Backdrop

by C. G. Cooper

  “Why would he want to poison you?”

  “Like I said, he was going on orders from Al-Salakhi.”

  “Who’s Al-Salakhi?” said Ashburn.

  “I know him,” said Andy. “He’s been on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list for about a year now. He’s a Shia radical intent on restoring the Shia minority to power in Saudi Arabia.”

  “You know your current events,” said the prince.

  “And I’m assuming Al-Salakhi knows you’re not gonna play ball with him.”

  “Play ball?”

  “You guys aren’t on the same side.”

  The prince shook his head. “No, my friend, we are not. For one thing, I am a Sunni.”

  “And something tells me you can’t be bought.”

  “No.”

  “Have they tried?”

  “Yes. And I believe now you know how.”

  “Marno’s little love fest with you the night of the party. You think he was going to make you an offer you couldn’t refuse?”

  “Ah,” said Mansour. “The Godfather. Yes. My sources have it on good authority that a very large sum of money from the sale of arms in Turkey was put into a Swiss account under the name ‘Omar N. Jurj’. The first two names are an anagram of Marno. The surname is the Arabic form of George.”

  “Pretty heavy coincidence,” said Ashburn.

  “So he would have offered you a cash bribe to abdicate, then killed you when you refused?”

  “He would have killed me anyway. Al-Salakhi probably had it in mind to offer further incentives. He’s smart enough to know that money would not sufficient. There would have to be a position of power elsewhere. In Turkey, perhaps. But it would never have gotten that far. It would all be lip service, as you Americans say. I think Al-Salakhi gets his greatest thrill when he’s able to eliminate his enemies along with an insult; such as a bribe to abdicate.”

  “Sounds like you two have a bad case of irreconcilable differences.”

  “Yes, Major Andrews.”

  “Oh,” said Ashburn, her face draining. “I think I understand. It makes perfect sense now. Before, when you dodged a question about our relationship, you wanted to tell me then. Bringing me here was the biggest mistake of all, wasn’t it?”

  The prince looked at her sorrowfully. “You are a symbol of everything they hate about me.”

  Ashburn stiffened. She looked ready to throw a punch.

  “I am not,” continued the prince, “as you might say, ‘hardcore.’ My Sunni beliefs are even looser than my father’s. Those who are very close to my father, and surely Al-Salakhi, know that he is near death.”

  “I had a feeling he was,” said Andy. “Why else would you bring us back here? You needed to be close to him should he go at any minute. I have a feeling you would have disappeared pretty quickly after we arrived. Only a fortune of circumstance landed us trapped here in the castle. But you needed another reason to come home, didn’t you?”

  The prince’s face took on a look of a man pinned against the wall.

  “Out with it,” said Andy.

  “I have the keen ability of being able to—what’s the phrase you use? —think on my feet? News of my uncle’s death, as Miss Ashburn can attest, sent much worry throughout the production. I am in league with local filmmakers who would be on hand to document the making of the film in our country. It was my way of giving back to my homeland. It was a political move. Before we departed, I received word that some of the documentary crew were moles, spies for Al-Salakhi, I couldn’t afford to jeopardize any of my plans, so I did the best thing I could do. I changed pilots at the last minute. I tried to ensure that all angles were covered. But I was too short-sighted. This is where I should have consulted you, Major Andrews.”

  “How so?”

  “Do you remember the incident that landed Al-Salakhi on the Ten Most Wanted list?”

  Andy took a deep breath as all points of the mystery began to converge. “Yes.”

  “What happened?” said Ashburn. “Because I’m not following.”

  Andy massaged his shoulder. “A private jet went down just outside Al-Ula about a year ago. If I’m not mistaken, the occupant was a Sunni mullah and his family, correct?”

  “Correct,” said Mansour.

  “There were no survivors. The plane had not been shot at. It was an accident.”

  “It was reported that way in the media,” said Mansour. “Our own private investigation into the matter, however, revealed a very different situation. The onboard systems had been jammed remotely. Someone hacked the plane from a very close distance as it flew over a specific area. I believe Al-Salakhi’s men jammed the onboard computers of our helicopter.”

  “Computer hacking,” said Andy. “Welcome to the new terrorism.”

  “The strength in these men, Major Andrews, is that they combine numerous methods to accomplish their goals. Hacking, poisoning, military tactics. They are a small group, but they are resourceful.”

  “And you’re their target.”

  “I am a unifier, Major Andrews. The religious disputes between Sunnis and Shias are almost as old as the prophet himself, peace be upon him. It all has to do with who we believe to be his rightful successor in leading the Muslim people.”

  “Where do you fit into all this?” said Andy.

  The prince gave a macabre smile. “I believe the heart of the Quran is in its words. All that has transpired between men is just that, between men. We have no need for these differences. As I said, these people are a minority, but I may be the smallest minority of all. I may be the only one who thinks I am right.”

  “And now,” said Andy, “here you are, close to the throne.”

  “With a target on my back,” the prince said, his smile now long gone.

  Andy ran a hand through his hair. “Alright. We need to regroup. Prince, get some rest. You’ll need it. We have supplies out there on the path. We’re gonna have to retrieve them in the morning, if there’s any food left.”

  “We’re all starving,” said Ashburn. “Thirsty too.”

  “I know.” He looked at the prince. “You okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Inside, I mean.”

  The prince shook his head.

  “I didn’t think so,” Andy said softly. “But you do have a chance to make it right. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, and I shall.”

  “Good man.”

  The prince walked away slowly to the far wall, where he sat down and closed his eyes.

  “I could kill him,” said Ashburn.

  “That makes two of us.”

  “For different reasons though. I mean, I’m just taking a wild guess there.”

  “We can’t get lost in that now. Our only goal is survival and escape. Maybe not necessarily in that order.”

  As if in answer to that, the sound of footsteps on stone, faint at first, then louder.

  “Okay,” said Andy. “Definitely not in that order.”

  Deafening shots rang out, echoing throughout the ruined artifice. Someone cried out in pain. Another cursed. Andy caught sight of O’Brien running into the shadows.

  All lanterns were extinguished. Andy fell flat against the wall by the entrance.

  Four armed men in shemaghs entered into their domain.

  Andy was ready for them.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  His first shot lit the room for a split second.

  Freeze-frame of four men with rifles, all in shemaghs. One in the midst of falling.

  Immediately after firing, Andy hit the floor and rolled. A barrage of fire hit the stones just where he’d been standing.

  Screams.

  Heavy footfalls finding a position in the dark.

  A strobe light flickered. Ashburn running in jagged animation across the floor. A gunshot. More strobe lights. The enemy had come prepared.

  God, I hope they can’t understand English, Andy thought to himself. “Run toward the door, then run backwards. You can
fake out the strobes!”

  He watched as Ashburn, Mansour, and Caine made their way toward him, then magically reversing course in the next flash.

  Gunfire.

  As the twisted little animation played out before him, he made his way to the source of one of the strobes. In its momentary glow, he caught the figure of its source. He aimed and fired into the darkness.

  “Two down!” he yelled. “Make your way toward the exit if you can.”

  Footfalls coming from above and to the right.

  Shit. Reinforcements from behind.

  “Caine!” he yelled. “Where the hell are you?”

  “Crawling.”

  The next strobes caught him belly crawling on the floor, darkness, then reversing course, darkness, then heading to the right.

  Gunfire.

  Caine cried out in abject pain.

  “Dammit!” Andy fired toward the source of the last strobe. It was a Hail Mary shot. He heard the cry of his target. Where are you, you bastard? he thought to himself. The strobes had ceased. I know there’s one more of you.

  He aimed his rifle toward the ceiling and fired once. In the momentary glow, he saw no sign of the fourth man. He made his way to the far side of the room that emptied out into a hallway. He picked a rock up off the floor and chucked it into the first room on the left. It bounced heavily.

  Several bodies moved at once.

  As Ashburn and Mansour used the distraction to slip out of the castle, Andy stepped into the doorway and out again on the other side, protected by the dark.

  Caine lay not more than ten feet away, his breathing labored.

  Andy listened for more sounds. Something at the far side of the room. Harsh, panicked-voices.

  Caine groaned. “Holy shit,” he whispered loudly. “That hurts. That fucking hurts...”

  Andy pictured the rooms in his head. Two half-walls inside the room on the left, nothing between them but a few boulders. A door on the far side of the chamber. The next room held the tarp with the ammo. Where were the others?

  A strap jingled. A voice came from the left side of the room, behind one of the walls.

  Andy held in place. All he needed now was time, time that he didn’t have. Caine might be bleeding out, and the others might already be dead.

  A soft curse came from behind one of the walls.

  Reflected in the room was the slightest trace of light. Red light. It shone softly, then disappeared. A moment later, three soft red flashes burned the blackness.

  The group had split up, then, and were signaling each other. A flashlight illuminated the wall where he had been a moment ago, then turned toward the room.

  It was O’Brien. And an attacker was creeping up behind him. Andy stepped out and shot the man twice. Then Andy took a step forward and crouched behind the half-wall.

  An authoritative voice yelled out what sounded like a question. Someone directly behind the half-wall began to scuttle out of the way. Andy aimed, fired, ducked.

  Feet dashing across the floor, the same voice shouting orders. They were close.

  The sound of stone dragging. And a click.

  He went into the room and saw the boulder by the wall, impossibly large. It shifted slightly. He heard the sound of metal, muffled by rock. He put a hand on the boulder. It shuddered beneath his touch. He gave it a shove. It wasn’t going anywhere.

  He walked back into the other room. Cooper had been gagged, his hands zip-tied behind him.

  Andy pulled a dead attacker’s body off Cooper, then clipped the old actor’s zip-tied wrists free with the multitool.

  He went back to Caine and gave him a once over. A shot in the chest, left side.

  The wound was sucking. The lung was punctured and filling up with blood.

  The kid’s voice, raspy and cursing. He looked up into Andy’s eyes and said, “Those bastards shot me in the chest. It hurts like a... sledgehammer. Like a... fucking... sledgehammer.”

  “Easy does it,” he said. “You’re gonna be okay. You have to pull through, Chris. Frankie needs you.”

  The faint glow of dawn was illuminating the room now. The actor’s tear-stained face was the color of death.

  Cooper limped over. “How is he?”

  Andy checked to see if the boy’s eyes were shut, then shook his head hopelessly at Cooper.

  Cooper knelt down on one knee with a grunt and a curse. “Jeez...”

  “How are you?”

  “I’m not gonna lie. I’ve seen better days,” said Cooper. “Although, believe it or not, I think I’ve had worse experiences on set. Remind me some day to tell you about the time I almost punched Otto Preminger.” Cooper put a hand on the wounded boy’s shoulder. “Hey kid, you’re one tough cookie, you know that? Hang in there.”

  Andy stood and helped Cooper to his feet. “How is everyone else?”

  “I don’t know about anyone else, except for Thompson.”

  “What about Thompson?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Wait, what? What do you mean he’s gone?”

  “I mean he’s gone.”

  “I saw them go through there,” said Cooper, pointing to a stone boulder that lay against the wall. “That stone rolls away. There were three of them. One had Thompson at gunpoint.”

  “Damn it.”

  “Now what?” asked Cooper.

  “Now we plan our next move. I’ll let you know what that is when I think of it.”

  O’Brien walked over slowly. “Major Andrews, I wanted to... to thank you for...”

  “Kid,” said Andy, holding up a hand, “now’s not the time. You’re welcome, alright? We’re all in this together.”

  “Major Andrews!”

  It was the voice of Mansour, strained as if in agony.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “You don’t have to do this, you know,” said Thompson. “I’m perfectly willing to go freely.”

  The director’s rotund figure sat in the back of the SUV, hands zip-tied behind him, the muzzle of a revolver pressed against at his temple.

  “Really, dear boy, do you need that thing? Besides the roads here are pretty, well, torn up, you see. I’m afraid—”

  The car jolted upwards, shaking all four passengers like dice.

  “You see?” said Thompson, his voice growing louder in panic. “That’s just what I’m talking about. Suppose that gun went off, you startling buffoon!”

  “Shut your filthy mouth,” muttered the driver, as calmly as if he were speaking to himself.

  In the rearview mirror, eyes met his.

  The A/C was blasting, and yet the director was sweating profusely.

  He watched the rocky scenery zip by. Then the SUV made a series of zig-zagging turns that made Thompson’s stomach lurch. God, he didn’t want to vomit right now. He imagined that would be certain death.

  Or would it?

  He had information, after all. They needed him alive and talking. They wouldn’t kill him. The worst they could do was—

  The thought brought the acid up into his mouth.

  They stopped at the foot of a small mountain. The middle of nowhere.

  “Get out, pig,” said the man with the revolver.

  Thompson’s feet turned to mush. “Really, can’t we talk this over?” He heard the panic in his own voice. He felt his bladder let go; a mere trickle, but enough to humiliate him.

  The man with the revolver ordered him out.

  Tears began to flow. “Please, I have children.”

  He’d never in his life put so much earnestness into a lie.

  The man with the revolver gave him a shove.

  It was going to be here. Shot twice in the head. Left for vultures, or whatever desert abominations skulked the area. They would dine well, he thought morbidly.

  “Go,” said the man with the revolver. The driver and the man in the passenger’s seat were now well ahead of them, walking toward the foot of the mountain.

  “Go? Go where?”

  “We climb.�
�

  He looked up at the mountain. “Climb that?”

  The man nodded. Gave him a shove.

  “Alright, you moronic bag of bull’s pizzles. You don’t have to do that.” He began to walk steadily. “I can see we’re in the proverbial arsehole of the world, but just where exactly are we?”

  “We’re going to see Al-Salakhi.”

  The name made whatever sprinklings he had left come trickling out. He looked back at the man. The shemagh hid everything below the eyes, and the eyes were dead.

  Christ, thought Thompson, I’m being led to my death by a zombie.

  Chapter Thirty

  Having left O’Brien to watch over Caine, Andy and Cooper followed the sound of Mansour’s voice. In one of the rooms of the castle, he found the prince, his body wedged between two huge stones. The body of Serena Ashburn lay three feet away.

  Andy took the prince’s outstretched hands and pulled him to his feet while Cooper checked on Ashburn.

  “She alive?”

  “She’s breathing,” said Cooper. “Looks like a bump on the noggin.”

  “I was hit in the foot,” said Mansour. “A graze. I came in here to hide. She came in after me and was struck by a fleeing attacker.”

  Ashburn stirred. A soft coo came from her throat. Cooper held her hand and tapped it softly. Andy had seen him do it in the movies countless times. It was merely one more surreal thing to pile onto the past twenty-four hours.