Fade to Black

The guard recognized him at once. Running into the booth, he raised the wooden arm. As the limo sped onto the lot, Tortilli smiled tightly at Remo. "Fame has its perks," he said.

"Yeah," Remo replied. He was already scanning for the Master of Sinanju. "It gets you into the belly of a bomb that much faster."

They raced deeper into the tight cluster of whitewashed buildings.

CHIUN STOOD on a squat stool in the wardrobe trailer. His pipe-stem arms were stretched out wide as the wardrobe mistress fussed around the hem of his uniform.

Three body-length mirrors-the two on either side angled slightly inward-stood across from the Master of Sinanju. He was admiring his reflection in the polished glass.

"If only Remo could see me now," Chiun lamented. His eyes were moist.

The wardrobe mistress knew by now that Remo was the old man's son. Adopted. But a good boy nonetheless. Most of the time.

"I'm sure he'd like it." She smiled through a mouthful of straight pins.

"Perhaps," Chiun said. "Perhaps not. My son wears underwear as a shirt and calls it style. However, it would be nice to have someone to show off to. Have you contacted the magicians Bindle and Marmelstein as I have instructed?"

"They're out to lunch."

"Remo has said that about them many times," Chiun nodded. "Have they left the studio?"

"That's what they said at the front office."

"Why would they not eat here?" Chiun asked, puzzled. "The dining hall of the commissar now serves adequate rice."

"That seems like all they serve here now. Maybe they don't like rice," the wardrobe woman suggested. She straightened, rubbing her lower back. "All finished."

All thoughts of the studio executives were banished. Chiun turned to examine himself in the mirrors.

The old-fashioned commissioner's dress uniform he had chosen was not enough for the Master of Sinanju. He had garnished it with his own small touches.

In addition to the gold braids, cuff stripes and shoulder boards that had originally been on the dark blue suit, he had added every police medal he could find on every other uniform and in every case in the wardrobe trailer. With all of these arranged around the chest and back of the uniform, the old Korean now looked like a Communist premier-Christmas tree hybrid.

He had decided that blue was too somber a color for him and so had collected a bright green woman's scarf from a wall peg. He had instructed the wardrobe mistress to pin the scarf under the epaulet of his right shoulder and then pull it to the left side of his shiny leather belt.

His holster was empty, for he refused to carry a handgun. In it, he had arranged a pair of fiery red gloves. They spilled out near the knot in his makeshift sash.

"It is perfect," he announced, a catch in his voice.

"Maybe I should redo that cuff," the woman ventured.

Chiun had noticed her stall tactics early on. He had encouraged her to move more quickly.

The Master of Sinanju shook his head. "It is magic time," he intoned, stepping grandly from his stool.

Chiun gathered up one last garment from the floor.

Somehow, he had managed to locate a Napoleon hat. The woman still had no idea where he'd found that item. He'd had to stuff it with a dress shirt in order to make it fit.

Chiun perched the hat on his bald head. He examined his image in the mirrors one last time before turning.

"I am ready to make history," he breathed. Huge black boots clomped loudly as the tiny Korean marched from the trailer.

REMO SPOTTED the truck immediately. The big Plotz rental was parked near the front of Soundstage 2, its back closed tightly.

He sprang from the limo and ran to the truck. No one in the immediate vicinity seemed interested in either him or the vehicle. If it had belonged to a film that was being shot on the Taurus lot, someone would have been yelling at him to get away from it by now.

Quintly Tortilli jogged up from the limo. "What's wrong?" he panted.

"There's the first bomb," Remo replied, jerking a thumb toward the truck.

Tortilli blanched. "Should-should we drive it out of here?" the director whispered, as if his voice alone might set it off.

"That's one way to clear freeway congestion," Remo said dryly. "We have to figure out a way to disarm it." He reached for the lock on the truck's back door.

Tortilli leaped between him and the truck. "Wait a minute! Wait a minute!" the director snapped. "You can't even figure out how to run a radio."

"Are you volunteering?" Remo said evenly.

Tortilli considered. "Hey, I only do movie explosions," he said finally, taking a nervous step back.

As the director watched anxiously, Remo snapped the thick chain that had been wrapped around the rear handle. Tortilli held his breath as Remo threw open the door.

The bomb didn't go off.

Tortilli exhaled relief. He'd been afraid that it was somehow wired to the handle. When he inhaled, the biting stench from two and a half tons of ammonium nitrate left baking in the Californian sun burned his nostrils. Retching, he pulled the lapel of his polyester suit jacket over his mouth and nose.

Remo kept his own breathing shallow as he climbed into the fetid trailer.

Wan light filtered through the translucent plastic roof. Ominous piles of fertilizer lurked in the shadows.

"Hey, Remo?" Tortilli called from outside, his voice muffled by his suit coat.

"Stop using my name," Remo replied absently. "People will think I know you." He looked around for a detonator, not sure what he'd do when he actually found one.

"There's some guys heading this way," Tortilli pressed.

Remo was frowning deeply. "Tell them to run."

"They are running." Tortilli was looking away from the truck, deeper into the center of the studio complex. "I think maybe..." His darting eyes squinted. "I know one of them!" he announced suddenly. "From Seattle!" When Remo spun to him, the director had dropped his jacket from his face. "The Dregs!" he cried anxiously. "He must be one of the bombers!"

Remo stuck his head around the rear of the truck. A group of nine men was racing madly in their direction. Screaming as they went, they shoved people out of the way as they ran, fear and exertion filling their sweat-streaked faces. They ran like men who had glimpsed the future.

Jumping from the truck, Remo flew to the waiting limo. He flung open the rear door.

"Quick! Inside!" Remo yelled to the running men.

Sheer panic offset good judgment. The nine men dived and scrambled into the back of the car. Remo hopped in behind them, slamming the door on the studio lot.

In the limo, the men were panting and swallowing.

"We've got to get out of here!" one of them cried. "This place is going to blow!"

Their guilt confirmed, Remo needed to get their attention. Fast. Reaching over, he grabbed one of the men by the throat. He jerked up.

The extra rocketed off the seat at supersonic speed, his skull impacting with a metallic thud against the roof of the car. The roof gave. The man's head gave more.

When Remo dropped him back to the seat, the extra's head was as flat as the bottom of a frying pan. He dumped the dead man into the foot well.

The panting around him stopped with a single unified gasp. Eight pairs of sick eyes were riveted on Remo.

"How many bombs, and where are they?" Remo pressed.

It was Lester Craig who answered. His expression was ill as he glanced at the lifeless form of William Scott Cain.

"Six," he admitted weakly. "All over."

"You all know how to disarm them?" he demanded.

Rapid nods all around.

"You're first," Remo said, grabbing Lester by the shirt.

When he popped the rear limo door, Quintly Tortilli had to jump from its path. Remo dragged Lester onto the road.

"What's going on?" Tortilli pressed nervously. Remo didn't respond. Striding past the director, he flung Lester through the open back of the parked truck. The extra landed on a pile of reeking fertilizer.

Hopping onto the rear platform, Remo grabbed the door.

"Work fast," he instructed coldly.

He pulled the door closed on the panicked would-be bomber, crushing the lock to prevent escape.

Jumping down, Remo hurried over to the limousine. When he stuck his head inside, seven frightened faces darted up from the body of William Scott Cain.

"How many more of you assholes are here?" Seven heads shook in unison. "None," seven fearful voices chirped.

A minor silver lining. No one left to set off the remaining bombs. But that wouldn't matter if time ran out on even one of them.

Remo's thoughts spun to the Master of Sinanju. Fear for Chiun's safety kept him from asking how soon the bombs were set to go off. By the looks on the faces of his captives, it had to be any minute. He hopped into the limo, barking over his shoulder, "Get onto the stages. Warn everyone to clear the lot."

Anxiety flooded Tortilli's face, yet the director didn't argue. As Remo's limo tore off in a squeal of smoking tires, Quintly Tortilli ran toward the nearest soundstage.

Chapter 13

When Chiun strode grandly onto the set, resplendent in his altered police commissioner's uniform, he was certain his magnificent raiment would cause a jealous stir. Unfortunately, at the instant he appeared, he was upstaged before both cast and crew by some unknown interloper who came racing onto the New York mock-up from the opposite direction.

"It's a bomb!" Quintly Tortilli was screaming at the top of his lungs. His eyes bugged wildly as he ran, arms flailing.

Arlen Duggal turned to the commotion. "Quintly?" the assistant director asked, as if seeing a ghost. He seemed both surprised and relieved at once.

"It's a bomb, Arlen!" Tortilli screamed, grabbing the A.D. by the biceps.

Arlen pitched his voice low. "I've been thinking the same thing," he whispered. "But no one will listen."

He sucked in his breath when Tortilli squeezed his arms tighter, a look of mad desperation in his eyes.

"Clear the studio!" Tortilli screamed. "There are bombs set to go off all around us! They're blowing up the studio!"

A crowd was gathering.

"What are you saying, Quintly?" Arlen asked, confused.

"The extras! The extras planted truck bombs!" Tortilli released the man, spinning to the others nearby. "This whole studio is one big bomb! Run for your lives!"

His frantic mannerisms sent a charged ripple of fear through the crowd. As one, those gathered suddenly remembered the urgency with which the missing extras had been running. As if for their own lives.

There was a single frightened moment of clarity. Then hysteria.

Men yelled; women screamed. The pandemonium rippled out from Tortilli all across the set. By the time it reached the approaching Master of Sinanju, it was a tidal wave.

People ran in every direction. Whatever they'd been doing was abandoned. Whatever they'd been holding was flung aside in their desperate charge for safety.

Eyes narrowing to furious slits, Chiun clomped in his big boots through the stampeding mob.

A burly teamster tried to shove the tiny Asian out of his way. His crumpled body fell in the wake of the crowd. No one offered him a hand.

Trailing the rest came Quintly Tortilli. As he ran past the Master of Sinanju, panic on his face, the old man snagged him by the arm.

It was as if Tortilli had been hit by a truck. He went from a full sprint to a dead stop. His arm felt as if it had been wrenched from the socket. And as he twisted, trying to pull free, Tortilli was confronted by a being who breathed menace from his every pore.

"What is the meaning of this?" Chiun charged, voice low.

"It's a bomb, Sidney Toler!" Tortilli announced. If it was possible for Chiun's eyes to narrow any more than they already were, they did. A laser would have failed to penetrate the furious slits between his crinkled lids.

"You dare?" Chiun barked.

"What?" Tortilli asked, sensing he'd stepped over some unwritten line. For an instant, confusion vied with fear.

Most of the cast and crew were gone already. The New York lot of Taurus was virtually deserted. Distant shouts rose from beyond the facades of buildings.

"I have heard this term before. You insult my film."

"I don't know what you mean," Tortilli begged. "We've got to get out of here!"

"A boom is another way of saying that a movie is not good," the Master of Sinanju intoned. "By saying Assassin's Loves is a boom, you insult my talent."

"This film is yours?" Tortilli asked, anxious understanding ignited his face. "You're Chiun?" The old man's nod was crisp. "It is your privilege to know he who will remove your insolent tongue," he menaced.

"Remo!" Tortilli shouted.

The director hadn't even seen the old Korean's fingers flashing toward him. He jumped when the bony hand with its five deadly talons locked in place before his face.

"You know my son?" Chiun asked. His frozen hand did not waver.

"He's your kid?" Tortilli asked, eyeing Chiun's fingernails with no small concern. "Wow. Must run in the family. Yeah. Remo told me- Remo!" He seemed to suddenly snap back to reality. "This studio's a bomb!" he yelled.

Chiun's fingernails retreated inside the baggy sleeves of his police costume. "Explain."

"There are truck bombs everywhere. Remo's trying to defuse them now. He wanted me to clear the studio."

Chiun's eyes widened. "Remo sent you here? Where is he?" the old man demanded.

"I don't know," Tortilli replied hurriedly. "In a limo somewhere on the lot. He's got the terrorists with him. Listen, we've got to get everybody out of here. These things could go off any second. You should get out of here as fast as possible."

When Tortilli turned urgently away, Chiun let him go. The gangly young man raced from the deserted studio back lot.

Behind him, a frown spread across the parched leather face of the Master of Sinanju.

Chiun could scarcely believe it. His crowning moment of cinematic brilliance, ruined. By Remo, no less.

He'd thought they had put this all behind them. But here it was again, after all these months. Remo's jealousy had returned.

Well, it was high time he put a stop to his pupil's rampant, green-eyed envy once and for all. Girding his thick leather belt around his narrow waist, the Master of Sinanju clomped angrily off the lot in search of his envious son.

"THERE'S ANOTHER ONE!"

The limo driver had been infected by Remo's sense of urgency. Fingers clenched white on the steering wheel, he spotted the next bright yellow Plotz truck the instant the big car rounded the side of Soundstage 4.

It was positioned in front of the bland walls of the studio's executive office building. The big vehicle was parked across both Hank Bindle's and Bruce Marmelstein's personal parking spaces. In the back of the limo, Remo was stunned the executives hadn't had it towed away.

On the seat across from him, the terrorists were lined up like ducks in a shooting gallery.

When the limo screeched to a stop next to the parked truck, Remo snatched the next man in line. He popped the door and bounded for the truck. The lock surrendered to a pulverizing blow, and the trailer door rolled open.

Up and in, he flung the terrorist onto the baking fertilizer. Before even a hint of odor could escape the rear, he yanked the door back down, welding the handle in a crushing grip. With two steps and a leap, he was back inside the limo.

"Next," he snapped to the six remaining extras. "Soundstage 5 is closest," one offered quickly. Remo didn't even have to ask the driver if he knew the way. The man was already peeling across the lot in a cloud of smoking rubber.

The next truck proved as easy as the first two. Remo was beginning to think they might make it after all. He had slammed the trailer door and had just dived back into the limo when he heard the first shrieks. The limo was speeding through a shadow cast by one of the soundstages.

"We've got company," the driver said worriedly, easing up on the gas.

Remo leaned over the seat. Through the front windshield, he saw the first screaming man race into view. Blind panic filled his ashen face.

"I hope that's Goldie Hawn's makeup guy," Remo said thinly.

The first man was followed by another. Yet another man and three women followed hot on his heels. The driver had to slow to avoid hitting them. The floodgates were opened. As Remo's limo inched forward, a multitude of screaming studio personnel came racing around the corner. The driver slammed on his brakes as the crowd swarmed the sleek black car.

"Tortilli," Remo muttered.

He wasn't sure if he should laud the director for his bravery or kill him for his timing.

The wide avenue between soundstages was clogged with people. The crowd pushed against the car, rocking it wildly on its shocks. Some men scrambled up the hood. Leaden footsteps buckled the roof as they clambered across to the trunk. The sunlight was marred by shadows as the terrified Taurus employees slid down over the small rear window.

People were trampled underfoot. One woman was shoved roughly from behind and knocked through the open door to the nearest soundstage. She didn't reemerge.

"I can't get through this!" the driver shouted. He winced as a boot cracked the windshield. Remo spun to the last five extras. "Three bombs left?" he asked sharply.

Nods from the terrorists. After a second's rapid calculation, Remo slammed the heel of his hand into the temples of three of the men. So fast were the blows delivered, it was the burst of displaced air before Remo's flying hand that did the actual deed. The two surviving extras watched in shock as their confederates slumped forward.

Pressure from the stampeding throng held the door in place. Unable to open it without severely injuring passersby, Remo did the next best thing. Fingers curling around the handle, he wrenched. With a shriek of protesting metal, the door collapsed in around its frame. Remo tossed the buckled door to the wide floor.

The noise from the crowd exploded around their ears.

Reaching over the seat, Remo plucked the driver from behind the wheel. "Get ready to run," he instructed the man as he pushed him out the door.

"Wait!" the driver screamed.

Holding the man by the shoulders, Remo hesitated.

"What?" he pressed.

The driver looked sheepish. "It's just that I've got this script I've been working on. If you could let someone know what I did today-"

The rest of what he said was lost. Remo fed the man into the crowd. The limo driver was carried along with the fleeing mob to the main gate.

Plucking up the two remaining terrorists, Remo jumped from the car. He was a salmon swimming upstream as he sprang to the roof of the limo, an extra tucked under each arm. He slid from the hood and met the crowd head-on, butting people from his path by twisting the men he carried right and left. The extras were bruised and bloodied by the time Remo ducked away from the thinning crowd into an adjacent avenue. Soundstages flanked the road.

A huge 5 was painted on one side of the nearest big building. Beneath the number sat the next Plotz truck.

Remo moved so quickly the next battered extra didn't even know what was happening until he felt himself sinking into fertilizer. Outside, Remo was sealing the door.

"Where's the next one?" he asked the final terrorist.

The man seemed dazed. Blood trickled from gashes in his chin and forehead.

"In the alley between the creative-office complex and the commissary building," he offered, wobbling uncertainly.

"And the last one?"

"Soundstage 9."

Remo had already gathered the man up and was running down the wide avenue when the extra added, "I think."

The crowds were virtually gone by then. Alone on the road, Remo was at a full sprint heading for the commissary. Whitewashed buildings flashed by. "You don't know?" he demanded.

"I didn't park it. I'm not sure."

Remo finally asked the question he dared not ask earlier. "How much time do we have?" he said, voice grave.

Even as Remo carried him along, the man looked at his watch. He was surprised at how easy it was to read the face. There was no bounce whatsoever to Remo's confident stride.

"Two minutes, ten seconds," the extra said, a freshly worried edge to his quavering voice. Thanks to his time spent at Taurus the previous year, Remo at least knew the basic layout of the studio. But now he had just over two minutes to eliminate the last two truck bombs on the lot. And no knowledge of the Taurus lot would help him if the last two trucks and the tons of explosive force within them weren't where they were supposed to be.

Face hard, Remo's feet barely brushed the ground as he flew headlong into the ticking maw of death.

Chapter 14

"How long do we have to keep circling?" Hank Bindle asked, peeved.

The Taurus cochair frowned as he looked out the car window. They were driving down the same strip of Santa Monica Boulevard for what seemed like the millionth time.

Bruce Marmelstein was sitting in the back of the limousine with his partner. He had been staring at the face of his Cartier off and on for the past half hour.

"Don't worry. Any minute now."

Bindle closed his eyes. He took a sip from the martini in his hand. They'd packed extra liquor for this hour of waiting. But it hadn't sat well. Bindle swished the liquid around his mouth before swallowing it with a loud gulp.

"This is ridiculous. We were titans in this town once."

Marmelstein didn't disagree. The fact that he was using the same watch after nearly a full year was proof enough for him that they had fallen on hard times. There was a time he wouldn't have used a simple gold Cartier to bang in a nail.

"It isn't our fault," Marmelstein pointed out somberly. "Circumstances have conspired against us."

"Whatever. At least you have a career to fall back on," Bindle lamented.

"Hairdressing isn't much of a career, Hank." Bindle nodded.

"Yes, but you were Barbra's hairdresser. That's something. You know how I broke into the industry? I cleaned leaves out of Liberace's pool. I was a pool boy, Bruce. The things I did for that man just to get my first lousy job as a script reader...." Hank Bindle shuddered. He downed the last of his martini in one gulp. As soon as it was gone, he returned to the stainless-steel decanter in the limo's tiny fridge.

Bruce Marmelstein furrowed his brow.

There was a time when Hank Bindle wouldn't have mentioned the Liberace story. In fact, once he'd become a player in the industry, Bindle had fired anyone who mentioned the word pool within a two-block radius of him. But that was then. Now Hank Bindle was sinking into a quagmire of self-pity.

"Liberace is dead. I can't go back there. I can't start at the beginning. Not at my age. If this plan goes south, I'll be an unemployed fifty-year-old with a hundred-million-dollar golden parachute." He moaned loudly. "What will I do with the rest of my life?"

Bindle swigged his glass dry.

"Get us back to the studio," Marmelstein suddenly announced to the driver over the intercom. Bindle sniffled. "Is that it? Is it time?"

"It'll be gone by the time we get back," Marmelstein assured him.

"Wait. I think I felt a tremor." Bindle held on to the seat, bracing himself against the imaginary quake.

"It hasn't happened yet," Marmelstein stressed.

"Hmm." Bindle didn't sound convinced. He reached for the fridge once more. "Well, it better work. We paid good money for this."

"Don't worry. Soon, Hank. Soon."

When Bindle offered him a martini, Bruce Marmelstein didn't refuse.

BUILDINGS FLEW BY at breakneck speed.

Even as he ran, Remo was mapping a strategy. The Soundstage 9 truck was first. It was farther away than the other, but he had plans for the last vehicle.

Fortunately, the extra had been right. The truck was where he said it would be.

Though far from an explosives expert, Remo guessed the Plotz truck had been positioned to inflict massive damage on not only Soundstage 9, but also on any structure in the immediate vicinity. Earthquake resistant or not, the flimsy Taurus buildings would have been blown from here to Fresno if all six bombs had gone off.

As he flung the final extra into the rear of the penultimate truck, Remo prayed the man's confederates had neutralized the other four bombs.

With barely more than a minute to spare, the extra's only hope of survival was to disarm the bomb. He was scrambling over the heap of fertilizer as Remo slammed the door. In no time, Remo was flying across the lot toward the commissary.

His face was steel, his arms and legs featureless blurs as he tore down one avenue and ripped up another.

The roads on which he ran were abandoned. The match of fear had been dropped, and the panic had spread like wildfire through the studio. Everyone had fled. Remo only hoped the Master of Sinanju had gone, as well.

Hurtling around the side of the commissary, he found the last truck precisely where the extra had said it would be. He sprinted to the vehicle. Thirty-four seconds.

Remo didn't even bother with the trailer. He knew nothing about dismantling bombs. His only hope was to minimize the damage.

As he flung open the cab door, a horrible thought sprang to mind.

"Keys!" Remo hissed.

He'd forgotten to ask for them! Thirty seconds.

He'd hot-wired cars before, but never that fast. He doubted he could get it done in time.

No time to reconsider. There might yet be people in the surrounding buildings. He dived beneath the dashboard.

A dangling weight brushed his short hair. Spinning to the source, he found the keys hanging from the ignition an inch from his nose.

"Thank God for amateurs," Remo grumbled, falling back in the driver's seat.

The engine started with a rumbling cough. Twenty-eight seconds left. How far to drive back across the lot?

Even as he wondered the distance, he was stomping on the gas. The big truck lumbered forward. Slowly at first, but with greater speed with each passing second.

Remo plowed over whatever was in his way. Clothing racks and backdrops were crushed under speeding treads.

Ahead was an open hangar door. Engine building to a throaty protest, Remo jounced through the opening, straight into the soundstage.

In the semidarkness of the huge interior, lights and cameras bounced off the grille. Thick cables thrummed relentlessly below.

Another hangar door. This one closed.

Shifting, Remo accelerated more. A final burst of speed and the truck punched through it, bursting out into bright sunlight.

An instant of relief.

He had oriented himself correctly. The truck was now headed precisely where he wanted it to go. Eighteen seconds.

All at once, a familiar figure was standing in the truck's path. Daring Remo to run him down. Parchment face furious.

Chiun. He hadn't fled with the rest.

"Get out of the way!" Remo screamed, even as the truck consumed the final distance between him and the Master of Sinanju.

Eyes slivers of angry disbelief, Chiun stood his ground until the last instant. Only when it became clear that Remo had no intention of stopping did he bound from the rushing truck's path.

The instant after the old man's eggshell pate vanished from before the windshield, the passenger's side door burst open. The Master of Sinanju blew into the speeding truck's cab like a raging wind.

"What is the meaning of this?" Chiun demanded from the seat beside Remo.

"No time," Remo snapped through clenched teeth.

Before them appeared the outdoor New York set. Remo had seen it on one of his bored tours of the studio last year. It looked to have been abandoned for ages. Cries for realism had forced most films and television programs to relocate to the real New York. But today there was equipment everywhere.

"I thought this place was abandoned!" Remo yelled as the truck barreled onto the set. Equipment crashed away from the cab, flying in every direction as the big vehicle lumbered forward. Beside him, Chiun's eyes were wide in shock.

"Remo, have you gone mad!" the old man gasped.

Fifteen seconds.

"There's a bomb on board!" Remo screamed. Hazel eyes grew to saucers of incredulity.

There was no time for further explanation. Only for one last warning.

"Run!" Remo shouted desperately.

And flinging open his door, Remo dropped from the cab.

Even as Remo was jumping out one way, Chiun was leaping out the other. Both men hit the ground running.

Ten seconds.

The truck careered forward, finally crashing headlong into one of the phony buildings. The very real brick wall behind it stopped the truck dead, nose crumpling back through the cab to the trailer. The impact didn't set off the explosives.

Wordlessly, Remo and Chiun ran. Arms swinging, legs pounding in furious concert.

Neither man looked at the other as they raced side by side for the end of the lot. They hit the main concourse to the soundstages. Still they didn't slow.

In his head, Remo was counting down the time. Seven seconds.

He remembered the cratered Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City and similar blasts at embassies in Africa. They might not be far enough away.

Five seconds.

Running blindly, lungs working furiously.

Not enough distance. Not enough time to get away.

Three seconds.

A concussive wave at his back. Early. The terrorist had miscounted.

He felt himself being lifted in the air; thrown forward.

Something flashed in his peripheral vision. Hands windmilling. Slicing furiously at air. Chiun.

And in that sliver of airborne time at the hellish forefront of a consuming wave of raw explosive energy, Remo finally noticed the Master of Sinanju's costume. In his altered police uniform, the old man looked like Korea's answer to the Keystone Kops.

Remo made a mental note to ask Chiun about the outfit when they reached the Void, for there was no doubt in his mind that they were both going to die.

And as this final thought flitted through the mind of Remo Williams, the wave of intense heat from the powerful blast overwhelmed them.

Chapter 15

When the sound wave screamed over his prone form, exploding with deafening force in his ears, Remo realized that he had survived the explosion after all.

The ground where he'd landed shook from the intensity of the blast. Pressure waves expelled before the rushing explosive force shattered windows in all of the studio buildings around him. Glass fragments attacked the roadway like shards of finely honed ice.

Even as the sound blew away from him, rumbling furiously into the distance, the wide stretch of road where Remo had been thrown was pelted with a hail of hot gravel and dirt. Chunks of smoldering wood from the flimsy New York facades scattered like matchsticks, curls of smoke rising from their charred ends.

The explosion and its aftermath-even the fact that he had come through in one piece-meant little to Remo. He had only one overriding concern.

As he scampered to his feet, Remo's worried eyes searched for the Master of Sinanju. His tense face became a wash of relief when he spied the old Korean scurrying out from beneath an abandoned studio jeep. Embers from the explosion had ignited a small fire on the jeep's striped-cloth canopy.

Chiun was getting to his feet when Remo approached.

"That was close," Remo exhaled. As he walked, he slapped grime from his chinos.

"Close!" the Master of Sinanju raged, parchment face flushed red. "Have you lost your mind?" Nails like daggers were clutched in furious fists of bone.

"What's with you?" Remo griped, instantly aggravated at the belligerent stance the old man had taken.

"I will tell you what!" Chiun snapped. "This-this outrage!" He waved an angry hand back toward where the explosion had leveled most of Times Square.

From where they stood, only a portion of the set was visible. The buildings had been blown backward, their artificial fronts collapsed onto wooden frames. An unseen spot-presumably ground zero-belched thick acrid smoke over the roof of the nearest soundstage.

Remo was astonished. Chiun was actually mad at him. He stabbed a finger in the same direction. "That was a freaking bomb, Chiun," he snarled.

"I am not an idiot!" the Master of Sinanju retorted, stomping his big boots in angry frustration. With each stomp, his feet hit the ground a full second after his boots' soles. "I know what it was! What did you think you were doing with it?"

"I thought I was saving your life!"

"A likely story," Chiun snapped.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know," the old man intoned coldly. "Do not pretend otherwise."

"I don't," Remo said hotly. "And I can't believe you. The whole way down from goddamn Washington, I was worried out of my mind that you'd be blown to bits when I got here."

"And when you found me still in one piece, you decided to do the job yourself," Chiun accused.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Remo said. "How was I supposed to know you'd be standing in the middle of the street decked out for the Korean touring company of HMS Pinafore? And while we're on the subject, what's with that outfit?" He waved a hand from the Napoleon hat that teetered on Chiun's head down to his shiny black boots.

"Do not change the subject," Chiun huffed, adjusting his bright green sash, "from the fact that you tried to kill me."

Remo took a step back, shocked. "What?" he demanded.

"Do not insult me by denying it," Chiun sniffed. As he shook his head, great sadness swelled where anger had been. "Oh, Remo, how could you? A bomb, no less. I knew you were jealous of my incipient fame, but how could you debase our art so completely? Could you not think of a less insulting way to kill me, like a blowgun or even poisoned food? A box of asps delivered to my trailer would have at least shown some inventiveness on your part. But this..." With a sweep of his arm, he took in the smoking debris.

"Look, Chiun," Remo said, attempting to inject a reasonable tone in his voice, "you know how ridiculous this sounds. You accused me of trying to kill you before and you were wrong, remember?"

"My only error was ever being foolish enough to think I was wrong," Chiun said. His hands slipped inside the sleeves of his uniform.

"C'mon, you have to know I would never in a million years try to kill you," Remo argued.

"I know nothing of the sort," Chiun retorted. His frown spread deep across his parchment face. "There is no telling how far behind your sabotage will put this production," he complained. "Had I only known the depths to which you would stoop to undermine me, I would have convinced this studio to produce a low-budget vanity project to keep your resentful mind occupied." Skeletal hands framed an invisible marquee. "Remo the Boom-Wielding Master: the Adventure Begins. "

"That's the stupidest frigging subtitle in motion-picture history," Remo commented.

"Go on," Chiun offered, grabbing at his chest. "Insult my creativity. Your spiteful words are further proof of your blind malice. O, what a dark day this is for the House of Sinanju. I cannot even begin to think how I will record your actions in the sacred scrolls."

Remo had been racking his brain for a way to prove his innocence. Chiun's last words offered him an opportunity that hadn't occurred to him.

"Okay, let's look at this from a different perspective," Remo began logically. "In the histories of Sinanju, you want to be called Chiun the Great Teacher, right?"

Horror flooded Chiun's face. "You have been going through my things?" he gasped.

Remo rolled his eyes. "You showed me, remember? You were afraid I'd get the Korean characters all wrong when I took over writing the histories."

"I do not recall," Chiun huffed.

"You told me that I was too stupid to get it right and that without proper instruction my Korean characters could lead future generations to think you'd trained a monkey. You had me write the damn thing five thousand times."

Chiun's nose crinkled in concentration. "Or perhaps I do remember," he admitted.

"Okay," Remo said, dropping his bombshell. "Would Chiun the Great Teacher ever train a pupil who would sink to using a bomb?" He let the words hang in the air between them.

Chiun grew mute, considering for a long moment.

For the first time since he'd met him, Remo was making logical sense. Maddeningly so. Chiun would never train someone who would deign to use a bomb. Assassinate his teacher, yes-that had been acceptable a handful of times in the long history of the House. But use a bomb? No. With great reluctance, he accepted the truth of his pupil's argument.

"Very well," Chiun grumbled unhappily. "I will grudgingly accept that you did not try to kill me."

"Amen," Remo sighed.

A long nail waggled in Remo's face. "But this does not excuse your vandalism. It would almost be better to use a bomb to kill than to wreak this sort of wanton destruction. Your childish tantrum has disrupted my film."

"Chiun, this had nothing to do with your movie," Remo said. "I really was trying to save your life."

"I am perfectly capable of safeguarding my own life," Chiun complained.

"In that getup?"

"My costume is not the issue, Remo. We are discussing your seething resentment of my great talent." He tipped his head, in birdlike curiosity. "But while we are on the subject, do you like it?" He held his hands out wide, offering Remo an unobstructed view of his uniform.

By his tone, Remo could tell that the Master of Sinanju had softened. With at least a semblance of normalcy restored, he felt the day's tension drain from his shoulders.

"It's great, Little Father." He smiled.

"Do you really think so?" Chiun asked worriedly. He turned to offer Remo a full view of the costume's back. "You do not think it is too much?"

Remo shook his head. "It's perfect," he said.

Nodding acceptance, Chiun returned his hands to his baggy sleeves. "I was to wear it in my big scene today," he lamented. "Now I do not know what will become of my debut."

"That's the least of your worries, I'd imagine," Remo said. "That little firecracker wasn't the only one I had to douse. There were five more parked all over the place."

Chiun squinted in confusion. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying someone was trying to give blockbuster a new meaning, and it wasn't me. This studio was rigged to blow sky-high. With you in it," he added.

This time there was no questioning Remo's word. Grave understanding blossomed on the Master of Sinanju's wrinkled face. The old Korean nodded craftily.

"So, the dastards have finally shown their true colors," he uttered, his voice a menacing whisper.

"You came to the same conclusion I did," Remo said tightly. He was thinking about the truck bomb that had been parked across Bindle's and Marmelstein's parking spaces. Under ordinary circumstances, the egotistical Taurus cochairs would never have tolerated an intrusion like that.

Chiun was still nodding. "It could not be more obvious," he insisted.

"I agree," Remo said.

The old man pitched his voice low. "A rival movie studio has learned of my wonderful film and seeks now to ruin it."

Remo blinked. "Um, that's not exactly who I had in mind," he said.

But Chiun wouldn't hear it. "Do you not see?" he pressed. "This is a fierce business, Remo. Full of scoundrels and cutthroats. We must guard my film against further assault from the knaves at Paramount."

"Paramount?" Remo asked warily.

"It does not necessarily have to be them," Chiun confided. "It could very well be Twentieth Century Fox or Columbia. In truth, I do not trust any of the Warner brothers. This sort of thing would not be beyond them."

"I don't think any of them are still alive," Remo suggested. "And I don't think this was a rival studio."

"You are naive, Remo-" Chiun nodded "-as was I when first I arrived on this, the Lost Coast of America. Be warned-there are enemies lurking around every corner."

"Some corners closer than you think," Remo muttered dryly. "Listen, Chiun, the only reason I even got wind of this is because I'm on an assignment." He went on to give a rapid outline of the situation, concluding, "Is there a scene in your movie where a Hollywood studio gets blown up?" Chiun shook his head. "There was, but it was removed," he admitted. "These fools made many alterations to my original Assassin's Loves, but that is no longer one of them."

Remo hummed thoughtfully, glancing at the plume of smoke still rising from the blast site. It had trickled to a serpent curl of black. In the distance, the sounds of sirens rose over the soundstages.

"It's still tied in somehow," Remo said firmly. "And I bet I know who can connect the dots."

Chapter 16

From a distance, they saw a single thinning thread of black smoke curling up beyond the high walls. It appeared to be coming from the rear lots at the far, far walls of the complex. Otherwise, Taurus Studios seemed completely intact.

"Something went wrong," Hank Bindle droned as their limo drove along the outside of the plain white walls.

Beside him, an ashen-faced Bruce Marmelstein slugged down the last of his martini before numbly dropping the empty glass to the green crushedvelvet seat.

Fearful gawkers crammed every inch along the sidewalk, among them hordes of Taurus employees. "No explosion and now we're paying them to stand around," Bindle complained. He powered down a tinted window. "Get back to work!" he shouted to a kid on a bicycle. The boy responded by giving Hank Bindle the finger. "Did you see that?" the executive snapped at his partner. He stuck his face out the window. "I'm gonna ruin you! Try delivering papers in this town after today, you little punk!"

Many of the people spilled over into the road, clogging traffic and blocking emergency vehicles. No police at the gates meant there was no one to deny them access to the studio lot.

"Hurry up and go in!" Marmelstein snapped over the speaker when their driver hesitated at the main entrance.

Leaving the crowd behind, they drove onto the lot.

The buildings were perfect, just as they'd left them. There wasn't so much as a scratch or even a single bird dropping on the white facades.

"Maybe it hasn't happened yet," Bindle ventured.

"I think it did," Marmelstein replied. His sick eyes watched the distant smoke dissipating across the pate blue California sky. "But it was a big fat dud."

"We didn't pay for a dud," Bindle whined. Driving deeper onto the lot, they finally saw the only obvious effects of the single exploded truck bomb. Hundreds upon hundreds of cracked windowpanes. Farther along, they could see those windows closest to the blast site had shattered completely. But otherwise, everything was exactly as they'd left it.

"This is not good," Bruce Marmelstein said woodenly as the limo stopped in front of the executive office building.

"Broken windows," Hank Bindle lamented. "A few measly broken windows. I don't think our insurance even covers broken windows."

The Taurus cochairs waited for their driver to run around and open the back door. Climbing out, they smelled the hint of smoke on the breeze.

"Smoke," Marmelstein complained. He placed a pinkie ring to his surgically altered chin. "I should be standing this deep in rubble right now."

A horrified gasp from his partner snapped his attention away from the lack of mess.

"What the hell is this?" Hank Bindle hissed. When Marmelstein looked, his partner was standing near their reserved parking spaces. A large truck had been parked across both exclusive spots. The only portion of either of their names still visible was the gilded "dle" of "Bindle."

"This is great!" Bindle raged. "This is fucking great!" He launched a Gucci toe into the side of the truck. "Un-fucking-believable!" As he shouted, he repeatedly kicked the side of the truck in punctuation. "A fucking dud of a fucking bomb and on top of every fucking other fucking fuck-hole thing that has happened to-fucking-day, a fucking truck is parked in my fucking space."

Each successive word brought a more violent kick from the studio executive. Sweating and red faced, he was enlarging the dent he'd already made in the truck's side when he heard a timid voice behind him.

"Um, Hank?"

Hank froze in midpunt. Turning angrily, he saw Bruce Marmelstein's eyes and nose peeking over the trunk of their limo. A nervous finger appeared next to the nose. It pointed carefully at the gleaming yellow truck.

"You're kicking one of the bombs," Marmelstein whispered.

Confusion lasted only as long as it took Hank Bindle to turn ever so slowly to the truck. The giant Plotz letters stenciled on its side stared down ominously at him. When he looked back at his cowering partner, his eyes were wide.

Screaming for his mommy, Bindle dived over the trunk of the limo, collapsing painfully to elbows and knees next to Marmelstein. He scurried to a kneeling position. Both Taurus cochairs peeked over the roof.

The truck remained silent.

"Do up think it's kick activated?" Bindle whispered.

"It didn't do that thing bombs do," Marmelstein said. "You know, that ka-boom thing?"

Both men stared apprehensively at the truck. It persisted in not ka-booming. Bindle took this as a sign.

He pointed to the building.

"Maybe we should go inside," he mouthed. Marmelstein only nodded. Together, they crept to the gleaming glass doors of the executive office building.

When the cracked panes swung closed between them and the truck bomb that was capable of not only leveling the building they were in, but also obliterating several other buildings in the near vicinity, the two film executives breathed a sigh of relief.

They took the elevator up to their office suite. The interior glass doors between their inner sanctum and their secretary's office had survived the blast. They pushed inside, trudging wearily onto the plush carpet.

They hadn't gone more than three steps toward their desks when they were surprised by a frighteningly familiar voice.

"The imbeciles return to the scene of the crime." Stunned, Bindle and Marmelstein wheeled around. Their eyes grew wide when they saw Remo leaning against the stucco wall next to the office door. Fear clutched their bellies.

The door was blocked. As one, they settled for the next best thing. In a tangle of panicked legs, they made a mad dash for the picture window.

Hank Bindle dived into the pane headfirst. Though cracked, the glass didn't give. He dropped like a stone to the carpet, clutching his bloodied forehead.

Bruce Marmelstein did a karate-like flying kick. He missed the window completely, slamming instead into the mahogany wet bar. He bounced from bar, to desk, to floor. His landing was surprisingly soft, if a little lumpy.

"Get off me," the lump that was Hank Bindle gasped.

Using knees and fists, Bindle knocked Marmelstein off. Both men collapsed, panting, onto their backs. They found themselves staring up into Remo's hard face.

"Now that we've got the floor show out of the way," Remo said.

They had met Mr. Chiun's friend during the Hollywood terrorist crisis. At the time, Taurus had been purchased by the leader of a Mideast nation as a front for his invasion. Bindle and Marmelstein didn't know this. Even as tanks rolled down the streets of Hollywood, they were only interested in making the biggest movie ever.

Only afterward did they really learn that they had participated in the most infamous case of terrorism to ever kiss American soil. Even so, neither Bindle nor Marmelstein ever fully realized what had actually happened back then. The one thing that they did know, however-the thing that they had carried with them ever since that time-was a fear of those dark, deep-set eyes. They had never wanted to look into those eyes again. But here they were. Back once more. And more frightening than either man remembered.

"So, Mr. Remo," Hank Bindle said, smiling weakly into Remo's upside-down face, "what brings you back here?" Still flat on his back, he attempted to cross his legs casually.

"Knock it off, you ninnies," Remo growled. Reaching down, he dragged the two men into seated positions on the rug. "Who'd you hire to blow up the studio?" he demanded.

"The studio?" Marmelstein bluffed. "Oh, did that blow up?"

Fear compelled Hank Bindle into trying another tack. "Bruce hired him," Bindle blurted, pointing at his partner.

Bruce Marmelstein's eyebrows nearly launched off the top of his head. "We both did," he countered angrily.

"But he came to you first."

"He came to both of us."

"On your speakerphone," Bindle proclaimed. "Your ears were closest."

"I'll show you close ears!" Marmelstein screeched.

He was scrambling across the floor, hands snatching for his partner's bobbed ears, when he felt something grab on to his ankle. All of a sudden, he was off the floor and his desk was flying toward him very fast. When they met, his head made the desk's steel surface go clang! The desk, in turn, made Marmelstein's head ring. It was still ringing when Remo dumped the executive back to the floor.

"From a strictly technical standpoint, I might have been involved in the actual hiring, too," Hank Bindle admitted, eyeing his partner worriedly.

"Who'd you hire?" Remo pressed.

"He called anonymously." Marmelstein winced, rubbing the growing bump on his forehead. "And he got through?" Remo asked, dubious, remembering the hard time he'd had calling from Seattle.

"He said he was Hank's masseur," Marmelstein offered. "Priority stuff like that gets right through."

Bindle nodded. "I've been feeling very tight in my shoulder. I was shot last year, you know."

"Too bad he didn't have better aim," Remo said, deadpan. "What did the guy on the phone say?"

"That he had a surefire way of boosting a movie's gross. I think he might have just been putting out feelers at the time. You know, calling all the studios. Pitching the idea. This was before the Cabbagehead thing," Marmelstein said.

"You know about that?" Remo said flatly.

"Everyone in town knows about it," Bindle insisted. "What a marketing coup. Suburban Decay wouldn't have been a blip if it wasn't for that family getting whacked."

Remo's eyes went cold. "People died, Bindle," he said evenly.

"People never die," Bindle insisted. "Look at Freddy Krueger. He's been dead a bunch of times. How many times has Jason been zapped by lightning and brought back? Hell, Spock wasn't even gone a whole movie." He smiled brightly.

Remo wanted to be amazed. Appalled, even. But this was typical Hollywood. Hank Bindle wasn't capable of separating real life from the fiction of film.

"Of course, we know that people actually technically do die," Marmelstein offered when he saw Remo's hard expression. "But they were going to eventually anyway. And if their deaths can spark something at the box office, why not give their lives some meaning?" He smiled and nodded, the very soul of reasonableness.

At that moment, Chiun and his movie were the only things preventing Remo from giving meaning to the lives of Bindle and Marmelstein. By Herculean effort, he kept his more violent urges in check. "How much?" he asked, jaw clenched tightly.

"To do the lot?" Bindle asked. "Eight million."

"Which we hid in the production costs of your friend's movie," Marmelstein added. By the look Bindle shot him, he realized he had made some verbal misstep.

"It wouldn't have been too critical to the production," Bindle cut in. "After all, we've still got the Burbank lot."

"None of the principal actors were here," Marmelstein offered brightly. Again, he got the same look from his partner.

"Plus Taurus would get some ink for a change," Bindle interjected hurriedly.

"The publicity would have been worth it alone."

"And the insurance would cover the cost of everything afterward."

"Nothing but wins." Marmelstein smiled.

"Mmm-hmm," Remo said. "And how many people were on the lot when the bombs were supposed to go off?"

"Gee, I don't know," Bindle said, eyes flirting with the periphery of worry. "Bruce?"

"I'd have to check with personnel. A thousand, two thousand? We've got tons of people here all day."

"Including Chiun," Remo said, tone flat. Marmelstein suddenly realized why his partner had been shooting him such dirty looks.

"Oh, was he here?" Marmelstein asked, all innocence.

Remo didn't press it.

"Okay, were you supposed to talk to the guy who arranged the bombing afterward?" he asked.

"For other matters," Marmelstein admitted vaguely.

"More box-office boosting?" Remo said, disgust in his face.

"That might have been an item on the agenda," Bindle said uncertainly.

"That stops now." He was thinking of Smith. If the anonymous caller phoned back, the CURE director could probably trace the call to its source.

Remo glanced down at the two Taurus executives.

Bindle's forehead still bled from his unsuccessful assault on the second-story office window. Marmelstein nursed the swelling purple lump on his own head. Sitting on the floor, they watched Remo expectantly. Dogs fearful of an unpredictable master. Remo's thin lips were stretched tight.

"You two dolts are lucky," he menaced. "If anything had happened to Chiun. Anything at all..."

In a whistling blur, Remo brought his hand up and around, slapping it against Hank Bindle's massive stainless-steel desk. The desk made an ugly crackling sound like that of ice dropped in warm water. A black, razor-slice fault line shot across the desk's surface. When it reached the far side, the huge steel slab dropped open.

As the two sections thundered onto the carpeted floor, Remo was already turning away. The room-rattling boom was reverberating in Bindle's and Marmelstein's ears when he slipped from the room.

It was several seconds later-as the last aftershocks were dissipating in the building's foundation-when Bruce Marmelstein finally got up the nerve to speak.

"I don't know what they've got against our desks," he whispered. Hand clapped on his forehead, he climbed uncertainly to his feet.

Bindle followed suit.

"Think we should we have told him about that other little thing?" Bindle asked as he examined the huge desk sections.

"New York? Are you crazy? Absolutely not," Marmelstein insisted. "If he was upset by almost deaths ...well..." his voice trailed off.

"I suppose," Bindle agreed reluctantly. "At least we could tell him about-"

"No! We're not telling him anything," Marmelstein snapped before his partner had a chance to finish. "Hank, we have got to save this turkey one way or another. God knows it's not going to do any box office on its own. We need a boost."

Eyes worried, Bindle slowly nodded. But even as he agreed with his Taurus cochairman, he couldn't pull his eyes from the shattered remnants of his desk.

Chapter 17

It was nearly half an hour since the sole truck bomb had exploded. Police and fire officials had cordoned off the Taurus lot. Remo had Soundstage 9 to himself as he called Smith from an old rotary phone he found on a desk near the big hangar's small side door.

"Report," the CURE director said without preamble.

"I'm in Hollywood," Remo replied, displeasure at his location evident in his voice. "Someone just tried to relocate Taurus Studios to Neptune."

"Yes," Smith said. "My computers just alerted me to the explosion. A truck bomb, according to reports."

"Try bombs," Remo stressed. "I stopped five. You're hearing about the one that got away."

"Given your presence there, presumably this is connected to the Seattle situation?"

"Yeah," Remo said. "The box-murder punks led me here."

"They were responsible for the studio bombing, as well?"

"No, I iced them back in Washington. Different psychos, same agenda. You remember Bindle and Marmelstein?"

"I was surprised to see that they are still cochairs of Taurus," Smith answered. "After the financial fiasco of last year, I would have thought they would be gone with the new regime."

"Gotta love Hollywood," Remo said. "The bigger the disaster on your resume, the higher up you go. Anyway, they're the ones who hired someone to blow up Taurus."

Smith was stunned. "Their own studio?" he asked, incredulous.

"A bomb out of Taurus," Remo offered. "You have to admit, what they lack in smarts they make up for in irony."

"Remo, what possible reason did they have?" Smith pressed.

"Insurance, career move, a high-colonic Rorschach told them to do it? Who knows with those clowns? I don't think the studio is long for this world, Smitty. Nishitsu bought the place after the Ebla debacle, then turned and sold it to some buggy Vegas billionaire casino owner. Rumor is he's planning on selling everything off. From the studio's film archives down to the last can of Who Hash. If it's true, Bindle and Marmelstein are out on their lifted asses."

"And as revenge they wanted to blow up the studio?" Smith asked, amazement fading. He had met the two men once. Hard as it might be to believe, there seemed little they'd be incapable of.

"I doubt it was revenge," Remo said. "More like desperation. You've got to understand these guys, Smitty. They're not like real human people. They don't really think things through. I think they probably just want to get through their next picture."

"Explain," Smith said crisply.

"The movie's costing a bundle to make. They figured they'd trash the Hollywood studio, relocate completely to Burbank and use the notoriety of the explosion to give them a bump at the box office. If this one movie is a hit, they might be able to put the studio back on track. Either that or at the very least they could parlay that hit into a job with another studio. Course, there'd be a lot of dead bodies to clean up, but they could always put the key grips and gaffers on corpse patrol. Pending approval of SAG, the AFL-CIO and the local medical examiner's union, of course."

"Amazing," Smith said. "Were they able to shed light on who is responsible for all of these occurrences?"

"No," Remo said. "It's the same as Seattle. An anonymous phone caller arranges everything for cash. But Bindle and Marmelstein seemed pretty sure everyone in town knows about the box-office boosting that's been going on. If they're right, any of those guys on the Cabbagehead backers' list is likely to know about it, too."

"Hmm," Smith mused. "I had no luck with the phone records at the Randolph apartment in Seattle.

But if we know that the individual behind this has been in contact with the larger Hollywood studios, there might be a way to winnow out the field on that end, assuming the same phone was used."

"That sounds like a big if," Remo said.

"It is all we have at the moment. I will instruct the mainframes to begin a search of phone-company records. They will sort through all of the calls to the major studios and match those that are identical."

"How long will that take?"

"Perhaps several hours," Smith said, "but given the incestuous nature of the entertainment industry, it could well be several days."

Neither Remo nor Smith was pleased with waiting that long. Particularly for a lead that might not even pan out.

"Okay," Remo sighed. "At least bug Bindle and Marmelstein's phones. They said the guy was supposed to call in after he blew up the studio."

"Perhaps given his failure, the engineer will not even call," Smith speculated. "I will tap into their phone line just in case." The sound of the CURE director's efficient drumming fingers issued over the line. He spoke as he typed. "There were agents on the scene, presumably." Given the fact that there were six bombs in all, it was a statement of fact, not a question.

"I just talked to a couple of them before I called," Remo said. "They were hired like the others. A voice on the phone. If it's any help, only one of them was from Seattle. The rest were hired out of some crummy local acting class."

"They were actors?" Smith said, surprised.

"Not real actor actors," Remo explained. "They were just extras on a movie that's being filmed here. That's what got them access to the studio in the first place. They got their ten bucks in the mail."

Smith hesitated. "Remo, are you saying they were hired to blow up a Hollywood studio and kill countless numbers of innocent people for a mere ten dollars?"

"Apiece," Remo said. "And if you're shocked by that, then you've never been a struggling L.A. actor."

Smith let it pass. "I will see what can be dredged up as far as the phone records are concerned." He was about to terminate the call when Remo broke in.

"While I'm cooling my heels, I could rattle a few cages around here. Stefan Schoenburg and the other Cabbagehead backers are just a derivative screenplay away."

There was a moment of consideration during which Remo heard only Smith's nasal breathing. When he finally spoke, the older man sounded infinitely tired.

"No," Smith sighed wearily.

"C'mon, Smitty. It's either that or I hang around here watching Bruce Marmelstein apply wrinkle cream every twenty minutes. And you don't want to know where he puts it."

"No, Remo," Smith insisted. "The situation for us is more delicate than it might normally be." The next words he spoke sounded like a guilty admission. "Schoenburg and the rest have all been generous supporters of the President."

Remo was taken aback. "We never worried about that junk before, Smitty. We're not political, remember?"

"We are not," Smith agreed. "But the President has been making things exceedingly-" he hesitated, trying to put the most tactful spin on things "-difficult of late."

"Since when?" Remo pressed. "This is the first I'm hearing about it."

"It did not concern you," Smith said. "Nor does it now. I am only informing you of this so that you do not do anything rash. Remo, I will not hesitate to send you after Schoenburg if he is implicated in this affair. Until such time, however, it is in this agency's best interest to avoid unnecessary complications."

Smith had to struggle to get out every word. They obviously did not sit well with the older man's rock-ribbed New England soul.

For a long time, Remo had told himself that he didn't like Smith. His employer was cheap, coldhearted and had the personality of a moldy cod. But for more years than he sometimes cared to remember, Smith had been a major part of his life. The CURE director had even saved Remo's life on a number of occasions. Like it or not, Remo had come to a reluctant conclusion a long time ago: Smith mattered to him.

And now, thanks to the time in which they now lived, the man whose conduct as head of CURE had always been above reproach was being pressured into disregarding one of the basic founding tenets of the agency he had built.

Remo wasn't particularly fond of any President, but he'd decided early on that the current occupant of the White House was a political bottom feeder. He hadn't thought he could like the man any less. Until now.

Remo decided not to press the issue.

"Let me know if you find anything," he said after an awkward moment of silence.

"I will," Smith said, a hint of relief evident in his lemony tone, as if he'd expected Remo to argue the point. "If I learn anything from the phone records, I will call you at Bindle and Marmelstein's office."

Wordlessly, Remo dropped the phone back in its cradle.

The soundstage seemed big and drafty. Like another world. In spite of the soundproofing, Remo could hear the occasional lone siren beyond the nearby wall. Most had already found their way to the New York set.

Remo heard without hearing. His thoughts were on Smith.

The President was a man who had slid to the top on a track greased with lies and false smiles. He couldn't begin to understand the sacrifices someone like Smith had made.

Although the possibility for friction had been there from the start, Smith's love of country had always superseded any personal distaste. He had worked with the nation's Chief Executive for one and a half terms. And now, with the light of day visible at the end of the dark tunnel, the President had finally turned his destructive sights on CURE.

"Just hunker down, Smitty," Remo muttered to the empty hangar. "One more year and he's history."

Unknown to Remo, forces were conspiring at that moment to reduce the President's second term by a quarter.

Chapter 18

Reginald Hardwin was a brilliant actor who, for one reason or another, had never quite made it.

That he was an acting genius was without doubt. All anyone had to do was ask him. He was on a level so far above the rest of the noisome rabble, as he called his peers, that he would need a telescope to properly look down on them. If they were stars twinkling in the heavens of celebrity, his talent as a thespian was the midday sun.

But fate had conspired against poor Reginald Hardwin.

He had just missed being Richard Burton. Too young.

He was almost Anthony Hopkins. Too sober.

He should have been Jeremy Irons. Too old.

For twenty years, he watched the stars of others rise higher and higher in the heavens while he toiled anonymously in repertory theaters around America. He was Prospero in Connecticut, Mercutio in San Francisco and Falstaff in Miami. His Lear was the finest ever seen in Des Moines.

Even with an impressive list of credits "on the boards," Hardwin had never snatched that elusive gold ring of acting: movie stardom.

Of course, early in his career he had poohpoohed the entire concept of film acting. That sort of thing might be fine for the likes of Olivier and Gielgud, but he was a real actor. His first love was the stage. Anything else smacked of cheap commercialism.

Hardwin held this conceit for as long as it took him to realize that Hollywood not only was not beating down his door, it didn't even know where his door was.

He quickly changed his game plan.

Hollywood might not have sought him out, but that only meant they hadn't taken the time to pull their noses out of their plebeian scripts long enough to see what a real actor was. He decided that he would go on casting calls just for the fun of it, rejecting on principle any and all offers that came his way.

Reginald was certain that there would be offers. He was certain of this fact during the months after demeaning months he spent traipsing from one studio to another meeting with agents, directors and producers.

The realization that he'd been wrong to believe so wholeheartedly in the certainty of his eventual offers finally sank in one cool California evening when he returned home from yet another round of casting calls.

His mailbox was empty. Again.

Okay, technically it wasn't empty. Actually, it was only clear of film offers. It was full of other things. Like bills from the telephone company, the gas company, the electric company, his Strasberg Method class-what was he thinking?-and about a dozen other invoices.

That night, sitting on the stoop of his Rosecrans Avenue apartment in the Compton section of L.A., the sounds of revving car engines and the gunshots of gang warfare rising softly to his ears, Reginald Hardwin had a revelation.

He had been wrong. Desperately so.

Not about his basic thesis, mind you. He was still possibly the greatest actor who had ever lived-certainly the greatest living actor-but something else occurred to him that night. The well had been poisoned by bad actors.

He was missing out on acting jobs because all of the famous actors working in the business were so inferior to him that no one knew any longer what a good actor was.

By that time, three years had come and gone since Reginald had first started going on auditions. In that time, the happy lark that had marked the beginning of his search for film work had evolved into a much more serious quest for employment. But that night the seriousness of Hardwin's search reached epic proportions.

He started going on more auditions. Every single one he heard of. Morning, noon or night. It didn't matter. He was like a man obsessed.

There was nothing beneath his dignity. Once, he even donned a dress and wig, hoping that it would get him a job in a panty hose commercial. After offering certain "favors" to the man casting the ad in question, the only thing his zeal got him was an appearance before a local judge.

Even with such setbacks, his new blitzkrieg did net him a few jobs over the years. He got work doing voice-overs for radio spots. He was an apple in a men's underwear ad. He even worked with Lord Larry himself in Clash of the Titans, but was later cut out of the final print. Hardwin suspected that it was fear on Olivier's part. The old fraud didn't want to be upstaged by a much more talented younger actor.

But the thing Reginald Hardwin truly wanted-huge success in the motion-picture industry with the accompanying chance to thumb his nose at that success-always eluded him.

Until the call.

It came late in his career. Reginald Hardwin was in his mid-forties-although his birth certificate back in Norwich, England, would have disputed that claim by more than a decade.

The caller had stated the obvious. That Hardwin was a genius whose talents had been squandered over the years.

"I don't even know who you are, yet you are the most perceptive individual I have ever met," Reginald Hardwin told the anonymous caller.

"It must be awful to be so great and have no one recognize that greatness," the caller said.

"You have no idea," Hardwin replied.

"How would you like recognition? How would you like everyone everywhere to know your name? To never forget who you are?"

"I would rather have cash," Hardwin replied. To his surprise, he had gotten it. Five million dollars arrived by courier that afternoon. Cash. Since he was between agents at the time, Reginald didn't have to parcel out an automatic fifteen percent. And since it was in cash, he didn't have to bother with the pesky bloodsuckers of the Internal Revenue Service. Happily, he didn't have to part with one red cent.

"You got the money," the voice of the stranger stated in his subsequent phone call.

"I did," Hardwin had replied. He was trying to remain blase. As if five million dollars were nothing to him.

"All five million?"

It was an odd question to ask. "Yes," Hardwin admitted.

The caller's voice seemed to soften. "I need you to do a little something for me."

It was the way he said it. Reginald Hardwin stiffened. "I won't do anything illegal," he sniffed.

"In that case, give me my money back."

The thought horrified Reginald Hardwin. "I will not," he said. Thinking quickly, he added in a scheming tone, "Besides, I never have to admit you sent me one nickel. It was not a check, remember. There is no record. I'm afraid you're out of luck, poor boy."

"You signed for the money, Reggie," the caller said. "That alone is proof enough to the IRS. You lose half right off the top to them. Then the Feds will probably want to know where the money came from. With that much at once and no work to show for it, their first thought will be drugs. On top of all that, I have you on tape just now admitting that you accepted it. That might not be admissible evidence, but a judge could take it into consideration. Now, knowing all this, I think that you'll want to return the money to me if I ask for it. If only to keep yourself out of trouble."

Hardwin had grown more fearful as the caller went through his obviously prepared speech. It almost sounded as if he was reading. Hardwin was practically in tears by the time the man finished.

"But I want to keep my money," he cried.

"You can, Reggie. Don't worry. I have no interest in taking it back from you. Not if you do as I say. You will do as I say, won't you, Reggie?" Hardwin had reluctantly agreed. The caller-whom he now knew only as Captain Kill-had convinced him that it was easier to do things as long as he stayed "in character." He was right. Hardwin was in character when he had taken over the reins of GlassCo in New Jersey, the dummy company set up by his phantom employer. Many of the men working under him there were actors in character, as well. The rest were just thugs hired by the voice on the phone.

In the gig set up by his mysterious employer, Hardwin stayed in character for the duration of their planting the explosives in the Regency Building in Manhattan. He had remained in character even after he had detonated the explosives and watched the thirty-second floor of the office building blast outward in a spray of fine crystalline glass.

It was rather liberating. And most importantly, it was acting. A big, meaty, over-the-top role. The kind of acting he had never been able to do in his professional career.

His employer had sent Reginald Hardwin the bio of his character, who also happened to be named Reginald Hardwin.

He was a member of the British aristocracy, according to the back-story. A former member of Her Majesty's Strategic Air Services, he had had a falling-out with his government. Stumbling into the underworld, he had gotten hooked up with the Irish Republican Army. One thing had led to another after that. The British wanted him. The Americans wanted him. It was all frightfully exciting. And very, very real. For fiction, that is.

The really wonderful thing was the way he had gotten lost in the part of Reginald Hardwin. For the first time ever, he felt that he had really found himself as an actor.

Of course, the fictitious Reginald Hardwin was responsible for some truly terrible things. But the real Reginald couldn't be blamed for anything that had gone on so far. He was an actor, hired to play a part.

A part he played brilliantly.

For both Reginald Hardwin the fictional character and Reginald Hardwin the actor, the explosion at the Regency Building was far behind. It was another day, another scene.

"Exterior, street, day," Hardwin muttered to himself as he strode confidently up the broad sidewalk. The metal fence rose high to his left.

It was overcast: Swollen gray clouds painted the bleak inverted bowl that was the sky. Here and there, patches of much deeper black threatened the thunderstorms local weathermen had predicted for later that afternoon.

As Reginald walked, he heard the first distant rumblings coming from the heavens. He wondered if it might not be a portent. After all, the weather always meant much to Shakespeare.

Around him, tourists began to eye the clouds with increasing concern. Some packed away expensive cameras, ready to dash for the cover of their parked cars or tour buses if it became necessary.

It would have to go quickly. The plan demanded that he and his men be mistaken for ordinary tourists.

As he strolled along, Reginald's wristwatch timer beeped abruptly. The moment it did, he stopped at the fence.

There were no guards here. The only ones he'd seen were at the entrance he had passed a dozen yards away.

There was a stone wall about two feet high just before the eight-foot-tall fence.

Reginald popped the latches on the briefcase he was carrying and reached quickly inside. He removed a light parcel that consisted of four small plastique charges, connected by wires. Adhesive was attached to each charge.

Efficiently, still in character, Hardwin stuck the charges to the two slender posts in the wrought-iron fence-two high, two low.

Already motion detectors and surveillance cameras would have picked him up. Inside they were already reacting. It didn't matter. There were too many of them out there. A veritable army all acting in unison.

All around the perimeter fence, dozens of men were repeating the same movements at precisely the same moment. They reached into raincoats and jackets, bags and knapsacks.

As Hardwin positioned the last charge, he felt a tug on his arm.

"What the hell are doing?" An accusation. He turned.

Fat face. Beet red. Angry.

So typically American; leaping blindly into the fray.

Reginald Hardwin smiled at the man. "Are you a cowboy?" he asked smoothly.

The tourist seemed baffled by the non sequitur. And in that brief moment of hesitation, Reginald pulled his Heckler ol from its shoulder holster, aimed it at the man's surprised face and pulled the trigger.

The man's brains hadn't even splattered across the neatly swept sidewalk before Hardwin was flinging himself in the opposite direction.

Poom!

The charges detonated just as he was rolling up against the protective squat wall.

He bounded up in the next instant.

The plastic explosives had ripped through the pair of metal bars. Gathering his briefcase, Hardwin quickly kicked what was left of the twisted metal out of the way. Turning sideways, he slipped inside the fence.

Others had been loitering on the sidewalk farther away. Guns drawn, they raced up now, sliding efficiently through the opening Hardwin had made.

It was the same all around the grounds. Armed men flooded in through the twisted bars at dozens of smoking openings.

The Marines charged from the residence, followed by Secret Service agents. Gunfire erupted all around the mansion. In minutes, the lush green lawns were awash in red.

It should never have happened. Most swore that it could never happen. But it did.

Reginald Hardwin and his men had the element of surprise working for them. Complacency on the part of their opponents proved to be the deciding factor.

The men protecting the President of the United States were overwhelmed in less than ten minutes. Thanks to the leadership of a failed motion-picture actor, for the first time since the War of 1812, the White House had fallen before a hostile force.

Chapter 19

While the American flag continued to flutter high above the heads of the captives cowering within the most famous residence in the world, Remo Williams was wandering, despondent, through the grounds of Taurus Studios.

The L.A. bomb squad had dismantled the timers on the Plotz truck bombs before hauling the vehicles off the lot. Beneath the tons of fertilizer in the back of one, they would eventually discover the bodies of the actors who had planted the trucks at Taurus.

Except for saving Chiun's life, this trip was a bust. Not only was Remo still no closer to learning who was behind the scheme, but also he was now stuck in Hollywood.

Hands stuffed into the pockets of his chinos, he walked back to the set where he'd driven the one live bomb.

Remo ignored the yellow police tape. Ducking underneath the fluttering plastic strip, he wandered onto the lot.

There were still many police and fire officials on hand. When one uniformed officer came running angrily over to him, Remo waved one of his many IDs at the man. He hoped it wasn't the one that said he was from the Motion Picture Association of America.

Apparently it wasn't. The cop left him alone. Remo meandered over to ground zero. He stopped at the very edge of the newly formed crater. The explosion had blasted a huge hole that looked like the excavation site for an Olympic-size pool. Several layers of asphalt had been ripped away in a jagged circle. The blast had dug down as far as the bedrock. Dirt was scattered everywhere. Black stains of charred ash stretched unevenly around the vast pit.

The set was demolished beyond repair. Phony building facades had been flung away like broken dominoes.

A few unused studio buildings not visible before could now be seen beyond the rubble of the New York skyline. Their fronts had been blown backward into abandoned offices. Only one had any remnants of a roof left at all.

Beyond the shattered buildings, a vacant tract of dusty land spotted with dry scraggly brush extended to the distant studio wall. The high white rear wall of Taurus had survived the blast with no visible damage.

After a few bored minutes, Remo headed away from the shattered set. With nothing to go on at the moment, he decided to kill whatever time he had to spend at Taurus with Chiun. He went back the way he had come, into the more populated center of the studio complex.

Taurus employees had only been allowed back on the lot an hour ago. Given the excitement, however, very little work was getting done.

Remo found a group of three chattering secretaries standing outside the infirmary.

"The movie that was shooting on the New York set," he interrupted the trio of women as he walked past, "anyone know where it is now?"

"Soundstage 4," one woman supplied helpfully. Her hungry smile as she appraised Remo's lean frame was mirrored by the lascivious looks of her overly made-up friends.

As he walked off, one of the woman called, "Hey, gimme your script and I can make sure it gets read." Her lilt screamed "casting couch."

"Read?" scoffed the one who had first spoken.

"Produced," she called to Remo. "I can get you a three-picture deal off your first script."

"I can make sure you star," the third woman said, trumping her friends. "Just give your script to me. You can bring it to my apartment. Say, around eight o'clock?"

When Remo turned around, all three women were smiling eager capped teeth.

"I don't have a script," he said simply.

It was a phrase they had obviously never before encountered. Three looks of hope collapsed into expressions of utter incomprehension. Leaving the women to wrap their smoking brains around such an unimaginable concept, Remo headed to Soundstage 4.

The red light outside the door indicated shooting was in progress. Remo ignored it. Tugging the door open a crack, he slipped silently inside.

An older man in a cotton print shirt sat at a plain wooden desk inside the door. He had been scanning a bored eye over the latest Variety, but when Remo entered he dropped the paper and jumped to his feet, shaking his gray head.

"This is a closed set," the guard whispered.

"MPAA," Remo whispered back, flashing the appropriate identification. "This is a naughty-word raid."

The man studied the ID for a moment, beefy face scrunched in suspicion.

"Is this something new?"

Remo nodded. "Patricia Ireland says molesting interns is A-okay, but swear words lead to sexual harassment." He shrugged. "All I know is it's giving me more work to do."

Taking his eyes from the ID, the man settled in his worn seat. He seemed satisfied with Remo's claim.

"Yeah? Well, good luck," he whispered. He indicated the interior of the soundstage with an unhappy thrust of his chin. "The MPAA's gonna run out of calculators trying to add up all the swearing this guy puts in his movies."

He returned to his newspaper.

Remo wandered from the desk into the shadowy depths of the massive soundstage.

The guard's comment was strange. The Master of Sinanju didn't appreciate the use of foul language so common in America. To him it was the height of incivility.

Of course, Remo had heard Chiun use plenty of Korean curses during their earliest training sessions. But that use of language had ended long ago. Remo couldn't believe Chiun would write a film laced with profanity.

No one interrupted him when he stopped at the edge of the packed crowd of crew members. There was some kind of staged fight in progress. As the cameras rolled, the actors were screaming at each other at the tops of their lungs.

"You shit-heel-asshole-fuck!"

"Fuck you, you fuck!"

The last dollops of carefully scripted ambrosia dripped from the velvet tongue of a young actress standing in a mock-up of a cluttered apartment. Beyond the windows of the set, a backdrop of tenements stood in for the real New York.

The language devolved from there. The fight intensified into a romantic scene bordering on the pornographic.

Remo couldn't believe his eyes. Everything he was seeing and hearing was entirely unlike Chiun. As his disbelief grew, a familiar voice suddenly shouted from the rafters high above the set.

"And ...cut! Perfect. Damn, I am good."

Remo quickly found the source of the self-congratulations. Quintly Tortilli sat in a squat chair behind the long arm of one of the boom microphones.

With an electronic hum, the young director was lowered from his perch. A few assistants were waiting for him when he reached floor level.

Remo slipped easily through the crowd, coming through the crush of people immediately around Tortilli. They were only aware he was there when he spoke.

"What the hell is this?" Remo demanded.

Still seated, Tortilli turned in surprise. "Remo! Hi!" he enthused. He pushed his baseball cap back on his head. "Just taking back the reins from ol' Arlen here." He nodded to one of the men in his entourage. Relief was painted large on Arlen Duggal's exhausted face.

Remo was stunned. "Don't tell me you're directing this mess?"

"Sure as shootin'," Tortilli said with a broad smile.

"What about that parking-lot Battleship Potemkin you were presiding over in Seattle?"

"That little thing?" Tortilli dismissed. "A lark. I like to indulge my artistic whims. At the height of my Penny Dreadful fame I directed an episode of OR and guest-starred on an episode of China Girl. I like to drive my agent nuts with stuff like that."

"Your agent and everyone else who's ever seen you act," Remo commented dryly.

Tortilli's eyes darted nervously to the others. "Hey, everybody," he called, leaping out of his seat, "get lost." The men and women scattered like billiard balls after a break. "Didn't want them to get the wrong impression viz your little verbal jests re me," Tortilli confided after they were gone.

"Tortilli, human beings don't talk like that, no matter what Kevin Williamson says. And if you're worried about everyone thinking you're an asshole, you probably shouldn't have hosted Saturday Night Live. Why didn't you say this movie was yours?"

"I didn't know," Tortilli insisted. "I mean, I knew I was director, but I didn't know I was, like, the director. Of your friend's movie, that is. At least, not until you mentioned him in the car."

"So why didn't you tell me then?" Remo asked. He remembered Tortilli's twitchy reaction to Chiun's name. At the time he'd been so concerned for the old Asian's safety that he'd chalked it up to Tortilli's general twitchiness.

"I was going to. But people have an amazing knack of winding up dead around you, man. I figured you'd be ticked at me somehow." He quickly changed the subject. "But, hey, that was some ride today, right? I mean, real bombs. That whole 'blown to bits' thing looming over our heads. Armageddon City. I mean, far out!" Jumping up and down, the director gave Remo an idiot's grin.

"You must put sugar on your Cap'n Crunch," Remo commented absently as Tortilli hopped excitedly before him. He had just spotted Chiun across the set. Leaving the director to his frantic calisthenics, he walked over to the Master of Sinanju.

The old Korean had doffed his uniform. As he turned to Remo, he was dressed in a simple marigold kimono.

"Do I need to flee?" the Master of Sinanju asked dryly.

Remo held his hands out wide. "No bomb this time." He smiled. "Promise."

Chiun nodded. He didn't seem very interested in Remo. He was looking past his pupil.

Remo glanced back over his shoulder. All he saw was Quintly Tortilli and Arlen Duggal. When he turned back to Chiun, there was a look of anticipation on the old man's face.

"You might be a little happier to see me, Little Father," Remo groused, annoyed that his teacher seemed more interested in the director than in him. "We've hardly spoken twice in the past two months."

"And yet you still take the time to try to blow me up."

He persisted in ignoring Remo. All at once, a dejected expression settled on his parchment face. When Remo looked, he saw that Tortilli and Duggal were walking away. Only when they vanished around a distant corner did Chiun look at Remo. "Oh, you're back," Remo deadpanned.

"Do not be childish," Chiun sniffed. Remo didn't want a repeat of the scene back at the New York lot. The truth was, it felt good to be with Chiun again. Even if the old Korean was distracted.

"They've given you a costume change, I see," Remo said more lightly, nodding to Chiun's kimono.

"The genius Tortilli told me that my uniform did not look authentic," Chiun replied.

Remo's eyes went flat. "The what Tortilli?"

"The genius director of my film." Just talking about Quintly Tortilli seemed to relax the Master of Sinanju. A smile kissed his vellum lips. "You do not know what I have been through with the buffoon who had been overseeing this project. Another day and he would have had my hero dangling from the Statue of Liberty or straddling a tree trunk. But now that is all over." He pitched his voice low. "The genius Tortilli has told me that the camera loves me. He insists the eye is drawn to me even without exotic apparel."

"Okay, let's put that whopper aside for one minute," Remo said. "What's with all this genius crapola?"

"That is how he is referred to by his peers," the Master of Sinanju said, nodding sagely. "They do not speak his name without uttering his honorific."

"Little Father, according to Hollywood people, everyone in town is a genius."

"Ah, but it is the way they intone the word when they apply it to my director," Chiun explained. "They speak the word with conviction."

"Unless you count Robert Downey Jr., there are no convictions in Hollywood, Little Father," Remo insisted. "Tortilli made a movie five or six years ago that all the critics loved but was a piece of crap, and since then he's been coasting on his name."

The Master of Sinanju snapped alert. "Listen, Remo!" he announced, suddenly intensely worried. Bony fingers gripped his pupil's forearm.

Remo was instantly alarmed. "What?" he asked, anxious.

Worried about another bombing attempt, he broadened his normal auditory range, expanding beyond the immediate vicinity. The soundproofing of the building limited his scope, but as far as he could hear there was nothing unusual out on the farther lot.

"I don't hear anything," he whispered after a moment.

Chiun brought a slender finger to his lips. "It is there," he hissed. "The Leviathan awakes. Hark! It is a fearsome green beast, Remo. The Dragon of Jealousy."

Smiling placidly, he released Remo's arm. "That's not very damn funny," Remo complained.

"I agree," Chiun said, smile unwavering. "Your enviousness of the genius Tortilli is a very serious matter. Almost as serious as your jealousy of my writing talent."

Remo exhaled an angry burst of air. "Fine," he said, shaking his head. "I'm not getting into this with you. If you think a moron's brilliant, that's your business."

"Fine," said Chiun happily.

"Fine," repeated Remo angrily. "So what does your resident genius have you doing anyway?"

Chiun raised a forewarning eyebrow. "I will tell you if you promise not to get jealous."

"That's it. I'm outta here."

As he spun to go, Remo felt a restraining hand grab on to his wrist. Chiun held him firmly in place. "I have been given a wondrous place in this film," the Master of Sinanju said without missing a beat. "Tortilli, who is a genius, has told me that it is a crucial location for any actor making his motion-picture debut." His singsong became a conspiratorial whisper. "I am to be installed on the cutting-room floor." His awesome revelation unveiled, he released his grip on Remo's arm.

Remo didn't know whether or not he was making a joke. When he saw the look of blissful enthusiasm on the old man's face, he realized that Chiun wasn't kidding.

"Who told you that?" he asked slowly. "Tortilli?"

Chiun's bald head bobbed eagerly. "He said that my scenes will be the first to go there," he said proudly.

For a moment, Remo considered telling Chiun the truth. But the Master of Sinanju seemed so elated. In the end, he decided to let Chiun enjoy his moment in the sun.

"I'm happy for you, Little Father," he said. There was a warmth to his pupil's tone that caught the Master of Sinanju off guard. A smile of appreciation curled the edges of the aged Korean's thin lips.

"Perhaps I can convince the genius Tortilli to put you on this floor of cuts, as well. Of course, you would have to take second billing to me," he added quickly.

"Pass," Remo said. "One star in the family is enough."

"You are probably right," Chiun admitted. "One brilliant actor-writer is sufficient."

"Speaking of writing, I heard an awful lot of swearing going on," Remo said. "Your handiwork?"

Chiun shook his head, "Changes were made prior to production. Tortilli says that the language is now more realistic."

"What about the premise? It looks like some kind of cop movie. After you ditched the dinosaurs and aliens, I thought it was supposed to be about assassins."

The old Asian's tone grew vague. "A script physician was enlisted to clarify certain aspects of my glorious tale."

"Out went the assassins, in came the cops," Remo said.

"Yes," Chiun replied. "But I retain screen credit."

"Smitty'll love that," Remo commented.

Chiun's eyes narrowed. "You did not tell Emperor Smith?" he asked levelly.

"Not me," Remo said. "This is your show."

Chiun nodded. "That is good. He will be honored when it is released, of course. For any increase in my flame will only shine more light on him."

"As the head of an ultrasecret agency working outside the confines of the Constitution, I'm sure he'll appreciate that," Remo agreed.

Chiun stroked his thread of beard. "I had something about that in the original story but, sadly, it was lost in subsequent drafts," he lamented.

"To the eternal gratitude of Smith's pacemaker," Remo responded. "Speaking of Smitty, I should check in. He was trying to track down whoever was behind the bombing here."

"I am curious about that, as well," Chiun said thinly. "At first, I thought our production was ruined, but then the genius Tortilli arrived on the scene. He has said that he can salvage much from that which has already been filmed and will be able to shoot around the rest."

"Chiun, you've taken a pretty big leap of faith with a guy you never met before," Remo complained.

"Have I not mentioned that he is a genius?" Chiun asked. "I must hie to him now, lest that pretender fill his brilliant head with dross." The Master of Sinanju took off in the direction Tortilli and Arlen Duggal had gone.

"I'm glad I'm not gonna be in Tortilli's shoes when this bill comes due," Remo muttered.

He turned to go. As he was leaving, he spied a script lying on a stool. On the hard leather jacket was a label reading Assassin's Loves: Taurus Project # K128. Oddly, they had changed everything yet retained Chiun's title.

Pausing, Remo glanced around. There was no one in the immediate vicinity.

He had been curious for quite some time. Chiun had been so damn secretive about the details. "What the hell," Remo said to himself.

He quickly gathered up the script, tearing it from its heavy binder. Rolling the paper into a tight tube, he stuffed the script into his back pocket.

Jamming his hands in his pockets, he began whistling tunelessly. Forcing a look of nonchalance, Remo strolled off the set toward the soundstage door.

Chapter 20

Alone in his darkened Folcroft office, Harold Smith was scanning the latest list of motion-picture studio phone numbers flagged by the CURE mainframes when the dedicated White House line jangled to life. He attempted to find correlations between numbers and names even as he pulled the phone from his desk drawer.

"Yes, Mr. President," he said crisply.

The hoarse voice on the other end of the line was panicked. "They're here, Smith," the President whispered urgently.

Smith's chair squeaked as he sat straighter. Save the almost inaudible hum of his desk computer, it was the only sound in the tomb-silent office.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" he asked, puzzled.

"They're here!" the President repeated. "At the White House!"

"Forgive me, but who is there?" The frightened tone of America's Chief Executive had already sent the first sparks of concern through Smith's fluttering heart.

"I don't know!" the President pleaded. "It could be anyone. The Indonesians, the environmentalists, the gays, the Chinese, the RNC, the DNC, the Democratic Leadership Council. They're all mad at me for one reason or another. Nobody likes me," he wailed.

"Mr. President, please," Smith said, trying to inject a rational note into a most irrational call. "Why don't you begin at the-"

"My wife!" the President burst out. "That's who's behind this! She's wanted to rule this roost from day one. She's always threatened a coup, but I figured she'd at least have the decency to do it while I was out of town."

In the far distance, Smith heard the sound of muted pops.

"What was that?" he asked, instantly wary.

"Gunshots!" the President cried. "What do I do, Smith? My God, I see them. They're coming across the lawn."

America's Chief Executive sounded as if he was about to burst into tears.

"Who is coming across the lawn?" Smith pressed.

Too late. The line had already gone dead. Quickly, Smith tried to reestablish contact. The phone, which was located in the Lincoln Bedroom, rang the instant the connection was restored. But the call went unanswered.

Smith hung up, swiveling hurriedly to his computer. His hands hadn't even brushed the buried keyboard before the computer alerted him to a new crisis.

Fearing that he already knew what his mainframes had discovered, Smith opened the pop-up window.

The CURE mainframes had intercepted dozens upon dozens of messages and memos flying across the endless streams of the Internet. Computer lines from the CIA to the NSC, from the Pentagon to the Secret Service, from the FBI to the NSA, from the Capitol to the Defense Intelligence Agency, were clogged with activity.

Smith didn't need to read far in order to understand the point of all of those desperate, flashing messages.

The White House was under siege.

For a few frenzied minutes, Smith tried to make some sense out of precisely what was happening. But there were no clear accounts yet. The crisis was so fresh that not even the news outlets had logged on with stories.

The best he could glean was that some unnamed force had found its way onto the White House grounds. A Secret Service e-mail sent to the Treasury Department minutes after the President's call indicated that there had been heavy casualties taken by those guarding the chief executive's home.

That might mean something. The Secret Service was still able to log onto its internal system. Smith's hand had already dropped on the blue contact phone when it buzzed beneath his palm. He jumped, startled, even as he wrenched the receiver to his ear.

"What's the good news, Smitty?" Remo's voice asked.

"Remo, I do not yet know the details, but the White House is under attack."

Remo's tone instantly hardened. "You're kidding, right?"

Smith shook his head impatiently. "I know nothing as yet." He typed rapidly as he spoke. "I am arranging for transportation out of Edwards Air Force Base. Get there as quickly as possible."

It was the shortest conversation they'd had since Remo was first drafted into the organization. Remo's last words were sharp as he slammed down the phone.

"I'm on my way."

Chapter 21

At first, the problem for the Marines and Secret Service was containment.

The First Daughter was not at home, thank God. That was one less headache. But the President and the First Lady were in the residence. The highest priority was to keep the situation as far away from the First Family as possible.

That idea crumbled two minutes into the crisis when the assailants overwhelmed perimeter positions and swept into the mansion itself.

Option two was reached at once: remove the First Family from harm's way.

That alternative fell by the wayside when the invaders cut off all known escape routes. Even the emergency elevator, which ran from the family quarters down to the subbasement, was captured. It was as if this unknown army knew every strategic retreat the President might take.

In a running gun battle, the surviving members of the President's security force retreated upstairs to the family quarters in order to reestablish a closer defense perimeter around the Chief Executive.

They were greeted by something more horrifying than an army of terrorists brandishing assault weapons.

"What the hell is going on here!" the First Lady screeched as the armed men swarmed into the hallway from the First Family's main elevator.

Her face was caked in some kind of dried green goop. Furious piglike eyes shot daggers from the middle of her weirdly tinted face.

"The White House is under attack!" a Secret Service agent shouted, weapon aimed down the elevator shaft.

The other agents were disabling the elevator so that no one could use it to follow them. The doors had been pried open and a mirror angled into the opening to alert them of anyone attempting to climb the shaft. Several automatics were aimed down into the darkness.

"Oh, my God!" the First Lady cried as she watched them work. Her eyes grew larger in her beauty cream mask. "They know about the duplicate billing records!"

"Ma'am, I think this is mor-" a Marine began sharply.

But the First Lady didn't hear him. She was already running down the hall, her latest pageboy hairdo bobbing crazily around her cream-caked face.

"I expect you to cover my ass if you have to get yours shot off in the process!" she shouted over her shoulder.

The First Lady disappeared inside the library. An instant later, the whirring sound of a paper shredder echoed down the corridor. It was a familiar noise to anyone working in this White House.

The men had every intention of following the First Lady's final shouted order. They would die before they let anyone get past their fortified line. However, they soon found that it was a moot point.

The advance had halted. For some reason, unfathomable to those holed up in the family quarters, the invading force stopped on the ground-floor level of the White House.

And as the blood of the dead burbled crimson on the green spring lawn far below, the strangest standoff in America's history began.

REGINALD HARDWIN WAS seated at the desk of the President of the United States. As he carefully crossed his legs, he noticed a slight tear in the knee of his impeccably tailored trousers-the result of his awkward dive to the sidewalk.

Hardwin tsked as he examined the hole with slender, delicate fingers.

He had bought the trousers with money from his first five-million-dollar windfall. Even though he was now quite rich as a result of his current employment, he couldn't help but examine the tear with a poor man's mentality. After all, he had been poor for a long, long time.

"Five hundred dollars," he complained.

"What?" The voice came from the lightweight cell phone in his hand. It was crisp, efficient. Authoritative in a noncommittal way. The FBI negotiator.

"Nothing," Hardwin said. His fingers fled the hole. He became once more Reginald Hardwin, world terrorist. "I have your President and his wife captive above me. All escape routes, including those to the old Executive Office Building, have been secured."

"What do you want?" the negotiator asked evenly.

Hardwin the terrorist smiled. He played the part with great panache. Worthy of an Oscar.

"There is time for that later." He checked his watch. "My men are about to release all of the White House employees captured during our raid. You should see them at your end right about now." There was a pause.

"I do."

Hardwin smiled, placing the palm of his watch hand delicately back on the President's desk. "If you would be kind enough not to shoot at them, that would be splendid for all concerned, I should think."

"Hold your fire! Hold your fire!"

There was a long wait while the hundreds of White House staffers and government employees trapped inside the building at the start of the siege were trundled down the long drive to the Fifteenth Street entrance.

Hardwin was inspecting his fingernails when the FBI negotiator resumed the conversation.

"What about the wounded? We'll need to come get them."

"They will be brought out to you."

"They shouldn't be moved, except by professionals."

"Agent Plover, do you really think I would allow your men to sneak onto these grounds dressed like emergency medical technicians? Perhaps I sound stupid to you."

"Unfortunately, you don't," the negotiator said.

Hardwin smiled. "It's kind of you to lie. But we both know that you do think I am stupid. After all, I am in the most famous building in the world, surrounded by FBI, Marines and Secret Service. What could I possibly want? How could I possibly hope to achieve my ends? Clearly, I must know that this will end in my death. I am stupid in your opinion, am I not, Agent Plover? Please, be honest. You will find that honesty is very important to me."

The FBI agent was reluctant to admit that this was indeed the case. "You could have been smarter," Agent Plover said finally.

"There. That wasn't so difficult," Hardwin said encouragingly. "I appreciate your honesty. You will find that I am not a brutal man. As with the other hostages, the wounded will be brought out to you. That is, if I have your word that my men will come to no harm."

No hesitation. "You do."

"Excellent. We have established a trust between us. Important for any working relationship."

The histrionics were unbelievable. There was no panic. No frantically screamed ultimatum. No gradual erosion of demands until the compromise of surrender was reached. There was an utter calm about Reginald Hardwin, terrorist. An icy assuredness. Hardwin's confidence radiated to Agent Plover.

"Who are you?" the FBI negotiator asked.

"I am the man who brought terror to your New York City. You would be advised to listen to me. Remember the Regency. I will be in touch." Hardwin calmly depressed End.

He dropped his hand to the president's desk. "And Act Two commences." He smiled. It was the phrase Captain Kill had used to describe this phase of the drama.

Thinking of his mysterious employer, Hardwin allowed his eyes to scan the rounded contours of the famous room.

It was bigger than it appeared in the movies. A few of his men patrolled beyond the French windows on the patio that led to the Rose Garden.

The drapes and furniture were ghastly. Exactly what one would expect from a hippie hillbilly, Hardwin thought.

After a few long moments of consideration, Hardwin lifted his cellular phone once more. Quickly, he stabbed out a familiar eleven-number code. When the connection was made, he pressed three more numbers for the proper extension.

"Solomon, Raithbone and Schwartz," a perky female voice exclaimed. "Mr. Leffer's office."

"Let me talk to Bernie," Reginald Hardwin the actor said. Maybe he could spin this into something bigger than underwear ads.

Chapter 22

Both Washington National and Dulles International Airports had been closed indefinitely. During the crisis in the nation's capital, Baltimore-Washington was also shut down, along with all of the smaller municipal airports scattered within the entire area of Maryland. The no-fly zone extended far into northern Virginia.

The only things airborne within a hundred-mile radius of Washington were military aircraft. Jets and helicopters crisscrossed the ominous, rainstreaked night sky.

So many planes were up at one point early on, there were nearly a dozen midair collisions. The number had been pruned down now, but the dead spaces between roars of thunder were still filled with the persistent hum of unseen aircraft.

The flight from Edwards in California had taken Remo directly to Bolling Air Force Base across the Potomac from Washington National. An Air Force helicopter was waiting for him there.

The chopper flight was a short hop up the Washington Channel to the tourist section of the city. Rotors slicing tension from the very air of the nation's capital, the helicopter deposited him near the Ellipse at Constitution Avenue and Fifteenth Street Northwest.

Behind him, the darkened Washington Monument held aloft the sallow sky. The spotlights that ordinarily lighted the great obelisk had been doused. Without illumination, the ring of American flags that encircled the monument should have been taken down. But etiquette of the flag, as well as all other social and civil mores, had been abandoned at the start of the crisis.

In darkness, the wet flags flapped crazily in the wind kicked up by the departing helicopter.

As the chopper tilted south into the rain, Remo raced in the opposite direction.

The Ellipse was choked with government officials. Waterproof maps were spread on car hoods. Questions were shouted back and forth, some heated. There seemed to be a turf war going on among different branches of law enforcement.

Rather than worry about having to fish in his pockets for proper ID, Remo merely plucked a laminated tag from the lapel of an unsuspecting FBI agent. As he walked, he affixed the silver clip to the collar of his own black T-shirt.

Weaving through the crowd, he found what appeared to be the nucleus of official activity.

"I'm telling you, FBI is in charge here," a bulky man in a tan raincoat was insisting when Remo arrived. A drenched tourist map of the city wilted in his wet hands.

"Not in there," snapped another. He wore a sopping wet black suit. A thin white cord ran from jacket to ear. "That's Secret Service's domain."

"Take it up with the Attorney General," the FBI assistant director challenged.

"No, you take it up with the Secretary of the Treasury," the Secret Service agent countered.

A gray-haired Marine colonel in full dress uniform was about to interject when Remo interrupted. "What's the situation?" Remo asked, voice taut. All three men spun on him. The FBI man noted Remo's stolen identification with harried irritation. "If you're FBI, you work for me, which means you shut up," the assistant director growled.

"In that case, I'm not FBI," Remo said.

There was a flash of movement, faster even than the streaks of lightning that split the sky above the darkened capital. The FBI man abruptly felt something flat and square slip between his lips.

At the same moment his tongue was tasting the ID tag's metal clip, his eyes noted that the laminated tag had vanished from the T-shirt of the man before him. Before he could spit out the name tag, the agent-who had to be an impostor-gave the ID a light tap with the tip of one finger. The assistant director's eyes shot open as the tag rocketed down his esophagus. He gagged and gulped and grabbed his throat.

As the FBI man danced in place, Remo spun to the shocked Marine colonel and Secret Service agent.

"Before anyone gets any bright ideas, I'm on your side and I can do the same thing with chevrons and sunglasses." His dark eyes were chipped from the ice-dead heart of a glacial rock. "What's the situation?"

The two men looked at the choking FBI assistant director.

The tag had gone down sideways, so his breathing was not impeded. The outline of the ID was clearly visible in the stretched skin of his neck. He coughed like a cat with a fur ball even as he jammed his fingers into his own desperately open mouth.

The man was staggering off when the Colonel and the Secret Service agent turned back to Remo. "An enemy force of unknown origin has taken the White House," the Secret Service man said without hesitation. "Our side suffered heavy casualties. Big Creep and Shrieker are inside."

Remo assumed these were the new code names for the President and First Lady. "Are they alive?"

"So far," the colonel answered. "The terrorists are holed up mostly on the ground level. The First Family is up in their living quarters. We're still in contact with the agents who are with them."

"Why don't you come up from below?" Remo asked, knowing that the offices of the White House extended well below street level.

"They seem to know the layout even better than we do," the Secret Service agent explained angrily. "All routes of ingress have been blocked. You heard about the bombing in Manhattan the other day?"

Remo frowned. "What's that got to do with this?"

"The head terrorist mentioned it to the FBI negotiator. 'Remember the Regency' or something like that."

Remo's frown deepened. "I've been in Oz the last few days," he said. "What's that mean?"

"It's the name of the office building they blew up," the agent explained. "When he said that, we got the preliminary report of the FBI investigation in New York faxed here on the double. They used plastic explosives to destroy an entire floor of that building."

"Which means the White House could already be set to go up like a Roman candle," the Marine colonel finished.

"Stalemate," the Secret Service agent grudgingly admitted. Rainwater dripped down the sour lines of his face.

E Street was crawling with government agents. Remo looked across the road to the South Executive Place fence of the White House. He could see the many missing bars in the wrought iron through which the terrorists had slipped.

And as the reality of this violation sank in, a cold fury welled up from the pit of Remo Williams's stomach.

The White House taken captive by terrorists. The single most aggressive assault ever on all that was symbolically American.

Remo might not approve of the current President or his treatment of Smith but-like the present occupant or not-the White House was the seat of world democracy. A symbol of hope for oppressed people around the world. And if Remo had anything to say about it, it would remain such.

"How many men?" he asked, voice coldly uninflected.

"Unknown at present," the Marine colonel offered. "At least two hundred."

Remo looked at the Secret Service man. His eyes were dead. "Get on the phone with the D.C. morgue," he instructed. "Order up two hundred body bags."

And with that, he was gone.

They saw him blend into the crowd of agents. But even as their eyes tried to track the stranger, he melted from their vision. He was like a ghost who had faded into the shadows.

"Who the hell was that?" the Secret Service agent asked once Remo was gone.

"I don't know," the Marine colonel admitted, his eyes flint. The chill that ran down his spine had nothing to do with the rain. "But I think you better make that call."

Chapter 23

Bruce Marmelstein was on his way back to Taurus from his day's tanning appointment when the call came through.

"Put on the news, Bruce." Hank Bindle's voice was anxious on the limo's speakerphone. Marmelstein put down his drink and reached for the control panel. "News?" he complained. "That's like Entertainment Tonight for losers. What do I want to see that for?"

"Just do it," Bindle pressed.

Marmelstein rolled his eyes even as the small color monitor winked on. "Okay, where do I find it?" he sighed.

"Right now, anywhere will do," Bindle said. "It's on every damn channel."

Marmelstein frowned as he watched the action on-screen.

"I don't know, Hank," he said, sipping his scotch and soda. "I usually don't question you in creative matters, but remember I just optioned Petticoat Junction and we've got the Wonder Twins with Nick Cage and Uma Thurman opening this fall. Do you really think we should give Yogi Bear the big-screen treatment?"

"Not Fox!" Bindle snapped. "One of the Big Three!"

Marmelstein reluctantly switched from the cartoon to the local CBS affiliate.

Immediately, images of a familiar residence appeared on the screen. Even Bruce Marmelstein recognized the White House. He had been there several times in the past few years. In fact, he and his partner had been on the past two inaugural committees. The building was bathed in darkness.

"Did they forget to pay the electric bill?" Marmelstein asked.

"The terrorists wanted it that way," Bindle supplied.

"Oh." Marmelstein nodded. He took another sip of scotch.

"The terrorists who took over the White House," Hank Bindle elaborated.

"I don't get this, Hank," Bruce Marmelstein finally admitted. "Frankly, I like your Yogi Bear idea better. I mean, how do you option the news?"

"We don't have to option it. We already own it."

"We do?" Marmelstein said. He didn't remember buying the rights. "Well if it's ours already, how about Huntley-Brinkley: the Early Years? I'm thinking DiCaprio and Van Der Beek. We could glue fake Brinkley ears on Leo-"

"The White House has been taken over by a group of armed terrorists, Bruce!" Bindle yelled. "They blew through the fence and swarmed the grounds. The President and his family are trapped upstairs. Doesn't that scenario sound just a little familiar to you?"

It didn't really click for Bruce Marmelstein until his Taurus cochair mentioned the First Family were hostages. In one horror-filled instant, he realized what was going on.

"Die Down IV!" Marmelstein gagged. Mind reeling, he focused his attention back on the TV screen.

"It's awful!" Bindle cried. "The head terrorist is a Brit and everything. Just like in our blockbuster."

Marmelstein clutched his gut. "I'm going to be sick."

"It gets worse. The news people intercepted a call he made with the FBI. Bruce, he mentioned New York,"

Scotch came out Marmelstein's nose. "The Regency?" he gasped, wiping the brown dribble off his chin. His nostrils burned.

"I couldn't believe it," Bindle moaned. "That's copyright infringement!" Marmelstein sputtered. "We'll sue! I'm calling the lawyers!"

"It's worse than that," Bindle insisted. He began to cry. "I think we could even go to prison, Bruce. And that's a bad thing. Not like in Stir Crazy at all. It's full of black people. And not funny ones like Richard Pryor. Angry ones, Bruce. They could hit you in the face and hurt you. Maybe even break a tooth."

"But we only hired out for New York," Marmelstein insisted. "We didn't pay for this. We pulled the plug on it. If he's doing this, he's doing it on his own."

"It doesn't matter," Bindle sobbed. "It's going on whether we paid for it or not."

"Free?" Marmelstein asked, hoping he'd pronounced the alien word correctly.

"You're the money guy. Did you sign the check?"

"I don't know," Marmelstein whined. "I just use the autopen-I don't pay attention to what it's doing. But it doesn't matter. We nixed the White House idea. It was too high profile. New York was good enough. It tied in with the movie without insulting everyone's... What's that stuff called? That country-loving stuff we looked up?"

"Patriotism?"

"Yeah, that. New York is what we agreed to."

"He must have thought we needed an extra push."

Marmelstein was getting angry. "What we needed was for the goddamn studio to blow up like we paid for and we didn't get that." He looked once more at the action on the TV, then closed his eyes.

"I'm going to set up a meeting," Bindle sniffed.

"We can't," Marmelstein said. "We've got what's-his-name to deal with. The desk-smashie guy."

"No," Bindle insisted. "He left here like a bat out of hell. No one's seen him for a couple of hours."

"You think he's gone?"

"We'd better hope so. For all our sakes."

The line went dead. Marmelstein opened his eyes. He stared at the TV screen for an instant. "Oh, God," he muttered.

Lunging for the wet bar, Bruce Marmelstein filled his tumbler with scotch. This time, he didn't add soda.

Chapter 24

The spotlights that ordinarily bathed the White House grounds in brightness remained doused. The only light to spill across the soggy lawn came from distant amber streetlights and from the many TV cameras huddled back at the police cordon. Though the shadows were long and deep, Remo's highly developed eyes drew in enough available light to make the area seem as bright as midday.

He had slipped through one of the openings made by the terrorists across from the Zero Milestone at the Ellipse. Although the grass was drenched, the soles of his loafers left not a single impression. No one saw him as he moved unmolested through the shadows toward the mansion.

The south lawn fountain sent gurgling spurts into the damp air. Remo skirted the pool, slipping from the edge of the long tulip bed around the fountain. The loamy smell of overturned earth was thick in his nostrils as he moved stealthily over to a tangle of purple magnolias.

From the shrubs, he slid across shadowy open lawn to the drive. Remo spotted the first terrorists as he approached the neatly trimmed hedge.

There were two of them. They stood beside the thick trunk of a spreading white ash beyond the hedge.

They didn't seem interested in the assault rifles in their own hands. Bored, one of the men banged his against the tree trunk, apparently unmindful that the barrel was aimed at his own stomach.

The men spoke in hushed tones. Their whispered words traveled to Remo's hypersensitive ears even as he moved-unseen-toward them.

"What are we doing here?" the first said with a sigh.

"Gotta pay the bills." The second shrugged. He tapped the tree with his gun butt.

"Yes, but what's my motivation? You know, I don't need this. I've done summer stock for the past three years. I was even in a play in New York."

"Broadway?"

"Off-off Broadway. Dinner theater mostly. But I got noticed. My agent's sister knows Neil Simon's mechanic's brother-in-law. His wife saw me and loved me."

Listening to the two men jabber, Remo had begun to get a troubled feeling. He hopped the hedge, landing on silent soles in the wide driveway. As the men continued to talk, he slipped around the fat angled tree trunk.

"I was up for the lead in The Gypsy Lover," one terrorist was boasting.

"No kidding?" asked the other, bored. He was staring out at the amber lights of E Street. "What happened?"

He would never know the answer.

The terrorist heard a grunt, then a thwuck. When he spun toward the commotion, he found to his shock and horror that the white ash tree had swallowed his partner. Or at least some of him.

The man was doubled over at the waist, his head jammed deep into a puckered knothole where once there had been a limb. His arms dangled limply to the ground. It seemed impossible for so much head to fit in so little space.

The surviving terrorist gasped, horrified. In his sheer panic, there was only one thing racing through his fear-paralyzed mind.

"If you're dead, can I still borrow your leather jacket on Monday? I've got that One Life to Live audition."

A face appeared before him. Hard. "Show's over," Remo said.

The man suddenly realized what had happened to his partner. And in those dark eyes was promise of a similar fate for him. He abruptly dropped his gun and covered his male-model-perfect face with both hands.

"Not in the face!" he begged. Remo obliged.

A two-fingered tap to the chest shocked the heart between beats. When the dead man's hands fell away, there seemed almost to be a look of relief that his handsome face had come through his death intact. He collapsed to the asphalt.

His concern deepening, Remo left the first two bodies.

Another five men waited at the top of the staircase beneath the south portico's entablature. They were using the colonnade of thick support columns for cover.

Keeping the farthest column on the left between him and the terrorist behind it, Remo moved swiftly up the left staircase. A few short bounds put him only a few feet away from the last man in line.

"I can't believe we signed on for three of these," one of the men on the long portico was complaining.

"It's pretty standard," another said. "The original with an option for two more. I guess they thought New York went well enough to warrant a sequel."

The last word finished it. Sequel. They were talking about the bombing in New York and the terrorist takeover of the White House in movie terms. Remo couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"What's that?" one terrorist asked suddenly. Another helicopter was sweeping in over the Ellipse. All eyes on the portico turned to the noise. And behind the final column, Remo used the distraction to his advantage.

When the others were looking off toward the sound, Remo reached around the column. Grabbing hold of a shirt collar, he yanked. The terrorist's boots shot off the portico. He disappeared without a sound. Remo muffled the snap of cracking vertebrae with cupped hands.

While the rest of the men were still fixated on the landing helicopter, Remo skipped to the next column.

Only when he finished off the second man and was propping the body against the wrought-iron rail that ran between pillars did he realize that stealth was probably not necessary. The remaining three men seemed oblivious to everything.

"Helicopters are pretty," one said, staring wistfully at the hulking shape of the distant chopper.

"I thought they were gonna feed us," the second whined. "I've been eating nothing but margarine sandwiches for a month."

"If you guys aren't doing anything after the siege, maybe we could, I don't know, hang out," the third suggested with a leer.

Actors. No doubt about it.

Remo walked out from behind the column. Their guns were lying wherever they'd dropped them. The men were all far too good-looking, with highlighted hair, bulging biceps and jaws that looked as if they'd been welded on.

"Oh, hello." One smiled as Remo took hold of the other pair and stuffed their heads beneath the dirt of a nearby potted cherry tree. The actor frowned as his two companions wiggled in place. "Is this in the script?" he asked, getting reluctantly to his knees. "'Cause if it's not, I want another five bucks."

The other two had stopped squirming. Remo released the inert bundles. When he looked down at the third, the man offered him the back of his neck.

"You actors drain the fun out of everything," Remo grumbled.

Taking the man by the shirt collar, he steered him headfirst into the nearest column. The head went splat. The column didn't.

Leaving the five dead thespians to shine in their new role as corpses, Remo moved swiftly to the glass south doors of the White House.

"IF YOU WANT to fire me, fire me. But listen, I'm the one who booked you this gig."

"My talent got me New York," Reginald Hardwin insisted. He was sitting at the President's desk in the Oval Office.

"Reg, baby, sweetheart. Listen to me. With talent and thirty-three cents you can buy a stamp. New York was penny-ante. A nickel-and-dime waste of all our time."

Hardwin didn't bother to tell his agent how much he'd made for presiding over the Regency Building bombing. It was only two days since he'd hired Bernie Leffer. Like all Hollywood agents, if he learned of the amount, he'd somehow find a way to tap into the five million Reginald had been paid to do the Regency.

"It was a first step," Hardwin argued into the phone.

"First step being the operative words. Like baby step. Washington's the big one. Do you have any idea how much coverage this stunt is getting?"

"Not really, no. A lot?"

"What, they don't have TV in the White House?"

"I don't watch television," Reginald Hardwin sniffed in his most superior British tone. "Except the occasional episode of Masterpiece Theatre. "

"Well, I watch it. Just like every other red-blooded American. You're wall-to-wall, Reg. Everywhere. They're not just breaking into the shows-you are the shows. Every network. Gavel to gavel. Front to back. Cover to cover. Beginning to end. You are it."

"Yes," Hardwin replied slowly. "Doesn't that make you a little nervous? After all, there is hardly a neat way out of this situation." He had risen to his feet and was peeking around the drapes. The activity around the White House hadn't lessened. If anything, it had only gotten worse.

"There is a way out," Bernie insisted. "A way out that'll make you a multimillionaire. We discussed this, remember? You agreed."

"Yes, I remember," Hardwin admitted.

He was finding it difficult to stay focused. Reginald Hardwin the man had begun to eclipse Reginald Hardwin the terrorist character. His hours of waiting idly in the White House were beginning to jangle his nerves.

"Ours is a celebrity-driven culture, Reg," the agent reminded him. "It doesn't matter how you get famous, as long as you are famous. Maybe being British you don't understand it, but that's the American way. Now, I can spin this off a million different ways. Even if it doesn't go the way I know it's going to go-and I'm 110 percent certain it will-but if it doesn't I can still spin it to your advantage. If everyone goes all ga-ga patriotic on us, we can license I Hate Reginald Hardwin T-shirts and bumper stickers. Hell-and this is off the top of my head, could be completely off base here-but think Reginald Hardwin toilet paper! People'd kill to wipe their asses on your face!"

Hardwin was aghast. "Bernie, we never discussed-"

"Got a call on my other line, babe. Gotta run." Closing his eyes on the mocking buzz of the dial tone, Reginald Hardwin replaced the President's phone.

This was the tenth call he'd made to his agent since the start of the White House siege and the ninth for which he had used the phone of the President of the United States. Let the Colonials pick up the tab.

Bernie had avoided him the first nine times. Hardwin was beginning to think that things weren't going as well as his agent claimed.

Wishing he'd gone with CAA, he left the phone and the President's desk. Hands behind his back, he strolled past the glass doors to the Rose Garden, walking grimly into the secretary's office to the right of the Oval.

His men weren't there.

They were all struggling American actors he'd hired either in New York or Los Angeles. And since they were actors, whenever they weren't sneaking off to have sex with one another in the study, they were off stealing towels and soap from the bathrooms. In between those times, there was only one other thing that kept the men busy.

"Not another bloody union break," Hardwin complained.

He marched into the hall. It was empty. This was unforgivable.

"If you do not show yourselves immediately, I'm canceling the deli platter!" Hardwin shouted to the corridor.

The bellowed threat should have brought a stampede of actors, all flapping towels and zipping flies. When none materialized, Reginald Hardwin felt the first twinge of concern.

He had studied the White House blueprints carefully before taking this job-especially the special sketches given him by his employer. The voice on the phone had told him the optimum points where his men should be stationed. He went to each of them in turn.

Checkpoint after checkpoint was left unguarded. By the time he reached the north portico without encountering even one of his men, his anxiety had grown wings of full fluttering fear.

Hardwin peeked out the door.

Cars jammed the street between the battered White House fence and Lafayette Park. Helicopters sat like angry insects on the grass, rotor blades whirring in perpetual readiness.

It seemed that the enraged eyes of an entire nation were focused squarely on him. Reginald Hardwin panicked.

Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out his cellular phone. He was ready to accept anything-even another demeaning underwear ad-if only Bernie could get him out of this.

"Solomon, Raithbone and Schwartz."

"Get me Bernie Leffer!" Hardwin begged.

The woman's voice took on a frosty tone that indicated his call wasn't unexpected.

"Mr. Leffer is with a client and can't be bothered for the rest of the day," she said.

"Week," Bernie's voice wailed from the background.

"The rest of the week," the woman parroted.

"What?" Hardwin demanded. "What?" he repeated when his phone floated out of his hand. He jumped back.

It was true. His cellular phone had taken on a life of its own. For a surreal moment, it seemed to hover in place.

Hardwin's first thought was that the White House was haunted. But then an even stranger thing happened. A body seemed to materialize from the shadows around the floating telephone. The apparition-possessed of the cruelest face Reginald Hardwin had ever seen-spoke into the phone.

"He'll call you back," Remo said coldly.

He squeezed his hand shut. The cell phone cracked into brittle plastic fragments. Remo dusted them off his palms.

Hardwin gulped, backing slowly away from the intruder. "Will I?" he asked, voice tremulous.

"No," Remo said, eyes dead.

"That's what I thought." Hardwin nodded. Turning, he ran screaming out the door. He got only as far as the middle of the portico before he found he wasn't making anymore progress. Even when he realized that the terrifying specter was holding him aloft, preventing him from fleeing, Hardwin's spindly legs continued to pump madly in the air.

To escape unscathed, he would have to inspire fear in this fear-inspiring demon. A lifetime's worth of acting skills burst forth in one brilliant thespianic flash. For an instant, Reginald Hardwin the man was replaced once more with Reginald Hardwin the fiendish character.

"Release me," he commanded, in his best diabolical-villain sneer, "or I swear to you Lucifer himself could not imagine a more terrible fate for you."

"Okeydoke."

Remo set Hardwin down. Legs still pumping, Reginald promptly ran at a full gallop across the north portico and straight into one of the white Ionic columns.

The crunching impact smashed his nose, one cheekbone and an eye socket. Hardwin was pulling himself off the portico when Remo approached.

"Stop!" Hardwin commanded, desperately trying to stay in character. "Or you consign your President to death. This building has been wired to explode in one minute. Only I can stop the countdown." He spit out a few bloodied incisors.

"Give it a rest, Dr. Evil," Remo said, annoyed. "Bombs have an odor and I didn't smell any. You're just some dingwhistle actor who was hired to pull off this cockamamy plan. Now, what the hell is going on here?"

As Remo spoke, Reginald Hardwin felt more and more of his character slip away until in the end there was nothing left but the actor beneath the role.

"I want a lawyer," Hardwin squeaked. Tears welled up, stinging his injured eye.

"We're beyond lawyer. Think undertaker," Remo said. "Who hired you? And if you tell me it was a voice on the phone who you never met in person and who paid you through the mail, you're going over that railing, ass, accent and all."

Since this was precisely what had happened, Hardwin weighed the risk of lying and being thrown off the balcony or, apparently, telling the truth and being thrown off the balcony, as well. His eyes darted left and right in search of a third alternative that wouldn't result in his winding up airborne. He chirped in cornered fear.

"Dammit, not again," Remo snarled. "What did he say?"

Hardwin offered a hopeful, snaggletoothed smile. "Well, after we blew up the Regency-" he shrank from Remo's glare "-he called about this," he continued timidly. "He knew his way around the White House. He gave me blueprints and sketches. Things not known to the public. He was the one who arranged for the explosives in New York and the guns and the charges for the fence here. He seemed very connected with the underworld."

"If you factor in whores and drugs, so's pretty much everyone in Hollywood."

Remo was thinking of Stefan Schoenburg and his contributions to the President. His donations could have bought him an insiders' look at the White House layout. Face stern, Remo reached for Hardwin.

"Die Down IV!" the actor gasped, jumping from Remo's hand.

The name caught Remo off guard. "What?" he asked.

"This," Hardwin insisted, waving both arms grandly to encompass both White House and grounds. "All this is part of Die Down IV. An extended action sequence takes place here."

Remo's brow furrowed. "Someone told me Die Down IV is based on the Hollywood invasion last year," he said.

"It is," Hardwin explained. "This is an interpretation of those events. An extrapolation, if you will. My contact didn't tell me this. I learned it through the actors' grapevine. I don't know if it's helpful, but if it's information you desire, I give you this freely in exchange for my life." His eyes were pleading.

Remo was thinking about Bindle and Marmelstein. Quintly Tortilli had said Die Down IV was a Taurus production, set to kick off the summer movie season in just a couple of weeks. If this had anything to do with that, then-Chiun or not-the two Taurus cochairs were going to have more than just a little explaining to do.

Before him, Reginald Hardwin took Remo's silence for agreement to his terms. The actor smiled. His eye behind his broken socket winced.

"Sorry about all this, dear boy," he apologized. "Bit of a mess we've made for you, I suspect." He spotted a couple of his teeth on the portico and put them in his pocket. "Can't really blame me, though. Remember our credo-an actor lives to act."

Remo looked up absently. He was biting his cheek in thought. "You're the exception that proves the rule," he said.

Reginald Hardwin almost saw the hand that ended his life. He definitely saw stars. Unfortunately, none of them were him. And then the stars fell, the universe collapsed and the curtain came down on the most brilliant acting career that never was.

Chapter 25

When Remo swung up from the darkened elevator shaft into the hallway of the First Family's residence, the first instinct of the Secret Service agents was to open fire. They found their fingers clutching air instead of triggers.

To their astonishment, they saw that their guns were lying in a neat pile on the carpeted floor a few feet from the open elevator door.

"Remo Barkman, assistant treasury director," Remo said, waving an ID at the startled agents. "Downstairs should be secure, but you better check. Until you know for sure, I don't want anyone announcing anything over the radio."

The men quickly obeyed. A contingent remained to safeguard the First Family while the rest collected their guns and raced downstairs.

Remo's sensitive nose detected a thin wisp of smoke in the air. He followed it to the library. Inside, the First Lady was in full shred mode. In her haste, she was destroying every scrap of paper she could lay her hands on. It looked like a tickertape parade had passed through the room. She stood ankle deep in strips of paper, a demonic look on her beauty-cream-caked face.

"What the hell do you want?" the First Lady demanded when Remo stuck his head around the corner.

She was stuffing the D.C. Yellow Pages into the smoking shredder. Yellow confetti flew out of the overstuffed bin.

"Just checking to see if you're okay, ma'am," Remo said.

"Do I look okay?" the First Lady snarled. She had finished with the phone book. An angry hand grabbed up a book of Walt Whitman's poetry. With the hilt of an antique sword that had belonged to Ulysses S. Grant, she began stuffing the volume into the shredder. The machine clunked and whirred in pain.

"Who's that? Is it safe?" a familiar muffled voice whined timidly from the closet. Beyond the closed door, a dog barked.

"Shut that damn dog up," the First Lady snapped. She was having trouble with the cover of the poetry book. She pounded it down with the sword hilt. "I swear, if that mongrel was female we'd be combing your DNA out of its mangy fur," she muttered.

As the smoke detector began to sound, Remo ducked back out of the room. The poor overused shredder continued to clonk in pain as he headed to the Lincoln Bedroom.

THE CRISIS in Washington had crawled into the silent postmidnight hours, and still Harold W. Smith had not left his desk. Eyes burning with fatigue, he was sitting in his battered leather chair scanning the latest information from out of the nation's capital when the red White House phone buzzed to life.

He jumped in his chair. Fingers fleeing his keyboard, he quickly picked up the receiver.

"Yes?" he said, voice tentative. As if unsure who might be on the other end of the line. "Break out your checkbooks-the White House is safe once more for Chinese arms dealers and South American drug lords," Remo's familiar voice proclaimed.

"Remo," Smith exhaled. "Is the crisis over?"

"I wouldn't want my daughter interning here," Remo replied dryly, "but if you mean the terrorists, they're history. You can start sending in the cavalry in a couple of minutes. Just give me a sec to sneak out of here."

"The President?" Smith asked.

"He's okay, Smitty," Remo said. "Although he did about as well as his ROTC commander would expect. He's hiding in the closet with the First Mutt while Lady Macbeth shreds the life out of every scrap of paper in a three-state area."

Smith let out a protracted sigh. "That is a relief."

"If your definition of relief is having these two in the pink, I don't want to know what you think anxiety is."

The CURE director refused to get caught up in discussing the personalities of the First Family. "Who was behind the siege?" he pressed.

"Hold on to your socks, Smitty," Remo said. "It's the same crew we're already after." Smith's voice was sharp. "How can you be certain?"

"Because I'm up to my armpits in SAG membership cards," Remo said. "According to the nitwit in charge here, this was all staged to help the new Die Down movie. Oh, and the bombing in New York is tied in with all this, too."

Smith could scarcely believe what he was hearing. "I will see which studio is producing that film," he said, swiveling to his computer.

"Don't bother," Remo said. He took a deep breath and prayed Chiun wouldn't hold this against him. "It's Taurus, Smitty," he informed the CURE director.

"Bindle and Marmelstein," Smith breathed.

"I'll talk to them when I get back to Lalaland."

"Be sure you do," Smith insisted. "It appears they are more deeply involved than you had earlier determined."

"Yeah, but this wasn't on the agenda, Smitty. At least not when I talked to them."

"There have not been any suspicious calls to either their homes or office," Smith explained. "If the telephone is the means by which the mastermind of these events contacts his employees, then this must have been planned prior to your visit with them."

"Maybe," Remo said. "It's amazing that even a couple of dopes as big as Bindle and Marmelstein would go to these lengths to make sure some stupid movie is a hit."

Alone in his drab office, Smith shook his head. "Not really," he said. "I have been doing some research. The market is very competitive. A big-budget Hollywood film can cost anywhere from 50 to 150 million dollars to produce. Some have gone even higher. Given the lucrative overseas and home-video markets, some would apparently do anything for a hit." Smith drew their conversation to a close. "Remo, if this is all, you should leave there. I do not like the idea of you staying in the White House any longer than is necessary."

"There's something else that could be important, Smitty," Remo said gravely, before Smith could hang up. "The Twit of the Year in charge here said he had blueprints and diagrams of the White House layout. Stuff the public wouldn't have. I'm thinking big Hollywood contributors buying access."

Smith pursed his lips. "Is it possible the President would jeopardize his personal security for a contribution?"

"Where have you been, Smitry? For a thousand-buck legal-defense-fund contribution, you could probably buy the nuclear football. Anyway, I don't know what director or producers are behind Die Down IV, but there's hardly a summer that passes without Stefan Schoenburg or those other guys having a blockbuster."

"I will look into that angle," Smith promised.

"Okay, that's it. I'm outta here."

The line went dead in Smith's ear. The instant it did, the CURE director turned to his keyboard. He began entering the commands that would send agents swarming into the White House. He wasn't concerned that Remo would be caught. Smith knew better. He had seen Remo in action too many times.

After he was through, Smith paused at his keyboard.

His thoughts turned to Stefan Schoenburg and to the anger the President would doubtless display if his Hollywood friend were disgraced by CURE. Or worse.

In that moment, Smith decided that it didn't matter. Presidents came and Presidents went, but America and CURE had always survived them. He would use any and all means to learn who was behind this plot. The President's personal considerations be damned.

At that moment of decision, it was as if a weight had been lifted from the CURE director's frail shoulders.

Dropping his arthritic hands to his keyboard, Smith threw himself into his work with renewed vigor.

Chapter 26

The blinds were drawn tightly. The light dimmer was set just a hair above pitch-black. Bindle and Marmelstein were dark shadows in the claustrophobic gray of their sprawling Taurus office. They had built a barricade from the broken halves of Hank Bindle's desk. They hunkered behind their personal Maginot Line, bottles and tumblers arranged around them on the floor.

The only sound for a long time was the tinkle of glass on glass followed by grateful slurping. As the shadows around them lengthened, Hank Bindle finally peeked nervously over the desk.

"Are you crazy?" Bruce Marmelstein charged, dragging him back to the floor.

"I have to pee, Bruce," Bindle complained. Marmelstein shoved an empty Waterford decanter into his partner's hands. "Here," he whispered.

Bindle took the crystal container reluctantly. "Maybe we shouldn't stay here," he suggested as he filled the decanter with the contents of his nervous bladder. "He knows this is our office."

"Which is exactly why we should stay here," Bruce Marmelstein argued. "If he connects the White House thing to us, then he'll come looking for us."

Bindle put the now full decanter down. He was careful to separate it from the rest. "But won't he come straight here?" he asked, zipping up.

"Yes," Mannelstein agreed. "But since he knows we'll know he's coming here, then he'll think we wouldn't be stupid enough to stay here."

"But we are here," Bindle stressed.

"Which proves we're innocent," Marmelstein concluded.

"Stop it, Bruce," Bindle moaned. "You're making my boo-boo hurt." He held the cool crystal of his empty glass to his forehead. The bruise he'd gotten from bashing his head off the window pane was masked with makeup.

"America has a short attention span," Marmelstein argued. "Think MTV generation. No one'll remember the White House thing tomorrow. Not even Mr. Desk Hater."

But Bindle wasn't convinced. "I don't know," the Taurus cochair whispered. "The White House is, like, famous or something. What if they don't forget?"

"Hey, it was not our fault," Bruce Marmelstein hissed angrily. "Sure, we blew up one measly floor in some nothing New York building and tried to blow up our own-stress our own-studio complex. But that's it."

"But they might be mad about New York."

"Naw." Marmelstein waved dismissively. Bourbon splashed out of his tumbler. "That was just promotion. Everyone'd understand that."

Quietly, Hank Bindle hoped that Remo was part of the "everyone" to whom his partner referred. He was reaching for a fresh bottle when a soft bell sounded in the outer office. Their private elevator.

Bindle froze, hand locked around the neck of the bottle.

"It's him," he hissed.

Fear propelled them to their knees. As they watched from behind the shattered desk, a dark shape appeared in the glass office doors. Bindle and Marmelstein's eyes were sick as they waited for Remo to enter.

The figure cupped hands over eyes, peering into the darkness of the office interior. Slowly, the door pushed open. The dark shape slipped inside the room.

"Jeez, it's like the mummy's tomb in here," a nasal voice complained. "You guys ever see The Mummy? Boris Karloff acting, Karl Freund directing. I swiped enough from that to pad three movies. And mine had swearing."

A balled fist jabbed out in the darkness, punching the dimmer control on the wall near the door. The office was suddenly awash in glaring light.

Bindle and Marmelstein blinked away the stabbing pain in their eyes as they tried to focus on Quintly Tortilli.

"Turn that off," Bindle said.

"Why? So the big Oogidy-Boogidy can't find you?" Tortilli asked, fluttering his fingers. The director wore a neon-yellow leisure suit and a clashing green ruffled shirt.

"We wouldn't have to hide if you didn't do what you promised you wouldn't," Marmelstein pouted as Quintly strutted over to them. "Why did you take over the White House?"

As he perched on the side of the overturned desk, a grin split the knotted fist that was Quintly Tortilli's face. "What's it always about, fellas? Box office," he proclaimed.

"That doesn't help us," Bindle whined up at him. "This studio is going down the tubes, Quintly. Ten blockbusters won't pull us out of the hole we're in."

"One blockbuster and blowing up the studio might have helped," Marmelstein interjected. "If we'd collected the insurance money."

"Might have," Bindle agreed. "But you didn't blow it up, Quintly. And you promised." Marmelstein sniffled morosely. "At best, we've got one piddling blockbuster, a failed studio, two golden parachutes and the entire industry laughing at us when ET. shows us in line at the Tinseltown unemployment office."

Both Bindle and Marmelstein ducked behind the shattered desk. They reappeared a moment later, fat tumblers filled to the brims with scotch. They downed their drinks in simultaneous gulps.

"Turn those frowns upside down," Tortilli said. "You're thinking, like, yesterday. I'm thinking tomorrow."

"You can afford to think that way," Marmelstein said, his voice taking on an angry edge. "We might not even have a tomorrow. There's some desk-smashing psycho out there who's already been snooping around. You could have told us before yesterday you were the guy calling us for the past month, Quintly. But, no, you had to wait until you got back from Seattle-after you cashed all our checks. Now you've tied us in to the White House thing-which, as a promotional tool, was discussed, considered and ultimately rejected. By the by, if the cash for that was from a Taurus account, I want it back."

"Sorry, man, no can do." Quintly shrugged. "It's already gone."

"Well, you didn't blow up the studio," Bindle sniffed. "We want that money back."

"Listen, guys, your fiduciary concerns viz the studio-nonblowing-up event are grounded, but are, you know, totally rejectable. Just because the place didn't blow up, it doesn't mean the money wasn't spent. Remember, guns and explosives don't come cheap."

"It was doody," Bindle whined.

"Shit costs," Tortilli said simply. "Plus the actors weren't free."

"Extras are a dime a dozen," Bindle said. "It's that Hardwin ham you paid too much to. He's a freaking underpants pitchman, for God's sake. Couldn't you have gotten someone like an F. Murray Abraham or a Stacy Keach type?"

Tortilli put on a reasonable tone. "If the utterly inconceivable happens and the shit hits the fan and this is traced back to you, do you want F. Murray Abraham associated in any way with a Taurus film?"

They considered for half a heartbeat. "Okay, the Hardwin cash was worth it." Marmelstein nodded. "But do you really think this White House stunt of yours will help?"

"It'll get us partway there." Tortilli nodded.

"What does it matter?" Bindle asked morosely. "Even if this is the biggest blockbuster of the summer, we're going to be stuck. Taurus is over. Our careers are shot."

Tortilli smiled. "Don't worry," the director said. "With the final act I've got planned, we won't just have the biggest blockbuster of the summer, but the biggest moneymaker of all time. I'm gonna sink Titanic and Phantom Menace. You'll be able to spin your way into the top spots at any studio in town. We'll all be sitting pretty."

"There's more?" Bindle asked, eyes worried.

"We've only had Acts One and Two. Don't forget Act Three." Tortilli smiled.

Bindle and Marmelstein exchanged a single worried glance. Their shoulders slumped.

"We're gonna trust you on this one, Quintly," Marmelstein sighed. "Since you're a genius and all."

To celebrate their partnership, Bindle poured them all a drink from the decanter at his knees. The three men drank greedily. For some reason the liquor was warm and watery.

"Tastes salty," Hank Bindle observed as he polished off the last of the strange yellow liquid.

Chapter 27

Lee Matson had wanted to be a Green Beret ever since he had seen the John Wayne movie of the same name.

"They're all over this killing stuff," he had assured his Berwick, Pennsylvania, high-school guidance counselor, who was trying to convince Lee to give college a try.

"Yes," Mrs. Patterson had said uncomfortably. Since striding into her office in his fatigues and boots, Matson, Lee W., had seemed a little too preoccupied with blood and bludgeoning and eviscerating small woodland creatures. He also never blinked. Not once. Her flesh crawled underneath her sensible cotton blouse.

"That's maybe something we can see as a goal a little farther down the road," the middle-aged woman offered, clearing her throat. "But have we considered the sound foundation college can give us?"

"Speaking of sounds," Lee enthused, unblinking eyes wide with enthusiasm, "did you know I've recorded eleven separate and distinct sounds a chipmunk makes when you hammer a nail into its head?"

As he went on to mimic each individual mortal squeak, Mrs. Patterson was already on the phone to the local recruiting office.

Just like that, he was in the Army.

And just like that, he was out two weeks later. "I swear I didn't know the bayonet was loaded, Sergeant," Lee begged as the boot-camp gate was locked behind him. "And that landmine was like that when I got there!"

The sergeant used a bandaged hand to push his hat back on his head. His eyes-one of them blackened-were pools of roiling menace. "In ten seconds, I open fire."

"But I want to proudly wear a green beret," Lee whined.

"Join the Girl Scouts."

To Lee, it was the most devastating thing that could possibly have happened. He had only one dream in life: to kill with the Green Berets. Now that dream had been dashed.

After washing out at boot camp, Lee began to take stock of his life and his future prospects. Things hadn't turned out the way he had expected. Okay. The same could be said for a lot of people. Lee decided to grab the bull by the horns. He might not be able to enjoy the legal protection of killing in the name of the American government but, by all that was holy, he would kill.

Of course, Lee didn't just run out and kill the first person he met. He wasn't crazy, after all. In spite of what his parents, teachers, Mrs. Patterson, his mailman or the United States Army thought.

Instead, Lee decided to hire himself out as a commando. A soldier of fortune with a don't-mess-with-me attitude and a high-tech, kick-ass arsenal for hire. Unfortunately, there just wasn't that much call for mercenaries in junta-free Berwick, Pennsylvania. Lee moved to New York.

It would have been great there for him if he hadn't come to the city during law-and-order Mayor Randolph Gillotti's ironfisted reign. The one time he tried to distribute his assassin-for-hire pamphlets in Midtown, he'd been arrested.

There was a long kill-free dry spell. Things got so bad that Lee was about to go the serial-killer route. He was on his way out the door of his apartment one evening to pick up his first tunnel-bunny hooker victim when the phone rang.

Lee had placed classified ads in all the major commando niche magazines. It turned out that the one in Guns and Blammo had caught someone's eye.

"Is this Captain Kill?" the giddy, rapid-fire voice asked. The caller sounded like a record recorded at 33 rpm and played back at 45.

Visions of murdered prostitutes dancing in his head, it took Lee a second to remember his topsecret commando code name, known only to a few thousand magazine readers.

"Yeah, that's me," he admitted gruffly. "Whaddaya got?"

Lee tried to sound like a cool professional. But when the voice on the phone began to outline the specifics of the job for which Lee was being hired, the novice soldier of fortune balked.

"You want me to kill a family?" Lee asked uncertainly.

"Not just any family. Their name's gotta be Anderson. Has to be a mom, dad, son, daughter. The whole Donna Reed thing."

"I don't know," Lee said. "My specialty generally is overthrowing neo-Communist regimes. Maybe you have a South American dictator you want iced?"

The caller was adamant: Name had to be Anderson. Family of four. And there were other specifics. "Why a tunnel?" Lee frowned.

"Do you want me to call someone else?"

"No, no," Lee said hastily. "Tunnels are good. We dug lots of them in Nam."

Lee, who was born two years after the fall of Saigon and whose only knowledge of Vietnam came from his favorite John Wayne film, listened intently to the plan the caller outlined for him.

It sounded almost like a plot synopsis. So detailed-even down to the methods that were to be used for killing the two Anderson females-that Lee felt an involuntary chill.

His only question came at the end, after his would-be employer mentioned once more how important it was that the family be named Anderson. "Where do I find them?" Lee asked. "Anywhere. Try a Maryland phone book."

"Why Maryland?"

The caller was so happily casual it was almost unnerving. "Why not?" he suggested.

After two weeks of legwork, Lee found what he was looking for in his third randomly selected phone book.

It had taken a while to dig the tunnel, but once he was through, the rest worked like clockwork. The murders, stealing his precious Girl Scout beret and sash as trophies, his escape. It was like poetry.

"Congratulations," his employer had said delightedly the day after news of the slaying broke in the papers.

"Just doing my job," Lee bragged. He was back in his New York apartment.

"And you're good at it, man. There's a bonus already on its way. Enjoy it. Catch ya soon." True to his word, the bonus had come by special Taurus studio courier that afternoon. The bag was even adorned with the famous constellation insignia of Taurus.

Lee found it all very strange. Strange enough to think something bigger than a simple multiple murder was going on.

When the film Suburban Decay opened a few days after the events at the Anderson household, Lee Matson began to put two and two together.

The other two similarly strange cases were listed in some of the Anderson articles. The box murder and the coed slayings were said by some to be part of a larger conspiracy. But the three movies that mirrored the real-life events were from a place called Cabbagehead Productions in Seattle. Lee's money had come from Taurus, in Hollywood.

What was the connection? He found the answer in, of all places, a copy of Entertainment Weekly. Taurus was gearing up for the new Die Down film. In the article Lee read, studio cochair Bruce Marmelstein was crowing about the fact that they had snagged hotshot Quintly Tortilli to direct the latest entry in the film franchise.

For Lee, it all clicked in that moment. That voice on the phone was the same one he'd heard on the Jay Leno, Charlie Rose shows and in a bunch of bit parts in a handful of really bad movies. Quintly Tortilli had hired him to murder an innocent family.

He was even more certain when the caller phoned back.

"Hey, Lee, baby. How the fuck are you with explosives?" the man Lee now knew to be Quintly Tortilli asked.

Lee became the front man for Hollywood's hottest young director.

Tortilli called Lee, and Lee called everybody else. Thanks to the Internet and the friendly folks at Radio Shack, Lee was able to construct a rabbit repeater box. With this, he managed to manipulate his phone line's ID just in case anyone got smart and tried to trace all this back to him. As far as he knew, it was unnecessary. It had been smooth sailing straight through hiring Reginald Hardwin-at Tortilli's urging, of course-to assembling the explosives and weapons necessary for the Regency and the White House operations. He had even had a hand in some of the grunt work in Operation Final Cut, the failed attempt to wipe out Taurus Studios.

It was all pretty simple stuff. Tortilli would call Lee with instructions, sometimes send him orders, and Lee would regurgitate the pertinent information to the men in the field. Lee was the go-between that would allow Tortilli deniability if the shit ever hit the fan.

To Lee Matson, it was all a great deal of fun. Plus if the time ever came that he grew bored with their arrangement, he could blackmail Torrilli. With what he had on the director, Lee could clean him out so completely the young Penny Dreadful genius would have to go back to his original job of ushering in a movie theater.

The day of the assault on the White House, Lee was sitting at his old Smith-Corona in his crummy Queens apartment. On the nineteen-inch TV, reporters talked in serious tones about the ongoing crisis in the nation's capital. Lee wasn't really listening to them. As the nation watched with rapt attention, he was hunting and pecking at the old manual typewriter, tongue jutting between his lips in concentration.

Lee was reaching for the Wite-Out when the phone rang.

"Captain Kill," he said, swabbing at the S that should have been a D.

"Hiya, Lee. Me again."

Tortilli. Lee capped the Wite-Out.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, bored. He sucked a bit of the steak he'd had for lunch from his bicuspids.

"Another little job, man. Good press. Bigger than what's going on right now. Should get banner headlines."

"What's the deal?"

"I don't want to talk about it like this," Tortilli said. "I'll fly you to L.A. We'll talk then."

Once the arrangements had been made and Tortilli had hung up, Lee quickly gathered up the pages of the screenplay he'd been working on. He was on the next flight to California.

A Taurus jeep brought him from LAX to a fancy Beverly Hills hotel. The phone was ringing before he'd even given a fifty-cent tip to the bellboy.

"Cap Kill here," Lee announced blandly, lying back on the soft bed.

"How do you feel about assassination, Lee?" the voice of Quintly Tortilli asked.

"In my business, that's just a fancy word for killing," Lee said confidently. "What do you got?"

"I'm going to make you the most famous killer of the new century." Tortilli giggled. "You'll be right up there with J. Harry Osmond and what's-his-name. The guy who killed Reagan." The director was beside himself with joy. Murder talk always sparked giddiness in the young auteur.

"How much?" Lee Matson asked.

"A million up front and a back-end million." Lee sat up, dropping his feet delicately to the floor. He had only gotten a hundred thousand for the Andersons.

"Okay," he agreed slowly. "I'll accept the job on one condition."

"What's that?" Tortilli asked suspiciously.

"Well, I don't know exactly who you are," Lee lied, "but the Taurus jeep, the studio envelopes, the fact I'm here in L.A. I kinda gotta think you're in the movie business somehow."

"And?" Tortilli asked, annoyance creeping into his tone.

Lee cleared his throat. "Well," he began, "it's just that I've got this script I've been working on...."

HOURS LATER, with the promise from Quintly Tortilli of a production deal and screenwriting credit plus executive-producer status, Lee Matson found himself at the loading dock behind the Burbank Bowl. Standing in his fatigues, he watched as the stagehands removed the heavy crates from the back of the Taurus Studios truck. They grunted under the weight.

Tortilli had made all the arrangements on this one. All Lee had to do was flip the switch and watch the world dance.

He'd learned upon his arrival that the day at the bowl had been a frantic one. Management wasn't certain if the unfortunate circumstances back east might keep their most famous guest away. But the crisis had ended abruptly. According to the advance people, he was on his way after all.

Under pressure from the front office, the stage crew was being pushed to get everything perfect. Cursing management all the way, two stagehands struggled to get the first of Lee Matson's two equipment crates to the loading dock.

Lee strolled alongside them, hands in his pockets. He chewed languidly at a thick wad of gum. "You really a musician?" one of them queried, straining to carry the crate. He was looking at Lee's hat.

"At least till I get my screenplay produced," Lee replied. With one hand, he adjusted his green Girl Scout's beret. The sash he'd taken from the Anderson house had been folded lengthwise and slipped through his belt loops.

"Yeah?" the man panted. "I got a script in turnaround. Hey, this thing weighs a ton. What's in this?"

"You familiar with Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture?" Lee Matson asked as they mounted the stairs. His wide eyes didn't blink.

"That's the one that ends with the cannons, right?"

Lee smiled. "Tonight we finish it, but good." Hauling the first of Lee Matson's cannons, the men ducked in the stage door of the Burbank Bowl. They moved quickly, for there was still much to do before the arrival that night of the President of the United States.

Chapter 28

The airports around Washington remained closed until late morning the day after the White House drama. Remo had forgotten all about Chiun's script until he sank into his first-class seat on the flight from Washington to L.A.

Pulling the tightly rolled tube of paper from his back pocket, he laid it across his service tray. With a simple sweep of his hand, he returned the coil of papers to a flattened state. He had just begun reading the script when another passenger dropped into the seat next to his.

"Can you believe this?" the man drawled. "I'm supposed to be flying my plane back to L.A. Here I fly to Washington to discuss religious persecution with the President, and not only can't he see me because of some stupid terrorist thing he's scheduled for the same day, but they won't even let any private jets take off until they've searched them."

Remo glanced over at the man. He found that he was staring into the vacant eyes of Jann Revolta. The actor had been a star in the 1970s only to become a has-been in the 1980s. If Quintly Tortilli hadn't resurrected him from box-office death by casting him in Penny Dreadful, the actor would have been relegated to B-movie sequels featuring talking babies for the rest of his inauspicious career. Thanks to Tortilli's retro mentality, Revolta was now in virtually every movie Hollywood produced.

"What are you doing?" Revolta asked, curious. Half standing, Remo was craning his neck, trying to see if there were any vacant seats. Unfortunately, the cabin was full. Exhaling annoyance, he sat back down.

"I'm trying to read," Remo muttered.

"Oh." Revolta nodded. "I don't do much of that. I'm too busy making movies to read even half the scripts I do. Hey, is that a script?" he asked excitedly, leaning toward Remo's tray. His ample paunch made it a struggle. "Gimme twenty million and I'm in." As soon as he saw the main character's name, the actor's face grew deeply disappointed. "Ohhh, I can't be in that movie," he groaned. "It's a Lance Wallace vehicle."

Remo had heard of the actor. But he couldn't be in Chiun's movie. Remo hadn't seen Wallace during any of his time on the Taurus lot. Revolta supplied the answer to a question Remo didn't have time to ask.

"Lance is back as the hotshot cop, but I heard he finished his work a month ago," the actor said. "Of course, Quintly wanted me to star at first. Back then, it was this weird little story about assassins working for the government or something, but then the studio changed the focus and moved it the franchise route. Did I mention I have an airplane?" Remo had quickly lost interest in anything the actor had to say. He was focused back on the script. Hoping to shut Revolta up without having to deal with the questions a paralyzed voice box might bring, he went the Machiavellian route. "Horshack carried you," Remo said blandly. He didn't even glance at the actor.

Revolta frowned. "I'm sensing coldness here," he said.

"Think how much colder it'll be when I stick you out on the wing at thirty thousand feet."

"Is this a test? If it is, you can't upset me with your hostility," Revolta insisted. "I'm a 40.0."

"If that's your IQ, it's about twice what I expected."

"Just what I'd expect from a 1.1," Revolta said firmly. "I'm talking about the Timbre Scale. It plots the descending spiral of life from full vitality all the way down to death. You're a 1.1. Someone who exhibits covert hostility."

Remo was a little disappointed in himself. He thought he was being as overt in his hostility as possible.

"I am a 40.0," the actor continued proudly. "Someone who experiences complete serenity." He fumbled in his carry-on bag, producing a thick paperback book. "If you want to change your life for the better..."

With a lunatic's grin, he offered the book to Remo. On the cover, an ominous black tornado ravaged a desolate plain. The word Diarrhetics was printed at the top. "By Rubin Dolomo" was printed in smaller type at the bottom.

Remo remembered hearing about this on TV. Revolta was one of the many celebrity members of the Poweressence cult. A few years before, he had even gotten the president to chastise Germany for its treatment of cult members in that country. In exchange, Revolta agreed to dull the sharper edges of his performance as the President in a film based on the Chief Executive's 1992 campaign.

Remo accepted the Poweressence bible from the actor.

"Here's a little trick the First Lady taught me," he said, smiling.

His hands became chopping blurs. By the time he was finished four seconds later, Revolta's book had been transformed into a heap of confetti on the actor's lap. Revolta's eyes were wide as he stared, slack jawed at the mound of shredded paper. "Thanks," Remo said. "I feel better already." He returned to Chiun's script.

Snapping his fingers, Revolta summoned a stewardess to remove the remnants of his bible. "You're mean," he proclaimed once the woman was gone. "I wouldn't be in your movie for all the twenty million dollars in the world." He tipped his head, considering. "Unless the back-end deal was sweet enough. Twenty million plus enough points to cover your meanness and maybe buy me a new airplane. Of course, I'm playing Poopsy-Woopsy in the TeeVee-Fatties movie that's coming up. Time is tight, but I could do your movie after that. I've got about a week. Okay, it's a deal," he exclaimed grandly. When he found that Remo was still engrossed in Chiun's script, he bit his lip. "Are they still calling that thing Assassin's Loves? I can't believe they didn't come up with a better working title after they rewrote it into Die Down IV."

Remo had been doing his best to ignore Revolta. But at the mention of the movie title, a twinge of concern knotted small in his stomach.

"What do you mean, Die Down IV?" he asked.

"That's the latest Die Down movie," the actor said, pointing at Remo's script. "They do that with movies sometimes-retitle them during production. Especially franchise ones like this. Throws people off the scent. I don't know how good it works, though. Everybody in the industry knows Taurus got the rights to the series and that Tortilli is directing it."

Remo looked down at the script with disturbed eyes. His thoughts turned to Reginald Hardwin and the White House siege. If what Revolta was saying was true...

"But I know the guy who wrote this," Remo said. "I don't think he's ever even seen one of those movies."

"I told you. Things change in development. Like when I was making I'm Talking to You, Too. Originally, there was only supposed to be one craft-services truck. But my leading lady had gotten so fat by the sequel they were bringing pizzas in by the..."

Remo was no longer listening. Hands flashing, he skipped rapidly ahead in the script.

He found what he was looking for on page forty-two. In a detailed action scene, a group of armed terrorists invaded the White House and took the First Family hostage. Skipping back, he located another long section where the same terrorists blew up a floor in a Manhattan office building.

"Damn," he muttered.

"...the Jaws of Life to get her out the door," Revolta finished. Glancing over, he noted the look on Remo's face. "Oh," he said, looking down at the script. "Does it still end with the big gun battle at LAX? When Quintly mentioned that to me, I told him it reminded me too much of Die Down II."

Remo hadn't even thought to see how the screenplay ended. He was still trying to digest the fact that for much of the day he had been holding a virtual blueprint of the White House siege in his back pocket.

Remo had been ready to blame Bindle and Marmelstein. But now he realized Quintly Tortilli was a better actor than he'd thought. The director had been faking it back in Seattle. And in Hollywood, he'd neglected to mention that the movie that would benefit most from the recent news events Die Down IV-was his.

In an instant, it was all clear. Tortilli was the mastermind.

Remo skipped to the end of the script. He could see nothing of a battle at Los Angeles International Airport.

"It looks like it's on a boat," he said aloud.

"Must have rewritten it again." Revolta nodded.

"Definitely a boat," Remo said, talking more to himself than to the actor. He was riffling through the script. "Terrorists steal a mothballed battleship from Long Beach."

"Isn't that closed?" Revolta said. "Anyway, I don't like it. Too much like Under Siege. Although that was a Die Down I rip-off." He glanced around, annoyed. "Are they going to feed us or what? I haven't eaten since the airport."

Only now were they taxiing for takeoff.

Remo wasn't paying attention to the actor. He was thinking about how Chiun's screenplay ended. It seemed anticlimactic after invading the White House. The theft of a retired battleship was mild compared with what had already gone on. But here it was in Remo's hands.

The Master of Sinanju already suspected that Remo was jealous of his great movie deal. Remo didn't know how Chiun would react when he told him about Quintly Tortilli. And for the first time in a long time, Remo didn't give a damn how all this would affect Chiun's movie. After so many months of lies and secrecy and having to deal with the old Korean's ballooning ego, he wished he could savor the sensation.

His face was grim as he settled back in his seat for the long flight to California.

Chapter 29

Alone in his trailer on the Taurus lot, Quintly Tortilli studied himself in the long door mirror. His garish purple polyester tuxedo with its brazen green ruffled shirt, sequined maroon cummerbund and giant floppy yellow felt bow tie would have embarrassed a circus clown.

To the rose-colored eyes of Quintly Tortilli, the reflection staring back at him could have just stepped off the cover of GQ. It had been a long time since he'd had so much fun dressing up.

Die Down IV was nearly finished.

He'd finished the bulk of the film weeks before, wrapping up work with the principal actors just before flying to Seattle. In Washington, he used the Cabbagehead facilities to edit the Arlen Duggal-directed footage that was flown to him on a daily basis.

There was no doubt about it. In spite of what Bindle and Marmelstein and Duggal thought, although he seemed to take an unconcerned attitude with this film, it was his baby. Quintly Tortilli was in charge of the project from start to finish. And the finish line was in sight.

The special-effects house hired to complete the various miniature, matte and pyrotechnic shots would have their work back in less than a week. Die Down IV would make its pre-Memorial Day release date. And Tortilli would have a hit. Finally.

He'd had a hit before. But Penny Dreadful was more like an indie film that had somehow crossed over. Quintly Tortilli-the genius, the maverick, Hollywood's hottest young director since Stefan Schoenburg-had never been able to duplicate that early success.

In the mid-1990s, he was ubiquitous. He made all the talk-show rounds. He tried his hand at acting and producing. On a whim he'd even directed that episode of the highly rated television hospital drama, OR.

That was when Quintly Tortilli was at the top of his game. But the fire that he thought would never go out soon threatened to be extinguished. And with it, his career.

Without something to promote, the talk-show circuit eventually dried up. His acting was universally panned. The films he produced were all box-office bombs.

Actors could coast for years on just a little box-office success. The young genius of Penny Dreadful found that forgiveness didn't extend to directors.

The truth was Quintly Tortilli needed a hit. Badly. But few respectable offers came in.

As his bank account dwindled, Tortilli found that he needed something even more basic than a hit.

He needed a job. Of course, he always had his script-doctor income, but lately even the paychecks for that were shrinking. A high-profile directing job could pump his asking price back up into the stratosphere. When word came from Taurus Studios that Tortilli was wanted to direct the next Die Down sequel, he had accepted without hesitation.

There were troubles from the start.

First, Lance Wallace didn't want to do it. He claimed he had said everything he wanted to say with his lone-cop character in the first three films. A twenty-two-million-dollar paycheck and gross points changed the actor's tune, but his salary cut seriously into the film's budget.

The script offered Tortilli another challenge. The original Die Down formula had been copied so many times that the new chapter threatened to cover the same ground all over again. Quintly's harshest critics had always claimed he didn't have an original thought in his ego-swelled head. He had to do something different with his comeback film.

To this end, somewhere during their earliest script discussions, Hank Bindle and Bruce Marmelstein had brought Quintly a script by an unknown writer. The Taurus cochairs had insisted that their discovery was absolutely super-talented and that Quintly absolutely had to use his script even if he had to change everything in it to do so. As they sang the praises of their new screenwriter, the two men were sweating visibly.

When Quintly resisted, Bindle and Marmelstein had insisted. Since this was long before the Regency or the failed attempt to destroy Taurus Studios, and the blackmail opportunities they presented, Quintly, unable financially to walk away from the project, had accepted the novice screenwriter's story.

Over the course of the next few months, Tortilli changed so much in the original script that it was unrecognizable.

When the script changes were mentioned to the Taurus cochairs, both Bindle and Marmelstein were afraid that their screenwriter might object.

"You're worried about a writer?" Tortilli had asked.

"We're worried about this writer," Bindle replied.

"But he's a writer," Tortilli argued. "They're just ...well ...writers. No one in this town worries about writers."

"You've never met him," Marmelstein said uneasily.

"And I'm gonna keep it that way," Tortilli said. And he had. All through the rewrites, he avoided the crazy old man. In fact-much to Bindle's and Marmelstein's relief-the writer stayed away straight through the final change in which the stolen-ship ending was jettisoned. When Lance Wallace finished up his work on the film, Tortilli had booked it to Seattle, just in time to avoid meeting Mr. Chiun. He let Arlen Duggal take the heat from the famously ill-tempered screenwriter.

Once in Seattle, Tortilli not only began work on the independent film he was doing for Cabbagehead Productions, but he completed the behind-the-scenes arrangements that would ensure financial solvency for the rest of his life.

Tortilli was just one of the many well-known Hollywood backers of Cabbagehead. He had bought his interest in the studio back in his post-Penny Dreadful heyday, when it seemed the money would never run out.

No one else worried about the success of the studio. Indeed, most of the backers had probably forgotten all about it. It was only something that their accountants fretted over when tallying up their strategic losses at tax time. If Cabbagehead had a hit, great. If not, big deal. Tortilli was the only one who had genuine financial concerns. And he turned those concerns into action.

It was surprisingly easy for the director to segue from fictional murder to the real thing.

At first, his fan mail had pointed the way. Those who skulked beyond society's fringes seemed drawn to him. The mailbag had dropped Leaf Randolph and Chester Gecko into his lap. Lee Matson had been a godsend. The first classified ad Quintly had answered in a mercenary mag and he'd bagged a top-drawer psycho.

Everything came together once he'd assembled his cast. With his skills as a writer-director-producer, he was able to outline and orchestrate each scheme down to the slightest detail. And so far, everything had gone nothing but right.

After the Anderson case, he had netted a nice profit as a stealth producer of Suburban Decay. The same had been true for the other two Cabbagehead films.

Oh, there was the little matter of the Taurus bombing failure. But that only affected Bindle and Marmelstein.

He even had Die Down IV to look forward to. Now, that was the work of a genius. Formulaic crap, the movie that should have been a disaster at the box office was certain to be a hit thanks to his distinct but thorough ministrations.

The New York bombing, the White House siege and now this night. This night would feature the event that would put him over the top. A cool 125 million by Memorial Day weekend alone. The gravy train would chug straight through to the Fourth of July and on to Oscar night in March.

He would be brilliant. He would be prescient. He would be rich.

In the privacy of his trailer, Tortilli smiled at the thought. He cast a final critical eye over his outfit. He didn't really like the tie. It was a little too yellow. Orange would be better.

Pulling off the bow tie, he searched through his wardrobe for the proper tie. After knotting it around his neck, he went back to the mirror. And frowned. Still didn't look right.

"What should one wear to a presidential assassination?" he mused aloud as he tipped his head to one side.

He finally decided to go tieless. Pulling off the bow tie, he unbuttoned his shirt down to his cummerbund.

"Perfect," he proclaimed.

Tossing the orange tie onto a chair, Quintly Tortilli marched from his trailer. He closed the door with such violence, his rack of polyester suits swayed in the breeze.

The orange bow tie slipped silently to the floor.

Chapter 30

The phone on Remo's plane didn't start working until they were about to land at LAX.

"It's about damn time," Remo said angrily when Harold Smith finally picked up. "Jann Revolta's signed to do three more movies since we left freaking Washington."

"Remo? What is wrong?"

"I've been trying to call you all the way from D.C.," he complained. "I'm about two seconds away from landing in California and the bloody phone just started working."

Smith didn't seem surprised. "That was a security precaution for the President."

"What does he have to do with this?" Remo said sourly.

"He is attending a scheduled fund-raising event at the Burbank Bowl tonight. After the events in Washington, he was only too eager to get out of the city. However, due to concerns for his safety, Air Force planes doused radio signals in a wide corridor for the duration of his trip. You must have been following in his wake."

"When does this guy ever find time to run the country between fund-raisers?" Remo grumbled. "Anyway, I've got news."

"As have I," Smith said excitedly.

"Me first. Quintly Tortilli's our guy. He's the one making the movie all this bullshit has been based on."

"As I suspected," the CURE director said. "Since we last spoke, I returned to the tangled finances of the studio in Seattle. Tortilli was a producer on the three independent films made successful by the original murders."

"How come you didn't find that out before?"

"As I said, the financial records are complex. One of the producers was an Allen Smithee. Further digging revealed that this was a corporation name owned by none other than Quintly Tortilli. It is in this name that he is also a Cabbagehead Productions backer."

"Well he's definitely branched out from the indies, Smitty," Remo said. His hand rested on Chiun's screenplay. "I've got his blockbuster shooting script right here. It's got the New York bombing and the White House takeover. Barely mentions the trouble in Hollywood that it's supposedly based on."

"You actually have his script?" Smith pressed. "I was not able to find it in the Taurus computer system."

"Yeah, well, they left it lying around somewhere," Remo said vaguely. "Anyway, I've got his grand finale. He plans on swiping a Navy boat from the Long Beach shipyard. If he sticks to the script, we should be able to head it off."

Smith paused. "Remo, the Long Beach naval facility was closed several years ago. I believe it has been turned over to commercial development. If the Navy has left any vessels there, they are no doubt worthless scrap."

"All I know is what I read, Smitty," Remo insisted. "According to this, that's where he's going next."

"I will arrange to have authorities converge on the area," Smith said reluctantly. The sound of rapid typing filtered through the phone.

"I'll take care of Tortilli," Remo said. "And, Smitty?"

"Yes?"

"If they've built a mall at Long Beach like they've done on every other strip of land that used to be a military base in this country, you might want to evacuate the Gap," Remo suggested, hanging up the phone.

WHEN REMO ARRIVED at Taurus Studios, he found the Master of Sinanju striding purposefully up the sidewalk. The old Korean's weathered face was pinched into furious lines.

"Need a lift?" Remo called out the car window. Chiun's eggshell head lifted, shaken from his burdensome thoughts. He hurried over to Remo's rental car.

"I am cursed with too trusting a soul," the Master of Sinanju intoned as he slipped into the front seat. His squeaky voice toyed with the fringes of indignant rage.

"This ain't the town for one," Remo agreed. "What happened?"

"I have just learned the meaning of 'cutting room floor,'" Chiun snapped as they drove up the main Taurus avenue. Dusk was falling. "It is an evil practice wherein the innocent are duped into believing their angelic countenances will appear on movie screens around the world, only to have those precious inches of film snipped and discarded by the ugly and duplicitous."

Beneath the anger was injury. Chiun had been hurt by the lie. Remo's sympathetic smile was genuine.

"I'm sorry, Little Father."

Chiun pressed the back of one bony hand to his parchment forehead. "How will I ever overcome this embarrassment?" he lamented. "I have already told all my friends."

"What friends?" Remo asked.

"I told you," Chiun challenged. Remo's face warmed.

"Oh, do not get maudlin," the Master of Sinanju snapped, noting the pleased expression on his pupil's face. "I merely mean that you will not miss an opportunity to lord this shame over me, jealous as you are."

"For the last time, I am not jealous," Remo said, exasperated. "And you should look on the bright side. At least you got the chance to think you were going to be in a movie. A lot of people don't get that."

"A starving man is not sated by the mere promise of food," Chiun replied. "The thirst of a man dying in the desert is not slaked by the mere mention of water."

"You're being a little melodramatic, don't you think?" Remo said. "Besides, maybe it's all for the best. Smith would have stroked out the minute he heard you were in a movie."

"Pah. Smith," Chiun sniffed. "He has hidden my light under his demented bushel basket far too long."

"Smitty's okay," Remo disagreed. He was thinking of the past few days. Smith had become human to Remo in a way he did not like. "It's not his fault they cut you out. That sort of thing happens all the time." He regretted saying it the instant it passed his lips. "I think- I mean, I assume. I guess. Probably." He abruptly changed the subject. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to know where Tortilli is?"

Chiun didn't reply right away. He was staring at his pupil's guilty silhouette.

"No," he said, after an infinitely long pause. "I'll check with Bindle and Marmelstein," Remo said. He kept his eyes dead ahead as he drove to the main offices.

"Did you know already of this 'cutting room floor?'" the Master of Sinanju demanded bluntly, eyes slits of suspicion.

"You're the movie expert in the family," Remo said, dodging the question. "I'm just Frank to your Sly Stallone."

Chiun's hazel eyes bored through to Remo's soul. Remo didn't flinch. At long last, the old man dropped back in his seat. "This is the worst day of my life," he lamented, stuffing his hands morosely into the sleeves of his kimono.

"I thought the worst day was when you met me."