The Final Reel

REMO STOOD in the vast second soundstage on the lot of the old MBM Studios complex in Hollywood. The Arabs had deserted the place. Indeed they seemed to be in a hurry to leave all of Hollywood. Even the Eblan tanks and men they'd passed in the street on their way to MBM had paid no heed to Remo's bogus group of Arabs. The true Eblans appeared to be migrating up to Burbank. Remo suspected he knew why.

The confusion of wires between buildings outside ran into the soundstage through the main door. Once inside, the wires separated. They then ran like thick spiderwebs across floors and up walls. Some were slung from the ceiling.

Spaced in perfectly measured intervals along the lengths of wire were large tin boxes. These had been secured to the walls or ceilings with screws. For good measure, plastique had been pressed like caulking in the narrow spaces around every metal case, fingermarks still visible in the malleable surface.

To Remo, who was by no means an explosives expert, it seemed like there was an awful lot to defuse.

The truckful of men with whom he'd driven onto the lot had already dispersed among the many buildings. Still dressed in their Arab garb, they worked diligently to separate wires from explosive charges. Remo watched several of them spread out throughout the vast garagelike area of soundstage 2.

Sergeant Connell was supervising the dismantling even while he worked on some of the floor devices. Behind him Remo glanced at the bombs slung along the ceiling. These had yet to be touched by bombsquad members.

"What do you think?" Remo asked the cop.

Connell shrugged. He snipped through a copper wire with a pair of sturdy cutters.

"We're talking an awful lot of raw explosives here," he said, frowning. It did not appear to disturb him very deeply that he was standing in the center of one gigantic bomb.

"How bad?" Remo asked seriously.

"When this goes off?" He waved a hand. "Bye-bye MBM. Along with everything in a two-block radius of the lot."

"When or if?" Remo asked.

Connell grinned tightly. "We'll do our best."

"Great," Remo murmured. "Good luck." He turned to go.

Connell called after him. "If it's any help, these things don't appear to be on any kind of timer or anything."

"What does that mean?" Remo asked, pausing at the door.

"It could mean that all these wires in each individual studio run together to a central spot on each lot. All of those separate sites would be radio controlled."

"Radio?" Remo asked.

"Yeah," Connell explained. "One signal would send them up all at once. If this is like you say it is, then all of Hollywood, Burbank, Culver City and probably a good-size chunk of the rest of L.A. County would go up in a single blast."

Remo glanced out the door. He saw some of Connell's men racing from building to building. "You haven't found a central spot on this lot," Remo said doubtfully.

Connell shrugged. "There's so much junk here it'll take a while to find it. But I've got people working on it. I already radioed my suspicion to the other teams at the other studios. Once one of us finds it, they'll call back to the other teams. The location is probably the same in each studio. We can just sever the wires at the radio control center. It should cancel out all of this-" he waved his wire cutters to the ceiling "-and we can dismantle the rest at our leisure."

Leisure. Remo thought it was an odd choice of words from a man sitting smack dab in the center of Assola al Khobar's ticking time bomb.

Before leaving, he wanted to say something inspiring or encouraging to the men working inside the soundstage. In the end he settled for two words of good advice.

"Work fast," Remo cautioned.

Spinning, he ran out into the hot California sun.

THE MASTER OF SINANJU DUMPED the unconscious form of Sultan Omay to the hot desert sand.

There were only a few men left in the base camp. Many of them didn't even have guns, since most of the weapons of the Ebla Arab Army had been sent to the front.

Those who were armed ran over to the wizened intruder as soon as he appeared at the periphery of the small camp. They seemed uncertain how to react, since the strange man who swept into their encampment had been bearing their sultan on his frail shoulders. When Chiun dropped Omay, however, their aggressive instincts took over.

AK-47s rose in instant menace. Men shouted in the Eblan Arab dialect.

Chiun barely paid them any heed. He was looking beyond the men at the field beside the small tent city. Vultures stepped between the staked-out bodies of the American diplomatic team.

The Master of Sinanju's eyes squinted to invisibility behind a death mask of pure rage. His mouth creased in fury.

"Barbarians," he hissed. His voice was low.

As the men stepped closer, weapons trained menacingly, Chiun's voice grew louder.

"Barbarians!" he shrieked.

Like a sudden, violent desert storm the Master of Sinanju exploded from a standing position, launching in full, fiery rage across the short space between himself and the hapless Eblan soldiers.

One foot tucked beneath the billowing robes of his kimono as the other lashed out. His heel swept across the jaws of the first three men. Three rapid cracks were followed by three crumpling bodies.

Chiun swirled across the remaining line of men. Chopping hands struck a half-dozen gun barrels in rapid succession. Six guns flipped downward with blinding speed, impacting solidly with groins. Hip bones crunched at the powerful force of the collision. A few bullets rattled harmlessly into the sand as dead fingers contracted on triggers.

Six more men fell to the dust.

For the remaining Eblan soldiers, it was a disgracefully short battle.

When they saw the results of Chiun's initial assault, the unarmed men within the camp threw up their hands in surrender. Those with guns flung them as far away as they could before thrusting their arms into the pale desert sky.

"Release them," Chiun commanded, aiming an imperious nail across the field of staked Americans. "And woe be the one who tells me that any are dead."

The Eblans ran into one another in their haste to release the hostages. Bonds were cut with daggers. Water was brought by the fearful men and poured into the parched mouths of the diplomatic team. The half-dead Americans had to be dragged into the shade of the Eblan army tents.

The remains of the second man murdered on television by Sultan Omay were beside the ruler's tent. Vultures hopped around the corpse, picking at strands of ragged red flesh.

Chiun bounded in between them, flapping the sleeves of his kimono windmill fashion. As the birds hastily took flight, Chiun kicked one of the unfortunate creatures in the belly. The awkward bundle soared out across the torture field, landing in a heap amid the scattering Eblan soldiers. It did not stir again.

This encouraged the Arabs to work faster.

In the end there were three more Americans dead. Including the secretary of state. Helena Eckert's sun-ravaged body was placed carefully at the sandaled feet of the Master of Sinanju.

"See to the injuries of those left alive," Chiun instructed, his voice so cold it seemed to chill the very desert air. "If one more dies, you will suffer a fate so great the lives of these will seem joyful." He indicated the unconscious American delegation.

There were a few military trucks left around the site. The Americans were carefully loaded inside. Per Chiun's order, the wasted body of the sultan of Ebla was loaded less delicately in the first truck. He continued to slumber in sick oblivion. The bodies of the four dead Americans were placed in with him.

Chiun singled out an Ebla Arab Army soldier. "You." Chiun pointed. "Eblan. Nakh that camel for the Master of Sinanju."

The man did as he was told. There was a makeshift corral of the animals away from the tents. He collected the camel Chiun had indicated and brought it to the front of the line of military trucks. Through forceful prodding he got the creature to kneel in the dust.

Chiun climbed atop the thickly furred hump. As if recognizing some unspoken sign, the animal rose back to its wide feet. The old Korean guided the creature's flaring nose north toward Akkadad.

"Follow or die," Chiun called back across the line of trucks.

The Eblan soldiers didn't need to be told a second time. As the vultures returned to pick the carcasses of the soldiers Chiun had slain, the caravan began to make its deliberate way out of the narrow Anatolia Corridor.

Chapter 35

Eblan soldiers swarmed around Taurus Studios, Burbank. There were so many of them jammed onto the many outdoor lots that they were running into one another as they raced to carry wires and boxes from container trucks to buildings.

Tanks had been set up beyond the tall white walls of the studio, establishing a perimeter. Troops had been withdrawn from the other areas the Eblan forces had controlled. They patrolled on foot and on camelback beyond the line of tanks.

This was the fortress from which the last, valiant battle would be fought.

Assola al Khobar screamed orders through a megaphone as he was driven around the studio complex. Men carrying explosives scattered from before the speeding jeep.

The Saudi terrorist had not had time to have the gashes in his lip sewn shut. He had covered the area with thickly folded gauze from the studio infirmary. Tightly pulled masking tape held the gauze in place. Blood-soaked cotton was jammed inside his mouth near the gum line.

The words he shouted as he was driven around the area were loud and nearly indecipherable. And panicked.

Since his base of operations had been at Taurus, al Khobar had been loath to hook up the explosives there. He had planned to do that after everything was set up elsewhere. Prior to the invasion of Israel.

But the precious timetable he had meticulously established had been completely disrupted by his abduction. The Americans wouldn't hold out much longer. Now that the battle had been joined in Israel, the invasion would come here at any moment.

He would have been ready. He should have been ready.

"Faster, faster, faster!" Assola shouted. The word became unintelligible as he sprayed blood-filled saliva onto the megaphone.

The men were already running. They tried hurrying faster as they hooked up the last of the explosives.

"Take me back to the offices," he ordered his driver.

They sped back across the lot to the office complex. Assola was surprised to find another car parked out front.

He climbed out of the jeep and hurried upstairs. The surprise he'd felt downstairs turned to amazement when he entered the office of the studio cochairmen.

Hank Bindle sat calmly behind his desk. The broken window had been replaced. He looked up from a script as al Khobar entered the office.

"Oh, Mr. Koala. I'm glad you're here. We've got to talk about this project of ours."

The terrorist merely stared at the executive. He let the door swing silently shut behind him.

"This isn't working out at all," Bindle said. "The production is falling apart. Now, I know you had your heart set on directing to begin with, and maybe I overstepped my bounds by taking over, but what's done is done. I think we should both know that it's time to call it quits." Bindle sniffled once softly. His eyes grew moist. "My beloved friend and partner, Bruce Marmelstein, suffered a heart attack because of all this. Stress, you know."

He paused, waiting for al Khobar to express the expected degree of sympathy.

When the Arab spoke, his voice was nearly a whisper. "What kind of fool are you, that you would dare show your face here?" al Khobar hissed through a mouth of gauze and cotton. His face was both angry and astonished. His words whistled through the new gaps in his teeth.

Bindle rolled his eyes. "Duh-uh. I'm cochairman of Taurus," he explained.

"You tried to have me killed." The terrorist took a step toward the producer. "You had me tortured." Another step. "You forced me to sign your foolish scraps of paper."

Hank Bindle sat up straighter in his chair. He gulped. "You know about that?" he asked sheepishly.

Al Khobar had had enough. Reaching inside his robes, he pulled loose a heavy automatic. Without preamble he raised the weapon and fired.

The explosion was like a sharp slap against the new plaster walls of the office. The bullet slammed Hank Bindle in the shoulder, toppling him backward from his new chair.

Al Khobar bounded around the desk. He found the executive lying half-propped against the wall beneath the window. His hand clutched the pulsing wound above his chest. Blood seeped from between his fingertips.

Assola pressed his face in close to Bindle's. The smell of blood mixed with that of bad breath and rotting teeth. He grabbed the executive by the front of his shirt, pulling him away from the wall.

"I am going to kill you," the terrorist breathed. His face was that of a twisted ghoul. "You are going to die along with every other piece of American filth in this wretched city. And when I read accounts of this in years to come, I am going to think of your pitiful face and laugh."

He slammed Bindle back against the wall. Leaving the Taurus cochairman where he lay, Assola al Khobar hurried into the office bathroom.

Bindle couldn't move. The pain in his shoulder was far too great. And his fear paralyzed him. He heard water running for several long minutes. After that he heard the sound of plastic rattling. It was not long after that he heard the sound of soft footfalls on the office carpet. Behind the desk he couldn't see a thing.

Bindle felt the change in air pressure as the door opened and then closed once more. Mr. Koala had left.

And left him to die.

Chapter 36

Harold Smith sat anxiously reading reports from out of both Israel and California.

There had been some progress in the Middle East. The Ebla Arab Army had been routed by the superior Israel Defense Forces. Three thousand Eblan soldiers had been killed in the Golan Heights battle. So far only three Israeli soldiers were reported as casualties.

Israel was rounding up another thirteen thousand Eblans into detainment camps. They would likely be returned to their native land after being cleaned and fed. A courtesy that doubtless would not have been extended to the enemy had the battle gone the other way.

Although this could all be taken as good news, Smith did not yet see Chiun's hand in any of the events taking place there. What's more, the war Ebla had started had ignited spot fires around other fundamentalist nations in the Mideast. Radical Muslims in half a dozen countries were gearing up for a major confrontation with Israel.

There were no reports concerning Sultan Omay. He might have perished in the battle. But from what Smith was reading, even if the sultan were dead already, his evil would thrive long after his body had turned to dust.

As far as California was concerned, there were reports of massive Ebla Arab Army troop movements. They appeared to be consolidating around a single area in Burbank.

The U.S. Army would be held off no longer. Presidential pollsters were finding the Chief Executive's indecision crippling to his numbers. Both Army and National Guard troops were about to invade.

Smith had gathered from his brief telephone conversation with Remo what Omay's plan for the entertainment industry had been all along. Since Remo had not yet checked in, Smith assumed that things in California were as unresolved as they were in Ebla.

Smith pulled his weary gaze away from the computer screen. As if this were some sort of reflexive signal, the blue contact phone on his desk jangled loudly.

The CURE director grabbed for the phone. "Hello," Smith said sharply.

"Greetings, O wise and benevolent Emperor Smith."

The voice of the Master of Sinanju crackled over the inferior Eblan line.

"Chiun," Smith asked urgently, "what is your situation?"

"I have delivered to freedom those whom the ruler of this vile land would imprison."

"The hostages?" Smith said. "They are all right?"

"Sadly, no," Chiun replied. "Some perished before I could liberate them. Their remains, as well as those still alive, are aboard the aircraft which did bear them here."

Smith thought of Akkadad airport in the heart of Ebla. "Are they safe?" he asked.

"They are guarded by the sultan's own men," Chiun replied. "And these would not dare turn a hand against their charges lest they face the awesome wrath of the Master of Sinanju. However even Sinanju has its limitations. I would recommend you dispatch a pilot to spirit them from this land lest the passage of time embolden this Eblan rabble once more."

Smith began typing orders into his computer. They were routed to an American aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean.

"You must make certain that our aircraft havo clearance at Akkadad airport," he said as he typed.

"I will safeguard it," Chiun assured him.

Smith completed his work. "A flight crew will be there in twenty minutes," he said. "You may depart with them."

"There is something I must yet do," Chiun said.

"I would not linger long, Master Chiun. The Mideast is threatening to explode. I fear there might be nothing left that any one man can do to prevent a major conflict."

Chiun's reply was strangely enigmatic, made all the more so by the bad connection.

"Unless it is the right man," answered Chiun. Before Smith could ask his meaning, the line went dead.

Chapter 37

Remo barreled the jeep as far through the thick lines of Ebla Arab Army soldiers as he could.

Bodies bounced off the grille, rolling across the hood and dropping behind the speeding car.

The gunfire directed at him from the small army was fierce, much of it inadvertently striking fellow Arabs.

Bullets ripped into the engine. More tore away at the tires. Through it all, Remo kept his head down. When the tires were shredded and the engine began smoking and chugging its dying gasps, Remo popped the door and dived from the slowing vehicle. He struck the asphalt with his shoulder, rolling beneath the shadowed belly of a parked Eblan tank. The car continued on without him. Fire erupted from beneath the hood as the soldiers continued shooting at the out-of-control jeep.

No one had seen Remo leap from the car. As the soldiers concentrated on the empty vehicle, he slipped past their lines, ducking around the high white wall that surrounded Taurus Studios. He made a beeline for the executive offices.

Upstairs in the office complex, Remo was irked to find that Assola al Khobar wasn't in the office of Bindle and Marmelstein. Since it had such a commanding view of the entire Taurus compound, he had hoped the terrorist might be conducting his final business from here. He was ready to leave when he sensed a feeble heartbeat coming from behind one of the office desks.

Hurrying over, Remo found Hank Bindle lying against the wall. A deep maroon stain of coagulating blood moistened the shoulder of his sport shirt. Remo crouched down beside the studio cochair, helping him into a more comfortable position.

"Did al Khobar do this?" Remo asked gently. Bindle's eyes rolled open. They dropped over to Remo.

"No," he responded, voice terribly weak. "It was Mr. Koala."

Remo shook his head impatiently. "Where is he?"

"I don't know," Bindle said. He swallowed once, hard. "He made a lot of noise in the bathroom. Then he left."

There was something not quite right. Bindle's heartbeat was weak, but not thready. Scanning his prone form, Remo could find no other wounds on his body. And the one he had didn't appear life threatening. It was almost as if...

"You faker," Remo snarled suddenly. "You're as healthy as a horse."

He dropped Hank Bindle. The executive's head clunked loudly against the wall.

"I've been shot," Bindle pouted.

"And I've been annoyed by you for the last time."

Leaving Bindle on the floor, Remo stepped across the room, sticking his head inside the bathroom. He was surprised by what he found.

A pile of scraggly hair lay on the floor around the vanity. More clogged the drain and stood in stark contrast to the white porcelain of the sink. Remo saw a hair jammed razor lying beside the sink.

Near the toilet was a small pile of clothes. Remo recognized them as al Khobar's. Something lay underneath them. Stepping into the bathroom, Remo pulled the object out from under the laundry.

It was a garment bag.

As he puzzled over the crinkling bag, he remembered seeing it before. He also remembered seeing the material hanging from the bottom of it as the terrorist's aide carried it inside. In a flash everything suddenly made complete sense.

Remo hurried out into the office.

"Help me," Hank Bindle groaned, reaching a bloody hand toward Remo's retreating form. His voice was stronger now that he had to call to Remo. Remo continued on without turning.

"I'm dying," Bindle insisted.

"Not soon enough for me," Remo said. He ran out the door.

Chapter 38

Sultan Omay sin-Khalam was dead. That was the only explanation for the remarkable cessation of pain.

He was alert. More awake than he had been in months. The great veil of suffocating Death had been lifted from him.

Omay opened his eyes expecting to see the face of Allah. Dasht-i-la-siwa-Hu. "The desert wherein was none save He."

He found to his great surprise that Allah bore a striking resemblance to a terror he remembered experiencing in hallucinatory shadow during his last hours on Earth.

"Allah, is this really you?" Sultan Omay asked. The face of the vision hovering above him grew severe.

"I am not your god, Eblan cur," the Master of Sinanju replied tartly.

Only then did Omay feel the hand manipulating his spine. This was why his pain had fled. He had heard of the healing powers of the legendary Sinanju Masters.

Omay sank back into the pillows of his own bed, in his own room, in his quarters in the Great Sultan's Palace.

"You revive me to kill me?" Omay asked. His voice was strong now. As it once had been.

"Yes," Chiun replied. "For you have one final duty to perform."

Omay smiled. It was his most sincere smile in years.

"Do as you will, assassin," he said. "For it does not matter. What you have seen is only surface. I will live long after your hand delivers the final blow." There was a strong smugness in his tone. He grinned triumphantly.

"You refer to your Great Plan?" Chiun spit.

The smile vanished from Omay's face. "What do you know of it?" he demanded.

"Only that it has already failed," Chiun answered.

He was lying. The Great Plan could not have failed. It wasn't set to be implemented until the moment of his death. To ensure that it would come to pass, Omay had placed his most trusted ally in the government of Ebla, Finance Minister Mundhir Fadil Hamza, in charge of the scheme.

A bluff. That was what this was.

The bluff became reality in the next moment as another face appeared at Omay's bedside. It was that of Minister Hamza himself. He appeared to be deeply shaken.

"O great Sultan," Hamza wept, "all is lost."

"What do you mean?" Omay demanded.

"The money-your money, Ebla's money-it is all gone."

"Gone? Gone where?"

Hamza was crying openly. "To the hated West, Sultan. To the wound that bleeds money. It has gone to Hollywood."

As the words sunk into the mind of Sultan Omay, Chiun chased the finance minister from the room. Omay could not comprehend what Hamza was saying. There was far too much money for it to have been spent. His personal finances, as well as much that was tied into the government of Ebla itself, was going to be dispersed among radical fundamentalist groups upon his death. Ebla would become a benefactor to global terrorism on a scale unseen in the history of the world. In death Omay's Great Plan would bring about the bloody change he had not achieved in life. But now he was being told that that dream was over.

He was given no more time to question.

Even as his mind tried to absorb the crushing defeat, he felt his body being lifted from his bed. His hand still manipulating the nerves in the sultan's lower spine, Chiun carried Omay across the large room to a spot just inside the Plexiglasenclosed balcony. He set the Eblan ruler on the floor of the Fishbowl.

From where he stood, Omay could see the edge of a large crowd gathered in Rebellion Square below. From the small portion he was able to see, there were many more packed into the vast area than had been present for the nation's independence celebration a few weeks ago.

The Master of Sinanju stayed behind him, hidden by the thick curtains.

"What is this?" Omay demanded of Chiun.

"It is your moment of atonement," the old Korean whispered. And with that he released the spot on Omay's lumbar region.

The sultan felt the life drain from him. As he hunched in on himself, he felt a strong hand between his shoulder blades. A shove from Chiun propelled him onto the balcony.

For support Omay had to grab the old railing that ran inside the bulletproof glass. He struggled to remain upright as the people below cheered and then grew silent. Even from this distance the gathered Eblans could see that their leader was gravely ill. They longed to hear the parting words of this great man.

Omay could barely stand. The urge to vomit was strong. Having gone without it for a few blessed moments, he found that the pain was far more intense than he remembered it.

How could he have withstood such agony for so long?

As he stood, reeling, a voice boomed out around him. It echoed across the square below. Thousands of upturned faces waited eagerly for what would surely be the final words of the man who had led them into battle against Israel, against the West. The great Omay sin-Khalam.

The voice-though amplified by speakers-sounded weak. It was almost not recognizable as that of their sultan. But its pronunciation of Eblan Arabic was flawless.

"My countrymen," the frail voice of Sultan Omay intoned, "I denounce my actions against Israel. I beg forgiveness from the United States for my behavior. I was once a man of peace. I wish to be remembered as such and not as the vicious savage I became of late. I can only say that illness has blinded me. Weakness has ravaged my mind."

In the booth Omay wanted to scream.

His head was bowed. He appeared penitent. Only the sultan himself knew that he was too weak to lift his face to the crowd, too weak to show them that it was not he who addressed them.

"Remember me well." He paused. When he spoke again, his frail voice sounded lighter. Almost as if it were slightly amused. "May Allah bless America," the sultan said to his shocked subjects.

These last words appeared to get a rise out of Omay. The citizens who watched in astonishment from below saw their sultan's head shoot up. His eyes were open wide. And as ten thousand upturned faces watched, Sultan Omay sin-Khalam flung himself at the glass wall of his balcony.

The supposedly impenetrable shield of the Fishbowl, which in the past had blocked bullets, cracked and split. Sections exploded out across Rebellion Square, showering the crowd in chunks of thick Plexiglas. And through the new-formed hole popped the frail form of Sultan Omay. Without so much as a peep, he plunged three stories to the square below. An angry cry went up from the crowd

And over the course of the next hour, as the desert sun splashed orange fire on the once proud, now doomed nation, ten thousand trampling feet stomped to dust the wasted corpse of the man who dared invoke the name of Allah in the same breath as that of the American devil.

Chapter 39

The first shots in the battle to retake Burbank began as Remo Williams was driving across the Taurus lot in Hank Bindle's Mercedes. Shells fired from U.S. Army tanks blasted huge sections out of the high white walls around the studio. Remo was pelted with bits of shattered brick as he tore back out through the gate.

This time the Eblan soldiers paid little attention to him. They were too busy engaging the American troops swarming up the road toward them.

Remo weaved in and out of Eblan tanks and camels, emerging on the other side of the Arab line. He kept his head down as he swept into the thick of U.S. troops.

Steering through the American soldiers and equipment, Remo found someone shouting orders. Whoever he was, the man had a lot of stars on his shoulders.

Remo screeched to a stop next to him. He waved a laminated card that identified him as CIA. "There's a bomb-squad cop named Connell in Hollywood," Remo shouted over the weapons fire. "Get him up here fast. And if I were you, I wouldn't shoot too close to any of the buildings. Kevin Costner's had smaller bombs."

Remo floored the car. He raced down the street away from the deafening battle.

ASSOLA AL KHOBAR LEFT his jeep near the weather station and hiked the rest of the way through the scrub brush.

Graffiti coated the towering object behind him. No matter how many times it was repainted, the graffiti artists returned. One symbol of American decadence defacing another symbol of American decadence.

He looked down with satisfaction over the valley below.

It was a good view. Not perfect. But good.

He could see the battle raging at Taurus Studios. Small explosions ripped the air. Echoes of sound reached his ears several long seconds after the blasts.

Of course, he had planned this escape all along. He had no intention of being a martyr for Islam. That glory was always left for his partners of the moment-be they Eblans, Palestinians, Afghans or whoever. As always he would orchestrate his acts of terror and then move on.

His face ached. Assola rubbed at one cheek.

It was not only the nail wounds in his lip that bothered him. He was suffering razor burn on top of everything else. The thought was oddly amusing.

Assola had to force himself to stop grinning, lest he pop the small bandages he had placed over his wounds. There was less cotton packed inside his mouth now. A mouth stuffed full might have attracted undue attention during his escape.

The plan had worked. As he knew it would. Dressed in an American Army uniform and driving in a bogus Army jeep, he had driven easily through their advancing lines. The Ebla Arab Army would act as his cover while he slipped away.

The San Fernando Valley spread out flat and wide on the other side of the hill. He would hike down to it. Another change of clothes stored in his jeep would bring him anonymity. America was a melting pot, after all. He would flee the country before it was even known he was gone.

But he still had one last duty to perform.

Al Khobar pulled the remote-control device from his pocket. He would have preferred an oldfashioned plunger. But even the great Assola al Khobar had to bow to the times.

He tugged on the long silver retractable antenna. It had an effective range of eight miles. More than enough.

One signal would bounce off another, increasing the range. And all the way from Burbank to Culver City with Hollywood in between, the motion-picture capital of the United States would be engulfed in a single, beautiful, hellish conflagration.

And he was perfectly positioned to witness it all. He flipped the cap on the switch with his thumb. His finger poised over the button, moving slowly downward.

"Is this the right line for Frasier tickets?"

The voice came from the direction of his jeep. He spun toward the sloping path.

Remo was mounting the hill.

Al Khobar's expression grew shocked. There was still distance between them. The terrorist kept the remote box shielded behind his body.

"How did you find me?" al Khobar snarled.

"Easy," Remo said with a smile. "I just had to think like a delusional asshole. What do you know-here you are."

Below Assola, Remo realized he was still too far away. He had a pebble hidden in the palm of his hand that he intended to use against the remote. But he couldn't throw it as long as the box was hidden. He could always kill al Khobar, but there was more risk in that. He couldn't afford to have the terrorist's body drop the wrong way.

Al Khobar seemed to sense Remo's quandary. He hesitated for a moment. But only for a moment. Using his body as a shield, the Saudi terrorist stabbed his finger at the button on the small remote control.

His entire body tensed as he waited for the valley to be engulfed in flame. Perhaps if the blast was big enough, he could escape in the confusion.

Assola soon found that the only confusion was in his own battered face.

Nothing happened.

As he looked out across the American film capital he found that the only explosions were those still centered around Taurus Studios. Even these seemed to be dying down.

Down the hill Remo Williams let out a tense sigh of relief. "Thank God for the LAPD," he said. He dropped the pebble and began moving more quickly up the slope.

Al Khobar backed away. As the remote control slipped from his sweating palm, he bumped into something solid. Looking up, he saw the huge, graffiti-covered billboard. When he looked back down, he saw that Remo was closer.

Assola's back stiffened. "I demand to stand trial for any crimes I am alleged to have committed," he announced.

Remo was nearly upon him. "Crimes shmimes," Remo dismissed. "This is Hollywood, babe. You're about to wind up on the cutting-room floor." He reached for the terrorist.

Al Khobar had always thought that when the end finally came he could at least prepare himself for the pain. He found, however, that anything he might have considered to be pain in his life paled in comparison to that single, final moment of pure, horrific, intense, seemingly limitless agony.

He wanted to run, wanted to scream, wanted to weep in torment. He found that he could do none of these things. He could only stand there and accept the ghastly torture. And in less time than it took for his mind to process the final burst of raw pain, it was over.

Remo dropped the remains of Assola al Khobar to the ground.

"Another Tinseltown story ends in heartache," he said with a grim smile.

Leaving the body at the bottom of the huge H in the famous Hollywood sign, Remo hiked back down to his waiting car.

Chapter 40

One week after the last shot had been fired in Burbank, Remo was on the phone with Harold W. Smith.

"Chiun's performance was the perfect calmative for the situation in Ebla," the CURE director was saying. "There is such internal confusion that even Omay's actions against Israel are being brought into question. Fundamentalists have backed away from him. There is no danger of a cult of personality forming around his legend."

Remo was sitting cross-legged on the floor in his living room. "Chiun mentioned something about some doomsday plan of Omay's," he said.

"Yes," Smith replied. "He had set up a system by which, after his death, his own personal assets would be funneled to various groups in the region."

"A sort of Carnegie Foundation for terrorists," Remo said dryly.

"In a sense," Smith said. "But that is impossible now."

"Why?" Remo asked.

"There is no money left for dispersal."

"Where did it go?"

Smith cleared his throat. "Apparently it was spent." He spoke quickly. "The result has been catastrophic to the economy of Ebla. Their currency has collapsed. The nation is bankrupt. Stronger surrounding countries are threatening to absorb the Eblan sultanate into their own borders."

"How could one guy's missing bank account do all that?"

"It is slightly more than the sultan's personal assets at stake. His properties were tied in tightly with those of the nation." Remo could almost see the satisfied expression on his employer's face. "You do not understand, Remo," Smith explained. "Ebla is a small country. Unlike other nations in the region, it does not have any oil properties to speak of, nor is it a popular tourist attraction. The entire gross domestic product of the nation totals only 3.3 billion dollars annually. That and more has been spent."

"Which gets back to my original question," Remo said. "Who spent it?"

"As far as I can tell, the bulk of the three billion was dispersed in a three-day period by Taurus Studios."

"Taurus spent three billion in three days?"

"So it would seem," Smith replied. "To call their method of accounting sloppy would be a compliment. But Taurus siphoned off enough raw wealth from Ebla to drain the sultan's accounts and topple the economy."

Remo shook his head in astonishment. "I can't believe Bindle and Marmelstein actually saved the Mideast from falling into anarchy."

"They will never know the part they played," Smith admitted.

"Good thing, too," Remo said. "They'd be demanding the movie rights from everybody and his mullah."

"Concerning the two cochairmen of Taurus," Smith continued. "You might be interested to know that they are recovering from their respective illnesses and injuries. I even read a report saying they planned to make an even bigger film than the one Omay had allegedly wanted to make."

"Wait a minute," Remo said. "They're still in business?"

"Taurus was purchased back from the Eblan sultanate by the Nishitsu Corporation before the economy collapsed."

"Aren't they the ones who owned it before?"

"Yes," Smith said. "It is not an uncommon practice in Hollywood. And as far as normalcy is concerned there, the Army has left. The California National Guard is preparing to pull out, as well."

"Before they go, I wish they'd line up everyone with a script in their hand and shoot them."

Remo heard the front door burst open. Chiun's excited footfalls hurried down the hallway toward him.

"Almost everyone," Remo amended. "If there's nothing else, I'll see you, Smitty." He hung up the phone.

A moment later the Master of Sinanju bounded into the room. Chiun could barely contain himself. His wrinkled face was flushed with joy. He jumped up and down inside the door, his kimono skirts parachuting out around his bony ankles.

"Oh, joy of joys! Oh, dream of dreams!" he trilled.

Remo turned away from the phone. "What's got you so animated?" he asked.

Chiun waved a sheet of paper above his head. "A missive!" he announced. "One containing news of such happy import that the very clouds sing for joy."

As the old Korean flapped the paper over his head, Remo glimpsed a familiar symbol at the top border. "Oh, no," Remo said softly.

Chiun beamed. He pulled the paper from the air, clutching it to his chest.

"Jealous?" the Master of Sinanju asked, his voice oozing smugness.

"That isn't what I think it is," Remo said levelly.

"I am going to be a star!" Chiun announced. Without another word to Remo he danced back out into the hallway.

"Oh, no," Remo muttered again. It couldn't be. They couldn't be that stupid.

He thought of Bindle and Marmelstein. "Oh, no," Remo repeated.

"Mr. DeMille, I am ready for my close-up," Chiun's voice called back.

His delighted singsong faded in the distance.