Warren Murphy: The Final Reel

They chanted not for him, he knew, but for the glorious revolution against the West, now thirty years gone. The recent anniversary was cause for national celebration. But if given half a chance they would gladly turn their weapons on him.

In spite of the threat they represented, Omay longed to go down among his people. But his was a life of imminent danger. More so since his latest doctor's report.

In spite of the healthy life-style he had been living, the cancer had recently returned more than a decade after he had been assured it was gone for good. And this time it was far more virulent than before. This time there was no hope. He had only a few months to live. Perhaps as much as a year. But this, he had been assured, was unlikely.

When the reality of his physical situation had sunk in, a fresh realization dawned on Sultan Omay sinKhalam. He finally saw the truth. He had sold his nation's soul for a few more years of life. The sultan himself had betrayed his beloved Ebla.

This thought had occupied much of his time of late. It clung to his consciousness now as he stared out over the rowdy throng of revelers.

People screamed. More guns rattled in triumph. A new wave of raised assault rifles rippled through the crowd, a sign of obeisance to their ruler high above them.

All at once someone got it in his head to fire on the Fishbowl. As the sun breathed its last and fled over the horizon, a few shots clattered against the protective glass.

Though his first instinct was to duck away, Omay did not flinch. He could not show weakness. For the moment weakness was displayed, he would be lost. The crowd would swarm the palace, killing him, his advisers, his servants.

Instead, Omay watched the melee with curious detachment. He even leaned closer to the glass. Soldiers forced their way through the throng. With the butts of their rifles they subdued the lone gunman, beating and kicking him. He was dragged away quickly, lest others grow sympathetic for the single brave protester. As the dust settled back to the ground in the wake of the man's scuffing feet, the crowd regained its previous air of defiance. Not directed at Omay, but again directed at the hated West.

He had been ready to leave before the shooting started, but afterward Omay lingered on a few minutes longer. It would not be seemly for him to give even the appearance of fear.

Although the palace was air-conditioned, it remained hot in the Fishbowl. The sun was gone now. Bright floodlights from the palace and surrounding buildings washed Rebellion Square in sheets of stark white.

His back was coated with sweat. He felt weak from standing. At long last Omay stepped back inside his royal residence. It was cooler in his private suite. He took a special, secret elevator from his bedroom down to a lower floor.

As he passed through the great audience chamber, which was nestled amid a vast complex of offices immediately below his personal residence, Omay's thoughts lingered on the man who had been brave enough to take a shot at his nation's ruler. The sultan would send word that the offender was not to be mistreated. More than likely the protester's actions were an objection to the direction in which the sultan had taken Ebla over the past fifteen years. The truth was, Omay agreed with the man.

That lone gunman would soon be surprised at the penance his sultan planned to make. As would the rest of the world.

The sultan crossed the hallway adjacent to the audience chamber. A few ministers and their assistants scurried from office to office farther down the hall. These were the trusted few. There were not many with whom he had shared his plans, as Omay did not want the word to get out too soon.

Another elevator intended exclusively for the sultan's private use waited in perpetuity on this floor. It was here now, doors wide.

Omay stepped aboard.

"Guest quarters," he hissed to the lift operator, his voice a weak rasp. He was immediately racked by a terrible cough.

Omay was doubled over, clutching his stomach in pain when the doors opened once more. His coughing spasm brought instant attention.

From the hall, servants' hands reached helpfully to the sultan. He swatted them all away.

"Leave me!" he commanded breathlessly.

The effort brought another coughing jag. Omay staggered from the elevator, falling weakly against the far wall.

After a long moment in which he thought his lungs would burst, the sultan managed to get his coughing under control. Another moment and his breath returned to him.

He straightened.

The servants had stayed at a respectful distance, hands outstretched if their master should beckon them. Wiping away tears of pain, Omay left them all. Alone, he steered his uncertain way down a private corridor.

Rich red tapestries lined the walls, stories of ancient Ebla woven into their ornate designs. This was the area of the palace where personal guests of the sultan stayed. He smiled through his pain as he thought of the three American secretaries of state who had stayed here over the past decade. Another would soon arrive.

Omay found his way to the last room along the right wall of the hallway. As he approached the open door, his wan features pinched in displeasure.

Desperate music flowed out into the hall. It had a loud, over-the-top brashness to it. Distinctly Western.

Inside the room the sultan found a solitary man seated before an imported Japanese television. An old Nishitsu-brand VCR sat atop the TV chassis. Two figures cavorted on the dark television screen. Both wore the ridiculous cowboy livery of America's Old West.

The lone man in the room stared unblinking at the action on the television. Although he had heard the sultan's wet coughing fit from the other end of the hallway, the man did not stir from his seat. He continued staring at the television even as Omay entered the room.

The sultan took a seat on the edge of the bed. His breathing was uneasy. He felt drained.

Outside, the sounds of street revelers filtered up through the thick palace walls-a reminder of glories past. And of triumphs yet to be.

"Why must you watch that?" the sultan asked once his breathing had steadied. He turned his nose up in disgust as he indicated the picture on the television.

"To study the beast welcomes understanding of it," the man said simply.

"It is a strange way of preparing oneself for a jihad," the sultan countered.

"We embark now on a most unusual stage in our holy war against the hated West, Omay sin-Khalam."

The sultan no longer reacted as he once had to this man's habit of calling him by name, not title. Omay was an Eblan. The man before him was a Saudi.

The sultan watched as the film ran out. The music ended. The filmed images disappeared for good. The VCR began to automatically rewind the videotape.

"Ebla's long sleep is at an end," the sultan announced softly as the visitor turned his attention to the old man on the bed. "As is my own. Ebla has paid a heavy price for my selfishness." Absently he felt through his shirt for the declivity beneath his arm where the first of the cancer had been removed. "It is time we cut the Jewish infestation from the Middle East and avenge ourselves to those who would aid the desecrators of the al Aqsa mosque."

"As you say, it will be done, Omay sin-Khalam."

"When do you depart?"

"This very hour. I arrive in the belly of the beast tomorrow."

Sultan Omay sin-Khalam smiled broadly. "Then tomorrow the ulema will begin writing a new, glorious chapter in Islamic history."

"And the streets of the infidel West will flow thick with blood," intoned Assola al Khobar. A rotten-toothed smile cracked the face of the renegade Saudi multimillionaire who had once been called the "most dangerous nonstate terrorist in the world" by U.S. national-security experts.