Six more men fell to the dust.
For the remaining Eblan soldiers, it was a disgracefully short battle.
When they saw the results of Chiun's initial assault, the unarmed men within the camp threw up their hands in surrender. Those with guns flung them as far away as they could before thrusting their arms into the pale desert sky.
"Release them," Chiun commanded, aiming an imperious nail across the field of staked Americans. "And woe be the one who tells me that any are dead."
The Eblans ran into one another in their haste to release the hostages. Bonds were cut with daggers. Water was brought by the fearful men and poured into the parched mouths of the diplomatic team. The half-dead Americans had to be dragged into the shade of the Eblan army tents.
The remains of the second man murdered on television by Sultan Omay were beside the ruler's tent. Vultures hopped around the corpse, picking at strands of ragged red flesh.
Chiun bounded in between them, flapping the sleeves of his kimono windmill fashion. As the birds hastily took flight, Chiun kicked one of the unfortunate creatures in the belly. The awkward bundle soared out across the torture field, landing in a heap amid the scattering Eblan soldiers. It did not stir again.
This encouraged the Arabs to work faster.
In the end there were three more Americans dead. Including the secretary of state. Helena Eckert's sun-ravaged body was placed carefully at the sandaled feet of the Master of Sinanju.
"See to the injuries of those left alive," Chiun instructed, his voice so cold it seemed to chill the very desert air. "If one more dies, you will suffer a fate so great the lives of these will seem joyful." He indicated the unconscious American delegation.
There were a few military trucks left around the site. The Americans were carefully loaded inside. Per Chiun's order, the wasted body of the sultan of Ebla was loaded less delicately in the first truck. He continued to slumber in sick oblivion. The bodies of the four dead Americans were placed in with him.
Chiun singled out an Ebla Arab Army soldier. "You." Chiun pointed. "Eblan. Nakh that camel for the Master of Sinanju."
The man did as he was told. There was a makeshift corral of the animals away from the tents. He collected the camel Chiun had indicated and brought it to the front of the line of military trucks. Through forceful prodding he got the creature to kneel in the dust.
Chiun climbed atop the thickly furred hump. As if recognizing some unspoken sign, the animal rose back to its wide feet. The old Korean guided the creature's flaring nose north toward Akkadad.
"Follow or die," Chiun called back across the line of trucks.
The Eblan soldiers didn't need to be told a second time. As the vultures returned to pick the carcasses of the soldiers Chiun had slain, the caravan began to make its deliberate way out of the narrow Anatolia Corridor.
Chapter 35
Eblan soldiers swarmed around Taurus Studios, Burbank. There were so many of them jammed onto the many outdoor lots that they were running into one another as they raced to carry wires and boxes from container trucks to buildings.
Tanks had been set up beyond the tall white walls of the studio, establishing a perimeter. Troops had been withdrawn from the other areas the Eblan forces had controlled. They patrolled on foot and on camelback beyond the line of tanks.
This was the fortress from which the last, valiant battle would be fought.
Assola al Khobar screamed orders through a megaphone as he was driven around the studio complex. Men carrying explosives scattered from before the speeding jeep.
The Saudi terrorist had not had time to have the gashes in his lip sewn shut. He had covered the area with thickly folded gauze from the studio infirmary. Tightly pulled masking tape held the gauze in place. Blood-soaked cotton was jammed inside his mouth near the gum line.
The words he shouted as he was driven around the area were loud and nearly indecipherable. And panicked.
Since his base of operations had been at Taurus, al Khobar had been loath to hook up the explosives there. He had planned to do that after everything was set up elsewhere. Prior to the invasion of Israel.
But the precious timetable he had meticulously established had been completely disrupted by his abduction. The Americans wouldn't hold out much longer. Now that the battle had been joined in Israel, the invasion would come here at any moment.
He would have been ready. He should have been ready.
"Faster, faster, faster!" Assola shouted. The word became unintelligible as he sprayed blood-filled saliva onto the megaphone.
The men were already running. They tried hurrying faster as they hooked up the last of the explosives.
"Take me back to the offices," he ordered his driver.
They sped back across the lot to the office complex. Assola was surprised to find another car parked out front.
He climbed out of the jeep and hurried upstairs. The surprise he'd felt downstairs turned to amazement when he entered the office of the studio cochairmen.
Hank Bindle sat calmly behind his desk. The broken window had been replaced. He looked up from a script as al Khobar entered the office.
"Oh, Mr. Koala. I'm glad you're here. We've got to talk about this project of ours."
The terrorist merely stared at the executive. He let the door swing silently shut behind him.
"This isn't working out at all," Bindle said. "The production is falling apart. Now, I know you had your heart set on directing to begin with, and maybe I overstepped my bounds by taking over, but what's done is done. I think we should both know that it's time to call it quits." Bindle sniffled once softly. His eyes grew moist. "My beloved friend and partner, Bruce Marmelstein, suffered a heart attack because of all this. Stress, you know."
He paused, waiting for al Khobar to express the expected degree of sympathy.
When the Arab spoke, his voice was nearly a whisper. "What kind of fool are you, that you would dare show your face here?" al Khobar hissed through a mouth of gauze and cotton. His face was both angry and astonished. His words whistled through the new gaps in his teeth.
Bindle rolled his eyes. "Duh-uh. I'm cochairman of Taurus," he explained.
"You tried to have me killed." The terrorist took a step toward the producer. "You had me tortured." Another step. "You forced me to sign your foolish scraps of paper."
Hank Bindle sat up straighter in his chair. He gulped. "You know about that?" he asked sheepishly.
Al Khobar had had enough. Reaching inside his robes, he pulled loose a heavy automatic. Without preamble he raised the weapon and fired.
The explosion was like a sharp slap against the new plaster walls of the office. The bullet slammed Hank Bindle in the shoulder, toppling him backward from his new chair.
Al Khobar bounded around the desk. He found the executive lying half-propped against the wall beneath the window. His hand clutched the pulsing wound above his chest. Blood seeped from between his fingertips.
Assola pressed his face in close to Bindle's. The smell of blood mixed with that of bad breath and rotting teeth. He grabbed the executive by the front of his shirt, pulling him away from the wall.
"I am going to kill you," the terrorist breathed. His face was that of a twisted ghoul. "You are going to die along with every other piece of American filth in this wretched city. And when I read accounts of this in years to come, I am going to think of your pitiful face and laugh."
He slammed Bindle back against the wall. Leaving the Taurus cochairman where he lay, Assola al Khobar hurried into the office bathroom.
Bindle couldn't move. The pain in his shoulder was far too great. And his fear paralyzed him. He heard water running for several long minutes. After that he heard the sound of plastic rattling. It was not long after that he heard the sound of soft footfalls on the office carpet. Behind the desk he couldn't see a thing.
Bindle felt the change in air pressure as the door opened and then closed once more. Mr. Koala had left.
And left him to
die.
Chapter 36
Harold Smith sat anxiously reading reports from out of both Israel and California.
There had been some progress in the Middle East. The Ebla Arab Army had been routed by the superior Israel Defense Forces. Three thousand Eblan soldiers had been killed in the Golan Heights battle. So far only three Israeli soldiers were reported as casualties.
Israel was rounding up another thirteen thousand Eblans into detainment camps. They would likely be returned to their native land after being cleaned and fed. A courtesy that doubtless would not have been extended to the enemy had the battle gone the other way.
Although this could all be taken as good news, Smith did not yet see Chiun's hand in any of the events taking place there. What's more, the war Ebla had started had ignited spot fires around other fundamentalist nations in the Mideast. Radical Muslims in half a dozen countries were gearing up for a major confrontation with Israel.
There were no reports concerning Sultan Omay. He might have perished in the battle. But from what Smith was reading, even if the sultan were dead already, his evil would thrive long after his body had turned to dust.
As far as California was concerned, there were reports of massive Ebla Arab Army troop movements. They appeared to be consolidating around a single area in Burbank.
The U.S. Army would be held off no longer. Presidential pollsters were finding the Chief Executive's indecision crippling to his numbers. Both Army and National Guard troops were about to invade.
Smith had gathered from his brief telephone conversation with Remo what Omay's plan for the entertainment industry had been all along. Since Remo had not yet checked in, Smith assumed that things in California were as unresolved as they were in Ebla.
Smith pulled his weary gaze away from the computer screen. As if this were some sort of reflexive signal, the blue contact phone on his desk jangled loudly.
The CURE director grabbed for the phone. "Hello," Smith said sharply.
"Greetings, O wise and benevolent Emperor Smith."
The voice of the Master of Sinanju crackled over the inferior Eblan line.
"Chiun," Smith asked urgently, "what is your situation?"
"I have delivered to freedom those whom the ruler of this vile land would imprison."
"The hostages?" Smith said. "They are all right?"
"Sadly, no," Chiun replied. "Some perished before I could liberate them. Their remains, as well as those still alive, are aboard the aircraft which did bear them here."
Smith thought of Akkadad airport in the heart of Ebla. "Are they safe?" he asked.
"They are guarded by the sultan's own men," Chiun replied. "And these would not dare turn a hand against their charges lest they face the awesome wrath of the Master of Sinanju. However even Sinanju has its limitations. I would recommend you dispatch a pilot to spirit them from this land lest the passage of time embolden this Eblan rabble once more."
Smith began typing orders into his computer. They were routed to an American aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean.
"You must make certain that our aircraft havo clearance at Akkadad airport," he said as he typed.
"I will safeguard it," Chiun assured him.
Smith completed his work. "A flight crew will be there in twenty minutes," he said. "You may depart with them."
"There is something I must yet do," Chiun said.
"I would not linger long, Master Chiun. The Mideast is threatening to explode. I fear there might be nothing left that any one man can do to prevent a major conflict."
Chiun's reply was strangely enigmatic, made all the more so by the bad connection.
"Unless it is the right man," answered Chiun. Before Smith could ask his meaning, the line went dead.
Chapter 37
Remo barreled the jeep as far through the thick lines of Ebla Arab Army soldiers as he could.
Bodies bounced off the grille, rolling across the hood and dropping behind the speeding car.
The gunfire directed at him from the small army was fierce, much of it inadvertently striking fellow Arabs.
Bullets ripped into the engine. More tore away at the tires. Through it all, Remo kept his head down. When the tires were shredded and the engine began smoking and chugging its dying gasps, Remo popped the door and dived from the slowing vehicle. He struck the asphalt with his shoulder, rolling beneath the shadowed belly of a parked Eblan tank. The car continued on without him. Fire erupted from beneath the hood as the soldiers continued shooting at the out-of-control jeep.
No one had seen Remo leap from the car. As the soldiers concentrated on the empty vehicle, he slipped past their lines, ducking around the high white wall that surrounded Taurus Studios. He made a beeline for the executive offices.
Upstairs in the office complex, Remo was irked to find that Assola al Khobar wasn't in the office of Bindle and Marmelstein. Since it had such a commanding view of the entire Taurus compound, he had hoped the terrorist might be conducting his final business from here. He was ready to leave when he sensed a feeble heartbeat coming from behind one of the office desks.
Hurrying over, Remo found Hank Bindle lying against the wall. A deep maroon stain of coagulating blood moistened the shoulder of his sport shirt. Remo crouched down beside the studio cochair, helping him into a more comfortable position.
"Did al Khobar do this?" Remo asked gently. Bindle's eyes rolled open. They dropped over to Remo.
"No," he responded, voice terribly weak. "It was Mr. Koala."
Remo shook his head impatiently. "Where is he?"
"I don't know," Bindle said. He swallowed once, hard. "He made a lot of noise in the bathroom. Then he left."
There was something not quite right. Bindle's heartbeat was weak, but not thready. Scanning his prone form, Remo could find no other wounds on his body. And the one he had didn't appear life threatening. It was almost as if...
"You faker," Remo snarled suddenly. "You're as healthy as a horse."
He dropped Hank Bindle. The executive's head clunked loudly against the wall.
"I've been shot," Bindle pouted.
"And I've been annoyed by you for the last time."
Leaving Bindle on the floor, Remo stepped across the room, sticking his head inside the bathroom. He was surprised by what he found.
A pile of scraggly hair lay on the floor around the vanity. More clogged the drain and stood in stark contrast to the white porcelain of the sink. Remo saw a hair jammed razor lying beside the sink.
Near the toilet was a small pile of clothes. Remo recognized them as al Khobar's. Something lay underneath them. Stepping into the bathroom, Remo pulled the object out from under the laundry.
It was a garment bag.
As he puzzled over the crinkling bag, he remembered seeing it before. He also remembered seeing the material hanging from the bottom of it as the terrorist's aide carried it inside. In a flash everything suddenly made complete sense.
Remo hurried out into the office.
"Help me," Hank Bindle groaned, reaching a bloody hand toward Remo's retreating form. His voice was stronger now that he had to call to Remo. Remo continued on without turning.
"I'm dying," Bindle insisted.
"Not soon enough for me," Remo said. He ran out the door.
Chapter 38
Sultan Omay sin-Khalam was dead. That was the only explanation for the remarkable cessation of pain.
He was alert. More awake than he had been in months. The great veil of suffocating Death had been lifted from him.
Omay opened his eyes expecting to see the face of Allah. Dasht-i-la-siwa-Hu. "The desert wherein was none save He."
He found to his great surprise that Allah bore a striking resemblance to a terror he remembered experiencing in hallucinatory shadow during his last hours on Earth.
"Allah, is this really you?" Sultan Omay asked. The face of the vision hovering above him grew severe.
"I am not your god, Eblan cur," the Master of Sinanju replied tartly.
Only then did Omay feel the hand manipulating his spine. This was why his pain had fled. He had heard of the healing powers of the legendary Sinanju Masters.
Omay sank back into the pillows of his own bed, in his own room, in his quarters in the Great Sultan's Palace.
"You revive me to kill me?" Omay asked. His voice was strong now. As it once had been.
"Yes," Chiun replied. "For you have one final duty to perform."
Omay smiled. It was his most sincere smile in years.
"Do as you will, assassin," he said. "For it does not matter. What you have seen is only surface. I will live long after your hand delivers the final blow." There was a strong smugness in his tone. He grinned triumphantly.
"You refer to your Great Plan?" Chiun spit.
The smile vanished from Omay's face. "What do you know of it?" he demanded.
"Only that it has already failed," Chiun answered.
He was lying. The Great Plan could not have failed. It wasn't set to be implemented until the moment of his death. To ensure that it would come to pass, Omay had placed his most trusted ally in the government of Ebla, Finance Minister Mundhir Fadil Hamza, in charge of the scheme.
A bluff. That was what this was.
The bluff became reality in the next moment as another face appeared at Omay's bedside. It was that of Minister Hamza himself. He appeared to be deeply shaken.
"O great Sultan," Hamza wept, "all is lost."
"What do you mean?" Omay demanded.
"The money-your money, Ebla's money-it is all gone."
"Gone? Gone where?"
Hamza was crying openly. "To the hated West, Sultan. To the wound that bleeds money. It has gone to Hollywood."
As the words sunk into the mind of Sultan Omay, Chiun chased the finance minister from the room. Omay could not comprehend what Hamza was saying. There was far too much money for it to have been spent. His personal finances, as well as much that was tied into the government of Ebla itself, was going to be dispersed among radical fundamentalist groups upon his death. Ebla would become a benefactor to global terrorism on a scale unseen in the history of the world. In death Omay's Great Plan would bring about the bloody change he had not achieved in life. But now he was being told that that dream was over.
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