"What are you two pinheads so happy about?" Remo asked as the Taurus executives breezed through the door.
"Oh, nothing," Hank Bindle sang. He grinned at Bruce Marmelstein. Marmelstein grinned back. Remo shook his head. Obviously the two men thought they shared some great private joke. "Before the pair of you lapse into Prozac comas, you want to tell me where your little buddy al Koala is?"
The smiles vanished so quickly they left white creases in the movie moguls' salon-tanned faces. "Who wants to know?" Hank Bindle challenged. Remo knew immediately something was wrong. He got slowly to his feet. Without even a single word to either man, he crossed over to their desks. The latest matching desks ordered by the two executives were huge mahogany affairs that weighed almost a thousand pounds each. Near Bindle's, Remo bent at the waist, gripping the fat middle section of one of the curved legs.
He stood. Bindle and Marmelstein were shocked to see the desk rise with him.
Remo stood there for a moment, the thousand-pound desk held away from his body in the same casual manner he might have used to hold a squirt gun. The huge desk did not waver one millimeter in his outstretched arm.
When he was certain he had their attention, Remo flicked his wrist. The desk rocketed away from his hand as if yanked on a line. It cracked straight through the ceiling-to-floor window at the rear of the office.
Both the desk and several huge glass shards seemed to hover in the air for an infinitely long moment before vanishing below the sill. A mighty crash rose from three stories below two seconds later. This was followed by angry shouts in Eblan Arabic.
Remo turned away from the hole in the wall. Paint-smeared tarpaulins rattled in the soft, warm breeze. He set his dead-eyed gaze on Bindle and Marmelstein.
"Where is he?" he repeated.
"Bruce had him kidnapped," Hank Bindle blabbered.
Marmelstein whirled on his partner.
"Me?" Bruce Marmelstein snapped, shocked. "It was all your idea. Check the check," he said, spinning to Remo. "Hank's handwriting is on everything but the signature."
Bindle looked horrified.
"You told me you didn't want to wreck your manicure!" he shrieked.
"Liar!" Marmelstein screamed.
Hank Bindle desperately searched his repertoire for an appropriate comeback. The one he found gave him intense satisfaction.
"Hairdresser!" Bindle screeched.
The look of pure hateful rage that blossomed on the face of Bruce Marmelstein quickly transformed into one of intense pain. Before he was able to screech a response back at his partner, he felt an explosion of raw agony at the back of his neck, as if someone were extracting his spinal cord and all his body's attendant nerves through an acid-formed incision. Through panicked, watering eyes he saw that Hank Bindle was in similar agony.
When the two partners searched for the source of the sudden pain, they found Remo standing between them. He was clutching them both by the tops of their spinal columns and lifting them off the floor. His face was a mask of rage.
"Where is he?" he said through clenched teeth.
"I don't know." Bindle winced.
"With Reggio Cagliari," Marmelstein pleaded.
"But we don't know where they are," Bindle gasped.
"You'd better be able to find out," Remo threatened. "Or when the next desk drops, you two nitwits will be under it."
Dropping them back to the carpet, he spun for the door.
Wind still blew in through the gaping hole in the wall. Bindle and Marmelstein glanced at the remaining enormous desk. They gulped simultaneously. The threat was too real for comfort.
Shuddering at the thought, both men trailed Remo rapidly from the office.
FOR MOST OF THE MODERN WORLD, the Eblan-Israeli war began with an electronic whimper. So it was for Harold W. Smith.
Tired eyes glued to his computer screen, haggard face illuminated in weird, amber-fueled shadows, Smith tracked the troop movements as they were recorded by satellites stationed in geosynchronous orbit above the region.
Eblan forces that had been massed along the Anatolia Corridor in the desert between Syria and Lebanon had moved down into the mountainous Golan Heights region just over an hour before. There would be no turning back.
Smith dipped in and out of various reports. From the satellite information, he shifted to the raw data collected by U.S. intelligence services. This was augmented by CURE's secret pipelines into the Mossad and Israeli military command. Throughout all this, Smith utilized the screen-in-screen function, devoting a small corner of his monitor to the constant video feed from the ITN cameras at the scene of battle.
It was proving to be a massacre of unbelievable proportions.
With his announced intentions, Israel had had almost two days to prepare for Sultan Omay's invasion. The disputed Golan Heights had been packed with enough firepower to repel any assault that Ebla could mount. The Israeli level of preparedness was proving to be more than formidable.
The casualty figures had not yet been reported, but news correspondents on the ground were likening the outcome of the first Ebla-Israel engagement to the routing of Iraqi forces in Kuwait during the Gulf War.
Smith did not need casualty figures to tell him what was happening. He could see the bodies of the Ebla Arab Army soldiers as the Israelis swarmed over them. As yet Smith had not seen a single dead Israeli.
In isolation the war as it was unfolding would have been a cause for celebration for Jerusalem and its allies in the West. However there was another, darker factor at work in the region. The aspect that was not yet being covered by the press was the effect the Eblan invasion was having on other fundamentalist nations in the Mideast.
Already there were demonstrations in support of Ebla and its sultan in Syria, Lebanon, Iraq and Iran. There were even radical elements in Jordan, Egypt and Saudi Arabia who applauded the decisive conduct of Sultan Omay.
As a result of the action of this one, insignificant little nation, all of the Mideast was ready to ignite. Even Israel would not be able to repel attacks from all sides.
Libya had already announced support for Ebla. It was eager to join the fray, yet was cautious enough to see how America would react to the aggression of others.
So far the United States had remained neutral in the actual conflict. While publicly denouncing the actions of Ebla-which he had done many times in the past few days-the President had ordered U.S. battleships in the Mediterranean not to engage.
American troops on the ground in Kuwait, Saudi Arabia and Egypt had been put on a heightened alert status, but had been similarly instructed. Everyone knew this would last only until the rest of the Islamic world joined Ebla against Israel. When push finally came to shove, there was no doubt anywhere in the region, or indeed in the world, on whose side America's ultimate loyalty would fall. If it came to it, the United States would back its longtime ally, Israel.
And once the U.S. was actively involved, there would be no turning back. Other nations around the world would take sides. As a result of tiny Ebla's actions, the world was heading inexorably down a destructive path it had not ventured on in more than half a century.
It was a tricky situation. Even now the President had put on hold any attempt to rescue the secretary of state and the rest of the hostages lest the presence of American military personnel within its borders inspire Ebla to claim that the U.S. had joined Israel.
In the solitude of his Folcroft office, Smith scanned the minute-by-minute reports with forced detachment. There was no sense in pointless agitation. He had a sinking feeling that there would be enough of the real thing to go around in a very short time.
Chiun would soon be at ground zero.
The situation had become too grave too quickly. Smith was forced to intercept the Master of Sinanju's commercial craft in Honolulu. He had arranged for an Air Force flight out of Hawaii to take Chiun directly to Tel Aviv. But until the Master of Sinanju was in place and ready to defuse one end of Omay sin-Khalam's diabolical tr
ap, Remo could not act.
Smith had not yet gotten hold of Remo to tell him the plan had been accelerated. When he tried reaching CURE's enforcement arm at Taurus, an effete secretary informed him that Remo had left the studio in the company of Bindle and Marmelstein. No matter. With the worldwide crisis that was brewing, Remo would surely not miss his usual check-in time. Smith hoped.
Watching the video images on his computer screen of bodies piling up on the parched mountainous desert of the Golan Heights, Smith realized that he hoped for a lot of things right now.
And as Hell erupted in the Middle East, all any of them could do was wait.
"WHAT DO THEY DO with thieves in Ebla?" Bindle asked.
They were driving through occupied Culver City. Remo was behind the wheel of the Taurus Studios jeep. So far the Eblan soldiers they had encountered had left them alone.
"Probably cut their hands off," Remo said, uninterested.
Hank Bindle was horrified. "But I use mine." He pouted.
Bruce Marmelstein was equally upset. "And my Rolex would have nothing to hold it on," Marmelstein argued. He waggled his new watch, which was a replacement for the Swiss watch with his face. The Swiss watch had broken an hour after he first put it on.
"Maybe you can ask for a substitute," Remo suggested. "I'd recommend your tongues."
The headquarters of Local 529 was in a small office in a complex off of La Cienaga Boulevard. Remo parked on the sunlit street out front and went inside. The two movie executives followed.
Lips Cagliari wasn't there. However they did find a similarly overweight Teamster who told them that Reggio had left about an hour before.
"Was he alone?" Remo asked.
"Sure," the man said. "He had me help load a crate in the back of his truck."
"Did that crate weigh as much as a skinny Arab with rotten teeth?" Remo asked.
The guy cocked his head. "Maybe. Reggio told me it was camera equipment. Say, I heard there's guys who are startin' to wanna fight after seein' that ex-cop on TV. You think old Lips went and joined the resistance against these A-rabs?" He scratched his ample belly as he spoke.
"Only if there's a paycheck in it," Remo said, shooting a look at Bindle and Marmelstein. "Do you have any idea where he might have gone?" he asked the man.
"I'm not so sure about that," the teamster mused. "Reggio always liked the zoo. The lion house is a pretty good spot for dumping purposes, if you know what I mean. If he bagged himself an A-rab, he might go there."
"Thanks." Remo turned urgently on the studio executives. "You guys know where the zoo is?" he asked.
"Ever been to Compton?" Marmelstein replied glibly.
Remo cuffed him in the side of the head.
"Ouch! Yeah, I know," Marmelstein complained, rubbing the edge of his hair plugs. "That hurt."
"Imagine how much worse it'll be without a hand to rub it," Remo said with a dour expression.
He headed back out the door.
Outside they found a group of Eblans standing suspiciously near the front of Remo's car. There were five of them in flowing robes and headdresses.
Two of the Arabs had been in a jeep; three had been on camelback. The camels were tethered to a nearby telephone pole.
"What is your business?" the leader of the group demanded. He was a short man with a thick beard and an even thicker accent.
"We're trying to scrape up a test screening audience for the latest Pauley Shore movie," Remo explained blandly. "So far people are happier with the occupation than the thought of having to sit through it. We're thinking a forty-million-dollar advertising budget."
The beard twisted into a frown.
"You are restricted to your homes unless granted permission otherwise," the confused Arab insisted.
"We're with Taurus Studios," Hank Bindle interjected. "I happen to be a close personal friend of Mr. Koala, who is a close personal friend of Sultan Omay."
This brought a reaction from the Arabs. At the mention of Taurus Studios, five automatic weapons were quickly raised. The Arabs aimed the guns at Remo's group.
"You are coming with us," their leader barked.
"Sorry," Remo apologized. "We're kinda pressed for time. Our projectionist's already on golden time."
Before the Eblan could react, Remo's hand shot forward, fingers stiff.
Their leader had been standing farther ahead of the rest and was therefore the first casualty. When the tips of Remo's fingers met the barrel of the Arab's gun, there was a shriek of protesting metal. With a pained cry the barrel split in two, folding back along its length like a peeling banana. One twisted side of half barrel punctured the heart of the gun's stunned owner. The other side curled farther back, splitting the breastbone of a charging Ebla Arab Army soldier. It came to rest in a second fluttering heart.
Even as the bodies fell, Remo swirled past them and into the midst of the other three Arabs.
Remo made short work of them. A toe caught a gun barrel, flipping it up through the forehead of a soldier. An elbow cracked a rib cage, collapsing it to jelly. Remo slapped the jaw of the last soldier up into his frontal lobe. As the man dropped to the hot concrete, Remo was already spinning back to the Taurus Studios car.
"What was with them?" Bindle asked, alarmed.
Remo's face was unhappy. "They know Khobar's missing."
"Cobalt?" Bindle asked. "Who the hell is Cobalt?"
"No. Kobe's arm," Marmelstein explained to his partner, deeply concerned. "It's missing. Did they cut someone's arm off for stealing?" he asked Remo worriedly.
"Hey, I don't remember approving any Pauley Shore movie," Bindle added, perplexed.
Remo rolled his eyes heavenward. "Get in the car, you mushheads," he said with more patience than he felt.
As he climbed in behind the wheel, he prayed that whoever the two executives had paid to kidnap and then murder al Khobar wasn't as stupid as them. Bindle and Marmelstein were just dumb enough to kill first and then try to interrogate the corpse later.
Leaving the bodies of the five Arabs to bake in the hot sun, Remo headed the studio car back out toward La Cienaga.
Dull eyes supremely indifferent, the three camels watched them drive away.
Chapter 27
Persuasion wasn't so hard, Reggio Cagliari knew. It was only a matter of having the right tools for the job. Reggio was never caught without the right tools. In fact he had all he needed in his hands right now.
One pair of pliers. A hammer. A handful of Sheetrock nails. Another pair of pliers was in his back pocket in case the first pair broke, which they sometimes did when he was working.
That was it.
It had been easy enough to nab Mr. Koala. Reggio caught him with a mallet to the back of the head when he stumbled on the Arab snooping alone outside the old Mammoth Studios lot.
The other Arabs were gone from the area. Reggio knew why. Their work must have been complete and they were bugging out. The evidence of that was all around.
While he loaded the terrorist into the trunk of his car, he saw the wires running in and around the big soundstages and into the office buildings all around the motion-picture studio. He'd seen the same wires wrapping around every other studio, some even before the occupation. Taurus had rented tons of space.
More than they would ever need for a single movie. Even Reggio knew that. But the Hollywood bigwigs had been too busy counting the rental cash to bother to find out what Koala and his A-rab cronies were cooking up under their own roofs.
Just to make sure, Reggio took a peek inside one of the empty soundstages. It was as he had expected. Koala must have been finishing up his last inspection tour. The last for anyone in this town. Ever. Reggio was glad he'd made this final deal. He'd take his money from Taurus and head off to South America. He'd go somewhere Don Vaggliosi never heard of.
First things first, however. He still had a little more persuading to do.
"Did you get that one?" Reggio asked. He was chewing on one of the cannoli he'd bro
ught from his office. Powdered sugar dusted his dimpled chin. The pastel-pink bakery box lay open on the crate to which al Khobar was attached.
"This one? Yes, yes. Please." The voice was desperate. Pleading.
"Didja initial near da X?" Reggio questioned, taking the paper in one big hand. He blew the sugar off.
"Yes!"
Reggio inspected the paper. It appeared to be in order. He slid it in with the rest inside the manila envelope Bindle and Marmelstein had given him.
"Will you please let me go now? Please?" The words were slurred.
He was begging. Reggio liked it when they begged.
The portly man looked down at the terrified form of Assola al Khobar.
The Saudi terrorist was bleeding profusely from the mouth. A river of crimson poured down over his chin, dribbling to the concrete floor of the shed. The faint odor of manure mixed with some kind of ammonia-based cleaner was in the air.
The blood was really just a special effect. Reggio knew so much blood wouldn't come from a couple of small puncture wounds. Most of it was blood mixed in with buckets of saliva. It looked horrible, but was relatively harmless. The victim never thought so, however.
Reggio felt good. He was sitting on a stool near the kneeling form of al Khobar.
The terrorist was bent over a wooden crate. His lower lip had been pulled out as far as it could reasonably go without tearing. Four of the nails Reggio had brought with him had been pounded through Assola's lip and into the wood of the crate below. They successfully prevented the terrorist from moving. There were a few rotten teeth laying on the crate, as well, their bloody root ganglia dripping onto the wood. This had been the reason for the pliers. Where lips sometimes failed, teeth always worked.
When he was a young up-and-comer in the Pubescio Family, Reggio had had a habit of nailing people's lips to things. His affection for that particular part of the human body was what earned him his moniker "Lips." In recent years he'd gotten away from what had made him a kind of local legend. In a way it was nice to go through the old routine again. Even if it was only a one-shot deal.
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