From where he stood, Omay could see the edge of a large crowd gathered in Rebellion Square below. From the small portion he was able to see, there were many more packed into the vast area than had been present for the nation's independence celebration a few weeks ago.
The Master of Sinanju stayed behind him, hidden by the thick curtains.
"What is this?" Omay demanded of Chiun.
"It is your moment of atonement," the old Korean whispered. And with that he released the spot on Omay's lumbar region.
The sultan felt the life drain from him. As he hunched in on himself, he felt a strong hand between his shoulder blades. A shove from Chiun propelled him onto the balcony.
For support Omay had to grab the old railing that ran inside the bulletproof glass. He struggled to remain upright as the people below cheered and then grew silent. Even from this distance the gathered Eblans could see that their leader was gravely ill. They longed to hear the parting words of this great man.
Omay could barely stand. The urge to vomit was strong. Having gone without it for a few blessed moments, he found that the pain was far more intense than he remembered it.
How could he have withstood such agony for so long?
As he stood, reeling, a voice boomed out around him. It echoed across the square below. Thousands of upturned faces waited eagerly for what would surely be the final words of the man who had led them into battle against Israel, against the West. The great Omay sin-Khalam.
The voice-though amplified by speakers-sounded weak. It was almost not recognizable as that of their sultan. But its pronunciation of Eblan Arabic was flawless.
"My countrymen," the frail voice of Sultan Omay intoned, "I denounce my actions against Israel. I beg forgiveness from the United States for my behavior. I was once a man of peace. I wish to be remembered as such and not as the vicious savage I became of late. I can only say that illness has blinded me. Weakness has ravaged my mind."
In the booth Omay wanted to scream.
His head was bowed. He appeared penitent. Only the sultan himself knew that he was too weak to lift his face to the crowd, too weak to show them that it was not he who addressed them.
"Remember me well." He paused. When he spoke again, his frail voice sounded lighter. Almost as if it were slightly amused. "May Allah bless America," the sultan said to his shocked subjects.
These last words appeared to get a rise out of Omay. The citizens who watched in astonishment from below saw their sultan's head shoot up. His eyes were open wide. And as ten thousand upturned faces watched, Sultan Omay sin-Khalam flung himself at the glass wall of his balcony.
The supposedly impenetrable shield of the Fishbowl, which in the past had blocked bullets, cracked and split. Sections exploded out across Rebellion Square, showering the crowd in chunks of thick Plexiglas. And through the new-formed hole popped the frail form of Sultan Omay. Without so much as a peep, he plunged three stories to the square below. An angry cry went up from the crowd
And over the course of the next hour, as the desert sun splashed orange fire on the once proud, now doomed nation, ten thousand trampling feet stomped to dust the wasted corpse of the man who dared invoke the name of Allah in the same breath as that of the American devil.
Chapter 39
The first shots in the battle to retake Burbank began as Remo Williams was driving across the Taurus lot in Hank Bindle's Mercedes. Shells fired from U.S. Army tanks blasted huge sections out of the high white walls around the studio. Remo was pelted with bits of shattered brick as he tore back out through the gate.
This time the Eblan soldiers paid little attention to him. They were too busy engaging the American troops swarming up the road toward them.
Remo weaved in and out of Eblan tanks and camels, emerging on the other side of the Arab line. He kept his head down as he swept into the thick of U.S. troops.
Steering through the American soldiers and equipment, Remo found someone shouting orders. Whoever he was, the man had a lot of stars on his shoulders.
Remo screeched to a stop next to him. He waved a laminated card that identified him as CIA. "There's a bomb-squad cop named Connell in Hollywood," Remo shouted over the weapons fire. "Get him up here fast. And if I were you, I wouldn't shoot too close to any of the buildings. Kevin Costner's had smaller bombs."
Remo floored the car. He raced down the street away from the deafening battle.
ASSOLA AL KHOBAR LEFT his jeep near the weather station and hiked the rest of the way through the scrub brush.
Graffiti coated the towering object behind him. No matter how many times it was repainted, the graffiti artists returned. One symbol of American decadence defacing another symbol of American decadence.
He looked down with satisfaction over the valley below.
It was a good view. Not perfect. But good.
He could see the battle raging at Taurus Studios. Small explosions ripped the air. Echoes of sound reached his ears several long seconds after the blasts.
Of course, he had planned this escape all along. He had no intention of being a martyr for Islam. That glory was always left for his partners of the moment-be they Eblans, Palestinians, Afghans or whoever. As always he would orchestrate his acts of terror and then move on.
His face ached. Assola rubbed at one cheek.
It was not only the nail wounds in his lip that bothered him. He was suffering razor burn on top of everything else. The thought was oddly amusing.
Assola had to force himself to stop grinning, lest he pop the small bandages he had placed over his wounds. There was less cotton packed inside his mouth now. A mouth stuffed full might have attracted undue attention during his escape.
The plan had worked. As he knew it would. Dressed in an American Army uniform and driving in a bogus Army jeep, he had driven easily through their advancing lines. The Ebla Arab Army would act as his cover while he slipped away.
The San Fernando Valley spread out flat and wide on the other side of the hill. He would hike down to it. Another change of clothes stored in his jeep would bring him anonymity. America was a melting pot, after all. He would flee the country before it was even known he was gone.
But he still had one last duty to perform.
Al Khobar pulled the remote-control device from his pocket. He would have preferred an oldfashioned plunger. But even the great Assola al Khobar had to bow to the times.
He tugged on the long silver retractable antenna. It had an effective range of eight miles. More than enough.
One signal would bounce off another, increasing the range. And all the way from Burbank to Culver City with Hollywood in between, the motion-picture capital of the United States would be engulfed in a single, beautiful, hellish conflagration.
And he was perfectly positioned to witness it all. He flipped the cap on the switch with his thumb. His finger poised over the button, moving slowly downward.
"Is this the right line for Frasier tickets?"
The voice came from the direction of his jeep. He spun toward the sloping path.
Remo was mounting the hill.
Al Khobar's expression grew shocked. There was still distance between them. The terrorist kept the remote box shielded behind his body.
"How did you find me?" al Khobar snarled.
"Easy," Remo said with a smile. "I just had to think like a delusional asshole. What do you know-here you are."
Below Assola, Remo realized he was still too far away. He had a pebble hidden in the palm of his hand that he intended to use against the remote. But he couldn't throw it as long as the box was hidden. He could always kill al Khobar, but there was more risk in that. He couldn't afford to have the terrorist's body drop the wrong way.
Al Khobar seemed to sense Remo's quandary. He hesitated for a moment. But only for a moment. Using his body as a shield, the Saudi terrorist stabbed his finger at the button on the small remote control.