by Peter Riva
That evening, the longer Danny worked on the film—reading out portions of Letterman’s script: the Berlin sections, the new Paris sections where the hero would have a taxi cab chase down the Champs Elysees—the more he resumed being Danny Redmond, superstar. And he inadvertently gave Pero what he needed if he was going to escape to finish the delivery business of the damned package.
When people push, either you can let them roll over you or you can push back, so they say. Pero? He would rather let them push dead air. He wanted to be out of the way whenever possible. He was a coward at heart, and so he was going to dump the package and let people chase somewhere else. In his mind, it sounded like a plan. Besides, he now really wanted to make this film.
Later, alone in his room, he called the embassy number he had memorized before he threw away his satellite phone. “Baltazar, P. here. Could I speak with Station?”
“One moment.” He waited until he heard the clicks of connection and then an American ringtone.
“Lewis here, not a secure line.”
“Uh, developments. Request means.” Means was a code word for means of communication.
“Shaving kit.” And the line clicked off.
Pero went into the bathroom and checked his shaving kit. Nothing there. He had to think this through. What did he mean? He sat on the bed, looking at his unpacked bags. Was it only this morning he arrived? On top of the luggage was his canvas carryall with his straw basket he was making. Basket weaving was his hobby, so he needed a large holdall on long flights to hold all the straw. Let’s see what’s in here … basket stuff, reading material from the plane and—hold it—a shaving kit from first class. He reached in and took out the triangular blue case with Delta’s logo embossed on the plastic cover. He had never taken one from this flight, and this was an old one from when they used to give them away regularly. Inside was a small radio, a duplicate satellite radio. He wondered when they stuck that in his bag. Then he remembered Arnold’s fidgeting with his hand luggage at the airport in the custom’s room. Arnold had planted it. And he remembered overhearing Lewis’ background questioning “He placed the phone where? Why did he do that?” Now he knew what that all meant.
Pero went over and opened the window. Or thought he did. The handle moved from down to sideways and the window pitched down toward him. Realizing, rather forgetfully, that it was one of those European dual-hinged windows, he pushed it shut, moved the handle back down and then fully up, activating the left side hinges. It swung open. He extended the radio’s antenna and stuck it out the window. He pushed the buttons and Lewis answered.
“Report. You were supposed to call hourly.”
“Sorry, I ditched the other phone. I didn’t want to be caught with either the radioactive coat or phone. I had a tail and needed to be squeaky clean.”
“Understood. You are using Station’s phone. Report status and package whereabouts.”
“Hidden in arapaima tank, bottom of a potted plant, aquarium, Berlin …”
“Aram … what?”
“It’s a fish display, arapaima and arowana aquarium display. You go behind the scenes, open the trapdoor, and it’s the plant on the left. I lifted it up and stuck the bag in there. It should be safe for at least a week.”
“Okay, got that.” He sounded bemused. “Proceed.”
“I was accosted by three suspected ex-Stasi, TruVereinsbank employees, all armed, at Tempelhof. I was there with Danny Redmond to pick up a script from an incoming private flight. The man carrying it is called Letterman … scriptwriter. Never saw the pilots, Redmond’s plane. A scuffle ensued. Redmond broke one man’s jaw. I slowed the other two down, enough that the police could take over. No charges filed, police are hushing it up … our advantage that there would be adverse negative publicity for the City of Berlin if Redmond is involved in a mugging, especially ex-Stasi mugging … if the papers got hold of that. Filming will continue tomorrow at Technisches Museum. Suspect full police bodyguard. End report.”
“Been busy, haven’t you.” It wasn’t a question. “Our Berlin Station and the policeman and Phillips have all now disappeared. Reports are coming in of a car pileup on an autobahn. We’re monitoring. Set your satellite phone to vibrate. It is a new five-band model, automatic. I can ring you on the cell band, scrambled. To scramble your end, you need to press five-five-five after answering same as always.”
“Question: How did anyone know I was on the Delta flight and why would they care?” It had been bothering Pero all day. The tail was at the airport or at least waiting for him at the hotel. They knew he was involved before he did for Christ’s sake. Redmond’s confirmation about the financing in Germany with TruVereinsbank confirmed that.
“Bothers me too. While you were on the flight, we activated you, not before, but it was discussed ten days before … after you called in. I’ll investigate that.”
Pero thought, Oh great, there was a leak in the CIA?
“Phillips was on hold to pass a packet to you, not the package. Station must have changed the plan, last minute. We need to ask her why and what. As to why they were after you, it’s simple. They wanted to make sure you didn’t have the package and if you did, presumably, to get it back. Who they are is a puzzle, your clue TruVereinsbank, may give us a lead. There are some ex-German Democratic Republic senior spies—Stasi all—in that organization enjoying a capitalist lifestyle. Doesn’t mean they are not still engaged.” He meant engaged in spying.
“You got Citibank to endorse this picture?” Lewis said he did. “Well, TruVereinsbank was not the previous studio financing partner. However, TruVereinsbank used their extortion leverage with Berlin politicians. TruVereinsbank came on—muscled themselves in—at exactly the same time I was asked to produce second unit filming here. The key was timing of my involvement. Then Redmond and Citibank—endorsed by you—replaced them with Dresdner Bank.”
“Why threaten you or be threatened by your involvement at that time? We weren’t controlling you then. They should threaten Citibank if it’s about money, not Redmond.”
“Except that Redmond now controls this, he’s the producer, loads of his money. They must know that. And yet I had the impression the thugs were talking to me, telling me—just me—to get out. The get out had a wider meaning than just leave the airport.”
“What you say could still make Redmond a target, we’ll check, but somehow I doubt it. Being after you matches the airport and aquarium tail profile. What we need to unravel and what has puzzled us is why a few flakes of paper, radioactive paper, on some old gold should trigger such violent reactions—not just against you but Station as well.”
“Well, the same could be said for the CIA. Why did you decide to ask Mil Intel to steal the sample from the Zurich police?”
“That wasn’t this office.” The line went quiet. It had deep meaning to Pero.
“Oh, great, I am in the middle of an inter-CIA battle?” As he now suspected.
“As best I can tell. Yes.” He said I not we, directors never get personal. This one was. It was troubling. And useful.
“Who ordered the lifting of the sample?”
“The orders came from the NSA” the National Security Administration, controlled by the White House, “and were handled by the director general’s office. The Military Intelligence folks were brought in because it was a clandestine op with a short fuse. They have active ops in Germany, and we do not any longer.” He was unusually forthcoming. “You realize you are being provided all this as a field agent in briefing?”
“Yes, I assumed as much, not happy, but I get that. After this evening, I figured as much. I’ll need to brief Heep, he’s here with me.”
“Oh, no! Not that again!” A pause. “Damn, I can’t dissuade you. Okay, he did well last time and sometimes you show a tendency not to think for yourself.” Pero took that comment on the chin. “But you must not involve Redmond. Our records show he is unstable, not reliable.” Not reliable to the CIA meant not discrete, their worst fear. “We nee
d you to get the sample to CERN sap.” He pronounced ASAP the military way, sap, not the letters. “The answer to why and what we’re up against must lie in that sample. You need to get moving. We may not have a week.”
“There may be a way, leaving tomorrow night. I’ll advise when I am sure.” Pero guessed why the hurry now, Lewis was reminding him there was tons of interest in this package, sudden, quick, interest, with ex-Stasi in play. There might be wholesale slaughter if people got desperate. Things were happening, had been for weeks—only Pero had not known it. His idea of slowing things down had only made the other side, or sides, speed up. That meant something was planned, and there was a timetable Lewis and Pero had no idea of. “If you get an idea of timetable on this, whatever it is, will you promise to tell me?”
A pause. An agent doesn’t ask for promises from a director. He knew Lewis knew that. Pero knew he was asking beyond duty, he was calling in a favor, a personal favor. “Yes.” Two clicks and Lewis was gone.
It was time to brief Heep. Fully.
Chapter 6
Technisches Museum
Six-thirty in the morning, two cups of strong Assam tea to wake Pero up, everyone, collected, and they were off. The police had called ten minutes after his hotel wake-up call, which meant they had agents in place to monitor the official schedule and fit in with it. Kind of them, as it saved Pero calling them and asking for exactly the sort of protection he now craved for the crew. Heep looked happier that morning seeing all the green uniform jackets around.
That was an improvement over the night before when Heep had not been happy when Pero had briefed him and used that dreaded word. Heep understood it wasn’t Pero’s doing, but now they were dealing with Stasi—it was the only word Heep focused on. For a Hollander, whose family suffered mightily at the hands of the Gestapo and SS, his hatred and fear of those Stasi, who had inherited the means and power, not to mention moral ethic … well, when Heep was frightened, he was very apt to be violent, and damn the consequences.
Pero suddenly realized that if Heep had been at the airport, on learning the attackers were Stasi, he would have taken their guns and shot them dead. It is hard for anyone to understand who did not have firsthand memories of relatives tortured, imprisoned, and gassed. Pero had seen the lifelong hatred before. Not everyone can be a Simon Wiesenthal or a Beate Klarsfeld—patient, dedicated, and just. The rest of humanity is more human, always wanting an eye for an eye.
Now in the cold light of a Berlin morning, Heep was calmer and only wanted to know how to help. Pero told him he needed cover to leave that evening. “Don’t ask where, just cover for me.”
“How long?”
Pero explained he expected two days; he didn’t explain that CERN might not work out that fast. After tossing possibilities back and forward between them, Heep finally suggested that he string a yarn. He would tell Redmond that he could handle the next two days of the shoot in Berlin alone, helped by their new assistant, while Pero leap-frogged to Paris to pick up permits that would be needed there. Heep would emphasize that shutting down the Champs Elysees at 5:00 a.m. was a major political undertaking and could take a few weeks of paperwork, best started face-to-face. Then when Redmond took ownership of that idea, he would suggest Pero go off to undertake that essential film permit work in Paris and Pero could agree, reluctantly.
Secretly, Heep and Pero knew that Paris was only a one-hour phone call to arrange the Champs Elysees’ shoot. They had longstanding contacts there. After thirty years at their craft and trade, they better had. Redmond might know they had contacts, but he wouldn’t, couldn’t, imagine they could do it so easily. Only in France could you pull strings like that, though. As Heep said, “Film art—cinéma—rules in Paris baby, ah oui!”
At the Technisches Museum, which had been closed to the public for the day, equipment boxes arrived in vans. Pero had ordered the tools of the trade and the support crew on the phone from New York—old, experienced hands all. He recognized two grips from a documentary they had shot three years before. The prop man was new to Pero, but the grips knew him well and vouched for him. Pero and Heep didn’t need a lighting technician until they would get to the interiors to match the sets in LA. If Heep needed exterior ambient light reflectors, the crew could handle them. Pero had ordered an even dozen reflectors, to be on the safe side. This was big budget moviemaking on the fly—and still on the cheap. Compared to an L.A. production, they were operating on a shoestring, with only thirty men and women, some days less.
However, big moviemaking on the cheap or not, Pero spent production money and sent a grip to KaDeWe, a big department store on the Kurfurstendamm, to buy him a new coat, something for winter. The man came back an hour later with a Johnny Hilfiger ski parka, day-glow green. Before Pero could send him back with it, the man reversed it and the inside was dark blue, very subdued. The grip was smiling, hah, hah his expression said. Pero went along with the joke and smiled.
The assistant producer/assistant DP was Thomas (pronounced toe-maas) Wiedemann, always reliable and thinking ahead. Usually a TV production employee, Pero had always wanted to elevate him to a bigger job. This was Thomas’ golden opportunity, and he beamed and pumped Pero’s hand in thanks. Heep knew him and liked him too. Pero knew Thomas would cover for him while he was off to Paris, kein probleme.
Danny Redmond’s three assistants were in charge of wardrobe and acting and served as his lackeys—something they were, all three, good at. And Danny seemed to sideline them whenever he could, which was fine with Pero and Heep. Heep had packed Danny’s hand in ice the night before, over dinner in his room, and that morning the knuckles still looked raw and red, perfect for the part. “We’ll have to match that in LA, let’s take a few shots” His assistant took a dozen or so digital images.
The police were also there in force, maybe twenty of them. They knew their job and moved out of camera range if anyone brought a camera up or looked through a viewfinder at a scene to be shot. Three of them had machine guns.
Pero had never met the camera crew Heep had arranged. They consisted of two trusted hands Heep had worked with often. Ludwig Reber, second assistant DP, was the “most reliable damn film and lens changer at the ARRI Factory.” ARRI manufactures the best movie camera equipment since 1917. Heep had once been an apprentice there and relied on them for equipment and support staff when the shoot had to be perfect, first time, every time.
Heep’s vision for the film, now that he was the director, was to shoot this as he would a wildlife documentary—visceral, full of tension, creating the feeling that the cameraman would not know what was happening or about to happen and had simply gone with the flow, captured the action as if by accident. It was no accident, of course, but carefully thought out by Heep. No sticks (tripods), no dollies, no tracks, no Steadicam. Everything handheld. Heep’s hands were the best damn Steadicam ever built, but human, not machine, creating a visual edge. The hero—Redmond—was human, he underwent human emotions in his spy mission, and the plot developed according to those emotions. Letterman’s wonderful work on the script made this clear; no longer did emotions alter to fit the plot as in most action films. To make this succeed, the team had to increase the usable film to shooting ratio to documentary levels, say one usable foot for every twenty feet shot—something that is expensive with 35 mm film. By reducing the production personnel, they hoped they could keep on budget. It all rested on Heep’s ability and Redmond’s newfound talent honed on the London stage.
For sound, Heep had hired a woman he had worked with before, a German technical sound expert, Susanna Reidermaier. As Pero and Heep walked over to meet her, Heep explained: “Pero, she’s about as good a boom operator as we’ve ever worked with. Her technical skill is first class. She’s a little temperamental, try not to boss her around.”
“She works for you. I’ll stay away then …”
“No, it’s not that, she just has had some tough breaks. She’s perfect for this job, she won’t let us down.”
�
�Has she ever before?” As a producer, the last thing he wanted was a weak link on a location shot.
“No, but she’s tough on the outside and jelly inside. Family tragedy. I’ll vouch for her. And besides, she’s brought her invention, a very special new microphone.”
As soon as Pero saw her, he felt she seemed familiar somehow. She was about thirty-five, pretty with an hourglass figure and stood just above five and a half feet. She had an open face and quizzical blue eyes. She was assessing Pero, Redmond, the police officers, everyone, every chance she got. It did not make Pero uneasy; she seemed a kind person, just unsure, perhaps just wanting to make sure of her surroundings, to know who to trust. He instinctively liked her, as it seemed to him that she wore her emotions out in the open.
He had seen the same querying look once, that quizzical behavior, in a Bonobo ape.
Close relatives of chimpanzees, the Bonobo are a matriarchal society, very rare, in Tanzania, last seen by Pero on a guided video tour with Mbuno. The males hunt for the females’ food and are rewarded with sexual favors. The Bonobo are seen as the closest relatives to human anthropology, much more so than chimps or gorillas. By allowing the males to hunt for food, the females can stay at home and safely raise the young. Sex is the tool, offspring and family generational safety the reward. Affection and loyalty, often tribal monogamy, become commonplace.
Two years ago, they were filming them when one Bonobo female came to Mbuno’s attention. She had lost her suitor to a leopard or some predator. She was alone, unprotected, and mistreated—no male to protect her or hunt for her food. One day a group of young males approached her, and she fought them off. She accepted no fruit or leaves, in case it meant having to perform sexually. She was skeptical, only trusting her fellow females. She accepted their grooming and when finally starving, shared their food leftovers. After a while, a few weeks, one female introduced a new male to her, gently. She looked at him with those same quizzical eyes Pero saw Suzanna now displayed. After a period of sitting, sharing his food, a week or so, they consummated their relationship, gently. After that, she was his, heart and soul. Moreover, their sexual relations were anything but gentle after that. Mbuno found it equally amusing as well as right and proper. He explained why to Pero, “A bond, open trust takes time Mr. Pero, it takes time.” In a short while, the Bonobo female got very fat and content on her suitor’s eager, repeated, foraging. Subsequently, the male Bonobo wore a familiar expression of pride and ego.