On the phone Smith was talking rapidly. "Until a course of action can be determined, that is precisely what I want you to do," he replied. "In his first communication with the President, the sultan of Ebla threatened America's cultural capital. I believe he has set up some kind of scheme to attack Hollywood and that Assola al Khobar is involved somehow."
The light of realization flashed on. Looking out the window, Remo blinked dumbly.
"Uh-oh," he said. His voice was small.
"What is it?" Smith asked, instantly concerned.
"Um, you might not believe this, Smitty," Remo said worriedly, "but I think I might be looking at Omay's army."
From the window he scanned the lines of camels and men. His thoughts drifted to the tanks he had seen on Taurus's Burbank lot. And it seemed all the other lots in Hollywood and Burbank were hosts to similar activity.
"Explain," Smith demanded sharply.
Remo told him about the camels and military vehicles, as well as the men with them.
"Remo, how could you not see what they were doing?" Smith gasped once he was finished.
"What am I, Kreskin?" Remo said defensively. "This is Hollywood. They said they were making a movie. What the hell else was I supposed to think?" Though the impulse was exceedingly strong, Smith resisted the urge to chastise Remo. It was a supreme effort.
"How could Omay have gotten so much into this country?" Smith mused aloud. There was an angry edge in his voice.
"I think I know," Remo said sheepishly. "There were all sorts of cargo containers down at the harbor. Do you know where L.A. Harbor is, by the way?" he challenged.
"It is in Long Beach," Smith answered crisply.
"Oh," Remo said. "Anyway there were tons of these things being off-loaded from a pair of ships."
"I have some of the shipping records before me," Smith volunteered. "Several vessels have come into the harbor since Omay purchased the studio." There was a pause on the line as the CURE director scanned his computer screen. "The manifests say that the containers carried special film props. Customs cleared them through with no problem."
"I think customs might have taken a powder on this one, Smitty," Remo said sarcastically. "I didn't see a single agent within a country mile of those containers."
"You are suggesting someone bribed the customs officials?" Smith asked.
"There's an Arab army on the loose in Hollywood with more military hardware than Saddam Hussein has in his rumpus room. What do you think?"
Across the country, in the solitude of his Folcroft office, Harold Smith leaned his bony elbows on his desk. Eyes closed, he pinched the bridge of his patrician nose as he considered.
"We have no options," he said slowly. The admission of helplessness chewed like bitter-tasting acid straight through to his native New England core.
"There's got to be something we can do," Remo insisted.
"No. There is nothing," Smith said. "It is the perfect trap. Its two parts are set to spring a world apart if but one side is upset. If you eliminate al Khobar, the sultan will kill the secretary of state and invade Israel. If the sultan is removed in Ebla, a cataclysm will befall Hollywood, the nature of which is still unknown to us. We are helpless."
"Are you going to just leave a foreign army on the loose in California?"
"It is already on the ground, Remo," Smith droned. His caustic tone made it clear he thought part of the blame for this rested on Remo's shoulders. "Al Khobar has men everywhere in the Hollywood area, if what you told me is accurate." Smith opened his eyes. He was suddenly intensely weary. "Give me time to think. There must be an option. I will endeavor to find it."
On the West Coast, Remo forced a smile. "Don't worry, you will," he said. His attempt to cheer up Smith sounded patronizing at best, pathetic at worst. He tried to change the subject. "Oh, you might be interested to know Bindle and Marmelstein are in charge of Taurus," Remo offered weakly.
"I know," Smith told him. "And it is irrelevant to your current assignment." It sounded as if the life had drained from him. "Is this the number where you can be reached?"
"I'll call you when I book a hotel room," Remo said.
"Please do," Smith said, his voice devoid of all energy.
When he hung up the phone, the CURE director left Remo feeling intensely guilty. Rotating his wrists in frustration, Remo looked back out the window.
By this time the camels had all been mounted. The Arabs atop them-and they were Arabs, not Mexican extras as Remo had foolishly thought tipped their heads back. Tongues extended, they offered triumphant screams to their fellow Eblans. A chorus of shrieking ululations echoed off the soundstage exteriors, carrying through the office walls.
Battle cries.
Real guns and real swords rose high in the warm California air.
And as Remo watched, his stomach sinking, the victorious Eblans spurred their camels forward. Beasts pounding a crazed chorus, wave after wave of soldiers began riding out through the gates into the parched street beyond the Taurus walls.
A cloud of dust rose high into the dry air, kicked up by the furious beating of more than a thousand frantic hooves.
With tire squeals and angry horn honks, the Bentleys and Porsches that had been driving along the road in front of the studio slammed on their brakes or pulled onto sidewalks, steering out of the path of the crazed Eblan army.
Cries of triumph filled the air.
The invasion of Hollywood had begun. And Remo Williams could only watch it happen.
Chapter 13
The occupation of Hollywood and Beverly Hills up to Burbank in the north, and down through Culver City in the south, took less than four hours to complete.
Within the first hour forces from the United States Army and the California National Guard had established a neutral zone running over to Glendale in the east, skirting downtown Los Angeles and up around the San Fernando Valley to Santa Monica in the west. As the forces of the Ebla Arab Army secured more-permanent positions within the zone, the U.S. military sat outside. Waiting. They had been instructed to do nothing to provoke a situation that might harm innocent civilians.
The situation offshore was no better. Vessels of the U.S. Navy from the Pacific fleet were on high alert between the mainland and Santa Catalina Island. But a safe channel had been established to allow free travel of Eblan vessels into L.A. Harbor. So while the Navy was present, it could do nothing to stop the influx of more men and materiel for the sitting Eblan army.
The streets of Hollywood, Burbank and Culver City had been abandoned to Eblan soldiers. Tanks and jeeps, as well as men on camels and horseback, patrolled the otherwise empty thoroughfares. Every soldier held an automatic weapon in his triumphant hand. Americans remained for the most part hidden fearfully behind locked doors.
The sights he beheld sickened Remo Williams as he drove through Hollywood's streets in a Taurus Studios jeep.
The store windows along Rodeo Drive had been shot out. Expensive leather garments were strewed across sidewalks and atop the hoods of abandoned Rolls-Royces.
Someone had driven a tank over a fire hydrant. The tank was long gone. The hydrant continued to shoot a stream of water high into the air, flooding the street and washing away some of the goods first looted, then abandoned.
The water was halfway up the jeep's tires as Remo toured the street, unmolested by Arabs. They always seemed to be wherever he wasn't. Growing bored at last, he drove back to his hotel.
When Remo pushed open the door to his suite, he found Chiun seated placidly on the floor. Even with the chaos all around them, the old Korean was as calm as a wooded glade at sunset.