"Absolutely not," Smith insisted.
"Why?"
"The situation in Ebla has grown more tense since the abduction," Smith explained. "I do not know if you are aware of the geography of the region, but Ebla rests largely above Lebanon on the Mediterranean."
"I've got a rough idea," Remo admitted.
"Then you might know that there is a strip of land in Ebla a few miles wide called the Anatolia Corridor. It runs the length of Lebanon down to the northern border of Israel, sandwiched between Syria and Lebanon. Since the abduction it has become known to our intelligence services that the Ebla Arab Army has begun to mass at the bottom of the Anatolia Corridor. They have been joined on maneuvers by members of the Akkadad Public Security Force. In addition the Royal Eblan Air Force is on full alert."
"If he's thinking Ebla can take on Israel, he's going to be in for a big surprise," Remo noted.
"Perhaps not," Smith answered. "While Ebla alone is no match for Israel militarily, it is likely that such an action on the part of one Arab state could spur other nations in the region to similar action. Israel would be no match for the combined forces of Ebla, Iran, Iraq and Syria, for instance."
"Okay, I don't get it, Smitty," Remo said with growing impatience. "You don't want me to bump off Omay and you don't want me to bump off Assola. What the hell do you want me to do?"
"Nothing for the moment. The United States is in the process of increasing our military presence in the Mediterranean and Persian Gulf. Allied nations are joining suit. The President has informed me that he is considering allowing the military to respond in kind if engaged."
"This is stupid," Remo complained. "World War III is busting out all over, and you want me to sit on the sidelines?"
In glum frustration he pulled open the blinds behind a paint-spattered ladder to find that he was looking out over the vast army of camels and Arabs. The activity level outside had increased dramatically. Robed men were beginning to mount the skittish animals.
On the phone Smith was talking rapidly. "Until a course of action can be determined, that is precisely what I want you to do," he replied. "In his first communication with the President, the sultan of Ebla threatened America's cultural capital. I believe he has set up some kind of scheme to attack Hollywood and that Assola al Khobar is involved somehow."
The light of realization flashed on. Looking out the window, Remo blinked dumbly.
"Uh-oh," he said. His voice was small.
"What is it?" Smith asked, instantly concerned.
"Um, you might not believe this, Smitty," Remo said worriedly, "but I think I might be looking at Omay's army."
From the window he scanned the lines of camels and men. His thoughts drifted to the tanks he had seen on Taurus's Burbank lot. And it seemed all the other lots in Hollywood and Burbank were hosts to similar activity.
"Explain," Smith demanded sharply.
Remo told him about the camels and military vehicles, as well as the men with them.
"Remo, how could you not see what they were doing?" Smith gasped once he was finished.
"What am I, Kreskin?" Remo said defensively. "This is Hollywood. They said they were making a movie. What the hell else was I supposed to think?" Though the impulse was exceedingly strong, Smith resisted the urge to chastise Remo. It was a supreme effort.
"How could Omay have gotten so much into this country?" Smith mused aloud. There was an angry edge in his voice.
"I think I know," Remo said sheepishly. "There were all sorts of cargo containers down at the harbor. Do you know where L.A. Harbor is, by the way?" he challenged.
"It is in Long Beach," Smith answered crisply.
"Oh," Remo said. "Anyway there were tons of these things being off-loaded from a pair of ships."
"I have some of the shipping records before me," Smith volunteered. "Several vessels have come into the harbor since Omay purchased the studio." There was a pause on the line as the CURE director scanned his computer screen. "The manifests say that the containers carried special film props. Customs cleared them through with no problem."
"I think customs might have taken a powder on this one, Smitty," Remo said sarcastically. "I didn't see a single agent within a country mile of those containers."
"You are suggesting someone bribed the customs officials?" Smith asked.
"There's an Arab army on the loose in Hollywood with more military hardware than Saddam Hussein has in his rumpus room. What do you think?"
Across the country, in the solitude of his Folcroft office, Harold Smith leaned his bony elbows on his desk. Eyes closed, he pinched the bridge of his patrician nose as he considered.
"We have no options," he said slowly. The admission of helplessness chewed like bitter-tasting acid straight through to his native New England core.
"There's got to be something we can do," Remo insisted.
"No. There is nothing," Smith said. "It is the perfect trap. Its two parts are set to spring a world apart if but one side is upset. If you eliminate al Khobar, the sultan will kill the secretary of state and invade Israel. If the sultan is removed in Ebla, a cataclysm will befall Hollywood, the nature of which is still unknown to us. We are helpless."
"Are you going to just leave a foreign army on the loose in California?"
"It is already on the ground, Remo," Smith droned. His caustic tone made it clear he thought part of the blame for this rested on Remo's shoulders. "Al Khobar has men everywhere in the Hollywood area, if what you told me is accurate." Smith opened his eyes. He was suddenly intensely weary. "Give me time to think. There must be an option. I will endeavor to find it."
On the West Coast, Remo forced a smile. "Don't worry, you will," he said. His attempt to cheer up Smith sounded patronizing at best, pathetic at worst. He tried to change the subject. "Oh, you might be interested to know Bindle and Marmelstein are in charge of Taurus," Remo offered weakly.
"I know," Smith told him. "And it is irrelevant to your current assignment." It sounded as if the life had drained from him. "Is this the number where you can be reached?"
"I'll call you when I book a hotel room," Remo said.
"Please do," Smith said, his voice devoid of all energy.
When he hung up the phone, the CURE director left Remo feeling intensely guilty. Rotating his wrists in frustration, Remo looked back out the window.
By this time the camels had all been mounted. The Arabs atop them-and they were Arabs, not Mexican extras as Remo had foolishly thought tipped their heads back. Tongues extended, they offered triumphant screams to their fellow Eblans. A chorus of shrieking ululations echoed off the soundstage exteriors, carrying through the office walls.
Battle cries.
Real guns and real swords rose high in the warm California air.
And as Remo watched, his stomach sinking, the victorious Eblans spurred their camels forward. Beasts pounding a crazed chorus, wave after wave of soldiers began riding out through the gates into the parched street beyond the Taurus walls.
A cloud of dust rose high into the dry air, kicked up by the furious beating of more than a thousand frantic hooves.
With tire squeals and angry horn honks, the Bentleys and Porsches that had been driving along the road in front of the studio slammed on their brakes or pulled onto sidewalks, steering out of the path of the crazed Eblan army.
Cries of triumph filled the air.
The invasion of Hollywood had begun. And Remo Williams could only watch it happen.
Chapter 13
The occupation of Hollywood and Beverly Hills up to Burbank in the north, and down through Culver City in the south, took less than four hours to complete.
Within the first hour forces from the United States Army and the California National Guard had established a neutral zone running over to Glendale in the east, skirting downtown Los Angeles and up around the San Fernando Valley to Santa Monica in the west. As the forces of the Ebla Arab Army secured more-permanent positions within the zone, the U.S. military
sat outside. Waiting. They had been instructed to do nothing to provoke a situation that might harm innocent civilians.
The situation offshore was no better. Vessels of the U.S. Navy from the Pacific fleet were on high alert between the mainland and Santa Catalina Island. But a safe channel had been established to allow free travel of Eblan vessels into L.A. Harbor. So while the Navy was present, it could do nothing to stop the influx of more men and materiel for the sitting Eblan army.
The streets of Hollywood, Burbank and Culver City had been abandoned to Eblan soldiers. Tanks and jeeps, as well as men on camels and horseback, patrolled the otherwise empty thoroughfares. Every soldier held an automatic weapon in his triumphant hand. Americans remained for the most part hidden fearfully behind locked doors.
The sights he beheld sickened Remo Williams as he drove through Hollywood's streets in a Taurus Studios jeep.
The store windows along Rodeo Drive had been shot out. Expensive leather garments were strewed across sidewalks and atop the hoods of abandoned Rolls-Royces.
Someone had driven a tank over a fire hydrant. The tank was long gone. The hydrant continued to shoot a stream of water high into the air, flooding the street and washing away some of the goods first looted, then abandoned.
The water was halfway up the jeep's tires as Remo toured the street, unmolested by Arabs. They always seemed to be wherever he wasn't. Growing bored at last, he drove back to his hotel.
When Remo pushed open the door to his suite, he found Chiun seated placidly on the floor. Even with the chaos all around them, the old Korean was as calm as a wooded glade at sunset.
Chiun wore a hyacinth kimono. Along the back of the garment twin peacocks raised multicolored feathers, their edges outlined in striking gold accents.
Even amid all of the terror and uncertainty, the Master of Sinanju had found someone at Taurus willing to retype his screenplay. The text had been transferred from parchment to standard computer paper and was now contained in a special leatherbacked binder.
Chiun was scanning the hundred-plus sheets of paper. As he worked, he occasionally clucked unhappily, making a correction in red ink in the wide margins.
"I'm back," Remo announced glumly.
Chiun looked up. "Remo enters, clomping and braying like a wounded mule," he said merrily. The Master of Sinanju returned to his work.
"Stop talking like the freaking narrator," Remo griped.
Shuffling across the room, Remo gathered up the remote control from atop the hotel television. Collapsing boneless into a chair, he turned on CNN.
The Eblan story was still raging strong. He hadn't really expected otherwise. Turning down the sound, he watched images of men on camelback riding along a closed section of Santa Monica Freeway.
It was only a few minutes after Remo started watching the TV that Chiun finished scribbling on the last page of his screenplay. The old man made a small, final mark, closing the binder with a lordly flourish.
"Perfect," he exclaimed grandly. Remo ignored him.
"You have noticed, no doubt, that I am talking to you once more," Chiun announced.
"Yep," Remo said with a bland sigh. He continued staring at the screen, his thoughts elsewhere.
"When I learned of your deception, I was understandably cross," the Master of Sinanju scolded gently.
"Listen," Remo said, shaking his head. "I know what you're like when you're around this town. I figured you'd get all moon-eyed looking for Raymond Burr and Edward G. Robinson and I wouldn't get any work done. Besides, it was supposed to be a quick assignment."
"There, you see?" Chiun said placidly. "Even when you incorrectly paint me as a burdensome celebrity stalker, I am not cross. I am in a magnanimous mood, Remo. Bask in my achievement."
"Okay," Remo groaned. "I'm not gonna get any peace until I ask. What have you achieved?"
"Success," Chiun proclaimed. With one wickedly sharp fingernail he tapped the cover of the screenplay on the floor beside him. "I have written a story filled with sex and violence. Oh, it is a marvelous thing, Remo. Dinosaurs and pyrotechnics abound. One does not turn a page without coming upon a thrilling car chase or a dastardly space alien. Oh, what a wonderful day to know me. An even more glorious day to be me. You, Remo, are truly blessed."
"I feel blessed," Remo said flatly. "Slide it over." He leaned forward in his chair.
Hands a lightning blur, Chiun snapped up the screenplay, slapping it to his thin chest.
"Are you a film producer?" Hazel eyes narrowed with cunning.
"No," Remo said, exhaling loudly.
"Are you connected in any way with the motion-picture industry?"
"You're not going to let me see it, are you?"
"It is not that I do not trust you," Chiun replied. "But there are vipers in this business. Had you been more forthcoming with me about the city to which you were traveling, I might let you see a page or two. However..." His voice trailed off.
"Okay, fine." Remo accepted the refusal, falling back in his chair.
"Perhaps a single line of dialogue," Chiun offered.
"Nope. I'll wait for the movie."
"You might have to wait several months. The noble film titans Bindle and Marmelstein are deeply involved in another project at the moment."
"You cut a deal with Bindle and Marmelstein?" Remo asked, surprised.
"No contracts have yet been signed. Ideally I will be the center of a bidding war between rival studios."
"Chiun, Bindle and Marmelstein are with Taurus Studios."
The wizened Korean held aloft a fist of bone. "The mighty bull! How fitting for a pair like them. Strong, independent. They truly share the spirit of that great animal."
"The only thing Bindle and Marmelstein share with bulls is a capacity to produce endless piles of shit," Remo amended.
"You are jealous," Chiun sniffed.
"I am not jealous," Remo said.
"Yes, you are," Chiun replied. "How sad for you, Remo. The shadow cast by greatness is cold and dark indeed."
"Chiun, let me explain this to you slowly. Taurus is owned by Sultan Omay of Ebla."
"Sinanju never worked for Ebla." Chiun waved dismissively. "It is an irrelevant nation."
"Not anymore," Remo said. "The sultan only bought the studio as a front to launch a stealth invasion of America. There is no Taurus Studios. There is no movie in the works. And Bindle and Marmelstein are going to be out on their ears as soon as Smith can find a way to shut down all of Omay's shenanigans with the least amount of bloodshed."
"No film, you say?" Chiun asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. The parchment skin near eyes and mouth flickered faint bemusement.
"Of course not," Remo replied. "It was all just a big, insane scheme."
With confident fluidity the Master of Sinanju rose to his feet. All the while he continued to hold his screenplay close to his chest like a maiden guarding her virtue.
"Come with me, O doubter," Chiun exclaimed, spinning on his heel. Embroidered peacocks dancing across the back of his brocade robe, the old Asian stomped out into the hallway.
Remo had nothing better to do. Shutting off the TV, he slowly trailed Chiun outside.
Chapter 14
Whoever in filmmaking had said to never work with children or animals had never worked with foreigners. Hank Bindle was sure of this because he was certain that if they had, they would have added Eblan extras to the list.
"Cut, cut, cut!" Bindle screamed. "Hello? Can anyone hear me? Has everyone around here suddenly gone deaf?"
He flung his megaphone to the ground in exasperation.
"I can hear you, H.B.," his assistant volunteered.
"Shut up," Bindle snapped.
They were on an outside lot at Taurus's Burbank studio. Trucked-in sand covered an entire acre of parking lot. A small oasis-one-twentieth scale-had been inserted into the sand at the rear of the lot near the Taurus water tower. The tower would be digitally erased later.
Two dozen men with camels stood haphaz
ardly near the front edge of the makeshift desert. This appearance of randomness had taken all morning to meticulously arrange.
All of the men wore flowing robes of white. That is, all but one. This individual was dressed entirely in black. He alone sat atop one of the camels. Heavy black fabric was drawn across his mouth and nose and down over his forehead. A pair of beady eyes peeked out from amid the thick material.
As he strode over to one of the extras, Hank Bindle apologized profusely to the pair of angry eyes. "I'm so sorry, luv. Why don't you have someone get you something from craft services? And you," Bindle shouted as he turned to the extra, "can't you get that animal to stop whizzing all over my movie?"
There was a wide area of dampness in the sand beneath the camel. The creature even appeared somewhat guilty. Bindle thought it should. With seven cameras whirring from every conceivable angle at once, every inch of the dark yellow stream had been caught on film.
The Arab extra shrugged. "There is no stopping," he said, unconcerned. "They go when they must."
Bindle leaned in close to the camel. Its big nostrils breathed hotly in his face. Bindle's voice was filled with menace. "Leak on my set one more time and I will personally give you a chain-saw humpectomy. "
As if taking this as a cue, the camel behind Bindle opened up. A pungent aroma instantly filled the air as the dark liquid spattered the ground around the feet of the studio executive.
"Oh, my gawd," Hank Bindle cried as he bounded from the worst of the deluge, arms flapping in terror. "That's it! That's it! I can't take it anymore. Someone call Skywalker Ranch. I want eight dozen fully animatronic, nonpissing camels by the end of the week! I'll pay anything they want."
He stomped his feet in the parking lot. Gouts of camel urine squirted from his shoes out onto the pavement, drying instantly to vapor in the hot California sun.
To an outsider it would have looked as if Hank Bindle were doing some kind of bizarre rain dance. He was still knocking pee from his Guccis when Remo and Chiun strolled up.
"Hail, Bindle the Resourceful," Chiun announced in greeting.
Hank Bindle looked up, peeved. When he saw Remo and Chiun, his sour expression moderated somewhat.
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