Fade to Black

"It was. You have been supplanted."

"And it only took thirty years. If you live to be two hundred, maybe I'll get pushed back to three."

"You should live that long," Chiun said.

BINDLE AND MARMELSTEIN were still hiding out behind Bindle's fractured desk when Remo and Chiun burst through the glass doors.

"If that's the limo, bring it around back," Hank Bindle's disembodied voice whispered.

"The only place you're going is out that window."

At the sound of Remo's voice, two pairs of fearful eyes sprang up above the upended desk half. When Bindle and Marmelstein saw Remo and Chiun striding toward them, two heavy tumblers thudded to the thick carpet. The executives scampered to their feet, backing to the wall.

"Mr. Remo, Mr. Chiun. What a pleasant surprise," Marmelstein said nervously.

Each man wore an ugly silk tuxedo. The suits were deep blue with black felt cuffs and cummerbunds. High white collars hugged their necks, a single black button where a bow tie should have been. "It was Quintly Tortilli," Bindle blurted.

Marmelstein wheeled on his partner. Not to be out-stool pigeoned, Bruce added, "We didn't know it was him until yesterday. He did the White House thing entirely on his own. We just hired him to blow up that building in New York."

Bindle kicked his partner viciously in the ankle. "Ow! I mean oh," Marmelstein stammered, hopping in place. "Shouldn't have said that. Edit that last bit out."

Before Remo could open his mouth, the Master of Sinanju bullied his way in front of his pupil. "You have much explaining to do," Chiun challenged.

Bindle's and Marmelstein's eyes grew wide. "We didn't know you were going to be here," Marmelstein whined rapidly. "I swear on my mother's eyes."

"We thought you were gone," Bindle agreed, pleading. "We never would have done it if we knew you were on the lot. We want to make more great movies with you, baby."

Chiun glanced at Remo, his expression one of sour confusion. "What are these imbeciles babbling about?"

"They're the ones who hired Tortilli to blow up the studio," Remo supplied. "With you in it."

Chiun spun to the Taurus cochairs, eyes blazing fire. "Is this true?" he demanded.

"It was his idea," Bindle and Marmelstein both exclaimed in unison. Each was pointing to the other. Their faces grew shocked at the betrayal. "Liar!" they both accused at the same time.

Bindle shoved Marmelstein into the broken desk. Bottles on the floor clanked loudly as the Taurus cochair stumbled through them.

Marmelstein flung a handful of ice from a bucket at his partner. One piece struck Bindle in the face. "I'm blind!" Bindle shrieked. Squinting, he tried to kick Marmelstein. Missing completely, he punted the desk. A toe cracked audibly.

"Ahhh!" Bindle yowled in pain.

Thrilled to have the upper hand, Bruce Marmelstein was about to finish his partner off with a hurled bottle of martini olives when he felt a powerful hand grab him by the throat. The olive jar slipped from his hand as he felt himself being thrown through the air. He landed on the surface of his own, intact desk. With a grunt, Hank Bindle dropped roughly beside him.

When they looked up, they found Remo a few inches away. The Master of Sinanju stood at his elbow. Neither man seemed pleased.

"Tortilli," Remo growled. "Where is he?"

"Finishing location shooting," Bindle offered weakly, his left eye squeezed tightly shut. His broken toe ached.

"I thought location stuff was done weeks ago."

"This is an add-on scene. Quintly didn't like the last boat sequence. We scrapped it for something more exciting."

Remo felt his heart quicken. "The boat sequence was cut?"

"Quintly had a flash of inspiration," Marmelstein offered. "He wrote something new that dovetails with the whole terrorist-White House angle."

"Where is he shooting?" Remo pressed.

"The Burbank Bowl," Bindle replied.

"That's where we were going," Marmelstein supplied. "It's a concert to celebrate soundtrack music."

"Only we were going to show up late, 'cause that stuff gives us both headaches," Bindle ventured.

"The President's at the Burbank Bowl, Little Father," Remo said worriedly to Chiun.

The old Korean had his own problems.

"They have edited me," Chiun moaned. "Me. And to add insult to injury, my own producers attempt to kill me with a boom. Oh, why did I ever think an assassin would be safe in this town?"

Remo returned his attention to Bindle and Marmelstein.

"How does the movie end?" he demanded.

"The President dies." Bindle nodded, trying to sell Remo on the concept. "Great dramatic scene. Lance Wallace gets sworn in on the spot as the next Commander in Chief. Perfect setup for the sequel."

Remo wheeled to Chiun. "We've got to get to the Burbank Bowl," he insisted sharply.

"Gladly," Chiun responded bitterly. "My only wish before I shake the dust of this heathen village from my sandals forever is to mete out justice to the mendacious Quintly Tortilli."

Scrambling, Bindle knelt on the desk. "By justice, you don't mean, by any chance, killing Quintly?"

"I will feed him his own lying heart."

"Heart feeding is bad, Bruce," Bindle said out of the corner of his mouth.

"You can't kill him just yet," Bruce Marmelstein said quickly. "Not till he's finished tonight's filming. As it is, it's already gonna be a bitch getting this puppy in theaters in two weeks."

"But if he does finish tonight, he's guaranteed us 125 million by Memorial Day," Hank Bindle argued hastily. "Even if it tanks afterward, that'll carry us through another hundred million, domestic."

"And even halfway decent word of mouth could push us over three hundred million before foreign, pay cable or video," Marmelstein supplied rapidly. "And a real dead President bumps foreign box office out of the solar system."

"Bottom line, Chiun, baby," Bindle concluded hurriedly. "Presidents come and Presidents go, but you keep turning out dynamite scripts like Die Down IV, and you and Taurus'll be counting Oscar gold for years to come."

Sweating anxiously, the two Taurus cochairs studied the Master of Sinanju's reaction, Bindle with one bloodshot eye closed.

The wizened Asian turned a narrowed eye to his pupil. "Is it possible for a film to survive the deaths of the executives in charge of the project?" he asked.

Remo was already edging toward the door. "Little Father, every time a Hollywood honcho dies, an angel gets his wings," he answered quickly.

Both executives still squatted on Bruce Marmelstein's desk, looks of anxious fear on their tan faces. They seemed oblivious to Remo's words, focused as they were on the Master of Sinanju.

Chiun stood silent before them, a figure of solemn contemplation.

In a move so swift it did not have time to startle, the old Korean's hands suddenly shot up.

Bindle and Marmelstein held their collective breath. Fearful, fascinated eyes stared with rapt attention at two extended index fingernails.

Chiun paused an instant-an orchestra conductor holding a note a beat too long.

A flash. Nails dropping, thrusting forward. Puncturing soft abdominal tissue. A jerking blur. Chiun's bloodless nails retreated to his gold kimono sleeves.

With twin gasps, Bindle and Marmelstein looked down in time to see their bellies yawn open in sideway smiles. Slick red organs slopped out onto the cold metal desk. Frantic faces looked to Chiun in desperation.

"We'll give you points," Bindle gasped. With one hand, he was trying to hold in the last of his trailing internal organs. The other palm was braced helplessly on the desk.

Chiun spun away, gliding swiftly across the office. Remo was already pushing the door open. Marmelstein toppled to the floor. "No writer gets points," he panted weakly. "We'll give you ten off the top."

"We already told him ten," Bindle wheezed faintly.

"Twenty. "

Remo and Chiun were already gone.

From the top of the desk, Hank Bindle looked down with glazed eyes at his dying partner. "Net?" he panted.

"Gross."

It wasn't clear if Marmelstein was talking about film profits or the fact that they had each just collapsed into the slimy sacks of their own internal organs.

And in another moment, nothing mattered to them at all.

Chapter 31

Cameras clicked like a hundred crazed crickets as Quintly Tortilli exited the main door of the Burbank Bowl. His pointy cheekbones and chin seemed more prominent in the presence of the tight rictal smile he gave the paparazzi.

The press was kept back farther than usual by a contingent of dark-suited Secret Service agents. The armor-reinforced presidential limousine with its tiny twin flapping American flags stopped at the end of the long red carpet just as Tortilli made it to the curb. Before and behind the limo, motorcycles and official vehicles of the presidential motorcade stopped, as well.

The President climbed from the back seat with a beaming smile beneath his familiar bulbous nose and baggy eyes.

"Quintly, good to see you!" the President exclaimed hoarsely. He pumped the young director's hand for the cameras.

"Glad you could make it, Mr. President," Tortilli said, his own smile never wavering. "Thought that wacky Washington scene mighta kept you east of the mighty Mississip."

A hint of discomfort flitted across the Chief Executive's face.

"Oh, I'm fine," he dismissed. "The First Lady was pretty shaken up, but she's keeping her mind off things by staying busy. Last I saw her she was knee-deep in paperwork."

The President was only too happy to change the subject. Only in California and New York did he receive such enthusiastic crowds these days. Waving to reporters and cheering bystanders, the President began walking to the Burbank Bowl entrance, Quintly Tortilli at his side.

"How soon'll you be shooting?" the chief executive asked when they were nearly at the door. Tortilli's smile broadened just a hair. For a flickering moment, it almost seemed sincere.

"Any minute now, Mr. President," he promised. As the cameras flashed, the two men disappeared inside.

THE ROUTE to the Burbank Bowl was jammed with cars. Through the trees at the side of the freeway, Remo could see the parking lot was also packed.

"No time to wait for the off-ramp," he said tightly.

"The faster we finish this business, the sooner I may depart this province of broken dreams," the Master of Sinanju replied irritably.

Remo nodded. "We bail."

They ditched the rental car in the middle of the freeway. Horns honked angrily as the two Masters of Sinanju ran between cars and hopped the jersey barrier. Side by side, they skidded down the dusty embankment. At the bottom, they raced across the short stretch of woods to the fringe of the parking lot.

"Care to tell me how this picture ends?" Remo asked as they flew between rows of parked cars.

"The good version, or theirs?" Chiun retorted.

"The shooting script," Remo pressed.

"I believe there was some sort of boom device on the stage," Chiun sniffed as he ran. "Who knows if that has been changed since last week."

Remo's face was grim as they swept between cars.

"Let's hope Tortilli hasn't seen another movie since then," he grumbled. "The way he rips everybody off, he's probably got a mechanical shark swimming around the orchestra pit."

Careful to avoid Secret Service and police foot patrols, the two men raced on toward the great beveled dome of the Burbank Bowl.

THE AUDIENCE had endured the theme from Star Wars and Raiders of the Lost Ark before the orchestra finally segued into the 1812 overture.

Far away from the stage, Quintly Tortilli's purple tuxedo was stained dark with sweat. The nervous grinding of his molars was drowned out by the thunderous music.

Far below the VIP box, Lee Matson waited calmly onstage, not a care in the world. Before him, a pair of breech-loading field guns aimed into the crowd. Only Tortilli and Matson knew that their explosive powder charges had been replaced with live shells.

In the box beside Tortilli, the President of the United States smiled and nodded to the music. Thank God Tortilli had always been a generous contributor to the President and his party. There was no way he'd be there otherwise. It was a fat check drawn from the Die Down IV budget that had gotten Tortilli access to the White House layout, as well as a night in the Lincoln Bedroom thrown in for good measure.

Vanity drew the President there today. Eight cameras whirred around them at this very moment, catching the President's every blink, smile and itch.

Tortilli had told the President that he wanted realism for his latest film. His desire was to capture the real effect on a crowd when the Chief Executive was in attendance.

Of course, it wasn't vanity alone. A fresh, generous studio check to the President's legal-defense fund and-in spite of the previous day's unpleasantness-the Chief Executive had readily agreed.

Around the bowl, the rumbling music grew in intensity. Almost over.

Tortilli stood abruptly. A few eyes turned his way.

Sweating, the director patted his stomach. "Gotta take care of business," he mouthed over the din.

As Tortilli slipped quickly from the box, the Secret Service entourage didn't give him a second glance.

Ears ringing, Tortilli hurried out into the enclosed hallway. To await the thunderous explosion that would be heard around the world and herald three hundred million, domestic, by Labor Day.

THE BURBANK BOWL WAS a half shell open-air amphitheater. Half-wall partitions near the stage separated the more expensive seats from the general-admission bleachers. A few VIP boxes lined the far back wall.

Remo and Chiun had taken a rear entrance, bursting into the main bleachers section at the midpoint. As soon as they were inside, they spotted the President. He was way back in the center box at the rear of the big stadium.

"Must have taken a cheerleader with a MilkBone to get him and Fido out of that closet," Remo commented.

Chiun was scanning the opposite direction. A long nail unfurled.

"There!" the Master of Sinanju exclaimed. Following his teacher's extended finger, he spied the cannons at once. The tuxedo-clad figure behind them smiled with demented eagerness.

"I'll get Mr. Nutbar," Remo barked.

Chiun nodded. "I will attend the puppet President."

In a swirl of silken robes, Chiun headed for the rear of the theater. Remo flew down the long flat steps toward the main stage.

The Secret Service protection thinned the farther he ran from the President, replaced by uniformed police officers.

Thanks to Remo, there weren't as many cops as there should have been. Every other police officer in California was doubtless waiting at the abandoned Long Beach shipyard for an attack that would never come. He avoided police all the way to the front of the stadium.

Down front, he hesitated.

He couldn't very well leap onstage. Wrists rotating absently, he tried to think of a way to take out the assassin without being seen.

Seen!

It was risky, but it might work. In any event, at least he had a plan. He only hoped he could implement it in time.

As the music swelled, Remo raced around the side of the stage, away from the cannons and the madman behind them.

QUINTLY TORTILLI LURKED anxiously in the hallway behind the closed-off VIP tier. Face a sheen of glistening sweat, he studied his watch. Mickey's hands moved with agonizing slowness.

He didn't know how far away he should be. He knew he wanted to be in San Diego when the cannon blasted the presidential box to smithereens. Or, better yet, Mexico. But he needed to be close enough to allay suspicion.

What if they linked him to Lee Matson?

What if they traced the Taurus prop cannons to him?

What if as a result of bad press, Lord help him, Die Down IV flopped?

He shook away the negative thoughts.

"Get a grip, Quint," he muttered to himself. "You're a Hollywood director. You're smarter than everyone in the world."

Feeling dizzy, he took a deep breath.

"People sez you're a genius," he panted, leaning against the wall for support. The cold sweat on his back made him shiver.

"Every kid in film school wants to be you," he insisted.

A rumble. Felt through the wall.

For an instant, he thought Matson had fired his cannons early. But before he could check his watch, his peripheral vision saw what his back had felt. A few yards away, one of the doors that led into the auditorium exploded inward.

Tortilli jumped back from the wall, expecting to glimpse a whistling artillery shell. But instead of a missile, the upside-down form of a blue-suited man soared in amid the splinters of wood.

The Secret Service agent slammed into the distant wall. As his unconscious body dropped to the floor, a tiny figure whirled like a miniature gold typhoon through the opening the unfortunate agent had made.

Chiun shot a single glance at Tortilli, eyes filled with the promise of vengeance.

Recognizing his famously vicious-tempered screenwriter, Tortilli sucked in a shocked gasp of air. But the old man didn't seem interested in him just yet. Chiun flew in the opposite direction, toward the restricted end of the corridor and the presidential box.

As the tiny Asian raced off, a sudden all-engulfing blackness consumed him. The racing dark cloud swallowed the rest of the corridor and the amphitheater beyond.

Tortilli didn't even seem to notice that the lights had gone out. As the first querulous shouts began to rise from the darkened stadium, the panicked young director was stumbling in blind fear down the pitch-black corridor. Away from the terrifying figure in gold.

BACKSTAGE, Remo spun from the sparking breaker panel. He had to hop over the bodies of three unconscious Burhank police officers.

"Work fast, Little Father," he muttered.

Swift feet moved in confident strides as he raced through the darkness toward the stage.

THE INSTANT the lights went out, alarm signals went off in the mind of the President of the United States. Yesterday's frightening events were far too recent.

"What's going on?" he asked the nearest Secret Service agent, trying to mask the fear in his voice.

"Unknown, Mr. President," the agent replied tightly.

As soon as he had spoken, a cry rose from beyond the closed balcony door. The sounds of a scuffle ensued.

The Secret Service retinue reacted instinctively. The President was yanked from his seat and thrown to the floor. A crush of dark-suited bodies-guns drawn-collapsed on top of him. Air rushed from his lungs.

Through his filter of living human flesh, the President heard muted shouts, then the sound of crashing wood.

More shouts. Louder. A single gunshot. A yelp of pain.

The President felt the weight on his prone form lighten.

Another cry. Lighter still.

No time to even fire. In a panicked instant, his entire human shield was stripped away. He was naked. Exposed.

Looking up, frightened, the President saw the shadowy contours of a vaguely familiar face. "Your life is in jeopardy, Your Majesty," the vision above him intoned urgently.

That voice. The President knew that voice. It was one of Smith's men. The old Asian.

Before he could ask the Master of Sinanju what he was doing there, the old man pulled him off the floor, depositing the burly Chief Executive on his own bony shoulders.

As the Master of Sinanju raced to the door, there came a distant explosion. Through angled eyes, the President saw a brilliant flash of light from the stage.

And cutting through it all, the sound of a single shell whistling through the air.

The door was a million miles away. The shell was coming in fast. Too fast.

A fiery impact. Explosion. Thunder and light. The President felt the heat from the blast erupt around them, enveloping them. Obliterating them. And the final, fatal burning fear consumed him.

REMO REACHED the stage too late.

Too late he heard the soft foom followed by an intense blast. The thunderous boom of a single cannon round being fired exploded from out the darkness.

An instant later came the sound of a distant impact. Then another explosion as the President's box burst apart in a brilliant flash of light.

Pandemonium instantly erupted all around the Burbank Bowl. In the darkness, terrified concertgoers screamed and shoved in a mad race for the exits.

The orchestra was fleeing, as well. Alone on the stage, Lee Matson was preparing to launch a second shell at the President's box just to make sure before joining the rest of the mass exodus.

Face hard, Remo sliced through the fleeing orchestra members and onto the stage.

THE PRESIDENT of the United States was dead. He had to be.

The shell had struck. There was the crackle of impact. Splintering wood. Fire, heat and shrapnel racing toward his unprotected face.

But then something strange happened. The world seemed to freeze. The explosion, the fire, the hurtling debris-everything save the old Asian on whose shoulders he was perched appeared to lock in place.

Running seemingly apart from time, the Master of Sinanju zoomed out the balcony door.

Only when Smith's man had borne him to safety did the President realize this strange netherworld of slow motion was merely an illusion.

In the hallway, time tripped back to normal speed.

Flames belched out in the wake of the running Korean. The wall blew in, chunks of flesh-tearing debris screaming into the corridor in their wake.

Too late. The Master of Sinanju had already outrun the worst of the blast. He was halfway down the hall when he finally stopped. Chiun sat the shaken chief executive on the cool concrete floor. Behind them, fire burned. Fresh screams rose from the bowl through the shell-blasted opening.

"Twice," the President gasped. "Twice in two days."

Standing above the panting Chief Executive, the Master of Sinanju was impassive. "Do you still think to settle in this province once your reign has ended?" he asked.

"What?" the President sniffled, still trying to catch his breath. "Oh. I've got a few standing offers in Hollywood. If my wife doesn't follow through on her latest threat to run for the Senate out of Bangkok in 2004." He seemed shellshocked. His eyes were ill as he looked down the corridor at the ragged wall.

"Heed my advice," Chiun instructed somberly. "Follow the Shrill Queen to some other province. If this kind of treachery unnerves you, you will not last a single day on the coast."

With that, the Master of Sinanju became a whirl of silk.

On bounding pipe-stem legs, he flounced away from the president and the burning VIP box. Fire in his eyes, he headed off in the direction Quintly Tortilli had gone.

Chapter 32

The cannons were both pre-aimed. Even as Lee grabbed the cord that would fire the next shell, he marveled at the laxness of the Secret Service. He had read how this White House had at other times ordered agents to loosen security in certain situations-usually when the White House didn't want to be caught in something untoward.

Lee surmised their seeming dereliction of duty had something to do with the movie cameras he'd seen around the bowl. Quintly Tortilli must have convinced the President that too many agents would interfere with his shot.

Lee giggled at the irony.

"I can't wait till I have that kind of clout," he said.

Chuckling to himself, he fumbled in the darkness for the cord on the second cannon.

His hand brushed something warm.

Lee recoiled. The something he had touched had fingers.

In the dark, people still screamed. Succumbing to the contagion of their fear, Lee squinted at the blackness before him.

The blinding flash of the artillery explosion had splashed dancing splotches of light on his retinas. As the light-blindness receded, a figure resolved from out of the shadows. The cruel cast of the stranger's face jump-started Lee's waxing fear into full-blown panic.

"Tell me when this hurts," Remo said evenly. Lee tried to jump back.

A firm hand gripped his throat, holding him in place.

"But I've got a development deal," Lee begged as Remo dragged him down to the business end of the cannon.

The maw stared at him. Lee gulped back.

As he watched in fear, the cannon seemed to launch forward like a hungry beast, swallowing Lee Matson's head all the way to his shaking soldierof-fortune shoulders.

Outside, Remo gave the barrel a kick. The cannon twisted stage right, away from the thinning crowd. Lee Matson-head jammed too tightly to remove it-had to hop and skip sideways to keep up.

Remo slipped down the barrel to the small carriage. As Lee wiggled at the far end, Remo's fingers looped around the cord.

"If you didn't like him, you shouldn't have voted for Perot," he announced as he yanked the cord. The instant he fired the cannon, Remo was already diving from the stage. He hit the aisle at a full sprint.

Behind him, the pressure built up along the interior of the cannon. With nowhere to go, the shell exploded inside the barrel, launching fragments of hot metal forward. Lee Matson was shredded to hamburg. Meaty red parts splattered like paint pellets against the backstage wall.

Remo wasn't there to see the aftermath. Wearing a tight expression, he was already halfway up the rear of the stadium. Beyond, the shattered presidential box belched smoke and flame into the starry California night sky.

BY THE TIME Remo caught up with Chiun in the hallway behind the row of VIP boxes, the stadium emergency lights had hummed to life. The Master of Sinanju was kicking in closed doors as he made his way up the corridor.

"The President?" Remo asked eagerly as he raced up beside Chiun. .

"He will live to eat another day," the Master of Sinanju replied. His sandaled foot shot out, exploding a utility closet door. He peeked inside.

Chiun's face grew more dissatisfied. He went down to the next door. It, too, surrendered to his heel.

"Is this just wanton destruction or is there a point?" Remo asked once Chiun had emerged from this room, his face a scowl.

"The prevaricator Tortilli is here," the Master of Sinanju announced angrily.

"Why didn't you say so?"

Remo took one side of the corridor, Chiun the other. They kicked their way down to the distant wall.

After ducking inside the last door-which opened into an unused ladies' room-Remo emerged, dragging a yelping Quintly Tortilli by the ear.

"Hey, can't a guy take a leak in peace?" the director said, forcing injured innocence into his voice.

Chiun barged up to him. "Silence, liar."

The director cowered even as he tried to casually adjust his purple tux.

"Ohhh, that cutting-room floor thing, right?" he questioned. "No problemo. Next movie, I swear. You costar."

Remo couldn't believe what he was hearing. "There isn't going to be a next movie, Tortilli," Remo said evenly. "You just tried to kill the President."

Tortilli nodded disagreement. "Sure, there is. I've already got my next five films sketched out. Chiun can be in one, two-hell, all five of them. Camera loves you, babe." He waved a wild arm down the hall. "But hey, how 'bout the whole John Wilkes Booth-Ford Theater thing here, though? President assassinated in VII box. Pretty slick update, huh? Don't worry, no one'll notice the ripoff."

Remo had heard enough. "Let's go, Cecil B. Dimwit." Grabbing the director by the ear once more, he began hustling Tortilli down the corridor. The Master of Sinanju padded hastily behind them.

"Did you say costar or star?" Chiun asked cagily.

THE LONELY GUARD at Taurus Studios recognized Quintly Tortilli's red Jaguar as it drove up to the gates.

It was one o'clock in the morning.

The guard was used to such late arrivals. It wasn't unusual for the maverick director to keep odd hours. Quintly Tortilli was behind the wheel. Apparently alone.

The car was flagged inside.

Twenty minutes later, the Jaguar drove back off the lot, its taillights fading into anonymous red dots. When Tortilli's body was discovered on Taurus grounds the next day, the guard shook his head, saying that he didn't notice who was driving the car as it left. He'd assumed it was Tortilli.

It clearly wasn't, he was told.

The body of the director had been found inside a private screening room. Someone had threaded the tongue of the young Hollywood genius into a film projector. Somehow-without any hope of a logical explanation-much of Tortilli's crushed and elongated head had trailed the tongue inside the machine.

When he learned of this new death, coming apparently just hours after the disemboweling of Taurus cochairs Hank Bindle and Bruce Marmelsteinwho were found dead in their office around the same time as Tortilli-the guard had only one thing to say.

"Gee. Sounds like something out of one of his movies, don't it?"

Chapter 33

Two days later, Remo was back at home in Massachusetts, sitting cross-legged on his living-room floor. He had just finished reading Chiun's script.

Whereas before he had only scanned parts of the screenplay, this time he had read it carefully from cover to cover. He was stunned.

"Unbelievable," he muttered.

Gathering the script up in one hand, he rose to his feet to go off in search of the Master of Sinanju. He got as far as the kitchen when the telephone rang.

"It's your dime."

"Remo, Smith. I thought you might like to know that I have just completed an exhaustive search of Stefan Schoenburg and the rest of the Cabbagehead backers. It appears as if Tortilli was the only one of them involved in this scheme."

Remo hopped to a sitting position on the counter, dropping Chiun's script beside him. "What about that family that was murdered in Maryland? Did you track down their killers yet?"

"Killer," Smith stressed. "The police found only one set of fingerprints in the home and on the digging implements found in the tunnel. They were able to match them to those of the would-be presidential assassin in Burbank."

"They must have picked them up with a sponge," Remo said dryly.

"He also had the items stolen from the Anderson home on his person. It appears as if all the loose ends are tied up." Smith's lemony voice sounded satisfied.

"What about the President?" Remo asked. "Is he ticked at us for icing his buddy Tortilli?"

"He may be," Smith replied with sincere indifference. "That is not a concern to this agency. We have neutralized a threat not only to his life, but to the safety of other Americans. That is our charter."

"You don't have to sell me, Smitty," Remo said. "In any event, with Bindle and Marmelstein gone, Taurus Studios is in turmoil. Apparently, they converted a great deal of what is arguably Taurus property to their own use. From what I understand, their relatives are suing. The litigation will most likely drag on for years. It looks as if the legacy of Bindle, Marmelstein and Quintly Tortilli is the certain end of Taurus Studios."

From somewhere distant, Remo heard a horrified shriek. The Master of Sinanju. As he listened to Smith, Remo rolled his eyes to the kitchen door.

"That's great, Smitty," he said, trying to hurry things along. "If that's everything, I've got to get going."

"Is something wrong?"

"By the sounds of it," Remo said, still looking worriedly at the door. "And from what you just told me, I have a sneaking suspicion what it is."

Hanging up the phone, Remo grabbed Chiun's script from the counter. Hopping to the floor, he made his way into the hallway. He mounted the stairs to Chiun's special bell-tower meditation room.

The Master of Sinanju had gone out to collect the mail not long before the phone rang. Walking through the door to the glass-enclosed room, Remo found the tiny Korean seated on the floor, the day's mail spread out before him. Brilliant yellow sunlight spilled across a neatly typed letter that had been unfolded between Chiun's crossed knees.

"They are vultures!" the Master of Sinanju hissed as Remo came into the room.

"Bad news?" Remo asked. He noted the name of a California law firm at the top of the business letter.

"My movie is not to be released. All projects in that madhouse of a studio are being held captive by lawyers, the only creatures on earth lower than Hollywood executives."

Crouching beside Chiun, Remo scanned the letter.

"I've heard of stuff like this happening before." Chiun looked at him, hope touching his hazel eyes. "How long will it take to resolve?"

Remo frowned somberly. "Beats me. Sometimes it's years. Sometimes never."

The Master of Sinanju's eyes became twin daggers of cold fury. "Even in death, they have lied to me," he fumed.

Remo straightened back up. "It's probably just as well," he said. He had been holding Chiun's script in his hand. He dropped it to the floor now. "I just finished reading this thing. Who'd you say wrote it?"

"I did," Chiun dismissed haughtily.

"You wrote Assassin's Loves, or whatever you called it. Who wrote that?" Remo pointed at the screenplay.

"I do not know. The lying Tortilli. Friends of the cretinous Bindle and Marmelstein. Why does it matter?"

"It matters because I spotted at least twenty other movies that were ripped off in yours. You've got elements of Dirty Harry Serpico, The French Connection, The Godfather, Batman, the Indiana Jones movies and a ton more. And I don't even see that many movies. That was the most derivative piece of drivel I've ever read."

Chiun frowned. "This is a surprise," he said.

"Didn't you read it?" Remo asked.

"Of course I did," Chiun sniffed, annoyed. He rose delicately from the floor, bearing his script with him. "I am only surprised by your persistent jealousy. If you do not let it go, it will consume you, Remo." Tucking the script in the crook of his arm, he began marching to the door.

"I'm telling you, Little Father, someone would have been sued over that thing. And your name is on the cover."

"It is disgraceful that you are so envious," Chiun said. "As punishment, I will not mention your name when I receive my Academy Award." He breezed from the room.

"If the movie is ever released," Remo called out.

"It would already be out if this industry was not teeming with vipers," Chiun shouted back.

Remo smiled sadly at the empty room. Warm sunlight touched the dusty corners. "That's showbiz, sweetheart."