Backdrop

by C. G. Cooper

  She turned from him. Her dark brown hair fell in delicate waves around her shoulders. “Thompson and Prince Mansour are on their way to break the news officially.”

  “How is he?”

  “Thompson?”

  “Your boyfriend.”

  “He’s fine,” she said. “He thinks you’re a bit of a jerk, by the way. He doesn’t like false bravado.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “All that Marine macho stuff.”

  “Look, madame, I really don’t care what what’s-his-name thinks of me. I’m here to do a job, and I’m going to do it.”

  “Well, he doesn’t like you.”

  “Tell him the feeling’s mutual. But that’s not going to stop me from protecting you and everyone else around here.”

  She snapped her head toward him, looking like she was about to let him have it. She knew Andy suspected the prince. She knew he knew she knew it.

  “Well then,” she said smarmily, “I guess you two will have a chance to duke it out on the way to the shooting location.”

  “He’s coming with us to the location?”

  “Um, he lives there? So, yeah. And he’s calling the shots as far as this end of the production is concerned. It kinda helps, really. He’ll be able to negotiate filming, to keep the area clean and unobstructed. You don’t know what kinds of red tape a project has to saw through just to get through a rough cut. We’ll travel to Medina, then take helicopters and SUVs to Al-Ula.”

  “Great.”

  “Sorry, chum,” she said, and walked away with a self-satisfied grin.

  If she had a cigarette butt in her hand, she would’ve flicked it at him

  Chapter Twelve

  “And so we go to Saudi Arabia,” said Coles.

  “Can’t wait.” No scotch, no magazine. Just hotel cable on mute, with a bunch of nothing on every channel.

  “Cowboy up, Andrews, this is where the game begins.”

  “The game?”

  Coles laughed on the other end. “Of course! Now things get interesting. I had a feeling this would happen.”

  “Nice of you to clue me in.”

  “Oh, don’t be so wishy-washy about it, Andrews.”

  “Any idea what it means?”

  “Mmm, not necessarily. Oh, only that it’s awfully convenient. The prince signs on as an investor and suddenly the whole production finds itself in his home town.”

  “His uncle died.”

  “All part of the plan.”

  “You’re crazy, you know that?”

  Coles ignored the comment. “Do you have a game plan?”

  “Game plan? For a sudden trip to Saudi Arabia? No, not exactly. How about you? Do you have a game plan?”

  “Of course.” There was no further explanation, as usual. “Think it might be wise to formulate a plan before you leave?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ll be in the thick of it. All of you. Now’s when we really see what you’re made of.”

  He wanted to reach through the phone line and strangle the man.

  “Eyes and ears open, Andrews.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And see if you can get me Jack Cooper’s autograph. For my wife. She’s a big fan.”

  “Oh, that’s my top priority, sir.”

  “Are you being flip with me, Andrews?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s what I thought. Get a good night’s rest, Major. It’s D-Day tomorrow.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  As they were boarding the helicopter that would take them over the location, Andy’s skin prickled, and he hesitated outside the craft.

  Something about the pilot.

  When they’d landed in Medina a full day behind the prince’s private jet, he’d taken notice of a pilot sitting by himself in the tiny airport lounge, reading a copy of People magazine. It was hard not to register this strange encroachment of the West in this place. Andy sat close to the man, sipping a cup of very dark coffee, and listened in on his conversation with a pilot who joined him shortly after. The two spoke casually about the job. They conversed in English, with very light Arabic accents. The man with the magazine said something about hauling the prince over Al-Ula. Andy studied the man’s face. Square, mustachioed, slightly pockmarked about the cheeks and forehead.

  Now Andy stood outside the helicopter watching its pilot approach: Slim, round-faced, clean-shaven.

  He nodded at the man. “How are ya?”

  The pilot gave a warm smile, holding up a pair of Foster Grants. “Forgot my shades.” Arabic accent, slightly heavier than the guy with the magazine. The pilot brushed past him and hopped on board, exchanging pleasantries in Arabic with the co-pilot. Andy boarded the craft, taking a seat as close to the cockpit as possible.

  The helicopter swept over the countryside. Enormous red plateaus rose over desert valleys that looked as if they could have been found in Nevada, minus the telltale saguaro cactuses of the American Southwest. They passed over gray-green brush, tire tracks, a few oases with palm trees, a small field of wildflowers, a highway dotted with cars. A town bisected by the highway appeared before them. To the left: dry, dead ruins. To the right: palm trees and modern buildings. Near the road was a rocky outcropping topped with a castle—their shooting location.

  “There it is,” exclaimed Thompson. “Castle Musa bin Nasir. Gorgeous, isn’t it?”

  Gorgeous was one word for it. It was hard to tell where the castle ended and where the rocks on which it stood began. The structure was a huge, partially demolished mass of sharp, weather-worn sandstone stuck atop a jagged hill, like it’d been accidentally dropped there from the sky.

  “Circa six hundred, before the common era,” Thompson said, bouncing with childlike enthusiasm in his seat.

  “Stay seated, please,” came the voice of the pilot. His nasally tones were shrill in Andy’s headphones compared to the low baritone of Thompson’s voice. “We’ll be landing shortly.”

  Andy looked below at the roped-off lot at the bottom of the outcropping. “Some landing pad.”

  “Think he can do it?” asked a nervous Ashburn.

  “If he’s military, he can. I’ve seen guys dip down into abandoned residential streets to pick up kids’ bicycles by hooking the landing skids underneath the handlebars.”

  “What’s the point of that?”

  “To prove they can.”

  The helicopter jerked to the side, tossing them against the restraint of their seatbelts, causing necks to lurch sideways. Andy gripped the arms of his seat.

  Prince Mansour leaned over to the window, looking down. He muttered something to himself in Arabic. Translation: Not good.

  Andy managed to crane his neck and saw what the prince was referring to: On the top of the castle were two figures dressed in black, one of them pointing at them.

  The helicopter jerked again. The other direction.

  Ashburn was gripping Mansour’s arm. The prince’s eyes were narrowed. They locked onto Andy’s.

  Suspicion. Anger. Doubt.

  Then his eyes widened as he looked over Andy’s shoulder.

  Andy turned to face the front of the helicopter as it went into an awkward and sudden spin toward the ground. The castle flashed by at eye level. One of the actors was screaming. Then the castle was overhead, the rocky outcropping filling the view. Any second the tail was going to hit...

  Chapter Fourteen

  Smell: burnt wiring, Jet-A fuel, sharp as kerosene. Nothing on fire... yet. His seat belt had held, and his spine felt like one long bad case of whiplash. His head was spinning and throbbing with pain, but he was conscious. Nothing broken.

  He released his seatbelt. The helicopter had landed bottom-down on the undercarriage; he had to brace his feet against his seat to keep from sliding, but he didn’t fall.

  Outside, only rock and sky. Inside: sounds of fear and pain.

  Andy shifted his weight and started making his way toward the co
ckpit. It was crushed nearly flat. The hope that the pilot or copilot would have a pistol on him—even just a safety flare—was instantly dashed. The idea of trying to reach the radio was a joke.

  “Who’s hurt?” he said.

  No one answered. Not necessarily a good thing.

  Moans. Some whimpering. Choking through dust and residual smoke.

  “Everyone loosen your seat belts. Stay put for a moment. Try to stay calm.”

  He began working his way toward the doors. The ones nearest him—upslope—were jammed. The undercarriage had been partially crushed by the crash, and the doors had buckled. The other set of doors opened easily, flopping open as he released the catch.

  “Where are you going?” said a dazed Ashburn.

  “To find out what we’re up against.”

  He crouched under the shadow of the helicopter. The tail and nose were complete losses; as were the rotor blades. The smell of leaking fuel was enough to make him gag. He’d better make this quick. If nothing else, the fumes alone were enough to smother the survivors.

  Underneath him was a path cut into the rock, with a stone wall running alongside it. The path looked worn in the center, as if a thousand pairs of feet had come this way. This was no surprise; Castle Musa bin Nasir was a tourist destination.

  A sound made him look up: feet jogging across rock. He shifted around behind a boulder until he was out of view from the path below. Any second, someone was going to come around the path, look up into the open doors of the helicopter, and think to himself, “Who do I want to shoot first?”

  Two men spoke to each other in Arabic. He managed to catch a glimpse of them. They held AK-47s aimed toward the helicopter, their mouths covered with the scarf-like garments known as shemaghs, dyed jet black.

  Now or never.

  He jumped from behind the boulder onto the path and landed behind the two men. He grabbed the weapon straps and gave a swift yank upward. The guns spun down, aiming toward the rock. One of them went off, spraying ricochets every which way. One of them hit the guy on the left. He cried out. The one on the right tried to turn around to face Andy, who stopped the motion with an elbow to the bridge of the guy’s nose, then shoved him into the man who’d been shot.

  The two men tumbled. The injured one raised his rifle toward Andy. Andy kicked the barrel of the gun out of the way and stomped on his bloody thigh. The guy cried out again, a sickening yowl. Before the uninjured one could get his bearings, Andy grabbed the rifle barrel and drove the butt into the man’s face—once, twice—then shook it loose from his shoulder.

  “What the hell is going on here?” He repeated the phrase in Arabic.

  The man answered in his native tongue, too fast for Andy to even pretend to follow. He did know one thing: Where there were two, there were bound to be more. And they couldn’t be far.

  He gave the chatty one a face full of AK-47 butt stock, grabbed the other’s weapon, looped it over his shoulder, and scrambled back upslope, hoping he didn’t have a rifle trained at his back.

  He didn’t. He had two.

  Chapter Fifteen

  They stood at the upper end of the path. Noticing the two wounded men on the ground, they began to curse miserably. When Andy turned toward them, one of the men started forward. Andy brought up his weapon. The second of the men put his arm across his partner’s chest, pushing him backward. Together, they backed up out of Andy’s line of vision. Not complete idiots, he thought. One pair of footsteps ran back up the path. The other waited just out of sight.

  Andy crawled back up toward the helicopter doors, keeping an eye on the path. The two injured men were unconscious or dead. The one with the broken thigh was going to die of blood loss if someone didn’t do something soon. Either his compatriots would try and save him, or leave him for dead. Whichever option they chose would give Andy an idea of who he was dealing with.

  Looking up into the helicopter, he saw that Ashburn, Prince Mansour, Caine, O’Brien, and Thompson were all mobile. Gibson and Ben King were both down: Gibson draped over Ashburn’s seat, and Ben King dangling limply over the side of his. His neck was twisted at an abnormal angle, and his skin had gone gray along the sides—and blood red along the bottom. An ugly grimace stained his face.

  “We have two down and at least two more up and running,” Andy said. “And, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, a big problem with jet fuel fumes building up around the helicopter. I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to get out—and we might have to do it under fire.”

  “Are they...?” asked Ashburn, indicating the dead bodies.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “God...”

  “I want a gun,” Caine said.

  “No.”

  “Just a little one.”

  “He said ‘no’!” snapped Ashburn.

  “All due respect, dear boy,” said Thompson, “giving you a gun would be like giving a chimpanzee a hand grenade.” He turned to Andy. “What do we do?”

  “Well, I can’t get to the radio controls because of the crushed cockpit. I have no idea who these people are or what they want, but the ones lying on the path were trying to shoot us, so I think it’s pretty safe to assume they want us dead. Your royal highness, do you know this area?”

  “Somewhat,” Mansour said airily. “I can’t say I know it intimately.”

  “Do you know who these people are? Did you get a look at them?”

  “I didn’t see them.”

  “Do you think that someone’s out to kill you?”

  “Me?”

  “Is there some kind of political situation going on?”

  The prince shook his head. “Small conflicts here and there. But nothing that would suggest something like this... treason.”

  Andy scrutinized the man’s face. Overall, he looked smaller now, milling about the debris of a demolished helicopter. But whether Prince Mansour was telling the truth or not was an issue that Andy couldn’t afford to explore at the moment. He handed him the rifle. Logically, if someone was going to betray them right now—it wasn’t Mansour. Either the attackers didn’t know that a prince had been on the helicopter, or they did know he was on the helicopter and had ambushed them anyway. And, truth be told, between an eighty-five-year-old actor, Thompson, two cocksure kids, and Mansour—he had the most faith in the guy who was most likely to be the attackers’ target.

  “Okay,” he said, “we’re going to get off this hill and onto the path. From there we’re going to take the path downhill to that parking lot below the rocks. Unless there’s an ambulance in the parking lot waiting to help, we’re going to cross the highway into the new part of town and hope for the best. We should be able to find a telephone there and get help. If we can get to a radio, I have a couple of frequencies I can try. Keep your heads down, listen to me, and I’ll get us out of this.”

  Caine had his arm in the air and a pleading look on his face.

  “You’re raising your hand?”

  “I want a gun,” Caine said.

  “You’ll get one in the face if you don’t stop asking. Now, let me go down there and clear the area.”

  “Nope,” said the voice of Jack Cooper.

  Andy looked over. The old movie star was rising from his seated position on the floor of the ruined aircraft.

  “Let me go.”

  “With all due respect, Jack, are you insane?”

  Cooper rolled his eyes. “Suppose you go down there and get killed. Then where are we? A general doesn’t clear an area, he sends his soldiers to do it. I’m eighty-damn-five years old. I’ve lived a good enough life.”

  Andy almost chuckled as he put a hand on Cooper’s shoulder. “You, sir, are an outstanding individual. But I can’t let you go down there. This calls for a tactician, not a man with a death wish.”

  “Now listen,” Cooper said indignantly.

  “No offense, Jack. Really. But we can debate the ethics of the situation some other time. It’s my job to ensure that we live to do so.”

 
; With that, Andy let himself out of the helicopter and onto the rocks, then slipped behind the boulder again. It was a blind standoff. Andy couldn’t see the man on the path; the man on the path couldn’t see him. Each had a clear shot of anyone who would come between them.

  The man with the thigh wound was probably dead, although it was hard to be sure with his body lying in the shadows the way it did. The other one was still breathing, wheezing shallowly.

  It was late afternoon, and the rocks radiated heat, but were out of the direct sunlight. The sun wouldn’t set for a few hours; they had better be away from the castle by then.

  Cooper wasn’t going to be able to move very quickly, and Thompson had a severe limp. They might be able to carry Cooper down the hill, but nobody was going to be able to lower the enormous Thompson down. Not this group, anyway.

  What they needed was a distraction. Andy waved toward Caine and O’Brien. It was a hard truth, but he needed their help. They were the only ones fit enough to help. Caine immediately started working his way down the inside of the helicopter, holding onto the seats and jumping onto the nearest rock.

  “Quiet,” Andy whispered.

  O’Brien followed Caine down onto the rocks.

  It was clear that Thompson was having trouble—he was leaning heavily to one side and favoring the other leg. Ashburn had glued herself to Cooper’s side, letting him lean on her. The prince was silent and unmoving. His eyes were taking in the new town across the highway.

  Andy turned back toward the path. No movement from above or below.

  He crept around the other side of the boulder and caught sight of the enemy. The man’s rifle was aimed at the helicopter. He had the stock to his shoulder and was positioned to fire.

  Andy lifted his rifle and aimed. The man came into focus over Andy’s front sights, finger applying pressure to the trigger…