"Is there something you two want?" Bindle asked.
"Tell my doubting son what it is you are doing," Chiun said to the executive.
"I'm trying to direct an epic motion picture, but all I'm getting is bad light and a fountain of camel piss."
Remo looked over at the mock desert scene. No camels were relieving themselves at the moment. The men stood around impatiently, waiting to resume shooting.
Remo squinted up at the man on camelback. The eyes above the black veil looked vaguely familiar. By this point the man on the camel had had enough.
"Are we gonna try this again sometime this week?" the biting voice of Tom Roberts asked from behind the veil. "I'm sweating my hump off up here."
"No, Tom, luv," Bindle said with a sigh. "Take five."
Unctuous assistants appeared out of nowhere to assist the actor down from the camel's massive furry hump. Whipping off his veil, Roberts stormed off to his trailer.
Remo turned to Bindle. "Do you actually think you're making a movie?" he asked, amazed.
"Not just any movie," Bindle said. "This is the greatest story ever told." He kicked his kneeling assistant away.
"Wasn't that the life of Christ?" Remo asked blandly.
"Who?" Hank Bindle asked. He continued before Remo could reply. "We've got the financing to make an epic. And while this minor unpleasantness is going on around town, we're the only studio up and running."
"By 'minor unpleasantness,' I assume you mean the foreign invasion," Remo said dryly.
"Hey, one man's invasion is another man's opportunity."
"Spoken like a true collaborator," Remo told him.
"Listen, we've got a lock. No one else is producing jack-shit around here. If the Arabs can hold on to Hollywood long enough, Taurus will be the only studio with a film out next summer, aside from a few rinky-dink indie productions. But who cares about them? I'm talking major motion pictures. We're it."
"Bindle, there was never a movie," Remo explained slowly. "It was just a cover."
"What are you talking about? This is the movie," Bindle said excitedly. He waved his arm expansively to include all of Hollywood. "There's drama, action, a background love story. Plus we've got stuntmen and extras who'll work for nothing." He indicated the real Arabs who were milling about the phony desert with their camels.
"You're filming the occupation?" Remo said in disbelief.
"Isn't it great?" Bindle asked with a thrilled shudder. "Sultan Omay has given his blessing. I think he wants it as some sort of vanity project, but who cares. We'll ship off a print to him and then send four thousand copies around the rest of the country. Four? Hell, eight. Eighteen. It'll be the only thing playing."
The studio executive had a demented look in his eyes as he calculated the number of screens his movie would be appearing on around the country. It was almost too mind-boggling to consider.
"What of my film?" Chiun interjected.
Bindle blinked away his distracted expression. "What?" he asked. "Oh, that. Well, your pitch made it sound pretty good," he admitted. "But I've got to admit I'm a little skeptical. No offense, Pops, but it doesn't look like you've exactly got your finger on the pulse of the average American moviegoer. Hell, it doesn't even look like you've got much of a pulse of your own."
That was it. Bindle was as good as dead. Chiun would never accept a personal insult. Particularly one directed at age. Remo waited contentedly for the Master of Sinanju to decapitate the Taurus executive.
He was shocked by Chiun's response.
"What a delightful wit you possess," the old Korean said with a polite smile.
"You think so?" Hank Bindle asked.
"It is as insightful as it is unique," Chiun continued.
"You've got to be kidding," Remo griped.
"I am the funny one of the Bindle and Marmelstein team," Bindle confided to the Master of Sinanju. He glanced across the lot, making sure his longtime partner wasn't anywhere nearby. "Bruce doesn't have much of a sense of humor. I think it comes from his hairdresser days."
"He was a hairdresser?" Remo asked.
"Hairstylist, actually," Bindle said. "That's what he always called it. At least back in the days when we were allowed to mention it. He was the hairstylist to the stars."
"That certainly qualifies him to operate a major motion-picture studio," Remo said sarcastically.
"Do not belittle the profession of coiffeuse," the Master of Sinanju scolded Remo. "It is a valuable and noble service."
"Is there any damn thing you won't say to get that movie of yours made?" Remo demanded.
Chiun considered for a moment. "No," he admitted.
"Bruce worked on some of the biggest heads in town," Bindle continued, pitching his voice low. "In fact Barbra Streisand kept him on for years." Chiun's almond-shaped eyes grew wide.
Remo glanced worriedly at his teacher. He knew that the Master of Sinanju had harbored a secret crush for the actress-singer for years. But because of some alleged personal slight, the wily old Korean had turned his affections elsewhere a long time before. Remo could see by the look in his eyes that the Master of Sinanju had never truly lost his abiding affection for the celebrity.
A single bony wrist pressed against Chiun's parchment forehead. He reeled in place.
"Be still, my heart," he exclaimed. "Remo, prepare to catch me lest I faint."
"Get bent," Remo suggested, crossing his arms. Chiun didn't even hear him. The Barbra Streisand story was what did it. He was ready to sign with Bindle and Marmelstein-the only people he could trust to do justice to his screenplay. It didn't hurt that Taurus appeared to be the only game in town. "Here," Chiun sang. He had stashed his screenplay up one sleeve of his kimono. He pulled it out now, handing it over to the executive. "Take it, great Bindle. You are a man of refinement and artistry. Make magic of it."
Hank Bindle took the script. He immediately passed it off to the assistant with the urine-stained towel.
"We'll get back to you," he said.
"Of course. Tell me," Chiun asked, voice pitched low, "does your friend and colleague, Marmelstein the Fortunate, possess a lock of the Funny Girl's golden tresses?"
Bindle didn't have time to answer. They were distracted by the whine of a jeep engine.
It came from the direction of the main gate. In a decision surely intended to be the ultimate insult, the jeep had been painted in the drab green of the American Army. A sick joke on the part of the man inside.
Remo's eyes narrowed when he saw who was in the passenger's seat. His disgust was clearly visible when the jeep stopped a moment later and Assola al Khobar climbed out. Hurrying, the terrorist's driver reached into the back seat, recovering a long plastic garment bag.
The Arab's expression was superior behind his gnarl of facial hair. Pausing on his way to the main executive's building, the terrorist looked from Remo to Chiun. His face split into a wicked smile.
"I did not have a chance to thank you," al Khobar said to the Master of Sinanju, his tone condescending. He looked at Remo as he spoke. "I believe you saved my life."