In between the vehicles milled men with rifles and machine guns. They were dressed in flowing white robes. Loose-fitting mantles covered their heads and hung down across their shoulders. Many of the men wore headdresses of cordlike material around their mantles. There were hundreds of men dressed in this manner all around the first lot.
A cloud of dust rose from the second, more distant lot. Through the smoky film a column of tanks could be seen involved in what appeared to be some sort of military maneuvers near the white wall. The relentless ground-shaking of these metal behemoths was obviously responsible for Hank Bindle's rattling desk.
Bindle and Marmelstein watched the activity through the one-way glass of their huge office window. Cold air from the superchilled room frosted the edges of the glass. At long last one of them spoke.
"I'm a little troubled by this whole war-movie concept," Hank Bindle said. It was the first complete sentence he had spoken to his partner since the Nishitsu Pullout.
"Bad box office," Bruce Marmelstein echoed.
"Forget that Saving Private Ryan fluke. Hell, I could have sold tickets to my scrotum tuck with a cast like that." His tan face was drawn into a serious expression. Not so serious that it might cause wrinkles. He wasn't due for a peel for another six months and he wanted to minimize the damage between now and then.
"We could come up with an angle," Bindle ventured to his partner.
"You mean like a Schindler's List for the nineties?" Marmelstein suggested.
"Schindler's was nineties," Bindle sighed. "Better yet. Strike while the iron's hot. How about Schindler's List II?"
"No, I don't think Spielberg will go for it."
"Damn," Marmelstein muttered. A spark of inspiration suddenly struck. "Did Schindler write any more lists?"
"What, you mean like Schindler's Other List?" Bindle said, taking up the thread.
"Posolutely," Bindle enthused. "Maybe no one's bought up the rights yet." He stabbed at his intercom. "Ian, get me Schindler on the phone."
"Schindler, Mr. Bindle?" the effeminate voice of their young secretary droned.
"You know, the guy with all the lists. Tell him we'll give him whatever he wants not to sign with Amblin for the sequel."
"Or Dreamworks," Marmelstein cut in on his line.
"Just set up a meeting," Bindle ordered, shooting an annoyed look at his partner. He released the intercom. "Now, you realize before we even get started, someone's going to have to take the fall when we hose this list guy," he said pensively. He wheeled in his chair. "How important is Ian to you?" Bindle asked Marmelstein.
"He knows where a lot of the bodies are buried," Marmelstein reminded him. "Especially the you-know-what with the you-know-whats."
"What?" Bindle asked, totally confused. "Iratedpay ideotapevays," Marmelstein replied in his best pig Latin.
"Damn. Oh, well, once we get Schindler in here we'll have to scapegoat someone else." He spun back to his desk, stabbing his intercom. "Ian, find us a scapegoat from the mailroom," he announced.
"Already done," the secretary sang.
Bindle was just smiling a triumphant set of perfect white caps at his partner when Ian cut in again. "And Mr. Koala is here."
Bindle's smile vanished. At the same time the office doors pushed open. A dark-skinned man in an ill-fitting business suit and a beard that looked as if it had lost a fight with a rabid raccoon stepped into the chilly room.
Bindle and Marmelstein both stood to greet Assola al Khobar.
The terrorist was followed into the room by Ian. The secretary minced efficiently in his wake, carrying with him a chrome office chair. He breezed over, placing it neatly in the hot spot between Bindle's and Marmelstein's desks. All the time he spoke on his wireless phone.
"What do you mean Israel?" Ian demanded, his sibilants spattering the slender headset with tiny bubbles of spit. He sighed in exasperation. "Well, get me Israel, then," he said, rolling his eyes. Spinning balletlike, he marched back out the gleaming glass doors.
Al Khobar raised an eyebrow at the mention of the Jewish state. He sat down in the chair before Bindle and Marmelstein.
"There is still a problem at the harbor," al Khobar said without preamble once they were alone. "Your customs will not give clearance to the two cargo ships we discussed this morning."
Bindle and Marmelstein straightened uncomfortably in their chairs. They looked like interpretive dancers executing a strange choreographed routine. "Yes, about that..." Marmelstein hedged.
"I don't know if you're tight with the sultan," Bindle interjected.
"And if you are, that's just fine," Marmelstein added.
"Fine. It's better. Perfect." Bindle nodded.
"But if you've-you know-got his ear or anything, you might want to tell him that this war-movie thing..." He tipped his head pensively, like a doctor trying to politely advise a patient to shed a few pounds. "Well, if he's basing success on that little World War II flick from last summer, he should know it might not be the best idea going."
"War movies are duds," Bindle agreed rapidly.
"Box-office poison," Marmelstein quickly agreed with the agreement.
"Zero appeal. We're talking first-weekend grosses under ten million."
"Probably under five."
"Worse. Under one."
Bindle and Marmelstein looked at each other. They shook visibly at the horrible prospect. It had happened in Hollywood many times before. A lot of times to Bindle and Marmelstein productions.
"It is to be a war," al Khobar said flatly. "The one who pays your salaries insists."
"On the other hand war movies are signaling a comeback," Bindle said, in a change of gears so sudden his cerebellum nearly smoked. "Look at The Thin Red Line."
"Light on box office, heavy on Oscars," Marmelstein echoed. "Take Patton."
"Good Morning, Vietnam, " Bindle bubbled.
"Platoon."
"For one," Bindle said happily.
The Arab's expression could have been chiseled from ice. Beneath his scruffy beard his lip curled to a sneer.
"There are two cargo ships filled with containers necessary for this production waiting at Los Angeles Harbor," he said slowly. His piercing coal eyes did not blink as he glared at both men in turn. "I expect everything aboard them to be off-loaded and on this lot by tomorrow morning. Otherwise there will be changes in the command structure at this studio. Do you understand?"
Neither Bindle nor Marmelstein caught the end of what Assola had said. They were both too busy lunging for their respective phones.
They couldn't quite remember how to work the device. It had been so long since they'd had to operate one alone. Both men stabbed madly at buttons for several frantic seconds. They were nearly in tears by the time the soothing voice of Ian broke in. The secretary calmly placed the call to the harbor. Afterward it was Marmelstein-the business end of their team-who talked to the harbormaster.
Hank Bindle, who was the creative arm of the Bindle-Marmelstein pairing, sat nervously before the Arab. Al Khobar regarded him with cold disdain.
Bindle cleared his throat. "Er, about the production schedule," he offered timidly. "I hate to say this-and, believe me, it usually isn't like me to stop a picture in preproduction or anything-but do we actually have a script? I mean, there wasn't one before and, well, you know..." He smiled weakly.
"I am writing the script," Assola al Khobar announced.
Bindle smiled, this time more sincerely than before.
"Really? I didn't know you were creative, Mr. Koala," he said, mispronouncing "Khobar" just as he and his partner had ever since their first meeting with the terrorist.
It was al Khobar's turn to smile. To the Hollywood mogul the row of half-rotted teeth the Arab displayed beneath his shaggy mustache was deeply disconcerting.
"When called upon, I can be quite creative," Assola al Khobar said. He seemed to enjoy some private joke.
Bindle chuckled supportively, even though he had no idea what it was he was chu
ckling at.
"Do you have any idea how much the movie industry grossed last year!" Bruce Marmelstein was screaming into his telephone headset at the adjacent desk. Veins bulged on his salon-tanned neck.
Bindle tried to tune him out.
"Now, how about a director?" Hank Bindle said. "I've been thinking maybe Cameron or Burton. Of course, Spielberg is always up there, but he's priggish to work with."
"I will direct, as well," the man Bindle knew as Mr. Koala said.
"Write and direct?" Bindle asked cautiously. The spark of hope he'd allowed to burn within him since preproduction fizzled instantly. "Are you sure you might not be stretching yourself too thin? After all, Streisand puts her fingers in everything, and her movies are pretty much all bombs."
He heard a snort from the neighboring desk. When he looked he saw that Bruce Marmelstein was glaring at him. Bindle sucked in a horrified gust of air. He had forgotten. He had spoken the name of the unmentionable one in the presence of Bruce Marmelstein. He shrugged apologetically to his partner. In another moment it no longer mattered. Marmelstein turned abruptly away from Bindle. "Do you like your job?" he screamed into the phone. "Do you want to keep working in this town?"
"We haven't discussed budget," Hank Bindle said to al Khobar, looking away from Marmelstein. "I only ask because you said we start shooting this week. Now that we've got the script and director ironed out, we should begin thinking about cost."
Before the terrorist could respond, there was a thin plastic click of a button being depressed. Bindle and al Khobar turned their attention to Bruce Marmelstein.
"I miss the days of those big, fat phones," Marmelstein complained to both men. "The ones you could really slam."
"Well?" Bindle pressed,
"All set," Marmelstein said. He grinned his best Betty Ford Clinic smile at Assola al Khobar. "They're unloading even as we speak. I don't know what the hell you want with all those tanks, though. Now, what were you two discussing? The budget?"
"Yes." Bindle nodded uncomfortably. "We should actually sort that out now."
But having gotten the word from Marmelstein, al Khobar was already standing.
"Three hundred million," he said indifferently. The words hung like silver snowflakes in the chilly air.
Mr. Koala had obviously misspoken. That was the only explanation. Bindle's and Marmelstein's eyes were flat.
"Excuse me?" they said in unison.
"The budget is three hundred million dollars. The sultan wishes an epic. Something that will be remembered long after he has gone the way of mortal men."
"Three hundred million? Does that include advertising?" Marmelstein asked.
"Would it ordinarily?" al Khobar asked.
"Not really," Marmelstein said, glancing at Bindle. "Production cost is first. Advertising comes after."
"Then it is production," al Khobar confirmed.
"I've got to get this in the trade papers," Bruce Marmelstein insisted. "This is huge. This is colossal. This is the biggest movie ever made." His voice rose to what was almost a girlish squeal with each breathless word.
Hank Bindle was thinking about what this would mean to his career. This was beyond Titanic proportions. For the moment he forget the fact that he would be working with a novice director-screenwriter-producer.
"This is bigger than big," Bindle said to Marmelstein. He shook his head numbly as he tried to envision ways to skim money from the production into his personal bank account.
"It will be the biggest thing in the history of this city," al Khobar promised.
As he turned, the smile returned. Again there was something beyond it. Something sinister. Something almost movie executive about it.
Bruce Marmelstein cleared his throat.
"Hey, would you like me to hook you up with my dentist?" he offered to the Arab's retreating back. "We can work it into production costs." He was thinking of those teeth on Entertainment Tonight. Marmelstein shivered at the thought.
Al Khobar wasn't listening. He was already across the office. Without so much as a goodbye, he was gone.
"Probably sensitive about them," Hank Bindle suggested.
"Wouldn't you be?" Bruce Marmelstein asked.
"Perish the thought," Hank Bindle replied.
Ian suddenly buzzed in on the intercom. He was sorry to report that Oscar Schindler was dead. "Talk to his estate," Hank Bindle commanded. "Maybe he left another list lying around."
Chapter 5
Remo took an early-morning flight west, arriving at Los Angeles International Airport just before noon. Renting a car at LAX, he took the San Diego Freeway north to west L.A. Santa Monica Boulevard deposited him into the heart of Hollywood.
He had been to the motion-picture capital of the world a few times in the past, and each successive time he was less impressed than the last. A rather remarkable feat, considering he'd hated it the first time he was there.
Asking directions from a pedestrian, Remo learned that Taurus Studios was located in Burbank. The man was sitting on a bench reading a copy of Variety. The headline boasted a revival at Taurus. The Bull Is Back! it proclaimed in letters more appropriate to the signing of an armistice or a political assassination. In smaller print it trumpeted the studio's new three-hundred-million-dollar motion picture.
Remo left the man to his paper and drove farther north.
Taurus Studios was located on several acres of prime real estate near Hollywood-Burbank Airport.
A single, virtually unbroken wall surrounded the entire complex. Remo recognized it as the same wall that was in the videotape he had viewed the day before.
He headed for the main Victory Boulevard entrance.
Even before he had driven up to the front gate, Remo could smell the powerful aroma of mustard and barley wafting over the wall. He was surprised to see dozens of men in long white robes wandering in and out of the small pedestrian gate beside the guard shack.
Remo drove his rented car up to the small speed bump at the main vehicle entrance. A red-faced guard in his late fifties leaned out of the shack.
"Name and business," he said in a bored voice. Remo showed the guard a badge that identified him as Remo Gates, a lieutenant with the LAPD. The guard studied the ID for a moment. "Is there a problem, Officer?" he asked, handing the laminated card back.
"We got a call downtown that someone was molesting a camel," Remo answered, matching the guard's uninterested tone.
The guard glanced at some of the men wandering back and forth on the other side of the shack. They looked like extras from Lawrence of Arabia.
"I'm not surprised," the older man said with a disapproving grunt.
He raised the gate, allowing Remo inside.
Remo parked his car in the first visitor's space he found. Leaving the vehicle, he wandered on foot into the spacious studio lots.
He soon learned why the guard had been so willing to accept his story. A long line of shaggy brown camels turned dull eyes on him as he walked up the palm-bordered sidewalk to the main office building. The animals were tethered by long ropes to otherwise empty bicycle racks that were bolted to the pavement.
Farther away-unseen by Remo-he could hear the distinct sounds of horses whinnying. The scent in the air told him that there were at least as many horses as camels.
The lot in front of the Taurus executive office building looked like an unlikely village for lost bedouin. Men decked out in full Arab garb squatted next to fires set in metal wastebaskets. They were cooking and eating and shouting to one another in a tongue Remo did not recognize.
There were camels here, as well. The large animals were scattered among the milling crowd, chewing languidly and spitting frequently. Remo dodged a sloppy dollop of camel saliva as he stepped through the front door of the three-story office building.
There was a commotion going on at the main reception area. A group of four Arabs was fanned out before the desk of the perky young receptionist. One of them muttered something in the same language Remo
had heard outside. It was obviously an obscene comment, for the other three laughed among themselves, leering at the girl as they did so.
The woman had no place to go. She was visibly nervous, but seemed somewhat accustomed to the abuse. She was clearly unprepared for what came next. As the door swung silently behind Remo, one of the burly men reached out and grabbed a firm white breast.
The woman screamed.
Her reaction seemed to provoke them even more. The four men pushed toward her, teeth bared, faces filled with lascivious glee. Her chair clunked against the wallboard behind her as she wheeled as far back as she could. It would never be far enough. As she screamed and cringed in horrible anticipation, a voice suddenly cut in from across the large airconditioned foyer.
"Excuse me, fellas," Remo said from behind the panting men.
He was pointing to their headgear as the men turned around. Their flushed faces were not pleased. "Studio security. Did you steal those towels from the commissary men's room?" Remo asked seriously.
As the burly men parted, the receptionist looked hopefully between them to the voice that was her salvation. When she saw that Remo was alone, her face fell.
"You are not with studio," one of the men demanded in choppy English when he saw no uniform on the intruder.
"Shh. I'm undercover," Remo whispered, a finger to his lips. "And it looks like you are, too. You stole those bedsheets from props, didn't you?"
Two of the men reached below their robes. When their hands reemerged, they were clutching long, curved daggers. The looks of sexual passion they had worn a moment before had given way to expressions of violent glee.
The quartet advanced on Remo.
Remo didn't really want to cause a scene. At least not before he found Assola al Khobar.
As the men closed in, Remo singled out the biggest of them. He was a towering, six-foot-seven-inch brute with a dark, leathery face that looked as if it had seen a thousand desert sandstorms. This man had no knife. His large hands-each as big as a catcher's mitt were held out as if to strangle Remo.
The pecking order was clear enough. The lumbering giant was the leader. As Remo expected, the others fell back as the big man lunged forward.
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