Warren Murphy - The Final Reel

He was telling the truth, Remo knew. But in this instance the truth was no help.

"Thanks," Remo said coldly. He reached for the bolt.

"Wait, wait!" Reggio pleaded. "Maybe I can give you somethin'." His voice was desperate.

"Doubtful," Remo said.

"Those wires all around town! All around the studios! Doncha wanna know what they are?"

Remo paused. He released his grip on Reggio's shirt. "I'm listening," he said.

Reggio took a deep, thankful breath. "They're hooked up to explosive charges," he said.

Remo frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Whaddya mean?" He sounded mildly insulted. "Sure I'm sure. I use ta use the same sort of stuff sometimes for the Pubescios back before I hadda go to work for dat skunk Vaggliosi. When I picked up Mr. Koala I even sneaked into one of the soundstages at Mammoth Studios just to have a look-see. Dese A-rabs have packed enough explosive crap into the studios around here to blow all of Hollywood down to Tijuana."

Remo thought about all the similar wires he'd been seeing all around the motion-picture capital. Like a picture that had previously been just slightly out of focus, the entire scheme of Sultan Omay suddenly became clear. Remo had a pretty good idea what had been on Smith's missing ship.

"Thanks, Reggio," Remo said with a nod. "You don't even know it, but you just helped out your country."

"Really?" Reggio asked. His eyes narrowed slyly. "Do I get a reward?"

"Absolutely," Remo said agreeably. Reggio smiled broadly.

"What is it?"

Reggio's reward was that he never saw coming the blow that severed his brain from his spinal column.

WHEN REMO STEPPED outside a moment later, a frantic Hank Bindle met him at the door.

"The monkeys!" Bindle cried. "They're not monkeys! They're people!"

"So's Soylent Green," Remo said, heading for the jeep.

Bindle leaped before him, eyes pleading. "You've got to do something!"

"What is your problem?" Remo asked, annoyed.

"I have to have my hands," Bruce Marmelstein groaned from the nearby jeep, unmindful of the others. He sat with the rear door open, his fingers gripping the damp remnants of paperwork. "People without hands don't get invited to the Oscars. I'll never be on ET. again. How will I floss?"

Bindle and Remo ignored him.

"Tom Roberts and Susan Saranrap are in the monkey house!" Bindle explained rapidly.

"Good. They'll be happier with their own kind," Remo said with an indifferent shrug. He turned to the jeep.

"You don't understand," Bindle pleaded, grabbing his arm. "Without Mr. Koala's signature on those papers, we're trapped." He pointed to the scraps of paper in Marmelstein's hands. "We have to make The Movie. And we can't make a movie without our stars."

"Tell me why I should even care about you or your dippy movie." Remo challenged.

"Chiun's script," Marmelstein ventured softly from the back seat of the car.

"What?" Bindle said, wheeling on his partner. Remo merely closed his eyes. He knew already where this was heading.

Marmelstein's eyes slowly came back into focus. Like a patient suddenly waking from a long coma. "His friend's script," Marmelstein explained to Bindle.

"Yeah," Hank Bindle said to Bruce Marmelstein. "Yeah!" he repeated, spinning back to Remo. "If you can save our stars, I promise you we'll give serious consideration to Mr. Chiun's screenplay."

"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.