They raced deeper into the tight cluster of whitewashed buildings.
CHIUN STOOD on a squat stool in the wardrobe trailer. His pipe-stem arms were stretched out wide as the wardrobe mistress fussed around the hem of his uniform.
Three body-length mirrors-the two on either side angled slightly inward-stood across from the Master of Sinanju. He was admiring his reflection in the polished glass.
"If only Remo could see me now," Chiun lamented. His eyes were moist.
The wardrobe mistress knew by now that Remo was the old man's son. Adopted. But a good boy nonetheless. Most of the time.
"I'm sure he'd like it." She smiled through a mouthful of straight pins.
"Perhaps," Chiun said. "Perhaps not. My son wears underwear as a shirt and calls it style. However, it would be nice to have someone to show off to. Have you contacted the magicians Bindle and Marmelstein as I have instructed?"
"They're out to lunch."
"Remo has said that about them many times," Chiun nodded. "Have they left the studio?"
"That's what they said at the front office."
"Why would they not eat here?" Chiun asked, puzzled. "The dining hall of the commissar now serves adequate rice."
"That seems like all they serve here now. Maybe they don't like rice," the wardrobe woman suggested. She straightened, rubbing her lower back. "All finished."
All thoughts of the studio executives were banished. Chiun turned to examine himself in the mirrors.
The old-fashioned commissioner's dress uniform he had chosen was not enough for the Master of Sinanju. He had garnished it with his own small touches.
In addition to the gold braids, cuff stripes and shoulder boards that had originally been on the dark blue suit, he had added every police medal he could find on every other uniform and in every case in the wardrobe trailer. With all of these arranged around the chest and back of the uniform, the old Korean now looked like a Communist premier-Christmas tree hybrid.
He had decided that blue was too somber a color for him and so had collected a bright green woman's scarf from a wall peg. He had instructed the wardrobe mistress to pin the scarf under the epaulet of his right shoulder and then pull it to the left side of his shiny leather belt.
His holster was empty, for he refused to carry a handgun. In it, he had arranged a pair of fiery red gloves. They spilled out near the knot in his makeshift sash.
"It is perfect," he announced, a catch in his voice.
"Maybe I should redo that cuff," the woman ventured.
Chiun had noticed her stall tactics early on. He had encouraged her to move more quickly.
The Master of Sinanju shook his head. "It is magic time," he intoned, stepping grandly from his stool.
Chiun gathered up one last garment from the floor.
Somehow, he had managed to locate a Napoleon hat. The woman still had no idea where he'd found that item. He'd had to stuff it with a dress shirt in order to make it fit.
Chiun perched the hat on his bald head. He examined his image in the mirrors one last time before turning.
"I am ready to make history," he breathed. Huge black boots clomped loudly as the tiny Korean marched from the trailer.
REMO SPOTTED the truck immediately. The big Plotz rental was parked near the front of Soundstage 2, its back closed tightly.
He sprang from the limo and ran to the truck. No one in the immediate vicinity seemed interested in either him or the vehicle. If it had belonged to a film that was being shot on the Taurus lot, someone would have been yelling at him to get away from it by now.
Quintly Tortilli jogged up from the limo. "What's wrong?" he panted.
"There's the first bomb," Remo replied, jerking a thumb toward the truck.
Tortilli blanched. "Should-should we drive it out of here?" the director whispered, as if his voice alone might set it off.
"That's one way to clear freeway congestion," Remo said dryly. "We have to figure out a way to disarm it." He reached for the lock on the truck's back door.
Tortilli leaped between him and the truck. "Wait a minute! Wait a minute!" the director snapped. "You can't even figure out how to run a radio."
"Are you volunteering?" Remo said evenly.
Tortilli considered. "Hey, I only do movie explosions," he said finally, taking a nervous step back.
As the director watched anxiously, Remo snapped the thick chain that had been wrapped around the rear handle. Tortilli held his breath as Remo threw open the door.
The bomb didn't go off.
Tortilli exhaled relief. He'd been afraid that it was somehow wired to the handle. When he inhaled, the biting stench from two and a half tons of ammonium nitrate left baking in the Californian sun burned his nostrils. Retching, he pulled the lapel of his polyester suit jacket over his mouth and nose.
Remo kept his own breathing shallow as he climbed into the fetid trailer.
Wan light filtered through the translucent plastic roof. Ominous piles of fertilizer lurked in the shadows.
"Hey, Remo?" Tortilli called from outside, his voice muffled by his suit coat.
"Stop using my name," Remo replied absently. "People will think I know you." He looked around for a detonator, not sure what he'd do when he actually found one.
"There's some guys heading this way," Tortilli pressed.
Remo was frowning deeply. "Tell them to run."
"They are running." Tortilli was looking away from the truck, deeper into the center of the studio complex. "I think maybe..." His darting eyes squinted. "I know one of them!" he announced suddenly. "From Seattle!" When Remo spun to him, the director had dropped his jacket from his face. "The Dregs!" he cried anxiously. "He must be one of the bombers!"
Remo stuck his head around the rear of the truck. A group of nine men was racing madly in their direction. Screaming as they went, they shoved people out of the way as they ran, fear and exertion filling their sweat-streaked faces. They ran like men who had glimpsed the future.
Jumping from the truck, Remo flew to the waiting limo. He flung open the rear door.
"Quick! Inside!" Remo yelled to the running men.
Sheer panic offset good judgment. The nine men dived and scrambled into the back of the car. Remo hopped in behind them, slamming the door on the studio lot.
In the limo, the men were panting and swallowing.
"We've got to get out of here!" one of them cried. "This place is going to blow!"
Their guilt confirmed, Remo needed to get their attention. Fast. Reaching over, he grabbed one of the men by the throat. He jerked up.
The extra rocketed off the seat at supersonic speed, his skull impacting with a metallic thud against the roof of the car. The roof gave. The man's head gave more.
When Remo dropped him back to the seat, the extra's head was as flat as the bottom of a frying pan. He dumped the dead man into the foot well.
The panting around him stopped with a single unified gasp. Eight pairs of sick eyes were riveted on Remo.
"How many bombs, and where are they?" Remo pressed.
It was Lester Craig who answered. His expression was ill as he glanced at the lifeless form of William Scott Cain.
"Six," he admitted weakly. "All over."
"You all know how to disarm them?" he demanded.
Rapid nods all around.
"You're first," Remo said, grabbing Lester by the shirt.
When he popped the rear limo door, Quintly Tortilli had to jump from its path. Remo dragged Lester onto the road.
"What's going on?" Tortilli pressed nervously. Remo didn't respond. Striding past the director, he flung Lester through the open back of the parked truck. The extra landed on a pile of reeking fertilizer.
Hopping onto the rear platform, Remo grabbed the door.
"Work fast," he instructed coldly.
He pulled the door closed on the panicked would-be bomber, crushing the lock to prevent escape.