Next would come the familiar crack of bone as the lethal assault propelled thin white chunks of the Arab's splintered sternum back into his vital organs.
Remo had delivered the same blow countless times in the past. Always with the same result. Until now.
The air around al Khobar dispersed obediently before Remo's killing hand. The chest was as open as an Iowa cornfield-the bone ready, eager to explode. According to everything his body was screaming at him, the blow should have worked flawlessly.
But when it was through, nothing had happened. It was over. Done. Al Khobar was dead. He must be.
But the terrorist still stood before him. Alive and suspicious. Angry eyes darted from Remo to a point beside Remo's right shoulder.
Remo's face darkened in instant concern.
The blow had to have registered. It was impossible for it to have gone unnoticed.
And then Remo felt it. So perfectly had the pressure point been manipulated, he had not even been aware that the blow remained incomplete. His mind told him that Assola al Khobar was dead. But his eyes told him that he was alive...
And that his arm was locked in place a fraction of a millimeter before the Eblan terrorist's chest. Someone had expertly overridden the network of nerves that controlled his arm and shoulder. He realized with a sinking feeling that there was only one man on Earth adept enough to break through his body's defenses.
Al Khobar was forgotten.
Remo turned, already knowing what to expect. He found himself staring into a pair of familiar hazel eyes. They were not pleased.
"You are a long way from Detroit," the Master of Sinanju accused coldly.
Chapter 12
Harold Smith could not have been more relieved to hear Remo's voice on the other end of the line. "Remo, thank goodness. Was Chiun able to stop you in time?" Smith asked urgently.
"Yeah, he stopped me," Remo complained.
He was in Bindle and Marmelstein's Hollywood office. The room was undergoing major renovations. The walls and the ceiling had been torn down. Crates of furniture with exotic-sounding names were piled in the outer room.
Remo had chased the work crews out in order to get a little privacy for his phone call. The Master of Sinanju had abandoned Remo to talk to the studio executives.
"Thank God," Smith exhaled.
"But now he's not talking to me," Remo went on. "He's ticked that I sneaked out here without him. What's the rhubarb, Smitty? I was a hair away from pulling the plug on that creep."
"No," Smith stressed, the passion in his voice an unusual departure from his customary measured, nasal tone. "Under no circumstances are you to injure Assola al Khobar."
"Okay, now you're beginning to annoy me. I thought that was the job."
"It was," Smith said. "But the circumstances have obviously changed. I had thought you would have called in, given the latest developments."
"What latest developments?"
"You did not hear of the abduction?" Smith asked.
"Smitty, I'm in Hollywood," Remo said sourly. "If the talk isn't about gross points, back-end deals or the new all-cabbage diet, it ain't talked about. What abduction?"
Smith took a deep breath. He went on to explain about the kidnapping of the secretary of state and her entourage in Ebla. He also told Remo of the threats against America's entertainment industry, Israel and the call for the cessation of funds to the Jewish state.
"Sounds like you called it right as far as the great Omay is concerned," Remo said once Smith was through.
"I have managed to tap into the computer files of his personal physician in New York," Smith continued. "What I learned might explain the sultan's change. As you probably know already, he was quite ill more than a decade ago."
"Didn't he almost die?" Remo asked.
"Had he remained in Ebla he would have. Their medical technology is woefully inadequate. It was at this time that he began his peace overtures to the West."
"He made nice-nice with us because he wanted to save his own ass," Remo commented.
"That is the likeliest scenario. But after his recovery he remained a tenuous friend of Western interests."
Smith grew uncomfortable. It was always difficult for him to gauge the motivations of madmen. He pressed on. "It is possible that during this period he simply enjoyed the notoriety his role as peacemaker afforded him," the CURE director offered. He didn't seem convinced of his own argument. Years of toiling in anonymity did not afford Smith much insight into the minds of grandstanders.
"He liked the limelight," Remo said, accepting Smith's appraisal. "That's not a bad conclusion, especially considering the whacked-out town I'm in right now."
"Yes," Smith said. "In any event his cancer receded and he has since given lip service to peace. He has been allowed in and out of the United States for years."
"Then another possibility is that he was afraid of a relapse," Remo suggested. "If he went back to his old ways, we'd never let him back in this country again."
"That is true," Smith said. "And we will not, although given his current prognosis it seems no longer to matter one way or another."
"Why?" asked Remo. "Is he sick again?"
"According to his medical records he is terminal."
Alone in Bindle and Marmelstein's office, Remo frowned. "That's nuts," he said. "He's got to know we'd pop him the minute he comes in for treatment."
"He has forgone all treatments," Smith explained. "The prognosis was grim regardless. He opted not to endure radiation treatment or futile surgery. He has not been back to see his doctor in eight months."
"He's not coming back, is he?" Remo said glumly.
"Neither to New York nor from the abyss of madness, it would seem," Smith replied tightly.
"All right," Remo said. "I see where this is going. Book me on the first plane to Ebla"
The CURE director's response surprised him.
"Absolutely not," Smith insisted.
"Why?"
"The situation in Ebla has grown more tense since the abduction," Smith explained. "I do not know if you are aware of the geography of the region, but Ebla rests largely above Lebanon on the Mediterranean."
"I've got a rough idea," Remo admitted.
"Then you might know that there is a strip of land in Ebla a few miles wide called the Anatolia Corridor. It runs the length of Lebanon down to the northern border of Israel, sandwiched between Syria and Lebanon. Since the abduction it has become known to our intelligence services that the Ebla Arab Army has begun to mass at the bottom of the Anatolia Corridor. They have been joined on maneuvers by members of the Akkadad Public Security Force. In addition the Royal Eblan Air Force is on full alert."
"If he's thinking Ebla can take on Israel, he's going to be in for a big surprise," Remo noted.
"Perhaps not," Smith answered. "While Ebla alone is no match for Israel militarily, it is likely that such an action on the part of one Arab state could spur other nations in the region to similar action. Israel would be no match for the combined forces of Ebla, Iran, Iraq and Syria, for instance."
"Okay, I don't get it, Smitty," Remo said with growing impatience. "You don't want me to bump off Omay and you don't want me to bump off Assola. What the hell do you want me to do?"
"Nothing for the moment. The United States is in the process of increasing our military presence in the Mediterranean and Persian Gulf. Allied nations are joining suit. The President has informed me that he is considering allowing the military to respond in kind if engaged."
"This is stupid," Remo complained. "World War III is busting out all over, and you want me to sit on the sidelines?"
In glum frustration he pulled open the blinds behind a paint-spattered ladder to find that he was looking out over the vast army of camels and Arabs. The activity level outside had increased dramatically. Robed men were beginning to mount the skittish animals.