"Three hundred million," he said indifferently. The words hung like silver snowflakes in the chilly air.
Mr. Koala had obviously misspoken. That was the only explanation. Bindle's and Marmelstein's eyes were flat.
"Excuse me?" they said in unison.
"The budget is three hundred million dollars. The sultan wishes an epic. Something that will be remembered long after he has gone the way of mortal men."
"Three hundred million? Does that include advertising?" Marmelstein asked.
"Would it ordinarily?" al Khobar asked.
"Not really," Marmelstein said, glancing at Bindle. "Production cost is first. Advertising comes after."
"Then it is production," al Khobar confirmed.
"I've got to get this in the trade papers," Bruce Marmelstein insisted. "This is huge. This is colossal. This is the biggest movie ever made." His voice rose to what was almost a girlish squeal with each breathless word.
Hank Bindle was thinking about what this would mean to his career. This was beyond Titanic proportions. For the moment he forget the fact that he would be working with a novice director-screenwriter-producer.
"This is bigger than big," Bindle said to Marmelstein. He shook his head numbly as he tried to envision ways to skim money from the production into his personal bank account.
"It will be the biggest thing in the history of this city," al Khobar promised.
As he turned, the smile returned. Again there was something beyond it. Something sinister. Something almost movie executive about it.
Bruce Marmelstein cleared his throat.
"Hey, would you like me to hook you up with my dentist?" he offered to the Arab's retreating back. "We can work it into production costs." He was thinking of those teeth on Entertainment Tonight. Marmelstein shivered at the thought.
Al Khobar wasn't listening. He was already across the office. Without so much as a goodbye, he was gone.
"Probably sensitive about them," Hank Bindle suggested.
"Wouldn't you be?" Bruce Marmelstein asked.
"Perish the thought," Hank Bindle replied.
Ian suddenly buzzed in on the intercom. He was sorry to report that Oscar Schindler was dead. "Talk to his estate," Hank Bindle commanded. "Maybe he left another list lying around."
Chapter 5
Remo took an early-morning flight west, arriving at Los Angeles International Airport just before noon. Renting a car at LAX, he took the San Diego Freeway north to west L.A. Santa Monica Boulevard deposited him into the heart of Hollywood.
He had been to the motion-picture capital of the world a few times in the past, and each successive time he was less impressed than the last. A rather remarkable feat, considering he'd hated it the first time he was there.
Asking directions from a pedestrian, Remo learned that Taurus Studios was located in Burbank. The man was sitting on a bench reading a copy of Variety. The headline boasted a revival at Taurus. The Bull Is Back! it proclaimed in letters more appropriate to the signing of an armistice or a political assassination. In smaller print it trumpeted the studio's new three-hundred-million-dollar motion picture.
Remo left the man to his paper and drove farther north.
Taurus Studios was located on several acres of prime real estate near Hollywood-Burbank Airport.
A single, virtually unbroken wall surrounded the entire complex. Remo recognized it as the same wall that was in the videotape he had viewed the day before.
He headed for the main Victory Boulevard entrance.
Even before he had driven up to the front gate, Remo could smell the powerful aroma of mustard and barley wafting over the wall. He was surprised to see dozens of men in long white robes wandering in and out of the small pedestrian gate beside the guard shack.
Remo drove his rented car up to the small speed bump at the main vehicle entrance. A red-faced guard in his late fifties leaned out of the shack.
"Name and business," he said in a bored voice. Remo showed the guard a badge that identified him as Remo Gates, a lieutenant with the LAPD. The guard studied the ID for a moment. "Is there a problem, Officer?" he asked, handing the laminated card back.
"We got a call downtown that someone was molesting a camel," Remo answered, matching the guard's uninterested tone.
The guard glanced at some of the men wandering back and forth on the other side of the shack. They looked like extras from Lawrence of Arabia.
"I'm not surprised," the older man said with a disapproving grunt.
He raised the gate, allowing Remo inside.
Remo parked his car in the first visitor's space he found. Leaving the vehicle, he wandered on foot into the spacious studio lots.
He soon learned why the guard had been so willing to accept his story. A long line of shaggy brown camels turned dull eyes on him as he walked up the palm-bordered sidewalk to the main office building. The animals were tethered by long ropes to otherwise empty bicycle racks that were bolted to the pavement.
Farther away-unseen by Remo-he could hear the distinct sounds of horses whinnying. The scent in the air told him that there were at least as many horses as camels.
The lot in front of the Taurus executive office building looked like an unlikely village for lost bedouin. Men decked out in full Arab garb squatted next to fires set in metal wastebaskets. They were cooking and eating and shouting to one another in a tongue Remo did not recognize.
There were camels here, as well. The large animals were scattered among the milling crowd, chewing languidly and spitting frequently. Remo dodged a sloppy dollop of camel saliva as he stepped through the front door of the three-story office building.
There was a commotion going on at the main reception area. A group of four Arabs was fanned out before the desk of the perky young receptionist. One of them muttered something in the same language Remo had heard outside. It was obviously an obscene comment, for the other three laughed among themselves, leering at the girl as they did so.
The woman had no place to go. She was visibly nervous, but seemed somewhat accustomed to the abuse. She was clearly unprepared for what came next. As the door swung silently behind Remo, one of the burly men reached out and grabbed a firm white breast.
The woman screamed.
Her reaction seemed to provoke them even more. The four men pushed toward her, teeth bared, faces filled with lascivious glee. Her chair clunked against the wallboard behind her as she wheeled as far back as she could. It would never be far enough. As she screamed and cringed in horrible anticipation, a voice suddenly cut in from across the large airconditioned foyer.
"Excuse me, fellas," Remo said from behind the panting men.
He was pointing to their headgear as the men turned around. Their flushed faces were not pleased. "Studio security. Did you steal those towels from the commissary men's room?" Remo asked seriously.
As the burly men parted, the receptionist looked hopefully between them to the voice that was her salvation. When she saw that Remo was alone, her face fell.
"You are not with studio," one of the men demanded in choppy English when he saw no uniform on the intruder.
"Shh. I'm undercover," Remo whispered, a finger to his lips. "And it looks like you are, too. You stole those bedsheets from props, didn't you?"