The Towers (11 page)

“What is she…? The same thing every other channel is.”

“I can't follow when they talk that fast. She looks happy. Are they gloating?”

“Scott … she's reporting the deaths. She's saying airliners hit the buildings. There's no gloating. Believe me. An accident this huge—”

“Whoa! This is no accident.” Scott's cheeks were flushed; he mopped his face with one sleeve. “This's the same guys who hit the
Cole,
who hit the embassies. Same as your little dance buddy, Al-Nashiri.
‘Allahu Akbar.'
You know who I mean.”

She studied him, heart sinking. He couldn't be right. Not this great evil. “You believe that?”

“Nobody else has this kind of organization. We're going to have to refocus the whole investigation. Find out how it all links up.” He seemed to remember something then and blinked and put a hand on her shoulder. “We're really gonna need you.”

She examined him quickly; looked around. Noticing only then that she sat in the center of a cleared space, that the cafeteria chairs around her were empty. Doanelson was still holding her shoulder, but to the others it might have looked like the sort of grip one used to apprehend a criminal. They stared at her abaya and headscarf with loathing in their eyes.

She looked back at the screen. A street full of chanting demonstrators—dear God, no, of celebrating Palestinians—were screaming joyfully and waving signs. She understood suddenly that everything had changed and would never again be the same.

II

An Altered World

 

1

Los Angeles, California

TEDDY
slumped in his Camaro outside the restaurant, sucking on a Coke, trying to get his head clear. He'd punched the alarm and almost missed getting up. But then had remembered the Germans—the
investors
—and pushed the sheets off by sheer strength of will.

And discovered long, smooth legs that led to a Brazil-waxed, pouting heaven. The silvery blonde's thighs had parted, and for a moment he'd been tempted again. Until the headache sledgehammered him like a bolted steer and he staggered into the 1940s-gorgeous bathroom that was now seedy, mirror speckled, tiles missing, and gagged over the sink.

Fifteen minutes later, showered, dressed, unshaven—but that was okay—he pulled out of the driveway headed for Beverly Hills. The traffic on Laurel was horrendous. He pounded the wheel and cursed. Flicked the radio on, then off again. Loki would kill him. Hanneline Muruzawa, from Breakbone Pictures, would be there too. A year's work on the script. Dozens of meetings. Now the Germans wanted to look into his eyes before they wrote the check. He wasn't sure what they expected to see, but Loki had been clear. Without them, there'd be no film.

Another
red light. He rooted his notes out of the glove compartment, from behind the holstered HK, and tried to focus.

Credit and money. Everything came down to that. Credit and money, and money was credit and credit was money, so it was really only about one thing in the end.

Which meant he had to go in acting as if he had it, even if he didn't.

A honk from behind. He flipped up a finger. Imagined for a savage moment taking the HK out and shutting the asshole up for good. But just then the light went to green, and he swore and stomped on the gas.

*   *   *

THE
Polo Lounge was off the main lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel. Loki had wanted the Germans to feel as if they were being treated right. Teddy didn't mind. The McCarthy salad was good. They made the steak tartare at the table. The hostess walked him through the dining room into the garden area. Private booths lined what he couldn't help thinking of as the perimeter, the booths deep green under peach walls, screened by hanging plants and dangling ivy. You saw famous faces here, stars, producers, executives, deal makers. This morning, though, the urbane waiters in white jackets and black bow ties stood amid empty tables set with heavy silver and fine china and good linen.

A hell of a contrast with MREs salted with powdered camel dung, the way it blew up off the desert in Ashaara.

He found Loki Dittrich at a table on the sunny patio, where they could almost see the pool, could smell the chlorine on the morning air. He bent to kiss the shadowed, lovely cheekbones of the legendary beauty she still was, even after all these years. Dressed western, a checked shirt, fitted Levi's, boots gleaming with silver and turquoise. Loki introduced a slight woman with shoulder-length hair, Asian features, and no makeup as Hanneline Muruzawa, producer of
Market Basket
and
Leave Her to Me
and
Mean Eddie,
plus plus. Teddy got a handshake that surprised him with its strength.

Loki introduced the two middle-aged banker types in suits as Hirsch Gerlach and Werner Neustadt. Teddy gave them both hearty handshakes, watching them react to his six foot two and the scars radiating out from his nose like a Maori warrior's. He could've had those lasered, but why look like everybody else? He took a seat beside Muruzawa. A little past his age bracket, but a seriously sexy lady. A waiter who introduced himself as Dominic leaned to pour coffee.

“Good flight in?” Teddy asked the Germans.

“We sleep very late, I am afraid,” said Neustadt. “Jet lag. It is very nice to meet you at last.”

“Very interesting, Mr. Oberg, this script. About where it is, Ashaara,” Gerlach said. “
The Brotherhood
. You have been there, I think? In that unhappy country?”

“From the start of the insurgency. Lost a good friend there.”

“Our friend's a BTF,” Neustadt put in. Teddy glanced at him; where'd he get that? BTF—Big Tough Frogman—was a SEAL putdown.

“This is … the Aleko character? He is Japanese?”

“Hawaiian,” Teddy said. There were no Japanese SEALs. No Jewish ones, either, at least that he'd ever run into. Had this guy even read the script?

“I would like to hear why you want so much to make this film,” the younger German, Neustadt, said. “Why it will resonate with the American market.”

By now Teddy had pitched it so often he didn't have to think. “It was because of Sumo—I mean, Aleko. I want to do a film that finally tells the truth about fighting, about honor, and about death. Not
Sands of Iwo Jima,
but not
Apocalypse Now,
either. No heroes and no fools—just the reality of combat and the kind of man it takes, and the kind it leaves once the fighting's over. Why will it resonate? Every man wonders how he'd act if it really came down to it. That's what Chief Strange comes face-to-face with, in the insertion and raid scene.”

“Have you seen
Stalingrad
?” Gerlach said. “German, but it sounds like what you are describing. A very antiwar film.”

Teddy said antiwar wasn't exactly the message he had in mind. He caught Loki's glance;
Never say the word “message,”
she'd told him often enough. Then Dominic was back and he looked at the menu, starting to get hungry. Loki got oatmeal. Muruzawa ordered Alpine muesli. The Germans ordered big breakfasts, heavy on the meat. So did Teddy, to mirror them. And a big Coke for his head.

“Werner was saying, his investors like the script,” Muruzawa said. “And Breakbone likes the concept. I've talked to distributors. Loki tells me you have Ewan McGregor and Colin Farrell. Those are very hot names right now.”

“Crowe,” Loki put in. “Ridley Scott.”

“Russell's a maybe. I have a call in, but let's leave that to one side. We need the financials firmed up before we go any farther.”

Werner cleared his throat and put the menu aside. “We can do it, but we can not do it all.” Though Neustadt was younger than Gerlach, Teddy thought he held rank. “Our goal, you appreciate, is not exactly the same as yours. Of course we want to make a good picture. If we can, a great picture. And your dead friends, heroes, yes. We Germans know something about dead heroes.

“But our goal is to protect the money. That is our prime directive, you might say.
Star Trek,
eh? We must cap the budget. Ten million dollars, US.”

Teddy glanced at Loki. She'd estimated fifteen. On-location shooting in Morocco. Special effects from Industrial Light & Magic. Muruzawa smiled but didn't give him any clues. He diced his corned-beef hash, letting it perk in his head.

Money and power. He didn't have money in this picture. Not yet. So he decided to bust their balls. Outrageous to ask for it, for his first movie. But it would stick it to them. They'd have to say no, then compromise somewhere else. So at the end, he'd still end up with more than if he hadn't been a selfish prick.

“A Teddy Oberg Production” above the title still wouldn't give him complete control; a lot depended on the director. But clout … that it would give him.

But it would be stupid to say this. That would put his nuts in their vise, let them whipsaw him.

“I can make it for twelve,” he said. “If I get dollar one gross profit.”

Muruzawa looked dismayed. The Germans traded glances. Neustadt chewed a whole sausage before he said, “Actually, we were thinking along those lines too. To close the gap. Here is what we do. We defer your
entire
fee. Push it
all
to the back end. You'd come out with better numbers, in the finish. If that is okay with Breakbone—”

“That part's your deal,” Muruzawa said, making a quick hands-off gesture. “We just do what we do best. Package the film with hot talent and a good director, and keep the show on budget.”

Teddy looked through the glass from the sunny patio into the bar. Someone had turned on the television. People were standing in front of it. Others were walking toward it in bikinis and trunks from the direction of the pool, where his grandmother had watched Johnny Weissmuller perform his famous rescue. It didn't sound like a fantastic deal. “Loki? How you feel?”

“Your decision. This is going to say, ‘A Teddy Oberg Production,' after all.”

Sneaky Loki, slipping it in. But the Germans didn't react, which surprised him again. He didn't let it show, just ate more hash. He washed it down with the rest of the Coke and lifted the glass as Dominic went by.

“Okay, your fee goes to the back end,” Werner said, as if everyone had agreed, but Teddy didn't object. Neustadt went on, “We cap the budget at twelve. That is an absolute; we cannot put in more later; if you seek additional financing, it cannot dilute our percentage. Now, our next suggestion. We have a tremendous new actress. Very talented. Very beautiful. The Loki Dittrich of our time.” He smiled at Loki. “She even started as a skier, like you,
Liebchen
.”

“We saw it more as a buddy movie,” Muruzawa put in.

“The numbers are down on buddy movies. The problem with this script is that there is no love interest. Her name is—”

“I don't need to know her name,” Teddy said. “Which of you's banging her? This is a gritty war movie, for Christ's sake. There's no room for a bimbo.”

Neustadt's eyes turned hard; both men sat back in the booth. “She is not a bimbo,” Gerlach said.

Loki put her age-spotted, bony, elegant hand over Teddy's. “Teddy's got his thinking cap on,” she said. “The pilot. There's a helicopter pilot, right? She could be a woman.”

“And she grabs a gun,” Neustadt said. “And comes up behind the insurgents and—”

“There are no fucking female helo pilots in the special forces,” Teddy stated. “And even if there were, she sure as fuck wouldn't ‘grab a gun' and insert herself into a firefight.” He wadded up his napkin and threw it on his plate.

“I understand. But we really want this girl in the picture,” Gerlach said. “Not us personally. But the principal. You know how this is. Loki certainly does.”

“It's not the first time it's happened in pictures,” Dittrich chuckled.

“You can jam your fucking cunt up your Nazi ass,” Teddy said. “With her skis on.”

Or rather, he wanted to, but kept his teeth clenched by sheer will. His headache was back. He signaled to Dominic. “Got any champagne?” He needed something with alcohol in it.

“Same for me,” said Loki. “Let's make a fucking movie, as Teddy would say.”

“A mimosa,” said Muruzawa.

The Germans curtly shook their heads.

Dittrich got up and frowned at Teddy as she passed. He got up and followed her. Through the window he saw more people gathered around the TV in the bar. A disaster movie, it looked like.

“You'd better get yourself under control, boy,” she told him. “They gave you a point of gross. I couldn't believe it. Halfway decent box, that's a
lot
of money. You are so close to making this project. But you can't put their girl in for a bit part? When that's all they're asking?”

He massaged his temples, not meeting her gaze. The headache was blinding.

A green spheroid.

“War's a motherfucker, ain't it?”

Yeah, Sumo. Yeah. It's a motherfucker, all right.

“I know you go way back, Loki. Seen a million deals. But there was no woman for a kilometer in any direction when we took down Assad's compound.”

“That was what
happened
. But this is a
movie,
Teddy. Nothing about it is real. Nothing! And they're right about buddy pictures. You can't do a prowar film, with all guy actors. Not in this town. Not in this century.”

“I keep telling you, it's not prowar—”

“It'll
look
prowar. That's why I went to the Germans. Everybody else turned me down.” She bored in, holding his eyes, his shirt collar between her fingers. His gaze followed her bony, flat chest down into her man's western shirt. “And I haven't told you this before, but the scene where Aleko dies in Strange's arms, and Strange—this tough, macho SEAL—he starts bawling on the way to the medevac, it looks, you aren't going to like this, but it looks
gay.
Not that I have anything against, I've played for that team now and then. But I'm telling you, it's going to film gay or, even worse, hokey. Having a woman's only going to help. Then
she
can die in his arms, like Rachel Weisz in
Enemy at the Gates
.”