Fall Out

by M. N. Grenside

  “My God, what was Jonathan doing there?”

  “You know this man?” Christo looked at her in shock.

  “He’s my cousin, or at least he was raised by my mother’s younger sister.”

  “Your cousin!”

  “And Louis knows exactly who he is,” she said angrily.

  She got up and walked over to a photo of a group of men. All smiles, with their arms on each other’s shoulders, and a young fresh-faced Cara sitting cross-legged below them. She picked it up, looked at the faces and pointed at one. “Jonathan worked on that movie. He seemed to be the right-hand man of the construction manager. He told me they’d grown up together.”

  She explained to Christo that she had gone with Bill to the Philippines to visit relatives.

  “You went to the shoot?” asked Christo surprised.

  “I spent only the first few days on the set … but at least I got to meet my cousin, Jonathan. He was very quiet, a good listener. While Bill was stuck in a meeting with Robert, I spent a day and the following evening with him, telling him all about my life and Bill’s. Getting to know each other’s past and present. How Bill and I met and our stories before that,” she continued. “The next day I offered to stay on, help in the production office or make-up. I spoke some Tagalog and had worked in movies all my life. And I liked the idea of not being separated from Bill for a couple of months. Marcus seemed happy for an extra pair of hands, especially someone he knew. The bosses said it would be a problem though; even Jonathan said I’d be better off back at home. All the time, they were plotting.”

  Now it was Christo who was silent.

  “I guess I didn’t think much more about it. I went back to LA. As usual Bill sent me his postcards, sometimes with a note and joke added from Sam. Then nothing. I started to worry. Could not get through to the set, not that unusual though. Then I got a call from McConnell, telling me that Bill was ‘missing.’ No more explanation. Next thing I know the movie folds its tents. Everyone leaves. Friends never talk to each other again. A wall of silence is built. I didn’t even get a body. I was frantic.” She paused as her fingers gently massaged the jowls of the small black pug now asleep on her lap.

  “Slowly hope faded. It started to sink in that Bill wasn’t coming home and that I was never going to find out what happened. Then I got angry. Demanded to see McConnell, threatened to raise a stink. Get the Union involved. Louis contacted me with a not so gentle warning to back off. Next I get a battery of lawyers coming after me. I was so mad at them.”

  Christo sensed Cara’s inner strength and yet the utter hopelessness of her position.

  “I was alone,” she said evenly. “They offered me a bunch of cash. I couldn’t collect insurance for years unless a body appeared. I just wanted it all to go away. I took the money and never really knew what happened.”

  “Cara, you had no choice. And this Jonathan?” asked Christo breaking his silence.

  “There must have been a rift between him and his construction friend. After the movie stopped shooting, he quietly appeared in LA, but I never asked him why. Jonathan keeps things to himself. Has a business in Santa Monica. Rents and sells bikes. He also seems to do the odd job for Louis. In return Louis has let him live above the garage at his mansion like a shadow. When we did occasionally talk or meet, he always asked me to keep it quiet. I just assumed Louis got him in illegally or has a friend at Immigration. Hardly anyone ever sees him. He likes Cato. Would you believe he likes small dogs? My God, what did I turn a blind eye to all those years ago? Robert must have wondered what the hell Jonathan was doing in Cannes.”

  “We still don’t know for sure what happened, or even if it was Jonathan.”

  “I’m sure,” she said firmly looking at the picture. “Sam was equally sure about something. Christo, whatever burned away at Robert was the same thing that got Sam all riled up. Sam found out something. It’s there in FALL OUT.” She leaned over and took her script from him. She turned to the scene she had shown Louis. “Is that the same as yours? The bit about the name of the flour mill Masa Bick? Can you remember?”

  “Cara, I went through that screenplay numerous times with Robert.” Christo read the scene. He looked up. “They’re different. Robert’s copy had no name for the mill, but both reference a tiger.”

  Cara wondered. “What the hell does the tiger signify? We have to contact Marcus,” she said.

  Christo drew a sharp breath. “Cara… I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you hadn’t heard about Marcus…”

  43

  HABKERN, SWITZERLAND

  Nisten was arranged over three stories with a basement used as a wine cellar and a parking garage. Bright and modern in design, there were not many rooms, but each was enormous.

  To the left of the front door was a chef ’s dream kitchen, brushed aluminum and steel with every conceivable electrical gadget and accessory. Many of these were hidden, sunk into the work surfaces, to be summoned by a flick from a bank of toggles to the right of the eight-ringed gas stove. Each switch was marked with the corresponding appliance. When summoned, the specified item would gracefully appear as an entrance hatch as the worktop slid from view and a silent lift from below brought the gadget to the surface.

  Behind the kitchen and looking out over the valley was a beautifully decorated dining room, with sixteen straight, high back rosewood chairs, each decorated with carved symmetrical trellis work. These taishiyi or grandfather chairs also had arm rests at right angles to the backs, but the traditional hard flat seats were now covered with plum red silk cushions.

  “The extra padding is something the originals would never have had, but no doubt improved the comfort at the dinner parties my parents gave,” explained Mako. In each corner of the room, standing silently to attention were four full-size Chinese warriors. “Meet John, Paul, George, and Ringo,” said Mako. “My mother bought three at an auction in London when I was a teenager. My father went ballistic as they were not cheap, but they formed the beginning of their serious Asian art collection. Before then most of the pieces were smaller and less valuable. My father later added one more and my mother nicknamed them after the Fab Four.”

  Mako explained that the earliest suit of armor was simply a breastplate made from a tortoise shell tied together with leather cords and dating from about 1200 BC; the Shang Dynasty. She turned to the other three. One was a warrior in chain mail, complete with a large helmet and a fearsome black face mask.

  “Now I know where Darth Vader’s look came from,” Marcus said. The resemblance was remarkable.

  “Well, he didn’t come from a galaxy far far away. Tang Dynasty, 65 AD. And that dao he’s holding,” she said pointing to a spear with a large flat curved blade, “is still razor sharp.”

  She turned to the next soldier. “This one’s a ceremonial suit from around 1600. Those intricate swirling patterns are actually painted on cloth and leather. Lift up the hem of the jacket.”

  Marcus reached behind the beautifully engraved sword and raised the edge of the jacket. It was surprisingly heavy.

  “It’s got metal plates concealed inside for protection.” The uniform was topped off with a pointed golden helmet complete with a magnificent black plume and held in place with a leather chinstrap. She turned to the final one. “He was the last one my father added. Came from a burial site,” she said. “One of the soldier’s arms has been broken, that club he is holding in the other is a shu, a weapon to guard an Emperor,” she added.

  The terracotta soldier also had a quiver and bow slung across his shoulder. The figure was similar to ones from the huge Terracotta Army, some of which Marcus had seen exhibited at the British Museum.

  They headed back to the entrance. Opposite the front door was the picture Marcus had noticed earlier and a small doorway to the basement. To the right, opening to the living room stood a floor to ceiling door. It was decorated with gold plated studs, each about the size of a tennis ball.

  “There will be eighty-one,” said Mako as she sa
w Marcus admire it. “Number nine signified an emperor, so nine rows of nine studs. Eighty-one. Eight plus one, nine.”

  “How do you know all this stuff?” It was obvious to Marcus that she had been surrounded by works of art her whole life, but her knowledge was encyclopedic.

  “Nu-wa,” she replied quietly. He looked at her not understanding what she meant.

  “It was my mother’s name. Funny, I never really like it when kids call their parents by their first name. Dad was always Dad… at least until we stopped talking, but my mother’s name was Nu-wa. It means Mother Goddess in Chinese. It was so appropriate. I was a tiny girl when she told me. From that day I called her nothing else…,” she paused for a moment. “Today was the first time I’ve said her name out loud since she died.”

  “You OK here?” asked a concerned Marcus.

  “I’m fine, really. Right now, I feel happier than I have for days. I know that must sound crazy, but this place… so many wonderful memories.”

  Enjoy the moment, Marcus thought. He somehow doubted it would last.

  “Asian art was Nu-wa’s passion. While I was growing up, she would devote evenings to showing me pictures in books, explaining the stories behind the art. It was like fairytales. Dragons and princesses, witchcraft and magic. I lived on a diet of practically nothing else. The original works of art from my childhood… I know their provenance by heart. This new stuff though… It’s unbelievable quality.”

  “I feel like there’s a village missing an idiot, standing listening to you. Educate me!” It got the laugh he wanted and on they went.

  She gave detailed explanations of types of calligraphy, methods of firing pottery, carving quartz or jade, and the history behind religious artefacts.

  “See that?” She pointed at a delicate globe-shaped vase whose white surface covered the original green below like a gossamer slip and had been delicately hand cut with patterns of peony, lotus, and fish. “That work is Korean. Called Choson. Most examples disappeared after the 1930s. Discover how my father could afford this, and we’ll start to find some answers,” she said.

  “Do you really want to?” he asked her.

  “I have to,” she answered calmly. “So do you.”

  The drawing room took up the rest of the first floor. Marcus reckoned it was nearly the size of a tennis court. A set of sliding glass doors led out to a large balcony at the rear of the house. The platform was suspended by solid stainless-steel guy ropes above and below, giving a fabulous vista over the dramatic sweep of the moonlit valley.

  The cherry-wood flooring in the house was a masterpiece of carpentry as it swept in fluid lines like a wooden wave. With a gentle continuous gradient rising to the floors above rather than actual steps, this wooden pathway spiraled upwards accompanied by a balustrade of matching wood, suspended by chrome poles from the ceiling above.

  “It’s beautiful but try walking down it in high heels. My mother wanted him to put a rubber strip down the middle, but he wouldn’t hear of it. We used to have to carry our shoes each time we clambered up or down ‘the wooden hill’!”

  The vast master bedroom occupied most of the second floor. At first glance Marcus thought its floor and walls were covered entirely in terracotta tiles but they were in fact rectangles of dark oxblood leather, imbuing the room with a rich and warm aroma of expensive hide.

  The bathroom was partially in view, with only a shoulder-high dividing wall of beaten copper between it and the sleeping and dressing areas. The bath and two sinks were also beaten copper and shaped like shells. Only the actual toilet was hidden behind a solid antique wooden door, with a small one-foot square metal grill cut into it at head height.

  “It’s an actual prison door,” Mako grinned. “My mother’s idea of a joke as my father spent so much time reading in there. She said she should lock him in.”

  “This place is astonishing,” he said giving a low whistle.

  “Yeah, well, just a handful of the new works downstairs could easily pay for the construction of three or four whole houses,” Mako said matter of factly.

  They carried on with their tour. In addition to the master bedroom, the second floor boasted a well-equipped gym and a screening room with half a dozen black leather Lazy-boy reclining armchairs. The wooden path rose again to the top floor, where there were another three bedrooms, all with shower and sauna en-suite.

  “This used to be mine.” Mako hesitated for a moment before twisting the handle and gently pushing the door open. The room was completely empty. Not a stick of furniture, not one single work of art. Any human presence had been erased. As she turned and sharply pulled the door shut, she heard a faint rattle on the other side. She opened the door again and peered round to look.

  “Well, what do you know?” She reached up and unhooked something. It was a framed diploma, all fake parchment, swirly writing and a large wax seal and ribbon. She read it again, the first time in years.

  “He was so proud of that. My first real academic competition and I’d come first,” she said in a sing-song voice tinged with cynicism.

  “Still, he hung on to it. It meant something,” Marcus said gently. “But for all the wrong reasons. He was celebrating my victory against others, not excellence in something I cared about. For him, it was all about beating someone else.” She tossed it to Marcus. “Here. You keep it.”

  They didn’t even stop to eat; she kept on opening drawers, cupboards, desks, everything in her quest for an answer as to how her father had acquired this extraordinary treasure trove.

  She scoured the house from top to bottom, searching for a credible and legal explanation. In her heart she knew there wouldn’t be one. Everything seemed to be pointing towards her father being more than just fallible in terms of his relationship with her mother; he was also part of something murky, deceitful, and ultimately deadly.

  Marcus eventually got her to bed at three in the morning, and for the first time they fell asleep without making love.

  44

  INTERLAKEN, SWITZERLAND

  The razor made a barely audible scrape as it arced over the dome of Jonathan’s head. He stared intently into the mirror as the blade swept away the last remnant of shaving foam. His small rough hands lowered to the sink. He leaned closer gazing into his own dark eyes as if to reassure himself of who he was, never to forget where he had come from, and to be crystal clear where he was going. A beat, then he splashed ice cold water from the basin over his face, neck, and head, breaking the spell.

  Having completed his morning run, he folded his trainers, sweatshirt and running shorts onto the chair behind him. He believed in himself. You wanted exercise, just go for a run. Diet, just don’t eat so much. Got a problem, deal with it head on. Simple. Trying to justify actions just stopped a man from actually achieving anything. Self-analysis never produced results.

  When Jonathan had been jogging in town, he instantly recognized the building he had glimpsed in the family photo just inside the doorway at the de Turris’ house. He stopped a moment to think, fine tuning a plan.

  He had three very clear tasks today and was going to be utterly ruthless in the pursuit of them. Retrieve the head, once and for all take care of Marcus and Mako and destroy any evidence of Mr. Louis’ involvement.

  As he started to dress, he went over the plan. It would be far too risky to try and simply break into the house. He was certain Mako and Marcus would be looking for answers. Their knowledge would save him a lot of time. She would have no idea how the treasures had materialized. Somehow Jonathan had to appear as if he could provide them with the answers they wanted. He needed an invitation.

  The suit he had bought that morning looked reassuringly ill fitting. The brown lace up shoes and wire-rim glasses gave him the faded aura of academia. A slight hunch of the shoulders and he looked about as threatening and dangerous as Mr. Magoo. He was certain where Mako would return to. All he had to do was wait.

  45

  HABKERN, SWITZERLAND

  Mako was exhau
sted but could not sleep past dawn. She needed her own space and time to think, to analyse everything she had seen. She was sitting on the sofa in the vast drawing room, hugging her knees, going over in her mind the treasures she had inspected so closely the night before.

  There were far more items than when she had last been in the house, but she also had a nagging sensation that a number of the old as well as the new pieces were somehow not quite right. To start with, the lions were there to greet her, but for no logical reason she could think of, her father had swapped them around. It looked the same. But wasn’t.

  The feeling of things being slightly off kilter grew when she had entered the dining room last night and glanced over at the four suits of armor. Again, something was not quite right. She could not put her finger on it at first, but the answer had come to her in a flash as she had been lying awake. She had quietly gone downstairs to check, leaving Marcus asleep in the bed. She had been right, but why had her father done that?

  This game playing was typical of her father. It used to be an annual ritual. Every Christmas, rather than unwrapping a stocking full of presents hanging by the fireplace, Mako would awaken early to begin the treasure hunt for presents hidden all over the house. Excitedly she would leap out of bed and proceed to peer into, hunt through, and crawl over every inch of the home to find them. The number of presents was the same as her age that year. When Mako was very young, her mother would help her by whispering “hotter” when she approached a hiding place or “colder” as she moved away. The search started with relatively simple tests of observation such as the tops of a nearly identical pair of pots being swapped over, inside each, nestled a brightly wrapped toy.