, from the Capitol to the Defense Intelligence Agency, were clogged with activity.

  Smith didn't need to read far in order to understand the point of all of those desperate, flashing messages.

  The White House was under siege.

  For a few frenzied minutes, Smith tried to make some sense out of precisely what was happening. But there were no clear accounts yet. The crisis was so fresh that not even the news outlets had logged on with stories.

  The best he could glean was that some unnamed force had found its way onto the White House grounds. A Secret Service e-mail sent to the Treasury Department minutes after the President's call indicated that there had been heavy casualties taken by those guarding the chief executive's home.

  That might mean something. The Secret Service was still able to log onto its internal system. Smith's hand had already dropped on the blue contact phone when it buzzed beneath his palm. He jumped, startled, even as he wrenched the receiver to his ear.

  "What's the good news, Smitty?" Remo's voice asked.

  "Remo, I do not yet know the details, but the White House is under attack."

  Remo's tone instantly hardened. "You're kidding, right?"

  Smith shook his head impatiently. "I know nothing as yet." He typed rapidly as he spoke. "I am arranging for transportation out of Edwards Air Force Base. Get there as quickly as possible."

  It was the shortest conversation they'd had since Remo was first drafted into the organization. Remo's last words were sharp as he slammed down the phone.

  "I'm on my way."

  Chapter 21

  At first, the problem for the Marines and Secret Service was containment.

  The First Daughter was not at home, thank God. That was one less headache. But the President and the First Lady were in the residence. The highest priority was to keep the situation as far away from the First Family as possible.

  That idea crumbled two minutes into the crisis when the assailants overwhelmed perimeter positions and swept into the mansion itself.

  Option two was reached at once: remove the First Family from harm's way.

  That alternative fell by the wayside when the invaders cut off all known escape routes. Even the emergency elevator, which ran from the family quarters down to the subbasement, was captured. It was as if this unknown army knew every strategic retreat the President might take.

  In a running gun battle, the surviving members of the President's security force retreated upstairs to the family quarters in order to reestablish a closer defense perimeter around the Chief Executive.

  They were greeted by something more horrifying than an army of terrorists brandishing assault weapons.

  "What the hell is going on here!" the First Lady screeched as the armed men swarmed into the hallway from the First Family's main elevator.

  Her face was caked in some kind of dried green goop. Furious piglike eyes shot daggers from the middle of her weirdly tinted face.

  "The White House is under attack!" a Secret Service agen
t shouted, weapon aimed down the elevator shaft.

  The other agents were disabling the elevator so that no one could use it to follow them. The doors had been pried open and a mirror angled into the opening to alert them of anyone attempting to climb the shaft. Several automatics were aimed down into the darkness.

  "Oh, my God!" the First Lady cried as she watched them work. Her eyes grew larger in her beauty cream mask. "They know about the duplicate billing records!"

  "Ma'am, I think this is mor-" a Marine began sharply.

  But the First Lady didn't hear him. She was already running down the hall, her latest pageboy hairdo bobbing crazily around her cream-caked face.

  "I expect you to cover my ass if you have to get yours shot off in the process!" she shouted over her shoulder.

  The First Lady disappeared inside the library. An instant later, the whirring sound of a paper shredder echoed down the corridor. It was a familiar noise to anyone working in this White House.

  The men had every intention of following the First Lady's final shouted order. They would die before they let anyone get past their fortified line. However, they soon found that it was a moot point.

  The advance had halted. For some reason, unfathomable to those holed up in the family quarters, the invading force stopped on the ground-floor level of the White House.

  And as the blood of the dead burbled crimson on the green spring lawn far below, the strangest standoff in America's history began.

  REGINALD HARDWIN WAS seated at the desk of the President of the United States. As he carefully crossed his legs, he noticed a slight tear in the knee of his impeccably tailored trousers-the result of his awkward dive to the sidewalk.

  Hardwin tsked as he examined the hole with slender, delicate fingers.

  He had bought the trousers with money from his first five-million-dollar windfall. Even though he was now quite rich as a result of his current employment, he couldn't help but examine the tear with a poor man's mentality. After all, he had been poor for a long, long time.

  "Five hundred dollars," he complained.