The sheared section of cannon dropped leadenly onto the front end of the tank, rolling forward before plunging to the ground. It struck with a heavy, hollow clank.
As quickly as they had taken hold, the pressure of Chiun's guiding hands left Zambur's own. The Arab stood alone, holding his scimitar before the Eblan tank. The blunt end of the cannon aimed out over the street. The huge amputated section lay unmoving on the blacktop.
He turned, his long face wrapped in a mask of amazement. Chiun stood before him once more. His hands no longer resided in his sleeves.
"You like blades, old one," Chiun said. Any trace of humor had left his eyes. "I have seen your fearsome Eblan weapons. Let me introduce you to those of Sinanju."
And Chiun's razor-sharp fingernails lashed out toward the lumbering Arab. Zambur had no time to react.
The Arab felt a tug at his throat. The sensation was sickly familiar. The vibrations through his giant's body were the same ones he'd felt when his father's sword struck the now severed section of cannon.
Zambur instinctively grabbed at the wound he knew the old Asian's nails had inflicted on his throat.
When his big hands bumped his stubbled chin, he was surprised to see the world turn weirdly upside down. A brief sensation of falling was followed by a sudden, jarring stop.
Zambur saw feet. They were very, very large. And in the flitting ghost that was his final, lucid thought, he wondered if his feet looked so big to others. Then he died.
WHEN REMO CAME TROTTING up to Chiun a moment later, his eyes strayed to Zambur's decapitated head resting between the giant Eblan's ankles. The body itself was still upright where it had fallen against the front of the tank. A fountain of red bubbled from the open neck.
"I hope that wasn't the Taurus script reader," Remo commented dryly.
"For your sake it had better not be," Chiun warned.
As they spoke, the hatch clacked shut atop the tank. Remo glanced up. He heard the lid being sealed from inside.
"Oh, great," he groused. "These things are harder to open than prescription bottles. Wanna give me a hand?"
"No," Chiun said impatiently. "But since you have already dragged me out here in defiance of Smith's orders..."
Hiking up his kimono skirts, he and Remo moved toward the last tank. They were distracted by a sudden gunshot from the street behind them.
Remo spun in the direction from which he'd come.
Frank Hanlon had roused himself from his alcoholic slumber. More than that, the former LAPD cop had found some bullets in the pocket of his hunting vest.
"Oh, cripes," Remo muttered when he saw that Hanlon was using his newly loaded gun against the band of eight Eblan soldiers that had just ridden around the corner on camelback.
Luckily for Frank Hanlon, the great jostling the Arabs were enduring on the backs of the desert creatures made it impossible to aim and ride simultaneously. Their return fire was wildly erratic.
And as they struggled to draw a bead, Hanlon landed a million-to-one shot. He picked one of the men off.
The soldier tumbled from the hump of his mount. His foot was still wrapped in the leather reins, and his camel immediately began dragging him down the posh Beverly Hills street.
The other Eblans screamed madly and continued on.
All of the activity in the street had not gone unnoticed. Sensing the start of belated revolution, people had already begun venturing outside before the arrival of the latest soldiers.
As the camels rode by the first crippled tank, a pedestrian emboldened by the sight of the shattered military vehicle raced out from the door of Remo's hotel. While Remo and Chiun watched from farther down the street, the man took to the hood of a parked Bentley, bounding to the roof. With a leap and a yell, he flew through the air, connecting solidly with a passing Arab soldier. Both Eblan and American plummeted from camel to street.
Bloodied yet victorious, the man tore the AK-47 from the Arab's grasping hands, promptly turning it on its owner. As the first bullet-riddled Eblan body fell, he turned the weapon on the rest. Two more were knocked from their camels in the first sweep of the gun.
More bystanders raced to collect the weapons of the dead.
Gunfire echoed off the buildings as the remaining four Eblan cavalrymen attempted to flee the scene. They didn't make it more than a few yards before being mowed down.
Cheering Americans rolled out into the streets as the final soldier tumbled from his camel.
The floodgates were open. A small, joyful riot began to break out in downtown Beverly Hills.
And above it all, Remo heard the approaching rotor noise of one of L.A.'s many news helicopters. The chopper broke into view above the hotel, settling like a fat hummingbird into a noisy hover above the pandemonium.
"Remember who wished to remain in our hotel room," Chiun pointed out over the din. The wisps of hair above his ears blew crazily in the downdraft. "Let's just get this over with," Remo shouted, peeved. He made a move toward the tank.
By this time the crew inside the armored vehicle had gotten their bearings. They'd already loaded a shell into the breech before setting out on the freeway.
With no warning they fired. The explosion was deafening.
Remo and Chiun sensed the imminent explosion a microsecond before it took place. They were out of the way and had covered their ears the instant before the shell exploded from the blunted cannon barrel.
The missile didn't go far. It exploded in the street a few dozen yards away, creating an instant crater of orange flame and black smoke. Two parked cars blew up onto their sides on the sidewalk. Chunks of tar and dirt rained down all around. People screamed.
The Beverly Hills street had rapidly devolved into a Beirut slum.
Pandemonium breaking out all around, Remo turned slowly to the Master of Sinanju. "I hope Smith isn't too narrow in his definition of 'provocative,'" he said tiredly.
Using the acrid smoke for cover, he turned and mounted the tank, careful to keep his face directed away from the hovering TV news helicopter.
Chapter 20
Thick clusters of taped wires ran from soundstage 2 to soundstage 3 on the old MBM studios lot. They disappeared inside the cavernous black interior beyond the partially opened soundstage doors. Arabs in long, flowing robes could be seen working furtively inside the dimly lit interiors of the buildings as Bruce Marmelstein walked across the lot from the executive offices.
It wasn't the first time he'd seen this same scene. Since arriving in town as liaison to Sultan Omay, Mr. Koala had been encouraging Marmelstein to rent all available space from every studio in town for Taurus's epic motion picture. The wires and Arab workmen invariably showed up after the stages had been rented.
Even after the Arab takeover of Hollywood, Mr. Koala had continued to insist on renting space. The other studios were even more willing to deal now than they had been before, considering the double threat of zero film production and an armed incursion on their lots if they refused. Right now Taurus had crews on every major studio lot in the greater Los Angeles area.
Marmelstein found al Khobar exiting soundstage 4. Both men had to step over bundles of wires as they walked toward each other.
"I've been meaning to ask you, Mr. Koala, what is all this stuff?" Bruce Marmelstein asked once they'd met up.
Assola al Khobar appeared annoyed even to be addressed.
"It is for the film," the terrorist replied tersely. Marmelstein frowned. He'd been in the movie business ever since he'd stopped teasing Barbra Streisand's hair eighteen years ago and he had never seen anything remotely like this ganglia of wires before. However he didn't wish to appear ignorant. "Oh, yeah," said Bruce Marrnelstein nodding confidently. "Movie stuff. By the by, there's a phone call for you." He pointed back to the office complex. "I think it might be the sultan." Without even a word of thanks, al Khobar began striding toward the building. Bruce Marmelstein hurried to keep pace.
"He's not into his finances too much, is he?"
Al Khobar's eyes were dead ahead. When he spoke, he didn't even look at the studio executive. "What do you mean?"