"I thought you were already doing that," Remo said, peeved.
"We tell that to everybody." Marmelstein waved dismissively, rising from the back seat. He was alert now, his eyes full of cunning.
"To everybody," Bindle echoed.
"But we'll really look at his screenplay," Marmelstein promised.
"Really, really," Bindle agreed.
Remo's shoulders slumped. He knew without owning a timepiece precisely what time it was. His internal watch was more accurate than an atomic clock. It was not yet too late.
Omay's plan was finished. They now had an edge. Remo knew exactly what he was up against in California. And Chiun would not have even arrived in Greece yet, let alone Ebla. There was still time.
"You better appreciate this, Chiun," he muttered. Without another word he ran down the path toward the monkey house.
Chapter 30
When the order came down the chain of command at Pearl Harbor that Captain Stewart Sanger's U.S. Navy F-14 Tomcat was to be stripped of its 20mm M-61 cannon and attendant rounds of ammunition, as well as the four recessed Sidewinder missiles in its wing pallets, Sanger thought that it was a bizarre joke. When he found out that he would be flying into Israel in his newly unarmed aircraft, the joke that had not been very funny to begin with lost every last trace of humor.
"That's a damn war zone," he sputtered to his commanding officer.
"I'm aware of that, Captain. Good luck."
That was it. His load had been lightened. Speed was his only priority. He had his orders and he was expected to carry them out.
When the black government car screeched onto the dock next to the aircraft carrier USS Ronald Reagan carrying the special passenger for whom speed was a priority over defense, the idea that this was all a joke reasserted itself.
"Are you shittin' me?" Captain Sanger asked no one in particular.
The man who was hustled up the gangplank was old enough to be Methuselah's grandfather. Hell, his great-great-grandfather. The walnut-hued skin stretched across his bald head was so thin that Captain Sanger swore he could see skull. His eyes were impenetrable slits. He wore a bright purple kimono and an unhappy scowl. The old man hurried up to the waiting F-14.
"You are the pilot?" the old man asked in a squeaky voice.
"Yes, sir," Sanger replied, not sure whether or not he should smile at the G-men who accompanied the old Asian. They seemed as confused as the Navy captain.
"I will consider you for a role in an upcoming major motion picture if you get me to our destination and back as quickly as possible," the old man said.
Without another word he scampered up the plane and settled into the rear cockpit. The government agents merely shook their heads apologetically.
Amazed once more that this was not indeed some colossal joke, Captain Sanger climbed dutifully if reluctantly up into the front cockpit.
NEARLY NINE THOUSAND MILES and three midair refuelings later, the Tomcat roared out of the sky over Israel.
Sanger was aware of the hands-off order that had been given to all U.S. military personnel in the region. America was giving Israel a wide berth during the conflict with Ebla. He was surprised, therefore, when his U.S. Navy aircraft was given clearance to land at Tel Aviv's Ben-Gurion International Airport. Whoever his passenger was, he had friends in high places.
The plane had not taxied to a full stop before the old Asian popped the shield over his cockpit. As the tiny man was climbing out of the plane, Captain Sanger called to him over his shoulder.
"Sir, if you'll beg pardon, does this have something to do with the conflict?"
"Of course," the old man replied. He did not sound pleased. "As all good screenwriters know, conflict drives every story. Be ready for my return."
And with that the old man jumped to the tarmac. The last Captain Sanger saw of him, he was loping across the airport toward the main terminal, kimono arms flapping like the wings on some insane purple bird.
ARYEH SARID WAS DOZING behind the wheel of his taxicab outside the Tel Aviv airport when he thought he heard the door behind him click shut. There hadn't been a shift in weight to indicate that anyone had even gotten in the car.
He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and glanced up in the rearview mirror.
There was no one there.
Imagination. That's what it must have been. Sighing, Aryeh crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes once again. He nearly jumped out of his skin when a high-pitched voice admonished him from the back seat.
"I did not mount this conveyance to watch you sleep."
Eyes springing open in shock, Aryeh grabbed at the rearview, shifting it lower.
He caught sight of the old man sitting calmly in the middle of the back seat.
"I am so sorry," Aryeh apologized, clearing the sleep from his throat. "I did not see you."
"When one wishes to see, it helps to keep one's eyes open." The fare settled back in the seat. "Now, coachman, take me to Golan," he ordered.
"Golan?" Aryeh said, surprised. He turned around, placing an arm on the back of the front seat. "Do you not know what is happening there, old one?"
"Yes," Chiun spit. "Idiocy that keeps me from my true calling. And woe to me I have left my son in charge." The Asian tapped a finger on the seat. "Hasten, lest in my absence the callow mooncalf ruins all that I have worked for."
Aryeh shrugged apologetically. "I am sorry, but I cannot take you there. The farthest I can go is perhaps Tiberias. It is south of the Golan Heights."
"Oh, very well," the Master of Sinanju snapped. "Just be quick about it. I must kill Sultan Omay of Ebla and return to Hollywood before my son allows the buffoons who run my studio to cast one of the insipid Sheen offspring in my production. Or worse, a Baldwin." He pitched his voice low, leaning forward. "Those boys are box-office poison." He sat back knowingly in his seat.
The cabdriver's eyes narrowed. "You are going to kill Omay?"
"If this infernal machine ever moves," Chiun said with growing impatience.
Aryeh started the engine.
"For that I would drive you all the way to Akkadad."
Tires leaving a smoking trail of rubber, the car squealed away from the curb.
THEY DIDN'T GET as far as Akkadad. The cab did, however, manage to travel a good distance up around the northern edge of Lake Tiberias. It was stopped by a military blockade manned by members of the Israel Defense Force.
"Don't you know what is going on up here?" a young soldier asked of Aryeh when the cab had stopped.
"Of course," the driver said. "But I was taking this nice gentleman on a special mission. He is a famous screenwriter who also works as an assassin. He is here to kill Sultan Omay."
The soldier raised a skeptical eyebrow. Together with another Defense Force soldier, he went to the rear of the cab. When they looked in the windows on either side of the back seat, they found it empty.