by Lee Goldberg
EVE
I don’t understand you.
STRAKER
Nobody has ever accused me of being a complicated person.
EVE
You came here to avenge your friend’s death. You did that. Why are you still here?
STRAKER
Because I need to set things right.
EVE
No, you don’t. The triads have been here for over a century and they will be here long after you’re gone.
STRAKER
Not in your neighborhood. Not anymore. Not ever.
EVE
You live half a world away. What do you care what happens here?
STRAKER
Because my friend did. And because you do.
He moves in and kisses her, her back against the glass that faces the bay. But as their passion increases, Straker looks over her shoulder and sees a HELICOPTER closing in. She leans back from him, sensing his distraction.
EVE
What is it?
The TRIAD KILLER is in the chopper, holding an AK-47 . . . and opens fire. Straker forces Eve to the floor as the cabin is riddled with bullets.
STRAKER
Stay down.
He takes out his gun, rises to his feet, an open target, and fires three times at the chopper . . . hitting the pilot.
The CHOPPER weaves out of control, its tail swooping PRECARIOUSLY CLOSE to their CABIN, before it drops into the harbor and EXPLODES. Straker lowers his gun, lifts up Eve, pulls her close, and says—
STRAKER (CONT’D)
Where were we?
And they kiss.
Wang Studios, Hong Kong. July 3. 3:27 p.m. Hong Kong Time.
P. J. Tyler, Damon Matthews, Wang Mei, Larry Steinberg, all the department heads, the primary cast members, and Ian and Margo sat around a long table in a conference room for a reading of the script. It was essentially a sitting rehearsal, giving everyone a chance to see how the script played out and to make note of any production or creative issues. P. J. read the scene directions and the actors performed the parts, sometimes engaging in pantomime to convey action absent props. The two stars had just finished reading the scene at the Big Wheel. Damon had Mei pinned against the wall and he was kissing her with such gusto that it bordered on molestation.
“That was great,” P. J. said.
Damon let go of a red-faced Mei and waved the script at the director. “I have a problem.”
Mei gasped for air and glowered at Damon’s back.
“What’s that?” P. J. asked.
“Why does it take three shots for me to bring down the helicopter? All I need is one.”
“It humanizes him if he misses first.”
“It makes me a pussy.” Damon shifted his gaze to Ian. “What do you think?”
Everybody was looking at Ian now. If Ian contradicted Damon, it would be the same as calling the global superstar a pussy. If he sided with Damon, then he would alienate a superstar director and probably get thrown off the set. It was a no-win situation. But Ian wasn’t worried. If anything, he saw the predicament as a challenge.
“I think it would take six shots,” he said.
Damon’s eyes widened in surprise and his face flushed with anger. Nobody ever contradicted him. But before the actor could explode, Ian spoke up again, confident and relaxed.
“Straker fires the first five shots while bullets from the chopper are riddling the cabin around him. Maybe he even gets hit in the shoulder. Now he’s wounded, blood streaming down his arm, his hand shaking, and the chopper is coming around for another pass. He’s down to one bullet and one chance in hell of surviving. Straker takes aim and hits the shooter, who falls back into the chopper, firing wildly in his death throes, killing the pilot, shooting up the cockpit. The chopper blows up in an enormous fireball. One of the dismembered chopper blades spins wildly toward Straker. He casually ducks as the blade sheers off the top half of the cabin . . . and then, the wind whipping him, blood seeping from his wound, he rises up with the Hong Kong skyline as his backdrop, pulls Eve to him, and says: ‘Where were we?’ They kiss, a kiss for the ages, and as the Straker theme builds to a crescendo, we fade to black, the end.”
The room was silent for a long moment, everyone as still as marble statues, until finally Damon blinked hard and spoke.
“Holy shit,” Damon said. “It’s iconic. I love it.”
Now that Damon had told everyone what their opinion would be, the director chimed in.
“So do I. To make it even more visceral, we could mount a camera on the broken chopper blade as it spins toward Straker’s head.”
“A flaming chopper blade,” Damon said.
“Yeah.” P. J. looked at Ian. “That was a great note.”
Everyone applauded, except for Larry Steinberg. He gritted his teeth and a huge vein throbbed under the skin of his forehead like a parasitic worm squirming over his skull. Ian assumed it wasn’t a sign of profound happiness but he chose to ignore it.
“Thanks, I’m glad I could help.” Ian closed his script, stuffed it into his new messenger bag, and stood up. “I hope the rest of your table read goes well. I want to get in some research for my next book before the photo shoot tonight.”
Margo stood up, too. Damon came over, gave Ian a big hug, and clapped him on the back even though it meant everybody in the room would see how much shorter the actor was than the author.
“We’re making movie history, bro.” Damon broke off the hug and approached Mei as Ian and Margo headed for the door. “We need to rethink the staging of that kiss. It’s lacking eroticism.”
Mei crossed her arms under her chest. “What do you think it needs?”
“Boobs.”
That was the last word Ian heard as he walked out the door. He was glad he wouldn’t be there for whatever came next.
As they stepped outside the building, they were nearly run over by the red-and-white taxi, the one outfitted for filming the chase sequence, as it sped by. There was a helmeted stunt driver in the roll cage on top and a helmeted cameraman sitting on the platform mounted on the passenger side of the car. A woman was in the driver’s seat as a stand-in for Mei.
“What are they doing?” Margo asked.
“A camera test for tomorrow’s chase scene.”
“I wouldn’t want to be Wang Mei,” she said. “That’s a lot of trust to put in a guy driving on the roof, especially with cars and motorcycles flying at you.”
“That’s why I’m glad I only have to write this shit and not live it.”
Larry burst out of the building and gave Ian a shove, startling him.
“Do you realize what you just did?”
Ian feigned ignorance. He knew exactly what crime he’d committed from Larry’s point of view and he didn’t care. “I came up with a little change that makes it a better action sequence than what you had before.”
And he’d won over both the actor and the director, which was an amazing feat given the position he’d been put in.
“This is why I never invite writers to the set,” Larry said, the vein in his forehead pulsing. “Your ‘little change’ is going to put us a million dollars over budget and add days of green screen work on the soundstage.”
Margo raised a finger to make a point. “But it will be so much more visceral, Larry.”
If looks could kill, then Larry would have just dismembered Margo, doused her with gasoline, and set her ablaze. He shifted his death gaze onto Ian.
“Your photo shoot is tonight at the Big Wheel. That’s the only reason we brought you to Hong Kong, not to offer script notes. So after tonight, you’re done,” Larry said. “You can stay one more day and then you’re on the first plane back to LA.”
Larry marched off. Ian watched him go and then saw Margo studying him. “What?”
“You were just messing with them, weren’t you? You came up with the most expensive, stupid scene you could think of just to see if you’d get away with it.”
“Yes,” Ian said. “
And I did.”
Margo nodded, impressed. “You really might make movie history.”
“Worst scene ever shot?”
“It’s a strong contender,” she said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Classified Location, Kangbashi District, Ordos, Inner Mongolia, China. July 3. 4:15 p.m. China Standard Time.
Yat Fu sat in his office looking out at the dozens of identical, hollow, twenty-story apartment towers, some still topped with rusting construction cranes, in the desolate residential neighborhood below. Wind-blown sand spread over the unused streets and parks and piled up high against the bases of the buildings. He wondered how long it would take before the buildings were buried.
“What did the lab get from Ludlow’s bag?” Yat turned away from the beautifully postapocalyptic view to look across his desk at Pang Bao, who sat in the chair facing him.
“Nothing. The bird and the feeder have been examined under a microscope and x-rayed as well and they have found no objects or messages. They’ve even tried to find unconventional methods for conveying information. For example, they examined the feathers to see if the pattern might resemble a bar code. They’ve come up with nothing.”
“Then the message is gone,” Yat said. “What have we learned from Ludlow’s contact at the bird market?”
“The interrogator is waiting on secure channel five to give you his report.”
Yat picked up a remote control on his desk and aimed it at a flat-screen monitor on his wall. The monitor flicked on to reveal the elderly merchant tied to a chair, naked and bloody, his head slumped on his bony chest. It was a startling image, not because of the blood or the broken fingers and toes, but because of the old man’s skin, so weathered and thin and stretched that it was almost translucent. If there were more light in the dank torture chamber, a basement in Hong Kong, Yat was certain they’d be able to see the man’s withered and bruised internal organs.
The interrogator stood off camera, wary of being captured on video with a victim of his vicious ministrations. Yat couldn’t blame him for his camera shyness. One never knew who was watching or when or where an incriminating video might show up.
“What information have you extracted?” Yat asked.
“The man insists that he knows nothing about any message,” the interrogator said. “The American was just another tourist.”
Yat wasn’t satisfied. “You need to use more extreme methods.”
“He’s very old and feeble,” the interrogator said. “Anything more might kill him.”
Was that compassion that Yat heard in the interrogator’s voice? Unlikely. That was an emotion so forbidden in the interrogator’s profession that it was considered profane. Perhaps the interrogator was simply being practical. Very well—Yat could work with that. He’d done his share of interrogations in his youth.
“There’s a simple work-around. Torture someone he loves who is young, strong, and has more stamina. In my experience, women are best. They aren’t shy about expressing their agony,” Yat said. “That should loosen his lips.”
Yat disconnected the call and glanced at Pang, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The color had drained from his face and he appeared ill at ease.
“What is your problem?” Yat asked. “You don’t have the stomach for enhanced interrogation techniques?”
“It only bothers me if it’s unnecessary,” Pang said. “Perhaps the old man is telling the truth.”
Yat’s first thought was that Pang was a coward, but then he realized it took courage to offer an opinion that contradicted his superior’s orders. No, Pang’s problem wasn’t cowardice. It was spinelessness. They were both variations on a theme, but Yat believed that there was a subtle difference. Cowardice was the fear of doing something because of the risk to one’s personal safety—be it physical, emotional, or professional. Spinelessness was the lack of the inner strength to endure the anguish or pain required to overcome a major obstacle or a difficult challenge.
“What are you saying?” Yat demanded. “That Ludlow isn’t a spy?”
Pang shifted in his seat again, as if he had a burr in his ass. Perhaps it was hemorrhoids, the bane of supervisors who spent most of their time in a seat watching instead of doing. Yat’s own butt itched just thinking about it. “We may have misinterpreted the intelligence.”
Yat revised his assessment of Pang. It took backbone to question your superior’s judgment. So he wasn’t spineless after all. He decided that Pang’s affliction, in addition to hemorrhoids, was arrogance. But Yat had to admire Pang’s use of “we” instead of “you” to take the edge off his disrespectful suggestion. It showed a hint of political prowess.
“You started this,” Yat said. “You read what was on Ludlow’s computer and were concerned enough to bring it to me.”
“Maybe the report was actually conjecture,” Pang said. “The elements of a story for another one of his books rather than an intelligence document.”
Yat tried to make sense of Pang’s contradictory behavior. The underling had been bright enough to see the danger in the information they’d found in Ludlow’s computer. But now that agents were making blunders in the field, and blood was being spilled in a torture chamber, Pang was second-guessing his initial instinct that the report was dangerous.
Yat decided the problem was that Pang was an analyst, not a field operative. He was fine with data on a page but was incapable of handling the dirty business of spy craft. It was the action that was distracting him from the facts. All Pang needed was a reality check to focus him again on the data and put him in his comfort zone.
“You found a report that accurately states the objectives of our top-secret operation on the computer of an American. This man came to Hong Kong to work on a movie that’s financed by Wang Kang, a Chinese billionaire we’ve imprisoned to mitigate the danger he poses to our country,” Yat said. “Do you honestly think those connections are just a coincidence? And that it’s a coincidence these events are happening right before the most critical point in our operation?”
“It’s unlikely,” Pang conceded. “But what if we’re seeing things that aren’t there, or are misinterpreting the facts, precisely because we are at such a critical point in our operation and are being overly vigilant?”
“Don’t be a fool. Ignoring what we’re seeing wouldn’t just be an act of sheer stupidity, it would be dereliction of duty worthy of execution by a firing squad. It’s like seeing an army marching toward your border, telling yourself they are just out for a stroll, and then watching in shock as your country is invaded,” Yat said. “There’s no such thing as a coincidence in our business. Your initial instincts about this were correct. I urge you to wise up fast and focus on the potential threat. The future of China and the new world order is at stake.”
The intercom buzzed on Yat’s desk. He hit the speaker button. “Yes?”
One of the command center operatives spoke. “Ludlow is on the move.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Victoria Peak, Hong Kong. July 3. 4:37 p.m. Hong Kong Time.
Before the age of skyscrapers, the obscenely rich British colonials escaped the heat, squalor, and rampant malaria in Hong Kong by building their mansions in the cooler, fog-shrouded mountains overlooking the harbor, the Kowloon Peninsula, and the South China Sea. It was so nice that the British declared Victoria Peak off-limits to the Chinese—except, of course, for their servants and the coolies who carried them up the steep trails to their homes in sedan chairs, a fancy name for a wicker seat tied between two bamboo poles.
A funicular tramway, completed in 1888 and still running today, made it much easier to get to the Peak, so more wealthy British moved up there. By the late 1940s, the restriction against Chinese homeowners was lifted and anybody who could afford it could live in the clouds and pretend to throw lightning bolts down on the sweating populace below.
Today the Peak was one of the priciest, and most exclusive, places to live on earth. The handful of remaining mansions
, many of them overlooking even Hong Kong’s tallest skyscrapers, were selling for $100,000 a square foot. And yet anybody with five dollars for a Peak Tram ticket could join the seven million tourists a year who flocked to the wok-shaped Sky Terrace observation deck and shopping mall to see the spectacular view and enjoy such quintessentially Chinese experiences as the Madame Tussauds wax museum, Kentucky Fried Chicken, and Sunglass Hut.
Ian and Margo were among the mob of tourists that day standing atop the Sky Terrace, marveling at the 360-degree view and trying not to get hit in the face with a selfie stick. Most of the tourists spent their time with their backs to the view, trying to capture it and themselves with their stick-mounted cameras rather than seeing it with their own eyes. But who needs memories, Ian thought, when you can have Instagram likes?
“This may be the best view I’ve ever seen,” Ian said to Margo, who stood at the railing beside him and had just given him the snide history lesson on the Peak. “Even better than the Grand Canyon.”
“I’ve never been there,” Margo said.
“I drove out there one day a few years ago. It was an eight-hour drive from LA. But once I got there, I spent ten minutes looking at it before I got bored and drove back. But I could stand here looking at this all day. What does that say about me?” Ian didn’t have the answer, but he’d explore that question when he put Clint Straker here in the book and use it to flesh out the character a bit.
“I have no idea,” Margo said. “I brought you up here to get you oriented to Hong Kong. No pun intended.”
“Of course it was,” he said. “You’ve been waiting all day to say it.”
She didn’t argue because he was right. Instead, she continued to play tour guide as they walked beside the railing and the row of coin-operated telescopes.
“The apartment towers below us, on the rise to the Peak, are in an area known as the Mid-Levels. It’s a very expensive place to live. The competition is particularly fierce for the apartments that are above the pollution layer.”
“You’re making that up.”
“I wish I was,” Margo said. “The area in the flats below Mid-Level is Central, the main business and financial district of Hong Kong, much of it built on landfill that used to be the waterfront. That’s where most of the skyscrapers are. To make the commute to work and play easy for the Mid-Level residents, there’s a half-mile-long outdoor escalator system that’s raised above the streets and goes nearly all the way down to the center of Central, not far from the waterfront and ferry terminals.”
