"Of course, fool."
"Of course," Marmelstein agreed. "Of course, of course."
They were almost at the building. Marmelstein took the plunge.
"Don't bring up his bank accounts, would you?" he blurted in a rush of words.
The terrorist was instantly suspicious. "Why?"
"This film of Hank's is, well, it's a tad over budget." Helpless hands rose quickly. "I've tried to talk him down, but he insists on realism. I know you said that's what the sultan wanted, too. He wanted the nitty-gritty of this whole invasion thing. Hank wants to give it to him."
They were at the doors to the building. Al Khobar flung them open, stepping inside. Marmelstein followed eagerly.
"The sultan does not want one of your ridiculous Hollywood films. You were told to make a documentary."
"It is, it is!" Marmelstein insisted. "It's just that Hank-not me, but Hank-wanted to dress it up a little."
"Dress it as you like," the terrorist snapped. "It matters not to me." His interests were clearly elsewhere. He pushed the third-floor button on the lobby elevator.
As they waited for the car, Bruce Marmelstein seemed greatly relieved.
"Not to me, either," he said. "But it does to Hank. And to the sultan, obviously. You promise him from me that The Movie is going to be the greatest movie ever made."
The elevator doors opened. Al Khobar stepped aboard, trailed by Bruce Marmelstein.
"Actually you'd better tell him that promise is from Hank," Marmelstein said after brief consideration. He shrugged. "I mean, no sense putting my ass in the sling if Hank's a shitty director."
The silver doors slid silently shut.
THEIR HOLLYWOOD OFFICE WAS only the poor cousin to Bindle and Marmelstein's regular digs at the main Taurus Studios complex back in Burbank. Still, the room was in its third metamorphosis in less than thirty hours.
They had gone halfway through the whole Caligula thing with marble walls and spurting fountains when Hank Bindle had decided he was allergic to marble. The room had been hastily gutted and redone in a Louis XIV motif.
Bruce Marmelstein had been shocked to find out that Louis XIV meant a sort of sissy, old European design. The offices of the greatest makers of testosterone-fueled movies in cinema history looked like his grandma's house.
The big room was undergoing its third change now. It was all very gleaming, very high-tech. All blacks and silvers and glass. Bindle and Marmelstein had yet to notice that the stuff going into the Hollywood office was the same exact stuff that had originally been taken out of their Burbank office. The builders and designers were charging Taurus quadruple their regular rate to rearrange the furniture. When he stepped through the door, Assola al Khobar immediately chased Hank Bindle and the decorators from the office. Stepping across the crinkling tarps that had been spread across the floor, the terrorist grabbed the phone from Bindle's desk. Fumbling with the thin wire, he finally managed to wrap it around his head.
"Mr. Koala," he announced, instantly embarrassed to have used the name the idiots Bindle and Marmelstein had inadvertently given him.
The long bout of coughing that preceded a voice on the other end of the line told him that he was indeed speaking with Sultan Omay sin-Khalam.
"Assola, is the plan in danger?" the sultan wheezed once he had regained control of himself.
"Danger?" al Khobar asked, surprised. "No, it is not in danger. Everything is going as expected. Why?"
Omay forced strength into his frail voice. In spite of the attempt he sounded terribly weak.
"There is street fighting in progress," the sultan insisted. "This have I seen on CNN."
The terrorist's expression steeled.
"I have not heard of this," al Khobar said levelly.
"How could you not know?" Omay accused. "Two of my glorious Ebla Arab Army tanks have been destroyed by the Americans. More than a dozen of my brave Eblan soldiers lay dead in the street, murdered by a bloodthirsty mob."
"This mob," al Khobar asked worriedly. "You are certain it is not the United States Army?"
"No. They wore the garb of everyday infidels." Al Khobar was visibly relieved.
"This was not completely unexpected," the terrorist said. "You will remember in one of our earliest discussions I mentioned the likelihood of such an eventuality. My experiences in Afghanistan taught me this."
"No," Omay coughed. "No, you have lost control." The sultan's ragged voice was harsh. "I entrusted a Saudi and not an Eblan to do this most important work, and you have lost control."
"I have not, Omay sin-Khalam, I assure you. The insurrection will be dealt with." Al Khobar considered. "It would help greatly if you were to demonstrate the force of our will on one of the remaining hostages."
As the terrorist had expected, this suggestion had an instant mollifying effect on the sultan.
"As a gesture of Ebla's displeasure?" the ruler asked craftily.
"Absolutely," al Khobar replied.
The leader of Ebla considered for only a moment. "It will be as you suggest, Assola," Omay said, the lust for blood evident in his aged voice. "You believe this will quell any further violence?"
"I do," al Khobar asserted. "Provided you make it clear that this is the reason for the execution."
"I will," Omay said, coughing lightly. He was warming to the idea of being on television once more. "Did you know, Assola, that the first execution brought attention from around the world?"
"It was a glorious sight."
"Yes," Omay said proudly. "The ratings were quite high. I have never had such an audience." He was thinking wistfully of his glory days as the Great Peacemaker. Back then his every move had been international news. But this was much better. Not only did he not have to shake hands with Jews, but now there was also blood involved. "And how is your other work proceeding?" the sultan asked.
Al Khobar's voice became vague. "All is well," he said. He spoke no more.
"The timetable you established is in place here," Omay coughed, "Are you ready to set-?"
"Everything is under control here, Omay sin-Khalam," Assola al Khobar said quickly. "Long live your sultanate. Together let us wipe the stain of Western influence from the Muslim world. May Allah smile always on you and on Ebla, the flower of the desert."
And lest the old imbecile give away any more information over an open line, he broke the connection.
"Fool," al Khobar spit as he dropped the phone's wire headset to the paint-spattered tarpaulin atop Hank Bindle's desk.
He knew what Omay had been about to ask. And the answer was yes. Everything was nearly in place. He thought of the plan he had helped craft, a plan that was about to come to glorious fruition. It was a scheme fiendish in design and breathtaking in execution. An act of terrorism that would make the East African bombings he had engineered last year look like wet Chinese fireworks.
It was a plan from which America would never recover.
In spite of his agitation at Sultan Omay, Assola al Khobar smiled a row of black-and-brown teeth at the empty office.