Smith's mind was reeling. He held on to the smooth black edge of his desk for support. "Cultural poisons?" Smith said. "I do not understand."
"He had me on that one," the President admitted. "I finally pinned him down. The guy means movies."
Smith's mouth went dry as a sack of bleached flour left out in the desert sun. His thoughts instantly turned to the sultan's recent acquisition of Taurus Studios.
"Hollywood," Smith croaked.
"What was that?" the President asked.
"Hollywood, Mr. President," Smith stressed. "To anyone abroad Hollywood is America's cultural capital."
"Abroad?" the President rasped. "It's the same here at home. Where have you been for the last century, Smith?"
Smith thought of precisely where he had been-if not for the entire century, at least for a good chunk of it. Tethered to his desk. Like a convict with a life sentence.
"What has he threatened if his demands are not met?" the CURE director asked weakly.
"He informed me that he'll execute the secretary of state and her entourage publicly, as well as destroy America's cultural capital, if we don't agree within two days."
"Forty-eight hours," Smith said aridly.
"As an aside, I'm a little worried about this whole 'destroy Hollywood' thing," the President admitted, for the first time sounding genuinely concerned. "I've got a couple of standing job offers out there when I finally leave office."
Smith wasn't listening. His brain was already clearing. The CURE director was sorting through the information he'd been given, trying to make sense of it.
"By 'America's cultural capital,' he means Hollywood," Smith reasoned slowly. "It is safe to assume he would not make a threat against it if he did not believe he already had the means to carry through on such a threat."
"He also warned me that he'd retaliate against any aggressive actions we might take," the President offered.
The life drained from Smith's face. "Oh, my God," he said, his voice a wheezing whisper.
"What?"
"You remember the terrorist Assola al Khobar?" Smith stated quickly. "The man responsible for the embassy bombings in East Africa last year?"
"Remember," the President scoffed. "How could I forget? He was a godsend in the middle of all that intern junk last summer. A perfect distraction, and the military and CIA guys had to go and drop the ball. It's all their fault. We spent a hundred million trying to blow the bejesus out of him, and he didn't even have the decency to turn up dead."
"Al Khobar is in California," Smith blurted.
The President was shocked. "What?" he demanded.
"I sent our enforcement arm to neutralize him. I had hoped that his appearance in this country was unrelated to Ebla. We must assume, however, given these latest developments, that he is acting as an agent of Sultan Omay." Smith's analytical mind was calculating options. "If any ill were to befall al Khobar, it would likely be construed by Omay as an act of aggression," he said.
"Well, you've got to stop your man, Smith," the President insisted. "At least until we can get the secretary of state and her people out safely."
"I have no way of contacting him," Smith grudgingly admitted. "He contacts me when he is on assignment."
"Dammit, Smith, you're supposed to defuse a crisis, not make it worse," the President snapped. "Think of my legacy. If my secretary of state gets killed on foreign soil I'm going to look bad again. Conspiracy nuts are still talking about that plane crash with the commerce secretary." A thought occurred to him. "What about the other one?" he asked abruptly. "The old guy."
"He is available," Smith conceded.
"Use him, then," the President ordered. Smith took a moment to consider.
For whatever reason, Remo had wanted Chiun to stay home. But the stakes had just gotten much higher. If Remo succeeded in his original assignment and eliminated Assola al Khobar, he could inadvertently trigger an incident both at home and in the Mideast. And, Smith thought with some bitterness, if the great figure of conciliation, Sultan Omay sin-Khalam, struck the right spot in the Arab-dominated world, the fragile peace that had held for years could be shattered forever.
On top of all this there was yet another problem. With his endless parade of political difficulties, this President was increasingly looking to CURE as a tool to be used in his own self-interest. Of course, Smith had and would always refuse such entreaties. But that wasn't the point. This man who occupied the highest elected seat in government simply didn't understand or didn't care that the organization had been deliberately set up so that the sitting President could only suggest assignments. It was the oldest fail-safe Smith employed and it had always served him in good stead.
All this did Harold Smith consider for a few long seconds. It was too long for the liking of the leader of the free world. Angry, the President was about to break in again when Smith finally spoke.
"I will see what I can do," the CURE director said simply.
And with that he hung up the phone on the protesting voice of the President of the United States. As soon as the red phone was secreted back in its drawer, Smith lifted the blue contact phone on his desk surface. He hoped with all his heart that the Master of Sinanju was in an agreeable mood.
For the sake of the entire world.
Chapter 8
The Master of Sinanju was in a less than agreeable mood.
The deadliest assassin on the face of the planet was seated on his simple reed mat in the center of the living room he shared with Remo Williarns. He had not moved from this spot in more than twelve hours.
Before Remo had left on his assignment, the old Korean had badgered his pupil into going out to an all-night video store. Chiun instructed him to rent several films that had been termed "blockbusters" by their respective studios.
He found them all dreadful. They lacked warmth, depth, beauty. Everything that his original screenplay had possessed in spades.
The new screenplay he had been working on the previous evening was in sections on the floor. It was arranged like a large paper quilt. In a flurry of creativity, he had written many more such sheets while watching the succession of awful popular films. He was attempting to infuse new elements into his original story by dropping various dinosaur, alien and explosive car-chase scenes amid his older scenes.
The new screenplay was largely complete, but he was not happy with the way it was turning out. Tired from his sleepless night of creativity, the Master of Sinanju rose from the floor. Turning from his patchwork screenplay, he padded slowly down to the kitchen.
The refrigerator yielded only a little cold rice left from the previous evening's meal. Not even enough to fill his hungry belly.
Remo had been a glutton last night. Every time Chiun questioned him about the assignment Smith had given him, Remo crammed even more food into his mouth.
If the Master of Sinanju were of a suspicious nature-which, of course, he was not-he would have been suspicious of Remo. This he told Remo at dinner. Several times.
For his part Remo had fumbled through a mouthful of food each time, finally agreeing to rent Chiun's movies in order to-in his words-get Chiun "off my back."
It seemed to be the poor old Korean's lot in life. An ungrateful pupil for whom the slightest effort on behalf of his Master became a massive undertaking. An entertainment industry that refused to recognize simple beauty when confronted with it. And on top of everything else an empty belly.
He determined to make Remo somehow pay for all three miseries when he returned.