Omay answered each question calmly and rationally.
The body stayed there the entire time. None of the soldiers present made any effort to remove it. Watching from his Spartan Folcroft office, Smith shook his head in utter disgust. It was without a doubt the most surreal, horrific moment in the history of the medium.
Fortunately for Smith the blue contact phone jangled atop his desk. He reached for it, relieved for the distraction.
"Smitty, you've got to send me to Ebla," Remo's voice announced without preamble. There was a hard edge to it.
"No," Smith said flatly.
"Didn't you see it?" Remo snapped.
"I am watching the news conference right now."
"News conference?" Remo asked, incredulous. "That was goddamn cold-blooded murder."
"If you are looking for disagreement from me, you are not going to get it," Smith said evenly.
"So send me in," Remo pleaded.
"I cannot," Smith replied tightly.
"Why the hell not?"
Smith closed his eyes. The news conference continued to play out on the computer screen buried beneath the surface of his wide, high-tech desk.
"For one thing there is still the matter of al Khobar's Hollywood trap," the CURE director said.
"Maybe the soldiers here are the trap," Remo offered. "Maybe there isn't anything else. Did you think of that?"
"That was not the impression Omay gave the President. He has informed me that the sultan seemed confident that there was more for us to contend with than a band of Eblan soldiers loose in California."
"Such as?" Remo asked leadingly.
"Unknown at present," Smith admitted wearily. "Remo, did you see anything there that the sultan might believe to be his trump card?"
"Gee whiz, you mean other than the marauding, looting army he's landed on U.S. soil? Uh, no, Smitty, I'm coming up empty on that one."
Smith ignored the sarcasm. "Most of his forces have been there for quite some time," he explained. "Given what I have since learned from the Taurus manifests, it is clear Omay could have set the bulk of his army loose weeks ago."
"So he's big into delayed gratification," Remo said, exasperated. "So what?"
"It might be significant," Smith argued. "Do you know, Remo, what was in those storage containers you saw at the harbor in Long Beach?"
"No," Remo said slowly. "I left my X-ray specs back home." His sarcastic tone was somewhat dulled with mention of the harbor. He was still thinking that this was partially his fault for not noticing anything wrong in his search for Assola al Khobar.
"I have checked the shipping records," Smith said. "Something clearly does not add up. Satellite and ground-intelligence sources have located almost to the last jeep the equipment Omay has on the ground throughout Los Angeles County. The shipments for the past several weeks account for the tanks, jeeps and all other heavy equipment detected so far. Presumably many if not all of the men were sent in aboard the cargo ships, as well."
"Not exactly luxury berths," Remo commented.
"In a jihad comfort is the last order of business," Smith explained. He continued. "Those last two ships-the ones you saw being off-loaded-were packed with cargo containers. You are certain of that, correct?"
"I saw them with my own eyes," Remo said.
Smith nodded grimly. "Remo, I have not been able to account for the cargo aboard one of those two ships."
Remo blinked. "Smitty," he began slowly, "there were hundreds of containers on that ship."
"Yes," Smith said gravely. "Holding unknown cargo."
Remo exhaled loudly. "So you think the old bastard really does have something hidden up his turban?"
"Until we learn what was aboard that ship, we need to work under the assumption that he does. I will attempt to uncover his ultimate scheme from this end."
"You know there is an easier way," Remo said. "I could wring the information out of Assola." He sounded as if he'd enjoy the prospect.
Smith's response was decisive. "Under no circumstances are you to do anything provocative," the CURE director commanded. "At this point to attack al Khobar could have unknown repercussions. Perhaps the man himself is some sort of triggering mechanism. A subordinate might have been assigned to signal Ebla if he is compromised."
"The only subordinate I've seen near him is the guy who schlepps his dry-cleaning," Remo said, remembering the Eblan soldier with the plastic laundry bag.
"What?" Smith asked.
"Nothing," Remo said with a sigh. "I just-I just wish there was something we could do, Smitty."
"I share your frustration," Smith said, "but at present we are all hostages."
Smith turned his attention back to his computer and the bizarre news conference taking place in Ebla. It was winding down. As Smith watched, Omay left the dais, walking so uncertainly it seemed a question if he would make it off the stage alive. He shuffled past the body of the fallen State Department official and was gone. Back through the doors at which he had first appeared. They closed as if by magic behind his shrunken frame.
"There is a possibility of action on our part," the CURE director said, no hint of emotion in his voice. "But it would have to be synchronized precisely. I do not think it is feasible. It is more a doomsday scenario. The President indicated to me as recently as an hour ago that he hopes for a peaceful diplomatic resolution."
The sound from Remo's hotel TV bled over the line. He was still watching the action in Ebla. "That's shot to hell after this," Remo replied. As the reporters began to file from the hall, Eblan soldiers strode onto the dais near the bullet-riddled body.
"The situation will have to be too grim to resolve any other conceivable way," Smith said. "My alternate plan will only be used as a last resort."
A world away the limp body was dragged indelicately from the stage. On separate coasts of the United States, each man watched the grisly scene, face straining to control revulsion.
"We're way beyond that already, Smitty," Remo said. And his hollow voice was as cold as the grave.
Chapter 17
For Assola al Khobar, becoming the most reviled terrorist in the waning days of the twentieth century had been the ultimate act of late-found teenage rebellion.
"Look at you, Assola," his father, a Saudi Arabian billionaire, had said three months after his son returned from college in the West.
Assola had been watching The Graduate on the big-screen TV in the main living room of his family's estate in Riddah on the Red Sea. He had to crane his neck to see around his wealthy father.
"You have not moved off your backside since returning home," the elder al Khobar continued. "Is this the way you wish to spend your life?"
"You are in the way," Assola said blandly.
A spark of fiery rage erupted in his father's eyes. The older man marched over to the VCR. Grabbing it in his powerful hands, he wrenched the machine from its resting place in the entertainment center. The last Assola saw of it, the VCR and the precious movie it contained were sailing out the window in the direction of the Red Sea.
"I was watching that," Assola complained unhappily.
His father threw up his hands. "What am I to do with you, Assola?" he implored the heavens. "I have offered you employment a hundred times."
"I do not like construction work," Assola sniffed. He had always made it clear what he thought of the business through which his father had made his billions.
"It is no wonder," the senior al Khobar scoffed. "You are too weak to even lift a hammer. If not a laborer, you could be an office worker, yet you show no aptitude for finance or sales. I would make you a janitor, but you are too lazy even for that. You are no good at anything."
The words did not sting. In truth Assola could not disagree. He had never shown interest or aptitude for anything in life.