by C. G. Cooper
“Come on,” said the first speaker, coming into view. He was a tall, scrawny fellow, like a young Jimmy Stewart. “It’s only thirty feet. You can take the drop easy.”
“Stuff it, wanker.” The stuntman’s Aussie accent cane through clearly with this.
“Aw, you love me. You really love me.”
“And that, my dear Andy,” Thompson said, his voice booming across the studio, “is Greg Kelly and his assistant, Todd.”
“Bugger,” said the Aussie. “I think left my stones on that wire.”
Chapter Seven
Andy had just kicked back in his hotel room with a bottle of scotch and a baseball magazine when Coles called.
“How’s the Hollywood scene? Meeting lots of starlets?” The guy sounded like he was drinking.
“Very funny.”
“What have you got for me?”
“A director with an ego as bloated as his belly, a bunch of sycophants who laugh at everything he says, a soulless casting director who you think could be a double-agent, one stunt coordinator who missed his calling playing stereotypical Irish hoodlums in mafia movies, and a Marine who prays for death to come in his sleep. Let’s see, have I missed anything?”
“Nope. Sounds about right. But we got word that her boyfriend the prince is coming to visit the set.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t you wanna know why?”
“Sure.”
Coles slowed his speech. “He’s an investor in the film.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re interested, right?”
“Not particularly.”
“Well, we’re interested. You understand?”
“I understand.” He picked up the magazine and began to thumb through it.
“The prince has a financial stake in this film. It deals with Afghanistan.”
Andy breathed out a sigh of boredom.
“Am I keeping you awake, Andrews?”
“Yes. Because you’re not exactly giving me anything of worth. Okay, so we have a Saudi prince who wants to invest in an American film. They do alright, financially-speaking, last time I checked. It’s a pretty good investment idea.”
“Do your job, Andrews.”
“Oh, yes, sir. I will.”
“What’s that noise?”
“What noise?”
“Sounds like you’re flipping through a magazine.”
“I’ve got the window open. The wind is blowing some papers around.”
“How are things in the world of baseball?”
Coles didn’t miss a trick.
“I lied,” said Andy. “It’s a porno mag.”
[click]
Chapter Eight
The director’s presence seemed to suck all the jocularity from the room. Masks slipped back into place.
Perhaps it was the visitor he had with him, a younger man of Middle-Eastern descent in an expensive business suit. Andy had only to feel the breeze as Ashburn swept by him to know who he was: the Saudi prince she was involved with, Prince Mansour.
Handsome, sure. He seemed a lot less uptight than most of the Saudi princes that Andy had ever seen or heard of, definitely. But when he looked at Serena Ashburn, he wasn’t seeing the hard-ass casting director who’d screamed at Thompson the day before. He was seeing someone vulnerable... breakable.
Thompson introduced him around as one of the film’s backers. Prince Mansour bin Saladin al Saud. The fact that this was one of the money men seemed to impress even the actors—who went serious very quickly, doing their best takes on “respectful.”
Serena hung on the prince’s arm and gave Andy a look of deadly intent. He was tempted to mess with her. Oh, he was tempted. But he could just hear the story she would carry back to Coles.
He waited until the prince offered his hand, then shook it firmly, but without any special nuance to it. Likewise, he kept his face blank—waiting for Prince Mansour’s reaction.
In an Oxford accent, Mansour said, “Major Andrews. I am glad to meet you. Serena has been telling me all manner of fascinating stories about you. You are… a jarhead?”
“Yes, your royal highness,” Andy said, struggling to keep a straight face. “I’m a jarhead all right. And probably even more annoying than she makes me out to be. I got roped into helping her with the casting and we just about strangled each other.”
The prince blinked and stiffened slightly.
A split second later Andy realized why, and coughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not after her or anything. She’s, ah, she’s her own woman.”
The prince nodded. Andy could feel his face heating up a little. Ashburn gave him a slit-eyed glance.
“So, Major Andrews—”
“Call me Andy.”
The prince’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Major Andrews, what do you think of the set? And the script? I understand that you are to help us ensure the authenticity of the production from a U.S. military standpoint.”
“I haven’t seen the script yet. The set looks fine as far as I can tell. I’ve only just met the actors so we’ll have to see if we can whip them into looking like well-disciplined Marines, your royal highness.”
“Quite.”
Prince Mansour clapped his hands twice. “People, ladies and gentlemen, would you please gather round? Ladies and gentlemen, you are doing wonderful work here on the film. And, as a token of my appreciation, I would like the honor of having you all at my house for a party.” He smiled, a warm, practiced smile that beamed from his face.
Andy could see from Thompson’s reaction that this was something of a faux pas. Top-billed actors could be invited to an investor’s house. But not the crew.
Andy shook Mansour’s hand again as he passed. “I’ll be there,” he said, watching Thompson’s face turn queasy over the prince’s shoulder.
Well now, this will be entertaining at the very least, Andy thought, as the prince left the set with Serena in tow.
Chapter Nine
The partygoers came in four types.
First, there were the more traditionally dressed Saudis, easy to pick out. Then there were the actors and actresses. Again, not so hard to spot because they were truly the pretty people. Most of them weren’t from the Thompson film, as far as Andy could tell. Then there were the industry professionals, the directors, photographers, the editors and so on—they barely looked like they’d changed their clothes since getting off the set. They were known for what they did, not how they looked. Then there were the socialites, the money people looking to rub elbows with the actors and professionals. They pretended they were the stars of the show and the actors, at least, let them.
Andy sifted his way through the crowd, keeping eyes and ears open. He made it to the bar and asked for an E.H. Taylor on the rocks. He turned back to the party, mentally steeling himself to socialize. It was about as awkward as going to a high school dance.
The three leading young actors—Chris Caine, Donny O’Brien, and Martin H. Gibson, Jr.—were speaking to a trio of older women near the outdoor bar. Caine, the tall, handsome, freckle-faced apple pie type, kept making a big sweeping gesture toward the swimming pool, as if suggesting they all strip down and go for a dip. The kid knew how to schmooze; the women were laughing their asses off.
Ashburn was inside the house by the living room fireplace, standing with one hip jutting out and her arms crossed over her chest. She was wearing what was, for Hollywood, a modest Asian-style dress that went up to her neck, down to her ankles, and covered her shoulders but left her arms bare. She was standing next to a handsome Middle Easterner. She caught sight of Andy and the fake smile on her face froze for a moment. She excused herself from her companions and came over to greet him. She didn’t even give the other guy a second look as she ditched him.
“Hey, sugar,” Andy said.
“Andrews,” she said, and gave him a thin-lipped smile. “There are some people I’m sure that you’d like to meet.”
Andy was convinced that she’d said that just
to torture him.
“I suggest you put a smile on and pretend you’re not a complete ass for half an hour.” She glanced over toward Prince Mansour.
“Trying to make him jealous. I get it.”
Elbow, meet ribs. Andy winced.
“I most certainly am not trying to make him jealous. If you do anything to make him jealous, so help me, I’ll—”
He leaned closer to her ear and whispered, “What? Tell Coles?”
She looked at him, wide-eyed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He could play that game too. “Just breathing a bunch of balloon juice.”
The party blurred past him. Revelers, all with something to prove about themselves, whisked past him as if he were an electronic counter. Plastic people, he thought. An older woman who had been dipped in molten gold and left out to dry until she stiffened tried to recruit him for a romantic tryst with her and her husband., hinted that the latter would be more than happy to observe the assignation from inside a wicker hamper. Andy politely turned her down, then turned to the bartender.
“Can I get another E.H. Taylor with a cyanide chaser?”
Ashburn approached. “How you holding up?”
“Like a sock filled with marbles.”
“It doesn’t get any better than this, just so you know.”
“That’s good to know. Where’s your main squeeze?”
“You mean Prince Mansour? He’s chatting with family.”
“That’s nice. You guys get along?”
“We do.”
“Long walks on the beach?
“Not exactly.”
“Split a pint of day-old pork fried rice in front of reruns of Columbo?”
She sighed, accentuating her displeasure. “Not exactly.”
“Huh, that’s too bad.”
A server came through the crowd toward Ashburn and whispered in her ear. She froze in place, her face turning into a blank plastic mask. She muttered, “Hang on,” turned to Andy, and said, “Do you know CPR?”
Chapter Ten
A man in Saudi robes lay on the king-sized bed, nearly motionless, his mouth open, his skin waxy and covered in sweat.
Andy pulled back the man’s garments and checked the pulse in his neck. Nothing. He lifted one lid. The eye was bloodshot. Both pupils dilated. Andy balled his hand into a fist, pressed his knuckles into the man’s sternum, and moved them back and forth.
No response.
He checked inside the man’s mouth for any obstructions, ripped back the outer robes just to keep them from sliding around, then started compressions.
After twenty-five, he stopped and felt for a pulse.
Nothing.
He went back to compressions.
“On their way,” said Ashburn, keeping a safe distance. “Any sign?”
“Nothing. How’s crowd control?”
“No one knows anything.”
The EMTs hit the room and Andy slipped out of the way. The guy’s clothing was slit open and AED pads put on.
“Clear.”
The EMTs leaned back. The body jolted upward and slammed back down on the bed.
A hand at the carotid. “We have a pulse. Everyone clear the room, please.”
Andy edged around the room, making his way to the door. About a dozen members of the house staff milled about in the hallway. Prince Mansour was nowhere to be seen.
Andy took a voice-projecting breath. “Clear the hallway, people!” He looked back in the room. They had the Saudi on a stretcher and were preparing to move him out. He backed out of the way as the EMTs dropped the wheels once they hit the hallway.
Ashburn started to follow them.
“Hey,” Andy called.
She turned.
“What was that all about?”
She gave him a look of indignation. “Excuse me. I told you. He was sick. And then he collapsed.”
“His eyes were dilated.”
Her face became one of alarm. “You think he was poisoned?”
“Let’s not jump the gun. Could have been an overdose. And where the hell’s Mansour, by the way?”
“Prince Mansour.”
“Where is he?”
“I have no idea.”
Along the side of the house was a narrow strip of green grass with a small pathway of slate stepping stones. Tile mosaics were embedded in the cement. In the far corner of the wall was a steel mobile, spinning and turning in the slight twilight breeze. And Serena Ashburn stood on a single stone, blowing Virginia Slim smoke out the side of her mouth.
“I don’t like this,” she said.
“It doesn’t exactly liven up the party.”
She looked at him, a face full of consternation. “I saw something.”
“Like what kind of something?”
“Like someone walking along the side of the house.”
“When was this?”
“Right after they took the uncle out on the stretcher.”
“Can you describe him?”
“A man, an Ameri-, well, someone in non-Arabic clothing. Dark trousers, a white shirt. Tall. A streak of white or gray in his hair, I think, I don’t know. It was dark.”
“Build?”
“Broad through the shoulders, sort of narrow at the hips.”
“Anyone you recognize in the slightest?”
A pause. “Not really. Anyway, I followed him. He went behind the house and out the side gate. He walked down the street with his hands in his pockets. Very casual. I followed him out, sort of hanging back, you know? A dark sedan pulled up, he got inside, and it took off.”
“You get a plate number?”
She shook her head, her lips pursed around the cig. “It was too dark.”
“Think he could’ve just been a guest?”
She shrugged. “It’s possible. But, Andy... I know why you’re here.”
Her look told him she was too smart for him to play the innocence game.
“I know.”
She let out an exasperated chuckle. “You really think your friend the Washington bigwig would send you in blind? He had the place thoroughly investigated before you got here. I was tailed, stalked, and interviewed. Oh, it was all so casual. So routine. Just clearing the production in the name of National Security. I’m not a moron, Andy. My boyfriend just happens to be a Saudi prince. Sure, the film deals with sensitive topics, but I don’t think they’d go through all this trouble if I was dating a guy who collects shopping carts at Target.”
“So getting back to our mystery guest...”
“Yeah, well, it’s not my job to be on the lookout for... whomever it is you’re looking for, but every little oddity has had me on edge for the past month. I hate this job. And something tells me it’s about to get worse.”
“Worse? How?”
“The prince’s uncle?” she said, crouching to stub out the cig on the single stone tile, retaining it in her dainty fingers as she stood back up. “He was our biggest investor.”
Chapter Eleven
When Andy showed up on set, the pervading mood was like a funeral parlor in winter. During a blackout. In the middle of a recession.
“What’s going on?” he asked Ashburn, who looked like she was waiting for a firing squad to hand her the bandana.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Up all night searching the city for a good hibachi grill. In my hotel room. Where do you think I’ve been?”
She rolled her eyes. “Never mind, I shouldn’t have asked. Well, you might as well hear it from me first. The prince’s uncle is dead.”
“Aw jeez.”
“Yeah, you ain’t kidding. To say this complicates things is the understatement of the century. Oh, and by the way, we’re going to Saudi Arabia.”
“Come again?”
“The prince, it seems, has deemed it necessary. God, I need a cigarette.”
“Y’oughta quit, you know.”
“Thanks. I’ll start tomorrow.”
“W
hy Saudi Arabia?”
“The prince thought it might be a good idea to preserve relations between the two countries or something. It sounded good when he explained it to me. You see, they think his uncle might have been poisoned.”
“Terrific.”
“Yeah.”
“Any particular reason?”
“The prince thinks it could be drug related. His uncle had a few fingers in a few those pies.”
“God.”
“Yup. If it’s who they think it is, it’s an American who had him killed. And so, you know, to avoid an international incident and all, the prince thought it might be a good idea to get the production going in his country. It’ll be a gesture, the media will put as good a spin as they can on it, and no one’s the wiser. And there you have it: Instant diplomacy, Hollywood-style.”
“So,” said Andy, surveying the crew milling about in cliques, each chewing their own bits of scuttlebutt, “pardon me for asking—I mean, I admit I know zippo about the film industry, but won’t this little bug-out cost the producers a ton of money?”
“Normally, yes. They hadn’t counted on this happening. Because of that, the prince said he’ll foot the bill on his end. And whatever the Americans lose on their end will be recouped through tax incentives and rebates for filming overseas. He and Abe Rosenberg, our producer, explained it to me. I suppose it all comes out in the wash. The investors get breaks too. We’ll have casting changes. No doubt the Prince will hire locals as extras. Oh, and Thompson’s putting me in charge of supervising the ‘younger’ actors on set.”
“That’s good,” Andy said. “They can use it. Not for nothing, but it kinda looks like you hired out of a day care center.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m not a babysitter.”
“You’re getting paid for it, right?”
She snorted. “You bet I am.”
“Then what’s the problem? You don’t have a passport?”
“It’s not that.”