Warren Murphy: The Final Reel

Chiun could see small specks of black circling lazily in the sky far ahead. Vultures. Beneath the large birds of prey were a few scattered tents.

A trail had been pounded from this site through the desert and up into the mountains. The newformed road was still visible, despite the shifting desert winds.

This was the spot from which the assault against Israel had originated. Chiun recognized some of the more distant landmarks that had been in the background of the second televised murder perpetrated by Ebla's monarch.

The Master of Sinanju hurried around to the passenger's side of the jeep.

Omay was sweating profusely. His eyes rolled open, turned sightlessly on Chiun, and then closed once again. It would be impossible for him to walk the distance back.

Angry, Chiun wrenched the door open. Hefting the unconscious body of Sultan Omay sin-Khalam onto his narrow shoulders, Chiun began trekking across the desert toward the ring of lazily circling vultures.

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.