Chapter 42 – A Short Stay in London
Lewy and Priss looked at the fish and chips wrapped up in a square of newspaper, and thought, 'What in Allah’s name is this stuff?' They watched another person in the shop drench their food in vinegar from a squeeze bottle, and thought, 'What in Mohamed's name is that? Where can we get a good camel shish kebab?'
The Colonel ate what was in front of him, being consumed with the problem of figuring out how to track Laleh to her present lair, and because he’d eaten a lot worse stuff during his banishment to the southern desert. It was their third day in London and they were just about over their jetlag and the first sleepless night they’d spent in the airport. The next morning they had asked the same guy at the information booth who jokingly had sent Laleh to The Savoy, if there were any mosques in London, and he jokingly had sent them to one that constantly was in the tabloids because its leader was a firebrand cleric who publicly advocated death to the English infidels. The English security people would throw him in jail for a day, and then he would be released and go back to breathing fire. The Colonel, The Lieutenant, and The Private took a bus from the airport to the mosque, knocked at the door, and when it was opened by a twenty year old guy with a beard down to his knees, asked if they could spend the night. He looked at them suspiciously and said, “Praise be to Allah. Have you come to kill the infidels?”
The Colonel looked at his boys and then back at the door keeper and said, “We’re looking for an enemy of The Prophet, but if we come across an infidel, we’ll be happy to kill him for you. Or her, for that matter. But basically we’re looking for a place to sleep for the night.”
“Are you from the CIA?”
“Who’s that?”
“You from MI5?”
“Who’s that?”
“Ok, come in.”
So much for mosque security. They’d been allowed to sleep in the basement with a guy from Idaho and a girl from Chechnya, both of whom had heard of the firebrand cleric and wanted to study under him, but upon meeting each other in the basement had gotten distracted from the indoctrination by a mutual love of Homer Simpson and a mutual love of uninhibited sex. As soon as the three Iranian assassins had woken up after their first night in the mosque, even before they’d had a cup of hot green tea, the young bearded door keeper had started yelling at them about killing everyone in London, man, woman, and child, while the two newly acquainted lovers from different countries had asked them who their favorite Simpson characters were, Bart, Lisa, or Maggie.
They got out of that sandwich as quickly as possible and wandered the streets of the West End wondering how they were going to find Laleh’s trail in a city of twenty million infidels. On the third day in town, after gagging down the fish and chips, as they walked by a legal bookie joint, Lewy looked through the window and saw a large betting board devoted to upcoming soccer matches. In front of each team name he saw a little colored flag representing the country, and there was the Iranian flag opposite the flag of Monaco, the second smallest country in the world, about the size of Central Park in New York City. The odds were twenty to one in favor of Monaco to kick Iran’s ass in the match. Lewy stopped them and they went inside and tried to figure out what kind of shop this was. It was a big place with lots of chairs and tables from which the bettors could watch the board, have a beer, and decide how they were going to lose their money that day. The boys had been walking around town for quite a while and decided this looked like a good place to rest, think about Laleh, and debate the odds on the IranMonaco match. Lewy was inclined to bet on his home team while Priss favored Monaco.
In addition to the betting board that took up one entire wall, there also were several large screen TVs tuned to different channels, and one of them was showing the English version of Entertainment Tonight. While Lewy and Priss talked soccer, The Colonel got hooked on watching the Entertainment Tonight's obligatory blond babe master of ceremonies, who was a stunner. The camera switched back and forth between her and a PR photo of George Clooney, whom The Colonel didn’t know from Adam, or whomever is the Islamic equivalent of Adam, you’ll forgive the lack of biblical, make that koranical, scholarship. He couldn’t take his eyes off the babe, and became more transfixed on the screen when Clooney’s photo was replaced by a video of Gale the Mouth in Charleston, who the English babe was interviewing via satellite.
The Babe: “Gale, we understand the Charleston Chamber of Commerce is claiming George Clooney will make a film in Charleston in the near future, and Steven Soderberg is coming out of retirement to direct. Is that true?”
Gale the Mouth: “Yes, it is. George and Steven have committed to the project, and we expect their advance staff in Charleston in the next week or so to set up preliminary operations. It’s very exciting.”
The Babe: “What and who is June Enterprises, Gale, and why is their phone number and website on the Charleston Chamber of Commerce ads that have flooded the arts section of newspapers and entertainment websites around the world?”
Gale the Mouth: “June Enterprises is the company that will produce the project. It’s the same outfit that did the Pete Townshend Stravinsky ballet two years ago and the Paul McCartney and Renee Fleming rock opera last year. We kept something of a low profile during those two productions, but this time, we’re out there all the way.”
The Babe: “Tell us about the film.”
Gale the Mouth: “Well, first off, it’s not a film. It something new, a hybrid between a film and a play. All we know is that it’s not a documentary about a play, it not just a video capturing a play, it’s something different. We don’t know yet, because George and Steven are keeping that under their hats, even from us.”
The Babe: “You’re company is producing something, and you don’t know what it is?”
Gale the Mouth: “Right. Those were the conditions under which George and Steven agreed to do it, here in Charleston. What I can tell you is that the entire production will be done in a small theater here that seats about 800 people. Everything in that one building.”
The Babe: “They are going to do a George Clooney, Steven Soderberg filmyplay new thing, in a single building, and no one knows what it’s about or how it’s going to be produced or what the final product will be? That’s wild, Gale.”
The Colonel didn’t follow the conversation very well, but he did follow the visuals of the two blond babes, one talking here in London and one talking in some place called Charleston. He was in love with these two women, especially the one called Gale. They didn’t have a lot of blond hair in Iran.
Gale the Mouth: “It is wild, and we look forward to working with these two great stars to make something special. Our budget is substantial and should support the realization of George’s and Steven’s vision.”
The Babe: “What is the budget, Gale?”
Gale the Mouth: “We have $99 million to play with.”
The Babe: “Who’s financing?”
Gale the Mouth: “Can’t tell you that, but I can tell you it’s all private money. There’s no established studio behind this. It may be the best financed indie film in history.”
The Babe: “All that money, and you don’t know what the final product will be, or even the story, the plot. That sounds risky.”
Gale the Mouth: “It is risky. That’s what June Enterprises does. It was a risk to have a rock star genius transcribe a newly discovered Stravinsky score for ballet from orchestra to a single synthesizer, and have Pete perform the piece single handedly for the eight performances; and it was risky to get Paul McCartney to compose a new rock opera and perform it here with an all-star rock band playing the music and Renee Fleming singing along with Paul. Now, we have Big George and Soderberg coming to Charleston. So you’re right, there is risk involved in the production. You’re wrong, though, in saying we don’t know the story. We have an idea about that.”
The Babe: “Tell us, Gale, please.”
Gal
e the Mouth: “It’s about a young woman from the Middle East, some country over there, they’re all the same, who gets pissed off at her family and her government and the way she’s treated, like a second class citizen, and who decides it’s time for a big change. She’s very good with computers, and figures out how to steal a lot of money, which she does, from an important person, and then she hightails it out of town and ends up in America, where she starts a new life. Cool, huh?”
The Babe: “Sounds like fun. Where does Big George come in?”
Gale the Mouth: “Can’t tell all, now can I? Have to wait to see the....the whatever it’s going to be.”
The Babe: “Who’s going to play the woman?”
Gale the Mouth: “That’s another secret. ‘George and Someone, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g...’”
The Babe: “That’s such a tease. Well, thanks, Gale, for all the news about this wild production getting ready to happen down in little ole Charleston, South Carolina. All our fans wish you and Big George the best of luck.”
Priss finally convinced Lewy he would be an idiot to bet on Iran in the match, and turned to The Colonel, who he found still staring at the TV screen, with his mouth open in an unnatural way. He said, “What’s up boss?”
The Colonel pointed to the screen. “There. There. Two blond babes talking about a movie, or something, in America (that cesspool of a country). Some famous people are involved, and a lot of money.”
Lewy said, “So?”
“So? So they told what the movie’s about. It about a woman from somewhere in the Middle East who steals money from someone important and takes it to America. That’s what’s so. Ring any bells?” Priss and Lewy didn’t say anything, but tried to get a handle on what The Colonel was implying. Then he said, “The English babe said it’s in newspapers around the world, and on websites. How can we check those?”
Priss, the psychological warfare expert on the team, presumably smart, looked around the bookie parlor and saw a couple of newspapers that had been left by one of the patrons who just had lost his wife’s family inheritance, betting that an Englishman finally would win the Wimbledon tennis championship after a dearth of seventy-five years. He picked them up and brought them back to their table, where he leafed through them until he found the arts section and the full page, glossy, full color fake news story ad that Shim and Roger had cooked up. It was all about Clooney and Soderberg and Charleston, though it didn’t say anything about the plot of the story or about the financing. It did mention June Enterprises, and it did allude to a secret actress to play opposite Clooney, but it didn’t mention anything about Laleh, of course, or about Shim writing the screenplay. The Colonel had learned more from the interview with Gale than from the ad. But he had a feeling about the whole thing: the plot Gale had described so briefly, the location of the production in the States, and the amount of the financing Gale had mentioned, which lined up almost exactly with the amount someone had stolen from The Aya.
Priss and Lewy read the ad a second time, and then looked at their boss, whose mouth still was open. Priss said, “You think there’s a connection, boss?”
The Colonel didn’t seem to hear him at first, but finally closed his mouth and looked from one to the other, following his intuition. “Pack your bags, boys. We’re going to Charleston, wherever that is.”