Matt Reilly Stories by Matthew Reilly
Separate tours.
Bouncing across the United States.
The Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer For her: a blur of hotel suites, limos at airports and screaming crowds at in-store and studio gigs.
For him: a blur of hotel rooms, departure lounges, airport check-in counters.
In his mind, hotels began to blend into each other. In Cincinnati, he mistakenly went to room 405—he was actually in 715; 405 had been his room number in the previous city.
His bookstore appearances were solid if unspectacular. Fifty people here. One hundred people there. Good showings for a ‘foreign author’ on his first US tour.
For her part, she began to notice something in airport terminals.
In every single one of them, in the newspaper/book kiosks near the gates, she saw his books. Constantly saw his name.
Over and over and over. She’d never even noticed them before.
Different worlds, she thought.
And strangely, in quiet moments, she found herself thinking about his smile.
Their tours crossed paths again in Dallas. They were staying at the same hotel: the Magnolia.
The thing was, they themselves didn’t actually meet.
It was afternoon, and she was out doing a TV interview. He was in the hotel’s library, working on some notes for a new novel.
It was Vanessa who noticed him sitting there.
‘Hi there,’ she said, coming over, eyes predatory, hips deadly. ‘Mind if I join—wait a second. I know you. You’re that author. You’re Mark Ridley.’
It wasn’t often that he was recognised. Sometimes people recognised his name on a computer or when he used his credit card, but rarely did anyone spot him just by looking at him.
The Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer It got his attention.
She sat down opposite him and started talking.
At first, Vanessa spoke about him. She’d read his books (this was true: she had bought one at the airport on the way out of New York), and loved them, she said. They were so…so manly.
He thought they were simply escapist entertainment.
She gushingly professed her lifelong love of reading (this was not true) and the importance of books on young people’s minds (also not true).
He listened politely.
And then she started talking about herself.
About how this back-up stuff was just the beginning, how her first solo recording would soon be produced by somebody named P-Diddy, how the Rock Princess was overestimated, and let’s be frank, a little overhyped. So she’d sold three million CDs. It wasn’t like she’d sold seven million books.
That sort of thing made a difference.
In the end, he had to go—to do some newspaper interviews in the hotel foyer. He was courteous to the last, and as he left, he wished her well with her career.
Vanessa asked the desk clerk when he was checking out and tried to catch him when he departed the next morning, but she missed him. He’d left early.
On the plane to San Francisco, he saw Her picture on the cover of People magazine.
Serious Musician Dude had been photographed canoodling with a model in a nightclub in LA that week. There was a picture of Her being whisked into a limousine, her eyes clearly tear-stained.
He shook his head. Her world was a strange one.
He hoped she was okay.
The Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer And then, that night, they found themselves at the same hotel again.
This time she found him.
He was sitting in a corner of the restaurant, reading a book, nursing a coffee, when a shadow fell across his table.
He looked up. And an enormous smile spread across his face.
‘Mind if I join you?’ she asked.
‘I bought your CD,’ he said later. ‘It’s, er, different to what I normally listen to. Very socially aware. I think I like the current single the best, so I just play it all the time.’
She nodded at that. She did that with her favourite songs, too. ‘I bought one of your books.’
‘And?’
‘I’m halfway through. It’s not Austen, but then again it’s damn hard to put down.’
‘That’s what I like to hear.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were some bigshot world-famous author in New York?’ she asked.
‘I’m not that big. And authors aren’t famous. You’re famous.’
‘But why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Would it have made a difference?’
‘It might have.’
‘Then that’s why I didn’t tell you. It shouldn’t make a difference, but it does make a difference to some people. Like your friend, Vanessa.’
‘Ah, yes, but I’m not like Vanessa.’
‘No. No, you are definitely not like Vanessa.’
There was a pause. He wasn’t sure how to say this.
The Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer
‘I read about your boyfriend.’
‘Oh. Yes. That.’
‘He looked to me like a guy who enjoys the parties, not the work.’
‘That’s exactly what he was like. Do you have people like that in the book industry?’
‘Yeah, a few. Especially with the movie stuff. But the way I see it, at the end of even the greatest party, all the guests go home. It’s what’s at home that matters.’
She fell silent, nodding her agreement.
She wanted him to ask her.
He wanted to ask her.
But he wasn’t sure if he should.
Wasn’t sure if their worlds were compatible. Wasn’t sure if a rock princess—with all her hangers-on and magazine articles and meaningful songs—would care for a quiet guy who wrote action thrillers.
He could walk away.
That would be painless. He could never ask. And never know, and maybe never see her again.
Or he could ask…
So he asked her.
To dinner. In Australia. Two weeks from then.
And so a fortnight later, they dined in Port Douglas, Queensland, and they talked and they laughed and two years on, they were still together.
She was still rocking, singing her songs. He was still writing, about action and adventure. Their subject matter never matched, but that didn’t concern them at all. It was what was at home that mattered.
The music and gossip magazines didn’t care for their relationship, because authors occupy a different orbit to rock The Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer stars and stories about them don’t sell magazines.
Which was fine by him and even finer by her.
And so they lived happily ever after.
The rock princess and the thriller writer.
________________
REWIND
(a screenplay)
_____________
30 November, 1999
(first draft)
FADE IN:
INT. CELL - NIGHT
NEIL CALLAWAY -- 34, handsome, but roughed-up, with bruises on his face -- sits tied to a chair.
An evil-looking BALD MAN crouches before him, rifling through A LEATHER BAG. He looks up at Callaway as he extracts A SMALL CIRCULAR TAPE REEL (from a reel-to-reel tape player) from the bag. He smiles thinly at Callaway.
CALLAWAY
The paper will come looking for me.
The bald man stands. Moves over to a table. On the table is A STEEL CASE. The bald man pulls A SYRINGE from it.
BALD MAN
No they won’t, Mr Callaway.
CALLAWAY
What about Danny --
BALD MAN
He is already dead, Mr Callaway.
Callaway sighs, winces.
BALD MAN
No. I am afraid that you have seen -- and heard -- just a little too much.
May you rest in peace.
The syringe goes into Callaway’s immobilised arm. Callaway watches -- terrified -- as the bald man depresses the plunger.
The contents of the syringe go int
o his bloodstream.
CALLAWAY
No! -- No!! -- NO!!!!!!!
His scream carries over as we --
SMASH CUT TO: EXT. WAREHOUSE - ESTABLISHING – NIGHT
An ominous-looking building, surrounded by high fences and razor wire.
Super the legend:
ONE HOUR EARLIER.
INT. WAREHOUSE - NIGHT
A dark, foreboding place. Endless aisles. Wooden crates and boxes fill the shelves.
NEIL CALLAWAY, looking a lot fresher and more alive, SLAMS back-first into a shelf, breathing hard. He looks at A SLIP OF PAPER in his hand by the light of a penlight. The slip of paper reads:
BOX 26/A-1
Callaway moves down a narrow aisle, peering at the boxes on the shelves by the light of his small flashlight.
THE FLASHLIGHT’S BEAM reveals a stencil on one of the boxes: 26/A-1.
Looking fearfully about himself, Callaway hurriedly rips open the box. He extracts --
A BULGING ENVELOPE.
He rips open the envelope. In it is THE CIRCULAR TAPE REEL.
Callaway pockets the tape reel and takes off.
CUT TO: INT. CALLAWAY’S APARTMENT - NIGHT
A reel-to-reel tape player plays the mysterious reel.
Neil Callaway stands at the window, peering out, while behind him, his friend, DANNY SMITH, listens to the reel through a pair of STEREO HEADPHONES. Danny’s mouth is falling open at what he hears.
He stops the reel-to-reel machine. Pulls off the headphones.
DANNY SMITH
Neil. This stuff is fucking dynamite --
It’s at that moment that the door behind Callaway is violently kicked in.
CUT TO BLACK:
Super the legend:
3 DAYS EARLIER.
INT. FBI OFFICE - DAY
TWO MIDDLE-AGED MEN stand around a desk. One wears single-breasted suit with an WHITE HOUSE ID on his pocket; the second man wears a heavily-decorated US Navy uniform.
On the desk before them: A BRIGHT ORANGE REEL-TO-REEL PLAYER.
WHITE HOUSE MAN
The President is concerned. Has the situation been resolved?
THE DOOR to the office opens and in rushes a young NAVY TECHNICIAN. He carries an identical REEL-TO-REEL PLAYER.
YOUNG NAVY TECHNICIAN
Same make. Same model. And now, same serial number. The unit’s been sealed and a new reel is inside.
WHITE HOUSE MAN
Can you get it out to the crash site?
SENIOR NAVY MAN
No problem. We’ll get one team to lay it and another team -- who knows nothing -- to find it.
CUT TO: A TELEVISION SOMEWHERE - DAY
The news. A FEMALE NEWSREADER speaks to camera.
NEWSREADER
And in breaking news, the black box flight data recorder from doomed British Airways Flight 455 was recovered today by US Navy divers.
The TV SCREEN shows a diver getting out of the water holding the BRIGHT ORANGE REEL-TO-REEL PLAYER we just saw in the office. It is a FLIGHT DATA RECORDER.
NEWSREADER (V.O.)
Investigators are hopeful that the black box will shed some light on the tragic incident...
CUT TO: ANOTHER NEWSCAST.
A MALE NEWSREADER this time.
MALE NEWSREADER
Investigators looking into the BA Flight 455 aeroplane disaster today revealed the contents of the doomed airliner’s flight data recorder.
A “sound screen” comes up. It is one of those screens you see on the evening news when a paragraph of words is displayed while the speaker’s voice is supered over it. In this case WE HEAR the garbled voice of a pilot:
PILOT’S VOICE
... New York Air Traffic Control, this is BA 455, we are experiencing complete system breakdown...oil pressure has been lost, electrical systems have failed, hydraulic wing controls have been lost...If anybody can hear this, we are going into a dive...
The male newsreader comes up again.
MALE NEWREADER
The crash of the British Airways Boeing 777 has been linked to a similar crash of a Malaysian Airlines Boeing 777 in 1997. In that incident, complete system breakdown occurred due to faulty wiring in the cockpit circuitry --
NEW ANGLE. WE ARE in:
INT. MOBILE COMMAND CENTRE – NIGHT
The White House Man is watching the coverage on the TV in near darkness.
The Senior Navy Man comes alongside him.
SENIOR NAVY MAN
There’s been a leak.
WHITE HOUSE MAN
One of yours?
SENIOR NAVY MAN
No. Yours. One of your aides told a reporter about the switch. Gave him the location of the real tape.
WHITE HOUSE MAN
Who?
SENIOR NAVY MAN
The leak has been taken care of. The reporter’s name is Callaway.
WHITE HOUSE MAN
Can he be erased with minimal disturbance?
SENIOR NAVY MAN
By the right person. Yes.
The Navy Man turns his head and WE PAN TO REVEAL behind him --
THE EVIL-LOOKING BALD MAN waiting patiently in the shadows.
CUT TO BLACK:
Super the legend:
THREE DAYS EARLIER
INT. MOBILE NAVY COMMAND CENTER - NIGHT
A caravan-type vehicle. Cramped. Dark.
A BRIGHT ORANGE FLIGHT DATA RECORDER slams down onto the table.
It glistens with wetness.
THE WHITE HOUSE MAN from before is here, as is the SENIOR NAVY OFFICER.
WHITE HOUSE MAN
Nobody knows...?
SENIOR NAVY MAN
It was found by a specialist unit operating outside the publicised search area.
(beat)
The media don’t know we’ve got it.
INT. MOBILE NAVY COMMAND CENTER - LATER
WIRES are plugged into the FLIGHT DATA RECORDER. The SENIOR NAVY
MAN hits a switch and the reels start to rotate.
Garbled hash.
SECOND OFFICER’S VOICE
(on tape)
Moving to 24,000 feet, sir, all systems normal.
PILOT’S VOICE
Good work, Number Two. Take us up.
The two senior government men stare intently at the black box flight recorder.
PILOT’S VOICE
Say, anyone hear what the score was in the Mets game?
FIRST OFFICER’S VOICE
Jesus, what the fuck is that?
PILOT’S VOICE
What the --
And then tangle of frantic voices: SECOND OFFICER’S VOICE
Is that what I think it is?
FIRST OFFICER’S VOICE
It’s coming toward us, Captain.
(beat)
Jesus Christ --
PILOT’S VOICE
Number Two, get on the radio, see if there are any Navy ships down there.
Tell them to abort!
SECOND OFFICER’S VOICE
Attention any US Navy vessels in grid sector 675. This is British Airways Flight 455, we are a civilian airliner and we have a visual on a --
A NEW VOICE comes over the line. Harsh. Suspicious.
NEW VOICE
British Airways Flight 455, this is US
Navy ship Liberty, what are you doing in this area?
SECOND OFFICER’S VOICE
(frantic)
US Navy vessel Liberty, we are a civilian airliner in international airspace, and we have visual contact on a missile of some sort, heading in our direction and we ask that you immediately abort its flight --
FIRST OFFICER’S VOICE
Too late!!!
PILOT’S VOICE
NO!!!
The tape explodes to hash. The sound of static fills the mobile command center.
THE TWO SENIOR MEN look at each other. They are like stone.
Unmoved by the drama they have just heard. The WHITE HOUSE MAN pulls out a cellular
phone, steps over to a corner.
He speaks into the phone in hushed tones. The Navy man doesn’t watch him. The White House man returns, looks seriously at the Navy man.
WHITE HOUSE MAN
Take appropriate action. Make it go away.
CUT TO BLACK.
________________
THE DEAD PRINCE
_________________
THE OLD WATCHER
Mont St Michel
France, 1454
Every day for three months, from sun-up to sundown, the old monk watched De Christo as he worked.
This was unusual. All the other inhabitants of the island monastery—monks, nuns and townsfolk— preferred to spend their time gawking at the royal visitors present at the Mount.
But all the while De Christo worked in the cathedral, the ancient monk never let him out of his sight. Bald and hunched and gnarled, his name was Brother Michael, and he was the caretaker of the great cathedral.
Every day he would sit in the front pew and watch as De Christo hammered and planed, rebuilding the flame-scarred structure. Granted, the cathedral of Mont St Michel contained some of the most valuable Catholic relics in all of Europe—including a great wooden cross suspended above the altar from the ceiling which supposedly contained a splinter from the actual Cross of Christ, golden chalices and silver torch-holders. Brother Michael was protecting the silverware.
Bouncing across the United States.
The Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer For her: a blur of hotel suites, limos at airports and screaming crowds at in-store and studio gigs.
For him: a blur of hotel rooms, departure lounges, airport check-in counters.
In his mind, hotels began to blend into each other. In Cincinnati, he mistakenly went to room 405—he was actually in 715; 405 had been his room number in the previous city.
His bookstore appearances were solid if unspectacular. Fifty people here. One hundred people there. Good showings for a ‘foreign author’ on his first US tour.
For her part, she began to notice something in airport terminals.
In every single one of them, in the newspaper/book kiosks near the gates, she saw his books. Constantly saw his name.
Over and over and over. She’d never even noticed them before.
Different worlds, she thought.
And strangely, in quiet moments, she found herself thinking about his smile.
Their tours crossed paths again in Dallas. They were staying at the same hotel: the Magnolia.
The thing was, they themselves didn’t actually meet.
It was afternoon, and she was out doing a TV interview. He was in the hotel’s library, working on some notes for a new novel.
It was Vanessa who noticed him sitting there.
‘Hi there,’ she said, coming over, eyes predatory, hips deadly. ‘Mind if I join—wait a second. I know you. You’re that author. You’re Mark Ridley.’
It wasn’t often that he was recognised. Sometimes people recognised his name on a computer or when he used his credit card, but rarely did anyone spot him just by looking at him.
The Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer It got his attention.
She sat down opposite him and started talking.
At first, Vanessa spoke about him. She’d read his books (this was true: she had bought one at the airport on the way out of New York), and loved them, she said. They were so…so manly.
He thought they were simply escapist entertainment.
She gushingly professed her lifelong love of reading (this was not true) and the importance of books on young people’s minds (also not true).
He listened politely.
And then she started talking about herself.
About how this back-up stuff was just the beginning, how her first solo recording would soon be produced by somebody named P-Diddy, how the Rock Princess was overestimated, and let’s be frank, a little overhyped. So she’d sold three million CDs. It wasn’t like she’d sold seven million books.
That sort of thing made a difference.
In the end, he had to go—to do some newspaper interviews in the hotel foyer. He was courteous to the last, and as he left, he wished her well with her career.
Vanessa asked the desk clerk when he was checking out and tried to catch him when he departed the next morning, but she missed him. He’d left early.
On the plane to San Francisco, he saw Her picture on the cover of People magazine.
Serious Musician Dude had been photographed canoodling with a model in a nightclub in LA that week. There was a picture of Her being whisked into a limousine, her eyes clearly tear-stained.
He shook his head. Her world was a strange one.
He hoped she was okay.
The Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer And then, that night, they found themselves at the same hotel again.
This time she found him.
He was sitting in a corner of the restaurant, reading a book, nursing a coffee, when a shadow fell across his table.
He looked up. And an enormous smile spread across his face.
‘Mind if I join you?’ she asked.
‘I bought your CD,’ he said later. ‘It’s, er, different to what I normally listen to. Very socially aware. I think I like the current single the best, so I just play it all the time.’
She nodded at that. She did that with her favourite songs, too. ‘I bought one of your books.’
‘And?’
‘I’m halfway through. It’s not Austen, but then again it’s damn hard to put down.’
‘That’s what I like to hear.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were some bigshot world-famous author in New York?’ she asked.
‘I’m not that big. And authors aren’t famous. You’re famous.’
‘But why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Would it have made a difference?’
‘It might have.’
‘Then that’s why I didn’t tell you. It shouldn’t make a difference, but it does make a difference to some people. Like your friend, Vanessa.’
‘Ah, yes, but I’m not like Vanessa.’
‘No. No, you are definitely not like Vanessa.’
There was a pause. He wasn’t sure how to say this.
The Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer
‘I read about your boyfriend.’
‘Oh. Yes. That.’
‘He looked to me like a guy who enjoys the parties, not the work.’
‘That’s exactly what he was like. Do you have people like that in the book industry?’
‘Yeah, a few. Especially with the movie stuff. But the way I see it, at the end of even the greatest party, all the guests go home. It’s what’s at home that matters.’
She fell silent, nodding her agreement.
She wanted him to ask her.
He wanted to ask her.
But he wasn’t sure if he should.
Wasn’t sure if their worlds were compatible. Wasn’t sure if a rock princess—with all her hangers-on and magazine articles and meaningful songs—would care for a quiet guy who wrote action thrillers.
He could walk away.
That would be painless. He could never ask. And never know, and maybe never see her again.
Or he could ask…
So he asked her.
To dinner. In Australia. Two weeks from then.
And so a fortnight later, they dined in Port Douglas, Queensland, and they talked and they laughed and two years on, they were still together.
She was still rocking, singing her songs. He was still writing, about action and adventure. Their subject matter never matched, but that didn’t concern them at all. It was what was at home that mattered.
The music and gossip magazines didn’t care for their relationship, because authors occupy a different orbit to rock The Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer stars and stories about them don’t sell magazines.
Which was fine by him and even finer by her.
And so they lived happily ever after.
The rock princess and the thriller writer.
________________
REWIND
(a screenplay)
_____________
30 November, 1999
(first draft)
FADE IN:
INT. CELL - NIGHT
NEIL CALLAWAY -- 34, handsome, but roughed-up, with bruises on his face -- sits tied to a chair.
An evil-looking BALD MAN crouches before him, rifling through A LEATHER BAG. He looks up at Callaway as he extracts A SMALL CIRCULAR TAPE REEL (from a reel-to-reel tape player) from the bag. He smiles thinly at Callaway.
CALLAWAY
The paper will come looking for me.
The bald man stands. Moves over to a table. On the table is A STEEL CASE. The bald man pulls A SYRINGE from it.
BALD MAN
No they won’t, Mr Callaway.
CALLAWAY
What about Danny --
BALD MAN
He is already dead, Mr Callaway.
Callaway sighs, winces.
BALD MAN
No. I am afraid that you have seen -- and heard -- just a little too much.
May you rest in peace.
The syringe goes into Callaway’s immobilised arm. Callaway watches -- terrified -- as the bald man depresses the plunger.
The contents of the syringe go int
CALLAWAY
No! -- No!! -- NO!!!!!!!
His scream carries over as we --
SMASH CUT TO: EXT. WAREHOUSE - ESTABLISHING – NIGHT
An ominous-looking building, surrounded by high fences and razor wire.
Super the legend:
ONE HOUR EARLIER.
INT. WAREHOUSE - NIGHT
A dark, foreboding place. Endless aisles. Wooden crates and boxes fill the shelves.
NEIL CALLAWAY, looking a lot fresher and more alive, SLAMS back-first into a shelf, breathing hard. He looks at A SLIP OF PAPER in his hand by the light of a penlight. The slip of paper reads:
BOX 26/A-1
Callaway moves down a narrow aisle, peering at the boxes on the shelves by the light of his small flashlight.
THE FLASHLIGHT’S BEAM reveals a stencil on one of the boxes: 26/A-1.
Looking fearfully about himself, Callaway hurriedly rips open the box. He extracts --
A BULGING ENVELOPE.
He rips open the envelope. In it is THE CIRCULAR TAPE REEL.
Callaway pockets the tape reel and takes off.
CUT TO: INT. CALLAWAY’S APARTMENT - NIGHT
A reel-to-reel tape player plays the mysterious reel.
Neil Callaway stands at the window, peering out, while behind him, his friend, DANNY SMITH, listens to the reel through a pair of STEREO HEADPHONES. Danny’s mouth is falling open at what he hears.
He stops the reel-to-reel machine. Pulls off the headphones.
DANNY SMITH
Neil. This stuff is fucking dynamite --
It’s at that moment that the door behind Callaway is violently kicked in.
CUT TO BLACK:
Super the legend:
3 DAYS EARLIER.
INT. FBI OFFICE - DAY
TWO MIDDLE-AGED MEN stand around a desk. One wears single-breasted suit with an WHITE HOUSE ID on his pocket; the second man wears a heavily-decorated US Navy uniform.
On the desk before them: A BRIGHT ORANGE REEL-TO-REEL PLAYER.
WHITE HOUSE MAN
The President is concerned. Has the situation been resolved?
THE DOOR to the office opens and in rushes a young NAVY TECHNICIAN. He carries an identical REEL-TO-REEL PLAYER.
YOUNG NAVY TECHNICIAN
Same make. Same model. And now, same serial number. The unit’s been sealed and a new reel is inside.
WHITE HOUSE MAN
Can you get it out to the crash site?
SENIOR NAVY MAN
No problem. We’ll get one team to lay it and another team -- who knows nothing -- to find it.
CUT TO: A TELEVISION SOMEWHERE - DAY
The news. A FEMALE NEWSREADER speaks to camera.
NEWSREADER
And in breaking news, the black box flight data recorder from doomed British Airways Flight 455 was recovered today by US Navy divers.
The TV SCREEN shows a diver getting out of the water holding the BRIGHT ORANGE REEL-TO-REEL PLAYER we just saw in the office. It is a FLIGHT DATA RECORDER.
NEWSREADER (V.O.)
Investigators are hopeful that the black box will shed some light on the tragic incident...
CUT TO: ANOTHER NEWSCAST.
A MALE NEWSREADER this time.
MALE NEWSREADER
Investigators looking into the BA Flight 455 aeroplane disaster today revealed the contents of the doomed airliner’s flight data recorder.
A “sound screen” comes up. It is one of those screens you see on the evening news when a paragraph of words is displayed while the speaker’s voice is supered over it. In this case WE HEAR the garbled voice of a pilot:
PILOT’S VOICE
... New York Air Traffic Control, this is BA 455, we are experiencing complete system breakdown...oil pressure has been lost, electrical systems have failed, hydraulic wing controls have been lost...If anybody can hear this, we are going into a dive...
The male newsreader comes up again.
MALE NEWREADER
The crash of the British Airways Boeing 777 has been linked to a similar crash of a Malaysian Airlines Boeing 777 in 1997. In that incident, complete system breakdown occurred due to faulty wiring in the cockpit circuitry --
NEW ANGLE. WE ARE in:
INT. MOBILE COMMAND CENTRE – NIGHT
The White House Man is watching the coverage on the TV in near darkness.
The Senior Navy Man comes alongside him.
SENIOR NAVY MAN
There’s been a leak.
WHITE HOUSE MAN
One of yours?
SENIOR NAVY MAN
No. Yours. One of your aides told a reporter about the switch. Gave him the location of the real tape.
WHITE HOUSE MAN
Who?
SENIOR NAVY MAN
The leak has been taken care of. The reporter’s name is Callaway.
WHITE HOUSE MAN
Can he be erased with minimal disturbance?
SENIOR NAVY MAN
By the right person. Yes.
The Navy Man turns his head and WE PAN TO REVEAL behind him --
THE EVIL-LOOKING BALD MAN waiting patiently in the shadows.
CUT TO BLACK:
Super the legend:
THREE DAYS EARLIER
INT. MOBILE NAVY COMMAND CENTER - NIGHT
A caravan-type vehicle. Cramped. Dark.
A BRIGHT ORANGE FLIGHT DATA RECORDER slams down onto the table.
It glistens with wetness.
THE WHITE HOUSE MAN from before is here, as is the SENIOR NAVY OFFICER.
WHITE HOUSE MAN
Nobody knows...?
SENIOR NAVY MAN
It was found by a specialist unit operating outside the publicised search area.
(beat)
The media don’t know we’ve got it.
INT. MOBILE NAVY COMMAND CENTER - LATER
WIRES are plugged into the FLIGHT DATA RECORDER. The SENIOR NAVY
MAN hits a switch and the reels start to rotate.
Garbled hash.
SECOND OFFICER’S VOICE
(on tape)
Moving to 24,000 feet, sir, all systems normal.
PILOT’S VOICE
Good work, Number Two. Take us up.
The two senior government men stare intently at the black box flight recorder.
PILOT’S VOICE
Say, anyone hear what the score was in the Mets game?
FIRST OFFICER’S VOICE
Jesus, what the fuck is that?
PILOT’S VOICE
What the --
And then tangle of frantic voices: SECOND OFFICER’S VOICE
Is that what I think it is?
FIRST OFFICER’S VOICE
It’s coming toward us, Captain.
(beat)
Jesus Christ --
PILOT’S VOICE
Number Two, get on the radio, see if there are any Navy ships down there.
Tell them to abort!
SECOND OFFICER’S VOICE
Attention any US Navy vessels in grid sector 675. This is British Airways Flight 455, we are a civilian airliner and we have a visual on a --
A NEW VOICE comes over the line. Harsh. Suspicious.
NEW VOICE
British Airways Flight 455, this is US
Navy ship Liberty, what are you doing in this area?
SECOND OFFICER’S VOICE
(frantic)
US Navy vessel Liberty, we are a civilian airliner in international airspace, and we have visual contact on a missile of some sort, heading in our direction and we ask that you immediately abort its flight --
FIRST OFFICER’S VOICE
Too late!!!
PILOT’S VOICE
NO!!!
The tape explodes to hash. The sound of static fills the mobile command center.
THE TWO SENIOR MEN look at each other. They are like stone.
Unmoved by the drama they have just heard. The WHITE HOUSE MAN pulls out a cellular
He speaks into the phone in hushed tones. The Navy man doesn’t watch him. The White House man returns, looks seriously at the Navy man.
WHITE HOUSE MAN
Take appropriate action. Make it go away.
CUT TO BLACK.
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THE DEAD PRINCE
_________________
THE OLD WATCHER
Mont St Michel
France, 1454
Every day for three months, from sun-up to sundown, the old monk watched De Christo as he worked.
This was unusual. All the other inhabitants of the island monastery—monks, nuns and townsfolk— preferred to spend their time gawking at the royal visitors present at the Mount.
But all the while De Christo worked in the cathedral, the ancient monk never let him out of his sight. Bald and hunched and gnarled, his name was Brother Michael, and he was the caretaker of the great cathedral.
Every day he would sit in the front pew and watch as De Christo hammered and planed, rebuilding the flame-scarred structure. Granted, the cathedral of Mont St Michel contained some of the most valuable Catholic relics in all of Europe—including a great wooden cross suspended above the altar from the ceiling which supposedly contained a splinter from the actual Cross of Christ, golden chalices and silver torch-holders. Brother Michael was protecting the silverware.