"We love it," Bindle enthused.
"It's perfect," Marmelstein agreed.
"See if you love it, too," Bindle said. He raised his arms into the air, framing an invisible title between his outstretched hands. "The Movie." He intoned the words with the same reverence a priest used when referring to the Resurrection.
"The Movie," Marmelstein bubbled happily. "Forget 72 or ID4. We have TM. And the beauty part is that legal thinks by calling it TM we've already given trademark warning without labeling it. We can wait a few months for the uncopyrighted TM fire to really heat up in the hinterlands silkscreen market and then swoop in with massive lawsuits for trademark infringement."
"Plus it'll be the movie," Bindle said. "The greatest event in cinematic history. The movie to end all movies."
"And it's going to star Tom Roberts and Susan Saranrap," Bruce Marmelstein added with a hopeful grin.
"What's the matter?" Remo asked. "The entire A-, B- and C-list of actors crap out on you?"
Tom Roberts had had enough. "Who is this clown?" the actor demanded. He whipped off his glasses, as if in preparation for a fight.
Remo's attention had suddenly shifted beyond the small cluster of Hollywood types. He thought he spied a familiar face through a break between the two nearest bungalows. It was near one of the lines of camels in the adjacent lot.
"Hey, I'm talking to you," Tom Roberts insisted. He sent a pudgy, angry finger into Remo's chest. The finger never reached its target. The chest and the man it was attached to were no longer where they had been.
Roberts, as well as Bindle and Marmelstein, was completely baffled. It took them a moment to locate Remo. When they finally did, what they saw was only a fleeting glimpse of the thin young man as he slipped rapidly down the hedge-lined alley between the pair of adjoining bungalows.
Remo was closing in on the gaunt, bearded figure of Assola al Khobar.
And, unbeknownst to Remo, the action he intended to take threatened to trigger a disaster of explosive global ramifications.
Chapter 11
This is where I came in.
It was this thought that passed through Remo's mind as he moved swiftly between the neatly trimmed hedges toward the familiar shape of Assota al Khobar.
Remo had had it with these Hollywood wackos. Smith wanted Remo to find out from al Khobar what Sultan Omay's interest was in Taurus Studios. Once he'd wrung this information out of the terrorist, he could zap the wholesale murderer once and for all and get back to something resembling a normal life.
Al Khobar had not yet seen him. The swarthy man's back was to him as Remo approached. The terrorist was in deep, angry conversation with several of Bindle and Marmelstein's war-movie extras. He pointed out beyond the walls of the old MBM studio, waving his free hand in a circular motion above his head. He then swept a broad hand out across the rows of patiently waiting camels. Assola al Khobar looked almost like a general preparing to lead his troops into battle.
Remo broke through the narrow hedge alley between the matching bungalows. A bleached-out sidewalk opened onto the vast, camel-filled lot.
There were Arabs everywhere. One, it seemed, for every camel present. And a rough count put the camel total somewhere near three hundred. A lot of men.
This was too tricky. Remo didn't know who all these movie extras were, but it seemed unlikely that they were all from Ebla. More than likely they were local hirelings-possibly illegal Mexican immigrants-who had been dressed in Arab garb. But there were certainly real Arabs mixed in. If he dragged al Khobar off in front of them, there could be a major riot on the Taurus lot.
Moving swiftly, Remo made a snap decision. He wouldn't ask al Khobar about Omay. Let Smith and his computers figure out what the sultan was up to. Remo would simply kill the terrorist and make his escape quickly, before the crowd could work up a head of angry steam.
He was only a few feet away from his target now. There weren't many men in Assola's immediate vicinity. Not enough to start a riot.
Kill him and get out. A good plan. Given the circumstances, the best plan.
The parking lot was thick with the stench of manure. A camel snorted hotly as Remo passed by. Al Khobar was yelling in some strange Arabic tongue.
Turning all at once. Seeing Remo.
A look of confusion turned to one of suspicion. Too late-Remo was already there, his arm tucked back, coiled to fire forward.
Fingers curled, palm flat, Remo drove his hand out. The blow was flawless. It launched like a well-oiled piston toward the chest of the Arab terrorist.
A hair before the point of impact Remo's hypersensitive skin felt the brush of material from al Khobar's robe. A fraction later he sensed the familiar negative pressure from the displaced air around the body.
Next would come the familiar crack of bone as the lethal assault propelled thin white chunks of the Arab's splintered sternum back into his vital organs.
Remo had delivered the same blow countless times in the past. Always with the same result. Until now.
The air around al Khobar dispersed obediently before Remo's killing hand. The chest was as open as an Iowa cornfield-the bone ready, eager to explode. According to everything his body was screaming at him, the blow should have worked flawlessly.
But when it was through, nothing had happened. It was over. Done. Al Khobar was dead. He must be.
But the terrorist still stood before him. Alive and suspicious. Angry eyes darted from Remo to a point beside Remo's right shoulder.
Remo's face darkened in instant concern.
The blow had to have registered. It was impossible for it to have gone unnoticed.
And then Remo felt it. So perfectly had the pressure point been manipulated, he had not even been aware that the blow remained incomplete. His mind told him that Assola al Khobar was dead. But his eyes told him that he was alive...
And that his arm was locked in place a fraction of a millimeter before the Eblan terrorist's chest. Someone had expertly overridden the network of nerves that controlled his arm and shoulder. He realized with a sinking feeling that there was only one man on Earth adept enough to break through his body's defenses.
Al Khobar was forgotten.
Remo turned, already knowing what to expect. He found himself staring into a pair of familiar hazel eyes. They were not pleased.
"You are a long way from Detroit," the Master of Sinanju accused coldly.
Chapter 12
Harold Smith could not have been more relieved to hear Remo's voice on the other end of the line. "Remo, thank goodness. Was Chiun able to stop you in time?" Smith asked urgently.
"Yeah, he stopped me," Remo complained.
He was in Bindle and Marmelstein's Hollywood office. The room was undergoing major renovations. The walls and the ceiling had been torn down. Crates of furniture with exotic-sounding names were piled in the outer room.
Remo had chased the work crews out in order to get a little privacy for his phone call. The Master of Sinanju had abandoned Remo to talk to the studio executives.
"Thank God," Smith exhaled.
"But now he's not talking to me," Remo went on. "He's ticked that I sneaked out here without him. What's the rhubarb, Smitty? I was a hair away from pulling the plug on that creep."
"No," Smith stressed, the passion in his voice an unusual departure from his customary measured, nasal tone. "Under no circumstances are you to injure Assola al Khobar."