Squirrelly herself held court in her living room with her impressive array of entertainment-industry awards standing at attention on the mantelpiece, the Oscar that had catapulted her to new heights positioned exactly in the center. The air was redolent with a sickly sweet smell coming from a hand-rolled cigarette that was being passed around.
"As soon as the visa problem is cleared up," she was saying, "Tibet, watch out!"
"How does it feel to be a high priestess?" asked a well-known director as he handed off the cigarette.
Squirrelly looked in both directions, grinned and said, "Gotta make sure that sour old Lobsang isn't around when I do this. He always has a yak. Watch."
Squirrelly knocked hot ash off the cigarette and said, "I'm the high priestess, right?"
She took a quick hit, held it in and released aromatic smoke in a cloud of high-pitched giggling, shrieking, "Now I'm the higher priestess! Isn't that a hoot?"
Everyone thought is was a hoot. It was the biggest hoot anyone ever thought of. No one, Squirrelly Chicane was assured, could in the history of the human race, never mind Hollywood, think up a bigger hoot. Pass the joint, please.
THE TERRORISTS got past the private security stationed at the private entrance leading to Squirrelly Chicane's Malibu home by saying, "We're with Sony Pictures."
The first car was allowed to enter.
The second car was not challenged, either.
The valets finished parking both cars at about the same time, and the friends of Denholm Fong began to mix with the crowd, make small talk, sample expensive finger sandwiches and sip assorted intoxicants. They looked relaxed, polished and very southern California. They were all in the film business, they pointedly told anyone who asked and a few who didn't. Most claimed to be Japanese producers or bankers. Japanese money was very important in Hollywood these days. It was enough to impress people who might, but probably would not, know a Japanese from a Chinese at twenty paces.
By the time Denholm Fong pulled up to the gate and identified himself, the party had shifted into second gear. Anyone who wasn't high was drunk or borderline intoxicated.
It would be, Fong saw with a single appraising glance as he stepped from his black Porsche, a piece of cake.
He looked perfectly natural as he strolled onto the beach, smiling and nodding his head to those who waved to him in recognition.
Everyone was here, he thought. Good. There would be no problem. He might even make that long-wished-for connection.
Then he saw the old Korean.
The old Korean wore traditional clothing. Not the trousers of the Korean peasant of the south or the gray work uniform of Fong's North Korean comrades, but the Japanese-style kimono that Koreans almost never wore.
Except for one very special Korean.
It was, in the face of it, utterly impossible. This was a typical ostentatious Hollywood party. It was true that the occasion was rather unusual. And he was expecting Tibetans. He saw no Tibetans. Probably they were wringing their hands in horror at the unspiritual display of opulence.
But the Korean, who looked as if he had first drawn breath in the previous century, was dressed exactly like a Master of Sinanju.
Denholm Fong was a political assassin. He knew his adversaries. He knew also his competition. It was known in Beijing that the House of Sinanju had degenerated to the point that it now worked for the United States.
There could be no doubt. The Reigning Master of Sinanju was present. Fong paused to accept a stuffed crab leg from a silver tray a waiter offered him. He tasted it carefully as he studied the little man who must be the legendary Master of Sinanju.
The little man moved about the crowd like a fussy hen. He wore a disapproving expression on his wrinkled features. His kimono was a riotous thing of shimmering scarlet-and-violet silks.
As Fong watched, the old Korean seemed to be slipping up to each of his own agents. While they blended well in their chic clothes, expensive haircuts and mirrored sunglasses, they nevertheless stood out from the others in one unavoidable respect: they were all ethnic Chinese.
Each time the old man approached one of Fong's agents, the man lost color.
What could he be telling them? Fong wondered.
Denholm waited for the little man to walk away from Nigel before approaching his friend.
"What did that man say to you, Nigel?"
Nigel's voice was very tight as he replied, "The old dragon said that I had come to the wrong party. Cat is not being served."
"A Korean, without a doubt."
"I respectfully request permission to empty my weapon into the old dragon when the time comes."
"The time," Fong said as he caught a flash of saffron out of one corner of his eye, "has come."
Squirrelly Chicane stepped onto the veranda overlooking the beach. She wore the saffron robes of a high lama. On her head, leaning forward drunkenly, perched one of those conical lama hats that resembled a horn of plenty.
"Is everybody having a great time?" she called out, trying to hold the hornlike hat in place.
"Yes!"
Squirrelly hoisted her Oscar high. "Am I the Bunji Lama?"
"Yes!"
"Am I the Bunjiest Lama that ever was?"
"Yes, you are, Squirrelly!" the crowd cried out.
"Good. I want you all to come visit me in Tibet once I settle in and kick out the Chinese army."
Applause greeted the invitation.
"If anyone can kick the Chinese army out of Tibet," someone said, "it's Squirrelly."
"Absolutely. Look at how many Oscars she has."
And over the cacophony of sounds, Denholm Fong raised his voice and said in Mandarin, "Now!"
Out from under silk and poplin jackets came a narrow range of silenced 9 mm pistols.
Fong let Nigel get his Tec-9 out and trained on the old Korean before he reached into his shoulder holster and grasped his Beretta.
He had already decided to draw it only if absolutely necessary. The others could handle the killing. No point in Beijing's top assassin risking his life and blowing his cover just to liquidate an empty-headed over-the-hill actress with delusions of religious grandeur.
Besides, he had his latest script in the car. The chances of a sale were pretty fair once the shooting stopped and his men had escaped in the confusion.
As a precaution, Fong placed his thumb on the safety catch and pushed. The safety wouldn't budge. It felt as if it were welded in place. No matter, he decided. He held the tiny automatic low in both cupped hands and faced the veranda and his target. The first shots from the others would thin out the crowd and start the real party.
Except that no shots came.
A silver dagger did bury itself in Nigel's jugular, though.
Nigel dropped his weapon and tried to grab at the fountain of blood that bubbled out. He spun in place as if trying to synchronize his hands with the blood flow. It was so unexpected, so comical, that Fong almost laughed.
Then Fong became very busy trying to gather up his bowels and stuff them back into the raw hole that had been his abdominal cavity.
This, too, had happened with great suddenness.
Fong had been in the act of turning when he heard a short rip of a sound. His stomach suddenly felt very empty, and something wet and heavy plopped onto his shoes.
He looked down and recognized the slimy grayish-white loops of human intestines. They were still piling up, and his heart gave a single dull thud when Fong realized that they could only be his.
The old Korean who Fong was certain was the Master of Sinanju was already moving on to his next target. There was not a trace of blood on his extended forefinger with its viciously long killing nail. But there was a hell of a lot of it gushing onto the sand under Fong's feet.
Fong folded up like a cheap telescope on the sand and tried to do something about his unraveling intestinal tract. It appeared intact. It was just hanging out of him. Then the bleeding began.