Warren Murphy: The Final Reel

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.