THE MASTER OF SINANJU stomped his sandaled feet angrily as he whirled onto the exterior set.
It was a mock-up of a New York slum. Post-production computer effects would erase the large Taurus water tower that rose proudly in the background.
"I cannot leave you for a moment!" Chiun cried, his high-pitched voice sending shock waves of fear through the gathered cast and crew. The hems of his scarlet kimono billowed about his ankles as he flounced up to the assistant director. His hazel eyes were fire. "I take but one rice break, and the instant my back is turned you lapse into indolence! Why are you not working, goldbrick?"
Arlen Duggal was clearly petrified. At Chiun's typhoonlike appearance, he broke away from the female assistant he'd been talking to, backing from the fearful wraith in red.
"It's not my fault...." he pleaded.
"It is never your fault, slothful one. Nor will it be my fault when I remove your sluggish head from your lazy neck." Chiun glared at the comely young assistant.
"Let me explain," the A.D. begged.
The old man didn't hear. "Have you halted production on my epic saga to chatter with this hussy?" he demanded, pointing at the assistant. He raised his voice to the crowd. "Hear me, one and all, for I do issue a decree. From this moment forth, there shall be no females on this set. Remember to tell this to this slugabed's successor."
"Mr. Chiun," Arlen's assistant interrupted.
"Silence, harlot!"
Tears were welling up in Arlen's eyes. "It really isn't my fault," he begged. "The extras aren't here."
Chiun's eyes narrowed. He spun from the director and his assistant, scanning the gathered crowd. Most of the faces he saw belonged to behind-the-scenes crew. Very few appeared to be actual performers.
"Where are my overcasts?" he asked all at once. "The scene we film today requires a multitude."
"They haven't shown up yet," Arlen informed him.
Chiun wheeled on him. "This is your doing," he said, aiming an accusing fingernail. "Your laxness infects the lower orders like a plague."
Arlen ducked behind his assistant, grabbing her by the shoulders. Positioning the woman like a human shield between himself and Chiun, he ducked and wove fearfully.
"I think they might be afraid," the A.D. squeaked.
Chiun's furious mask touched shades of confusion. "Afraid of what?" he demanded.
"Of all the tension on the set?" the A.D. offered.
Chiun's face flushed to angry horror. "Are you creating tension on my set, as well?" he accused, his voice flirting with the early edges of cold fury. Hoping to defuse the situation, the woman behind whom Arlen was cowering spoke up.
"They are here," she offered, wincing at the painful grip on her shoulders. "I saw a couple of them not five minutes ago. They were over by Soundstage 1."
For an instant, Cluun seemed torn. As the old man stood stewing, Arlen saw his opportunity. Releasing his assistant, he began tiptoeing away in an awkward squat. He got no more than four teetering feet before a blur of scarlet swept before him. A daggerlike nail pressed his throat. When he looked up, he dared not gulp lest he risk piercing his Adam's apple.
Chiun's eyes were molten steel.
"Know you this, lie-abed," the Master of Sinanju hissed. "Your skills alone preserve your life." Spinning to the crew, he called, "Make ready, malingerers! I will see to the missing overcasts."
As the old Korean marched away, the gathered throng let out a collective sigh of relief. Arlen Duggal dropped to his knees. After touching his throat with his fingertips, he relaxed. No blood. The tension drained from his shoulders.
"Worst thing about this is I'd still rather put up with him than Rosie," Arlen muttered.
He watched as the wizened figure disappeared around a building mock-up. Unbeknownst to Arlen, the tiny Asian was marching straight into the blast zone of the first of six powerful truck bombs.
REMO STOOD ANXIOUSLY at the bank of phones in the bustling terminal building at Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. Beyond the huge tinted windows at his back, massive idle aircraft sulked along the tarmac. Far off, a 747 rose into the bleak sky. Remo was on hold with Taurus Studios for five minutes before someone in the movie company's executive offices finally deigned to answer.
"Taurus Studios. This is Kelli. How may I direct your call?" The woman's voice was bland and efficient, with a faint Midwestern twang.
"Get me Bindle or Marmelstein," Remo insisted.
The woman didn't miss a beat. "Who's calling?"
"Tell them it's Remo."
"First name or last?"
"First."
"Last name, please?"
Remo stopped dead. He couldn't remember the cover name he'd been using the year before while on assignment in Hollywood.
" 'Remo' will do," he said after a second's hesitation.
"Oh. Like Cher," the woman droned doubtfully. He could tell she was about to hang up.
"Wait! How about their assistant, Ian?"
"He was hired by Fox to produce the next Barbra Streisand picture," the woman said frostily. Remo was getting desperate. He had to get through to warn Chiun.
"Okay," he pressed. "There's a movie being made there right now. I know the screenwriter. Just-"
But it was already too late. At the mention of the word writer, the line went dead.
Remo slammed the phone down into the cradle. The receiver cracked and split open at the midpoint between earpiece and mouthpiece. Strings of multicolored wires were all that held the dangling plastic receiver together.
He stood there for a moment, frozen. He had to warn Chiun.
Smith. He'd call Smith.
Remo hurried to the next phone. Scooping up the receiver, he quickly began to punch in the special code to CURE's Folcroft headquarters. He had only depressed the one key a few times-not enough to make the connection-when he froze.
He couldn't call Smith. Not without telling him why Chiun was at Taurus. And if Remo blabbed to Smith about the Master of Sinanju's upcoming movie, the old Korean would resolve to make Remo's every waking moment a living hell for the rest of his life. If he was lucky.
Even if he told Smith, that was no guarantee of guarding Chiun's safety. If the CURE director sent a swarm of police to Taurus, the bombers might turn skittish. Cops could spook the terrorists into setting off the bombs sooner.
"Dammit, Chiun, why do you have to complicate everything?" Remo griped. He snapped the next phone down in its cradle.
Exhaling angrily, Remo spun away from the bank of phones. The instant he did, he spied a familiar purple leisure suit bobbing and weaving toward him through the main terminal concourse. Quintly Tortilli had caught up with him in the parking lot at the Dregs. On the way to the airport, Remo had been in too much of a hurry to throw him out of the car.
A few heads turned as Tortilli shoved through the crowd, waving a pair of airline tickets over his head.
"We're all set!" Tortilli panted, sliding up beside Remo. He slammed into the phones, out of breath. "Two tickets on the next flight to L.A. We've got about seven minutes." His famous face was slick with sweat.
Remo was trying to think. "Yeah, and the bombs could go off before that," he muttered.
"But maybe not," Tortilli stressed. "This is a business charter jet," he added, flapping the tickets at Remo. "We can be in L.A. in an hour and a half. Maybe less."
"And stacked up over LAX for two days," Remo complained. There had to be another way. Every minute in the sky worrying about the Master of Sinanju would be torture.
Tortilli shook his head. "I can get us cleared to land as soon as we get there," he insisted. Remo's head snapped around. "How?"
"Puh-lease," Tortilli mocked, raising an eyebrow. "I'm me."
Remo frowned. "What kind of perks do you get when you make a good movie?" he asked.
Before Tortilli could mention a word about his People's Choice Award, Remo reached over and grabbed an extrawide purple lapel. Dragging the director behind him, he sprinted for the departure gate.