The press was kept back farther than usual by a contingent of dark-suited Secret Service agents. The armor-reinforced presidential limousine with its tiny twin flapping American flags stopped at the end of the long red carpet just as Tortilli made it to the curb. Before and behind the limo, motorcycles and official vehicles of the presidential motorcade stopped, as well.
The President climbed from the back seat with a beaming smile beneath his familiar bulbous nose and baggy eyes.
"Quintly, good to see you!" the President exclaimed hoarsely. He pumped the young director's hand for the cameras.
"Glad you could make it, Mr. President," Tortilli said, his own smile never wavering. "Thought that wacky Washington scene mighta kept you east of the mighty Mississip."
A hint of discomfort flitted across the Chief Executive's face.
"Oh, I'm fine," he dismissed. "The First Lady was pretty shaken up, but she's keeping her mind off things by staying busy. Last I saw her she was knee-deep in paperwork."
The President was only too happy to change the subject. Only in California and New York did he receive such enthusiastic crowds these days. Waving to reporters and cheering bystanders, the President began walking to the Burbank Bowl entrance, Quintly Tortilli at his side.
"How soon'll you be shooting?" the chief executive asked when they were nearly at the door. Tortilli's smile broadened just a hair. For a flickering moment, it almost seemed sincere.
"Any minute now, Mr. President," he promised. As the cameras flashed, the two men disappeared inside.
THE ROUTE to the Burbank Bowl was jammed with cars. Through the trees at the side of the freeway, Remo could see the parking lot was also packed.
"No time to wait for the off-ramp," he said tightly.
"The faster we finish this business, the sooner I may depart this province of broken dreams," the Master of Sinanju replied irritably.
Remo nodded. "We bail."
They ditched the rental car in the middle of the freeway. Horns honked angrily as the two Masters of Sinanju ran between cars and hopped the jersey barrier. Side by side, they skidded down the dusty embankment. At the bottom, they raced across the short stretch of woods to the fringe of the parking lot.
"Care to tell me how this picture ends?" Remo asked as they flew between rows of parked cars.
"The good version, or theirs?" Chiun retorted.
"The shooting script," Remo pressed.
"I believe there was some sort of boom device on the stage," Chiun sniffed as he ran. "Who knows if that has been changed since last week."
Remo's face was grim as they swept between cars.
"Let's hope Tortilli hasn't seen another movie since then," he grumbled. "The way he rips everybody off, he's probably got a mechanical shark swimming around the orchestra pit."
Careful to avoid Secret Service and police foot patrols, the two men raced on toward the great beveled dome of the Burbank Bowl.
THE AUDIENCE had endured the theme from Star Wars and Raiders of the Lost Ark before the orchestra finally segued into the 1812 overture.
Far away from the stage, Quintly Tortilli's purple tuxedo was stained dark with sweat. The nervous grinding of his molars was drowned out by the thunderous music.
Far below the VIP box, Lee Matson waited calmly onstage, not a care in the world. Before him, a pair of breech-loading field guns aimed into the crowd. Only Tortilli and Matson knew that their explosive powder charges had been replaced with live shells.
In the box beside Tortilli, the President of the United States smiled and nodded to the music. Thank God Tortilli had always been a generous contributor to the President and his party. There was no way he'd be there otherwise. It was a fat check drawn from the Die Down IV budget that had gotten Tortilli access to the White House layout, as well as a night in the Lincoln Bedroom thrown in for good measure.
Vanity drew the President there today. Eight cameras whirred around them at this very moment, catching the President's every blink, smile and itch.
Tortilli had told the President that he wanted realism for his latest film. His desire was to capture the real effect on a crowd when the Chief Executive was in attendance.
Of course, it wasn't vanity alone. A fresh, generous studio check to the President's legal-defense fund and-in spite of the previous day's unpleasantness-the Chief Executive had readily agreed.
Around the bowl, the rumbling music grew in intensity. Almost over.
Tortilli stood abruptly. A few eyes turned his way.
Sweating, the director patted his stomach. "Gotta take care of business," he mouthed over the din.
As Tortilli slipped quickly from the box, the Secret Service entourage didn't give him a second glance.
Ears ringing, Tortilli hurried out into the enclosed hallway. To await the thunderous explosion that would be heard around the world and herald three hundred million, domestic, by Labor Day.
THE BURBANK BOWL WAS a half shell open-air amphitheater. Half-wall partitions near the stage separated the more expensive seats from the general-admission bleachers. A few VIP boxes lined the far back wall.
Remo and Chiun had taken a rear entrance, bursting into the main bleachers section at the midpoint. As soon as they were inside, they spotted the President. He was way back in the center box at the rear of the big stadium.
"Must have taken a cheerleader with a MilkBone to get him and Fido out of that closet," Remo commented.
Chiun was scanning the opposite direction. A long nail unfurled.
"There!" the Master of Sinanju exclaimed. Following his teacher's extended finger, he spied the cannons at once. The tuxedo-clad figure behind them smiled with demented eagerness.
"I'll get Mr. Nutbar," Remo barked.
Chiun nodded. "I will attend the puppet President."
In a swirl of silken robes, Chiun headed for the rear of the theater. Remo flew down the long flat steps toward the main stage.
The Secret Service protection thinned the farther he ran from the President, replaced by uniformed police officers.
Thanks to Remo, there weren't as many cops as there should have been. Every other police officer in California was doubtless waiting at the abandoned Long Beach shipyard for an attack that would never come. He avoided police all the way to the front of the stadium.
Down front, he hesitated.
He couldn't very well leap onstage. Wrists rotating absently, he tried to think of a way to take out the assassin without being seen.
Seen!
It was risky, but it might work. In any event, at least he had a plan. He only hoped he could implement it in time.
As the music swelled, Remo raced around the side of the stage, away from the cannons and the madman behind them.
QUINTLY TORTILLI LURKED anxiously in the hallway behind the closed-off VIP tier. Face a sheen of glistening sweat, he studied his watch. Mickey's hands moved with agonizing slowness.
He didn't know how far away he should be. He knew he wanted to be in San Diego when the cannon blasted the presidential box to smithereens. Or, better yet, Mexico. But he needed to be close enough to allay suspicion.
What if they linked him to Lee Matson?
What if they traced the Taurus prop cannons to him?
What if as a result of bad press, Lord help him, Die Down IV flopped?
He shook away the negative thoughts.
"Get a grip, Quint," he muttered to himself. "You're a Hollywood director. You're smarter than everyone in the world."
Feeling dizzy, he took a deep breath.
"People sez you're a genius," he panted, leaning against the wall for support. The cold sweat on his back made him shiver.
"Every kid in film school wants to be you," he insisted.
A rumble. Felt through the wall.
For an instant, he thought Matson had fired his cannons early. But before he could check his watch, his peripheral vision saw what his back had felt. A few yards away, one of the doors that led into the auditorium exploded inward.