Warren Murphy: The Final Reel

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.