"I just got a weird phone call, Smith," the President said in the hoarse rasp that was familiar to all Americans. "She sounded real worked up, so I figured I better call you."
It was as Smith suspected. The CURE director sighed, too weary even for anger. There had been far too many such phone calls from the White House in the past few months.
"Mr. President, your woes with the female staff of the White House are your political concern. I cannot make it any clearer than I have already, so I repeat -I will dismantle this agency before I allow you to subvert it."
"Not that," the president groused, tone laced with bitterness. "Believe me, I know where you stand. I've got members of both parties nipping at my heels thanks to you."
Smith resisted the urge to tell the President that he had no one to blame but himself for his current predicament. Given the man's tendency to ascribe blame everywhere but in his own backyard, it was only natural that he would accuse Smith of being the cause of his own self-destructive behavior.
"You know anything about this Ebla place?" the President asked.
Smith's spine stiffened at the mention of the Middle Eastern country. "What of it?" he asked.
"First off where the hell is it? I got lawyers up the yin-yang here, but no one who knows diddly about geometry."
"Geography, " Smith corrected.
"That the one with the maps?"
"Yes, Mr. President," Smith said impatiently. "And Ebla is neighbor to Israel. Is there a problem there?"
"About ten minutes ago I got a call from the secretary of state. The old bird sounded real upset. Said that she and her entire entourage had been taken hostage by Ebla."
Smith's gray face was stunned. "What?" he gasped.
"I thought she was kidding at first. I know she's been pretty ticked at me since I made her and the rest of the cabinet vouch for me last January. I figured it was payback. But it's true. She was badly shaken up. Said that the Eblan army had her surrounded in the Great Sultan's Palace in Akkadad."
"A coup?" Smith said. Already he had returned to his computers. A quick scan turned up nothing. He could find not one word yet on the abduction.
"No," the President said. "He made that crystal clear."
"She," Smith corrected as he typed. "And surely it was not the government. Perhaps an angry terrorist faction."
"You don't understand, Smith," the President explained. "The 'he' who made it clear was Omay. The sultan himself got on the phone after the secretary of state."
Smith's arthritic fingers froze over his keyboard. "You are certain?"
"As certain as a special prosecutor with a bug up his butt," the President replied sarcastically.
"Did the sultan sound as if he was under duress?"
"No way. No one put him up to it, if that's what you mean," the President said. "He sounded pretty happy when he issued his demands."
The welling fear of what was to come seemed to hollow Smith from within. His shoulders slumped as he sank slowly back into his cracked leather chair.
"Demands?" he asked, voice drained of all inflection.
The President took a deep breath. "He wants complete Israeli disengagement from Gaza, the West Bank and the Golan Heights, as well as an immediate stop to all American funds earmarked for Israel. He also demanded a stop to-" He paused. "Wait a minute, I had to write this one down." There was a rattle of paper. "This is quoting, now. 'A stop to the U.S. global dispersal of poisons from America's cultural capital.' His words exactly."
Smith's mind was reeling. He held on to the smooth black edge of his desk for support. "Cultural poisons?" Smith said. "I do not understand."
"He had me on that one," the President admitted. "I finally pinned him down. The guy means movies."
Smith's mouth went dry as a sack of bleached flour left out in the desert sun. His thoughts instantly turned to the sultan's recent acquisition of Taurus Studios.
"Hollywood," Smith croaked.
"What was that?" the President asked.
"Hollywood, Mr. President," Smith stressed. "To anyone abroad Hollywood is America's cultural capital."
"Abroad?" the President rasped. "It's the same here at home. Where have you been for the last century, Smith?"
Smith thought of precisely where he had been-if not for the entire century, at least for a good chunk of it. Tethered to his desk. Like a convict with a life sentence.
"What has he threatened if his demands are not met?" the CURE director asked weakly.
"He informed me that he'll execute the secretary of state and her entourage publicly, as well as destroy America's cultural capital, if we don't agree within two days."
"Forty-eight hours," Smith said aridly.
"As an aside, I'm a little worried about this whole 'destroy Hollywood' thing," the President admitted, for the first time sounding genuinely concerned. "I've got a couple of standing job offers out there when I finally leave office."
Smith wasn't listening. His brain was already clearing. The CURE director was sorting through the information he'd been given, trying to make sense of it.
"By 'America's cultural capital,' he means Hollywood," Smith reasoned slowly. "It is safe to assume he would not make a threat against it if he did not believe he already had the means to carry through on such a threat."
"He also warned me that he'd retaliate against any aggressive actions we might take," the President offered.
The life drained from Smith's face. "Oh, my God," he said, his voice a wheezing whisper.
"What?"
"You remember the terrorist Assola al Khobar?" Smith stated quickly. "The man responsible for the embassy bombings in East Africa last year?"
"Remember," the President scoffed. "How could I forget? He was a godsend in the middle of all that intern junk last summer. A perfect distraction, and the military and CIA guys had to go and drop the ball. It's all their fault. We spent a hundred million trying to blow the bejesus out of him, and he didn't even have the decency to turn up dead."
"Al Khobar is in California," Smith blurted.
The President was shocked. "What?" he demanded.
"I sent our enforcement arm to neutralize him. I had hoped that his appearance in this country was unrelated to Ebla. We must assume, however, given these latest developments, that he is acting as an agent of Sultan Omay." Smith's analytical mind was calculating options. "If any ill were to befall al Khobar, it would likely be construed by Omay as an act of aggression," he said.
"Well, you've got to stop your man, Smith," the President insisted. "At least until we can get the secretary of state and her people out safely."
"I have no way of contacting him," Smith grudgingly admitted. "He contacts me when he is on assignment."