Shooting the Sphinx

by Avram Noble Ludwig

  Ari took the window seat whenever he could. As a pilot, he liked to watch the takeoffs and landings. In a perfect landing the touchdown is so smooth that you don’t even feel it; rare in a commercial airliner, but that is the holy grail for all pilots. The landing in Amman was smooth, perfect.

  The airport was small, fifteen or twenty gates. Ari walked off the plane, and a minute later he was standing on the line at passport control. A Jordanian man dressed in a blue blazer and tie came up to him.

  “Mr. Basher?” the man asked in a slight British/Arabic accent.

  “Yes,” said Ari, surprised that he had been identified in a planeload of people half full of Western tourists.

  “Let me have your passport please,” said the man in the blazer.

  Ari studied the man. His affect was too polite to be that of a policeman. Ari handed over his passport. “Follow me please.” Ari followed the man over to the diplomatic desk. The customs official stamped Ari’s passport immediately without checking it and handed it back to Ari. In less than sixty seconds, he was through passport control.

  “Do you have any baggage, Mr. Basher?” asked the man as they walked past the baggage carousels.

  “No,” said Ari, “just my knapsack.” They walked outside to a waiting black car, the door already open. Ari got in.

  “I will tell them you are on your way,” said the man.

  “Thank you,” said Ari, perplexed by such VIP treatment. What was behind it? He had never entered a foreign country so fast. From stepping off the plane to getting in the car was less than five minutes.

  Ari opened the window. The outside was about ten degrees cooler than in Cairo. The altitude is higher, remembered Ari. Green farm fields rolled by in the desert with sprinklers shooting out of giant water pipes on large wagon wheels that would roll through the rows of vegetables. Unlike the chaos of Cairo, everything was orderly, save the hills of Amman.

  The city was full of hills. This will never pass for Baghdad, thought Ari. I might as well turn around and go back to Cairo. I’m wasting my time here. The central road into the hotel district was like a reverse roller coaster where the land rose and fell in valleys and hills below the roadway with traffic circles overhead. The driver pulled off onto one of those overhead exits and then turned into the driveway of the Sheraton.

  Ari left the car to a bomb-sniffing German shepherd. At the front desk, the clerk handed him a pink message slip, which read:

  We are in the lounge and you have already been checked in. Sharif.

  The desk clerk handed him his key cards. He said, in yet another slight British accent, “You are on the top floor, Mr. Basher. Your guests have arrived.”

  Ari was puzzled. “They checked me in? They’re allowed to do that?”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Basher.” The clerk gave him a knowing smile and pointed. “They are waiting for you. The lounge is right across the lobby.”

  Ari made his way past the elevator bank. The lobby was full of little clusters of Americans having furtive and urgent meetings, some in military uniform, others in civilian clothes but with military haircuts. This is the American gateway to Iraq, Ari realized.

  Out of an elevator stepped two hulking Arab bodyguards in black suits and sunglasses. They surveyed Ari, decided he was harmless, and nodded to someone inside the elevator. Out stepped Mahmoud Abbas, the president of the Palestinian Authority. Ari stopped to watch Abbas and his entourage pass by on their way to a waiting car.

  Ari walked into the lounge and saw his reception party, six men in suits and ties and two women in business attire. Sharif, the oldest and most dignified, rose to greet Ari, who felt naked in his polo shirt, chinos, and white tennis shoes. They looked like a bunch of bankers.

  “Mr. Basher, welcome to Jordan.” Sharif introduced the circle of people: a production manager, his assistant, three people from the Film Commission including the commissioner himself, a location scout, his assistant, an accountant—everyone needed to start working on a film immediately.

  “Well, we have a week’s worth of shooting that’s supposed to take place in Iraq during the American invasion.” Ari pulled a file from his knapsack with the Iraqi sequence script pages, Samir’s budget, and location photos from Egypt. He handed them to Sharif.

  “We’ve already copied these pages from the script you sent us last night,” said Sharif as his assistant passed out a copy to each person in the circle. Sharif handed the budget to the accountant and the location photographs to the location scout.

  “We had planned to shoot these scenes in Egypt,” said Ari, “but with everything that’s going on there it might be … safer to move that material over to Jordan.” The Jordanians nodded almost in unison.

  Ari took a few minutes to run through the details of each scene. Everyone listened attentively, taking notes, and when he finished he concluded, “so what I need as quickly as possible is the difference in cost between Egypt and Jordan.”

  “You will find labor more expensive here,” said Sharif, “but there are other savings.”

  “Such as?” asked Ari.

  “Things are very direct here,” said Sharif, “not so … Byzantine.”

  Did he mean bribery? wondered Ari. “Who…” Ari corrected himself. “Whom do I have to thank for my speedy trip through the airport?”

  “That is nothing,” said Sharif modestly.

  “No, really,” pressed Ari. “I’ve never experienced anything like it.”

  “Sharif is too modest,” explained the film commissioner. “In addition to owning the production company, he owns the largest travel agency in Jordan and serves as the minister of tourism as well.”

  “Ahh.” Ari nodded. That made sense.

  Their meeting seemed to have come to a pause. No one moved or said a word. There was a hint of something unsaid in the air.

  Just then the film commissioner received a text. He handed his phone to Sharif, who looked at the message.

  “His Royal Highness, Prince Amir, invites you to join him for dinner at his home.”

  “But—but,” Ari stammered looking down at his dusty tennis shoes. “I wasn’t expecting to … I didn’t bring any other clothes.” Ari shifted anxiously in his chair.

  “Don’t worry.” Sharif flashed Ari a reassuring smile. “His Royal Highness will not mind. He will be happy to see you exactly as you are.”

  Chapter 39

  Ari sat next to Sharif in the back of a black SUV on a road that wound up a hill. They came to a checkpoint with a guardhouse and giant bollards in the road. A friendly Jordanian soldier with a small submachine gun strapped around his chest poked his head in the window and carefully looked around the inside of the vehicle. They passed through two more checkpoints on the way up the hill. As the eldest brother of the king, Prince Amir was next in line to the throne.

  Now the day made sense except for one thing, thought Ari. The speed with which he had been ushered through the airport was obviously to finish the meeting in time to get to dinner with Prince Amir, but why? Ari was only in Jordan to make a movie. Or was he?

  At the top of the hill, they reached a large spacious house; built in the fifties, guessed Ari. Not ornate, but secluded on its own private hilltop overlooking the city. The citadel of the palace was visible miles away. Ari and Sharif stepped out into the cool night air. They walked past a number of cars in the driveway. Sharif and Ari seemed to be the last to arrive.

  “I’ve never met a prince before,” admitted Ari nervously. “What do I call him?”

  “May I suggest, Your Royal Highness,” said Sharif.

  Without a knock, the large front door opened before them, held by a very tall Nubian servant. They walked inside a large foyer, then stepped into a large living room with about twenty people in it. Ari froze.

  “Everyone is in a suit and tie except for me,” Ari whispered to Sharif. “Does he know that this is a complete surprise? Or I would have dressed.”

  “He has been told,” said Sharif.

  “I w
ould have gone out and bought some clothes.”

  “He knows that you had no time to shop.”

  Sharif instantly and very publicly pulled off his tie and jacket, then unbuttoned his shirt collar to put Ari at ease.

  Up on a second-floor landing, a door opened. Prince Amir walked out. He was a small man, and very fit. Ari couldn’t believe what he was wearing: a polo shirt, chinos, and white tennis shoes. He had dressed exactly like Ari.

  The guests parted between Ari and Prince Amir, who came down the stairs, walked directly to Ari, and shook his hand.

  “Mr. Basher.”

  Ari relaxed. “Your Royal Highness is … unbelievably thoughtful.”

  “You are too kind,” said the prince with a British accent. “I do know, when one is traveling away from home, the impossibility of preparing for every circumstance. Please meet Jala, my wife.”

  A pretty, bright-eyed woman stepped forward and offered Ari her hand, which he shook.

  “We are told that you just arrived from Cairo?” asked Princess Jala.

  “Yes, except for a meeting with Sharif and his team.”

  “You will find them all extremely good and competent men,” said Prince Amir. “Sharif is our minister of tourism, and Duad, his location scout, knows every corner of this kingdom. They are both at your disposal while you are here.”

  “Thank you, Your Royal Highness. That is … fantastic.”

  “Tell us,” asked Princess Jala. “How do you find Cairo?”

  “Oh, it is a magical place,” said Ari.

  “Yes,” she agreed knowing that that was not a complete answer.

  Ari continued. “And yet…”

  “Yet?” asked Prince Amir.

  “It is sometimes a little difficult to get things done,” said Ari. “Particularly, with the military.”

  “I am a military man,” said the prince. “I was educated at Sandhurst, and I know that all militaries everywhere have a certain … inflexibility. Yet, if one can establish a relationship with the commander…” He let the suggestion hang in the air.

  “Yes?” asked Ari.

  “Anything can be made to happen,” said the prince.

  “You must be quite hungry after your journey,” said Princess Jala.

  “Shall we go in to dine?” Prince Amir asked Ari, who nodded trying not to betray his own hunger.

  In the dining room, a sumptuous Middle-Eastern dinner was served. Ari marveled at the sheer variety of food, as if every known Arab dish was placed upon the table. The popular ones were replenished and those untouched were removed. Ari had a chance to study the other guests. They were young, stylish, sophisticated, and yet modesty seemed important within this contained circle of friends in this small country. They all spoke English, perhaps for Ari’s benefit. A hush fell over the table as everyone realized the meal had finished.

  Princess Jala turned to Ari. “What is your movie about?”

  Ari rattled off his stock answer to the question: “It’s the true story of a CIA agent who comes to the Middle East to find out if Saddam Hussein can make a nuclear bomb. Her husband, an ex-ambassador, is sent to Africa to find out if Iraq has been getting nuclear fuel.”

  “We remember this story well,” said Prince Amir.

  “As you know, they find out that the Iraq war is based on … an untruth.” Ari didn’t want to use the word lie. “The story takes place in Washington, Egypt, and Baghdad.”

  “Controversial?” asked Princess Jala.

  “I imagine that it will be,” said Ari.

  “My wife is not afraid of controversy.” Prince Amir raised his glass to her. “She was a journalist for the BBC. She was working in Baghdad when the bombs started to fall.”

  “Really?” asked Ari. “How did you two meet?”

  “The first time I saw her was on television with explosions behind her head,” said Prince Amir. “I soon found myself paying equal attention to the message and the messenger.”

  So Princess Jala had been a serious journalist, and once a reporter always a reporter. My movie could be more than just a movie to them, Ari realized. It’s a story, a scoop, the second draft of history. The table broke up when the royal couple rose and led everyone back into the living room for coffee.

  “There are over a million Iraqis living in Jordan now.” Princess Jala steered Ari through French doors into a smaller sitting room off the living room with two red velvet armchairs side by side. This room was meant for more private conversation in the midst of a party.

  “You let them stay?” asked Ari.

  Prince Amir joined them. “The Iraqis are our neighbors. They can walk across the desert. There is no fence.”

  The prince sat in one armchair and motioned for Ari to take the other.

  Then Ari asked, “Do you think it would be possible to shoot in Baghdad?”

  “You would like to go there?” asked Princess Jala.

  “Do you think shooting there could be safe?”

  Prince Amir considered it. “You could be protected. We will speak to the right people.”

  “That would be amazing.” Ari beamed; the possibility of telling Frank that they could shoot in Baghdad excited him.

  “Would you like to meet George Tenet?” offered Prince Amir.

  Ari didn’t quite believe his ears. “The former head of the CIA George Tenet?”

  “He will be here tomorrow night,” said Prince Amir. “He is a personal friend and I could introduce you.”

  Ari tried to comprehend exactly what was happening. On a gut level, he found the prospect unappetizing. “I don’t know if he would approve of the movie I’m making. You might want to check with him to see. He might not even want me to shoot in Jordan. Is this a problem?”

  “Why would it be?” asked Prince Amir.

  “In Egypt, you have to give your script, translated into Arabic, to the Ministry of Defense to approve,” explained Ari.

  “There is no censorship in Jordan.” The prince said it quite firmly.

  “And film permits take an enormous amount of…” Ari raised his fingers and rubbed them together.

  “Permits here are instantaneous and free of charge. There is no bribery here. It is not tolerated.”

  “Excellent.” Ari was pleased. “If an actor from Israel wanted to…” Again Ari tried to read the answer before he finished the question.

  “Any artist may work in Jordan,” said the prince.

  “With an Israeli passport?” Ari pressed the point.

  “Anyone,” said Prince Amir.

  Princess Jala asked, “How do you find the Egyptians to work with?”

  “Very strong willed,” admitted Ari. “They can be a little bit…”

  “As if their way is the only way?” suggested the prince.

  Ari agreed. “Exactly … stubborn. But I suppose Americans are worse.”

  “Not at all.”

  “The Iraq War?”

  Prince Amir leaned back in his armchair to parse his own words. “We were constantly asked for advice. We gave it freely. We predicted everything that would happen. We could have prevented all of the tragedy, almost all. Americans are perfectly rational people, but they don’t listen. They listen but they hear only what they want.”

  “And George Tenet?” asked Ari.

  “His job was to hear only what he was supposed to hear.” The prince seemed both sad and amused. “But that is the story of your movie, is it not?”

  The next day Ari visited every flat street in Amman. He took many pictures. On the way to the airport, he was brought to a military base. Duad, the location scout, showed Ari a line of Humvees that could each be used in the movie for three hundred dollars a day, including driver. M1 tanks were a thousand dollars a day, delivered. In a hangar was a brand-new Black Hawk helicopter.

  “I’m going to find a way to use this.” Ari walked up to the chopper and ran his hand along the cargo bay door. “We’ll think up a shot for it. What will the military charge us?”

  “T
he same as the Egyptians.”

  “How low can we fly?” asked Ari.

  “There is no limit.”

  Of course, thought Ari, why would there be a limit for a prince?

  Chapter 40

  A day later, Ari was back in Cairo scouting places that were supposed to double for Iraq. He saw several houses that would play well, but he couldn’t stop his mind from circling back to the rows of the Jordanian tanks and Humvees and, of course, the Black Hawk helicopter. Wistfully, Ari imagined it swooping overhead, a shot impossible to get in Cairo, but easy in Amman. In the afternoon, he scouted several mosques, and Samir came to join him in the courtyard of the last one.

  “Doesn’t it look like an Iraqi mosque to you?” Samir asked.

  “In Hollywood, a mosque is a mosque is a mosque,” said Ari, snapping a single photo of the intricate floor of ancient tile mosaic where the men would soon come to pray.

  “And all Arabs look alike?”

  Ari shrugged. “Maybe late at night.”

  “Alahu Akbar. Alahu Akbar.” The call to prayer sounded from the minaret above.

  “And night approaches,” Samir said. “Tomorrow we will pick you up at six in the morning.”

  “Why so early?” asked Ari.

  “In order to drive out to Wadi al Jadid.” Samir pulled out a cigarette.

  “Wadi al what?”

  “The Western Desert.” Samir took a drag and let the smoke drift out of his mouth.

  “Sand dunes?” asked Ari. A whole day lost driving out into the desert with no phone, no Internet, no chance to do any work. He mused over the idea of asking for the location scout to take pictures and bring them back, but Samir didn’t give him the chance to back out.

  “Sand of such a quantity that you will not find in Jordan.” A fierce pride curled the corners of Samir’s mouth, the journey now a matter of honor.

  What could Ari say? So he found himself outside the Mena House at 6:02 A.M. the next morning, where he met Samir. A red Toyota Land Cruiser waited with two Egyptians in the front seat, the location manager, and a fellow named Wael, who owned the SUV. They were both eager and wired on Egyptian coffee. Ari pet the bomb-sniffing German shepherd and stepped around the security guard holding the proverbial mirror on a stick checking the bottom of the car for explosives. The moment a Westerner entered a vehicle, the search was over.