He was given no more time to question.
Even as his mind tried to absorb the crushing defeat, he felt his body being lifted from his bed. His hand still manipulating the nerves in the sultan's lower spine, Chiun carried Omay across the large room to a spot just inside the Plexiglasenclosed balcony. He set the Eblan ruler on the floor of the Fishbowl.
From where he stood, Omay could see the edge of a large crowd gathered in Rebellion Square below. From the small portion he was able to see, there were many more packed into the vast area than had been present for the nation's independence celebration a few weeks ago.
The Master of Sinanju stayed behind him, hidden by the thick curtains.
"What is this?" Omay demanded of Chiun.
"It is your moment of atonement," the old Korean whispered. And with that he released the spot on Omay's lumbar region.
The sultan felt the life drain from him. As he hunched in on himself, he felt a strong hand between his shoulder blades. A shove from Chiun propelled him onto the balcony.
For support Omay had to grab the old railing that ran inside the bulletproof glass. He struggled to remain upright as the people below cheered and then grew silent. Even from this distance the gathered Eblans could see that their leader was gravely ill. They longed to hear the parting words of this great man.
Omay could barely stand. The urge to vomit was strong. Having gone without it for a few blessed moments, he found that the pain was far more intense than he remembered it.
How could he have withstood such agony for so long?
As he stood, reeling, a voice boomed out around him. It echoed across the square below. Thousands of upturned faces waited eagerly for what would surely be the final words of the man who had led them into battle against Israel, against the West. The great Omay sin-Khalam.
The voice-though amplified by speakers-sounded weak. It was almost not recognizable as that of their sultan. But its pronunciation of Eblan Arabic was flawless.
"My countrymen," the frail voice of Sultan Omay intoned, "I denounce my actions against Israel. I beg forgiveness from the United States for my behavior. I was once a man of peace. I wish to be remembered as such and not as the vicious savage I became of late. I can only say that illness has blinded me. Weakness has ravaged my mind."
In the booth Omay wanted to scream.
His head was bowed. He appeared penitent. Only the sultan himself knew that he was too weak to lift his face to the crowd, too weak to show them that it was not he who addressed them.
"Remember me well." He paused. When he spoke again, his frail voice sounded lighter. Almost as if it were slightly amused. "May Allah bless America," the sultan said to his shocked subjects.
These last words appeared to get a rise out of Omay. The citizens who watched in astonishment from below saw their sultan's head shoot up. His eyes were open wide. And as ten thousand upturned faces watched, Sultan Omay sin-Khalam flung himself at the glass wall of his balcony.
The supposedly impenetrable shield of the Fishbowl, which in the past had blocked bullets, cracked and split. Sections exploded out across Rebellion Square, showering the crowd in chunks of thick Plexiglas. And through the new-formed hole popped the frail form of Sultan Omay. Without so much as a peep, he plunged three stories to the square below. An angry cry went up from the crowd
And over the course of the next hour, as the desert sun splashed orange fire on the once proud, now doomed nation, ten thousand trampling feet stomped to dust the wasted corpse of the man who dared invoke the name of Allah in the same breath as that of the American devil.
Chapter 39
The first shots in the battle to retake Burbank began as Remo Williams was driving across the Taurus lot in Hank Bindle's Mercedes. Shells fired from U.S. Army tanks blasted huge sections out of the high white walls around the studio. Remo was pelted with bits of shattered brick as he tore back out through the gate.
This time the Eblan soldiers paid little attention to him. They were too busy engaging the American troops swarming up the road toward them.
Remo weaved in and out of Eblan tanks and camels, emerging on the other side of the Arab line. He kept his head down as he swept into the thick of U.S. troops.
Steering through the American soldiers and equipment, Remo found someone shouting orders. Whoever he was, the man had a lot of stars on his shoulders.
Remo screeched to a stop next to him. He waved a laminated card that identified him as CIA. "There's a bomb-squad cop named Connell in Hollywood," Remo shouted over the weapons fire. "Get him up here fast. And if I were you, I wouldn't shoot too close to any of the buildings. Kevin Costner's had smaller bombs."
Remo floored the car. He raced down the street away from the deafening battle.
ASSOLA AL KHOBAR LEFT his jeep near the weather station and hiked the rest of the way through the scrub brush.
Graffiti coated the towering object behind him. No matter how many times it was repainted, the graffiti artists returned. One symbol of American decadence defacing another symbol of American decadence.
He looked down with satisfaction over the valley below.
It was a good view. Not perfect. But good.
He could see the battle raging at Taurus Studios. Small explosions ripped the air. Echoes of sound reached his ears several long seconds after the blasts.
Of course, he had planned this escape all along. He had no intention of being a martyr for Islam. That glory was always left for his partners of the moment-be they Eblans, Palestinians, Afghans or whoever. As always he would orchestrate his acts of terror and then move on.
His face ached. Assola rubbed at one cheek.
It was not only the nail wounds in his lip that bothered him. He was suffering razor burn on top of everything else. The thought was oddly amusing.
Assola had to force himself to stop grinning, lest he pop the small bandages he had placed over his wounds. There was less cotton packed inside his mouth now. A mouth stuffed full might have attracted undue attention during his escape.
The plan had worked. As he knew it would. Dressed in an American Army uniform and driving in a bogus Army jeep, he had driven easily through their advancing lines. The Ebla Arab Army would act as his cover while he slipped away.
The San Fernando Valley spread out flat and wide on the other side of the hill. He would hike down to it. Another change of clothes stored in his jeep would bring him anonymity. America was a melting pot, after all. He would flee the country before it was even known he was gone.
But he still had one last duty to perform.
Al Khobar pulled the remote-control device from his pocket. He would have preferred an oldfashioned plunger. But even the great Assola al Khobar had to bow to the times.
He tugged on the long silver retractable antenna. It had an effective range of eight miles. More than enough.
One signal would bounce off another, increasing the range. And all the way from Burbank to Culver City with Hollywood in between, the motion-picture capital of the United States would be engulfed in a single, beautiful, hellish conflagration.
And he was perfectly positioned to witness it all. He flipped the cap on the switch with his thumb. His finger poised over the button, moving slowly downward.
"Is this the right line for Frasier tickets?"
The voice came from the direction of his jeep. He spun toward the sloping path.
Remo was mounting the hill.
Al Khobar's expression grew shocked. There was still distance between them. The terrorist kept the remote box shielded behind his body.
"How did you find me?" al Khobar snarled.
"Easy," Remo said with a smile. "I just had to think like a delusional asshole. What do you know-here you are."
Below Assola, Remo realized he was still too far away. He had a pebble hidden in the palm of his hand that he intended to use against the remote. But he couldn't throw it as long as the box was hidden. He could always kill al Khobar, but there was more risk in that. He
couldn't afford to have the terrorist's body drop the wrong way.
Al Khobar seemed to sense Remo's quandary. He hesitated for a moment. But only for a moment. Using his body as a shield, the Saudi terrorist stabbed his finger at the button on the small remote control.
His entire body tensed as he waited for the valley to be engulfed in flame. Perhaps if the blast was big enough, he could escape in the confusion.
Assola soon found that the only confusion was in his own battered face.
Nothing happened.
As he looked out across the American film capital he found that the only explosions were those still centered around Taurus Studios. Even these seemed to be dying down.
Down the hill Remo Williams let out a tense sigh of relief. "Thank God for the LAPD," he said. He dropped the pebble and began moving more quickly up the slope.
Al Khobar backed away. As the remote control slipped from his sweating palm, he bumped into something solid. Looking up, he saw the huge, graffiti-covered billboard. When he looked back down, he saw that Remo was closer.
Assola's back stiffened. "I demand to stand trial for any crimes I am alleged to have committed," he announced.
Remo was nearly upon him. "Crimes shmimes," Remo dismissed. "This is Hollywood, babe. You're about to wind up on the cutting-room floor." He reached for the terrorist.
Al Khobar had always thought that when the end finally came he could at least prepare himself for the pain. He found, however, that anything he might have considered to be pain in his life paled in comparison to that single, final moment of pure, horrific, intense, seemingly limitless agony.
He wanted to run, wanted to scream, wanted to weep in torment. He found that he could do none of these things. He could only stand there and accept the ghastly torture. And in less time than it took for his mind to process the final burst of raw pain, it was over.
Remo dropped the remains of Assola al Khobar to the ground.
"Another Tinseltown story ends in heartache," he said with a grim smile.
Leaving the body at the bottom of the huge H in the famous Hollywood sign, Remo hiked back down to his waiting car.
Chapter 40
One week after the last shot had been fired in Burbank, Remo was on the phone with Harold W. Smith.
"Chiun's performance was the perfect calmative for the situation in Ebla," the CURE director was saying. "There is such internal confusion that even Omay's actions against Israel are being brought into question. Fundamentalists have backed away from him. There is no danger of a cult of personality forming around his legend."
Remo was sitting cross-legged on the floor in his living room. "Chiun mentioned something about some doomsday plan of Omay's," he said.
"Yes," Smith replied. "He had set up a system by which, after his death, his own personal assets would be funneled to various groups in the region."
"A sort of Carnegie Foundation for terrorists," Remo said dryly.
"In a sense," Smith said. "But that is impossible now."
"Why?" Remo asked.
"There is no money left for dispersal."
"Where did it go?"
Smith cleared his throat. "Apparently it was spent." He spoke quickly. "The result has been catastrophic to the economy of Ebla. Their currency has collapsed. The nation is bankrupt. Stronger surrounding countries are threatening to absorb the Eblan sultanate into their own borders."
"How could one guy's missing bank account do all that?"
"It is slightly more than the sultan's personal assets at stake. His properties were tied in tightly with those of the nation." Remo could almost see the satisfied expression on his employer's face. "You do not understand, Remo," Smith explained. "Ebla is a small country. Unlike other nations in the region, it does not have any oil properties to speak of, nor is it a popular tourist attraction. The entire gross domestic product of the nation totals only 3.3 billion dollars annually. That and more has been spent."
"Which gets back to my original question," Remo said. "Who spent it?"
"As far as I can tell, the bulk of the three billion was dispersed in a three-day period by Taurus Studios."
"Taurus spent three billion in three days?"
"So it would seem," Smith replied. "To call their method of accounting sloppy would be a compliment. But Taurus siphoned off enough raw wealth from Ebla to drain the sultan's accounts and topple the economy."
Remo shook his head in astonishment. "I can't believe Bindle and Marmelstein actually saved the Mideast from falling into anarchy."
"They will never know the part they played," Smith admitted.
"Good thing, too," Remo said. "They'd be demanding the movie rights from everybody and his mullah."
"Concerning the two cochairmen of Taurus," Smith continued. "You might be interested to know that they are recovering from their respective illnesses and injuries. I even read a report saying they planned to make an even bigger film than the one Omay had allegedly wanted to make."
"Wait a minute," Remo said. "They're still in business?"
"Taurus was purchased back from the Eblan sultanate by the Nishitsu Corporation before the economy collapsed."
"Aren't they the ones who owned it before?"
"Yes," Smith said. "It is not an uncommon practice in Hollywood. And as far as normalcy is concerned there, the Army has left. The California National Guard is preparing to pull out, as well."
"Before they go, I wish they'd line up everyone with a script in their hand and shoot them."
Remo heard the front door burst open. Chiun's excited footfalls hurried down the hallway toward him.
"Almost everyone," Remo amended. "If there's nothing else, I'll see you, Smitty." He hung up the phone.
A moment later the Master of Sinanju bounded into the room. Chiun could barely contain himself. His wrinkled face was flushed with joy. He jumped up and down inside the door, his kimono skirts parachuting out around his bony ankles.
"Oh, joy of joys! Oh, dream of dreams!" he trilled.
Remo turned away from the phone. "What's got you so animated?" he asked.
Chiun waved a sheet of paper above his head. "A missive!" he announced. "One containing news of such happy import that the very clouds sing for joy."
As the old Korean flapped the paper over his head, Remo glimpsed a familiar symbol at the top border. "Oh, no," Remo said softly.
Chiun beamed. He pulled the paper from the air, clutching it to his chest.
"Jealous?" the Master of Sinanju asked, his voice oozing smugness.
"That isn't what I think it is," Remo said levelly.
"I am going to be a star!" Chiun announced. Without another word to Remo he danced back out into the hallway.
"Oh, no," Remo muttered again. It couldn't be. They couldn't be that stupid.
He thought of Bindle and Marmelstein. "Oh, no," Remo repeated.
"Mr. DeMille, I am ready for my close-up," Chiun's voice called back.
His delighted singsong faded in the distance.
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Warren Murphy, The Final Reel td-116
The Final Reel td-116 Page 23
