Chiun wore a hyacinth kimono. Along the back of the garment twin peacocks raised multicolored feathers, their edges outlined in striking gold accents.
Even amid all of the terror and uncertainty, the Master of Sinanju had found someone at Taurus willing to retype his screenplay. The text had been transferred from parchment to standard computer paper and was now contained in a special leatherbacked binder.
Chiun was scanning the hundred-plus sheets of paper. As he worked, he occasionally clucked unhappily, making a correction in red ink in the wide margins.
"I'm back," Remo announced glumly.
Chiun looked up. "Remo enters, clomping and braying like a wounded mule," he said merrily. The Master of Sinanju returned to his work.
"Stop talking like the freaking narrator," Remo griped.
Shuffling across the room, Remo gathered up the remote control from atop the hotel television. Collapsing boneless into a chair, he turned on CNN.
The Eblan story was still raging strong. He hadn't really expected otherwise. Turning down the sound, he watched images of men on camelback riding along a closed section of Santa Monica Freeway.
It was only a few minutes after Remo started watching the TV that Chiun finished scribbling on the last page of his screenplay. The old man made a small, final mark, closing the binder with a lordly flourish.
"Perfect," he exclaimed grandly. Remo ignored him.
"You have noticed, no doubt, that I am talking to you once more," Chiun announced.
"Yep," Remo said with a bland sigh. He continued staring at the screen, his thoughts elsewhere.
"When I learned of your deception, I was understandably cross," the Master of Sinanju scolded gently.
"Listen," Remo said, shaking his head. "I know what you're like when you're around this town. I figured you'd get all moon-eyed looking for Raymond Burr and Edward G. Robinson and I wouldn't get any work done. Besides, it was supposed to be a quick assignment."
"There, you see?" Chiun said placidly. "Even when you incorrectly paint me as a burdensome celebrity stalker, I am not cross. I am in a magnanimous mood, Remo. Bask in my achievement."
"Okay," Remo groaned. "I'm not gonna get any peace until I ask. What have you achieved?"
"Success," Chiun proclaimed. With one wickedly sharp fingernail he tapped the cover of the screenplay on the floor beside him. "I have written a story filled with sex and violence. Oh, it is a marvelous thing, Remo. Dinosaurs and pyrotechnics abound. One does not turn a page without coming upon a thrilling car chase or a dastardly space alien. Oh, what a wonderful day to know me. An even more glorious day to be me. You, Remo, are truly blessed."
"I feel blessed," Remo said flatly. "Slide it over." He leaned forward in his chair.
Hands a lightning blur, Chiun snapped up the screenplay, slapping it to his thin chest.
"Are you a film producer?" Hazel eyes narrowed with cunning.
"No," Remo said, exhaling loudly.
"Are you connected in any way with the motion-picture industry?"
"You're not going to let me see it, are you?"
"It is not that I do not trust you," Chiun replied. "But there are vipers in this business. Had you been more forthcoming with me about the city to which you were traveling, I might let you see a page or two. However..." His voice trailed off.
"Okay, fine." Remo accepted the refusal, falling back in his chair.
"Perhaps a single line of dialogue," Chiun offered.
"Nope. I'll wait for the movie."
"You might have to wait several months. The noble film titans Bindle and Marmelstein are deeply involved in another project at the moment."
"You cut a deal with Bindle and Marmelstein?" Remo asked, surprised.
"No contracts have yet been signed. Ideally I will be the center of a bidding war between rival studios."
"Chiun, Bindle and Marmelstein are with Taurus Studios."
The wizened Korean held aloft a fist of bone. "The mighty bull! How fitting for a pair like them. Strong, independent. They truly share the spirit of that great animal."
"The only thing Bindle and Marmelstein share with bulls is a capacity to produce endless piles of shit," Remo amended.
"You are jealous," Chiun sniffed.
"I am not jealous," Remo said.
"Yes, you are," Chiun replied. "How sad for you, Remo. The shadow cast by greatness is cold and dark indeed."
"Chiun, let me explain this to you slowly. Taurus is owned by Sultan Omay of Ebla."
"Sinanju never worked for Ebla." Chiun waved dismissively. "It is an irrelevant nation."
"Not anymore," Remo said. "The sultan only bought the studio as a front to launch a stealth invasion of America. There is no Taurus Studios. There is no movie in the works. And Bindle and Marmelstein are going to be out on their ears as soon as Smith can find a way to shut down all of Omay's shenanigans with the least amount of bloodshed."
"No film, you say?" Chiun asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. The parchment skin near eyes and mouth flickered faint bemusement.
"Of course not," Remo replied. "It was all just a big, insane scheme."
With confident fluidity the Master of Sinanju rose to his feet. All the while he continued to hold his screenplay close to his chest like a maiden guarding her virtue.
"Come with me, O doubter," Chiun exclaimed, spinning on his heel. Embroidered peacocks dancing across the back of his brocade robe, the old Asian stomped out into the hallway.
Remo had nothing better to do. Shutting off the TV, he slowly trailed Chiun outside.
Chapter 14
Whoever in filmmaking had said to never work with children or animals had never worked with foreigners. Hank Bindle was sure of this because he was certain that if they had, they would have added Eblan extras to the list.
"Cut, cut, cut!" Bindle screamed. "Hello? Can anyone hear me? Has everyone around here suddenly gone deaf?"
He flung his megaphone to the ground in exasperation.
"I can hear you, H.B.," his assistant volunteered.
"Shut up," Bindle snapped.
They were on an outside lot at Taurus's Burbank studio. Trucked-in sand covered an entire acre of parking lot. A small oasis-one-twentieth scale-had been inserted into the sand at the rear of the lot near the Taurus water tower. The tower would be digitally erased later.
Two dozen men with camels stood haphazardly near the front edge of the makeshift desert. This appearance of randomness had taken all morning to meticulously arrange.
All of the men wore flowing robes of white. That is, all but one. This individual was dressed entirely in black. He alone sat atop one of the camels. Heavy black fabric was drawn across his mouth and nose and down over his forehead. A pair of beady eyes peeked out from amid the thick material.
As he strode over to one of the extras, Hank Bindle apologized profusely to the pair of angry eyes. "I'm so sorry, luv. Why don't you have someone get you something from craft services? And you," Bindle shouted as he turned to the extra, "can't you get that animal to stop whizzing all over my movie?"
There was a wide area of dampness in the sand beneath the camel. The creature even appeared somewhat guilty. Bindle thought it should. With seven cameras whirring from every conceivable angle at once, every inch of the dark yellow stream had been caught on film.
The Arab extra shrugged. "There is no stopping," he said, unconcerned. "They go when they must."
Bindle leaned in close to the camel. Its big nostrils breathed hotly in his face. Bindle's voice was filled with menace. "Leak on my set one more time and I will personally give you a chain-saw humpectomy. "
As if taking this as a cue, the camel behind Bindle opened up. A pungent aroma instantly filled the air as the dark liquid spattered the ground around the feet of the studio executive.
"Oh, my gawd," Hank Bindle cried as he bounded from the worst of the deluge, arms flapping in terror. "That's it! That's it! I can't take it anymore. Someone call Skywalker Ranch. I want eight dozen fully animatronic, nonpissing camels by the end of the week! I'll pay anything they want."