The Berlin Package

by Peter Riva

  At his door, he could hear the phone already ringing. It was Heep, “Pero, where have you been? They said you checked in over an hour ago.” Pero told him he had to run an errand and to join him for a drink or coffee in the executive lounge. The sixth floor had a small private sitting room for their elite guests. Well, maybe not elite, just those with the right color credit card who wanted peace and quiet.

  Five minutes later the two old friends were hugging and patting each other on the back. Heep’s finger now sported a gold band. He held his hand up, wiggling the fingers. “You’re kidding, without me? And Mary—our crocodile and dinosaur lady—and you? When?” Heep had gotten married, again. Heep was a recidivist husband—trying it over and over again.

  “A month ago. We tried to invite you, but you were not taking calls after the first week, remember? And, anyway, I didn’t want to tell you on the phone last week.”

  The two old friends sat, ordered tea, and talked about life and the aftermath of Kenya. When the pleasantries were over, Pero gave him the news of Niamba, Mbuno’s wife. Heep was shocked, not about a matatu bus hitting someone along the road, but that it was her. She was a kind, gentle, aging woman, as spiritual as her husband was vital. Heep thought what Pero had arranged was the best one could do. “Amogh will handle it, he’s great like that. When will you know where he’s taken her?”

  “I expect he’ll call,” he patted a cell phone in his jacket pocket, “anytime he’s ready.” For a while, they discussed the upcoming shoot. All the shots were supposed to be without dialog but to include ambient sound. “Who’d you get to record sound?”

  Heep told Pero he couldn’t bring his regular commercial crew. “They’re still shooting the Tyrolean second unit shots for that damn car commercial. Stupidest job I ever took. The client has no idea that a Cadillac Escalade looks stupid on a winding alpine road, the damn thing’s so wide it doesn’t even fit into one lane! Honestly, Pero, you’d think they would figure this stuff out before spending a million bucks shipping three cars and our team over here to shoot this in,” he paused for effect, “wait for it,” pausing again, smiling, “you’ll love this—IMAX.”

  Pero nearly fell off his armchair. That was perhaps the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. A couple of million bucks for an IMAX shot that cannot be edited to suit TV? How many people did they think would get to see it? What a bad return on their money.

  Anticipating, Heep answered his unspoken question: “It’s for the Detroit Car Show only. Five days, sexy men models and all, promoting the mommy car line. It’s the car launch, new model, in luscious pearl pink color. Yech.” They were both laughing by then at the absurdity of it all. Sometimes Hollywood is only surpassed in arrogant stupidity by the twentysomethings, the hotshot creative team, at ad agencies.

  Pero needed to know Heep’s availability, “How much more do you have to shoot? Do you have to go back?”

  Heep explained he’d completed his bit, the rest were helicopter shots and a few static set-ups for the product photographers to fill the brochures. He thought the whole thing should be wrapped up by the same time this job was, say a few weeks, tops.

  Pero seemed satisfied. “Ever work with Danny Redmond?” The movie star was an unknown quantity to Pero, and he was sure Heep, who shot movies from time to time, would have a better idea about Redmond. A man with boyish good looks, now all of thirty-two, he was once a party animal, according to People magazine. In the past three years, he had steadied down, took up serious reading—or so the magazines would have everyone think. And there had even been an appearance on Oprah where they discussed his ten favorite books, most of which were classics in translation. He had done a few great action films and then some colossal failures, yet he always looked good. But in truth, Redmond had few acting skills. Heep explained, “So he has dropped out of films for about a year and went to hone his craft on the London stage. You know, the usual thing, proving and growing on stage where audiences are demanding but not rude for established stars who need to become real actors.”

  “I met him at the Emmy’s. He was with that beautiful wife of his. He seemed genuine. He loves our wildlife programs.” It was Heep and Pero’s specialty, producing animal series, like Edge of the Wild. They had been due to tape those episodes again in the next months, but the show had been canceled, to be replaced by a thirteen-part series of prime-time one-hour specials starring Mary Lever, the Crocodile Lady. Pero was the executive producer for the series, and Heep had taken over as the producer, Pero’s old job, in addition to his usual role as director. Pero hadn’t felt up to it when it was all being negotiated over the past few months by their respective agents. Refusing calls, he had told his lawyer to quietly tell Heep to make any deal he could. Heep did. It was a doozy, making them both more money than usual. Mary was hot, and they had signed her up. The industry knew they were damn good at wildlife shooting—the best, well, not exactly—David Attenborough and the BBC could still run rings around them, but that brass ring was always an encouragement, not a competition.

  Pero said, “I hope Danny will like the crap they’ve written for him. Did you read that stuff?” Pero knew Heep had been emailed a copy of the script. “The last thing we need is a script re-write, new demands every day, delaying permits and schedules. The Mayor’s office likes a tight and accurate shoot schedule, you know that.” Heep nodded. Pero asked him, “You got the equipment squared away?”

  “Well, we had an idea that I floated past the studio and Pederson a week ago.” Heep meant the film’s director. “Then he called Redmond in London.” That got Pero’s attention. Heep continued, “Look, I explained I want to shoot this handheld, not Steadicam, real Funeral in Berlin type of tension, off balance. Redmond loved the idea—that he’s like Richard Burton’s character, seedy, a washed up spy, haunted, but sharp. He’s supposed to be drugged, not knowing where he is, riding the S-Bahn until he sees something familiar …” He meant the trimotor plane hanging above the Technisches Museum, “that’s why he gets off there. We’ll have to catch the reflection in the glass as he sees it. Then as he gets into the entrance, the perspective changes as the girl sees him.” They were building the set for that shot with her, in Hollywood right now. “The train yard may now also be needed for a running scene, I got a fax …”

  “Oh, they’re pushing us already, more shots?” Pero asked.

  “Well, yes, we may shoot the train shunting yard out the back of the museum for the chase sequence. But here’s some good news, they cut one scene for us—they don’t need the transfer from the U-Bahn subway, to the elevated S-Bahn train. They think the audience will just think the inside train goes outside.” Pero’s mouth was open. “Yes, Pero, I know, the S-Bahn is yellow and the U-Bahn is …”

  “Orange. No wait, don’t tell me, they’ve repainted the U-Bahn to yellow.” Heep nodded. Pero shook his head in amusement. “Okay, that’ll work, I suppose, but Heep you better make sure they know the carriage is a different shape and size.”

  “We’ll shoot it tight so we’ll never see it whole. And I’ll get extra shots, in case, with the size clearly shown using the tripod, full Panavision, in case they need to make a continuity cutaway.” They went on like this for a half hour or more. For them, business came first. They were professionals and liked their work. At the end, there was a pause as they finished a second small pot of tea.

  Pero was waiting for it as Heep asked, “So, any other side to this trip I should know about?”

  Pero had promised him never to lie again. In Kenya Heep and the crew had learned the truth of his secret sideline. Back then, if it had upset Heep to think Pero had a secret from him, neither Heep nor the crew showed it. Their loyalty and friendship had come on strong. “Not until we’re done here, I hope. I had a delivery this morning at the airport coming off my flight, but I arranged for a ten-day delay. Should be okay.”

  “If not, count me in. It is good work. Worth doing. If I can help, you have only to allow me, no asking required.”

  Pero w
as touched, “I’ll keep that in mind. It’s already messy—they wanted me to transport something. It’s not what I was trained to do and besides, I am not the agent type, don’t you think?”

  “You did all right Pero. I am no judge of other missions—isn’t that what they’re called? But we did all right. You produced us well, as you always do.”

  “Yes, we did all right, but it was an emergency. And in those situations, people sometimes go beyond their talents and, well, we got lucky.”

  “Luck or not, Pero, you produced us, and we stopped the bastards. Are you up against anything like that now, already?”

  “Oh no, it’s just a small screw up. I called a time-out for me to do this shoot and to allow matters to resolve a bit without me. Lewis, remember him?” Heep nodded, “Well, Lewis was not pleased, but he knew I was right. Sometimes slowing down produces more sure results.”

  “You still, what was it, a field agent? Or have you reverted to the other?”

  “Gofer? I tried doing that, going back, I told Lewis. At the moment, I am halfway between a mail carrier waiting to deliver if and when I am damn good and ready. Neither snow nor sleet nor dead of night has any interest to me, I am more your kind of lazy mail carrier. If they don’t like that, tough. When the time is right, I’ll deliver the package.”

  “Where to?”

  But Pero told him not to ask too many questions. If he needed him involved, he would tell him. Otherwise, it was safer for them all to put it aside and get on with filming. Heep agreed, with a sigh of relief.

  As Danny Redmond—and his circus entourage no doubt—would arrive that afternoon, late, they decided on a dinnertime and place. Heep told Pero he’d meet their sound technician and assistant later over dinner. Heep was handling the camera himself.

  Pero debated going to the airport to pick the actor up, so he called the production coordinator’s office in London to ask. They informed Pero that Danny Redmond was being met, for security reasons, by “someone from the Mayor’s office.” Pero had once had that experience and knew what was in store.

  Germans take celebrity—political and artistic—seriously. If asked for discretion, they will just watch covertly. But if asked for protection or if they think it’s needed, they will put on a display of an ostentatious bodyguard elite that is unrivaled anywhere in the world. To be really showy and effective, they provided a large escort, loads of flashing lights, screaming vehicles, a variety of transport from motorcycles—big fat BMW superbikes—to gleaming black paint and black-windowed limousines and green and white BMW or Porsche souped-up police cars. Each has a siren and uses it. Each has lights, top, front, and back, and they use them.

  Then, just to outdo every other police force in the world providing first class security, this procession of vehicles does not proceed at twenty, thirty, or forty miles per hour like the US President’s cavalcade. Oh, no, they literally put the pedal to the metal and roar through the streets. The drivers are race-trained on the famed Nurburgring racing course as well an anti-terrorist secret facility outside Koln. The key to success is the motorcycles.

  For Danny Redmond it went smoothly. They collected him at the arrivals and loaded him and his team into the black limousine. Once the car doors were shut, the engines were revved and the ten or so cops with the machine guns stood around keeping everyone away. At the same time, the motorcycles, roared off in pairs, at least four sets of them. The clock started ticking, engines idling. At twenty seconds, the limo started off—one police car in front, one at the rear—full speed ahead. Down the ramp from Tegel airport, the lead white and green police BMW hit seventy-five or eighty, still accelerating, followed by the limo three meters behind, on the bumper. By the time they got on the short stretch of the autobahn, the convoy was doing a steady 110 mph. The motorcycles were nowhere to be seen. As the autobahn ended and the first intersection approached, the convoy slowed—if it can be called that—to around eighty-five and kept that speed until the destination was reached. Every intersection was clear because two motorcycles blocked the side roads, helmeted super-cops staring down any potential transgressor. As the convoy passed, the motorcycle cops fired up and screamed up alongside the cavalcade doing well over 120, leap-frogging their colleagues to cut off traffic four more intersections ahead.

  And so it continued, with the motorcycles blocking traffic, zooming ahead, and the convoy maintaining an incredible speed—bursting through traffic that had been moved aside, screaming past pedestrians pulled back from the curb, and zipping, inches on either side, at break-neck speed through city thoroughfares. Danny Redmond only knew they had arrived when he saw the lead motorcycles perfectly positioned, in pairs, calmly parked. His limo brakes would then have been applied strongly bringing the car to a smooth but sharp stop. Then the doors were snapped open, and another guard of machine gun toting police, already there, were standing at attention, controlling passers-by keen on seeing who the big shot was.

  Danny Redmond’s cavalcade had arrived.

  He exited the car and stepped onto the sidewalk looking for someone to talk to, perhaps to shake hands with. There was no one to thank. The whole manner of the police declared, “No fuss please, we’re professionals.”

  There was no doubt that Danny Redmond was charismatic. After he had stepped away from his convoy, followed by three of his entourage, he saw motorcycle police and his driver give each other the thumbs up, pleased with their performance.

  As Danny went into the hotel, below Pero’s sixth-floor window, the police car twirling lights still flashed on and off like press flashbulbs. Inside, the hotel staff pranced about trying to get closer and cater to his every whim. The elevator had been stalled by the manager, with a key, who then personally escorted Redmond upstairs, riddling him with the usual pleasantries. “How good to have you stay with us. Did you have a pleasant flight?” that sort of thing. It was not as if Danny Redmond wouldn’t have heard it all before.

  The three people walking with him, presumably his “people,” tried to keep their position of authority by elbowing anyone who impeded their progress down the middle of the hall. “Please, please, Mr. Redmond has had a long journey; he needs to be left alone.” A tourist and his wife started to come out of their room, and they were pressed back inside as the Redmond tide swept past. Pero was watching all this from his door, next to Redmond’s suite. Pero had booked rooms for Redmond’s entourage on a floor below with no passkey for this floor. Pero too needed peace and quiet time with the star, to make sure they could achieve what the film needed, not what a celebrity’s entourage could take hours to bitch about. Redmond was a producer on the film and word had reached Pero that he was hands-on. Heep’s room was ten doors down from the suite and Pero saw him standing in the doorway grinning, shaking his head, as they passed him.

  As Redmond got to his door, the manager already had the key out and was ready to do his “voila” gesture. Yeah, it’s a room, what a surprise, Pero saw in Redmond’s eyes—it was what Pero was thinking too. Pero smiled.

  Redmond smiled back and turned to the manager. “Mr. Gestler, isn’t it? You are very kind to take all this trouble. What a lovely …” The rest was lost as they pressed on into the room. Pero stood there watching ten people follow them in. It was going to be crowded in there. He glanced at Heep, who was still shaking his head. The noises from inside were gaining strength, the door re-opened, “And if you wouldn’t mind personally showing my assistants their rooms?” The manager nodded and started to say something. Danny cut him off, “Yes, yes, that’s wonderful, Herr Gestler, I would consider it a personal favor if you would ensure they have every service they require. I will be busy this evening and will not want to be disturbed,” and here he paused for effect, looking as well at his assistants before adding, “by anyone.” It was a command performance. Everyone had left his room and he stood in the doorway, arms up over his head, hands on the doorframe, physically occupying the space. Even with the good looks, charm, and radiant smile, it was prime ape behavior. It
said, “This is mine, now go away.” They all left, like good little chimps.

  He looked over at Heep and back at Redmond. They all smiled, nodded. Redmond was a take-charge guy. “Ten minutes? I need the bathroom, then we’ll talk. That’s the lounge over there, right, next to the elevators?” Pero nodded. “Fine, see you then.”

  Before he could shut his door, Pero’s cell phone buzzed. He looked at the screen and frowned. Heep saw and came over, fast. It was Amogh. Pero clicked on the speakerphone. “Go ahead, Amogh,” who started speaking as the two went into Pero’s room and let the door shut behind.

  “Things are going better. We moved her to the Aga Kahn …”

  “That was fast!”

  “Yeah, well, it was either that or watch Mbuno eviscerate the incompetent doctors. One of them had the stupidity to say that it may be Niamba’s time to die … Mbuno went over to the bed, clicked off the side rail and started to lift her up to take her away, tubes and all, somewhere, who knows. They thought they would restrain him. The first doctor, an Asian, quite large and heavy, smacked his head on the door as Mbuno open-palm blocked him across the room. The old boy is strong. Before a real fracas started, he had a nasty looking knife out, and the doctors were calling for security … I arrived just then. It took some of your dollars to make them all calm down … I paid the bill there even though it was free for an honorary colonel’s wife. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, not at all, please go on.”

  “We lifted her up on a stretcher, Mbuno and me. She’s in great pain, with a pelvic superstructure—little steel rods like a cage holding her crushed pelvis open. Something about it preventing her bleeding to death if it falls inward. I had called the Aga for their ambulance, and it showed up with your Italian doctor, Rinaldi by name, good young blood, well trained, something about being trained in a place called Waid, in Switzerland. He’s a trauma specialist. His records say so. Anyway, Rinaldi took charge and she’s over there, at the Aga Khan, now being prodded and tested. Something about blood in her urine they don’t like.”