"Do not thank me, murderer of women and children," he said coldly. "Had my emperor not dispatched me here, my son would have done the world a much needed service."
"Your son?" Assola said doubtfully. He walked over, standing toe-to-toe with Remo. "You are a government agent of some sort?" he pressed, jutting out his scraggly beard.
"Actually I'm with William Morris," Remo said levelly. "We're going to have to redo those head shots of yours again. The film developers keep committing suicide."
The urge to strike out at the arrogant Saudi terrorist was almost overpowering. Remo clenched his jaw tightly as he stared into the eyes of the man whose acts of terror had cost countless innocent victims their lives.
Al Khobar's smile broadened. "Admit it. Do not admit it. It does not matter. There is nothing your nation can do to defeat our glorious plan."
"As a flag-waving jingoist, you'll find we can be pretty resourceful when we have to be," Remo said tightly.
Al Khobar didn't seem convinced. He wore the look of someone who had the winning hand and clearly knew it.
"Will you be so bold when your depraved land lies in ashes?" the millionaire terrorist smirked. Not waiting for a response, al Khobar wheeled so quickly his military boots made thick black scuffs on the pavement. Snapping his fingers, he marched into the nearest building. His aide followed dutifully, crinkling garment bag held carefully aloft.
As Assola al Khobar disappeared inside the Taurus office complex, Remo spied just a few inches of khaki material jutting from the bottom of the bag.
"He gets his fatigues dry-cleaned?" Remo grumbled. "And he says we're decadent."
When he turned to Chiun, he found the Master of Sinanju had begun to wander away with Hank Bindle. The wily Korean was discussing himself, his script and Barbra Streisand's hair. Not necessarily in that order.
As he stood there, a terrible feeling of aloneness engulfed Remo.
The movie people all around him were without a clue. The fate of the Middle East and possibly the world was hanging in the balance, and all they were worried about was losing the light.
"If ignorance is bliss, Hollywood's got to be the happiest place on earth," Remo muttered.
As yet another camel released the contents of its bladder, he wandered morosely away from the makeshift oasis, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his chinos.
Chapter 15
The wild celebrations in the streets of Akkadad put to shame any previous festivities. Even those of a few weeks ago commemorating Ebla's independence had not been so grand.
Men screamed in exultation. Gunfire ripped the air in bursts of frenzied jubilation. Day and night, torches burned from metal braziers around the Great Sultan's Palace. Their glow silhouetted revelers into misshapen shadows across the high walls of the Eblan seat of power.
The potshots that had pocked palace parapets from time to time over the past decade and a half were no more.
The West had been brought to its knees. America-desecrator of the Arabian Peninsula-was impotent, helpless to strike at the loftiest seat of righteous Arab power.
By the grace of Allah, the heart of Ebla's sultan had been returned to them. And with its return the people of Ebla had been whipped into a fever of jihad-inspired enthusiasm.
Sultan Omay watched his subjects from the Fishbowl.
The bulletproof glass was still firmly in place. The twin threats of American assassination and his own people's joyful, reckless aim kept it there. He had come too far to be stopped now.
The excitement of the past two days had taken its toll on the ailing sultan. Sleeplessness and fatigue seemed to have aged him another twenty years. More and more he was beginning to resemble the mummies of his ancient Eblan ancestors, found years before in ruins near modern Tel Mardikh in Syria.
The sultan's white-knuckled hands gripped the railing of his veranda for support as he thought of his forebears.
Those had been the glory days of the Eblan empire. Back then Ebla knew real strength. When they were alive, those mummies had presided over an empire both rich and powerful. Sultan Omay had inherited none of that ancient greatness. His was a kingdom of goat-herds and nomads.
The puny pools of oil that had been discovered in the desert outside of Telk Madsad had given him his great fortune. But those wells were long dry. A grand metaphor for Ebla itself.
Childless, the sultanate would end with him. Lately his prime minister and some other officials had been suggesting he establish free elections. Distant relatives of the sultan had been looking to ascend to the throne. There was even a push among the people to install an ayatollah as leader and create a fundamentalist Islamic republic.
He was not even dead, and they were already circling, snatching out with grabbing claws, eager to pick his parched, tired bones.
Let them.
It was all over anyway. They just didn't know it yet.
Ebla was destined to sink into the desert dust. But he would give them cause to celebrate first. Their ancient nation would rise again, if only as a dying gesture.
And Sultan Omay still had an ace up his sleeve. Something no one yet knew about. Not even the Saudi, Assola al Khobar, so proud of the millions he had spent in support of his fatwa.
The Great Plan...
The glass-enclosed box was hot. Sunlight beat down upon him. Omay felt light-headed in the intense heat.
Still much work to do.
Turning, he stepped from the balcony. He had the shuffle of a nursing-home patient.
How mocking a thing Death was. His mind was as sharp as it had ever been, yet his body was failing him. Much faster now, it seemed, than before.
Omay walked carefully out into the hallway. He took his private elevator downstairs. An Ebla Arab Army colonel was waiting for the doors to open.
"They are ready, Sultan," the colonel announced with a crisp, British-style salute.
Sultan Omay nodded. He continued walking in the same unhurried pace as before. The colonel fell in beside him.
"Have they been told why they are here?"
"No, Sultan."
Omay allowed himself a wicked smile. Around his eyes the waxy skin bunched into tangled knots. When they reached a set of doors at the end of the corridor, the colonel stepped abruptly ahead of the sultan.
Another soldier was there. Each military man grabbed a door handle. Standing at attention, they pulled their respective doors open wide. The leader of Ebla shambled slowly between them. Alone.
The room into which he stepped was large and ornate. Rich tapestries hung from walls. Banners in the traditional reds of Ebla's ruler stretched from high arches.
Huge, brilliantly lit crystal chandeliers stretched down from the ceiling's center beam. And beneath them sat hundreds of reporters from nations all around the world.
All were men. The sultan had forbade female reporters from attending. At the appearance of the sickly monarch the reporters clamored to their feet. Flashes from cameras popped from around the periphery of the crowd. Videocameras whirred endless spools of tape.
In the wake of the kidnappings, the international press had descended like a swarm of biblical locusts on Akkadad, but had been denied access to the palace since the start of the crisis. As a result the hunger for any scrap of information had grown exponentially with each passing hour. When it was announced by the palace that the sultan had finally consented to be interviewed, the thunder from the feet of a thousand stampeding reporters rattled windows as far away as Baghdad.