The soldier tumbled from the hump of his mount. His foot was still wrapped in the leather reins, and his camel immediately began dragging him down the posh Beverly Hills street.
The other Eblans screamed madly and continued on.
All of the activity in the street had not gone unnoticed. Sensing the start of belated revolution, people had already begun venturing outside before the arrival of the latest soldiers.
As the camels rode by the first crippled tank, a pedestrian emboldened by the sight of the shattered military vehicle raced out from the door of Remo's hotel. While Remo and Chiun watched from farther down the street, the man took to the hood of a parked Bentley, bounding to the roof. With a leap and a yell, he flew through the air, connecting solidly with a passing Arab soldier. Both Eblan and American plummeted from camel to street.
Bloodied yet victorious, the man tore the AK-47 from the Arab's grasping hands, promptly turning it on its owner. As the first bullet-riddled Eblan body fell, he turned the weapon on the rest. Two more were knocked from their camels in the first sweep of the gun.
More bystanders raced to collect the weapons of the dead.
Gunfire echoed off the buildings as the remaining four Eblan cavalrymen attempted to flee the scene. They didn't make it more than a few yards before being mowed down.
Cheering Americans rolled out into the streets as the final soldier tumbled from his camel.
The floodgates were open. A small, joyful riot began to break out in downtown Beverly Hills.
And above it all, Remo heard the approaching rotor noise of one of L.A.'s many news helicopters. The chopper broke into view above the hotel, settling like a fat hummingbird into a noisy hover above the pandemonium.
"Remember who wished to remain in our hotel room," Chiun pointed out over the din. The wisps of hair above his ears blew crazily in the downdraft. "Let's just get this over with," Remo shouted, peeved. He made a move toward the tank.
By this time the crew inside the armored vehicle had gotten their bearings. They'd already loaded a shell into the breech before setting out on the freeway.
With no warning they fired. The explosion was deafening.
Remo and Chiun sensed the imminent explosion a microsecond before it took place. They were out of the way and had covered their ears the instant before the shell exploded from the blunted cannon barrel.
The missile didn't go far. It exploded in the street a few dozen yards away, creating an instant crater of orange flame and black smoke. Two parked cars blew up onto their sides on the sidewalk. Chunks of tar and dirt rained down all around. People screamed.
The Beverly Hills street had rapidly devolved into a Beirut slum.
Pandemonium breaking out all around, Remo turned slowly to the Master of Sinanju. "I hope Smith isn't too narrow in his definition of 'provocative,'" he said tiredly.
Using the acrid smoke for cover, he turned and mounted the tank, careful to keep his face directed away from the hovering TV news helicopter.
Chapter 20
Thick clusters of taped wires ran from soundstage 2 to soundstage 3 on the old MBM studios lot. They disappeared inside the cavernous black interior beyond the partially opened soundstage doors. Arabs in long, flowing robes could be seen working furtively inside the dimly lit interiors of the buildings as Bruce Marmelstein walked across the lot from the executive offices.
It wasn't the first time he'd seen this same scene. Since arriving in town as liaison to Sultan Omay, Mr. Koala had been encouraging Marmelstein to rent all available space from every studio in town for Taurus's epic motion picture. The wires and Arab workmen invariably showed up after the stages had been rented.
Even after the Arab takeover of Hollywood, Mr. Koala had continued to insist on renting space. The other studios were even more willing to deal now than they had been before, considering the double threat of zero film production and an armed incursion on their lots if they refused. Right now Taurus had crews on every major studio lot in the greater Los Angeles area.
Marmelstein found al Khobar exiting soundstage 4. Both men had to step over bundles of wires as they walked toward each other.
"I've been meaning to ask you, Mr. Koala, what is all this stuff?" Bruce Marmelstein asked once they'd met up.
Assola al Khobar appeared annoyed even to be addressed.
"It is for the film," the terrorist replied tersely. Marmelstein frowned. He'd been in the movie business ever since he'd stopped teasing Barbra Streisand's hair eighteen years ago and he had never seen anything remotely like this ganglia of wires before. However he didn't wish to appear ignorant. "Oh, yeah," said Bruce Marrnelstein nodding confidently. "Movie stuff. By the by, there's a phone call for you." He pointed back to the office complex. "I think it might be the sultan." Without even a word of thanks, al Khobar began striding toward the building. Bruce Marmelstein hurried to keep pace.
"He's not into his finances too much, is he?"
Al Khobar's eyes were dead ahead. When he spoke, he didn't even look at the studio executive. "What do you mean?"
"Well..." Marmelstein began vaguely. "Balancing checkbooks. Looking at his bank statement. He's not into all that, right? I mean, he'd have accountants doing all that."
"Of course, fool."
"Of course," Marmelstein agreed. "Of course, of course."
They were almost at the building. Marmelstein took the plunge.
"Don't bring up his bank accounts, would you?" he blurted in a rush of words.
The terrorist was instantly suspicious. "Why?"
"This film of Hank's is, well, it's a tad over budget." Helpless hands rose quickly. "I've tried to talk him down, but he insists on realism. I know you said that's what the sultan wanted, too. He wanted the nitty-gritty of this whole invasion thing. Hank wants to give it to him."
They were at the doors to the building. Al Khobar flung them open, stepping inside. Marmelstein followed eagerly.
"The sultan does not want one of your ridiculous Hollywood films. You were told to make a documentary."
"It is, it is!" Marmelstein insisted. "It's just that Hank-not me, but Hank-wanted to dress it up a little."
"Dress it as you like," the terrorist snapped. "It matters not to me." His interests were clearly elsewhere. He pushed the third-floor button on the lobby elevator.
As they waited for the car, Bruce Marmelstein seemed greatly relieved.
"Not to me, either," he said. "But it does to Hank. And to the sultan, obviously. You promise him from me that The Movie is going to be the greatest movie ever made."
The elevator doors opened. Al Khobar stepped aboard, trailed by Bruce Marmelstein.
"Actually you'd better tell him that promise is from Hank," Marmelstein said after brief consideration. He shrugged. "I mean, no sense putting my ass in the sling if Hank's a shitty director."
The silver doors slid silently shut.
THEIR HOLLYWOOD OFFICE WAS only the poor cousin to Bindle and Marmelstein's regular digs at the main Taurus Studios complex back in Burbank. Still, the room was in its third metamorphosis in less than thirty hours.
They had gone halfway through the whole Caligula thing with marble walls and spurting fountains when Hank Bindle had decided he was allergic to marble. The room had been hastily gutted and redone in a Louis XIV motif.
Bruce Marmelstein had been shocked to find out that Louis XIV meant a sort of sissy, old European design. The offices of the greatest makers of testosterone-fueled movies in cinema history looked like his grandma's house.
The big room was undergoing its third change now. It was all very gleaming, very high-tech. All blacks and silvers and glass. Bindle and Marmelstein had yet to notice that the stuff going into the Hollywood office was the same exact stuff that had originally been taken out of their Burbank office. The builders and designers were charging Taurus quadruple their regular rate to rearrange the furniture. When he stepped through the door, Assola al Khobar immediately chased Hank Bindle and the decorators from the office
. Stepping across the crinkling tarps that had been spread across the floor, the terrorist grabbed the phone from Bindle's desk. Fumbling with the thin wire, he finally managed to wrap it around his head.
"Mr. Koala," he announced, instantly embarrassed to have used the name the idiots Bindle and Marmelstein had inadvertently given him.
The long bout of coughing that preceded a voice on the other end of the line told him that he was indeed speaking with Sultan Omay sin-Khalam.
"Assola, is the plan in danger?" the sultan wheezed once he had regained control of himself.
"Danger?" al Khobar asked, surprised. "No, it is not in danger. Everything is going as expected. Why?"
Omay forced strength into his frail voice. In spite of the attempt he sounded terribly weak.
"There is street fighting in progress," the sultan insisted. "This have I seen on CNN."
The terrorist's expression steeled.
"I have not heard of this," al Khobar said levelly.
"How could you not know?" Omay accused. "Two of my glorious Ebla Arab Army tanks have been destroyed by the Americans. More than a dozen of my brave Eblan soldiers lay dead in the street, murdered by a bloodthirsty mob."
"This mob," al Khobar asked worriedly. "You are certain it is not the United States Army?"
"No. They wore the garb of everyday infidels." Al Khobar was visibly relieved.
"This was not completely unexpected," the terrorist said. "You will remember in one of our earliest discussions I mentioned the likelihood of such an eventuality. My experiences in Afghanistan taught me this."
"No," Omay coughed. "No, you have lost control." The sultan's ragged voice was harsh. "I entrusted a Saudi and not an Eblan to do this most important work, and you have lost control."
"I have not, Omay sin-Khalam, I assure you. The insurrection will be dealt with." Al Khobar considered. "It would help greatly if you were to demonstrate the force of our will on one of the remaining hostages."
As the terrorist had expected, this suggestion had an instant mollifying effect on the sultan.
"As a gesture of Ebla's displeasure?" the ruler asked craftily.
"Absolutely," al Khobar replied.
The leader of Ebla considered for only a moment. "It will be as you suggest, Assola," Omay said, the lust for blood evident in his aged voice. "You believe this will quell any further violence?"
"I do," al Khobar asserted. "Provided you make it clear that this is the reason for the execution."
"I will," Omay said, coughing lightly. He was warming to the idea of being on television once more. "Did you know, Assola, that the first execution brought attention from around the world?"
"It was a glorious sight."
"Yes," Omay said proudly. "The ratings were quite high. I have never had such an audience." He was thinking wistfully of his glory days as the Great Peacemaker. Back then his every move had been international news. But this was much better. Not only did he not have to shake hands with Jews, but now there was also blood involved. "And how is your other work proceeding?" the sultan asked.
Al Khobar's voice became vague. "All is well," he said. He spoke no more.
"The timetable you established is in place here," Omay coughed, "Are you ready to set-?"
"Everything is under control here, Omay sin-Khalam," Assola al Khobar said quickly. "Long live your sultanate. Together let us wipe the stain of Western influence from the Muslim world. May Allah smile always on you and on Ebla, the flower of the desert."
And lest the old imbecile give away any more information over an open line, he broke the connection.
"Fool," al Khobar spit as he dropped the phone's wire headset to the paint-spattered tarpaulin atop Hank Bindle's desk.
He knew what Omay had been about to ask. And the answer was yes. Everything was nearly in place. He thought of the plan he had helped craft, a plan that was about to come to glorious fruition. It was a scheme fiendish in design and breathtaking in execution. An act of terrorism that would make the East African bombings he had engineered last year look like wet Chinese fireworks.
It was a plan from which America would never recover.
In spite of his agitation at Sultan Omay, Assola al Khobar smiled a row of black-and-brown teeth at the empty office.
Chapter 21
"What were you thinking?"
On the phone the lemony voice of Harold Smith had risen three octaves. He now sounded like tart citrus being squeezed through a rusted garlic press.
"Smitty, this sitting-around bullcrap was getting ridiculous," Remo said defensively. "Obviously I'm not the only one who thinks so. What, did you want me to just stand there and let a tank drive over that guy?"
"That was an option," Smith snapped.
"And one that I wished to take, Emperor Smith!" Chiun called from across the room.
"You might be interested to know you have made Mr. Hanlon a national hero," Smith said.
"The man you rescued from the tank." Smith's anger gave way to intense weariness.
"That guy?" Remo said, surprised. "He was just some drunk."
"Yes," Smith replied. "He was also airlifted out of the military cordon by a news helicopter. He is now appearing on every talk show around the country."
"There, you see?" Remo challenged. "It could have been a lot worse. Be happy it's Foster Brooks and not me on Oprah."
"I suppose we should count our blessings," Smith conceded dryly. "After all, the news helicopter was focused on Hanlon and the other rioters while you took care of the other tank and its crew."
"That's right, Smitty," Remo said. "This won't be as bad as you think. From what I can tell it's already blown over."
"Yes, but other pockets of insurrection are doubtless forming in the wake of this first successful counterattack," Smith pressed.
"Geez, Smitty, you make it sound like a bad thing we're fighting back," Remo groused. "I'm kind of glad to see Americans willing to risk something for once."
"Need I remind you that it was the President's hope for a diplomatic resolution to this situation?"
"Was his dingus in or out of the nearest intern when he cooked that up?" Remo asked, aggravated. "He must've seen the look on that crap-bag Omay's face when he shot that kid over in Ebla. He loved every second of it. That psycho's not going away until he's started a major war."
"The President has now conceded as much," Smith said. "In the wake of that incident he has privately given up on diplomacy. He is in the process of developing a military solution in conjunction with our allies to free the men who are being held captive."
"Good luck," Remo commented. "I remember what happened the last time we tried to rescue hostages in that neck of the world."
"It is a difficult situation," Smith admitted. "Made all the more difficult by what has now occurred on your end."
"Listen, that guy was out there blasting away without me even being there," Remo said, using his most reasonable tone. "Even if I'd let him get run over, the rest of those people wouldn't have stood by without reacting. He'd have become a martyr and they would have rioted anyway. And instead of Eblans being killed it would have been about a hundred Americans."
"Possibly," Smith replied vaguely.
The CURE director was distracted from their conversation by an electronic beep emanating from his desk computer. Remo heard the noise over the crosscountry line.
"One moment, Remo," Smith said.
Remo heard the sound of Smith's fingers drumming rapidly against the capacitor keyboard at the edge of his desk. When the noise of typing subsided, there was the briefest of pauses. All at once Remo heard a sharp intake of breath.
"My God, not again," Smith croaked.
"What is it?" Remo asked sharply.
"Put on your television," Smith insisted. His voice was flat, almost dead.
"Chiun, snap that on, would you?" Remo called. The Master of Sinanju was sitting in front of the TV studying the latest issue of People magazine. Without looking, he reached up and stabb
ed a finger at the pad on the front of the television. The screen came rapidly to life.
Remo knew at once why the CURE director's computer had alerted him. On the screen was Sultan Omay, more wild-eyed and sickly looking than ever.
The leader of Ebla was obviously somewhere out in the sandy wasteland of his small Mideast nation. The desert sun beat down upon him. Tents were framed behind him. Farther back along the horizon Ebla Arab Army troops could be seen conducting marching exercises in the sand.
There was someone kneeling on the ground before Omay. The man wore an untucked white dress shirt, open at the collar. He was blindfolded.
Chiun had turned the television on just as Sultan Omay was in the process of raising something to the back of the kneeling man's head. Remo knew in a sick instant what was happening.
As Remo watched, revulsion growing, Omay placed the gun to the back of the man's head. He pulled the trigger.
The forehead burst open like a ripe melon. Fortunately for most home viewers, the murder happened too quickly to be seen well. Ghouls would have to rewind and freeze-frame videotapes in order to see the gore clearly. The body slumped face first into the powdery sand.
Sultan Omay looked away from the body and up into the waiting camera. He seemed as comfortable with the medium as any American television star. When he spoke, his voice was weak. "A crime has been committed this day," Omay announced to the camera. His eyes were flat.
For a surreal moment Remo thought he was going to actually admit to wrongdoing. He couldn't have been more wrong.
"That crime has been perpetrated by the people of America against the peaceful men of the Ebla Arab Army," Omay continued. "America will be made to pay for every last drop of precious Eblan blood spilled. This is a down payment on retribution. There will be much more to come."
Without another word Omay turned away from the camera. On shaky, shuffling legs he walked back toward the tent immediately behind him. Eblan soldiers lifted the flaps and allowed the frail old man to pass inside.
Obviously there was some kind of prearranged system in place with the international news media. With no comment from any reporter at the scene, the image of the bedouin village merely winked out. It was replaced by a serious-faced anchorman at a news desk.
The Final Reel td-116 Page 15
