Posing for his own private film, the terrorist remained proudly defiant as the big tank rumbled down the desolate freeway. His jaw of scraggly beard pointed forward as the helicopter roared past in the opposite direction.
News at six and eleven. Probably right now assuming the live coverage was continuing.
Al Khobar's heart thrilled at the notoriety.
So many of his adult acts had been in secret. Always skulking, always hiding. But this. This was what he'd truly longed for from the start. Fame.
Like so many before him, al Khobar had come to Hollywood to become famous. But unlike nearly all of them, Assola al Khobar had succeeded. He prayed to Allah that his construction-worker father was watching.
Part of him felt like Charlemagne, Caesar and Alexander the Great. The rest felt more like Mel Gibson, Cary Grant and his beloved Omar Sharif.
Assola al Khobar was receiving more press coverage than O. J. Simpson during his infamous freeway escape attempt. And he was reveling in every minute of it.
Far down the line the news helicopter banked left. Cutting away from the tank, it soared out over the wide abyss below the elevated portion of freeway.
From the rear of the column, a few randomly fired bullets suddenly rattled toward the aircraft. They clattered against the side of the helicopter.
Al Khobar was instantly horrified.
Hearing the noise, he twisted in place atop the lead tank, dropping his foot down onto the inside ladder.
The aircraft had responded to the attack by pulling far away from the rolling line of tanks. Al Khobar caught sight of it as it swooped back toward the clustered pack of hovering helicopters and moved into position behind the rest.
All of the choppers seemed to respond the same way to the gunfire. Noses lifting, they pulled farther away.
"No!" al Khobar shouted up to the helicopters. He waved to them in a beckoning fashion. "Come back! It is safe!"
They weren't listening. All at once the wounded chopper broke away from the pack to head back in the direction of Los Angeles. A thin trail of trickling black smoke followed it.
Furious, al Khobar twisted in place. He looked directly at the men atop the two side-by-side tanks behind his own.
"I have told you before, you sons of desert dogs!" he screamed. "For Allah's sake, no shooting at the press!"
The nearest Eblans nodded dumb understanding. The order was barked down the line of military vehicles.
But the damage was already done. The helicopters remained at a cautious distance. There would be no more close-ups of him grandly posing for the six-o'clock news.
Glumly Assola al Khobar settled back into the open turret lid of his desert tank.
Unmolested, the tanks rattled onward down the deserted California freeway.
Chapter 18
Even after all that had taken place over the past few days, the more recalcitrant members of the United States press corps were still willing to give Sultan Omay sin-Khalam the benefit of the doubt. Before the press conference, that is.
"After all, Cokie," said Stan Ronaldman on a special prime-time edition of his Sunday-morning show, "his only real crime is hating the United States and who, after all, can blame him for that?"
But any lingering notions of goodwill dissolved two minutes into Omay's press conference.
The erstwhile Great Peacemaker had developed an instant and irrecoverable reputation the moment the first shot was fired at Helena Eckert's aide. The subsequent shots, coupled with the look of demonic possession in the eyes of Sultan Omay, had made it impossible for the international press to label him anything more charitable than "mentally unbalanced."
In America in the immediate wake of the televised murder, Ebla-hating became a national pastime. The practical effect of the young diplomat's death, Ebla's military build-up along Israel's border and the occupation of Hollywood was a call for action like none seen since the bombing of Pearl Harbor. They were lining up at armed-forces recruitment offices around the United States. The military was turning applicants away.
A cottage industry of anti-Eblan T-shirts, mugs, caps, key chains and bumper stickers had sprung up overnight. Sales figures were staggering.
It was the furor created during the Iranian hostage crisis of the late 1970s, multiplied by a factor of twenty.
The passion of patriotism rose like a national tide every time the parade of Eblan soldiers passed along the by-now-familiar stretch of the Hollywood Freeway.
Every two-hour tour by the U.S. contingent of the Ebla Arab Army brought the rest of the civilian population of the nation closer to invading the state themselves. White House spin masters were out in force trying to explain to the nation why this was not the best course of action. It was a tough sell.
Sitting in his Hollywood hotel, Remo Williams shared the frustration of his fellow Americans. Smith had insisted he wait, and so he would. But like the rest of the nation, he didn't know how long he could sit on his thumbs before he finally snapped. He had barely moved from the same spot on the floor all afternoon. His deep-set eyes were glued to the flickering images on the TV screen. The column of tanks had just taken an off-ramp near the Hollywood Bowl.
Threatening to collapse the raised structure, the huge tanks rumbled down the ramp in single file. Thick treads chewed pavement.
They'd return again two hours later. Like clockwork.
And Remo would still be sitting here. Waiting. As he watched the last of the tanks roll down the ramp, Remo's supersensitive ears detected a familiar confident glide coming from the hallway. His eyes were flat when a moment later the frail form of the Master of Sinanju passed into the room.
As he closed the door, the old Korean noted the television.
"They are not playing that same program again?" Chiun complained dully.
"It isn't a show and you know it," Remo said from the floor. A cup of tepid tea sat near his knees.
"Not one worth watching repeatedly-that much is certain," Chiun said. He nodded to al Khobar's tank. "Now, if the brilliant Rowan Atkinson was in that first vehicle, perhaps steering it with his feet, then you would have a program that might bear repeated viewings."
Remo wasn't in the mood. "Cram it, Little Father," he growled. "These bastards have invaded America, and you've got nothing better to do than traipse around Hollywood like the freaking Korean Dorothy Parker."
The look of frustration on his pupil's face was great. The Master of Sinanju paused in the middle of the room. Looking to the image on television, he nodded somberly.
"Let it not be said that the Master of Sinanju does not feel empathy," he intoned gravely.
"Yeah, right," Remo snorted.
But the old man's face was suddenly shadowed with deep understanding. "Remember, Remo, Korea has been conquered many times in the past. The Japanese and Chinese always thought the rice was whiter across our fair borders. But even though invading armies came and went, Sinanju was never affected."
"So what are you saying, we should just wait them out and everything'll be hunky-dory?" Remo asked dubiously.
Chiun's happy mood blossomed full once more. "Empathy does not mean that I actually care," he lilted. "Is the tea water still hot?"
Not waiting for a response, he stepped placidly over to the hotel room's small kitchenette.
"Yeah? Well you should be more concerned," Remo called, annoyed, after him. "If this turns out to be Uncle Sam's last birthday, the two of us will be lining up at the Sinanju soup kitchen."
"There are other ways to make a living," Chiun replied mysteriously.