"I don't think any of them are still alive," Remo suggested. "And I don't think this was a rival studio."
"You are naive, Remo-" Chiun nodded "-as was I when first I arrived on this, the Lost Coast of America. Be warned-there are enemies lurking around every corner."
"Some corners closer than you think," Remo muttered dryly. "Listen, Chiun, the only reason I even got wind of this is because I'm on an assignment." He went on to give a rapid outline of the situation, concluding, "Is there a scene in your movie where a Hollywood studio gets blown up?" Chiun shook his head. "There was, but it was removed," he admitted. "These fools made many alterations to my original Assassin's Loves, but that is no longer one of them."
Remo hummed thoughtfully, glancing at the plume of smoke still rising from the blast site. It had trickled to a serpent curl of black. In the distance, the sounds of sirens rose over the soundstages.
"It's still tied in somehow," Remo said firmly. "And I bet I know who can connect the dots."
Chapter 16
From a distance, they saw a single thinning thread of black smoke curling up beyond the high walls. It appeared to be coming from the rear lots at the far, far walls of the complex. Otherwise, Taurus Studios seemed completely intact.
"Something went wrong," Hank Bindle droned as their limo drove along the outside of the plain white walls.
Beside him, an ashen-faced Bruce Marmelstein slugged down the last of his martini before numbly dropping the empty glass to the green crushedvelvet seat.
Fearful gawkers crammed every inch along the sidewalk, among them hordes of Taurus employees. "No explosion and now we're paying them to stand around," Bindle complained. He powered down a tinted window. "Get back to work!" he shouted to a kid on a bicycle. The boy responded by giving Hank Bindle the finger. "Did you see that?" the executive snapped at his partner. He stuck his face out the window. "I'm gonna ruin you! Try delivering papers in this town after today, you little punk!"
Many of the people spilled over into the road, clogging traffic and blocking emergency vehicles. No police at the gates meant there was no one to deny them access to the studio lot.
"Hurry up and go in!" Marmelstein snapped over the speaker when their driver hesitated at the main entrance.
Leaving the crowd behind, they drove onto the lot.
The buildings were perfect, just as they'd left them. There wasn't so much as a scratch or even a single bird dropping on the white facades.
"Maybe it hasn't happened yet," Bindle ventured.
"I think it did," Marmelstein replied. His sick eyes watched the distant smoke dissipating across the pate blue California sky. "But it was a big fat dud."
"We didn't pay for a dud," Bindle whined. Driving deeper onto the lot, they finally saw the only obvious effects of the single exploded truck bomb. Hundreds upon hundreds of cracked windowpanes. Farther along, they could see those windows closest to the blast site had shattered completely. But otherwise, everything was exactly as they'd left it.
"This is not good," Bruce Marmelstein said woodenly as the limo stopped in front of the executive office building.
"Broken windows," Hank Bindle lamented. "A few measly broken windows. I don't think our insurance even covers broken windows."
The Taurus cochairs waited for their driver to run around and open the back door. Climbing out, they smelled the hint of smoke on the breeze.
"Smoke," Marmelstein complained. He placed a pinkie ring to his surgically altered chin. "I should be standing this deep in rubble right now."
A horrified gasp from his partner snapped his attention away from the lack of mess.
"What the hell is this?" Hank Bindle hissed. When Marmelstein looked, his partner was standing near their reserved parking spaces. A large truck had been parked across both exclusive spots. The only portion of either of their names still visible was the gilded "dle" of "Bindle."
"This is great!" Bindle raged. "This is fucking great!" He launched a Gucci toe into the side of the truck. "Un-fucking-believable!" As he shouted, he repeatedly kicked the side of the truck in punctuation. "A fucking dud of a fucking bomb and on top of every fucking other fucking fuck-hole thing that has happened to-fucking-day, a fucking truck is parked in my fucking space."
Each successive word brought a more violent kick from the studio executive. Sweating and red faced, he was enlarging the dent he'd already made in the truck's side when he heard a timid voice behind him.
"Um, Hank?"
Hank froze in midpunt. Turning angrily, he saw Bruce Marmelstein's eyes and nose peeking over the trunk of their limo. A nervous finger appeared next to the nose. It pointed carefully at the gleaming yellow truck.
"You're kicking one of the bombs," Marmelstein whispered.
Confusion lasted only as long as it took Hank Bindle to turn ever so slowly to the truck. The giant Plotz letters stenciled on its side stared down ominously at him. When he looked back at his cowering partner, his eyes were wide.
Screaming for his mommy, Bindle dived over the trunk of the limo, collapsing painfully to elbows and knees next to Marmelstein. He scurried to a kneeling position. Both Taurus cochairs peeked over the roof.
The truck remained silent.
"Do up think it's kick activated?" Bindle whispered.
"It didn't do that thing bombs do," Marmelstein said. "You know, that ka-boom thing?"
Both men stared apprehensively at the truck. It persisted in not ka-booming. Bindle took this as a sign.
He pointed to the building.
"Maybe we should go inside," he mouthed. Marmelstein only nodded. Together, they crept to the gleaming glass doors of the executive office building.
When the cracked panes swung closed between them and the truck bomb that was capable of not only leveling the building they were in, but also obliterating several other buildings in the near vicinity, the two film executives breathed a sigh of relief.
They took the elevator up to their office suite. The interior glass doors between their inner sanctum and their secretary's office had survived the blast. They pushed inside, trudging wearily onto the plush carpet.
They hadn't gone more than three steps toward their desks when they were surprised by a frighteningly familiar voice.
"The imbeciles return to the scene of the crime." Stunned, Bindle and Marmelstein wheeled around. Their eyes grew wide when they saw Remo leaning against the stucco wall next to the office door. Fear clutched their bellies.
The door was blocked. As one, they settled for the next best thing. In a tangle of panicked legs, they made a mad dash for the picture window.
Hank Bindle dived into the pane headfirst. Though cracked, the glass didn't give. He dropped like a stone to the carpet, clutching his bloodied forehead.
Bruce Marmelstein did a karate-like flying kick. He missed the window completely, slamming instead into the mahogany wet bar. He bounced from bar, to desk, to floor. His landing was surprisingly soft, if a little lumpy.
"Get off me," the lump that was Hank Bindle gasped.
Using knees and fists, Bindle knocked Marmelstein off. Both men collapsed, panting, onto their backs. They found themselves staring up into Remo's hard face.
"Now that we've got the floor show out of the way," Remo said.
They had met Mr. Chiun's friend during the Hollywood terrorist crisis. At the time, Taurus had been purchased by the leader of a Mideast nation as a front for his invasion. Bindle and Marmelstein didn't know this. Even as tanks rolled down the streets of Hollywood, they were only interested in making the biggest movie ever.
Only afterward did they really learn that they had participated in the most infamous case of terrorism to ever kiss American soil. Even so, neither Bindle nor Marmelstein ever fully realized what had actually happened back then. The one thing that they did know, however-the thing that they had carried with them ever since that time-was a fear of those dark, deep-set eyes. They had never wanted to look into those eyes again. But here they were. Back once more. And more frightening than either man remembered.