Hank Bindle was in the middle of a sales pitch to the new arrivals.
"So what do you think?" Bindle asked excitedly. "It'll be a love story-war event. I was thinking we could even give it a futuristic touch. Maybe The Bodyguard meets Full Metal Jacket meets Stargate."
"I don't know," said one of the new arrivals-a man with a wide cherubic face. His dull imbecile's eyes were hidden behind an expensive pair of sun glasses. "Can we give it a human touch? Maybe something that has to do with saving the manatee or Mother Earth?"
"I like the earth angle," the other stranger said. She was a woman in her early sixties who looked as if she were dressing for this weekend's sock hop. She was tall and as thin as a pin. Her giant eyes seemed to cause her wrinkled lids discomfort with every blink.
Bruce Marmelstein checked a leather-bound notepad.
"We can work in the earth," he said with an enthusiastic nod. He smiled broadly to the couple. "Earth is great," Bindle agreed. "We can fit Earth in. Maybe Mars, too. Maybe even some of those other planets they've got up there."
"An outer-space epic!" Marmelstein cried.
"A Star Wars for the next century!" Bindle exclaimed.
"It's got to have heart," the man insisted. "And a message."
"We can put a message on Mars," Marmelstein said.
"Total Recall!" Bindle exclaimed.
"Perfect!" his partner enthused.
"I wonder what this industry was like for the poor slobs who actually had to come up with the ideas the rest of you have been stealing for the last hundred years?" asked a sarcastic voice. It came from where they'd left their jeep.
When he turned to find its source, the face of Bruce Marmelstein fell precipitously.
"Oh, no," the executive complained. "You again."
"Yeah, me again," Remo groused as he walked up to the others. "And believe me, I'm not exactly thrilled, either. Your little Koala buddy wasn't at the harbor. They told me he'd be here."
"He isn't," Bindle said quickly.
"I'm sick of traipsing around this cracker factory," Remo said. "I'll wait for him." He crossed his arms, appraising the two new arrivals. "Do I know you?" he asked the man and woman.
"Really, don't be insulting," Hank Bindle said with a nervous laugh. "Of course you do. This is Tom Roberks and his lover, Susan Saranrap." He indicated the man and woman, respectively.
"Dead Guy Strolling," Roberts sneered haughtily. "Director."
"Zelma and Patrice," Susan Saranrap sniffed snobbishly. "Star."
"Watched two minutes of each," Remo Williams said with a friendly smile. "Bored."
"Hah, what a joker," Bruce Marmelstein interjected anxiously. "He's a friend of Mr. Koala, our liaison with the new owner." He turned to Remo. "I'm sure I can find someone who'll hook the two of you up."
The studio exec tried to steer Remo away from the two celebrities. He found to his dismay that every time he tried to take hold of Remo's arm, the arm was somehow not where it had been a second before.
"So, have you made any progress on your latest bomb?" Remo asked sweetly.
Marmelstein stopped trying to grab his arm. "We've got a working title," Marmelstein said quickly. He glanced at Tom Roberts and Susan Saranrap.
"We love it," Bindle enthused.
"It's perfect," Marmelstein agreed.
"See if you love it, too," Bindle said. He raised his arms into the air, framing an invisible title between his outstretched hands. "The Movie." He intoned the words with the same reverence a priest used when referring to the Resurrection.
"The Movie," Marmelstein bubbled happily. "Forget 72 or ID4. We have TM. And the beauty part is that legal thinks by calling it TM we've already given trademark warning without labeling it. We can wait a few months for the uncopyrighted TM fire to really heat up in the hinterlands silkscreen market and then swoop in with massive lawsuits for trademark infringement."
"Plus it'll be the movie," Bindle said. "The greatest event in cinematic history. The movie to end all movies."
"And it's going to star Tom Roberts and Susan Saranrap," Bruce Marmelstein added with a hopeful grin.
"What's the matter?" Remo asked. "The entire A-, B- and C-list of actors crap out on you?"
Tom Roberts had had enough. "Who is this clown?" the actor demanded. He whipped off his glasses, as if in preparation for a fight.
Remo's attention had suddenly shifted beyond the small cluster of Hollywood types. He thought he spied a familiar face through a break between the two nearest bungalows. It was near one of the lines of camels in the adjacent lot.
"Hey, I'm talking to you," Tom Roberts insisted. He sent a pudgy, angry finger into Remo's chest. The finger never reached its target. The chest and the man it was attached to were no longer where they had been.
Roberts, as well as Bindle and Marmelstein, was completely baffled. It took them a moment to locate Remo. When they finally did, what they saw was only a fleeting glimpse of the thin young man as he slipped rapidly down the hedge-lined alley between the pair of adjoining bungalows.
Remo was closing in on the gaunt, bearded figure of Assola al Khobar.
And, unbeknownst to Remo, the action he intended to take threatened to trigger a disaster of explosive global ramifications.
Chapter 11
This is where I came in.
It was this thought that passed through Remo's mind as he moved swiftly between the neatly trimmed hedges toward the familiar shape of Assota al Khobar.
Remo had had it with these Hollywood wackos. Smith wanted Remo to find out from al Khobar what Sultan Omay's interest was in Taurus Studios. Once he'd wrung this information out of the terrorist, he could zap the wholesale murderer once and for all and get back to something resembling a normal life.
Al Khobar had not yet seen him. The swarthy man's back was to him as Remo approached. The terrorist was in deep, angry conversation with several of Bindle and Marmelstein's war-movie extras. He pointed out beyond the walls of the old MBM studio, waving his free hand in a circular motion above his head. He then swept a broad hand out across the rows of patiently waiting camels. Assola al Khobar looked almost like a general preparing to lead his troops into battle.
Remo broke through the narrow hedge alley between the matching bungalows. A bleached-out sidewalk opened onto the vast, camel-filled lot.
There were Arabs everywhere. One, it seemed, for every camel present. And a rough count put the camel total somewhere near three hundred. A lot of men.
This was too tricky. Remo didn't know who all these movie extras were, but it seemed unlikely that they were all from Ebla. More than likely they were local hirelings-possibly illegal Mexican immigrants-who had been dressed in Arab garb. But there were certainly real Arabs mixed in. If he dragged al Khobar off in front of them, there could be a major riot on the Taurus lot.
Moving swiftly, Remo made a snap decision. He wouldn't ask al Khobar about Omay. Let Smith and his computers figure out what the sultan was up to. Remo would simply kill the terrorist and make his escape quickly, before the crowd could work up a head of angry steam.
He was only a few feet away from his target now. There weren't many men in Assola's immediate vicinity. Not enough to start a riot.
Kill him and get out. A good plan. Given the circumstances, the best plan.
The parking lot was thick with the stench of manure. A camel snorted hotly as Remo passed by. Al Khobar was yelling in some strange Arabic tongue.
Turning all at once. Seeing Remo.
A look of confusion turned to one of suspicion. Too late-Remo was already there, his arm tucked back, coiled to fire forward.
Fingers curled, palm flat, Remo drove his hand out. The blow was flawless. It launched like a well-oiled piston toward the chest of the Arab terrorist.
A hair before the point of impact Remo's hypersensitive skin felt the brush of material from al Khobar's robe. A fraction later he sensed the familiar negative pressure from the displaced air around the body.