Killer Thriller (Ian Ludlow Thrillers Book 2)

by Lee Goldberg

  “I wasn’t talking about that,” Mei said. “I know Chef Boyardee. It’s one of the brands owned by Conagra Brands in Chicago, which outbid my father to acquire TaiMei Potato Industries in Shangdu, becoming the biggest potato processor in the region. I remember because my father doesn’t often lose.”

  “Then I don’t understand. Why would I be disappointed in you?”

  “Because I’m not a twenty-two-year-old, sixth-generation Texan with a truck driver’s vocabulary, a poet’s eyes, and a pole dancer’s body.”

  She really had read his books, at least the one that Straker was based upon. Hearing his own prose recited to him made Ian self-conscious. He knew that nobody would ever mistake his writing for Hemingway’s.

  “Don’t worry about how I described Eve in my book. James Bond wasn’t Scottish in Ian Fleming’s books. But actor Sean Connery was, and will always be, the best 007. The same goes for you,” Ian said. “You’re far better than the character that I imagined.”

  “That’s nice,” Mei said. “But I think that’s what you were planning to say to Damon if he asks you if he’s too old and too short to be Clint Straker.”

  Margo laughed. “I think you’re right.”

  They both were, but Ian didn’t think it was wise to admit that. Instead, he said, “He’ll never ask me that.”

  “And if he does?” Mei asked.

  “I’ll tell him that Marlon Brando wasn’t Italian and was only fifteen years older than Al Pacino in The Godfather. But Brando was still believable as Pacino’s father and was the perfect Don Vito Corleone, just like you will go down in movie history as the definitive Clint Straker.”

  Mei nodded with approval. “He’ll like being compared to Brando.”

  “But I won’t get the chance to answer the question,” Ian said. “He doesn’t have your humility.”

  “Or my insecurity,” she said.

  Margo spoke up. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. You’re not the one who is going to be standing on a stepladder in your scenes together.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Classified Location, Kangbashi District, Ordos, Inner Mongolia, China. July 2. 10:40 a.m. China Standard Time.

  Yat Fu watched as Wang Mei and the bodyguards entered the soundstage, leaving the American spy and his assistant behind.

  “Curious that Ludlow would mention a spy novel to Wang Mei,” Yat said. “There’s more to this conversation than it seems. Get a tape of it to cryptology for analysis.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pang said.

  The screen now showed the bodyguards’ point of view as Mei walked up to the director.

  “I don’t want to see this,” Yat said. “I want to see Ludlow and his assistant. Do we have any cameras on the studio lot?”

  “Only the ones on Mei’s bodyguards and the devices they planted in her trailer.”

  “Can we access the studio’s security cameras?”

  “We can, but they are only pointed outside the property and soundstages, not inside or on the backlot. Studios don’t want footage leaking out of their actors or their films.”

  “Very well,” Yat said. “Show me our satellite view.”

  Pang hit a few keys and the images on the screen were replaced by a surprisingly clear, tight shot from earth’s orbit of Ian and Margo walking among the trailers.

  Ian and Margo approached a trailer that had “Damon Matthews” handwritten on a strip of blue masking tape affixed to the front. As they neared the open door, they could see Damon inside, standing on a wooden box, being fitted for a tuxedo by a young and harried Chinese seamstress.

  Damon was 50, though his age was stated as 49 in his press materials and was likely to be for years to come, but he still had a boyish quality that would probably keep him looking youthful well into his eighties. He was in the midst of a heated argument with a balding American man with a four-hair comb-over and a sagging face that made it appear as if he were melting.

  “Why does she get bodyguards, Larry, while I’m left totally unprotected?” Damon said. “I’m a global superstar. I’m more valuable to this production than she is.”

  Ian assumed the other man was Larry Steinberg, the line producer, the man responsible for the actual nuts-and-bolts production and keeping the film on time and on budget.

  “I don’t know who’s paying for those guys, but it’s not us,” Larry said. “They’ve been glued to her since her father was taken to Beijing. I’m told that the only time they aren’t going to be with her is when she’s shooting.”

  “I still want protection,” Damon said. “If she has two guys, I probably need four.”

  “It’s not in the budget,” Larry said.

  Now Ian was certain Larry was the producer and saw a way to score some points with the guy who was paying for his trip. Ian spoke up, directing his remarks to Damon.

  “Not only that, but it wouldn’t look good for the movie, or your action star image, to be seen with bodyguards,” Ian said, both Damon and Larry noticing his presence for the first time and probably wondering who the hell he was. “People want to believe that you can take on a dozen ninja assassins single-handedly.”

  “I can,” Damon said, defensive. “I just don’t want to take paychecks from the stuntmen.”

  “And that’s why you’re the guy I saw in my mind when I created Clint Straker,” Ian said by way of introduction.

  “Ian Ludlow!” Damon stepped off the box to greet Ian and Margo at the door, which was two steps above Ian, and leaned down to fist-bump him. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I’d invite you in but this Chinese trailer is too Goddamned small.” He turned to Larry. “Where is my motor home?”

  “We shipped it from Los Angeles by boat, but it’s been delayed at sea by a storm,” Larry said. “It should be here in a day or two.”

  Damon looked at Ian. “My personalized motor home is so big we could have the Last Supper in it. It’s got push-outs on push-outs.” Then Damon turned back to Larry. “There must be bigger trailers than this in China. You’re the producer. Find one for me until mine gets here.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Larry walked out of the trailer and, his back to Damon, rolled his eyes in frustration for Ian to see.

  “Damn producers, all they care about is money,” Damon said. “They forget this is an art.” He spotted Margo. “I’m sorry, we haven’t met. I’m Damon Matthews.”

  “I thought you looked familiar,” she said. “I’m Margo French, Ian’s sober companion.”

  Damon fist-bumped her, too. “Word.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Margo said.

  “It’s going to be a struggle keeping Ian clean. I’m sure he has to face his demons every time he writes. That’s how he finds the hard truths. I know. I’m an artist, too.” Damon went to the kitchen counter behind him and came back to the doorway with a well-worn paperback copy of Death Benefits and held the book up like a preacher waving his Bible. “I take your book with me everywhere I go. I’m constantly going back to it for inspiration. It’s the sacred text.”

  “The screenwriters don’t seem to think so,” Ian said. “The script doesn’t resemble it much.”

  “That’s why I keep the book with me,” Damon said, “to make sure we stay true to the integrity of what you wrote. It’s the soul of the movie.”

  “Thank you,” Ian said and he meant it. “It’s great that you have so much respect for the writing.”

  “Hell yes, man. Without the words, I wouldn’t have the foundation I need to become the character and create the dialogue.”

  Ian took a second to parse what Damon meant by that last comment, which didn’t quite jibe with all the respect the actor claimed to have for his book. When he figured it out, it made him a little queasy. “You’re improvising your lines?”

  “It’s so much more than that.”

  “Of course it is,” Ian said, trying hard to hide his contempt.

  “I channel the character, body and soul, so every word I s
peak in performance is truer than anything the writer can achieve as an observer. You’re gonna be blown away.”

  “I’m sure I will be,” Ian said.

  Damon fist-bumped him again. “Catch you later.”

  Ian walked away with Margo, who waited to speak until they were out of Damon’s earshot. “I don’t know how you can stand this business.”

  “I can’t. That’s why I quit screenwriting and became an author,” Ian said. “Let’s get out of here before I really do need a sober companion.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Port Ouest, Marseille, France. July 2. 6:00 a.m. Central European Summer Time.

  On a mountainous, sparsely developed stretch of coastline called Les Riaux, northwest of the Marseille city center, was a small port that mostly served fishing boats and pleasure craft. The port was backed against a narrow, winding road and steep chalky-white cliffs that were topped by a vast abandoned quarry.

  The docks were busy at this early hour as fishermen prepared to head out to sea. Chen’s panel van was just one of many and his arrival in front of Lucio and Fina’s yacht went unnoticed by the locals.

  He got out of the van and found the Italian couple having breakfast on their port deck. They were in matching silk pajamas and bathrobes and were enjoying their eggs, ham, berries, and yogurt with a bottle of champagne. Chen thought that they probably screwed with champagne glasses in their hands, too.

  “Right on time,” Lucio said. “To the second.”

  “It was surprisingly easy.” Chen stood on the dock and tipped his head toward the tiny guard shack at the roadside entrance to the port. “The guards at the gate never even looked at me. Just waved me through.”

  “They are only there for show,” Lucio said.

  “Like flowerpots,” Fina added.

  “Our Corsican friends here, La Brise de Mer, have run the ports in Marseille for a century.” Lucio snapped his fingers at the servant who stood at his side and pointed at Chen’s van. “Bring Mr. Chen his crates.”

  “Marseille is the most corrupt city in France,” Fina said. “If not all of Europe.”

  Two of the yacht’s crew members emerged from the boat carrying Chen’s crates, brought them onto the dock, and walked past him to his van, which he’d left unlocked for them.

  Lucio popped a berry in his mouth. “This is the gateway for all the South American cocaine and Moroccan hashish into Europe. But you can run anything through here.”

  “And we do,” Fina said. “Drugs, cars, jewels, weapons, sex slaves, chemicals, even an occasional Bengal tiger.”

  She shared a smile with Lucio at the fond memory and took a sip of her champagne.

  “The French government hasn’t cracked down on what comes in and out of Marseille after the terrorist attacks in Paris and Nice?” Chen asked, watching as the two deckhands closed his van and returned to the yacht.

  “On the contrary,” Lucio said. “As other trade routes by land and air have been choked off due to tighter security, Marseille has become the focal point for European smuggling, which is a key pillar of the entire European criminal economy.”

  “Surely the French government knows that,” Chen said.

  “They do,” Fina said. “That’s why they will always lack the manpower, the resources, and the balls to lock down the port. It’s too big a part of the economy to jeopardize.”

  “La Brise de Mer controls the docks by recruiting the same poor, disenfranchised immigrants that ISIS radicalizes everywhere else in Europe,” Lucio said. “But we have something to offer that’s stronger than ideals or religion.”

  “Money, honey.” Fina raised her glass in a toast and took another sip.

  “Speaking of money . . .” Lucio said, letting his voice trail off.

  Chen reached into his coat pocket and tossed Lucio a thick envelope full of euros. Lucio caught the envelope, glanced inside, then slipped it into the pocket of his bathrobe. “We can do more than transport sensitive cargo for you. We can handle all of your needs, from acquisition to delivery.”

  “You won’t have to get any more blood on your sleeves,” Fina added with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Or perhaps she was just loaded.

  “You don’t know what my needs are,” Chen said.

  “We took a peek at your cargo.” Lucio gave him an apologetic shrug. “We like to know what we are carrying. We can get you everything from Kalashnikovs to nuclear materials.”

  “Or a Tasmanian devil,” Chen said.

  “If that’s what you’d like,” Fina said. “They are adorable creatures and marvelous at disposing of corpses.”

  “Every home should have one,” Chen said. He liked her, which was a shame. “When do you go back out to sea?”

  “This afternoon, after we stock up on French wine and cheese,” Lucio said, then added with a smile: “Our pockets are burning with cash.”

  Mong Kok, Hong Kong. July 2. 1:15 p.m. Hong Kong Time.

  The Mong Kok neighborhood was on the western edge of the Kowloon Peninsula and was a place where anybody could buy almost anything, legal or illegal, moral or immoral, real or fake. Ian had passed through here on his taxi ride into the city from the airport and it was no less dense and frenetic in the daylight than it was at night.

  He’d just emerged with Margo from the Mong Kok subway station and she was taking him on a walking tour, explaining as they went what she’d gleaned from her research.

  Mong Kok was known for having entire blocks that were dedicated to a single product or service. There was the photocopying street, the ladies market, the goldfish street, the shoe market, the tile street, and the flower market, to name a few.

  Some of the streets, like the one dedicated to bootleg clothes and accessories, were closed off to traffic during certain hours and filled with market stalls, a mix of pop-up tents and portable sheds with corrugated metal roofs, where long folding tables were piled high with fake Polo shirts, Vuitton bags, and Hermès scarves.

  But gentrification was creeping into Mong Kok from all sides in the form of gleaming skyscrapers with massive malls full of international brand-name stores selling real Polo shirts, Vuitton bags, and Hermès scarves. Those places, Ian thought, weren’t nearly as much fun or full of character as the street markets.

  “Mong Kok is where old, traditional Hong Kong and the contemporary, future-leaning city collide like a speeding Lamborghini into a bus full of retirees on their way to a bingo parlor,” Margo said as they moved through the crush of people in the bootleg market.

  “You should leave the metaphors to the professionals,” Ian said. “But I get your point. It’s a stunning contrast.”

  “It’s also one of the most densely populated neighborhoods on earth.”

  “I can feel the energy,” Ian said.

  “That’s probably just a pickpocket’s hands in your pants,” she said.

  Ian looked up at the canopy of neon signs that arched over the roadway. He could already imagine using the signs in an action sequence. Perhaps Straker could be in a fight with a killer on top of a moving bus while trying to avoid being hit by one of the signs. Or, better yet, maybe Straker could be swinging from sign to sign, like Tarzan using vines, to avoid pursuers. There was no shortage of action possibilities to be found here. But it was one thing to see it and another to describe it.

  “This is what a lot of people imagine when they think of Hong Kong,” Ian said. “For a film, it’s great. But it’s hard to capture the big picture in a book without pages of description. So I’ll need to find the colorful flourishes, the individual brush strokes that will allow the reader to create the painting himself.”

  Margo gave him a critical sideways glance. “Is that an example of a professional metaphor?”

  “It’s not as belabored as yours.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not very visceral. Maybe P. J. is onto something,” Margo said. “I’ve found a place that’s uniquely Hong Kong that I think you’ll like. Follow me.”

  Ian did, and so did a d
ozen security cameras on the street and a satellite in earth’s orbit.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Classified Location, Kangbashi District, Ordos, Inner Mongolia, China. July 2. 1:40 p.m. China Standard Time.

  Yat Fu entered the Ordos command center, stood beside Pang Bao, and took a moment to survey the multiple live video feeds of Ian and Margo in Mong Kok while he thought about the call he’d just received from his man in Marseille. The weapons had arrived safely from Turkey and the operation was right on schedule. Yat did not tell him about the CIA intelligence report that exposed almost everything or the American spy they were tracking in Hong Kong. He didn’t want anything to distract the operative from his mission.

  Yat spoke to Pang but kept his eye on the screens. “Status report.”

  “Ian Ludlow and the woman took the subway to Mong Kok. They are now walking along Flower Market Road.”

  “Just two tourists taking in the sights.”

  “We have three teams tracking them, one behind, one ahead of them, and another in the bird market. More teams are standing by on Duke Street, Boundary Street, and Sai Yee Street.”

  “Don’t get too close and keep the teams in heavy rotation. Ludlow is a highly trained professional. He’ll spot a tail. Let’s rely on electronic surveillance whenever possible.”

  “We’ve tapped every camera in the area, government and private,” Pang said. “We’re also tracking them by satellite.”

  “Good. Do we have audio?”

  Pang shook his head. “Not since Ludlow’s conversation with Wang Mei outside the soundstage.”

  “I think those references to James Bond and The Godfather mean something. What do our cryptographers say?”

  “If it was some kind of code, it’s eluding them.”

  “That’s the point of a coded conversation.” Yat’s face tightened with anger. He hated incompetence more than anything. “Tell them to stay on it until they can explain to me what it really means.”