by Lee Goldberg
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The red-and-white Toyota taxi that brought Ian and Margo into Kowloon was one of thousands just like it that clogged the narrow, congested streets. It seemed to Ian that everything in Kowloon was crowded together and fighting for room—the buildings, the cars, the people. Even the airspace above the streets was a battleground, crammed with neon signs that reached out over the roadway from the stores and restaurants on either side. The blazing signs overhead, with their red, orange, and yellow Chinese symbols, lit up the night with a sordid glow that was as bright as day.
Ian rolled down his window to see what the atmosphere was like outside. The hot, humid air poured in, thick and heavy, reeking of exhaust fumes, fried food, raw fish, and flowery perfume, blaring with the cacophony of car horns, music, and Chinese chatter, and crackling with the friction of all the activity on the teeming streets. It was too much for him. He began rolling up the window but it was a grind, the old gears struggling to push the pane of filthy glass through the sticky air.
“I like it here already.” Margo stared out her window in wide-eyed wonderment. “It makes Manhattan seem dull and quiet by comparison.”
She liked it, Ian thought, for the same reason she was able to sleep on the plane and not at home. It was hard to hear your demons when all of your senses were being bombarded. He thought that he might like Hong Kong’s energy, too, once he’d conquered his jet lag. When his internal clock was out of whack, everything felt surreal even when he wasn’t in a strange new place.
The taxi pulled up outside of the Nine Dragons hotel, a blue-tinted glass tower on the Victoria Harbor waterfront. Susie took Ian and Margo into the lobby, which had a high, vaulted ceiling with a waterfall that spilled smooth and clear down a four-story wall like an undulating sheet of glass.
“I already have your keys,” Susie said. “I’ll show you to your rooms.”
She led them to a bank of elevators that whisked them up to the thirtieth floor in seconds and then they followed her to Ian’s suite. The instant his door opened the lights came on, the stereo system played something bold and orchestral, and the window curtains parted automatically like the opening of a show. And that’s exactly what it was. The windows presented a spectacular view across Victoria Harbor to Hong Kong’s dense forest of skyscrapers, each one displaying its own elaborate, animated light show.
Ian was so distracted by the dramatic view that he didn’t notice anything else about the room until Susie spoke up.
“I’ve left a shooting schedule and the new draft of the script on the bar,” she said. “That way you’ll be completely up to speed when you get to the studio tomorrow.”
Ian turned and saw his room had a fully stocked wet bar with four stools, a living room with a leather couch, a matching easy chair, a writing desk, and a flat-screen TV. Sliding doors separated the living room from the bedroom, where he could see a king-size bed. He was tempted to finagle a way to stay here for the entire shoot rather than go back to his bleak Oakwood apartment.
His gaze drifted back to the script with dread. Every time a change was made in a final shooting script, the new pages were printed on colored paper, each color representing a new draft, starting with blue and then on through pink, yellow, green, goldenrod, buff, salmon, and cherry, with the release date noted on the title page and the header of every page. If there were more revisions after that, the cycle of colors started over with second white, second blue, and so on. This draft was entirely yellow. The script he’d brought with him in his bag was the second cherry draft. That made this one the third yellow and the twenty-third complete rewrite.
“This is an amazing view,” Margo said, standing in front of the window. “I’m not sure I’d ever leave my room if I had this to look at.”
“You do,” Susie said. “Your room is right next door.”
“Really?” Margo smiled at Ian. “I thought for sure I’d be on the second floor with an unobstructed view of the trash dumpsters.”
“You can thank the studio,” Ian said. “They have a block of rooms set aside just for the Straker cast and crew.”
“I want to see it,” Margo said, turning to Susie. “Can you show me?”
“I’d be glad to.” Susie glanced at Ian. “I’ll pick you up in the lobby at nine a.m. and take you to the studio.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Ian said.
The two women left. Ian ordered a selection of dim sum from room service, moved the easy chair in front of the window, and sat down to enjoy the show.
CHAPTER TWELVE
An excerpt from the third yellow draft of Straker.
EXT. KOWLOON — NIGHT
One of those ubiquitous RED & WHITE HONG KONG TAXIS moves north on Lai Chi Kok Road, a major thoroughfare divided by a low K-RAIL that is only interrupted at intersections. [Production note: Vehicles are left-side drive in Hong Kong, so you might be a bit disoriented, no pun intended, following the driving action that’s coming . . .]
INT. TAXI — NIGHT
Eve is in the back seat . . . lost in thought . . . oblivious to:
EXT. LAI CHI KOK ROAD — NIGHT
The four MOTORCYCLE-RIDING ASSASSINS clad in ALL BLACK, from helmet to toe, who are charging up behind her car. ASSASSIN #1 roars up alongside her taxi.
INT. TAXI — NIGHT
Eve turns to look and ASSASSIN #1 pulls out a GUN and aims it at her. At the same instant he’s about to shoot, A CAR cuts off the taxi. The TAXI DRIVER slams on the brakes and THE ASSASSIN roars past the stopped TAXI, his BULLETS HITTING THE DRIVER instead of Eve.
THE TAXI DRIVER
Slumps over, pulling the wheel to the left, his HEAVY FOOT now FLOORING THE GAS PEDAL.
THE TAXI
Shoots into the left lane, sideswiping the K-RAIL and SHOOTING UP SPARKS as it charges down the road, veering to the right and sideswiping A BUS. The TAXI is now speeding along pinned between the K-RAIL and the bus.
EVE
Leans over the front seat and grabs the steering wheel, just as the car shoots past the bus and into traffic. She tries to steer the RUNAWAY TAXI . . . weaving around the cars ahead of her. Behind her, ASSASSIN #1 SURGES FORWARD, firing his GUN at her.
EVE
Ducks for cover . . . and LETS GO OF THE WHEEL . . . as bullets RIDDLE THE TAXI and the REAR WINDOW shatters.
THE TAXI
Clips the LEFT REAR BUMPER of the CAR ahead of her like a POLICE PIT MANEUVER, sending it spinning sideways, right in front of
ASSASSIN #1
Who T-BONES into the car . . . sending him cartwheeling over the vehicle and smack into traffic, where he’s IMMEDIATELY RUN OVER. Crunch!
EVE
Sits up, grabs the wheel again, and fights to regain steering control of her SPEEDING TAXI, sideswiping vehicles. But she has other problems. She glances in the REARVIEW MIRROR and sees the OTHER THREE MOTORCYCLE ASSASSINS closing in . . .
ASSASSIN #2
Charges forward, gun out, and starts firing at her.
EVE
Wrenches the wheel hard, squeaks past a car, and careens straight into the cross traffic of
A BUSY INTERSECTION
The TAXI barely avoids getting hit on the passenger side by A TRUCK, which comes between her and the motorcycles behind her.
ASSASSIN #2
Slides sideways UNDER THE TRUCK and comes back up on the other side to continue the chase.
ASSASSINS #3 & #4
Swerve around the truck . . . and follow ASSASSIN #2.
EVE
Looks back. The ASSASSINS are closing in . . . but then she sees an incredible sight:
SOMEONE ON A WHITE MOTORCYCLE
Is riding ON THE K-RAIL behind her. It’s—
CLINT STRAKER
He rides to the end of the K-RAIL, FLIES OVER THE TRAFFIC, rolls across the top of a bus . . . and lands in the street, right behind
ASSASSIN #4
Who turns to look at what’s behind him just as
STRAKER
&nb
sp; Grabs him and YANKS HIM OFF HIS MOTORCYCLE, flinging him into
THE BUS
Which smacks into him and then smashes into his motorcycle, sending it spinning RIGHT OVER STRAKER’S HEAD.
ASSASSIN #2
Is closing in on the taxi.
EVE
Swerves, trying to evade collisions with the cars in front of her and the bullets being fired by the assassin who’s chasing her.
ASSASSIN #2
Is taking aim at her head when
A CAR
Smashes into her, sending her car spinning out of control, bouncing like a pinball off the K-RAIL before she regains control.
ASSASSIN #2
Barely avoids being caught in the melee and speeds PAST the TAXI. Meanwhile:
ASSASSIN #3
Turns and starts shooting at
STRAKER
Who rears his motorcycle up on one wheel and charges past ASSASSIN #3 to a TRUCK filled with BARRELS ahead of them. He lands his cycle and pulls the latch on the rear of the truck. DOZENS OF BARRELS tumble out into the path of
ASSASSIN #3
Who smashes into them and goes flying, his motorcycle smacking into the K-RAIL and EXPLODING.
STRAKER
Jumps his cycle back atop the K-RAIL and speeds after the TAXI.
EVE
Regains steering control of her smashed-up TAXI. She sees Straker charging up the K-RAIL alongside her car and, ahead of her, she sees ASSASSIN #2 turning and charging back toward her, against traffic, his gun out.
STRAKER
Is atop the K-RAIL and alongside the taxi . . . and heading for an INTERSECTION, where the K-RAIL comes to an end. At the last possible instant, he leaps off the motorcycle and onto the TAXI, grabbing hold of the center pillar between the front seat and the back seat . . . while his
MOTORCYCLE
Goes aloft like a missile and straight into
ASSASSIN #2
Taking him out in a FIREBALL.
STRAKER
Opens the front passenger side door, reaches in, and yanks out the cab driver, throwing his body into traffic . . . and releasing the pressure on the gas pedal.
INT. TAXI — NIGHT
Straker slips into the front seat and behind the wheel, just as the taxi, all smashed up with bullet holes and shattered windows, glides to a stop at
EXT. HOTEL — TAXI STAND — NIGHT
In front of an ELDERLY AMERICAN COUPLE with suitcases. They look at the taxi in total shock. Straker smiles at them through the broken window.
STRAKER
Where to?
ELDERLY MAN
We’ll take the next one.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ian tried to sleep but, as tired as he was, he couldn’t manage it. So he got out of bed, opened his laptop, logged in to the hotel’s Wi-Fi, and caught up on his email. That killed an hour. Then he turned on the TV and channel surfed between CNN and BBC, both channels full of pundits debating what the president of the United States meant by his latest tweet (he praised the first lady’s boobs as being “natural and all-American”) and trying to predict what outrageous thing he would say or do to embarrass his country at the G8 summit. That killed another hour. Finally, with nothing else left to do, Ian read the new draft of the Straker script. Yellow was the perfect color for this draft because the writers had pissed all over his book. The only thing they kept was Straker’s name. But Ian didn’t care. The studio’s check had cleared and that’s all that mattered.
He showered, got dressed, and watched the sunrise over Hong Kong, checking the clock every few minutes to see whether it was too early to disturb Margo. He was antsy and eager to get out of his room. At 6:00 a.m., he convinced himself that she must be awake and as antsy as he was. He went into the hallway and knocked on Margo’s door.
She opened the door a crack. She was wearing a Nine Dragons terry cloth bathrobe that was too big for her.
“What’s the matter with you?” she whispered but still managed to put a harsh edge on her voice. “It’s six a.m.”
“I know that,” Ian said.
“Then why are you knocking on my door so early?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I’ve got jet lag. I figured you had it, too.”
“I don’t,” she said.
“What about your night terrors?” he asked.
“I took an Ambien.”
“You seem awfully alert for someone who took a sleeping pill.”
“You’re a pharmacist now? Go away.”
Margo closed the door as hard as she could without actually slamming it. But she made her point. Ian turned to walk away and accidentally kicked a room service tray of dishes beside her door that he hadn’t noticed before. He looked down and saw two glasses and two plates.
Two?
He crouched down and saw bright red lipstick on the rim of a glass.
Susie’s lipstick.
No, that couldn’t be possible, he thought. Could it?
Ian went down to the lobby, got a cup of coffee and copies of the South China Morning Post, USA Today, and the Wall Street Journal, and found a seat that allowed him to stake out the elevators while he read.
At about seven thirty, Susie emerged from the elevator with matted hair, wearing no lipstick and the same clothes she’d had on the previous night. He held up his newspaper to obscure his face and peeked at her from the edge of the page like a detective in a bad movie. He’d always thought it was a stupid thing for a detective to do but it worked. She didn’t see him.
The instant that Susie left the hotel, he dropped his newspaper and took the elevator to the thirtieth floor, marched to Margo’s room, and knocked insistently on the door. Margo practically yanked the door off its hinges when she opened it. She was still in her bathrobe.
“What is wrong with you? You’re going to wake up everyone on the floor.”
“I can’t believe you,” Ian said.
“I’m not the one banging on doors all morning.”
“You’re the one banging my publicist all night.”
“Were we that loud?” Margo asked. “Is that what kept you up?”
Ian couldn’t believe how casual she was about what she’d done, like it was no big deal when it was a very big deal.
“No,” Ian said.
“Then what’s your problem?”
How could she not understand? “We weren’t even in Hong Kong for an hour and you got my publicist into bed.”
Margo smiled. “Are you jealous?”
“Yes.” Ian startled himself with his honesty. It had to be the jet lag.
“Good. Now go away. I have to take a shower before breakfast.” She started to close the door.
“Wait,” Ian said. “I’ve got to know.”
“Know what?”
“How did you do it?”
She leaned against the door. “You mean how did I, smelling like a wet dog after sixteen hours on an airplane in cattle class, manage to seduce a gorgeous woman I’d just met into her first experience with the joy of sapphic sex?”
“It was her first time?”
“Of course not,” Margo said. “I just wanted to see you start panting. She’s definitely been with other women before I flew into town.”
“Even so . . .”
“Yeah, it’s still pretty amazing, isn’t it? I can’t believe it myself. The truth is, she seduced me. I wasn’t hard to get, either, not after a year of unwanted celibacy.” Margo sniffed her underarms and frowned. “It must have been my horny pheromones that made me irresistible. God, I need a shower. I reek.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t shower,” Ian said. “You could seduce every lesbian in Hong Kong.”
“You have a point,” she said. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
And with that she closed the door.
Ian was in the hotel restaurant, finishing his self-styled Asian-American-fusion breakfast of dim sum, fried eggs, white rice, bacon, and an assortment of fresh melon when Margo, her hair still wet from the show
er, took a seat across from him at his table.
“I decided to have mercy on the lesbians of Hong Kong,” Margo said as she waved at the waiter to get his attention and held up her coffee cup. “You don’t have to look so glum.”
“I’m not,” Ian said as the waiter approached with the coffeepot. He waited for the waiter to fill Margo’s cup and go away before he continued speaking. “It’s just that Susie is my publicist. If one of us is going to sleep with her, it should be me.”
She sipped her coffee. “You are aware of how childish, stupid, and pathetic that sounds.”
“Yes.”
“Then there’s still hope for you as a human being.” Margo looked past him and smiled at someone approaching. “Susie is here. Please don’t embarrass her.”
Susie joined them a moment later and stood beside their table. She’d changed into a different pantsuit, fixed her hair, and reapplied her glossy candy-red lipstick. “Good morning. How was your night? All rested?”
“I didn’t sleep a wink,” Ian said.
“Neither did I,” Margo said.
“That’s a shame,” Susie said with a sly smile.
It was more than Ian could take. He abruptly stood up.
“Let’s go,” he said. “We have a long day ahead of us.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Kangbashi District, Ordos, Inner Mongolia, China. July 2. 9:15 a.m. China Standard Time.
The Western media called Ordos a ghost city, one of several largely uninhabited urban centers that the Chinese government hurriedly built over the last decade, supposedly in anticipation of a population boom that hadn’t boomed. Instead, the city’s skyscrapers, vast apartment blocks, wide boulevards, shopping malls, theaters, schools, and hospitals remained empty. Outsiders believed the construction of the ghost cities was a desperate ploy by a corrupt government to artificially fuel China’s economic growth. That was partly true, but spymaster Yat Fu knew there were other reasons.
At least this unwanted city in the middle of a desert wasn’t a cheesy replica of Manhattan (like Yujiapu with its miniature Rockefeller Center) or an embarrassing faux Paris (like Tianducheng with its rotting Eiffel Tower). Those places looked like abandoned amusement parks. Yat Fu believed that Ordos had true character that was reflected in the daring abstract architecture of the vacant performing arts center, its two derelict stadiums, the bare cultural museum, the unused mosque, the forsaken horse-racing track, and the hollow national library. What it didn’t have was people, businesses, an industry, or any apparent reason to exist.
