Backdrop

by C. G. Cooper

  “What happened?” She locked eyes with Mansour and breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”

  “You alright?” said Andy.

  “A little woozy, but I’ll be alright.”

  “Thompson’s gone.”

  “What?”

  “He was taken. As a hostage, I can only presume.”

  “How can you be sure that’s all they want of him? How do you know they’re not going to kill him?”

  “Because they don’t want him,” said Mansour. “They want me. And they couldn’t find me, apparently.” He put his head in his hands. “God forgive me. This is my fault. I am going to turn myself in.”

  “No,” said Ashburn.

  “I’d hate to agree with your girlfriend here, Prince, but she’s got a point. They don’t seem too interested in keeping you alive. Besides, when you go, we all go. Something tells me they aren’t going to let the rest of us get out of here without a scratch. Only thing is, why don’t they just kill us all and get it over with?”

  “Are you asking us that question?” said Cooper.

  “I’m asking it in general. They could have killed us, bombed the entire place. Why didn’t they?”

  The three of them fell silent.

  “I have a theory,” said Andy, “only it’s not a nice one.”

  “Out with it, man,” said Cooper.

  “Well, let’s just say, for argument’s sake, that the only reason for keeping us alive left with our attackers.”

  Ashburn’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “That sonofabitch,” growled Cooper.

  “Let’s not jump the gun,” said Andy. “We have no proof.”

  “No,” said Cooper, “but it makes damn sense. Never liked that guy.”

  “Me neither, but still, we can’t rush to judgment. Right now, Thompson’s with the bad guys. We can either wait, or we can act. I say we act.”

  “Act, how?” said Ashburn. “You’re the ideas man. Tell us.”

  “Just that. Act. There were five men left, last I counted. Three escaped with Thompson. That leaves two more. I have a feeling they’re outside waiting for reinforcements themselves. Or they’ve been told to retreat so they can bomb the castle. Either way, we’re at best trapped. At worse, sitting ducks. So we need to act.”

  “Ok, fine, you keep saying that, but you don’t tell us how.”

  Andy smiled. “We have actors here, sweetie pie. Like I said, we’re going to act.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Thompson hefted his large figure up the side of the hill. It was a thirty-degree incline, he surmised. What he wouldn’t give for a motor scooter. Or an airlift. Or to be sitting poolside with a Mai Tai and any one of the dozens of young interns who’d claw each other’s eyes out just to have the opportunity to serve the master a drink. They’d discuss how to get ahead in Hollywood. Her creamy thighs would spill out of tiny shorts—

  “Turn here, pig.”

  “A most unwelcome intrusion into my reverie. Would you like to know what I was daydreaming about?”

  “Shut up. Through there.”

  Through a dark cave, lit by sconces, into a large outcropping, like it had been carved out for the purpose. Well-lit by natural light, the area, partially exposed to the elements, was dotted with several tents, one the size of a small catering tent. The man shoved Thompson in the direction of the one farthest to the left.

  “Oh dear,” he muttered under his breath.

  They entered the tent. Al-Salakhi was sitting on his small couch, watching a blank TV screen. His back was to them.

  “They say,” said Al-Salakhi, not looking up, “that a man who enters the desert with a pure heart leaves with a soiled one. For it is the temptation that he feels, the temptation that forces him to abandon his principles and become host to a plague of thoughts, that begins to corrupt him at his core.”

  He held up his left hand and beckoned them forward.

  They led Thompson around to the side of the couch. Al-Salakhi looked at him and smirked. “Our man in Hollywood. The fat American.”

  “I’m not fully naturalized.”

  Al-Salakhi smirked, chuckled through his nose. He folded his hands in his lap. “I’m told the prince is nowhere to be found in the castle.”

  “Not true,” said Thompson. “He’s there.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Ask these idiots! They’re the ones who bungled the bloody mission!”

  “Hush, fat man. No need to shout. At this moment, some lead is being melted in a small vat. Do you know what we’re going to do with it? We are going to take a funnel—”

  “Dear God!” cried Thompson, falling to his knees. “I’m telling you the truth! The prince is in the castle! He’s there. He’s hiding. Flush him out. That ought not to be too hard. He’s got a girlfriend, you know, bossy little thing, oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, don’t hurt me, I did my part!”

  Al-Salakhi rose. The henchmen backed off. “Stand up. And stop invoking those names. They are idolatrous and insulting to me in my...” he smiled. “Well, this is not exactly a home. But it is my living space, and you will respect that. Do you understand, fat man?”

  Thompson nodded quickly, sweat, snot, and tears falling in a filthy drizzle at Al-Salakhi’s feet. “I understand. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

  “Stand up, fat man.”

  “Please don’t hurt me or kill me.”

  “I shall do neither. Stand up.”

  Thompson struggled to his feet.

  “May I offer you anything? Water? Coca-Cola, perhaps?”

  Thompson stared in confusion. The young radical let out a chuckle that grew into a hearty laugh. Then his face changed. With a wide, sweeping arc, he swung his arm around, smacking the director so hard, he nearly lost his balance. Tears flowed once more.

  “Filthy. American. Swine.”

  “I don’t know what you want from me,” Thompson cried.

  “You did know. You failed me.”

  “I sent you the coordinates of our shooting location. I didn’t know you were going to down the bloody helicopter. I thought—“

  “What did you think?”

  “I thought... maybe you would send someone... find a way for the prince to leave... I...”

  The flawed reality of the plan struck him. They cared not one whit for Dale Thompson. His heart began to race, thump wildly in his chest.

  “I would like for you to think about a few things in the coming hours,” Al-Salakhi said, taking a seat on the couch, staring at the blank screen. “I would like for you to think about the country you live in now. Think about what you see when you drive down the street in your expensive automobile. Think about the churches you see, Think about the synagogue down the road from that. Think about the mosque, which your people dread, down the street from that. Think about your opulence, and about God’s plan for you, and for us. Think about how it would be illogical for God to abandon us, we who are pious, for a people such as yourselves who lack faith. I want for you to think about every ounce of destruction America has wrought upon the earth. How its imperialism spreads itself like a pestilence. I want for you to have those thoughts in your head in your final hour.”

  Again, Thompson fell to his knees. “Your... excellency...”

  Al-Salakhi looked at him.

  “Your... highness? Your... my master... what do you need from me? How can I make this right?”

  “My men,” said the young radical, “have proven themselves ill-fated for the cause of relieving the prince of your company. I thought that perhaps you could persuade them to deliver him to us. You are, of course, one of them, are you not?”

  A wave of relief spilled over him. Time had been purchased for him. He nearly thanked the saints aloud.

  “But,” said Al-Salakhi, “I want you to do for me one thing, here, right this instant.”

  “Anything, excellency.”

  Al-Salakhi’s cold eyes met his. “Tell me about the Marine.”

  C
hapter Thirty-Two

  He’d been pushing the boulder covering the escape route from every angle he could think of. At one point everyone who was physically able had pitched in to help, but it was no good. No amount of force could move the boulder. There was a mechanism securing it from underneath.

  Andy shook his head. They were trapped in place, at least two attackers waiting for them out front.

  He swung around. Ashburn was standing there.

  “Don’t sneak up on me like that. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a little hyper tense at the moment.”

  “Okay,” she said, “relax. I come bearing gifts.” She held out her hand. “In my scuffle with the thug back there, I thought I’d grabbed a gun. I jammed it in my pocket before he knocked me out. He must not have noticed. It was dark.”

  He held out his hand and she put what she had into it: A cell phone.

  “Is it...?”

  “The battery’s dead.”

  “Of course. Why would we be granted a tiny bit of luck? Nice job, but it doesn’t help.”

  “I thought maybe you could do something.”

  Andy stared at the phone for a moment. “Maybe I can.”

  Cooper came up behind Ashburn. “We’re ready here.”

  “Who’s up for a mission?” he said to Cooper.

  “I guess that’s me.”

  “Feel like you still got a little of the old tiger in you?”

  Cooper smiled. “For you, my good man, I’ll summon the whole jungle.”

  “Good to know. We may need it. First order on the agenda is we rescue our supplies.”

  “Mind telling us what you have up your sleeve?”

  “Remember what I said before about acting? It’s time to act.”

  Cooper stepped forth into the opening of the castle. He bore a white flag in his hand, really just his own undershirt, which he waved frantically in the doorway of the castle before taking a cautious step into the open.

  “I have the prince!” he shouted. “Don’t shoot! I shot him! I’m going to hand him over to you.”

  There was nothing but silence.

  “I have the prince!” cried Cooper. “He is incapacit—he is wounded! I will hand him over to you!”

  He waited for a response, both hands—one holding the flag—high in the air.

  From their hidden nest, a voice came, amplified through a bullhorn. “Let us see him!”

  “One moment please!” cried Cooper. He turned toward the doorway and made an ostentatious show of motioning for someone.

  It must have looked dramatic indeed, from their point of view: the sight of O’Brien swooping in from the left, a weapon in his hand grabbing Cooper in a headlock, pointing the rifle at his chin at an angle, and screaming at him. And Cooper’s flag waving haphazardly in the air.

  “You sonofabitch,” cried O’Brien. “You right wing scum!”

  He was following the prompts Andy had given him. Moments before, Cooper had reassured the young actor, “Let me have it. Give me everything you’ve got. I can take it, son, don’t you worry.”

  Now he was yelling, “You would sell out a human being for a phony imperialist principle.”

  Not awful, thought Cooper.

  “You’re nothing but a left wing radical piece of shit,” growled Cooper.

  Andy came out then and made a grab for O’Brien’s arm. In a move hastily rehearsed, O’Brien let go of Cooper, then socked Andy in the jaw.

  Cooper heard the crack of knuckle against flesh and chalked it up to method acting. Andy was a Marine. He could handle it. No doubt.

  Andy rolled off behind a pillar of stones. From there, he belly crawled.

  “Keep it up,” he muttered in a stage whisper.

  “You’re a disgrace,” Cooper snarled at O’Brien.

  “And you... Dad... ruined my life.”

  Damn, the kid’s good on his feet. You remember your theater days. Roll with it. Say ‘yes’ to the scene.

  “Your mother and I,” he said, in O’Brien’s resumed chokehold, “my God, son, where did we go wrong with you?”

  “I should probably be asking you the same question!”

  “Oh really? I suppose it was I who was an embarrassment to you all these years, then?”

  “Fuck you, Dad,” O’Brien rasped. “I was nothing to you but a status symbol. For you it was all right wing morality and all those idiotic platitudes that go along with it. Did you ever once think about me? You only son?”

  It was a measure of Jack Cooper’s own personal bravado that kept him from telling the kid to ease up on the grip.

  In the meantime, Andy stood up and made the rest of his trip on foot. He was certain all eyes were on the little theater vignette that Cooper, that old ham, and O’Brien, the young tyro, were putting on for their audience of two. Clutching the rifle, he ran to where he surmised was the best vantage point for the two armed men that remained: a small outcropping of rocks, judging by the angle of inclination away from the entrance to the castle, where one could easily get off a clean shot.

  And back at the castle, the drama continued.

  “I tried to please you,” O’Brien said, tears flowing freely and copiously. “God, how I tried. If you just for once just would give me some words of affection. Just once.”

  “Just like a little namby-pamby to cry about that,” said Cooper. “A little sissy is what you are. What you always were. A disappointment from day one!”

  O’Brien’s grip tightened. “I hate you, Dad. I just wanted you to love me!”

  Cooper began to wheeze for breath.

  “All you had to do was to tell me you were proud of me. Just once.” The young actor’s voice was wracked with pain.

  Cooper felt his head lightening.

  “I should kill you,” cried O’Brien. “But I... love you...” His grip eased. He let go and fell to the ground, head in hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

  Cooper rubbed his neck and stared at the boy.

  At that moment, Major Bartholomew Andrews of the United States Marine Corps found two men rapt in attention, hiding behind a small pile of rocks.

  There was no introduction. No warning. He opened fire. The two bodies fell dead, cold, caught watching a melodrama.

  When he returned with a cache of fresh water and much-needed food and supplies, O’Brien was sitting against a wall, head between his knees, silent. Cooper sat on the other side, arm on his knee, staring at the boy, lost in some kind of visual analysis.

  “Have a little water,” said Andy. “Then it’s time for the next phase of our plan.”

  No one stirred.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The tunnel was low and dark, but Thompson had a flashlight, courtesy of his friends at the Al-Ula Home for Wayward Terrorists. The descent down the stone ladder with his back jammed against the narrow tunnel downward had been awkward and uncomfortable, but he had negotiated it without undue effort, even with the rifle hanging off his shoulder and extra magazines shoved down the front of his shirt.

  They had offered him wealth, the freedom to escape the Hollywood machine. He would build his entertainment empire, unhindered by the gatekeepers who’d kept him on the fringes of real power for years.

  He had fulfilled his promises faithfully: he had ensured the prince had come with them to Al-Ula. As a result, his director of photography had been killed, his own life put in danger.

  His new benefactors spent money like water. Ah the dream of it. Rivers of money running through Thompson’s hands. He would indulge every creative whim.

  It had been a lovely dream. But as soon as the helicopter had gone down in such spectacular fashion, he had realized that he had been lied to, used, and betrayed. The idea refused to leave his mind: betrayed and used, used and betrayed. It circled through his thoughts like an obsession, like a pithy line from one of his mediocre movies.

  He savored the insight that his near death experience brought in a tantalizing weave of clarity: he was more than a director, more than a filmmak
er. He was an auteur, a creator, a minor god ruling over the making of his own films. Yes. Death was welcome, or at least the threat of it. Anything that gave him insight into the human condition was to be savored and appreciated like a cognac gifted by a wealthy fan.

  If he lived through this, he would finally know what it was to face one’s own death. And that could only add power to his films.

  He’d lied about his leg. It was injured, true, but nothing so serious as he had made it seem to be. It had been easy to play up the pain.

  He crawled under the low section of one of the tunnels. Surely he would reach the end of the tunnel soon.

  What he would do then, he hadn’t yet decided.

  He could confront the bungling simpletons below. He might even kill them if given the chance. He was no novice with firearms. Thompson would manage. He always had.

  After dealing with the hapless terrorists, he could make his way out of the old town and cross the highway to the new town to find a telephone.

  But first he had to reach the end of the tunnel.

  He sighed to himself and kept crawling, head down to keep from scraping it against the stone overhead. He was tall enough that moving through this narrow space was quite awkward. At least, he was satisfied to note, the appearance of the tunnel was relatively accurate. It was pleasing to see that even this film—if it were ever completed—would bear the hallmarks of verisimilitude.

  He reached the far end of the lowest part of the tunnel with relief. He would be able to climb to his own two feet again and walk, albeit in a severely hunched-over fashion.

  While there was no end in sight and (to continue in the vein of clichés) no light at the end of the tunnel either, there were also no mysterious shadows in the tunnel, waiting for him to walk into a deadly trap.

  Even if there had been, he was immune, the puppet master behind the scenes; a real-life replica of his professional self.

  Thompson smiled as he thought of it, that and the image of a celebratory feast when he returned to civilization.