 
The Ayatollah's Money

By Richard Dorrance

Copyright 2013 Richard Dorrance

Smashwords Edition

This book was written at

The Charleston Library Society.

Thank you for downloading this free book. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied, and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

# Chapter 1 – To Do It, or Not to Do It

Laleh hovered the mouse pointer over the Send button, and felt fear. She knew this decision was the most serious of her thirty-five years on earth. She had devoted much of her energy and intelligence over the last ten years preparing for this moment, and now it was here. If she hit the Send button, her life would change dramatically. If she didn't, it would remain the same. She wasn't sure if it would change for the better or the worse, but she knew it would change.

She closed her eyes, stopped her thinking, and let her intuition come to the front. It didn't take long to speak to her, and when it did, she trusted it. Her finger descended to the mouse button and clicked. The pointer on the screen changed shape, the computer received the signal, and at the speed of light it transmitted a data pulse through the internet to the Central Bank of Tehran. There ! It was done. Her life now was different. No longer was she Iranian, but was something and someone different. She didn't know what or who, but she was ready for the transformation.

She manipulated the mouse again, logging off and powering down the computer. She unplugged it, put it in a case, and carried it to the door of her apartment. She went to her bedroom, lifted a duffle bag onto the bed, filled it, not very carefully, with an assortment of clothes and personal items, and carried it to the front door, where she set it next to the computer. She picked her passport and wallet off the kitchen table and put them in her backpack, along with a bottle of water. That was all. She carried these outside and down the block to the corner, where she boarded a bus for the airport. An hour later she sat at a gate and watched the monitor, wondering why she wasn't nervous. The monitor said the flight to Cairo would depart in forty-five minutes, which was about forty minutes later than she wanted, but she felt good, nonetheless. She knew the flight from Cairo to London would leave three hours after her arrival in Cairo, and she knew she would get to London two hours after that. That was the end of what she knew. Everything after her arrival in London was unknown, and that suited her fine; she would figure out her new life as it unfurled. She was flying, literally and figuratively, flying high. The question was, would she get shot down.

# Chapter 2 – At the Bank

The computer at the Bank of Tehran remained non-judgmental. It received the signal from Laleh's computer and acted on it. It processed all the bits of information in the signal, compared them to directives stored in its memory, and said, OK, all is as it should be. In the blink of an eye, the computer transferred $100 million dollars from one account to another account. It did so by communicating with a computer in Syria, which communicated with a computer in Russia, which communicated with a computer on a small island in the Caribbean. The computer in the Bank of Tehran was the big dog on the block, the alpha, and the other computers downstream did what it told them to do, which was to transfer the money. The money didn't have to travel very far, because the receptor account was in the same bank as the donor account. When Laleh had found the location of The Ayatollah's secret account, she decided the bank where it resided was as good a place as any for her to establish her new account. She figured it was secure, knowing the weak link in the chain, the vulnerability, was not in the Caribbean bank, but in the programming of the computer in the Bank of Tehran. The alpha computer was big, but it also was dumb, which is why the $100 mill went into an account just down the street, figuratively speaking, from The Ayatollah's account. And it all happened quickly. In fact, Laleh was worth $100 mill before she even got on the bus which took her to the airport, a fact that made her feel warm inside. It's true, the warmth was mixed with fear, but warm fear is better than cold fear.

The Ayatollah's money actually sat in the bank in the Caribbean, but he had left a link to it in the Bank of Tehran. When he looked at his computer to check on his money, which wasn't very often, he looked at a page on the Bank of Tehran website, which looked at a page on the website of the Caribbean bank. He felt good seeing that figure on the screen, $100,000,000, knowing it was his retirement fund if ever he was deposed by a rival, or by the Iranian citizenry who had gotten tired of his religious zealotry. He probably shouldn't have left the link to the Bank of Tehran, because Laleh is very good with computers, and that was how she had found his secret account. Laleh didn't know how long she had before he discovered the theft, because she didn't know how often he looked at the account on the computer. Maybe it was every day, or maybe it was once a month, but because she didn't know, she figured she'd better get her ass out of town pronto, which she was doing.

Back at the Tehran bank, the computer sat calmly and quietly, staring at the big goose egg in the account in the sibling bank in the Caribbean. It had no instructions to alert anyone in the event of a significant withdrawal, not even a total withdrawal, which is what it just had executed. $100 mill in the account, or nothing, it was all the same to the computer. It had done its job, and done it well, and now it rested on its laurels. Another day, another dollar.

# Chapter 3 – At The Savoy

The doorman at The Savoy looked down from the top of the marble entrance steps at the beautiful woman with dark hair and dark eyes. He liked what he saw in her face, but he didn't like the scruffy duffel bag slung over her shoulder, or her black jeans and black sneakers. Being English, he of course thought of her shoes as trainers. But he had seen lots worse, what with all the rich rock stars that stayed at his hotel, and he had learned to be careful about pre-judging people based on their clothes. He had gotten a $500 tip from a skinny little junky once, who had a piece of wood protruding through her left cheek.

Laleh looked up the steps at the doorman and smiled, which just about melted his cynical heart. Jesus, what a smile. During her stopover in Cairo she had not checked the status of the funds transfer on her tablet, but had done so after getting off the plane at Heathrow. Part of the motivation was curiosity and part was pragmatism. She had about thirty dollars in her wallet and needed to know if she was going to sleep on a London street that first night in town, or in a hotel. It didn't take her long to navigate to the new account in the Caribbean bank, and check her balance. When the figure $100,000,000 was displayed on the tablet screen, she thought, well, I guess I can afford the hotel. And that is why she now smiled at the doorman of The Savoy, and hoped he would to let her in. She didn't know much about English hotels, or about doormen, or about being rich. She knew a lot about computer programming, and about Iranian culture, in which she had been saturated her whole life, and that was all, never before having left her country. After checking her bank balance at the airport and seeing the substantial figure, she had asked at the information booth for the name of a hotel, and the wiseass young guy jokingly had told her, try The Savoy, and so here she was.

The doorman would have opened the door to her based on her smile alone, even if she had been dressed in rags and pulling a shopping cart behind her. She climbed the steps, nodded to him, entered the glorious lobby, and looked around at all the people, twenty-five percent of whom worked there, The Savoy being big on personal service. Her scan showed the concierge desk, the gift shop that sold real diamond jewelry, a large arched doorway leading to a restaurant, and the registration desk. The clothes worn by the guests ranged from fancy to not so fancy, so she didn't stand out too much, though one of the three house detectives present decided he would watch her for a while. Part of this was professional interest and part was the beauty of her face, completely without makeup. Laleh walked to the registration desk, and said, "May I have a room please?"

"Yes, Ma'am, what type of room would you prefer?" said the clerk.

"Oh, a nice room, please."

"We have a one room suite with bedroom and living room, with a view of the river?"

"Please."

"How many nights, Ma'am, and how will you be paying for that?"

Laleh hadn't planned this far ahead. She had spent ten years learning financial skills and planning the theft, and had decided that was all the preliminary work she was going to do. She had all the self-confidence in the world, and knew she could figure out the apre-theft stuff as she went along, but now, here, reality intruded. How long was she going to stay in London, and more importantly, how was she going to pay for the room? She didn't even know how much the room cost. "How much is the room?"

"820 pounds per day, Ma'am."

Laleh knew currencies, and instantly calculated the equivalent value in rials and dollars, thinking, 'Wow.' Then she thought, 'That's considerably more than the $30 I have in my pocket.' She asked, "Does this hotel have a courtesy account system?"

"Yes, Ma'am, but only the Manager can authorize that. May I get her for you?"

Laleh nodded, went to a sofa upholstered in yellow satin, and sat down. Five minutes later a women dressed in a thousand dollar wool suit approached her, and said, "May I help you?"

Laleh said, "I'd like to transfer some funds into your courtesy account, please."

The woman maintained a neutral look on her face while she evaluated the probability that the person in front of her was legitimate. Unable to decipher Laleh from her clothes and demeanor, she fell back on a standard ploy. "Of course, Ma'am. We do have a minimum required amount, and we do charge a substantial service fee." Laleh raised her eyebrows in inquiry, and the woman said, "The minimum transfer amount is ten thousand pounds, and the fee is twenty percent."

Laleh said, "That's fine."

Courtesy accounts are used by high end casinos and hotels that cater to the very wealthy, having found over the years that it's in their best interest to facilitate the transfer of large sums of money to their clients and guests, because some of it usually rubs off locally. The woman was a little surprised, but then smiled and asked Laleh to follow her to her office, where she prepared the paperwork. She asked Laleh if she would like coffee while she waited, and Laleh accepted, jetlag having appeared. Ten minutes later the Manager handed the paperwork to Laleh, who read and signed it. The Manager said, "The routing code is at the bottom. The service fee will be debited automatically, and the balance deposited in your personal Savoy account. We will have a debit card prepared for you. I'll leave you in private."

Laleh said, "No need." She pulled her tablet out of her duffel bag, powered it on, worked it for three minutes, powered it off, and looked expectantly at the Manager, who swiveled her chair around to her computer. In a minute she was looking at the courtesy account register, and was pleased to see 16,000 pounds in Laleh's account. It always was a good sign when a guest doubled the minimum deposit. She swiveled away from the computer to a small machine next to it, and two minutes later handed Laleh a plastic card with the name of the hotel stenciled across the top and her name and account number on the bottom. She said, "Welcome to The Savoy. Please let me know if I can be of service to you."

Ten minutes later Laleh was in her suite, looking out the window at the river. She thought, so far, so good.

# Chapter 4 – Meeting the Junes

Gwenny June has blond hair, and Roger June loves everything about that hair and everything about the woman connected to it. He likes blond hair in general, which probably goes back a long time to some Beach Boys' song about blond babes in the California sunshine. He loved those songs when he was a kid, and that sort of stuff stays with you as an adult. But right now he looked across the hotel dining room at a woman with black hair, and he loved it, too. If Gwenny wasn't present at his table he would have kept staring at Laleh because she was a dark haired knockout of some indeterminate ethnicity. He was lucky that when he came back to look at his wife there was no decline in the beauty factor.

The dark haired woman was alone, which Roger thought was a pity. She looked uncomfortable, first reading the food menu and then reading the wine list. Roger was curious as to what wine she would select, because he was a wine connoisseur, and he and Gwenny were drinking a $300 bottle of Pommard. Roger said, "I wish I knew what kind of wine that woman likes. I could help her pick a nice one. I bet the wine steward is going to stick it to her."

Gwenny, whose back was to Laleh, said, "You mean the good looking Middle Eastern woman you've been staring at for the last ten minutes?"

"How'd you know about her?"

"She's interesting. I noticed her when I went to the bathroom. I don't think she understands the menu. She was reading the appetizers when I went out, and still was reading them when I came back. She has unbelievably beautiful hands. I wonder why she's alone?"

"Maybe we should be friendly. Save her from getting skinned on the wine."

"Maybe she wants to be alone."

"Maybe."

Just then the wine steward walked past the June's table with the same bottle of Pommard they were drinking and approached the woman. He showed her the bottle and asked if she wanted it decanted or not. Roger could see she didn't understand, and at the same time saw his opening. He winked at Gwen, rose from his chair, and walked over to Laleh's table to stand next to the steward. Smiling, he said, "I see you are drinking the same burgundy my wife and I are drinking. Would you care to join us, and have a glass before your dinner?"

Other than the wiseass guy at the airport information booth and The Savoy staff, and her English language teachers at her schools, some of whom had been English but none American, Roger was the first westerner ever to speak to Laleh. She wasn't exactly shocked; just sort of placed in suspended animation for a few seconds. A handsome man, speaking English to her, nice smile, ignoring the steward, was asking her something.

She returned to normal space and said, "Please?"

Roger carefully took the bottle of wine out of the steward's hands, held it in front of her, turned slightly and pointed to Gwenny, and said again, slowly and gently, "Would you care to join my wife and I for a glass of this very nice wine?" Hearing her husband's voice, Gwenny turned around in her chair and smiled at Laleh across the space.

Laleh thought, 'This is nice, let's go.' She said, "Yes."

Roger handed the wine back to the steward and said to him, "We may want that in a few minutes." Then he moved behind Laleh's chair and pulled it away from her as she rose, thinking the view was lovely. Gwenny also rose and motioned to their waiter for another chair. When they were seated, she said, "This is my husband, Roger June. I'm Gwen."

"My name is Laleh."

Roger poured the Pommard into her glass and said, "This is an earthy type of burgundy. I hope you like it. It goes very nicely with duck and the garlic roasted potatoes they have here."

Instinctively Laleh knew to smell the wine first, and when she did, she realized what Roger meant by earthy. It smelled like raw mushrooms and forest floor. Then she sipped, and frowned. She sipped again, and the frown lessened. She smelled, and her expression showed neutrality. Then she sipped again, and smiled. "It doesn't taste like grapes. Why?"

Gwen said, "It's better than grapes. It is better than grape juice. It's wine."

Another sip, the last in the glass, and Laleh said, "It's much better than grapes." She smiled, first at Gwen and then at Roger, and said, "I would like some of this with the duck and potatoes. Please."

Gwen knew the duck would take a while to prepare, and she knew Laleh might feel awkward at a table with strangers, so she immediately ordered a bottle of Cedric Bouchard rose champagne, a dozen oysters, and a small plate of dates stuffed with goat cheese. The wine and food would give them something to talk about while they got to know one another. But Laleh didn't feel awkward; she felt curious. Here she was sitting in a fancy hotel in London with two of her country's greatest enemies. At least she thought they were Americans, because they hadn't said that yet. They hadn't really talked a lot, and hadn't asked her any questions about herself, which pleased her, as she thought the interrogative was a rude form of conversation. She figured they were Americans simply because they didn't sound like the few English she'd heard and talked with at home. Gwen poured the champagne and Roger divvied up the oysters and dates onto three small plates.

Gwen said, "These are Cancale oysters....the best. So good with champagne. Watch yours carefully or Roger may try to steal one. He's a pig for oysters and champagne." Her eyes twinkled at him, and Laleh could see she was teasing. She watched Roger slip one down the hatch and follow it with a slurp of the Bouchard, and she followed his example. Then she watched Gwen do the same with one of the dates, and she followed that too. How could a drink go so well with the brininess of the oyster and the sweetness and creaminess of the date and cheese? But it did.

Laleh said, "You are the ones who should watch your food, because I am tempted to steal one of each thing from you. These are delicious. Will the burgundy go as well with the duck as the champagne with the oysters?" Roger nodded. "Then I am very pleased to meet you. If you are Americans, that will be a first for me, along with earthy tasting burgundy."

Gwen nodded, and said, "We come to England at least every three years to do two things: visit Chartres Cathedral and visit the Victoria and Albert Museum. Looking at the architecture of Chartres keeps our standards of art high, and the V&A is just such a joy. Have you been to either of those?"

"I've only been here a day, and it's my first time in England." Laleh wondered if she should tell the Junes anything about herself, including where she was from, but she decided she wasn't going to live a life of fear, so she said, "I flew here from Tehran yesterday, and I'm not sure how long I'll be staying. Maybe I can see this church and this museum. I don't really have a plan for what I'm doing here."

Roger was eyeing one of the dates on her plate, and hoping the duck was forthcoming soon, but looked up at her when she said this. It was so unusual. Doesn't everyone have a plan all the time for what they are doing? But he too believes that asking questions is not civilized conversation, so he refrained from asking her what she was doing in the dining room of The Savoy, and instead said, "We're going to Chartres tomorrow afternoon. You're welcome to join us." Gwen nodded affirmation, but Laleh didn't say anything. She ate the last date on her plate, and sipped the rose. What was she going to do tomorrow? What should she do? Was she safe? Was she free? How would her new life begin? If it was anything like eating oysters and drinking champagne with two friendly and attractive enemy Americans, she hardly could wait.

# Chapter 5 – The Family

Laleh's oldest brother pounded on the door of her Tehran apartment. He hadn't heard from her in two days, nor had anyone else in the family. Her second oldest brother needed her to check on the inventory in the Damascus warehouse, and her father needed her to check on the oil rig parts which should have arrived by convoy at the Iraqi oil field, and her mother needed her to check on the new TV she had ordered over the internet. Everybody needed stuff from her, and none of them paid her anything for doing these tasks, which was a behavior pattern she had disliked for quite a few years. Every year that went by, she disliked it more and more. It seemed to her she spent half her time doing computer things for other people, for free, and she wondered what kind of deal that was, being pretty sure it didn't extend to her brothers. When they performed work, they got paid. She kept accounts for some of them, and watched the money flow into them, day in and day out, every once in a while paying herself a little something out of these accounts, just for the fun of it. Not that she ever spent it, because she didn't have a burgeoning social life. Some of her free time she spent saying no to guys her brothers tried to pawn her off on as a wife, but after about fifty of her 'Nos', they had given up and consigned her to the dustbin of old maidery. Everyone, well, the guys, thought that was too bad, given her looks. But Laleh was different than most other Iranian women, and the men smelled trouble lurking near her. So even if they asked her to marry them, most of them were relieved when she said, No.

Her brother gave up pounding on the door, and sent out a text message to his brothers saying she wasn't home and they should try calling her later. Two days after that, with still no word, he and his father brought a key to the apartment and went inside. About the only thing her family gave her was the apartment, and for that, she did computer tasks for them, and took a lot of shit. They looked around, and everything seemed the way it always was, except she wasn't there, so they sat down and looked at each other. No one had heard from her for four days, which was unusual, because someone always had something for her to do. Do this, do that.

Her father said, "Where is she? Did you call her friends?"

Her oldest brother said, "She only has one friend, and I texted her, and she said she hadn't heard from her since last week." Someday, maybe, his father would understand what texting was. "I don't know where she is, but she better get back here soon and do some work. I'm tired of doing the stuff she should be doing for me. I got better things to spend my time on." His father may not know how to text, but he knew about business, and he knew it was Laleh that kept her brothers' businesses running, while they sat in cafes drinking coffee most of the day.

It took the family another week to understand they now might have to work more, because it became apparent Laleh was gone. Somewhere. No one knew where or why, but they knew she wasn't sitting in her apartment doing the things they needed her to do. This was the first time anything like this had happened in their family, and they were more pissed than worried. Maybe it was odd behavior on her part, but they viewed it more along the lines of bad behavior, because things were starting to slip in the old business department. Where the hell was she?

# Chapter 6 – Hanging With the Junes

Where the hell she was, was hanging out with the Junes in London. The day after meeting them in The Savoy restaurant and eating duck and roasted garlic potatoes (the burgundy went so WELL with the duck), she went to Chartres Cathedral, and the day after that she went with them to Kew Gardens, and the day after that to the Vic and Alby Museum. Each day they drank a different type of wine with lunch and a different type with dinner. The first day, she didn't do very well in the stamina department, not being used to drinking in general, and definitely not at lunch. She got pretty wiped out in the afternoon, but rallied for the Bordeaux at dinner. The next day she did better, getting the hang of it, watching how Gwenny and Roger drank, and by the end of the fifth day she was in decent wine drinking shape.

During these days the Junes followed their precept that asking a person questions is not a civilized form of communication. They didn't ask her 'what do you do?' or 'where are you from' or 'why are you alone' or any of that nosey stuff. They talked about gardens and art and museums and wine. The Junes are mad about wine, but are skilled at not falling into the clutches of alcoholism. The three of them ate and drank well, but also walked and walked and walked, which was necessary for Gwenny to keep that figure that would make Sharon Stone weep. One day when they were eating langoustines and drinking champagne about 3pm in the afternoon, Roger started talking about women's fashions, analyzing how other women in the garden restaurant were dressed.

He would start at their feet and work his way up, giving special attention to anyone wearing a hat, which he loved. Of course, he loved well-dressed women all the way from their toes to their noses, but he really liked hats, and said wearing one was a lost art. The key to wearing a hat, he discoursed, was keeping the women's ears in view. He said that women's ears were very sexy, and anything that covered them up, like hair or a hat, studiously must be avoided.

Gwen knew the answer to a certain question, but she asked it anyway, just for the fun of it. "Why are a woman's ears sexy?"

He said, "Actually, it's not her ears that are sexy, it's what's behind them that's sexy, and if you cover them up you also cover that up."

"What's sexy about the place behind a woman's ears?" asked Laleh, who thought this was a very interesting conversation.

"That's the best place to kiss a woman. Right behind her ears. You have the hair going on, and the throat, and hopefully some perfume, preferably OPIUM, and you can put your arms around a woman from the back and have something great to hang on to, and, well, they just seem to like that a lot." Roger took a sip of champagne.

Laleh looked at Gwen, who didn't say anything, but blinked her eyes in confirmation. Laleh wasn't sure she'd had exactly the same experience that Gwen had, but she filed this information away for future use. She also thought, 'Praise Allah, this combination of langoustines and champagne is unbelievably good,' and said, "Can we have this again for lunch tomorrow?"

Gwen nodded, and asked Roger, "Is that the only really good place to kiss a woman?"

Roger thought, 'Good God, langoustines and champagne go so well together,' and said, "Not the only great place, but the only great place you can talk about at lunch." He was well versed in Gwenny's tricks. "See that women behind the guy with the silver tie? Pretty, but she could be so much more so just by tucking her hair behind her ears. That way, we see the place right next to the place that's so great for kissing, and our fantasies have so much more to feast on."

Laleh, emboldened by the wine, said, "You fantasize a lot about that stuff?"

"All the time. Try never to let a day go by without one of those fantasies. Very good for the imagination and the spirit."

Laleh looked at Gwen, who said, "Fine by me. I'm always the beneficiary."

Roger, teasing, said, "How do you know you're the only beneficiary? What about the objects of my fantasizing? How do you know they don't benefit?"

Laleh waited with baited breath for the answer to that one. Gwen looked at her and said, "He prefers life to death, so I know they don't benefit." Laleh thought about the belief in all the male members of her family that they would enjoy the benefits of forty virgins if they died honorably, but didn't voice it, not being sure yet of the June's spiritual beliefs.

Roger stopped talking about hats and started talking about jewelry, and how women can use it to express their mood. He said, "Gold stuff usually is for French based feelings of contented personal power. Pearls are for Italian based feelings of light and elegant refinement. And green jade marks Far-eastern feelings of spice and sassiness. If you know stuff like this you can decipher the mood of any woman, just from her jewelry." There was one langoustine left on Gwen's plate, and he eyed it covetously. His mind switched from jewelry to what he could offer Gwen in exchange for the little lobster.

Laleh thought about the male members of her family, and she was pretty sure none of them had the same fantasy life as Roger June.

# Chapter 7 – Missing Person

The male and female members of Laleh's family were doing absolutely no fantasizing, whether about fashion or jewelry or wine or little lobsters from Norway. They were running around their houses and offices royally pissed off because Laleh wasn't there doing work for them for no pay other than the rent on her one bedroom apartment. Her father was sure she had run off with an inspector from the International Atomic Energy Agency, the group that had been trying to get into Iran's nuclear facilities for the last ten years. Her mother thought she was in a dorm at Tehran University, because one time when she was younger she had said she wanted to be an architect, and she thought Laleh now was revolting against being locked up in her apartment all day doing work for her younger brothers. Her younger brothers thought she was in the house of one of their competitors, spilling the beans on some of their clandestine business operations, getting even for being locked up in her apartment all day doing their work for them. Her older brothers thought she finally had found a guy on her own; not one of the business jerks they kept bringing around to inspect her suitability for a profitable marriage; and was shacked up with him in some secular hostel down in the one square block area of the city known as the arts district.

The entire family met at the parents' house and sat around drinking gallons of coffee and arguing their points of view. The only thing they could agree on was that their businesses were going to go down the tubes if she didn't knock off whatever it was that she was doing and get her ass back to work. Where the hell was she?

# Chapter 8 – The Big Guy

The Ayatollah sat in his office that was in the center of a massive complex of concentric circular walls. There were other offices, and laboratories, and meeting rooms, and guard rooms, and guard dorm rooms, and weapons rooms, and munitions rooms, and prayer rooms, and dining rooms. Lots of dining rooms because The Big Guy was big on eating. He didn't eat langoustines and drink champagne for lunch, the way the Junes did, but he wasn't on Meals Ready to Eat, either, the way the American solders just over the border in Iraq were. He did all right in the feed department. The Big Guy's complex was on a par with the Pentagon, because he knew he had to have all that infrastructure to keep his politico\religious operation humming. After all, he was duking it out with the United States, the European Union, the United Nations, Israel, and just about every other country in the world that wondered if his nuclear program really was just to produce electricity for his subjects' toasters.

So the complex with twenty layers of circular walls was not only necessary, it was comforting to him, for not only was he in conflict with most of the western world, but quite a few of his subjects were getting restless, too. Only the other day several hundred thousand of them had decided to hang out together in Azadi Square to offer their opinion on the direction down which The Big Guy was driving. He felt secure in his office, but he hadn't gotten where he was by not covering his bases. His rise to supreme potentate followed the precepts laid down by Machiavelli in The Prince, published in 1532, five years after the author's death. And precept Number One is, always have an escape route that no one else knows about. He was pretty sure the folks that had assembled in Azadi wouldn't take their complaints to a revolutionary conclusion, but he was prepared if they did, which contributed to his sense of security. There were the tunnels through all twenty circles of the complex; there were the armor-plated vehicles sitting in the garages, fully fueled; there was the helicopter hidden in the goat barn, with the pilot who doubled as goat herder; and last, but not least, there was the $100 million dollars sitting in the account in the bank on the warm and sunny Caribbean island that no one else in the world knew about. Now, that was personal security.

He switched the TV to the local news channel and saw there still were a few thousand diehards hanging around Azadi, surrounded by triple their number of Revolutionary Guard Corps special forces. That also produced a secure feeling, but you never really knew what might happen, and The Prince stated very clearly, don't take chances: complex, guards, armor-plated escape vehicles, secret helicopters, and lots of cash. Cash. Speaking of cash, it had been awhile since he had checked his account. A month at least. He reminded himself to do that sometime soon, but right now it was time for lunch. His second of the day.

# Chapter 9 – Getting Friendly

Hanging out with the Junes wasn't cheap. First there was the 820 pounds per day to stay at The Savoy, and then there were the restaurant bills. Drinking $300 bottles of Burgundy, Bordeaux, and Champagne twice a day added up. Hadn't she read somewhere, sometime, something about a connection between the human liver and alcohol? Oh well, not to worry, she trusted Gwen and Roger. If they could do it, she could do it.

And the reality was she was a lot richer than the Junes. She was a lot richer than almost everyone. The Junes were well off, but not exactly rich. If they were truly rich, they may not have gotten involved in all the shady deals they had over the years, most of which were connected, in one way or another, with artworks and antiques. Some of the artwork and some of the antiques were bona fide, and some weren't. Some were fake. Whether they were real or fake, their connection to the Junes usually produced a tidy little income, which went out as fast as it came it, being exchanged for all the expensive bottles of wine that also were connected to the Junes. Then again, even if the Junes truly were rich, they still might have gotten involved in the shady capers, just for the fun of it, because the Junes like excitement.

They weren't involved in any shady deal right now, though, sitting in the lobby of The Savoy, deciding whether to go to Covent Garden to see the ballet or stay in their suite and watch a DVD starring William Powell and Myrna Loy. Gwen said, "We've been burning the candle at both ends for a week now, since we met Laleh. Maybe we should stay in and watch the movie."

Roger knew enough not to argue, so they put the DVD in the player and settled in to watch their favorite movie couple. The craziness started immediately, with Myrna Loy trying to egg William Powell into a new detective venture, and him trying to avoid getting involved because he knew it would get in the way of his martini drinking. During a slow part in the movie, Gwen said, "How long are we staying in London?"

"As long as we want."

"How long is that?"

"Until we want to go home and see the dog."

"I miss him. He saved our asses that time." Gwen referred to the time the Russian woman came into their house at 3am, armed with a Walther PPK handgun, with malice aforethought. The dog heard her downstairs and woke up his owners, each of whom got out of bed with a gun in their hand, and waited, hidden, at the top of the stairs, for the woman to come up. Which she did, and they got the drop on her, and that started one of their wilder adventures. How she got into the house, past their alarm system and deadbolts, they never figured out. What they knew was that she didn't get past their dog, and from that day on they loved the dog twice as much as they did before, which was a lot.

Roger said, "Do you want to go home soon?"

"No. London is beautiful. Maybe in a week or so. And Laleh is interesting. We know nothing about her, and she's still interesting."

"It's odd, isn't it, not knowing anything about someone after spending most of a week with them? I don't even know what it is I find interesting about her, but it's something. You know what it is?"

Gwen said, "Shhh, this is a great scene." The great scene in the movie, one of the great scenes, had William Powell holding court in a fancy bar, teaching the bartender and everyone else who would listen how to mix the perfect martini. The bartender would mix one, and Powell would drink it, and say, "Not bad, but not perfect." And he would do some more instructing, and the bartender would mix another one, and he would drink it, and say, "Better. But not perfect." Then one of the customers would try his hand at mixing, with the same result. After Powell has drunk seven of the imperfect drinks, Myrna comes into the bar, dressed like a million bucks and knocking out all the guys. She says to the bartender, "How many has he had?"

"Seven."

She says, "Ok, line 'em up for me. All seven."

The bartender looks at William Powell for confirmation, but Powell looks away across the room, so the bartender proceeds to mix seven less than perfect martinis and lines them up on the bar in front of her. The director of the movie doesn't show her drinking them, but cuts to the next morning, in their bedroom, to her waking up with a hangover. She looks at Powell and says, "Well, was it worth this hangover?"

And he says, "My dear, we have twenty-five new friends now, all of whom told me that if we ever need to go to war, all we have to do is ask, and they will follow us." He pauses. "Yes, I would say it was worth it."

After Powell said that line, Gwen turned down the volume again and said, "I don't know what's interesting about her, but I know what you find interesting."

"What?"

"Her smile."

"A person's smile is enough to want to hang around them for a week, eating lunch and dinner every day?"

"Her smile is worth it, for a simple mind like yours."

Roger never resented statements like that coming from Gwen. He said, "For the moment, let's say that's true - all I care about is her smile. What makes you want to be with her as much as we have? What intrigues your noble and more complex intellect so much?"

"It's not my intellect that's intrigued. Something else."

"What?"

"Intuition."

"What's it tell you?"

"That we want her in our lives."

Roger thought about that for a moment, and said, "Ok."

# Chapter 10 – Getting into the Groove

Laleh had been in London for eight days, and had spent seven of them with the Junes. She had eaten langoustines five times, drunk Champagne eight times, Bordeaux four, and Burgundy six. She had looked at the form of Chartres Cathedral twice, been in the British Museum twice, and the Victoria and Albert four times. She and the Junes had logged about fifty miles on foot, walking the streets, which was the only thing that allowed her and Gwen to keep their stunning asses in shape, and Roger was all for them doing that to keep those attributes at the same aesthetic standard as Chartres. Laleh sat at the large window of her suite and watched the boats go by on the Thames. Eight days since leaving home, and now what was she supposed to do? She couldn't just eat, drink, and walk her way through the rest of her life, staring at art objects. Could she?

She was amazed at how calm she was, not knowing the answers to these questions. Eight days away from home; eight days in a strange city with strange people; eight days of drinking fine wine and being worth $100 million dollars. It was funny, this last point. She had all that money, and she hardly thought about it. She had her Savoy account debit card, and she picked up her share of the restaurant tabs, and that was pretty much the extent of her concern with it.

There was a concern about her wardrobe. On the second day with Roger and Gwen she had clocked the fact she couldn't go around with them in her jeans and trainers (sneakers), so she and Gwen had spent three hours without Roger at Harvey Nichols, and that had taken care of the problem, as now she was smoking hot in the fashionista department. One day at lunch Roger started to comment on her new look, and Gwen had cut him off, not wanting to make herself conscious. Most of the time when the trio walked the streets, Roger lagged a few paces behind the two women, starring at the sights. He'd been married to Gwen for twenty years, and he never tired of looking at her ass. And now he had two to look at: Gwen, left, right, up, down. Laleh, swing, up, right, left. Paradise.

Laleh forced herself to think of the future. Was she going to take up permanent residence at The Savoy? Apply for British citizenship? What would happen when Gwen and Roger left? She knew they missed their dog, the one who had saved them from the Russian woman with the Walther PPK in her hand, creeping up the steps of their house in the middle of the night, and would go back to Charleston soon. Charleston ! That was a nice name. Laleh wondered what it was like, set there on the shore of the United States, implacable enemy of her native country, led by The Big Guy, the Ayatollah. What about going to the island in the Caribbean where her money was? She realized she didn't even know the name of the island. It was 'St.' something. St. Tropez, was that it? Didn't seem exactly right. She'd have to look it up. What about a desert somewhere, similar to Iran? Maybe she'd feel comfortable there. They had deserts in Africa, didn't they?

She liked the way she felt, looking out the window of the hotel at the river. The boats moved slowly, at the same pace as her mind, slow and easy, no roaring currents, no waterfalls, no tempestuous rapids. Why was her mind like this? Shouldn't she be scared, or worried, or anxious about the future? She let this thought pass through her mind and evaporate, and what remained was a calm self-confidence. What remained was a desire for a glass of Champagne and a covert look from Roger at her legs. She liked Roger. She liked listening to him dissect the dress of a woman across the restaurant dining room, because he always was right about that stuff. Laleh was surprised when Gwen wouldn't allow him to go with them to Harvey Nichols, and she saw he had been disappointed. She didn't want to disappoint him in the fashion and ass showing department. That was fun.

Her thoughts turned to men in general. It had been over a year since she'd slept with one, and that is a long time. The only two men she knew in her new life now were Roger and The Savoy's doorman, whose name was Jools. Jools pretty much had decided he was going to make a pass at Laleh, because not only did her smile torch his heart, but it also fanned his loins. In the hotel industry, the number one capital crime to commit was for a staff member is to make a pass at a guest. This perspective applied also to his wife, who he knew would take equal, if not greater, exception. He rapidly was approaching the point of 'don't care, damn the torpedoes, job and marriage to the winds, I gotta get close to this babe'. Laleh was not at the same pressure point with him, however. She smiled at him several times a day, and he smiled back, but she thought it unlikely she was going to slip him her room card. Which led back to the other guy, Roger. She wondered what he was like in bed? Did he talk a lot? Was he aggressive or reserved? Did he place Gwen's needs first, and his second?

As she stared at the river she wondered where in England it started? How long was the Thames, and where did it end? At the sea, or did it empty into another river? English art was staggering in its beauty, judging by what she had seen so far. Maybe she should make this her new home, and learn about English history and food and art. Everyone at The Savoy was friendly, but that had something to do with her paying 820 pounds per day, plus the tips she would leave them when she checked out, a tradition she didn't yet know about. After her thought about the source of the Thames, the thought about Charleston returned. What kind of place was it? Were Americans as depraved as The Big Guy made them out to be? Were Roger and Gwen the rule or the exception? Again she marveled at the reticence they had displayed regarding her personal life. Not one, 'where are you from', or 'are you married', or 'what do you do for a living'? All they talked about was wine, food, art, and each other. Maybe she could find a guy she liked as much as Gwen liked Roger. That would be nice. But, where would that happen?"

# Chapter 11 – The First Investigation

After eight days of Laleh being AWOL from Tehran, her mother and father started to worry. None of the possibilities put forth by the family members had proven accurate, and no other ideas were even remotely feasible. The family gatherings to debate the issue were fewer now because everyone was scrambling to shore up their enterprises and keep them from going under. Her brothers, and even her father, were spending time at their businesses, actually working.

Her father said, "Maybe we should report this to the authorities."

Her mother said, "You want those bozos here, asking questions? If they ask questions about her, they're going to start asking questions about our operations. You want that?"

"I don't want that, but she's gone. Where? I miss her."

"You miss her doing all your work, that's what you miss." Her father looked hurt, but didn't say anything. Her mother went on, "I still think she's down at the university, taking architecture classes. If she doesn't come back in a few days, we'll go to the Revolutionary Guard boys, but I don't want to do that yet." He looked glum, and went back to studying the accounting and inventory books on the table.

# Chapter 12 - Retirement Flies Away

The crowds in Azadi Square had dissipated during the last week, with a little gentle encouragement from the Revolutionary Guard Corps members assigned to domestic control operations. A few people had disappeared permanently, but all in all, the entire affair had been minimal and not at all like the general strike a year ago, when a whole lot of people had disappeared. The Ayatollah had finished with the concubine a half hour earlier, and was staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, wondering if the celestial virgins really would be so much better than what he just had experienced. That was hard to imagine. If it was true, what a payoff for all his years of service to the country and his religion. Praise be to Allah !

Just as Laleh was staring at the Thames and wondering about her future, The Big Guy allowed his thoughts to veer away from his two main preoccupations, virgins and politics, to his future. How much longer was he going to do what he was doing? How much longer was he going to put up with the stress of managing the nuclear program, and the shit going on in Iraq and Syria and Lebanon? And these folks that kept gathering in the Square, how about them? Pains in the ass. He was a lot older than Laleh, but like her, he'd never been out of the country. What was that like? What was, say, Lake Como like, in Italy? He'd seen pictures of the estates on the shore of Como. Could he sit on the verandah of one of those, sip a little chilled green tea, wave at George Clooney, his neighbor, and take a boat trip across the lake, do a little shopping?

These thoughts captured his imagination in an unusual way, and he wondered what all that would cost? What would a nice house right on the shore of Como cost? Probably a lot, especially if it was right next to Clooney's place. But even if that were true, it should be no problem, because of his stash. That was a lot of money, and even though he never had investigated real estate prices in Italy, he figured it would be enough to buy a place in most locations. $100 million was a lot of cash. Thinking about the money reminded him of the island in the Caribbean where his cash sat, patiently waiting for him. What was the name of the island, 'St.' something? St. Tropez? That didn't sound right, but it didn't really matter. If he decided he didn't like rubbing shoulders with Hollywood swags like Clooney, he could always go to the island and hang out, whatever its name.

He sat up in bed and swung his legs over the edge, feeling for the silk slippers with his feet. His mind went on: Lake Como, 'St.' something, retirement, his concubines, which would have to do for the time being, his money. His money ! He hadn't checked his account in a long time, what with being distracted by those fucking inspectors from the International Atomic Energy Agency.

He rang for his servant, who came running. The Big Guy always was very demanding after a visit from one of the girls, which seemed to energize him. "Turn on the computer. I want to check something."

The servant said, "Yes, Boss."

The Aya didn't know how to turn it on himself, but once it was running he was able to launch the browser and get to the Bank of Tehran's website. He motioned to the flunky to get out, and went to his desk where he kept the little illuminated manuscript booklet that held his account number and password, which was fortyvirginsforever. No spaces. He couldn't remember it, but always was pleased when he looked in the little book and read it. Fortyvirginsforever. Oh, yeah ! He typed it in the box and hit the Enter key. The account page appeared immediately on the screen, but this time something was different. Something definitely was different. The Ayatollah squinted his aging eyes and looked carefully at the balance number to the right of the account number. Then he looked at the account number, and then back at the balance number. He couldn't remember his fortyvirginsforever password, so he definitely couldn't remember his account number, but it sure looked right. What didn't look right was the balance number. It seemed very different than the last time he had looked at it. Then, it looked like $100,000,000. Now, it looked like $0, and those are very different numbers, he was sure about that.

Behind his squinting eyes he squinted his brain, and tried to figure it out. Was something about the account really different, or was he making some stupid computer mistake? He logged out of the account, and reloaded the bank's webpage, and logged in again with his cool password, and then looked again at the account number and the balance number. They were the same as before, one familiar, and the big goose egg not at all familiar. Zero. Zero money. Zero cash. Zero American dollars in the account of the bank on the island of 'St.' something.

He got up from the desk, went back to the bed, and stretched out again, leaving his slippers on the floor. He wiggled his hairy toes, trying to ascertain if he was dreaming or not. He starred at the ceiling for a minute, and then remembered what the concubine had been like, and then revisited his fantasy of the place on the shore of Como, and then turned his head to the side and looked at the computer on the desk across the room. It still showed the bank's webpage, though at this distance he couldn't see the zero at the bottom right of the page, for which he was thankful. There still was a chance he was dreaming.

This chance evaporated when someone knocked on his door. "What?" he asked.

"Your Holiness, a call for you. Colonel Aliaabaadi. He says there's a problem at the border that requires your attention."

"Ok. One moment." Again he swiveled his legs over the edge of the bed and felt for his slippers. He walked over to the desk, and with great courage, bent his head down to look at the computer screen. The big fat zero still was there. Shit. He logged off the computer, put on his satin bathrobe with the scarlet swords of the Red Scimitar emblazoned across the back, and went to the bedroom door. When he opened it, and the servant saw his face, the servant had only one thought: when Colonel Aliaabaadi got his audience on the border problem, he better had tread softly.

# Chapter 13 – Thinking of Home

The buzz of the phone broke Laleh's reverie. It was Gwen, who said, "Hi. How are you?"

"Well. Just sitting and thinking a little."

"So are we. We may be going home soon, we're not sure."

"Is the dog all right?"

"Fine. It's just that we miss home. London is great, but so is Charleston."

"Home, yes."

"We don't know when you're going home, too, so we thought we'd plan our schedule for the next day or two around yours."

"Oh, thanks. I'd like that. I don't have a schedule. I'm not sure what's next for me. Home is not really in the equation anymore. What should we do?"

"How about breakfast tomorrow? Say eight o'clock, downstairs?"

"See you." Gwen hung up and looked over at Roger, who was watching Coronation Street, the English soap opera. "She'll meet us for breakfast tomorrow. But that was an odd conversation. Part of it."

"What'd she say?"

"She said that home wasn't part of her equation anymore."

"What's that mean?"

"Don't know."

"You going to ask her tomorrow?"

"Not polite to ask questions; not in this situation."

"Still, you're going to find out what she means."

"Yes."

"How?"

"Don't know."

Roger went back to the TV, trying to figure out the difference between a Cockney accent and a Yorkshire accent.

"I'm going to call Shimmy," which she did. Shimmy was a friend of the Junes, a writer who liked to housesit for them when they traveled because he wasn't wealthy like them, and liked staying in their beautiful historic house on Church Street, with their dog. He and the dog got along really well. Having to take the dog for another walk was one of the excuses Shimmy used a lot to avoid writing. The dog never got walked as much when under the care of Roger and Gwen, so he liked it when Shimmy was the boss of the house. Shimmy didn't have a dog of his own, so he didn't have that as an excuse for not sitting at the computer and doing what he should be doing, which was writing. Shimmy had retired prematurely from a regular job to be a writer, and now that he was one, he knew he was supposed to write. That's the deal. It's just that walking the dog, and preparing dinner, and shopping for new shoes on the internet, was easier than writing. Shimmy actually was sitting at the computer, wondering what the hell would happen next in his novel, having no clue whatsoever, when the phone rang. He didn't have to answer the phone because the Junes had an answering machine, but he went into the third floor study and answered it anyway.

"June's residence, Shimmy speaking."

"Hey Shim. It's Gwen."

The only thing Shimmy liked better than walking the June's dog was talking to Gwen June, especially in person. He really liked her. "Hi. Where are you? Everything here is good."

"We're still in London. Thinking of coming home soon, maybe in a few days. I just wanted to check in and let you know. When we decide, we'll send an email."

"Ok, I'll watch for it. The dog misses you."

"How many women you got in the house, Shim? We also wanted to give you time to boot them out."

"Only two now, Gwen. The other one left a few days ago, had to go back to Paris for the annual fashion show." Shimmy wished he had three girlfriends, or even two. He didn't have any right now, which was weighing on his mind, to say nothing of other parts of his body. "Thanks for the warning. I guess Veronica will have to go to a hotel while they finish rehabbing her mansion, and Cleo will have to go back to the marina and Seventh Heaven."

"How big is Seventh Heaven?"

"It's either a 120 footer or 140, I forget."

"How's the book coming?"

"Oh, great, great. Lots of progress, despite all the distractions. You can imagine all those distractions, can't you Gwen?"

"Yes, Shim, I can. You're not supposed to let that happen, you know. Writers write. But, with Veronica and Cleo hanging around, I can imagine the temptations. Well, give my best to the girls and the dog. See you soon."

Shimmy went back into the guest bedroom where he had his laptop on the desk. He starred at it for ten long seconds, and then whistled for the dog. Time for a walk.

# Chapter 14 – Meeting of Minds

The next morning on the way downstairs to the breakfast room Laleh wondered if there would be a bottle of wine on the table. That hadn't happened yet, but she wouldn't put it past the Junes. She said, "Good morning."

Roger got up from his chair, went behind Laleh's chair, and pulled it out for her. The guys in her family, and the guys her brothers had brought around hoping she would marry one of them; they never had pulled her chair out for her. Never once in all her years. Roger did this mostly out of Charleston style gentility, but there was an element of selfishness in it, that being the lovely view. Gwen was aware both of the gesture of gentility and the self-serving element but she never was jealous. She didn't have to be.

To be honest, Laleh was a little disappointed there wasn't a bottle on the table. Didn't really matter what kind; maybe something light from the Loire, maybe something a little sweet from Vouvray or the Mosel; maybe even, and she really was getting sick here, a bottle of bubbly. Laleh didn't know about alcoholism. If she did, she might worry a little; might think in terms of warning signs. But she didn't know about it, so she didn't worry. She felt a little disappointed, but not too much, because she knew the Junes would remedy this oversight at lunch.

One of Gwen's ploys when she couldn't figure out something was to put Roger on it. She would watch and listen how Roger attacked the problem, and that would lead her to the correct solution. It wasn't that she would do the opposite of him, or would learn from his botching of the situation. It was just an odd synergy they had, working the same problem from slightly different angles. She didn't know how she would find out what Laleh meant about not having a home, since she refused to ask her directly, so she figured she'd let Roger dink around the subject for a while.

After ordering breakfast, Roger said to Laleh, "Do you have a dog? We just talked with the person taking care of ours while we're away, and he said the dog misses us. The dog is smart, but I'm not sure how he expressed that to our house sitter."

"No, though I love them," Laleh said. I didn't have a good place for a dog, not enough room and not enough time."

"We're semi-retired, so we have time to play with ours, take him for walks. And we owe him, cause one time recently he saved us from some trouble."

Gwen didn't think it was right to tell Laleh about the home invasion by the armed Russian woman, which Roger was on the brink of doing, the dork. As usual, though, he had provided her with the opening she needed. She said, "We live in an old house in an old neighborhood, with a backyard enclosed by brick walls, so the dog has a good place to be outside, and we have good places to walk him nearby." She ate a little yogurt with fruit, then said, "I know what you mean by thinking people should have a good place for a dog if they're going to have one. Too bad you couldn't have one if you like them so much."

"I had an apartment in the city. Lots of crazy traffic, not a lot of parks, and I worked a lot, so not good for a dog. Not even good for a cat."

Both Gwen and Roger noted the past tense of the apartment thing. Roger said, "So are things different now? Maybe have a dog in the future?"

Laleh said, "Things definitely are different for me now. I don't live there anymore." She didn't elaborate, but the Junes didn't get the feeling she deliberately was being reticent. More like she didn't know herself.

Gwen said, "Sometimes changes are good. We've been on an extended vacation for the last few months. Before that we worked on an opera in Charleston. We were the producers, and it was seven days a week for us for months, no breaks. We like the change to being free from that pressure, doing a little traveling, hanging out at home." She hoped Laleh would take the bait and open up. Which she did.

"I'm not sure they'd let me have a dog here. I don't know a lot about English hotels. Or any kind of hotels, for that matter. Would they?"

Roger looked at his wife, then said, "You live here? At The Savoy?" She nodded. "And this is the first time you've stayed here?"

She nodded again, and said, "My first time in England. My first time in Europe, for that matter."

They were getting closer to cracking her mystery, without entering the realm of conversational purgatory, the interrogative. First looking askance at her husband, and then winking at Laleh, Gwen said, "If you paid them enough here, they'd let you keep a gorilla in your room."

Laleh got a kick out of being around the Junes gentle banter, which became more amusing the more wine they drank. She said, "I've never been to America either. I guess it's a lot different from here?"

"It's different and the same. America's a big place, and people are different in different parts of the country. We have it all there."

"Iran has different parts to it too, with different types of people. I'm from the city, and people out in the country are very different. Very religious. People in Tehran are religious too, most of them, but not quite as nuts. Well, some are nuts, I have to admit that, which is why I left. I didn't like it much there anymore." She ate some kippers and eggs, which she had gotten fond of after Roger had recommended them as something very English. "That's why I'm here. I'm looking for a new place to live, and London seemed like a good place to start looking. Then I met you, and that's been a big distraction from my looking. Drinking wine every day is lots of fun, but not conducive to thinking seriously about one's future life.

Roger piped up with, "We know people whose lives consist of drinking wine every day. That's what they do. We could introduce you."

Gwen picked a croissant out of the basket and threw it at him, which he fielded nicely. "Don't listen to him. That's what he would like to do, become a complete lush, but I won't let him. When we get back to Charleston we're going to have to dry out for a while."

He said, "We are?"

Intuitively, Gwen made a decision of the kind that Roger loved her for. She said, "We've liked being around you for the last week. We're not sure what it is, but there's something, ah, special about you; something intriguing." Roger knew one of the things about her he was intrigued with, not that he ever would experience it other than vicariously, but that still was a lot. "Would you like to visit America? Would you like to come to Charleston with us? Stay at our house for a while? With us and the dog?"

Laleh blinked, looking first at Gwen and then at Roger. Her fork, delicately loaded with a piece of the herring and a piece of scrambled egg, was positioned half way between her plate and her mouth. It had stopped there when Gwen asked her these questions, the first personal ones in the week they had known each other. Roger bet himself she would put the fork down on her plate, while Gwen bet herself she would continue the movement of the food towards her mouth. Telepathically they wagered the winner would buy dinner that night at whatever outrageously expensive restaurant they went to.

After three seconds of immobility, Laleh lowered her fork to her plate, which pleased Roger immensely, and motioned the waiter over to the table. She ordered a bottle of Mumms, which didn't shock the waiter as much as you might think, The Savoy serving a diverse clientele that included a lot of rich rock bands. When the wine was in the glasses, and some of the effervescence had dissipated, the way Roger had taught her, Laleh raised her glass in a toast, and said, "What's the dog's name? I'll need to know that."

# Chapter 15 – The Big Guy's Eyes Open Wide

Colonel Aliaabaadi wasn't sure what the flunky was trying to tell him with all the facial contortion stuff: the wiggling of the eye brows and the twitching of the head, etc. The Colonel hadn't gotten to where he had in the Revolutionary Guard Corps by being a candyass, so he grabbed the guy by the shoulder and said, "What is it, moron?"

The flunky again jerked his head towards The Ayatollah's quarters and whispered, "Watch your ass."

Nobody in the Colonel's battalion ever told him to watch his ass, so this captured his attention, coming even as it did from a central compound domestic flunky. He wondered what was up with The Big Guy as he walked across the hall to the door and knocked.

"Yes?"

He entered, closed the door, and said, "Your Holiness, I have important news from the border."

Nothing happening at the border could possibly be as important to The Big Guy as figuring out where his money went, but he realized he had to maintain a pretext of national concern and leadership. Roughly he said, "What is it?" If this had been a normal morning, automatically he would've sorted through the possibilities: a convoy of his had been blown up by one of the opposition forces; a convoy had been blown up by an American cruise missile fired from a depth of 500 feet by a sub somewhere near New Zealand; the Colonel's boys had gotten hold of another CIA drone and were wondering what to do with this one; one of their mobile missile launchers camouflaged as a herd of camels had a nose cone out of which was leaking some radioactive substance; or the Guard boys had found some Israeli commandos who had crawled three hundred kilometers through the desert on their bellies, trying to infiltrate one of Iran's nuclear sites, and were asking what the hell to do with them.

If it had been a normal morning, he would have been moderately interested in which of these possibilities the Colonel had brought to him for consideration. Now, he wasn't interested in any of them, even slightly, but he had to pretend he was. The Colonel sensed he needed to watch his ass, just as the flunky had warned. Hesitantly he said, "We've captured some Israeli commandos coming across the border on their bellies. We think they were heading for the Ardekan site."

"How far is Ardekan from where you found them?"

"About 150 kilometers."

"They were going to crawl another 150 kilometers through the sand, and then try to get into the site?"

"That's what we think, Your Holiness."

"How far have they crawled so far?"

"No telling, Your Holiness. Those guys come out of nowhere."

"How were they going to get into the site, after crawling all that way through our stinking desert?"

"They had shovels, Your Holiness. Each guy had a shovel." The Colonel started to worry about the direction of the conversation. The dialogue didn't sound as good now as it had earlier when he prepared mentally for the briefing.

If it had been a normal day, rather than a really bad day, The Big Guy might have found the conversation to be weird, too, but he was distracted. "So what do you want me to do? They're soldiers, and you're a soldier. I'm a holy guy. Shouldn't you deal with this?"

"If they were another Islamic sect, against us, I'd deal with it. But them being Jews, and Israelis, that's a different ballgame. That's touchy." He wanted to say, 'Isn't that what you get paid to do, deal with this kind of international hot potato?' but he didn't, remembering the 'watch your ass' admonition from the flunky.

The Ayatollah dragged his mind away from his missing $100 million, and asked, "What are our options?"

Aliaabaadi again thought, 'That ain't my job,' but said, "We can kill them and bury them in their tracks. We can offer them in a prisoner exchange for some of our guys they have over there. Or we can turn 'em around 180 degrees and make 'em crawl back where they came from; pretend the whole thing never happened. Hope they wear a little more skin off their elbows and knees."

Normally, being the bloodthirsty bastard he was, The Big Guy would have chosen the first option. But now, having been thinking of retirement, and worrying that his retirement was jeopardized by the loss of his money, he said, "Let them go. Turn 'em around and kick 'em in the ass, and tell 'em to go back to our land in Jerusalem. Tell 'em they'll be seeing our tanks there soon."

The Colonel, also being a bloodthirsty bastard, was a little disappointed with the decision, but at the same time, sensing something serious was going on here in the central core of the compound, he figured he didn't need to antagonize anything or anyone by calling attention to some Zionist commandos who'd gotten pinched. Let crawling dogs lie. He said, "Yes, Boss," and got his still intact ass out of there.

With that distraction dealt with, The Big Guy got back to serious business. His bad business. What the hell had happened to his money? Who had done this? How? Was this some mistake, or was it real?

His problem was that he didn't have anyone he could trust to figure this out. He didn't have a technical financial guy that could do a forensic assessment of his computer and his bank accounts, and figure out what had happened. The guy who had set up the accounts in the first place and transferred the money from the national oil accounts into the account on the Caribbean island that was named 'St.' something, now peacefully was sleeping with the fishes in the bottom of a well out in the Iranian hinterlands. So The Ayatollah had no go-to guy. What was he going to do?

What he did was go back into his bedroom and ring the bell for the flunky, who came running. "Yes, Your Holiness?"

"Send in one of the terrestrial virgins. The one with the big knockers."

"Yes, Your Holiness."

# Chapter 16 – The Guard Responds

The five plain clothes Revolutionary Guard Corps guys (no women allowed) sat in the living room of Laleh's parents, along with the parents and all the brothers and sisters and in-laws. The Guard guys could see that all the family members were upset, but they seemed more pissed than worried, which they found odd. The Colonel said, "Why do you think something bad happened to her?"

The father said, "Because she's never done anything like this before. She's a good girl, she is."

"What does she do? Is she married? How old is she?"

While the mother answered the questions, the wife of the youngest brother, the person lowest on the totem pole, served the Guard guys coffee in little cups, which they needed to keep awake from this boring assignment of investigating a missing person. They would rather have been duking it out in the trenches with Zionist commandos, or so they thought, none of them ever having actually met an Israeli before, in combat or for lunch. There were five of them on this assignment because the Colonel had to give them something to do once in a while. He had two hundred guys in his group, and work for only about thirty of them. The rest were there just in case the civilian population got uppity, or the Americans attacked. It was lucky for them that Iran has a lot of oil money to pay all the government employees they have on the roles that don't do any, or much, work. So the four lower ranked guys sat around the living room drinking coffee and wondering if any of the wives and daughters of this clan fooled around.

The Colonel said, "So what does she do on her computer?"

The father said, "She helps us with our businesses. She's good with numbers and she keeps track of things for us."

"Like what?"

"Well, like our money, what little there is of it. And our liabilities."

"Assets," said the mother.

"What?"

"She keeps track of our assets, not our liabilities, you idiot." She smiled at the Guard. "He's not too good with some aspects of some of our businesses."

The wife of the fourth youngest son, who didn't like the wife of the third youngest son, Yousef, said, "She keeps track of Yousef's liabilities, because that's all he ever has. He has no assets."

Yousef's wife, looked daggers at the one who had dissed her husband and said, "At least we didn't give that thumb drive to the guys from Finland without getting paid for it first, the way Kahleed did with the computer parts."

Everyone in the room looked at the wives of the third and fourth youngest sons, especially the Guard Colonel. The father was the first to react, and said, "Don't pay any attention to either of those two; they don't have anything to do with our businesses. They watch soap operas on TV all day, and get strange ideas. Khaleed, Yousef, get them out of here." Whereupon the sons grabbed their wives by the arms and led them down the long hall and out the back door.

The Colonel wasn't sure what to do. Continue the investigation of the missing daughter, or turn his attention to the more interesting issue with Finland. The mother was sharp, getting out of her chair and kneeling down in front of the Colonel. She took his hand in hers and said, "Please, find our Laleh. She's missing. She's been gone for three weeks, and we need her back to straighten out our accounts and inventories. We're going down the tubes, here."

The Colonel wrote down a few more notes next to Laleh's name: good with computers, knows money stuff, parents and brothers more interested in her for her business skills than as family member, these people more connected than they want us to know, missing three weeks. That was more than he wanted to know about any of these people, and it was a lot more than any of the other four Guards wanted to know. They wanted to know when they could get out of this place and back to playing cards in the barracks.

When they left the mother rolled her eyes and said, "Our protectors. Jesus !"

The second youngest son said, "Who?"

When Colonel Aliaabaadi got back to the barracks he sat down at his desk and looked at the large calendar that served as a desktop. He counted back three weeks, and in the square of that date wrote, "Laleh woman goes missing." And promptly forgot all about her. For a while.

# Chapter 17 – Back to Charleston

Shimmey called the airport security office and asked if dogs were allowed in the terminal. He thought surprising the Junes would be nice, but he was told no, except for special assistance dogs and K9 dogs, so he had to make the pickup alone. He had mixed feelings about the Junes returning. On the one hand he would be happy to see them and have them back as close friends, but on the other hand he would have to go back to his apartment where he wouldn't have walking the dog as an excuse for not working on his novel. Gwen had emailed him and told him the date and time of their arrival, and also had said they would have a friend with them, and would he make sure one of the other guest rooms was ready. He wondered who this friend was.

Roger and Gwen were the first to come down the ramp and enter the terminal waiting area, looking better than Catherine Zeta-Jones and Clooney had when they arrived at LAX after returning together that year from the opening of Ocean's Twelve at Cannes. Shimmey loved that movie, and everything about Catherine and George, but not as much as he loved seeing Gwenny again. She looked great, like always, and every guy in the room looked at her as she got a welcome home kiss from Shimmy, after which he shook hands with Roger. At this point his attention, and that of all the guys in the room, shifted from the blond hair of Gwen to the jet black hair of Laleh, who stood just behind Roger, starring at Shimmey. She could see Shimmy was totally different from Roger, but still nice. Roger was distinguished in an unassuming way, while Shimmy was, sort of, innocent. Laleh was surprised to think that an American could look innocent, her having been told from a young age that all Americans were like devils, only worse. In addition to thinking of him as innocent, she also thought he was cute. A cute little devil, maybe.

Roger introduced them, and then moved the group down the terminal to the baggage claim. An hour later they climbed the back steps into the June's home, where the dog went berserk in the kitchen, knocking over two counter stools, his water dish, and half of the suitcases. Gwen played with him while Roger and Shimmey lugged the luggage up the stairs, some of it to the second floor, and Laleh's stuff to a guest room on the third floor. On the way down Shim brought his stuff and set it next to the back door. Roger was mixing drinks at the bar in the kitchen, Laleh and the dog were making friends, and Gwen was looking in the refrigerator for something to serve with the drinks. Roger asked Laleh, "What would you like?" He was mixing a cognac and soda for himself and a Sidecar for Gwen.

"What are you making?"

"Cocktails."

"What are cocktails?"

Roger looked at Gwen, then said, "They're drinks made with hard liquor. Would you like wine instead?"

"No. I'll have what Gwen's having."

So he made another Sidecar, and looked at Shimmey, who said, "I'll have what you're having," which pleased Roger, the girls and boys now being equal.

Gwen sat on one of the stools the dog had knocked over in his excitement, and said, "Did you get all the babes out of the house, or are there still a few upstairs?"

Shimmey looked pleased that Gwen would joke with him about that subject, her knowing something about his love life over the last few years, that being that the quality was there while the quantity was not. He seemed to be without a girlfriend more than with one, which always puzzled Gwen, given his looks and affability. Laleh sat quietly, her attention divided equally between exploring the delicious drink in her hand and listening to the banter. Gwen's conversational directness fascinated her. It seemed that Gwen remained on point all the time, yet did so effortlessly.

"I think they're all gone, but I kind of lost track over the last few days." Instinctively, Shim knew that wisecracking with Gwen was all right, but that he shouldn't include Laleh in it, because he didn't know her at all, and didn't want to goof up with her right out of the chute. He wanted to know her story, and what she was doing here with the Junes, but he subscribed to the same code of etiquette as the Junes, and wouldn't come right out and ask any personal questions. Roger knew what he was thinking, though, and helped him out.

"We met Laleh at The Savoy. She's never been to The States, so we asked her to come back with us for a visit; spend some time in Charleston with us. She likes wine almost as much as we do."

"Speaking of which," said Gwen, "we better give some serious thought to drying out over the next week. Starting, like, tomorrow." Looking at Shim she said, "We've been lushing it up over there pretty good." Roger looked depressed, and if Laleh had been able to follow Gwen's point, she would have been depressed too, seeing as how she was really enjoying the wine at every meal deal. She went on, "Shim's a writer, and one of our best friends. He housesits for us and takes great care of the dog." She looked at him fondly. "You serious about any of the babes? Veronica? Cleo?" He shook his head. She didn't look at Roger, but telegraphically she sent him the message, "What about these two?"

He didn't look at her, either, but silently answered, "I don't know if he can handle her. You said she's special, right?"

"That doesn't mean she's a man-eater. I said she's special, but I don't know how, yet. We'll figure that out over the next few weeks. She thinks Shim is cute, though. I can tell that."

Roger looked at Laleh, who had drained the Sidecar and was hoping Roger was going to offer her a refill. How could Gwen tell she thought Shim was cute? He couldn't tell, just by looking at her, but one thing he knew was that his wife never was wrong about stuff like this. So, Shim was in luck. Now, how would he handle this? Whatever was going to happen, Roger thought it was going to be fun, and having two beautiful women in his house was double the pleasure. Not exactly double, of course, but it still was a good thing. He looked around and said, "We ready for more drinks?" Laleh smiled at this, and then smiled at Gwen, and then smiled at Shimmey. Her first night in America, and she was feeling good.

# Chapter 18 – The Real Junes

The next morning Laleh woke up to find the dog sitting next to her bed, politely waiting to be taken for a walk. In Charleston even the dogs are polite. And Shimmey had spoiled the dog by taking it for so many walks every day, all the better to avoid working on his book. The Junes enjoyed walking the dog around their neighborhood, either together or separately, but they didn't have the motivation Shim did. Instinctively the dog knew the day would come when Shim would leave and the number of walks would decrease; just as he knew, joyously, that Laleh now would take over that important responsibility. They had bonded immediately.

Laleh was a little hung over from the three Sidecars she'd had, that being her introduction to cognac, Grand Marnier, and lemon juice, but she got up to begin her exploration of America, the devil's playground. And what better way than to take the dog for a stroll around the neighborhood. She showered, drank a glass of water, dressed in something casual she had picked out at Harvey Nichols, and went down the two flights of stairs to the hall. The dog went to the front door and looked at her. She looked back and asked, "Can I get a cup of coffee first?" The dog wasn't happy with the delay, but understanding she was a newbie, he nodded, Yes.

Under his breadth he added, "Just don't take too long, ok?"

She smelled coffee in the kitchen, headed that way, and found Roger and Gwen sitting at the large oval table on which sat the remains of their breakfast: scramble eggs, home fried potatoes, fruit, and coffee. Roger was reading the Washington Post, and Gwen was cleaning two of her handguns, a Glock forty caliber and an H&K nine millimeter. The sight of the guns activated Laleh's sense of smell, which now detected the odor of gun oil mixed with the smell of the coffee. She'd never seen a handgun before except on TV and in movies, because the Rev Guard Corps in Tehran all carried assault rifles, and citizens were not permitted to own handguns. There was something incongruous about seeing one of the guns next to the half full bowl of blueberries, and the other in Gwen June's lovely right hand.

Despite her hangover Laleh was alert, and said, "Expecting trouble this morning? Hope those aren't on my account."

Both of them smiled, and Roger said, "She wanted to make sure none of Shimmey's women had messed with her guns. He hangs around with those dangerous and desperate types."

Gwen said, "Would you like some breakfast? Coffee?"

"Coffee please. Maybe something to eat when I come back from walking the dog. He only gave me five minutes, said he wanted to show me around the neighborhood." She sat down and continued looking at the guns. None of the people in her family ever had pulled her chair out for her to sit down at the table, and none of them ever had cleaned guns at the breakfast table, either. These Junes were full of surprises.

Roger said, "I have some bad news."

Laleh thought, 'The Guard knows I'm here.'

"No wine today. Gwen's orders. Thinks we may become alcoholics."

"What's an alcoholic?"

"It's a person who's addicted to wine and Sidecars. Wants them all the time."

Laleh said, "What's wrong with that?" And smiled.

Gwen said, "We gotta dry out more than one day. That's not enough."

Roger said, "Ok, two, if we have to go to extremes."

Laleh sipped the Kenyan coffee and asked, "So what are we going to do today, after I walk the dog? Shoot somebody or something?"

"What do you want to do?"

"Meet some Americans. Have lunch with Shim. Learn how to shoot a gun."

Together Roger and Gwen said, "Ok."

# Chapter 19 – An Underperforming Big Guy

The Lesser Ayatollahs knew something was bothering The Big Guy. The Lessers are like the Cardinals of the Catholic Church, big in their own right, in their own realms, but nothing in terms of power compared to you know who. The Big Guys rules, and now something was distracting him from the affairs of state. All kinds of things were going on in the country that needed his wisdom and attention, but he had his mind on something else, though none of the Lessers knew what. The gossip mill was in full production mode.

The inspectors from the UN were camped outside the gates of the main nuclear complex, the one that said Allah's Power and Light on the huge sign out front. They had been there for three weeks, sleeping outside the chain-link fence, vowing to stay until they were allowed in. Of course, they all earned about $300,000 a year from the UN treasury, meaning the US Treasury, and getting paid whether they produced results or not. Plus they each were granted a $300 per diem, which added up to a nice perk considering the daily rates they paid for the sleeping bag on the ground outside the fence, and the pita bread and goat cheese sandwiches they had delivered to them from town. The Lessers wondered what to do?

Then there were the constant incursions by the Mossad commandos, underground, through the air, in the water, everywhere. The Rev Guard Corps guys swore the Israelis had developed stealth clothing that rendered the wearer invisible. When they did catch a commando, and they had no idea what their capture rate was, it could have been 10% or 80%, they were all for just killing him or her on the spot and burying him or her in the flower beds, but the Ayatollah's policy was to exchange them for their guys who had been caught in Tel Aviv. The problem was that sometimes The Big Guy violated his own policy and had them executed, and other times he didn't, so the Guard guys were confused. The flunky that served The Big Guy had this figured it out, but never told anyone. If The Big Guy had a good session with one of the terrestrial virgins, he felt benevolent towards his enemies, and exchanged them. On the other hand, if he had a so-so session, which was occurring more and more often the older he got, then he tended to deal with those captured more severely.

The other thing he was ignoring was the mounting toll the world-wide sanctions were having on the economy. The oil revenue simply was not enough to keep the store shelves stocked, and people were getting more and more pissed. A lot of important people were saying, let the inspectors in. Let them see what there is to see. Who cares? We need imports. But The Big Guy wasn't interested in making any policy changes on that score. He didn't seem to listen to anyone about that, or anything else, for that matter. Even the Lessers were starting to grumble, wondering where his mind was these days, and they were having more and more trouble keeping their constituents under their thumbs. All they heard from them was, "I want an IPhone, I want tickets to the soccer match, I want a car that has four wheels instead of three, I want the latest Spielberg DVD, I want I want."

The Lessers weren't the only ones grumbling. So was the flunky. In addition to making tea eight times a day, and making the bed eight times a day, and waking The Big Guy up from his nap eight times a day, he was out scouring the streets for virgins, more and more. The Big Guy was running through them like Sherman through Dixie. Like Tiger Woods through his groupies. First he had to find a woman who had the parts that matched The Big Guys specifications, then he had to negotiate the monetary terms of the engagement, and then he had to train her how to act like a virgin, or at least act the way The Big Guy thought a virgin should act, considering he never actually had had a virgin. All this was running the poor flunky ragged, and with no increase in compensation. In this, he was like a lot of people these days around the world, doing more work for the same pay. But it was better than being one of the guys or gals who got to go down into the reactors and change out the fuel rods every couple of months.

Still, even with all this work, the flunky wondered what was on his boss's mind. Something was nagging at him, and nagging at him bad. What was it? It all had seemed to start that day two weeks ago when The Big Guy had had him turn the computer on for him. Yes, that was it. Something on the computer. Something had happened then.

# Chapter 20 – Hanging out with Gwen and Shimmey

When Laleh came back from a trip around the block with the dog, Roger fixed her eggs and potatoes and another cup of coffee. She felt better after eating and getting some exercise, and was ready for whatever Gwen threw her way, except maybe the gun thing. She was having second thoughts about guns, and decided she needed to know more about why Gwen owned multiple guns before she learned how to shoot one. Maybe she should start this whole Charleston thing slowly. She said, "The neighborhood is beautiful, and so quiet for being in the middle of a city. It's not like where I used to live. Everyone there likes to blow their car horns at each other all day long."

Roger asked, "How long did you live in Tehran?" She had opened that conversational door, so a question was appropriate.

"My whole life. I'm thirty-five, and London was the first time I ever left."

"Is that common, to not travel?"

"It used to be very common. Now not so much. But that's the way it is in my family. The women don't do a whole lot. My brothers travel some for business. None of my family ever has been out of the Middle East. Never to the West. I'm the first."

Gwen said, "If you don't consider Tehran your home anymore, where is your home?"

Laleh didn't answer. She just ate some more eggs, which Roger had scrambled with onions and red bell peppers. Gwen asked, "What would you like to do today?"

"Is drinking wine with lunch really out?" she asked. Gwen nodded. "Well then, I don't know. I could take the dog for another walk. Or maybe take a walk with Shim. I don't want to bother you."

Roger said, "Shim probably is working on his book, being very dedicated and serious about his writing." The dog, who was lying on the floor and happy to have his masters back home, raised his head at this statement, and thought, 'He is?'

Gwen also questioned Roger's statement, thinking that Shim might very well choose to take a walk with Laleh rather than sweat it out over the computer keyboard. He had published half a dozen romantic comedies which had sold moderately well, but Gwen knew where his priorities lay, and a woman who looked like Laleh was right down that track. Gwen said, "Come on, I need some exercise after sitting in that plane and in the airports all day yesterday. And we need some time alone together. Let's take a walk along The Battery and then up King Street. We'll stop by Shim's apartment on our way home, see what he's doing for dinner."

"Is wine out for dinner, too?"

"Fraid so, hon. We need to dry out for a few days. Then we can get back to it. Let's go." As they headed for the door Gwen yelled back into the kitchen, "That goes for you too, Roger. Stay out of the wine cellar."

As they walked along The Battery, Gwen gave Laleh a geography lesson about Charleston harbor. Across there is James Island, this is the tip of the peninsula, way out there in the water, with the flags flying, is famous Fort Sumter. Laleh said, "What's it famous for?"

"It's the place where our Civil War started."

"When was that?"

"1861-1865."

"Who won?"

"Well, that's complicated. I can tell you more about that some other time, but the outcome was that we stayed together as one country rather that breaking into two countries." They walked farther around the tip, where Gwen pointed out a huge cubicle house built halfway out a long dock that stretched into the harbor. "We know the person that owns that place. It's beautiful inside, with an incredible view of the harbor. I haven't been inside in a couple of years."

"Is he a good friend?"

"No, more like a business associate now. We see each other once in a while. At one time he wasn't our friend at all; the opposite really. Then we got involved together on a project in which we had a common interest, so we spent a lot of time together. But when that was over, we went our separate ways." Gwen didn't go into the details of their association with Pmirhs Stirg, which over a period of a few years had ranged from implacable enemies to project teammates. She didn't mention to Laleh that Stirg was one reason why she owned multiple guns, was fastidious about keeping them clean, and keeping herself and Roger in top handgun operating condition, mentally and physically. You never know when an association as volatile as theirs might just go south again.

They walked up King Street where Gwen showed Laleh the Charleston Library Society, the second oldest library in America, and then the place where the street changed width. She told her the story of the 1865 fire that had swept across the peninsula. The street was narrow where the fire had not burned the buildings, and was wider where the buildings had been destroyed. When they rebuilt the buildings they had widened the street by a few feet. After a couple of hours of strolling and shopping, Gwen took her into The Hall, on John Street just off King. She unlocked the stage entry door down the alley, which led into the backstage area where the offices were, turned on the lights, and led her out onto the stage. Laleh faced the 800 seats and the banks of lights on the gantries overhead. She'd never been on a stage before.

Gwen rolled a couple of chairs out from the wings, and they sat down. "Roger and I spent a lot of time in here a year ago, and a lot of time in here a year before that. Every day for months on end."

"Doing what?"

"The first time we produced a ballet. Do you know who Igor Stravinsky was?" Laleh shook her head, no. "How about Pete Townshend and The Who?"

She shook her head again, and said, "The who?" Gwen let that pass.

"How about Catherine Deneuve, the French actress, and Mikhail Baryshnikov, the dancer?"

Laleh wasn't much up on western art and culture, but she said, "I know who George Bush is. Or was." Gwen let that pass too.

"That's ok. All those people were part of the ballet. It was hard work, but an incredible experience. Wild. The second time we worked here was not too long ago, and that time we produced a rock opera. Do you know Paul McCartney?"

This time she nodded, yes, and said, "I love his voice."

"He was part of that show, along with another great singer, Renee Fleming. I'll play her Dark Hope CD when we get home. She's the greatest. Every time Roger hears her sing, he says he wants a divorce so he can go chase her and see if she'll have him." Laleh knew Gwen was joking. She'd never been around two people more in love than the Junes.

"Are you going to do another production soon?"

"We don't go looking for work like that. Both of those fell out of the sky on us, and both were unbelievable experiences; the greatest things I've ever done, really." Gwen didn't include on that list the episode of stealing artifacts from the warehouses of the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg, Russia, and smuggling them back to Charleston, but she could have. That was right up there with the musical productions in the excitement department. She said, "If something like that came our way again, I'd do it. That is, if Roger wanted to. I wouldn't do it without him." Laleh didn't think Gwen would do anything without him. Then Gwen said, "Let's go see what Shim's up to."

They walked to his condo near Waterfront Park, which was where he had invested the earnings from his books. It was small but classy, and in a great part of town. Gwen banged on the door and yelled, "Everyone up and get dressed. Vice squad."

As Shim answered the door he turned and yelled towards his living room, "Hey, everyone back in the bedroom, and take your clothes with you. I'll handle this." He turned and smiled at Gwen, then noticed Laleh behind her, and wished he hadn't said such a dumb thing. Gwen could joke around, and always got away with it, but he didn't have that gift. He didn't know Laleh's sense of humor. The women entered, and Shim said to Laleh, "Just joking around. Sorry."

She said, "Can't I meet your friends, just as they are?"

Gwen winked at Shim and said, "What's that tell you?"

Shimmey wasn't sure, because being a writer, he wasn't very sophisticated about a lot of things. But if Gwen thought something was good, and she did here with whatever was going on over his head, that was all right with him. He said, "It's five o'clock. Can I get you a glass of wine or a cocktail?"

"Not for me thanks," said Gwen. I'm on the wagon for a few days. She may want something."

Laleh did want something, another Sidecar, especially because Shim was present, but she remembered something Gwen said about alcoholism, and said, "Not for me either. Maybe tomorrow."

Gwen went out on the balcony and looked at the harbor, while Shim showed Laleh his place. The three sat on the balcony, all of them wishing they were drinking alcohol of some kind. Shim got up and brought back a pitcher of sweet iced tea and a bowl of cashews, and Laleh told Shim what she had seen of the town. After half an hour Gwen looked at her watch and said, "Roger's taking me out to dinner. We're not back into the cooking thing yet. See you two tomorrow," got up, and left. She didn't wink at either one of them, but telepathically said to both of them, "Have fun."

Laleh sipped at her tea, wishing it was green tea, like she drank back home, ate a few cashews, then said, "You have any champagne?" Shim went to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of nonvintage Moutard rose. Laleh drank the first glass in three sips, savored the rich pinot noir flavors, and said, "Praise be to Allah. That is good stuff."

Shim finished his, refilled their glasses, got an ice bucket from the kitchen, sat down, and said, "So you're Islamic." He felt ok saying this, even though it was personal, because she had opened the topic for conversation.

"I was raised in Islam. My whole family is religious, but....it never grabbed me the way it grabbed them. I've been a skeptic my whole life. How about you?"

"Methodist. Sunday school and church every week from age eight to eighteen. All that exposure, and it never grabbed me either. You know Methodism?" Laleh shook her head, no. "It's a pretty mild religion. Not a lot of fanatics, none that I know of." As soon as he said this he was sorry for using the word fanatic. He looked at her to see how badly he might have offended her. Stupid. Why could he not filter his words like most people do? He said, "Sorry. That was a dumb thing to say."

"You mean about religious fanaticism? That's ok. That's one reason I'm not religious; I don't like that stuff at all, and we have a lot of it in Iran. Not everyone, or even most people, but still a lot. I think all those people are crazy, whether they're Muslims or Jews or Christians or Hindus." She paused and sipped, then said, "You have some fanatics here, don't you. They're all over the world, right?"

"We do. We have faith healers who don't take their kids to the doctor when they're sick, believing God will cure the kid. And we have lots of preachers who run huge conglomerate churches with thousands of congregants who donate millions of dollars to the preachers, and in return the preachers tell them they should take the stuff in the Bible literally, and then they will do really well when they die, as opposed to nonbelievers, who are going to have a rough time of it. That's fanaticism. And we have other varieties, too. We have religious people who don't use electricity."

At this, Laleh's mouth opened, even though there were half chewed cashew nuts in it. "These people don't use electricity, even when it's available to them? It's there, and they don't use it?" Shim nodded. She realized her mouth was open, closed it, took a sip of the Moutard, and said, "That is fanatical. I had no idea you had stuff like that. It's not like suicide bombers, but still."

The champagne was working on Shim and he thought, this woman is pretty cool. It was working on Laleh, too, because she was thinking, this guy is nice. Cute and nice. Not a devil; at least I don't think so. Shim went to the kitchen and brought back a plate of cold salmon, some soda crackers, a bowl of Greek olives, and a small dish of homemade mayonnaise. They ate their dinner and watched the College of Charleston sailing club go through some race maneuvers out in the harbor around Castle Pinckney. Laleh finished eating, put her feet up on the balcony railing, and looked at the empty bottle of champagne in the ice bucket. Shim got the message and went to the kitchen, this time returning with a bottle of Krug. He couldn't afford to splurge on great wine at every meal the way the Junes did, but when it comes to Champagne, he does. And then, there was his new friend to take into consideration. She smiled at him, and thought, what's wrong with a little alcoholism. This is fun.

# Chapter 21 – The Flunky

The Ayatollah lay on his bed and watched the flunky water the orchids on the window sill. The guy had been his flunky for four years, and he didn't even know his name. When he needed something, the guy just seemed to be there and know what it was. The flunky felt the burn of The Big Guys eyes on his back. What now? The Aya'd just had a so-so session with a new virgin (weren't they all new, ha ha), and lately that had left him irritable rather than relaxed. And guess who usually is the target of the irritability? What was it gonna be this time?

For his part, the Aya didn't know what to demand of the flunky. He did feel irritable rather than relaxed, and that pissed him off, and increased his irritability even more, ad infinitum. It didn't used to be that way. After romping with a virgin, even a terrestrial one, and then thanking Allah for such a wonderful, though imperfect gift, he always felt great. One more down and hundreds to go. What a life. And then after this life, the real game began, with the celestial ones, numbering in the thousands. For that as a future he would battle the Western infidels morning, noon, and night. He closed his eyes and tried to relax, envisioning all types of virgins, all shapes and colors, heights and weights, large and small, and from all nationalities, except of course America, where he was quite sure females were born soiled, in this particular department. Well actually all departments: artistic, moral, intellectual, emotional, everything. They came out bad bad bad. But that still left a lot of nationalities from which to choose his virgins, didn't it, which was a satisfying thought but not really relaxing. He couldn't let go of the tension.

The flunky turned around with the watering can in his hand and looked at his boss, who was staring at him in a strange way. What's up now? He thought of offering him a hit on the bottle of cognac he kept hidden in a closet for medicinal purposes, but his intuition told him this wasn't the right solution to the problem. He puttered around the suite, picking up the clothes The Big Guy had shed during the romp, straightening the furniture, and still felt the eyes on him, which made him nervous. And then a new thought came into his mind which made him more nervous. A lot more nervous. What if The Big Guy was so dissatisfied with the virgins the flunky had provided that he was thinking of trying out boys? That never had happened, but what if? He didn't know anything about boys. Where to get them, what condition they needed to be in, etc. How did you prove to your boss that a boy was a virgin, not that the boss ever had required him to prove anything about the female virgins, thank Allah. Now the flunky was just as irritated as The Aya. Or more precisely, fearful.

But it wasn't boys that were on The Aya's mind, it was his money, or lack of it. What if he had to get out of town on short notice? Dictators didn't always have a lot of notice when things were going sour. Usually they did, but not always. What if the fucking Israelis did send their bombers over and flatten the nuke sites? Then what? That might very well be the time to say Adios to good ole Tehran, and let some of the younger guys deal with it. He'd done his duty over the years, and that was why he had, with such brilliant foresight, scammed the $100 million and gotten it stashed on 'St.' something island in the Caribbean. Except now it wasn't there, and he had no one to track it down. He wondered if planting the guy who had engineered the theft ten years ago out in the desert in the well had been the right decision. He sure could use his services now.

All these thoughts swimming around his mind were what had led him to stare at the flunky. Could this guy do it? Save him? Find his money and get it back in the Carib account, safe and sound?

The flunky finished cleaning up the mess the two love birds had made and was looking to get out of there; out from under the burning gaze of The Big Guy. He turned to the bed and said, "Anything else, Your Holiness? A little medicine from the closet, perhaps? Another friend to visit the suite, of a different persuasion, perhaps?"

The Aya didn't follow either of these two leads by the flunky, he just said, "You know how to turn the computer on, right?" The flunky nodded, fielding this unexpected curveball. "Do you know more about computers than just that?" Shazam nodded, wondering if he should admit he knew a lot about computers, or not. These were unknown waters. "Do you know a lot about them?" This was the crucial decision point. He hesitated, and then nodded, yes. "Do you know anything about banks and computers?"

Banks and computers. Banks and computers. Money. Middle Eastern money. Oil money. Lots of oil money floating around. What was The Big Guy up to? Am I in this or not. Risky. Risky. Very risky, getting involved in money matters. The desert was sprouting flowers in new places where people like him now fertilized the sandy soil. It used to be that farmers buried fish in the soil to grow things. No need for fish anymore. Plenty of human body parts around. Am I in this or not? He decided and said, "I don't know a lot about banks, but I can learn. I know how to get around the internet"

"The what?"

"The system that lets computers in different places talk to each other. Like one bank talking to other banks. I can figure that out."

"I need to think. Come back in an hour."

"Yes, Your Holiness." The die was cast, for better or worse.

# Chapter 22 – Laleh Settles In

Roger and Gwen had a bet about whether Laleh would make it back to their house that night, or not. After hearing from Gwen about the little get-together on the balcony overlooking the harbor, he bet no, and she bet yes. Roger knew he was going to lose the bet, because Gwen never was wrong about these kinds of things, but he enjoyed wagering now and then, just for the fun of it. The stakes were high, though: the loser had to prepare dinner every night for a week. And nothing out of a can or the freezer, either.

They were in bed at eleven, him reading a Donald E. Westlake novel and her reading a Lawrence Block novel (they had similar taste in writers, like most everything else, including wine), when the dog stood up and pointed to the bedroom door. They looked at each other because this was the behavior the dog exhibited the night four years earlier when the Russian woman wearing black underwear and OPIUM perfume and carrying a handgun had invaded their home at 3am. They watched the dog, each ready to open the drawer in the night table next to them and extract their own gun. Waiting, waiting, watching. And then the tail started waving, and they relaxed. The dog took off down the stairs, and was waiting when Laleh unlocked the door and entered. She said, "Do you need a walk?" The dog was tempted to lie to her and tell her yes, he hadn't been walked all day, but the reality was that Roger had taken him out at 10pm, and he wasn't a liar, at least not normally, and tonight was normal, so he told her, no. Laleh headed up the stairs to the third floor guestroom, and the dog went back to his place at the foot of the Junes bed.

Gwen said, "I'll have pasta pomodoro tomorrow, and crab cakes the next night. You can choose the wines."

The next night, after dinner, Laleh decided she wanted to find out why Gwen had guns in the house, locked up in the bottom drawer of the Chippendale highboy in the downstairs study. The Junes had a study on each floor, complete with large antique desk, writing table, sofa, and bookshelves. She wasn't sure what they studied, but they certainly were prepared whenever the need arose. She offered Gwen a large glass of port from the cut glass decanter on one of the shelves, thinking it would loosen Gwen's tongue. She was right. What she had discovered about herself, starting with all the meals with wine in London, was that she could hold her liquor, even though drinking was an entirely new behavior for her. Some natural physiology thing. She poured herself a glass of port, and set about her delicate task, employing all her tact and guile. She talked about Shimmey, and poured Gwen another glass of port. Then she talked about Iranian architecture, which she wished she had studied formally, but had been forced to read about late at night under the covers with a flashlight. And then she talked about her new food love, shrimp and grits. After three glasses of port on top of the Chateauneuf du Pape they'd had with the dinner Roger had fixed, she figured Gwen was sloshed and the time was right. She said, "What's with all the guns?"

Laleh wasn't the only female in the house who could hold her liquor. Gwen was pleasantly buzzed, but it would take a little more than she'd had to get her to the sloshed department. She looked at Laleh, amused, and decided she might as well divulge a little of the June's history. "When Roger got out of college he got a job with the National Park Service out west. He went to training and became a Ranger, a law enforcement ranger. He liked working out there for a while, a few years, but that outfit was quasi-military in its roots, and he doesn't much like authority, then or now. Ask him sometime to tell you the story of John F. Kennedy at the Ahwanne Hotel."

Laleh said, "Who's John F. Kennedy?"

This was one of the weirdest things anyone ever had said to Gwen, but she let it pass. "After he quit and came home to Charleston, we met and got married. He'd made a few connections in other law enforcement outfits, and he started getting a few jobs as a private investigator. We didn't need the money, but he liked doing those jobs now and then, and it turns out that cops and private investigators rub shoulders with criminals, and Roger made a few buddies from that crowd, and he made a few enemies from that crowd. In both cases, he got more work and got more, shall we call them, opportunities."

Laleh didn't understand what Gwen meant by opportunities, but she didn't want to interrupt the story with a question.

"Sometimes he was on the side of the law, and sometimes he was on the other side. The times he got involved in the other side was when the job involved art or antiques. Roger likes both of those, and, let's just say that not all of the things we have in this house today were bought and paid for in shops."

Laleh was kind of following this, but it was hazy. Gwen seemed to be saying that Roger is a crook, which hardly seems possible, given what Laleh had experienced to date.

"It was during those days that Roger started carrying a gun, after which one day we were eating lunch in a restaurant and a guy who didn't count Roger among his friends walked in and tried to shoot Roger. He missed. Roger didn't. After that, Roger gave me two choices: he would stop doing the detective work and the other stuff, or he would teach me to safely and intelligently use a gun. The second choice seemed more interesting than the first, and ever since, I've had a couple of them around the house." Gwen took a sip of port, and smiled at Laleh.

"How long ago was that? When you got your first gun?"

"About ten years."

"And you still carry one around?"

"Oh yes. It gives me a warm feeling of security."

"You mean Roger still does the detective jobs and the other jobs?"

Gwen didn't answer verbally, but her body language said, "Umm, yeah."

"And you get involved in these jobs?"

"Umm, I never mean too. Really. But somehow I do. I don't understand how, but it happens."

"And you like it?"

"Umm, yeah."

Laleh poured them each a fourth glass of port, and thought, am I gonna have a hangover tomorrow. "What kind of people are these that you get involved with?"

Gwen thought that was a very interesting question, and ran down a list from the last five years. "One day five years ago a guy went to North Carolina and hired a cabinet maker to make a fake Hepplewhite table. You ever seen a Hepplewhite table?"

Laleh said, no.

"Beautiful. And this fake one was nice. He brought it back here and sold it to a shop on King Street. Roger's auntie bought it, and then we discovered it was a fake. Roger didn't like someone taking advantage of his auntie, who was a dear old soul, and he tracked the table back to North Carolina, and then to the guy who ordered it made, a Russian guy named Little Jinny Blistov. Then Roger tracked Jinny to where he was living here, and suggested that he give all the money his auntie had paid for the table, back to her."

"And the guy did that? Gave it back?"

"Roger persuaded him."

"How?"

"Went into the guy's house and pointed a gun at his face. Simple."

"What happened then? With the Russian guy?"

Gwen thought about that for a minute, and then said, "It's a strange story. After a while, we became friends with Jinny, and then we went to Russia with him."

"And?"

"And we borrowed some stuff from a museum in Saint Petersburg. Jinny knew some people who worked there, and they helped us."

Laleh was having a difficult time decoding all the innuendos Gwen was employing to explain things. Part was due to her knowing English as a second language, and part was due to the port. "You borrowed stuff from a Russian museum? And did what with it?"

"Well, we sold some of it, and some things we have here, in our house. Really nice things. We like antiques. And Jinny has some of it."

Laleh decided she would figure out this particular story tomorrow morning while she was getting over the hangover. "How about another one? Another reason you have guns around here."

"Last night, when you came home, the dog heard you coming down the street and got up in our room and pointed at the door. We weren't sure if this was a good pointing or a bad pointing. He figured out it was you before you unlocked the door and came in, and he told us it was ok. But three years ago, he pointed at the door, and it wasn't ok. Someone came into the house, and it wasn't a friend, like you. It was a Russian woman who picked the lock on the back door, and tried to come upstairs."

"What happened?"

"Well, the dog gave us plenty of notice, and when she came up, we were ready for her. Good thing, because she had a gun."

"What was she going to do?"

"She wasn't sure. She wanted to intrude into our lives. She had lots of guts, but she didn't really think things out ahead of time. She was only twenty-seven."

"And?"

"And now we're friends with her, too. She's in France making a movie."

"What did you do after you caught her?"

"It took a while, but she ended up working with us on the Stravinsky ballet production."

"Oh."

Laleh sipped her port and thought about these two stories. Two Russians with guns, became friends, followed by adventure. She decided she had the energy for one more story before she slid off the couch into a sloshed puddle on the Turkish carpet. "What about the Stirg guy? Was he involved with you and guns?"

"He's a very interesting person. Late sixties, retired, super-wealthy. Also Russian, though he left there at a young age and went to Israel, where he got involved in chasing ex-Nazis in South America for Mossad. You know who they are?"

"Oh yeah. In Iran, we know Mossad."

"After that he became some kind of international lawyer. I mean a lawyer who specializes in international law, which is where he made most of his money. And then he retired to Charleston. He was involved in the ballet, though not like Anna, who was on our side and worked for us."

"Whose side was he on?"

"He was on his side. He was the leader of the group that wanted to do the Stravinsky ballet in Saint Petersburg, rather than here. It turned into a competition to produce it, and the competition had some sticky moments."

"You mean like sticky gun moments?"

"Yes. Next time we're at The Hall, look up at the ceiling over the stage, and you'll see where the old lathe and plaster was patched. Someone fired a couple of shots through the ceiling."

"Stirg? He came into the theater and shot up your ceiling?"

"Not him, actually. Me."

Laleh said, "Oh." Her head was spinning double time from all the booze and then the stories. She felt herself slipping towards the carpet. Gwen wasn't looking at her, just sipping, looking off into space, remembering these incidents, sitting straight on the sofa, no slipping anywhere. She looked like she looked at the breakfast table in the morning, drinking coffee. Laleh rallied and said, "So that's why you have guns in the house."

Now Gwen looked at her and said, "Someday I'll tell you about the neo-Nazis who came down here from Idaho. That's why I have guns in the house."

# Chapter 23 – Shimmey Boy

The next morning Shimmey sat staring at his manuscript on the computer screen, and experienced two things, neither of which was a flow of creative imagination. Where most people would see black words on a white background, Shim saw the cut of Laleh's jaw and cheekbones. They were aristocratic in line and form, and had captured his fancy the evening before, as they sat on the balcony watching the sailboats. He wanted so badly to kiss Laleh just behind her left jaw and just in front of her ear. That was a sweet spot for a lot of women, and he wanted to see if it was for her. The other thing he was experiencing was a hangover. The bottle of Moutard followed by the bottle of Krug had been great then, but now they were exacting penance from him. He didn't mine, though; it was worth it.

He hadn't been part of the June's Stravinsky ballet production. A bunch of their friends had been, and he was envious. He had spent that year living in Manhattan, apartment sitting for an acquaintance who was traveling around the world watching birds. His friend was one of those people who compete to see who can identify the most birds during a calendar year, and check them off a list. Shim wasn't sure about this as an objective, but he realized it was a great excuse to travel all over creation. It was a very nice apartment overlooking Central Park, three bedrooms and a doorman. He loved New York, and it had been a great year, hitting every major cultural event and producing two of his six romance novels, both of which had been published and earned him a few bucks. As much fun as that had been, he often wondered what it would have been like to be in Charleston and working for the Junes on the production. They had told a few wild stories about duking it out with Mr. Stirg, and he suspected there were more he hadn't yet heard.

His new book, the one he wasn't adding to at the present moment because he couldn't get Laleh's profile out of his mind, was about the ballet production. He had heard enough from Gwen and Roger, and from a couple of their mutual friends who had been involved, to know it had been a wild, eight month ride. And just those few stories had convinced him there was a book in it. Over the last two months, very judiciously he had pumped everyone and anyone for facets of the story. He hadn't gotten a lot in the way of details, but what he had learned was this. Roger and Gwen and Little Jinny Blistov, the small time Russian gangster who had transmogrified himself from enemy to friend, had gone to Saint Petersburg to steal artifacts from the warehouses of the Hermitage Museum. They had worked with other Russians there to pull the heist, and this entire crew had returned to Charleston with a large number of artifacts. One day a huge Borzoi dog owned by a Russian couple who had been on the heist team had been tearing around the house and slipped on the polished hardwood floor, crashing headfirst into an old desk whose previous residence was one of the Hermitage warehouses. Looking in the hole in the side of the desk they had found a manuscript in a hidden compartment. The manuscript was the score for an unknown ballet, written by Igor Stravinsky in 1914, and never before seen by anyone other than the famous composer. That was the start of the production.

The Junes and their very wealthy friends had decided to produce a world premiere of the ballet in Charleston, and had managed to secure the assistance of a few world famous musicians, dancers, and choreographers. They also had managed to secure the enmity of Pmirhs Stirg, who thought it was a crime against nature for this artistic work to be produced in Charleston rather than in its hometown and place of birth, Saint Petersburg. Stirg took the conflict to the mattresses, so to speak, and stole a copy of the score from the Junes. He, also being super wealthy, hired the Mariinsky Ballet Company to do a competing world premiere, and guns were drawn on more than one occasion during this competition. Nobody pushes the Junes around, not even a former Nazi-hunter.

Anyway, this had captured Shimmey's attention, and he had decided to write a novel about it, titled The Lost Ballet. It didn't matter that he didn't know the whole story before he started writing; he knew enough, and figured he'd worm the rest out of the Junes or their friends, over time. The project had been going along reasonably well, and he had been reasonably productive, considering he had a moral obligation to the June's dog to keep it sound and healthy while his masters were cavorting around London. No matter how much he wanted to stay seated at the computer and write, when the dog required physical and mental health maintenance, his obligation lay there, a fact that had been clear and unequivocal to both him and the dog. Now, however, he was faced with another distraction from his writing. What about falling in love? Did he had a moral obligation to do that? Or, conversely, did he have a moral obligation to his muse, to his profession, to his calling, to his manner of earning money for food and shelter; did he have an obligation to resist falling in love? With Laleh. This was a quandary. Should he fall in love with a beautiful Iranian woman, or should he write a book documenting the adventures in ballet of his friends, the Junes? At first, it seemed to him to be an either\or proposition. He didn't think he could handle both tasks, the way Roger might have done. Roger was part of the ballet production team, plus he satisfied the needs of his wife, the hottest woman in Charleston, in the State of South Carolina, and possible on this side of the Atlantic Ocean, the presence of Renee Fleming notwithstanding. Roger could perform both of these tasks simultaneously. Shimmey wasn't sure he could take on Laleh as a special friend, and write a book at the same time. What a dilemma. Why couldn't he have been born a bigger man, more like Roger?

# Chapter 24 – The Flunky Gets a Dangerous Promotion

The Aya was handed the daily briefing report by his chief of staff, an occurrence he was coming to dislike more and more. He sighed and read it. Those fortycelestialvirgins better had be worth all these terrestrial tribulations. More Mossad commandos had been detected tunneling towards the Ardekan nuke site, this time from the north. This team had gotten to within half a mile, which was some achievement considering they had started forty miles away. Another concern was that one of the Lessers was making noises about challenging him for supreme authority. This guy was a joke, but he had some powerful support among the hardcore sect that thought The Aya's daily dallying with terrestrial virgins was sacrilege. They believed that every such dalliance reduced by one the quantity of true virgins available to a true believer when they migrated to the other side, and that fooling around on this side showed a lack of judgment. And then there was the American Secretary of State who just had held a press conference in Vienna with the UN inspection team, saying that the next round of sanctions and embargos against Iran would include the ingredient of concrete that caused it to harden, and toilet paper. That little fucker, tightening the screws down again. What would the people think of that last item on the list? Every morning the briefing report had more stuff like this. Never a let up.

He waved the chief of staff flunky out of his apartment and told him to send in the domestic flunky, who came running. "Yes, Your Holiness?"

"How you doing this morning, Shazam?"

The guy fell down on his stomach, prostrate and quivering. Never before had The Big Guy called him by his name. Never before had he asked him how he was? Never. This was bad. "Very well, Your Holiness. How may I serve you?"

"Get up, Shazam. Sit on the bed over there. Pour yourself a cup of tea."

The flunky walked towards the unmade bed of his boss and tried to sit down, but his sub-conscience wouldn't let his butt touch that sacred territory. He knew that some of the virgins, using that term loosely, couldn't bring themselves to lay down on his bed, despite his emphatic entreaties to do so, and remained standing, bent over one of the chairs, which in the end always worked for him. Shazam made an attempt to sit on the bed, but couldn't, and moved over to one of the chairs, next to which was a side table with a pot of green tea on it. As he poured himself a cup of tea, a tink tink tink sound came from the spout of the china pot rattling against the rim of the china cup. His nervousness ran from his brain down his arm to the hand that was holding the pot. He looked at the tea in the cup, wanting to take a sip, but knowing he couldn't even swallow his own spit his mouth was so dry.

"You remember when I asked if you are good with computers?" Shazam nodded, remembering his fateful decision to say, yes. "You said you knew about the interview thing, and could figure out how one bank talks with other banks?"

"The internet. Yes, Your Holiness."

"Is that true? Can you look at the thingy of a bank and figure out where other thingies in the bank are?"

"What do you mean by thingies, Your Holiness?"

"Money. What else are in banks? Money. Can you figure out where money that was in a bank went to?"

"Maybe, Your Holiness. There are very few computer things I've tried that I haven't been able to do. I think so, Your Holiness."

This wasn't what The Aya wanted to hear. He wanted the flunky to say yes, absolutely, easy, I can do it. Now, he had to take a chance with this Shazam guy. He didn't know anyone else he could trust, considering that almost everyone in Iran hated his guts for one reason or another, and he remained in power through shear political power and the muscle of his mercenary Revolutionary Guard Corps. He thought about the morning briefing report, and how it was the same as every other morning briefing report, and he was getting too old to deal with this shit day after day, and needed to retire in comfort to the 'St.' something island in the Caribbean, and wait patiently for the day when he would convert from the second rate terrestrial virgin corp to the first rate celestial virgin corp, as promised about 300 times in the blessedly infallible Koran.

"Shazam, something happened a few weeks ago. Something on the computer. It's something personal to me, not associated with my formal and consecrated duties as spiritual big dog leader on the Muslim block. This has nothing to do with our blessed country. Understand?"

The cup Shazam was holding started rattling in the saucer. It seemed certain The Big Guy was going to divulge a secret, and people who lived or worked in the central complex knew what happened to people who knew secrets. They ended up fertilizing the desert. Why oh why had he said he knew about computers? What was wrong with being a domestic flunky, cleaning up the bathroom after the boss had used it, beating the bushes for new companions (never the same one twice), bringing tea and pita bread triangles, occasionally dipping into the medicinal cognac hidden in the closet and serving it up when the stress levels got really high? That wasn't too bad, was it? Now, danger. "I understand, Your Holiness."

"How would you like a raise, say double your current salary?"

"I am unworthy of such a sacrifice by the people of our great country, Your Holiness, from whom all blessings flow into our treasury. Allah tells us that a life lived in penury will be amply rewarded when we cross into the hereafter; and we all know the form and function of that great reward. At least, all us guys know. Sir. Your Holiness, sir."

"Yes, yes, you are right of course, and I applaud your sense of devotion and political correctness. There is no doubt you will get your share of the blessed never before consummated nooky in the future. But. There still are duties to be performed in the here and now, and I need you to perform one for me. Understand?" Shazam nodded, knowing his head was going in the noose. "This duty is private, very private, and you never can tell anyone about it, ok?" He felt the noose tighten. "The life of The Aya is demanding, and sometimes he is required to do things which may, to the lower classes, such as yourself, Shazam, seem puzzling. But let me assure you they all are done with the good of the people in mind. Some things are not what they appear to be on the surface, and I need help with one of these things now. Ok?"

"Yes, boss. No one will ever know about your private sacrifices."

Now that was exactly what The Big Guy wanted to hear. Perfect. Maybe he could trust this flunky after all. Shazam said it very convincingly, and he was desperate. WHERE WAS HIS FUCKING MONEY? "I want you to turn the computer on, and go the interview site of the Bank of Tehran, and I want you to look at an account in which the People's money is being held, in trust, for their future benefit. Let's do it now."

Shazam bowed almost to the floor and scurried over to the twelfth century desk that had legs made out of the femurs and fibulas of Christian crusaders which had been delicately carved and polished by very great Islamic artisans. Three minutes later he had logged onto the bank's website, at which point he felt something tickling the back of his neck. The Aya was leaning over his shoulder, and the tickling was coming from the tip of his long gray beard. The Aya often played a game with the virgins, where he ran the end of his beard up and down their naked bodies, lingering here and there at the special places. They all pretended this was great fun and a gift of divine intervention, direct from Allah himself; none of them complaining it smelled like camelhair in an old pillow, which it did. Shazam had heard the same thing from a lot of them, with some of the bolder ones telling him it was his job to bath The Big Guy and get him properly coiffed for his royal romps, and why wasn't he doing it? Right now, with the smelly thing brushing the back of his neck, he decided those complaints were legitimate. "We're there, boss. We're at the Bank of Tehran. Now what?"

The Aya went over to his desk where he removed the little illuminated manuscript booklet that held his account number and password. He held this in front of Shazam, who realized what it was, and typed it into the webpage. Shazam thought, very catchy password, fortyvirginsforever, no spaces. Not likely to forget that one. They both waited for the bank's computer to process the request and display the result. And there it was: goose egg ! Shazam was tempted to turn around and look at the bearded one, but something told him the goose egg was not what the bearded one wanted to see. The tickling moved from the left side of his neck to the right as the bearded one moved his head, hoping a view of the screen from a different angle would change the goose egg to $100,000,000. It didn't. Shit. Shazam was inundated with sensory stimuli: the feel of the beard, the camelhair smell, to which now was added the sourness of The Aya's stale breath as he exhaled deeply in frustration. Think what the virgins went through.

Ok, so no miracle had come forth from The Really Big Guy, to whom The Big Guy was duly deferential. The money had not reappeared as simply as it had disappeared. So now he was at the mercy of Shazam's computer skills. He said, "Something terrible has happened to a little of the People's money, which I am holding in trust for them. It used to be in this account, and now it's not there." The Aya paused and thought, then he continued, "Actually, it was sort of in this account in the Bank of Tehran, but I was advised by a duly authorized and canonized financial staffer that it would be safer to keep this money in an account in a different country, due to the constant and insufferable hacking attempts by the nefarious CIA. You know who they are?"

"Yes, Your Holiness. Very bad men, very bad."

"You got that right. Now, the money was in a different place, but the financial staffer made it so I could check on the safety of the money by looking at the Bank of Tehran's interview site. And now it's not there. The money isn't there, like it usually is. Can you find it? Can you find the People's money?" He stood up, which Shazam was thankful for as the tickling was about to drive him crazy.

"I will try, Your Holiness. For the People, I will work day and night to track down the money." He paused. "Where was the other account, Your Holiness? The account that was safe from the clutches of the CIA devils?"

The Aya crossed the room and sat on his bed. The reality of the goose egg had sapped his energy. He looked at Shazam and said, "It's in a bank on an island in the Caribbean. The financial staffer said the CIA didn't know anything about this place. It's called 'St....St....St.' something. I can't remember. It's supposed to be a nice place. Not like here, of course, but still nice, if you like that tropical paradise sort of thing, which of course I don't." He paused and looked at Shazam. "You don't like that sort of place either, do you?"

Shazam didn't have a clue about what kind of place 'St.' something was, but he got the drift of the conversation and said, "No, Your Holiness. I have no interest in that kind of place. My kind of place is right here, with you, doing your bidding, and through you, the bidding of The Really Big Guy, who we both know watches over us, for better or for worse."

The Aya wasn't sure about that last part, but let it slide. He said, "Look. This is important. Find the money, and you will be richly rewarded when you pass to the other side, and we know what that means, right?" He cast a knowing grin across the room to his new financial staffer.

"Yes, Your Holiness, I know what that means, and I am grateful, and unworthy, to receive such vast and valuable compensation. I will do my best."

"Ok, good. But don't forget your other duties. This is on top of those. Speaking of which, would there be a special friend available now? All this official work has left me wanting the council of one of our exalted sisters."

Shazam logged off the computer, and said, "I'm sure there is, Your Holiness. Let me check."

# Chapter 25 – Great Day

Laleh sat on the granite steps of the Charleston Library Society and watched people walk up and down King Street. Some of them walked with a purpose, and some of them strolled without purpose. She felt more kinship with the latter than the former, and that was because she was, at present, without an abiding sense of purpose in her life. This didn't mean she wasn't enjoying life; just that she wasn't doing much to make the world a better place. She still was staying at the June's house and hanging out with them, spending a lot of time with Shim, which both of them liked, and meeting a few of the June's friends, like Gale the Mouth and Little Jinny Blistov. Both of them were a riot; so different, and yet they got along well together, Gale giving Jinny shit nonstop, and Jinny teasing her back in spades. When she felt the need to be by herself she took the dog for a long walk. It wasn't as good for the dog as when Shim was house-sitting, because he used that as an excuse for not laboring at the new book; but it still was pretty good, because Laleh liked to explore her new place by herself, just her and the dog. When she didn't feel like walking, she would leave the dog at home and go to the library, sitting inside in one of the big overstuffed leather chairs, or sitting here on the steps, watching the flow of traffic.

Everything about Charleston was new and weird for her, even with Gwen and Gale teaching her about its customs and traditions and history. Gale was a fashionista of the highest order, and she had made it her mission to raise Laleh to that lofty height. When Gale had met Laleh, and seen Laleh's figure, she had said, "Oh my God, when I get done with you, the Charleston men are going to go positively insane. Are we going to have fun." And Laleh had to admit, it had been fun. The first time they had gone shopping, Gale had had to suss out Laleh's financial situation. She did this by holding a slinky silk dress up in front of her and making her look in the mirror. Laleh liked what she saw. Gale then held the price tag up for her to look at, which said $1895. Laleh said, "Ok," and Gale never looked back after that.

The shopping expeditions with Gale had taught Laleh something about her money. It wasn't that important to her, so she didn't think about it much. Gale thought about Laleh's money more than Laleh did. When Laleh wanted something, she bought it, and that's it. She paid a lot of the restaurant and wine bills she racked up with the Junes, and then forgot about being able to pay them. She hadn't expected this when she planned the theft back home. She knew then that she needed money to leave home and make a new life for herself; and she knew she wanted to stick it to the symbol of everything she hated about her culture. She didn't know at the time that she would end up with the $100 million. She figured a guy like The Aya would have a bunch socked away for a rainy day, and that was what she hunted for, and she had found his secret account. When she saw how much was in there, she was shocked. But she said to herself, if something is worth doing, it's worth doing right, and she had swiped the whole enchilada. Now what? What to do with the money? What to do with her time? What to do with her future? She leaned back, put her elbows on the second step above the one she sat on, and closed her eyes. She let her mind drift and filtered out the sounds of the street below, the kids yelling, the rubber tires on the road, the rap song leaking out of the windows of a passing car. Something nagged at her, something she'd seen a week ago, something that was very new to her and represented something she knew little about, but that intrigued her. She couldn't remember if it was something Roger had said, or something she had seen on one of her long walks with the dog around the historic district, or maybe something she had seen on TV. That was a trip, American TV. It was the only thing that made her think maybe the The Aya was right when he called America the devils playground.

Her memory ticked from one thing to another, one place to another, one dialogue to another. It wasn't something someone had said, like Gale or Jinny. It wasn't something she had seen on a drive outside of town, and it wasn't something she had read about in the newspaper or on her computer. What was it? Keeping her eyes closed, she stopped thinking, and let visions sweep through the memory banks. Click. There it was. It was a place. A room, a really big room, and she was sitting on a chair elevated above the floor of the room, and up in the high ceiling were rows of big lights. Next to her, also sitting in a chair, was Gwen. Click, there it was, an understanding of the vision. It was The Hall, the theater Gwen had taken her to twice and where she told her about the two productions she and Roger had done there over the last three years, a ballet and a rock opera. Gwen and Roger owned The Hall. That was it. That was what she wanted to do; something in The Hall. A production. But what? She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Gwen's number.

"Hi Hon. What's up?" Gwen said.

"Can you meet me at The Hall. I have to see it. I have to be there."

"Why. Anything wrong?"

"No, I just want to be there, and talk with you about something."

"Shim didn't ask you to marry him, did he?" Gwen was only half joking.

"What? Get married. Now. Good god no. I just escaped one prison."

"I won't tell Shim you said that."

"Will you meet me?"

"Yes, half an hour. Shall we have a picnic?"

"What's a picnic?"

"See you. I'll bring the booze."

It took Laleh twenty minutes to walk from the library to the theater, where she waited for Gwen, who showed up ten minutes later, dog in tow. The dog was happy to see his friend, and Laleh was happy to see Gwen, and everyone entered through the side door and and sat down on the stage, the women in chairs and the dog at their feet. Gwen turned on the lights and the air conditioner, and put a Renee Fleming CD on the sound system. She said, "What's up, girl?"

"I'm not sure, but it has to do with this place. I like it, the vibes."

"There's been a lot of action here recently, and a lot of creativity, and a lot of famous people have stood on this stage. There are vibes here."

"People like who?"

"Well, like Catherine Deneuve, the French actress, and Mikhail Baryshnikov, the dancer and actor, and Pete Townshend, the songwriter and musician, and Renee Fleming, the opera singer, and Paul McCartney, and David Gilmour, the guitar player, and Christine McVie, the songwriter and singer, and Alicia Keys. Half of them for the ballet and half for the rock show. Lots of action, including a few episodes of guns being waved around. It all was lots of fun."

"Was Stirg here, too."

"Yes he was."

Just then someone banged on the stage door, and Gwen let in two guys from McCrady's Restaurant. They carried in three large wicker baskets, and promptly set up a picnic dinner on two of the large folding tables they brought out from the wings. There were white table clothes, china plates, cutting boards, and Riedel wine glasses. It wasn't the first time these guys had set up a dinner on the stage in The Hall. They poured glasses of burgundy, opened containers and spread the food on the platters and boards, and left. Gwen said, "That's a picnic. Hungry?"

Laleh was somewhat hungry for food and very hungry for the wine. They ate a little and drank a little, and then Gwen repeated her question, "What's up, girl?"

Laleh poured herself a second glass of wine and said, "I think I know what I want to do here. Here in Charleston. Now." Gwen nodded encouragingly. "I want to make a movie. A film. Here."

"Here in Charleston?"

"No, here. Here in this place. The Hall. It's got the vibes. It's talking to me."

Gwen looked around the theater, back at Laleh, and poured herself more wine. This was unexpected. A refugee from Iran, never been out of her country, never been to the States, didn't know what a picnic was, wanting to make a movie inside a small 800 seat theater. "How are you going to make a movie in a place like this? What kind of movie?" She didn't ask, 'Have you ever done this before?'

But Laleh read her mind and answered, "No, I've never done this before. But there's lots of things I've never done before, that I think I will do in the future. Like, maybe, get married. But not now. Now, I'm going to make a movie in here, if you'll let me. I can pay for it."

Gwen didn't ask any more questions, she just waited for Laleh to gather her thoughts. She waited, sipping her wine, for Laleh to tell her all about it.

# Chapter 26 – Shimmey's in Love

Shim sat in his condo near Waterfront Park and stared at the computer screen. What he saw was the end of Chapter 18 of his novel, which reads as follows:

Nev didn't move. He debated moving, raising his gun and shooting, but he decided against it. Not worth it, not just to assuage his boss's sense of cultural sacrilege. He stayed motionless, not looking at Peter and Pater pointing guns at him, but looking at Roger sitting next to him. Roger cocked his head sideways just a bit, indicating a sense of irony, and slowly reached across the space between them and took hold of Nev's gun. He stood up and moved behind Nev's chair, stepped away from him and looked at Peter and Pater, smiling, said, "Ok, all over. Ease down." They lowered their guns, Pater's hands shaking noticeably. Peter took Pater's gun away from him, and led him over to the chairs.

Then they heard the door at the rear of The Hall open, and voices. Gwen, Selgey, Bart, and the Woman all entered, and began walking down the aisle. Gwen looked ahead, stopped the others, pulled her Glock, and pointed it at the stage. Roger said, "It's ok, babe. Peter and Pater got the draw on him." And he smiled at Nev, knowing this was not going to put him in good with his boss.

Below this he saw the words, Chapter 19, and after that a lot of white space, which he wanted to fill with cyclonic romance and action about the June's ballet production. The problem was that his mind, such as it is, was filled with thoughts of the girl he'd fallen in love with, and we know who that is: the black haired bombshell from Iran. Tehran, Iran, of all places. How did a nice Christian boy from Charleston get involved with her?

Shim's problem was that he was rotten at compartmentalization. That's where you have more than one pressing thing going on in your life, and you set one aside and concentrate on another. Some people are really good at this, and some aren't. The person who is best at this is Bill Clinton. Remember what he had going on simultaneously? He'd been discovered having sex in the Oval Office with a not very bright young female intern, and was up before Congress which was hell bent on excommunicating him. Make that impeach his ass. At the same time he was having face to face meetings with Vladimir Putin, dictator of all the Russias, and one very tough cookie. Vlady told Bill he was going to set up some intercontinental ballistic missiles somewhere sensitive, and Bill told him, Vlady, no fucking way. Now, that is compartmentalization.

Shim couldn't do that. He wanted to write Chapter 19, needed to write Chapter 19, get on with the fun and funny story of the ballet, but couldn't get Laleh's image out of his mind. This is what he should have written after the words, Chapter 19:

There weren't any fireworks on stage later that morning. Nev didn't put on an action performance, engaging Roger and the others in hand-to-hand commando combat. He didn't have any weapons in his shoes or strapped to his arms. After Gwen, Selgey, the Woman, and Bart arrived, so did Helstof and Gale. So there was Nev, surrounded by eight of his implacable enemies, all of whom wondered what they had gotten themselves into. Helstof had been part of the June's invasion of Stirg's home several months previously, and she had come to The Hall today, armed. She sat down in a chair, said, "How ya doin', Nev?" The last time Nev had seen her, she was standing in Stirg's kitchen, wearing a bikini and holding a gun. He didn't answer her greeting.

Gwen said, "We have a visitor this morning. Mr. Nev. Works for Mr. Stirg." She looked at her husband.

Roger said, "He wants the Stravinsky score. Or rather, his boss wants the Stravinsky score. Says Stirg wants to take it back to Saint Petersburg; Stirg says that's where it belongs; says he's going to do the ballet there. Nev came early and asked Peter and Pater for it. Then I showed up. The three of us talked it over and decided we didn't want to give it to him. Decided this should be an American deal, here in Charleston. Didn't we, boys?" Peter and Pater nodded vigorously. "Nev started waving his gun around." Roger took Nev's gun out from his belt at his back, and handed it to Gwen. "So they took it away from him. Asked him to sit in the chair, and be polite. Right, Nev?"

But he didn't write these words. They patiently awaited their creative birthing, longing to become corporeal on the page of Shim's novel, needing to become part of the story and this nascent work of art. They floated in artistic space, ready and willing to be pulled into human space and take their rightful place among Shim's books. Several of them could be heard pleading with Shim, "Take us, make us real, give us birth into your wonderful world. We want to live in many Barnes and Noble stores (temporarily), and on the bookshelves of millions of enlightened and entertained people around the world. We want to be translated into thirty different languages, and be passed down from generation to generation, along with the other family heirlooms."

He didn't hear them. He didn't sense them. He couldn't enter the compartment in which they dwelled, on whose door was stenciled, 'The writer's world, the place of imagination, home of the rich and the brave.' He was stuck in the compartment of love, wondering if Laleh was in a similar one, a mirror universe which suddenly would merge with his into a conflagration of passion and intimate caring, the way matter and anti-matter merge in the far reaches of the universe to create new worlds.

Chapter 19. Laleh's hair. Chapter 19. Laleh's eyes. Chapter 19. Laleh's neck. Chapter 19. Her mouth. He gave up. He is no Bill Clinton. He is no Roger June. He can't manage a woman and a creative endeavor. He has one compartment, and right now it was filled with one thing, and that wasn't Chapter 19. He wouldn't get to know what happened to Nev anytime soon, Nev being the former Israeli commando, tough as nails, now bodyguard to the June's enemy, Pmirhs Stirg. Nev having entered The Hall with the intention of intimidating two former ballet dancers, Peter and Pater, partners in life, and getting them to hand over a copy of the Stravinsky ballet that had been lost to the world since he wrote it in 1914 in Saint Petersburg. They, trained by Gwen, had gotten the drop on Nev, and then had been rescued by Roger as their nerve started to fail. Shim wouldn't get to learn what happened to Nev, Nev now sitting in a chair on the stage of The Hall surrounded by a bunch of armed women, all silently saying to him, 'Tsk Tsk, Nev, not a good performance on your part.' Shim, and the breathlessly waiting literary world, would have to wait.

# Chapter 27 – Laleh's Movie

Laleh wasn't in the same predicament as Shimmey. She wasn't sitting alone and lonely in her condo, pathetically entrapped in juvenile visions of a prospective lover. She sat in a chair on the stage of The Hall, next to Gwen, sipping a fine wine and creating the next phase of her life. She said, "I think I know what I want to do. If you'll help me. I know it's a lot to ask, but I have the feeling you'll say, yes. You and Roger. I don't know why I feel that, but I do."

Gwen looked at her and smiled. She had been right back in London, sensing that Laleh possessed inordinate intuition, which Gwen prized above all human qualities. She said, "Your intuition is correct. We'll help you, whatever it is."

"What's intuition? I said I had a feeling."

"What you have is more than just a feeling. It's the blend of emotion and intellect. You have a lot of it, and you should trust it."

Laleh looked at Gwen, parsing this comment. She said, "Well, whatever it is, I know you'll help me. And thank you." She paused and looked out at the 800 seats of the theater. "I don't know how to make a movie, but I can learn, and I know it will be made here, in this place, and it will be good." Pause. "I have an idea, and maybe we can pull it off, knowing what and how you pulled off the ballet and the rock opera. You said you didn't know how to do those before you did them. Right?"

Gwen nodded, and said, "But we had some very talented people help us, and we had a lot of money, and a lot of luck. A lot of money and luck, and the money wasn't ours. The productions were funded by friends of ours, very wealthy, and someday maybe you'll meet them."

Laleh was slow to answer, taking her time in expressing her plan. "Well, I have you to help me, and maybe Gale and Jinny, and maybe Shim, if I can get him out of the trance he goes into whenever we're together. And, I have some money. A lot. I don't know how much it takes to make a movie, but I think I have enough."

"What's the movie about? It must mean something to you, to want to do this?"

Laleh took a deep breath, stood up, and started walking around the stage, holding her wine glass in her hand. As she got more demonstrative in describing her idea, Gwen was sure some of the very expensive wine was going to slosh out of the glass and onto the floor. Pity. "I don't know a lot about American culture, but a few years ago I watched a movie on the computer. It was called Ocean's Twelve, and it starred George Clooney, and was directed by someone named Steven Soderberg. Do you know them?"

Gwen knew them. She loved Clooney in Leatherheads, co-starring an actress that Roger liked, Renee Zellweger, and she also liked Ocean's Twelve, especially the music score by David Holmes, and the interplay between Brad Pitt and Catherine Zeta-Jones. She nodded her head, yes, to Laleh's surprising question, it coming from someone who didn't know what a picnic was.

"A few months ago I read a story on the computer saying Soderberg had retired from making movies, and was going to do other things, including theater. That means plays, right?" Gwen nodded. "And plays are done in small theaters, like this one. Right?" Again Gwen nodded. "So, what I want to do is to get Clooney to be in the movie, and convince Soderberg to make this movie as if it were a play, in here. That's my idea."

Gwen had been rotating in her chair, following Laleh as she walked around the stage in a circle, sloshing wine out of her glass, which she didn't seem to notice. Gwen said, "What? Run that by me again."

"Make a movie in here, as if it were a play. Soderberg said he wants to do plays, and doing it all in one small place will keep the costs down, and we'll have to convince Clooney to do it, and maybe he can help us convince Soderberg to do a movie as if it were a play.

"That's what I thought you said."

"Of course, you and Roger will have to convince Clooney, but you said you did that with the famous people that were in the ballet and the rock opera. Right? You didn't know them, but somehow you convinced them to do the two productions. Can you do that again? For me?"

Gwen really wasn't expecting all this when she got the call asking her to meet Laleh at The Hall, saying she had something to talk about. Gwen thought maybe it had to do with Shimmey. And now, Laleh was talking George Clooney. She asked Laleh, "How much money do you have?"

# Chapter 28 – Shazam Finds the Address

It hadn't escaped Shazam's notice that this new "find the People's money" gig was on top of his other duties. He still had to hawk the streets for new Vs, clean up after the romps, and fix the green tea. A flunky's work never is done. He also had noticed at the beginning of the discussion something had been said about doubling his salary, but that hadn't been mentioned at the end of the discussion, which is the point in most business negotiations where the terms are reviewed in full and formally agreed too. The ending point of this negotiation was a request by the other party for a playmate. Shazam could use the extra money, but when it came to dealing with The Aya, he knew it was better not to press his luck.

The next day The Big Guy had to go to one of the nuke sites where thousands of centrifuges were spinning twenty-four seven, refining the plutonium or uranium or cesium, or whatever special kind of rock it was, into fuel to be used exclusively to make electricity to enhance the lives of the citizens of Iran. A few years ago The Aya had been reluctant to make political appearances at the nuke sites because he wasn't sure just how much radiation was leaking from the cores down in the bottom of the sites, and he wasn't finished in the production of offspring department. Now, however, he was, and didn't mind a little exposure, as long as it didn't affect his capability to render the ultimate service to the Vs, which he considered to be part of his official duties as leader of the country. Some of the Lessers, the really strict ones, didn't think it was part of his duties, but fuck them. He was The Big Guy, after all.

So after he left, Shazam started his hunt for the People's money. He went to the drawer in the desk that held the booklet with the illuminated manuscript drawing on the cover, opened it, and copied down the Bank of Tehran account number. He didn't need to copy down the password; that he could remember. He returned the booklet to the desk, picked up his hat, and wound his way out of the labyrinth that was the central compound, which took about twenty minutes. He headed down a long street that passed by sections of the university until he got to the arts building, the smallest on the campus. The engineering buildings were huge, churning out technicians and operators and mechanics, but the arts department got whatever funding was left in the bottom of the barrel. And in the hierarchy of the arts department, the drama program was the lowest of the low. Even the professors were poor, to say nothing of the aspiring thespian students. The arts department was stigmatized further by its high ratio of female to male students. In the science and engineering departments, very few female students were admitted. The arts department had almost as many female students as male, because most families held it in such low regard that they didn't mind if their daughters enrolled in it. Shazam not only knew about the drama program, but frequented it, because this is the area of town where he scored a lot of the Vs. Not only were some of the female drama students dirt poor and willing to go to the extreme to make ends meet, but they were, wonder of wonders, good at acting, which were two of the prerequisites for being hired to service The Big Guy.

Shazam wandered from coffee house to coffee house, seeing a few people he knew or recognized, sipping an espresso here, a glass of lemon water there, until he ran into the person he was looking for. She was one of the few women who had romped with The Aya more than once, and that was a testament to her acting skill. Shazam had been desperate one time, couldn't find a new face, and finally had asked this woman if she was willing to cut her hair short and dye it a different color. The fee would be double what he had paid her the first time. She said hell yes, and had managed to fool The Big Guy with no problem at all. Shazam was so grateful afterwards for bailing his ass out of the fire that he had spent time talking with the woman for some time.

He sat down next to her in the café and said, "Remember me?"

"I remember. How much you paying this time, and what do I have to do? No way I can play that role a third time. I'm good, but not that good."

"Not the same deal; something completely different." She nodded at him to continue. "You told me your boyfriend worked at a bank. Remember?" Again she nodded. "And I asked you how an actor was friends with a banker clerk, those two sensibilities generally not being in tune with each other, and you said all your friends were wild, and you needed someone calm and conservative in the significant other department to balance things out." He paused and waited for her to say something, which she didn't do, but just looked at him, neutrally. "Does he work at the Bank of Tehran?" She nodded, wondering where this was going, but not perturbed, her obviously being a risk taker, given her previous employment detail with Shazam. "What's he do at the bank? Does he work with the computers?"

"Yes. All day. Boring."

"But you like him, not being wild?"

"Boring is good sometimes."

"Is he good with the computers?" She nodded. "Would he do me a favor with the bank's computers?"

"How much? That could be dangerous. He's not like me. He's boring."

"As much as it takes. I need to know something about an account at the bank."

"You have the number?" He nodded. "What do you want to know about the account?"

"There was some money in the account. I want to know where the money is now, and who moved it out of that account."

She said, "I'm not a banker, I know nothing about bank stuff, but I know that answering those questions is dangerous. So, how much?"

Shazam thought for a minute, trying to figure this out. He knew he had to offer a substantial fee, but he didn't want to offer so much more than he had paid her for romping with The Aya the second time that it would insult her. He said, "I can make it a little more than I paid you the last time. Is that ok?"

She raised her hand to the waiter and ordered a hot meal. Then she said, "Double what you paid me the last time, and you buy this meal."

"Done."

"Give me the account number and the password."

He took the paper from his pocket on which he had written the number and handed it to her. She looked at him, and he said, "The password is, umm, funny. Sort of." She looked at him, again neutrally, and waited. There was no way around it, so he said, "It's fortyvirginsforever, no spaces."

At this, she broke out laughing, drawing attention from everyone in the coffee shop. When she was able to contain herself, she said, "That's a riot. Very funny password." She looked at him, and sobered. "You want me to get information about The Ayatollah's account, don't you?" Now it was his turn to look at her neutrally. She said, "The price just went up. Ten times what you paid me."

"Done."

She said, "You little shit," but pulled out her cell and dialed. Her meal arrived at the table, so she talked and started on the lamb at the same time. He heard her give the account number to the person on the other end, and the password, and then she disconnected. "He'll call back. He didn't say anything about the password. I told you he was boring." She ate like it was her last meal. When her phone rang ten minutes later, her plate was empty and she'd ordered another espresso. "Hey." She listened, wrote something down on the paper Shazam had given her with the account number on it, said, "Thanks, I love you," and hung up. She looked at the piece of paper for a minute, then pushed it across the table to him. "He said it was a special account. There's no money in it now, and no record of how much was there in the past. That's been wiped clean. And no record of any routing numbers to which any money had been sent. Wiped clean. He said someone who knows the bank's computer system had been in there, because normally that information stays in the account's record. Said this all was very unusual, but he's boring, and didn't ask me any questions." She paused, then said, "But there was one piece of information that was there, going in the opposite direction as what you want to know. All information going out of the account had been wiped clean. But there was something coming into the account. An IP address."

"What's that?"

"It's the address of a specific computer. Like an ID number. And he was able to find that in the Bank's system."

Shazam looked at the piece of paper and saw a street address. He said, "But this is a street address."

"That's the address the service provider has for that IP address. That's where that computer lives."

Again he looked at the piece of paper, and saw it was the address of Laleh's apartment. Laleh was very good at computers, but not perfect. She had made a mistake.

# Chapter 29 – The Filmy Play

Gwen made Laleh tell her about her idea for a movie three more times, knowing that each time Laleh would refine her thinking, which had started out half-baked at best. An hour later she sent Laleh out for two coffees, which they needed after polishing off the bottle of wine they'd started with lunch. While she was gone, Gwen called Roger, Gale, and Jinny, and asked them to come to The Hall. She thought of calling Shim, but she didn't want to feel guilty about interrupting his writing. With the other three, slackers all of them, she didn't have to worry about interrupting anything serious. When they arrived and came in through the door at the rear of the stage, the two women were drinking their coffees.

Gale looked at the baskets and plates and empty bottles on the folding tables, and said, "You two had a picnic, and didn't invite us? What kind of shit is that?" She looked at Roger and Jinny in disbelief.

Gwen smiled and said, "It was a private party. We had some serious thinking to do, and now that that's over, we called you up." Gale wasn't offended by the gentle jest, and Jinny didn't get it, so he wasn't offended either. He was rooting around in the baskets looking for an unopened bottle of wine, which he found.

Roger said, "So what was the result of the thinking? Anything fun? Something that involves us, I take it."

Gwen said, "Yes, on both accounts. Something very fun, and you're invited to join the team. All of you."

Gale rolled three more chairs out from the wings, while Jinny poured three glasses of wine, and handed one to Roger and Gale. When they all were settled in a circle, Gwen said, "We're going to make a movie, or something. It's Laleh's project, she's the boss, but she needs help, and that's where we come in."

Gale said, "Hot damn. First a ballet, then a rock opera, and now a movie. Where? Here in Charleston? Who's in it? Me? Who's directing? Gwen? When's it start? Now?"

Jinny smiled at Gale's exuberance, and asked, "Who's paying? I don't see Henric or Paul around." Henric was a wealthy friend of the Junes who had bankrolled the ballet, and Paul was Paul McCartney, the famous one, who had written and played and bankrolled the rock opera.

"Me," said Laleh. "I have lots of money. I don't know how much this will cost, but I think I have enough. What I don't have is expertise and connections. Gwen said you'd help with that."

Roger said, "Gale asked all the other right questions, and I guess the answers to those have to do with the serious thinking you've been doing, in addition to the serious wine drinking." He smiled at his wife.

"We have a few of the answers, but not all of them. And that's what we want to talk about now." She nodded at Laleh.

"I'll make this as simple as I can, which shouldn't be too hard, because I don't have much of it figured out. I need help. Here goes. We hire George Clooney to be in a movie that's filmed entirely in this building. The whole thing. The guy who figures out how to do that is Steven Soderberg, the director. He can make any kind of movie. Clooney is the one who gets Soderberg to agree to do it. Clooney also persuades either Renee Zellweger or Catherine Zeta-Jones to be in it too, because he and Zellweger made a film called Leatherheads, which Gwen and Roger like, and he and Zeta-Jones were in Oceans Twelve, which I like. Either actress will work." She paused and finished her coffee, now wishing she was drinking wine with Jinny and Gale.

Gale asked, "What's it about?"

"It's about a woman who steals something from a man, and her boyfriend has to protect her from the man when he tries to get it back. Either Zellweger or Zeta-Jones is the woman, and George is her boyfriend." Laleh sent telepathic messages to Jinny telling him to pour her a glass of wine.

Jinny is a little thick when it comes to telepathy, so while he was figuring it out and then pouring Laleh the wine, Roger said, "That's it? That's the plot?"

Gwen said, "What more do you want? A beautiful woman steals something from a bad guy, and when the bad guy finds out and comes after her, the man she's in love with protects her. Simple."

Gale said, "How can you make a movie like that completely in this little theater? It sounds like an action movie, and those are action actors. You sound like you want to make a foreign film, where people sit around a table for hours on end, discussing their dysfunctional families. You're talking Steven Soderberg here, not Ingmar Bergman." Gwen and Roger looked at Gale, the wildass fashionista, now talking about Bergman. Normally she talks about Coco Chanel or Paul McCartney's daughter, Stella, the fashion designer, who'd been part of the rock opera production, along with her father.

In a surprisingly authoritative voice, Laleh said, "Not my problem. That's Soderberg's problem. My problem is how to knock over the first domino in the row, and that's Big George. We get him, he'll get the others. At least that's what I'm counting on."

Roger looked at his wife, said, "I'm in. My guess is it can work. That's all I know."

When Gwen spoke in this crowd, that was it; the deal was done. Everyone was quiet, even Gale the Mouth and Little Jinny Blistov, the former second class Russian thug and criminal from Saint Petersburg, now a Charleston man about town. Roger closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of his chair. So it was starting up again. Another production. When his wife invoked her intuition, he knew the likelihood of success was high, with some wild shit happening along the way. He'd been waiting months for this. Thank god he was married to Gwenny June.

# Chapter 30 – Colonel Aliaabaadi Tracks

The Aya had absorbed a small amount of radiation during his PR visit to the nuke site, but none of the guys working there was about to tell him. Long ago they'd given up hope of fathering any children (normal children, that is), and if others had to suffer the same fate in order to serve the fatherland, so be it, and that included The Big Guy. Now he was back in the central compound, taking it easy after laboring in sacrifice for the entire eight hour trip to the nuke site and back. Another day to be repaid in triplicate when he passed on to that great virgin drenched territory in the sky.

Shazam also was back in the compound, debating whether to tell The Aya what he had discovered after just a single day at his new duties. He didn't have much hope that his boss would remember the promise to double his salary, but he figured if he did remember, he wasn't likely to keep the promise, knowing how little effort Shazam had had to expend earning it. Shazam sat on his own bed in his Spartan room deep in the bowels of the compound, wondering if it was worth the risk of holding back on the information for a couple of weeks, and then exaggerating the strife, toil, and personal sacrifice it had cost to produce it. He wished he had a wife to talk this over with; someone he could trust to have his interests at heart. But women weren't allowed deep in the central compound, the heart and soul of the government and the country, the place where momentous issues were debated and decisions with international consequences made. Except, of course, the Vs. They were permitted, their special services deemed essential to the smooth, efficient, and effective operation of the warren. So Shazam sat on his bed, alone, wrestling with one of the biggest decisions of his life. To scam The Aya, or not?

He didn't wrestle very long nor very hard. He was, after all, a domestic flunky, not a nervy con man, not a hardened criminal, not a combat trained commando. For the most part, he was a pimp. The fact that he pimped for the leader of a nation on the verge of joining the international brotherhood of nuclear powers didn't negate the basic fact.

The next morning, after The Aya had received the daily briefing from which he learned that the Israeli stealth clothing now was being issued not just to Mossad commandos, but also to select CEOs and CFOs of certain large Israeli multinational corporations, as if they needed more invisibility, Shazam knocked on the door of the apartment. "Enter, but only if you have something that isn't bad news," The Aya yelled. This divine command gave Shazam pause, because he didn't know of the news he had would be viewed positively or negatively. It could be positive in that it was information about a person or persons who had access to the secret account and thus to the People's money. But it could be negative in that it wasn't information about where the money is now, which is what The Aya wants. He wants to retrieve the money and place it safely back in the account where it will be held until the day, that great day, when it will be distributed as a blessing from on high to all the citizens of the great country of Iran. Shazam was sure that was The Aya's ultimate goal. So right now he wasn't sure how The Aya was going to take this news, as a positive thing or a negative thing. He stood outside the apartment door, deciding whether to tell The Big Guy or not, distracted by the ephemeral and nagging idea of someday diverting one of the Vs to his place, his bed. It was an idea he entertained often, him being, after all, a normal guy.

Finally he made up his mind, realizing that nothing entirely good could come of this situation, that from here on there was going to be trouble for someone, and if he was in that mix, so be it. He would get his reward later, when all was said and done. He entered the apartment and supplicated himself before the holy one. "Your Holiness, I have some information about the bank account. I found something."

"Did you find the money, Shazam? Did you find my....er, the People's money?"

From that statement Shazam sussed out The Aya was inclined to view this message as something negative, which meant he directly was disobeying the order not to enter unless he had something positive to report. Oh shit. "No, Your Holiness, I haven't found your....er, the People's money. But I have found information about a person or persons who had access to your....er, the People's account. I have the address of a house here in Tehran where the person lives who accessed your....er, the account."

The Aya thought for a minute, weighing the negativity of the report that his money had not yet been found, against the potential positivity that he might find the person or persons responsible for the theft and be able to lash them to the walls of the reactors happily bubbling away deep under the sands of the Persian desert, until their skins melted off. "Show me what you have." Shazam crawled across the 1400 year old carpet and held the scrap of paper up for The Aya to grasp. "That's it? Just the address? No names?"

Shazam thought, Jesus Christ, I've been working on this twenty-four hours, and I come up with the address of the person or persons that stole your money (please note that Shazam, under stress here, has abandoned the pretext of the money being the People's money), while the entire Revolutionary Guard Corps intelligence apparatus has for years has been trying to figure out, unsuccessfully, how the Zionist commandos keep tunneling within spitting distance of our nuke sites, and you're giving me shit? He thought this; he didn't say it. What he did say was, "Perhaps, Your Holiness, if you were to give the address to Colonel Aliaabaadi, he might be able to find the person or persons, and persuade them to tell you where the money is now. I understand the Colonel can be very persuasive when the situation calls for it. Sir. Your Holiness." Shazam's supplication was such that he practically was eating the old carpet, and hoping the day wouldn't come anytime soon when the Colonel persuaded him to do something.

The Aya said, "Ok, ok. Get up. And call the Colonel. Tell him to come immediately."

Shazam was up and outta there faster than a Scud missile out of its launcher.

# Chapter 31 – Shimmey and Roger Take a Walk

Roger's cell phone rang. It sat on the kitchen table next to the bowl that held the homemade whole wheat pasta dough that was resting under a small towel. Roger had gotten up early to make the dough in time for lunch, knowing Gwen loved homemade pasta, and thinking this good deed might result in a little friendly action come mid-afternoon siesta time. Gwen looked at the phone, and then looked at the square of plexiglass set into the kitchen floor that served as the hatch cover over the staircase that led down into what in the 1840s had been the water collection cistern, and now was the wine cellar. Roger was down there playing with his 1000 bottles of Burgundy, Bordeaux, and Chateauneuf du Pape. Gwen stamped on the plexiglass and yelled, "Hey, wineboy, your phone is ringing."

Roger sat on an old champagne crate trying to decide between an '89 Chateau l'Evangile, a '99 Domain Romanee Conti, and a '01 (that's 2001, not 1901, sorry) Delas Hermitage to go with the pasta. He yelled upwards, "Take a message, hon." This wine selection decision required all the concerted brainpower he could summon.

"Hello, Rogie's number."

"Gwen, it's Shim."

"Hey, lover boy, how's it going?"

He paused, ambivalent about talking with Gwen, loving her as he did, but feeling he needed to talk to Roger. "It's going ok. How are you?"

Sensing his ambivalence she said, "I'm ok, too."

"Is Roger around?"

"Yes, he's down in the cellar playing with his bottles. You'd think he was casting the deciding vote in a 4 to 4 Supreme Court decision over capital punishment. He should be up in a few hours. He has to cook pasta for lunch, him having lost the bet last night."

"Wha'd you bet?"

"Can't tell you. It might embarrass him. It was pathetic, though."

This was not what Shim wanted to hear, that Roger was fallible, considering he wanted to ask his advice about something important. About Laleh. "Would you ask him to call me after he casts his vote. I got something more important than that to talk with him about."

"More important than whether we should have capital punishment?"

"Much more. Thanks, Gwen."

They hung up and Gwen thought, that boy's in love, and bad.

An hour later Roger emerged through the plexiglass hatch with the Delas in his hand, and went to the cupboard to get a decanter. Gwen yelled from the study, "Call Shim. He needs to talk with you about Laleh. Don't screw this up."

The wine went into the decanter, he checked on the dough, picked up his phone, called the dog, and went out into the back yard. "Hey, Shim. What's up?"

"Hi. Thanks for calling me back." He paused. "Is Laleh there?"

"No. She got up early and went down to The Hall."

"What for?"

"Don't know. She's got an idea about something she wants to do there." Roger figured now was not the time to tell Shim about the meeting they'd had the afternoon before, where Laleh had laid on them her idea about a movie starring George Clooney. He could tell Shim was in vulnerability mode, also known as being in love.

Shimmey didn't say anything for a while, and Roger let him collect his feelings. Then Shim said, "Do you have time to take a walk? I need to talk to someone about her. Us."

"You got it. The dog is here with me. Where should we meet you?"

"How about down on The Battery?"

"See you there, fifteen minutes."

Roger and the dog stood on The Battery near the spot where, three years earlier, Roger had gotten into an altercation with three punks intent on running him over with their bikes. They were on what New Yorkers for a while fondly called a wilding, though Roger thought more in terms of a kamikaze strike. In any event, they had picked the wrong guy to wild on, and two had ended up in the hospital for a week. Roger had been glad he hadn't had to pull his gun on them. He'd felt bad for a day or two, but had gotten over it quickly. Shim parked nearby, was greeted enthusiastically by the dog, and shook hands with Roger. He was forthright: "Thanks for coming. I'm stuck in life, and need someone to hear about it."

"What's up?"

"It's the book. I haven't written anything in a week. I sit at the computer and think about the ballet production, and that whole thing was so cool and interesting, and I have 30,000 words written that I think are good, but recently, nothing. It's pissing me off because I want to tell that story, and I need to publish another book, and I love writing, but...." He shrugged.

Roger heard Shim clearly, but was distracted by thoughts of serving Gwen the homemade pasta for lunch, with the Hermitage, and what might follow a little later. He gathered himself and focused on what Shim had said, being more skilled at compartmentalization than Shim. He was no Bill Clinton, but he was pretty good. "Gwen and I look forward to the book, and so do Gale and the others," meaning the other June associates who had been part of the ballet production. "What's keeps you from writing?" Roger knew the answer, but also knew that Shim had to figure this out for himself. Roger could hint, maybe lead a little, but the psychology of the issue had to come from inside Shim.

Again Shim was forthright: "Laleh. Thinking of her. Fantasizing. Stupid stuff."

"Is that bad? She's great. She likes you. You're a number. What's the problem?"

"Yes, she likes me, and we have fun together. It's just that I can't get her out of my mind when we're not together. I have these visions about her, when I should be having visions of the ballet story."

Roger knew what Shim was talking about. He'd written a bunch of short stories a few years back, had enjoyed it, and occasionally thought about getting back to it. But Gwen kept him busy, and when they weren't involved in a caper, he had his bottles to play with. He remembered what it was like to get absorbed in writing, sitting with his eyes closed and parsing the ideas that came out of the blue, saying yes to this one and no to that one, then opening his eyes and watching his hands dance on the keyboard, automatically recording the words that came from the ideas that came out of the blue. That was lots of fun. He stopped walking and leaned against the iron railing at the edge of the promenade walkway. He knew what he had to say; he just didn't know how to say it. He didn't want to say what he knew he had to say, because he didn't want to be responsible for Shim's novel not seeing the light of day when the sun should shine on it. He looked down at the dog for advice as to how to handle the situation. The dog looked up and said, "There ain't no way around it. You know it and I know it. We both like him, but you got to tell him. Straight out. Lay it on him. No other way. Sorry." And he went back to staring at a seagull perched on the railing, wondering if a lunge at it would satisfy his need to demonstrate to himself that he still had the hunting instinct of his illustrious, pre-information age ancestors.

Roger sighed. The dog had confirmed his own instincts. There was only one thing to say to Shim, so he got on with it. "Shim, you know we're second class citizens in this world, don't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that men are at the mercy of good looking women. Good looking, sexy women. Like Laleh and Gwen."

"You are?" Shim realized he shouldn't have put it that way. "I mean, we are? Guys are?"

"We are. We are their puppets and our minds are mush when it comes to dealing with them. We are less capable of resisting their wishes than babies are of being kissed by their aunties. Our spines turn into rubber in the presence of their salubrious charms, and that is our lot."

Shim was shocked, twice fold, once at this basic assessment, and then again at Roger's use of the word salubrious. He knew a lot of unusual words, including that one, and he decided to distract himself from the import of Roger's message by focusing on the vocabulary issue. He could compartmentalize a little when he wanted to.

"Salubrious means conducive to one's health. How is our lot, as you describe it, salubrious? How is being at a women's mercy conducive to a man's health? Aren't we supposed to be strong, able, and independent? Pillars of strength in a hostile world?"

"You can be a pillar of strength, Shim, if you want to be. Being around Gwen is very salubrious for me, rubber spine and mushy mind notwithstanding."

"It is? Being a wimp, stepped on, manipulated, second-class, subsidiary?"

"That's ok. Being around Gwen or Laleh is worth it. Just is. To me."

Shim got the feeling Roger was exaggerating; maybe playing a game here with him. But Roger looked serious. Shim was a little disappointed with Roger's statement. What he had wanted from him was a lesson in how to compartmentalize important functions; something to SIMPLIFY his life and quandary over Laleh and his writing. What he had gotten instead was a new and weird philosophy about dealing with good looking, sexy women, the group that included Gwen and Laleh. Which didn't simplify his life; it made it more complicated. Or did it? Was it really ok to be a spineless, mush-minded person just so one could reap the benefits of such an alliance?

Now it was Shimmey's turn to look to the dog for clarification, which he did. The dog had been listening to the conversation with some interest, having decided that a lunge at the perched seagull would be undignified, despite its throwback to his ancestral values and traditions. He had no trouble at all confirming Roger's position. He said, "Intimacy with female beauty is much better than all that stuff and nonsense about moral strength and civic duty. If you can achieve both states, more power to you. But only a few can. If you have to choose between the two, which is the case for most of us (Shim loved the canine human duality the dog embraced and flaunted), then by all mean chose intimacy with the woman. That has glory and sensual satiation written all over it. You know what it's like to kiss the back of her neck (actually Shim didn't yet know that about Laleh, but he had the fondest of hopes). You know what it's like to see her walk away from the bed, naked, to the bathroom. You know what it's like to see her feet in her golden silk slippers, sitting on the sofa, Sunday morning, reading the newspaper. Stop worrying about all that serious shit. Give it up. Moral smoral. Go for the beauty and sexiness, and if you have to sell your soul to some limited extent, do so, and say to the devil, 'take more of me'." The dog was unequivocal in his pronouncement, and went back to seagull watching. If a lunge wasn't dignified, he could attempt to intimidate the bird with telepathic vibrations.

After a few moments the three guys continued their walk down The Battery, the gull remaining on the railing, impervious to penetration by the dog's stiletto-like mind probes. Shim sensed himself feeling better, which surprised him. He always thought that selling his soul would feel bad, and here he was, buying into Roger's philosophy of dealing with women (good looking, sexy women), without so much as a twinge of guilt. He could fantasize and slobber all over Laleh (figuratively speaking), and not let that paralyze his other life functions, like writing books. Wow. Yes. Her and writing. Why not. He could do that. He stopped and said, to both his friends, "I think I get it. Maybe I have some figuring to do, but I think I get it. I can do both, maybe."

"Where you going now?" Roger asked. "Want to come back with me, have some homemade pasta and some good wine?"

"Thanks, but no. I have to go home, sit at the computer, see what happens. I'll see you later."

Shimmey turned around and walked back to his car, and Roger and the dog crossed through Whitepoint Gardens and headed up Church Street. Roger looked at the dog and said, "You think we steered him right?"

The dog said, "If we can do it, he can do it."

# Chapter 32 – Getting Roger in Gear

The pooch led the way up the steps to the back porch and into the kitchen, where Roger washed his hands and got the pasta machine out of the cupboard. He pounded down the dough, kneaded it, rolled it out, cut it into two foot lengths, and set a pan of water on a flame. Then he smelled the wine in the decanter, set a sauté pan on the range, and got shallots, garlic, and tomatoes out of the pantry. With his ammunition at the ready he went into the hallway and called up the stairs, "Gwenny, lunch in fifteen minutes. You ready for your pasta?"

"Ready," came the word from on high. He smiled and went back into the kitchen. When Gwen entered she said, "Can't wait. How's Shim?"

"He's good. He just had his priorities wrong. Was setting civic duty, morality, and artistic achievement above pleasing his beautiful girlfriend. We set him straight, now he's back to writing. The block is gone."

Gwen thought this over for a minute and decided not to pursue a deeper understanding of the logic. If the dog had concurred, things were ok. "What kind of wine's in the decanter?"

"Hermitage. Beautiful."

"That's a syrah; a big wine. Rich. It'll hold up for a few hours, won't it?"

Roger, whose back was to Gwen as he stirred the shallots, garlic, and tomatoes in the olive oil, now turned around to face her. He didn't like the sound of her last sentence. In it he detected an allusion to NOT drinking the wine now, with the pasta, which all morning he had hoped would lead to a little romance afterwards, preluding the siesta. He said, "It's ready now. It's been breathing. It's ready to go, now, with the pasta, perfect."

Gwen looked at him with manipulative eyes, said, "But it will keep for a couple of hours, right? Still be great later?"

He turned back to the stove and his sautéing, closed his eyes, fought back the disappointment, and remembered what he'd told Shim just an hour earlier. Beautiful women rule; no defense; take what you can get, when they want to give it up, and be thankful; don't bother fighting it, no way; capitulate. He said, "It won't be horrible. Won't die on the vine in the decanter. May still have a little flavor later; not like now, not like the level of perfection it has attained at this moment; but it still will be alive." He almost cried.

Gwen said, "Ok, good, because we have something to do after lunch. Something important."

Roger knew it didn't have anything to do with a prelude to a siesta. He knew it might be important to Gwen, but he also knew, whatever it was, it wasn't going to be as important to him as what he'd been hoping for. He felt all that intense desire flow out of him, and watched it flow down the sink drain. He looked at the decanter, at the embodied efforts of Monsieur Delas, at all that monumental effort the good Frenchman had put into growing the grapes and making the wine, and knew he wasn't going to get that anytime soon, either. What a bust. The pasta probably would be crap, too. Rubbery, overcooked. He said, "What's so important? They waiting for me to cast that vote, break the four four tie, one way or the other?"

"More important than that. Have to help Laleh with the movie. You do."

Roger didn't like the sound of this, either. First, deprivation of the ultimate in hedonism: lunch, wine, and sex with his wife. Now, work. Labor. Struggle. Gwen always gave him the hard jobs in these production numbers. During the ballet he'd had to find, recruit, and enlist the services of a master musician to play the Stravinsky score that had been lost to the world since 1914. They'd needed someone who could play the entire thing on synthesizer, simulating all the instruments of an orchestra, and he had succeeded, getting Pete Townshend to come over from London for eight weeks and do the gig; that genius songwriter and musician who'd transcribed the orchestral score for synthesizer and played the entire thing for all eight performances. A year later, for the rock opera, again Gwen had told him to find the musicians and singers, and again he had succeeded, getting Paul McCartney to write thirty original songs and play them with an all-star band, and had persuaded Renee Fleming to drop her gigs at the Met and La Scala, and sing the McCartney songs in the eight performances of the opera, in Charleston.

Now what? What did Gwen and Laleh want for this movie? Bring Cary Grant and Catherine Hepburn back from their graves for one last superlative collaboration? For what did he have to give up the Hermitage and the prelude to the siesta? What was worth that? Oh, yes, to be able to watch Gwen get out of bed and walk to the bathroom. To be able to kiss the back of her neck. To see her feet in the golden slippers, drawn up under her on the couch on Sunday morning.

He said, "Ok. Where? When?"

"After lunch. Down at The Hall. She's there now, with Gale and Jinny."

Resigned, he said, "What about Shim? Aren't we going to bring him into this? He's the boyfriend."

"You think he's ready for the big time? Going to be a lot of pressure on all of us. Again. He's a writer, remember. Wuss."

"What pressure? We get the right actors and director, they do all the work. We just hang around, manage their quirks. They get out of line, get big heads, get contrary and too beautiful for their own good, we send 'em into the orchestra pit with Little Jinny, he straightens 'em out. Problem solved."

Gwen saw his logic and had to agree with his solution to any problems with thespian egos. It was called Little Jinny Blistov. But there was something lurking in the back of Gwen's mind; something that hadn't yet formed into an intuition; something that seemed far away and very foreign. She was certain something was there but she couldn't get it to materialize.

And she was right. There was something lurking far away, and its name was Colonel Aliaabaadi.

# Chapter 33 – Thief Identification

The Colonel was The Aya's goto guy now, but it hadn't always been so. The Colonel was in his second career, so to speak, having rehabilitated his reputation and position after a bad go round in his first career. The reason the Iranian nuclear power (weapons) program is in the state it is today goes back twenty years, which was the era of Aliaabaadi's first career. Back then Iran had built its first nuclear reactor, a little thing that put out enough power to run a couple of toasters, on a good day. Regardless of its output, it was homemade, and a source of great pride and growing ambition for a larger and more powerful one, among the few dozen people that knew of its existence. It was located in downtown Tehran, near a large commercial bakery that made the Iranian equivalent of Wonder Bread. None of the people who knew about the reactor ever ate any of that bread. In fact, none of the higher ups ever went near the place, requiring that sacrifice of the lower downs, whom they persuaded to make such a sacrifice with lots of promises of virgins forever later on. Like, much later on, and you know what is meant by that. The reactor itself was the size of a refrigerator, but the centrifuges required to refine the crappy raw uranium the Russians gave them took up a warehouse the size of a football field.

The reactor ran for a year, powering the toasters and the ambitions of engineers, politicians, and Lesser Ayatollahs, all of whom saw it as their ticket to status and power. All they had to do was figure out how to make one big enough to run an electric plant that could power all the houses in Tehran (make hydrogen bombs with Tel Aviv painted on the side). The problem for the Colonel, who was in charge of security for the reactor, was that the Israelis also developed ambitions about the reactor, and these ambitions centered on how to destroy it, and by doing so, destroy the nuclear program in its infancy. There were more Israelis who knew about the reactor than Iranians. The Israelis had no real problem with increasing the supply of electricity to the city, but they did have a problem with those bombs and what was written on them.

Most of the Israelis thought they should just send over a few American made jets and level the place, promising there would be no damage, or maybe just a little, to the bakery. Remember, this was twenty years ago, before the Iranians had started building their nuke sites deep underground. But there was a small contingent who wanted to see the reactor in order to determine the level of technology the Iranians had developed, and in the end their view won the day. So, they stole the reactor. One day it was there, hooked up to the toasters, and the next day it wasn't. Someone went into the building with a loaf of the Iranian version of Wonder Bread, thinking he would come out with toast for all the engineers and technicians who still could eat solid food, not yet having graduated to the last stage of radiation poisoning at which they walked around with liquid packs on their backs from which they were fed intravenously, working right up to the blessed day when they would pass over and finally meet their personal harem of forty Vs. This was forty each, remember, so if two engineers died on the same day, there were eighty of the dolls over there, waiting and ready. Anyway, the guy with the loaf went in, and there were the toasters, but the reactor was gone.

What was really impressive about this Israeli operation was that it was done before Mossad invented the stealth clothing and silent commando tunneling technology. To this day, only a handful of people know how they pulled it off, and none of them are Iranian. No one would like to know more than Colonel Aliaabaadi, who was in charge of security, and who subsequently spent ten years cleaning out camel stalls at one of the more remote border stations in the southern desert. This site is so remote even Google Earth can't find it. How he escaped execution was of interest to a lot of people in the Revolutionary Guard Corps, but their best guess was that he had some dirt on someone really high up. In any event, after his ten years of co-habitating with the camels and dreaming of his future stock of Vs, he rejoined the Guard and worked his way back up to Colonel, and eventually, to The Aya's goto guy. Now that's an impressive career rehabilitation.

The Colonel was practicing on one of his own terrestrial virgins (he didn't want to disappoint any of his celestial ones, whom everyone had heard were very demanding) when Shazam knocked on the door of his apartment. The Colonel said, "Go away. I'm working."

Shazam said, "Sir, Colonel Sir, The Ayatollah requires your presence. And I'm just the messenger, Sir. Don't shoot through the door."

"Shit. Ok." He extricated himself from his work, washed his face, squeezed into his uniform, told the V not to move, and followed the flunky down through sixteen levels of the central compound to The Big Guy's digs. "Yes, Your Holiness. How may I serve you?"

"There has arisen an issue that requires your special level of expertise and confidence. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Your Holiness."

"Do you remember the time you spend with the camels in the southern desert?"

"Yes, Your Holiness." Some of the Vs thought he still smelled like a camel, all these years later.

"That outpost still exists. Would you like to go back there for the remainder of your military career?"

"No, Your Holiness."

"Then you will keep what I am about to tell you secret, from everyone and everybody, so help you Allah?"

"Yes, Your Holiness."

"There has been a theft from the People. A theft of money that was to be distributed to the People to ease their burden in this life, before passing on to that great land of perpetual virginity in the sky." It was understood between The Aya and The Colonel that this had to do with the male People of the country, the females being of less, if any, consideration. The Colonel remained mute, this sounding like a very interesting and potentially lucrative secret mission. "You will investigate this theft and bring the evildoer to justice. You will tell no one what is behind your investigation, or who is behind your investigation, only that you have orders from on high and are under the strictest demand for secrecy. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Your Holiness."

"You will report to no one other than me, do you understand?" The Colonel thought, Jesus, I get the picture, don't worry. He nodded solemnly. "The People's money was in a bank account, and now it's not there. You will find it and return it to me, who holds it in trust for the country, and exact revenge on that person or persons responsible for this abomination. That is your sacred mission, and I expect results. Any questions?"

The Colonel knew better than to ask much, especially not how much money had been stolen, but he did ask, "Do we have any clues, Your Holiness?"

The Big Guy yelled towards the door of the apartment, "Shazam, get your ass in here."

Before the e in here had finished echoing off the walls, Shazam materialized in front of his master. "Yes, Your Holiness."

"Give The Colonel the information about the People's theft. It's his job to find the perpetrator and missing goods. You two are the only ones who know of this miscarriage of justice and the mission to bring restitution to our holy land. Keep it that way, understood?" Both of the missives bowed down and vacuumed spots on the old carpet with their bated inhalations. All they wanted to do was get out of there while they still had breaths in their bodies. "Results, hear me? Results."

Shazam and The Colonel dematerialized out of there and regrouped in one of the other circles of the central compound, where their heart rates returned to normal. The Colonel assumed his natural state of superiority over Shazam by saying, "What do you have for me, flunky?" Shazam didn't say anything, just handed him the scrap of paper with the address of Laleh's apartment on it. "That's all? An address?"

"Yes, Sir. That is the address of the person or persons who stole The Aya's, er, the People's money."

"C'mon, tell me what you know. There has to be more. I gotta have more than this to go on. It's my neck here."

"It's like he said, the money was in a bank account, and now it's gone. The account is in a bank in the Caribbean, but there was a link to the Bank of Tehran, and all we know is that the person at that address went into that account and did something. We don't know what."

The Colonel again looked at the scrap of paper, and then back at Shazam. "If I find you're holding out on me, it's into one of the reactor buildings with you. No protection. You know what that means?" Shazam nodded. "You ever seen someone with Grade 4 radiation sickness?" Shazam never had seen that, but he could imagine it, so he nodded yes. The Colonel gave him one last grim stare, and walked out.

When he got back to his office he handed the paper to one of his technicians and said, "Tell me who lives at this address." The technician sat down at his computer, opened a program, typed the address into the search bar, and waited. When the result showed on the screen, the technician wrote a name on the paper and handed it back to the Colonel, who read, "Laleh Khorram." Laleh, Laleh, where had he heard that name recently? He walked back to his office and sat down at his desk. Laleh. And then he remembered, the family with the missing daughter, the daughter who was good with computers. His eyes narrowed.

# Chapter 34 – Roger's Mission

Roger ate his pasta with one eye on his plate and the other on the decanter, which sat on the kitchen counter rather than on the table in front of him. Gwen thought he was pathetic, like a meth addict standing in front of a dealer, ten bucks short for his needed fix. She did feel some sympathy because she enjoyed wine with lunch almost as much as he did; but still, he was pathetic. She told him the pasta was great without the wine, which made him feel a little better.

They cleaned up, grabbed the dog, and walked the mile to The Hall, where they found Laleh and Shimmey deep in conversation on the stage. Roger said, "I thought you were going back home to try to write something."

"I did. Skipped lunch and wrote a chapter. No problem. I'm back on track. Then she called, asked me to come down here, she had something to talk about."

"And?"

"And I'm a second class citizen, like you said. Mush minded, and thankful for it."

The dog telepathized to Roger, "Good man. In the long run it's in his best interest. The other way is like trying swim upstream against the Mississippi, and that'll drown your ass." Roger nodded assent, which wasn't lost on Gwen, who always knew what everyone around her, including the dog, was thinking and feeling.

They pulled up the rolling chairs and sat down, with the dog leaving to explore all corners of the building, checking for Hollywood spies trying to sneak a peek at what he sensed was going to be an important discussion about the movie. Anything to do with Clooney was gold to those in the know. Very gently Roger, Gwen, and Shim turned and looked at Laleh. They didn't want to appear demanding or intimidating, but the three of them knew it was time for Laleh to come forward with the central concept of the movie. She had done well so far, first deciding the movie would be filmed entirely inside The Hall, and then, with a lot of balls, telling them she wanted Clooney and Soderberg. So she was thinking big. Lastly she had been very forthright in asking Gwen and Roger for help, and basing that request on what she knew about their recent ballet and rock opera productions. Now it was time for the central concept, and they hoped she would come through.

Roger wasn't the only one who wished he was drinking wine in the middle of the day. So was she. She got out of her chair, paced around the stage once, called the dog, who came running and offered her his spiritual support (using that term loosely, him being an atheist, like his masters), and then sat down again. She looked at Roger and said, "You bring any wine?"

He made the hand motion saying nada, and jerked his head towards his wife, indicating she was the party pooper, and he was just a typical second class male at the mercy of a good looking and sexy woman. Resigned, she got on with it. "Ok, I know it's time I tell you what the movie's about. You said you'd help me, and what I've asked for so far is huge. Really huge. A superstar actor and a superstar director, who's just retired from directing movies, no less. I've got no contacts to make this happen, no juice whatsoever. Maybe you do." She paused and looked at the Junes, with Gwen looking back neutrally and Roger looking back encouragingly, even though he sensed it was him she was asking to do the heavy lifting, and he had no idea how to get Clooney on board. She went on, "I also proposed that the movie be filmed here, in one little building, which is odd to say the least. Maybe that will make it harder and maybe that will make it easier, I don't know, but like I said before, that's the director's problem." She really needed a drink. Was she talking nonsense? Were the Junes going to throw her out of The Hall and out of their house? Was Shim going to go back to his monastic novel writing, living life vicariously through his fictional characters, telling her she was a crazy Persian chick? Was the dog going to refuse to go walking with her? She gathered herself and said, "The only thing I bring to the table is money. I have lots of money, and nothing better to spend it on. That's something." She stood up, walked once around the chairs, and said, "Here's the idea. A woman in a Middle Eastern country is pissed at everybody in and everything about her culture. She gets into the computer banking system of her country, steals a ton of money from important people, leaves her country, meets a western guy, and falls in love. The guy is Clooney, of course. They don't know what to do with each other because they are from different cultures, but they have the hots for each other, and have some fun together, and start to trust each other and learn about each other, and things are good." Laleh felt better now that the ideas were coming out; ideas that had been percolating inside her for two weeks. "Then....then....the bad guys show up. Every movie has to have conflict in it, right?" Shim didn't know anything about movies, but Roger and Gwen nodded yes. "Just like novels have to have conflict in them, right?" And now she looked at Shim, who thought, 'they do?' She said, "The bad guys show up, sent by the important people she stole the money from, and they want the money back and her dead. Simple story, been told a hundred times. George, of course, protects her. But, the bad guys are from the Middle East, and he's from the west, and so it's not only a revenge thing for stealing the money, but also a clash of cultures, on a micro level. Not on the international level of politics, which is what we hear about in the news every other day, but on the level of a few people hidden down in the weeds. A few good people and a few bad people. The director makes all this happen, here in The Hall. I have no idea how, but that my idea."

She dropped her arms, with which she had been gesticulating, to her sides, and collapsed in her chair, and looked at the dog for moral support, who thought, 'this chick has imagination, rock on honey.'

It took Gwen all of twenty micro seconds to process what Laleh had said, and Roger wasn't far behind her, and they looked at each other and smiled, and then smiled at Shim, who unfortunately wasn't as swift at processing the situation, him being a writer, and also somewhat distracted by what Laleh had said about all novels needing to have conflict in them, that being a new concept to him, which maybe explained the lukewarm sales of his previous books. Conflict?

Gwen got up, crossed the circle to Laleh, kissed her on the lips, Gwen not being shy, twirled around, and faced her husband. She said, "You did it before, twice, and you can do it again. Get Clooney for the movie, and when he's on-board, tell him to get Soderberg. Ok, dear?"

"And if I can't?"

"You and the dog'll be sharing a different bedroom."

Laleh thought, "I gotta remember that one." She had no idea how her life was about to emulate her art.

# Chapter 35 – Jinny and Gale

Little Jinny Blistov, as described, was one of the toughest Grade B Russian gangsters you'll ever want to meet. He grew up in Saint Petersburg, where he was successful at crime until he picked the wrong victim one time, a Grade A gangster, who found him out and instead of killing him, got him thrown into a gulag for two years after which he was tossed into the hold of an Aeroflot cargo transport headed for Pittsburg, the big time gangster deciding exile to Pittsburg was worse than death. After spending his first winter there, trying to break into the crime scene, Jinny agreed, looked at a map and some Chamber of Commerce brochures, and took the bus to Charleston, where, according to the brochures, you could walk on the beach in February wearing only a sweater. The brochures also said Charleston was founded in part by French Huguenots, which sounded romantic to Jinny, who knew from his high school history lessons that one of his favorite czars was buddies with a French Huguenot king. The czar had sent a kennel of borzoi hunting dogs to the king, and the king had sent back a kennel of frou frou poodles, all of which had died from the cold that first Russian winter. Jinny didn't have any Huguenot blood, but there was something about it he liked, and he thought he'd try to meet some in Charleston, see what they were like.

Once a criminal always a criminal, and it wasn't long after he arrived in Charleston that he hired a cabinet maker in western North Carolina to make a fake Hepplewhite end table, which he sold to an antique store on King Street, who sold the table at a hefty profit to Roger's dear old very wealthy auntie. A year later a friend pointed out to her it was a fake, and she told Roger, who was pissed, and who tracked Jinny down, stuck a gun in his face, and told him it was time for restitution. Somehow, after all that enmity, Jinny and Roger had become friends, and from that point on Jinny was in on most of the June capers.

While Jinny was relatively new to the June's stable of friends, Gale the Mouth had grown up in Charleston with Roger and Gwen, and had been in their circle her whole life. The Junes were aristocratic by nature, while Gale was a street-fighter, wild, gutsy, wild, loved a good game of poker if the stakes were high enough, and wild. The poker stakes didn't have to be in the form of cash, she fancied a lot of commodities, and wasn't above putting her ass on the line, literally speaking, if there was something she found especially dear. Gale talked big, talked incessantly, talked wild, and talked hot, all depending on the capabilities of her listeners to appreciate the content. Hers was the only ass in town that a few of the guys she and Gwen had grown up with thought was superior to Gwen's, and she learned early on it was shown to maximum affect when swathed in beautiful clothes of couture quality. That type of clothing is not cheap; hence Gale's propensity for gambling and getting involved in the June's shady capers. She had to pay for them somehow, and unlike Roger and Gwen, she didn't have wealth in the family. Somehow she always had what it took to stay at the top of Charleston's heap of fashionistas.

Jinny and Gale weren't a thing in terms of being a couple, Jinny being five foot four and composed of two hundred pounds of granite like flesh, Gale being five ten and sporting natural accoutrements that would make Catherine Deneuve, in her heyday, get out of the business. Jinny had a beard that crept around the sides of his neck behind his ears, and required shaving twice a day at Pierre's Men's Salon, while Gale had blond hair, baby fine and silky, that she hooked behind her ears with the express purpose of framing that place at the rear of her neck to which she directed any guy to who was lucky enough to have earned the privilege of going to bed with her. Despite these physical disparities, they were great friends, teasing each other mercilessly, drinking to excess with a certain regularity, sharing psychological intimacies, and being there when the other one needed it. Woe to any guy who messed with Gale uninvited if Jinny heard about it; that was instant death, or at least one step just this side of it.

The day after Laleh told Gwen, Roger, and Shimmey the main idea of the movie, Gwen made lunch reservations at McCrady's Restaurant, and invited Jinny and Gale to join them. That group of six composed the core team, and Jinny and Gale were initiated into the new production. Jinny asked, "Who's George Clooney?"

Gale said, "Who's George Clooney? You moron, he's king of the hunk studs for people of my generation, which is the best generation. He's the guy who wore farmers bib overalls in Brother Where Art Thou and made them sexy. He's the guy that masterminded the heist in Oceans Twelve, the best movie of its kind ever made. He's the guy that tamed Renee Zellweger in Leatherheads, who, if she stopped making stupid movies, could be the greatest actress of her generation. Good god, do I have to teach you everything? How to dress, how to not chew with your mouth open, how to smell the $300 bottle of burgundy before you guzzle it like cherry soda? Where were you born again, moron?"

"In a warehouse on the Saint Petersburg docks. My mom went back to driving the forklift the next day, just like the Cambodian women who work in the rice paddies."

Gale said, "They go back to work that afternoon, so your mom wasn't so tough. And that's no excuse for not knowing about burgundy." Gale was such a snob.

"I know about vodka. Got my first shot in my mother's milk. Yum."

It had taken Laleh a while to get used to Gale's and Jinny's repartee and to understand they liked each other, kind of a brother sister thing. While they ate lunch Laleh explained to them her ideas for the production. Jinny didn't understand all of it, but did get the basic idea of making a movie in The Hall, and he looked at Gwen, who telepathized her approval of the project. That was all he needed; he was in up to his eyeballs. Whatever Gwen wanted, Gwen got. He asked, "What am I going to do?"

Gwen and Roger looked at Laleh, who didn't have a clue. Gwen said, "You're Clooney's bodyguard. Keep Gale from molesting him morning, noon, and night."

Gale said, "That leaves the afternoon. I can do a lot of damage, or good, depending on how you look at it, in the space of an afternoon, and when Jinny needs a break, I'll take good care of George's body." Laleh was amazed at how much Gale thought about sex.

Jinny said to Gale, "When you're not molesting him, what's your role in the production?"

Laleh didn't have a clue about that either, so Gwen said, "She's the gopher. Gets everyone coffee in the morning, champagne after the molestation respite, burgundy in the evening to wind down with. She doesn't need any training in any of that, especially the molestation part."

Gale took that as a compliment, but then said, "Wait a minute. Who's the babe in the movie? Who's George's squeeze? Who plays the woman that stole the money, and who George protects from the assassins?" She looked around, incredulously. "ME. That's me. I'm that babe. George saves me and we live sexually ever after."

Roger said, "You're blond. You look like a Swedish masseuse. The woman is from the Middle East."

"So I dye my hair and act pissed off at all the men I'm around. I can do it."

Gale's goofiness served to focus the team on that important question: who was going to play the woman? Everyone looked at Laleh, who said, "Not our problem. If we get Clooney and Soderberg, they have the juice to get a good actress. Don't they?"

Gwen said, "Yes, they do. I agree. Not our problem."

Jinny said, "I don't think Gale should dye her hair." Jinny likes blonds and he really likes Gale the way she is. His little sister. Then he looked at Laleh and said, "What about you? You got the looks. Can you act?" Jinny didn't always exhibit a lot of tact, and often followed Lord Nelson's advice, the English sea captain, which was, never mind maneuvers, always go straight at 'em.

Laleh said, "I don't have any experience with running away from assassins and being rescued, so I don't think I fit the bill."

An omnipotent observer might reply to that, "Just wait."

# Chapter 36 – The Chase Begins

The Colonel wasn't sure if he was happy about this assignment or not. On the one hand, if he succeeded, the rewards, the earthly rewards, could be large: a promotion, a larger apartment, maybe a percentage of the money he found and returned, as a finder's fee. He wouldn't turn that down, even though it was the People's money. On the other hand, if he failed, it could be back to tending camels. It would be back to tending the camels, no doubt about it. So he better not fail. He had some good boys he could put on this; not as smart and tough as the invisible Mossad tunnelers, but plenty tough enough to deal with this Laleh woman, if she was the thief.

Back at the office he woke two of them up from their mid-morning nap, told them to bring their guns and meet him down in the garage in five minutes. Twenty minutes later they were at Laleh's apartment, where they broke down the door and entered with guns drawn and teeth bared. From the room at the rear they heard, "Ugh, ugh, ugh." The one soldier started to break down this door also, even though it was unlocked and open an inch. They entered, the Colonel behind of course, and found Yousef, the third youngest son of Laleh's parents, in bed with the wife of his brother, Kahleed, the fourth youngest son. Yousef's wife may or may not have been in bed with Kahleed in some other apartment.

After ascertaining there were no Israeli commandos in the room, The Colonel entered and recognized the lovers from his visit to Laleh's parent's house, thinking, 'Are these two married? I remember them being introduced as something else, don't I?' He said, "Where's Laleh? This is her apartment. Why are you here?"

Yousef looked at his sister in law, raised the sheet and looked down under, looked back at The Colonel, and said, "Umm, well, taking care of a little business, Your Excellency."

The Guard Corps guys snickered, but thought, 'Nothing wrong with that.'

"Where's Laleh? I don't care about your business. Where is she?"

"Still gone. Gone for good, we think. It's been four months. That's why we're using the apartment for, umm, business."

The Colonel turned to his boys and said, "Search the place. Look for anything that might tell us where she went." He looked back at the lovers and said, "Get dressed. Immediately." He went into the kitchen and sat down. When Yousef came in he said, "I need a photo of her. Of your sister. Do you have one?"

Yousef said, "I don't know if there's one here, but my parents have some at their place. I can go there and get them and send them to you by email."

"Uh uh. We go together. The business can stay here if she wants." They waited while the boys searched, who found nothing incriminating, so they all piled into the 1970s vintage Russian sedan POS and drove to Laleh's parents apartment. As they walked up the five flights of stairs Yousef said quietly to The Colonel, "Umm, Your Excellency, umm, you don't have to mention to the elders here that I was conducting business at Laleh's place, do you, Sir? They've suffered such a shock from losing my much beloved sister. You understand, Sir, I hope. They don't need anything else to upset them."

The Colonel thought for a moment, then said, "You have other business ventures, if I remember correctly. Ventures that provide you with rewards of a kind different than the reward you were receiving back there just now from that business venture, correct?"

Yousef saw the light. "Yes, Your Excellency. Rewards of a different kind."

"If, perhaps, you were to share a small portion of these rewards with me and the boys, very small, I see no reason to mention to your parents anything about the conference we interrupted. No need at all."

"Yes, Your Excellency. Some of these rewards will be delivered to your office this afternoon. You can count on it."

The group entered the apartment and The Colonel demanded a photo. Laleh's mother went into the other room and returned with a frame that contained two recent photos. She handed it to The Colonel and said, "Have you found her? Our beloved daughter? She's such a good girl." The father and the brother raised their eyebrows at each other but knew better than to challenge the statement.

The Colonel didn't challenge it either, saying, "We know how much you miss her and we're doing everything we can to find her." Then he looked at the photos and said, "Allah and Jesus be praised." They showed the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. One photo showed her from the front and the other from profile. The profile shot was full body and displayed a physique that made her a challenger to Gwen and Gale in the greatest ass in Charleston department. He looked at the mother and said, "This is Laleh? Laleh Khorram?" She nodded. He handed the frame to one of his Guard flunkies, who took a look and promptly dropped the assault rifle he was holding. Luckily it didn't go off. The Colonel grabbed the frame out of his hands, not wanting the other flunky to look at it, as he was holding a couple of grenades. When his boys were on a security mission, they came prepared for serious stuff. He said, "Ok," to the parents and "Don't forget," to the brother, and led the way out of the apartment.

As they climbed down the five flights of steps The Colonel knew what to do. Show the photos to every man within a mile. If any of them had seen her recently, they'd remember. It took three hours to get the first hit. A bus driver looked at the frame and said, "Oh, yes, I remember. I took her to the airport. I look for her every day, hoping she gets on my bus when she returns and I get to take her back to her neighborhood."

"Where did you drop her at the airport?"

"EgyptAir, Sir."

At the airport it took half an hour to find a ticket clerk that remembered her and the approximate date he'd seen her, and another half hour for the manager to search the computer records near that date and identify the ticket that likely had been bought by her. He said, "If this is her, and I think it is, she flew to Cairo."

"Can you track her there if she got on another flight somewhere?"

"If she flew EgyptAir, yes. If she got on another airline, maybe."

"How's the maybe work?"

"Same as here. Any man who see this woman will remember her. I send these photos to our people in Cairo and ask them to show them around the airport, especially to the other airline counter employees."

"That's all?"

"Not exactly. An offer of compensation for the effort it takes them to remember something like this would help." He looked at The Colonel knowingly.

"Do it. Offer the compensation. Fast track it. You too. You produce results, you get compensated, big time. Understand?"

"Yes, Boss." He took the photos to his office, removed them from the frame, scanned them, and at light speed sent out a dozen emails with the photos attached. The Colonel gave him his cell number and left the guy with the grenades to monitor the situation while he and the other Guard guy went back to the office. The Guard guy went and took a nap while The Colonel fidgeted at his desk, alternately thinking of a bigger car and how nasty camels are. Two hours later his cell rang, and the EgyptAir manager said, "We found her." He wondered what his compensation would be, hoping The Colonel wouldn't give him any shit about virgins in the next life.

"Where is she? Where'd she go?"

"London, Your Excellency. The same day she left Tehran and flew to Cairo. London."

"Ok. Good work. Someone will be around to see you." And he hung up. London. He'd never been out of the country. Never been out of the stinking desert. London, here I come.

# Chapter 37 – Roger Goes Hunting

Roger has a knack for making contact with famous people and getting them to help the Junes in their capers. This may have to do with the fact that Gwen threatens to make him sleep in a different bedroom with only the dog for company, or it may just be an unusual but useful talent he developed along the way. Smart money's on the former. He had gotten Pete Townshend and Paul McCartney and Renee Fleming, among others, and now he was tasked to get George Clooney and Steven Soderberg. He took the dog for a walk on The Battery and put on his thinking cap. Usually it takes Roger a few laps up and down the promenade to get his mental juices flowing, and then a few more to generate an idea, and then a few more to develop the idea into a form that he can take back to Gwen to critique. The dog knew this from much prior experience, knew his roles were to protect his master from disturbance during this delicate process and to act as sounding board for the nascent ideas. This meant he could look forward to a good long walk, and during the early stages, before Roger called on his talents, he could stalk seagulls perched on the promenade railing and telepathically challenge them with threats of sudden and fatal charges and pounces.

So it surprised the dog when during only the second lap on the walkway Roger stopped, looked out at the water, and turned to the dog saying, "I got it. I got it. Why reinvent the wheel. Just do the same thing that worked before."

The dog said, "What thing?"

"The big advertisements in all the newspapers around the world thing."

"Oh, yeah, I remember. Maybe it'll work. Won't know till you try, but it's worth a shot. How much will that cost?"

Roger crossed the road and sat down on a bench next to a huge Civil War seacoast mortar which at one time had protected Fort Sumter. The dog was disappointed the walk was being truncated, but lay down next to the bench and gave the evil eye to a pigeon which had the temerity to waddle nearby, looking for a piece of popcorn. Roger said, "Good question," took out his cell phone, and called Laleh. "Hi, it's Roger."

"Hello. What kind of wine are we having with dinner tonight?"

"What kind would you like?"

"A German riesling, say, ten years old."

Roger loved that Laleh loved wine as much as he did, though he had a nagging sense in the back of his mind that in the long run he may be responsible for her becoming an alcoholic. He took a note from her book and thought, not my problem, and said, "I have an idea about getting Clooney, and I need to know how much money you have to spend on this thing. You said you have a lot, but you've never said how much that is. This thing I'm thinking of will cost a lot, so I have to ask."

"That's ok, I don't mind. Everyone will have to know sooner or later, when the expenses start flowing in. I have about," and she paused, doing a little arithmetic, "I have $100 million minus what I spent in London on the fancy hotel room and the meals and wine, and minus what I've spent here on the meals and wine, which hasn't been that much because you and Gwen treat most of the time."

Roger thought for a moment, and said, "You have almost $100 million you want to spend on a movie, and you've never done this before, and are trusting us to make the production work, with no guarantee of success or payback?"

Now it was Laleh's turn to think, after which she said, "Maybe you're right. Maybe I better not spend it all on this project. Maybe I should save some to live on afterwards. So let's say I have $99 million to spend, if we need it."

Generally Roger took people at their word, so he said, "Ok, thanks hon," and hung up. He looked down at the dog, who looked up at him and said, "That oughta to be enough, don't you think?"

Roger nodded, and went back to developing the idea further, which went like this. A year earlier he had tricked Pete Townshend into agreeing to transcribe the lost Stravinsky ballet score from orchestra to synthesizer and performing the music for the eight productions of the ballet at The Hall, by putting huge glossy ads in a bunch of newspapers and magazines published in England and the States, and doing the same thing on several dozen prominent entertainment websites. The ads said Townshend would be performing the lost Stravinsky ballet in Charleston, and implied this was as a competitive response to Paul McCartney's earlier composition of an original score for The American Ballet Theater in New York City, and of course Townshend saw the ads and called the number on the ads, which was the June's number, and from there Gwen took over, convincing him to do the production. She had this magic thing with people, and he was putty in her hands. All those ads cost $3 million, but the June's had backers with deep pockets, like now, and the ploy had worked. Hence Roger's admonition to himself to not reinvent the wheel.

With this settled he and his buddy took a couple of turns on the promenade for exercise and then headed home. A little later Gwen came into the kitchen and heard him down in the wine cellar. She stamped on the plexiglass hatch and yelled down through it, "You got it figured out yet?" She hadn't decided how long to give him to produce the goods before she kicked him out of their bedroom, but it was going to be soon.

He climbed the steps to the hatch, opened it, and handed her two bottles of Donnhoff 2004 spatlese riesling. After he closed the hatch he said, "I think so. Gonna try the same thing we did with Townshend. Put a bunch of ads in all the major newspapers and entertainment magazines, and on some websites, saying Soderberg is coming out of retirement to direct a film in a small theater, and Clooney is the star. Hope one of them bites, and then convinces the other to join the project. Then they find the woman, who if it was me directing the thing would pay whatever it cost to get Zellweger back in the saddle with Big George." Roger had a thing for Zellweger after seeing her and Clooney together in Leatherheads. She was a knockout.

Gwen asked, "How much is that going to cost, and does Laleh have enough to pay for it, and everything else?"

"You know how much it cost last time, so this time should be about the same. And, yes, she has enough. She said she had $99 million to spend on the project."

Talk of money at this level didn't faze Gwen a bit. She and Roger were well off, not wealthy, but they had friends who were, and had played caper games at very high stakes on several occasions. She said, "I wonder where she got it?"

Roger shrugged and went about the important business of getting the wine at the correct temperature to go with dinner. Laleh had become quite the stickler on that point.

# Chapter 38 – Shim Screws up His Courage

Shim had tried to learn compartmentalization from Roger because he knew Roger was good at it. Instead he had learned a different, though no less important lesson, about how men are second class citizens when it comes to hanging out with sexy women. Knowing he is mush when it comes to resisting such a creature's wishes (often devious though not always so) had taken the pressure off him and allowed him to concentrate on being the best pile of mush he could be. Shim wasn't sure what percentage of this lesson he had learned from Roger and what percentage from the dog, but that didn't matter; he had learned it.

From this point forward he could concentrate on Laleh's other characteristics, knowing he had no control over the sex thing. In that department he would take what he was given. What were Laleh's other characteristics? Surely there are things other than her silky straight hair, hooked behind her ears, and more than that spot high on her neck behind her right ear that he covets more than a novel twenty weeks on the NY Times best seller list. And there is more than watching the slightly asymmetrical jig and hitch that results when her femurs rotate in her hips which applies torque to both sides of her pelvis which articulates her glutes into that mesmerizing swing that is better than Duke Ellington playing his best stuff at The Cotton Club. There is something more than that, right? Yes, there is.

Laleh has that sacred combination of self-confidence and lack of self-consciousness that has been prized and praised by personality connoisseurs through the ages. How can someone have great faith in their judgments and actions while at the same time be oblivious to themselves as entities in space and time? Most people can't, but Laleh can. Laleh does. When she decided to steal The Aya's money and leave her family and native land and live a different life, she planned the theft, but not what was to happen afterwards. That's self-confidence. And when she stands and talks with people, she simply doesn't see herself as separate from them and the environment that surrounds them. All of those pieces and parts of her existence then and there are melded into a flow of talk and being and thinking and feeling. She gives everything she has to those seconds and minutes and hours of her life in relation to the other people and things which are within her physical and psychological orbit. She is special, and Shimmey loves that about her. He feels the envelope of her around him and their friends and around the streets and houses and trees of the place where they live and breathe. He loves her ass, but he loves the rest of her, too.

Laleh was sipping her third glass of riesling in the June's kitchen when her phone rang. "Hi."

"Hi Laleh."

"Hi Shim."

"Will you be at The Hall tomorrow morning? I'd like to see you."

"Yes. And I'd like to see you. I'll be there. What time will you come?"

"Eleven. Is that ok? I want to write a little in the morning."

"Yes. That's ok. See you then."

Gwen looked across the table at her, but didn't say anything. She and Laleh did the telepathy thing, with Roger watching and wishing he could be part of that. He could do it with the dog, and with Gwen, but not with anyone else. Gwenny did it with a lot of people. Gwen vibed, "How's he doing? Is he writing?"

Laleh vibed back, "Yes, the book is coming. He loves the story of your ballet production, all the people that were involved in addition to Pete Townshend, and the conflict with Stirg. He talks with Jinny and Gale about what happened almost as much as he does with you."

"He talks with us, but we didn't know if he was getting it down on paper. I'm glad. He was stuck there for a while."

"The stuff he writes is very funny. It's subtle and a little idiosyncratic and intellectual, which maybe is why he hasn't sold millions of copies, but I like it. I never really know what's going to come out of his mouth. The other day he wanted to talk about Plato, and I said, who? It's some Greek guy, and I asked if he was a chef, because I like Greek food, and he said, yeah, a chef, and he got his nickname yelling at his sous chefs all the time to plate the fucking food while it's still hot and get it out the door to the customer. Later that night I looked him up on the internet and found out he's a famous philosopher. That's what I like about Shim; he's a nice blend of serious and not serious. He knows when to be one and when to be the other."

"He's nice looking, too" vibed Gwen.

"Yes."

"Have you two....?"

"No. He acted like he liked me, and then didn't like me. Like he wanted to be around me, but after a while he always left. Before we could, you know, develop a feel for each other. But I think that's changed. Ever since he started writing again he's been looser. I kinda feel he's interested in me in a different way."

Gwen stopped the telepathy with Laleh and fired it up with Roger, who was feeling left out of the conversation. "What did you tell Shim when you went for the walk?"

He vibed back, "Nothing really. The dog told him the deal about being with good looking sexy women, that's all."

"What exactly did the dog tell him?"

"Lay off it Gwenny. It doesn't become you, the innocent stuff. You babes do your thing and we get what's left. That's what we told him; for his own good."

Gwen turned off the communication with Roger and turned in back on with Laleh; sort of like changing stations. "They told Shim the truth about being with someone like you, which is good. Now he can be himself. That's why he's looser. He'll be knocking at the door soon. Let him in."

"Who's they? Roger and who else?"

"The dog. He knows the score, has good judgment about things."

"The dog talks?"

"He never did it with you, all those walks you've taken?"

Laleh got up from the table, went out the back door and down the steps to the walled garden where the dog was talking with the neighbor's cat sitting on the wall. After a few minutes she came back into the kitchen and said, "He didn't know I could do it and thought it would be impolite to just start up with me that way. We didn't really need it. We made friends the old fashion way. But now we both know."

Gwen said, "You going to see Shim tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, at The Hall. He wants to talk about something."

"I'll bet he does."

# Chapter 39 - Shimmey Makes His Move

The next morning at eleven Shimmey went up the steps of the stage door and pushed it open. The lights were on and Laleh was sitting in a chair on the stage, reading about Plato's cave on her smartphone. She didn't get it, but that was ok. Most people who read about it don't get it because it's overrated as an analogy. She figured the philosophy profs who play with it have to earn their paycheck somehow. She looked up at Shim, turned off the phone, and smiled. "Hi."

"Hi, you," he said, pulled a chair close to her, and sat down. He thought of Roger and the dog, and felt an incredible surge of of emotion that was a combination of libido and intellectual desire. It was Shimmey the second class citizen, with the fetters taken off. The dog hadn't taught him telepathy yet, so he opened his mouth and said, "There are some things I want." She nodded, and he smiled. "I want to be part of the movie project. I want to write the screenplay." She nodded. "Is Roger going to get Big George and Soderberg?"

Laleh said, "Probably, because if he doesn't, he's going to be sleeping with the dog, and not with Gwen, and I don't think he wants that."

Shim thought about that and came to the conclusion the probability of Clooney making the movie was high. He said, "Those guys may want their own writer. Probably will. Soderberg may want to write it himself."

"They'll do what Gwen tells them to do."

Shim thought about that and realized the statement rang true. Again he said, "I want to write the screenplay."

"Ok. I'll tell her." She kept looking at him.

"And I want to finish the book about the ballet production. It's exciting, and I love the story and the characters I've created after the real characters. They're so much fun."

She nodded and smiled and said, "Yes, Shim. You need to finish the book. I want to read it. We all want to read it."

He reached down with his left hand and touched Laleh on her right ankle. Slowly he raised her leg, set her foot on the edge of his chair, and slipped his hand up the end of her pants leg until he felt the bare flesh of her calf. For the first time her demeanor changed, from a neutral, attentive friendliness to something different. Involuntarily she sucked extra air into her mouth with a sound he heard. Now it was his turn to smile, because he knew he had her, right down to her first class citizen bones. He gently massaged her calf, and she relaxed, letting her head rest on the back of the chair and closing her eyes. He didn't have to tell her the third thing he wanted.

# Chapter 40 – Assassins: The Colonel, The Lieutenant, and the The Private

The three Guard Elite Assassination Corps soldiers stood at the baggage claim area of Heathrow Airport, waiting with the other passengers who had been on the plane with them from Cairo. Just as there are no diplomatic relations and everyday communications between the countries, there aren't any direct flights from Tehran to London. Colonel Aliaabaadi had brought his two top assassins with him on the mission, Lewy The Lieutenant and Priss The Private. Both of these guys were top-of-the-line badass, stone cold killers. For his final initiation into the Guard Elite Assassination Corps, Lewy had strangled a decrepit old camel with his bare hands, cut out its tongue, and eaten it right there in front of the rest of the graduation class. He had worked his way up from private to lieutenant through his successful assassination of three women who had claimed to be virtuous to other domestic flunkys from the central compound who, like Shazam, often were tasked to procure terrestrial virgins for Lesser Ayatollahs who, like The Big Guy, didn't want to embarrass themselves when finally presented with their fortyvirginsforever harem of celestial virgins and required to perform their eternal and heavenly duties. These guys felt compelled to train on the terrestrial models, however imperfect they might be and however tiresome such training might be.

The number of Lessers varied at any one time according to the direction of the political winds. Lessers were advanced from the status of Much Lessers when and if they accomplished three requirements: they deposited an adequate sum of American dollars into the personal account of the Head Lesser; they did a really big favor for The Big Guy, like recruiting a North Korean crazy nuke scientist to come and work in one of the reactors for a while; and they found a hole in the economic sanctions blockade that allowed a shipment of some cultural necessity, toilet paper, say, to slip through and fill up the shelves of the city shops.

When there were a lot of Lessers in the ranks, the burden on the flunkies of finding training virgins could be quite heavy, and sometimes those flunkies less skilled in procuring this in-demand commodity had to resort to subterfuge. They would enlist women who they knew weren't virgins, and attempt to train them to act like virgins, what with a lot of crying and acting afraid and stuff like that. Some of the women were good at acting, and some weren't, and when one was found to be faking her virtue, depending on the mood of the Lesser who had found her out, she was taken out into the desert and placed at the disposal of the Guard Elite Assassination Corps. The student assassins could practice their trade on mannequins and dummies only so many times before they got tired and demoralized, and when that time came their instructors had to resort to the real thing, which sometimes happened to be a fake virgin. Lewy had been blessed with three of these opportunities, and at the completion of the third mission, had been promoted to Lieutenant.

At one time the instructors of the Guard Elite Assassination Corps Academy had attempted to provide their students with training fodder in the form of captured Israeli commandos, but that hadn't worked out too well. Once, the instructors had amputated both arms and legs of one of these commandos before leading the Guard Corps student into the room for his real life training exercise, and the Israeli still had managed to kill the prospective assassin.

Priss The Private had only one successful assassination under his belt, that of one of the domestic flunkies in the central compound who had gotten caught watering down his Lesser's stash of Absolute Vodka. This guy would siphon off half the bottle into empty coke cans, replace the vodka with water, and sell the vodka to the domestic of one of the other Lessers, who would pour it into an empty vodka bottle he'd gotten out of a dumpster behind the central compound's maintenance area, and then provide his master with a medicinal ablution when the master had had a particularly hard day denying the female segment of the population some right or privilege afforded by divine fiat only to the male segment of the population. The thieving flunky had gotten caught when his counterpart flunky squealed on him because the thieving flunky's sister had slapped the counterpart flunky when he tried to take what was rightfully his in the stairwell of the laundry building where the sister perfected her career of ironing all the Lesser's boxer shorts.

Priss had been given the assignment of assassinating the flunky as his final exam requirement for graduation into the Guard Elite, and he had carried out this requirement using an unusual method. On the day of the exam he and the condemned flunky had been taken into the Academy auditorium, per the usual procedure, and put on the stage in front of his classmates and instructors and a few of the Lessers who enjoyed this sort of thing. In front of them was a table on which ceremoniously were laid out the tools of the trade: piano wire garrote, US Army 45 caliber Colt handgun, Iranian version of the Bowie knife, short handled double bitted axe, and a small flamethrower. The candidate assassin had his choice of weapon. Priss wasn't called Priss for nothing, and when he saw the table with the choice of weapons on it, he blanched, on the inside. He'd made it through the Academy so far on his brains rather than his brawn, and called on these brains now to get him out of having to torch the flunky to a crisp with the flamethrower, however much the little vodka thieving rat deserved it.

He closed his eyes, thought for a moment, opened them, and called his instructor to the stage, where he whispered something in his ear. The instructor looked shocked, but then smiled and nodded. He went to the podium where he removed the clear plastic sheeting that had been duck taped over it in case there was an excessive spray of blood from the victim, tapped on the microphone, and said, "There will be a five minute recess while we add another weapon to the selection on the table." This was very unusual, and the other students and instructors turned to each other asking what was up. The Lessers in the audience didn't like the delay because they knew they were supposed to be conducting important affairs of state and not hanging out here for recreational purposes, but the delay also intrigued them, so they hung around. Five minutes later three of the Academy instructors led a captured Israeli commando onto the stage, handcuffed and shackled at the waist, and placed him next to the weapons table. Again going to the podium the instructor said, "The weapon requested by the student has been added to the choices at the table," and he then retaped the plastic sheeting so that it covered the podium.

Priss went to the table, took the commando by the arm, and led him to the center of the stage where the condemned flunky sat tied on a wooden chair. Everyone in the auditorium wondered what was up with this performance, this being really unusual and interesting. Priss took a deep breath, leaned close to the Israeli, and whispered into his ear. When he finished he retreated ten steps and watched. The commando turned around, looked at the vodka thief, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and....in a single focused effort of will power....snapped the handcuffs apart, snapped each handcuff from the chain around his waist, crouched, and flicked out his right leg and foot, catching the flunky in his adams apple and crushing his larynx. The flunky gasped, choked and suffocated to death in two minutes, sliding from the chair, eyes wide open. The commando then ran to the table, grabbed the flamethrower, turned and jumped off the stage, ran up the center aisle of the auditorium blasting students and Lessers to the right and the left, and exited through the rear doors.

That was the last time the Academy ever let one of the students request a special weapon. When all the excitement was over the instructor went up to Priss and asked, "What in hell did you whisper to the Jew?"

"I told him I'd heard the guy in the chair behind him say that Woody Allen can't write a funny joke, Albert Einstein was overrated in the brains department, Paulette Goddard couldn't act her way out of a paper bag, Rodgers and Hammerstein were hacks in the songwriting department, and Marcel Proust couldn't write a decent novel to save his life."

"That's all? You pretended the thief had dissed a bunch of famous Jews, and you got that result?"

"I also said the guy in the chair claimed Israeli commandos fool around with their sisters, their mother, and some, with both."

"That's all?"

"That seemed to be enough, Sir. I didn't want to irritate the guy too much."

The upshot of the ceremony was that Priss passed his final exam, graduated magna cum laude from the Academy, and was posted to the Guard Elite as a Private. From that point on he didn't carry out any more assassinations, but proved himself valuable to the Guard in the capacity of psychological warfare officer, and it was in that capacity that he had been assigned by The Colonel to the squad whose mission was to exact revenge on Laleh Khorram, retrieve the People's money, and restore intact The Aya's retirement nest egg. And that was why he stood watching the baggage carousel go round and round, standing shoulder to shoulder with all these nasty infidels in this nasty infidelish country of Church of England believers, waiting for The Colonel to tell him what the hell was going on and what he was supposed to do now. The Colonel was not big on communicating mission goals ahead of time, being a practitioner of that branch of retrograde employee management philosophy that believed keeping employees in the dark as much as possible left said managers with the largest quotient of control over said employees. When their bags appeared in front of them he said, "C'mon, boys, we got people to find, people to kill."

# Chapter 41 – Roger Works It

The team sat on the stage at The Hall talking about George Clooney. Gale, Jinny, and Laleh had done a marathon film fest the previous two days, watching six movies and agreeing that the best were Oceans Twelve, Oh Brother Where Art Thou, and Leatherheads. Gale repeatedly said he was the only man in the world who could wear denim bib overalls and still get into her pants. Jinny agreed with Roger that Renee Zellweger was just killer in her movie with him, although he didn't know about all the dumb movies she'd made that have killed her rep as a great actress. Laleh wanted to know who David Holmes was, the guy who put together the great sound tract of the heist movie, and said maybe they could get him to do the music for her movie. She took the CD out of her backpack (Gale hadn't yet been able to break her of this uncouth habit), stuck it in the sound system player, and turned up the volume on John Schroeder's intoxicating tract, "Explosive Corrosive Joseph." After the tract was over she turned the volume down so they could continue talking.

Gale asked Gwen, "How many more days does Roger have to get Clooney before you kick him out of the bedroom?"

"Four."

Roger said, "Huh?"

"Four days, hon. Then you and the pooch are on your own, come nighty night."

Jinny said, "Can you do it? Can you get him in four days? This guy is super famous, right?"

Roger said, "I'll get him," and looked significantly at his wife, as if to say, 'and when I do we'll settle accounts.' This pleased Gwen, who looked forward to settlement time. He looked at Laleh and asked, "Can I have Shim for an hour? He can help me write the stuff for the newspaper ads and websites. When we get done the text, we'll take it down the street to the graphics designer who did the last set that got Townshend to come. That was great work."

Gale and Jinny looked at Laleh and Shim, who were looking at each other, practicing their newly established partnership telepathy. Laleh vibed, "Roger wasn't actually asking me to allow you to help him, that was just a figure of speech acknowledging we're a pair now."

Shim vibed back, "I know. Roger's cool. I'll go help him."

Shim and Roger rolled their chairs away from the group and set up at a folding table at the back of stage. They heard Gale start to talk about how she should be given the job of acting opposite Big George in the role of the woman whom the assassins were after. They blocked this out and Roger said, "A guy tried this before, you know that?"

"Tried what?"

"Tried to get Clooney to go in with him on a low budget film. It was his first directing job, and he tried to pull a fast one, kind of like us."

"Did he get it? Did he get Clooney?"

"No. But he made the movie without him, and gave it a cool name....Convincing Clooney."

"I like alliteration. So how are we going to pull this fast one when the guy with the cool movie name didn't?"

"Gwen."

"You mean the magic thing?"

"Yes."

"I know it works on me," said Shim. "Does it work on every guy?"

"Not just guys, though we're all toast with her. I've seen her do it on other women. Guys know what's going on; just can't do anything about it. Women don't see what's happening, but they end up doing what Gwen wants."

"You know what it is she does?"

"We've been married twenty years, and I have no idea. But I dig it," said Roger.

"So how do we get Clooney within her range of influence?"

"We do like I did with Townshend...lie. But we do it a little differently. We're going to buy huge ads in the major newspapers around the world, and on the biggest entertainment websites, but we, you, are going to write them as a news story rather than an ad. You write the text, and we take it to the graphic designer we know and have him format it super glossy into some kind of thing that the papers and websites will accept as an ad. They will sock it to us in the cost, astronomical, but that's ok. If ya wanna play, ya gotta pay."

"What's the theme of the text, the main idea?"

"We lie through our teeth. I've been working on this since Gwen delivered her threat."

"The sleep with the dog threat?"

Roger nodded, smiling grimly. "The main idea is that the Charleston Chamber of Commerce announces that Clooney and Soderberg have agreed to do a film in Charleston. That's what you gotta write in a very gripping way. Make it sound realistic. The Chamber says Soderberg has agreed to come out of retirement, on the following terms: 1. Privately financed, not a big studio production, an indie. 2. Complete artistic control, including distribution. 3. Clooney stars. 4. Not a film per se, not a documentary video of a theater production, a play, but a hybrid of the two; never been done before. 5. Completely produced in an 800 seat theater in Charleston. Can you write that?"

"I can write anything if Laleh and Gwen tell me to. Oh, and you, of course." Shim to tried to get his foot out of his mouth. "But I don't get the bit about the Chamber of Commerce. Won't they say 'who the hell is doing this?'"

"They will. In fact, they will raise holy hell, and they'll sue us, and will get a restraining order, and everything else their lawyers can think of. It won't be pretty."

"Why do it then? And who, exactly, will get sued?" He was worried now about being the author of the news story ad.

"It's our hook. It'll make it appear legitimate. If someone anonymous were to put this out to the entertainment world, it would appear suspicious. If we put a bona fide name on it, like Charleston Chamber of Commerce, it will carry weight."

"And that's also why we'll get sued."

"Right. But don't worry, Gwen and I will take that rap. You'll be a ghost writer. And everyone else too, Laleh and Jinny and Gale."

"You're not worried about that?"

"I'm more worried about getting kicked out of the bedroom. Besides, we have deep pockets, and our lawyer will deal with all that shit. We'll have more important stuff to work on, like how to manage the film genius and the movie stars. You, also, will have more important stuff to work on, like writing the screenplay, assuming Laleh convinces Gwen that you should, and she convinces Soderberg and Clooney." Roger paused, then said, "But I wouldn't worry about that part too much. After you finish with the text for the news story ad, I'd get working on the screenplay."

"What screenplay? What's the movie about? I mean the play; the hybrid filmy\play. Whatever it is?"

"It's Laleh's movie, remember? We're just hired help. It's about a Middle Eastern woman that stole some money from some important political people because she was sick of them, and now they're on her ass to get the money back and for revenge. You forgot your girlfriend's idea?"

"She's my girlfriend?" asked Shim.

Roger looked at him and thought, 'I gotta make allowances for this. He's a writer.' He said, "Let's focus on this thing right now. The clock is ticking on the bedroom thing. We gotta get the text done, get it to the graphics guy, and get it into the papers and onto the websites tomorrow. Ok?"

Shim thought, 'Ok. Laleh and Gwen and Roger all want this, so let's rock.' He said, "Anything else in addition to the Chamber of Commerce thing?"

"Yeah, a few more ideas for you to work into the text. Write these down: 1. Soderberg says screw you to LA and NY. Wants to work in a small, beautiful city with lots of character. 2. Clooney says he's tired of the big time, also wants breathing room, wants to downsize. 3. Soderberg says he loved Ingmar Bergman films, and he knows Bergman always directed theater productions along with his films, and wants to do the same. 4. Clooney has a secret daughter that wants to go to College of Charleston, so he wants to come here and see what the place is like." Roger waited for Shimmey to get these notes down on paper. "Got that?"

Shim said, "Got it." He looked at Roger. "All these are lies, aren't they?" Roger nodded. "Everything I'm going to write is a lie, isn't it?" Roger nodded again. "Everybody is going to sue us, aren't they?"

"Well, some of the people and companies are going to sue us, yes. Clooney and Soderberg won't."

"How do you know? How do you know they'll agree to do the filmy\play hybrid thing, and won't sue us and put us in jail for thirty-three kinds of fraud, libel, and defamatory slander?"

"Gwenny."

"Gwenny is going to....?"

"Convince them."

"Using the thing she does, the magic thing?"

Roger nodded.

That made Shimmey feel better. A little.

# 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 Iran\Monaco 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 filmy\play 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."

Gale 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."

# Chapter 43 – Big George

Little Jinny Blistov was the one who told Roger about the Lake Como News, the local rag that prints photos of kids playing soccer and old guys playing bocce. It had a hardcopy version and a web version, and Roger asked Jinny how he'd found it. "I wanted to know who this guy Clooney is, since my job will be bodyguard, try to keep Gale from molesting him all the time. So I did some research on his movies and his love life and his mansions, and I found photos of his villa on Lake Como, and there was a story about how he reads this local newspaper because he wants to pretend he's not just a rich movie star, but a regular guy who lives in this Italian town and wants to know what's going on."

Roger said, "Good job. I don't know if he really reads it or just says he does, but we'll run the ad in it, for sure."

And it was a good thing they did because there was Big George, sitting on the porch of Villa Oleandra, located in the little town of Laglio, on Lake Como, in northern Italy, drinking a fruit smoothie and reading the Lake Como News. And there he was, turning the first page and seeing on the third page the full color gloss news story ad that said he and Steven Soderberg were going to make some kind of filmy\play thing in Charleston, South Carolina, and it was going to be made entirely in a little theater, and it was going to start production soon, and the world was waiting to find out who the babe is who is going to star opposite him. He read the whole thing, ostensibly a long quotation by the Chamber of Commerce announcing the production and wishing him and Soderberg well, saying Charleston was giving them the Key to the City, and the entire town awaited their arrival with open arms. Down at the bottom he read "Produced and Distributed by June Enterprises", which was followed by a phone number and an email address. He called his personal assistant, Monique, showed her the paper and said, "What the hell is this?"

She read the story, looked at him and said, "You're doing a movie soon and you didn't tell me? What about all the stuff you have going on over the next six months?"

"I'm not doing a movie in Charleston. That's what I'm asking you. What the hell is this?"

Monique took the paper and went into the house, where she got on the computer. She came out on the porch ten minutes later and said, "Looks like you ARE doing a movie in Charleston. It's all over the world; most big newspapers, Le Monde, New York Times, LA Times, London Telegraph; and it's on all the entertainment websites and TV websites and news websites. Same story, same graphics, all full page full color. Must have cost someone a fortune to do this, millions."

"Who did it?" asked George.

"They all say the same thing: June Enterprises, with the phone number and the email."

"Would you get Steven on the phone, please? I wonder if he's seen this scam."

Five minutes later George was talking with Soderberg, who was in his condo in New York. George said, "Hey, how you doing? How's Jules?"

Steven said, "We're good. Being lazy in retirement, cooking a lot of Italian. How 'bout you?"

"Great, great. Here at Oleandra for a couple of weeks."

"Guess you're calling about the Charleston story. We just saw it in The Times. Nice graphic design, nice writing. Very catchy. Who's June Enterprises?"

"No idea. Thought they might be friends of yours?"

"Whoever they are, they have balls."

George said, "They also have money. All that shit cost a bundle."

"Money for the ads and money for lawyers, if we go after them. Hold on, Jules says there's an interview about it on TV." George poured Monique a smoothie and read the story again. Then Steven came back on the phone. "We're watching it, some babe named Gale, in Charleston. She's talking about the production." Another delay, more sipping the cantaloupe smoothies, then, "She's talking like this is a done deal. We're coming to town soon, the production is gearing up. The interviewer just asked who's playing opposite you, and she said that's a secret. Hold on, there's more...." George waited, watching Monique's throat as the juice went down, down.... "Now she's talking about what we're doing, says it's not a movie and not a play, but it will be produced entirely in a small theater in Charleston. What the hell is that, if it's not a film or a play? This Gale girl is really cute. I bet she's got a wild streak. Hold on...." "Not as cute as you, Jules." "George, now she's talking about the plot of this thing, whatever it is, says it about a woman from the Middle East, some country there, they're all the same, Gale says, who steals a bunch of money from a VIP, gets out of there, ends up in Charleston; then the VIP sends an assassination team after her. Wait a minute....oh, I get it, the woman meets you in Charleston, and you hook up, and then when the assassins arrive, you protect her. That's it; that's the plot. Says again the actress who plays the woman is secret, only you and I know who she is. You know who she is, George?"

"No. You?"

"Not yet, but I got an idea or two. I like fixing you up with babes."

"I can understand that, knowing how much fun it is fixing myself up with babes....Monique, I'm joking."

Steven said, "I wonder what something is that's not a film and not a play, that's done entirely in one building?"

"That's your department; you're the director, the creative one; I'm the cow."

Monique said, "Steer. You're a steer. Cows are female cattle."

George said to Steven, "Monique agrees with Hitchcock that I should be treated like a cattle. You agree with that?"

"Steer. Cattle is plural. Yes, George, you should be treated like a steer. Now, what are we going to do? Maybe I'm bored learning to cook Italian, but there's something interesting about this. Doing something with you in a small building, interesting plot, I have no problem satirizing the politics of the Middle East, bunch of crazies. You busy right now? Who would you like to work with?"

"Who would I like to work with, on what? This is a scam? Yes, I'm busy." He asks Monique what he's busy with?

"You got the meeting with the Mayor here in a few days about fixing up the shrine with the painting of the weeping virgin in it that has the tears coming out from the wall; and you got Willie Nelson's barbecue down in Austin, you're buying the pigs; and you got the date with whatshername, the redhead, in that Hong Kong restaurant she likes, at the end of the month; and you got the Darfur benefit in Nairobi next month. That's about it. You're not giving all that up for this, are you?"

Talking to Steven he says, "You hear that? I'm busy."

"Yes, George, I heard, and the Darfur benefit's important, but you're not serious about the other things. That's what George Clooney does with his time?"

"And your great achievement in your well-earned retirement from the creative life is learning that you don't boil the pasta for forty minutes before serving it with your hamburger and canned tomato sauce?" Monique snickered.

The two guys rested their vocals for a minute, George sipping the smoothie and Steven covering the phone and asking his wife how George knew about the pasta thing. Then Steven said, "Look, why don't we call these June Enterprises people and see what this is all about. Who knows? Maybe you, me, and Zeta-Jones can get together again. That was one fun movie to make."

"Me and Zellweger. She was a riot. God, was she funny. I'd do something with her again in a minute."

"Can you get Monique to set up a conference call tomorrow?"

"Yeah, we can do that. We'll let you know. Don't burn the pasta," and he hung up. Then he said to Monique, "I wonder who these Junies are? This is quite the scam. I got a feeling about them. You ever been to Charleston?"

# Chapter 44 – Laleh's First Taste of the Business

Three hours after the news story\ad hit the papers and websites, The Hall turned into a madhouse, with Gale at the center, mouthing off. She'd tell one reporter one thing and then another reporter the opposite. One minute it was a movie and then it was a play and then a doco and then she'd say she didn't know what it was, only Clooney and Soderberg knew, and they were keeping it secret. These were the local reporters. Later that afternoon the national reporters arrived at the airport and made their way to The Hall, and the next day a few international ones showed up. There were so many that first afternoon Gale couldn't keep up, no matter how facile her lies were. Soon they resorted to interviewing Jinny, who had even less idea about reality than Gale, but whose skill at lying was equivalent, and proceeded to do so with a high level of imagination. Laleh, Roger, Shimmey, and Gwen watched the circus for an hour from high up in the lighting gantries over the stage, hidden in the darkness. Gwen was a little on the grim side, Roger was amused, and Laleh was amazed. She said, "What's going on? How did these people find out about this place so fast? What do we do now?"

Roger said, "The CIA thinks they know what's going on in the world, but these are the people that really know. They have noses like truffle pigs and tenacity like jack russell terriers. The only way to handle them is by doing what Gale's doing....mis-direction. Get them going all over the place and you have all the publicity you want. Then at some point you hold a news conference and sort it all out by telling the truth."

Gwen said, "I wish I knew what the truth was. Is." She looked at Shim. "That story you wrote worked. At least it worked on the media."

Shimmey said, "If it works on the media but not on Clooney and Soderberg, what do we do? It's chaos down there. Aren't those people going to get mad at some point?"

Roger said, "We don't do anything. They'll all go away, chasing the next weird lead that comes along. But I don't think we have to worry about that. The story will work on Clooney. He's the key. When he cracks and joins up, Soderberg will follow."

Laleh said, "What's going to make him crack?"

Just then, directly below them on the stage, Gale grabbed Jinny and demonstrated to the reporters how George was going to take the mystery leading lady in his arms and kiss her right after he kills the assassins who've been tracking her for weeks. She made Jinny go through all the motions except the actual kiss, which created a lump of disappointment in Jinny's chest.

Gwen said, "That wasn't half bad."

Roger said, "What's going to make him crack is, when he calls I'll tell him the basic facts, and then I'll tell him he has to talk with the producer, Gwen, and then he talks with her, and then he cracks." Roger didn't smile, he said it matter-of-factly, and waved down at Gale, who gave him a thumbs up.

Laleh looked at Shimmey, wondering if he knew about this Gwen thing that was so influential. He nodded at her and said, "Yeah, that'll work. She does this thing, I've seen it a couple of times, she talks with someone and then they do what she wants. I don't know what it is, but it works. It would work on me except that I'll do whatever she wants, and she doesn't even have to use the special thing. She uses it on strong people, not writers." Now Shimmey waved to Gale.

Laleh watched the circus and Gale's performance and thought about Gwen's magic. All this was a lot better than doing business tasks for her father and brothers and getting paid nothing and having them tell her what to do all the time. Gwen stood up on the catwalk and said, "Come on, it's getting out of control down there. We gotta go and put a clamp on Gale and Jinny."

Gwen led the way down the ladder to the rear of the stage and moved through the crowd of media people to the front. Gale and Jinny watched her with ambivalence, knowing their time as the focal point was over, yet curious about what Gwen would do next with this madhouse they had stirred up. Jinny whispered in Gale's ear that Gwen would get everyone's attention by pulling her gun from under her jacket and firing a couple of shots into the ceiling of the theater, the way she did once during the ballet production. Gale knew that wasn't going to happen, and that it was just wishful thinking on Jinny's part. He loved it when Gwen took out her gun.

Gwen motioned to Shim and Laleh to join her, thinking it was time they starting getting used to a theatrical environment. She clapped her hands loudly and yelled, "Ok, everyone, your attention, please. I have an announcement about the situation here." Everyone heard the command in Gwen's voice and the commotion died down. "Please, go down to the seats." Again everyone obeyed and filed down the short flight of steps at stage right and stage left. Three minutes later the six members of the June team stood at the front of the stage and looked out at the fifty people or so sitting in the first three rows. Gwen raised her arms and said in a loud voice, "Good evening. My name is Gwen June, and we are June Enterprises." She motioned to her left and right. "Thank you for coming. As you know, productions of this type sometimes are a bit uncertain in the early going, and this one is no exception. Over the next week or so we will be engaged in pre-production tasks, and will keep you informed of our status via regular press releases and updates to our website. Until a few minutes ago we were uncertain about the arrival time of our director and star. Both of them have extremely busy artistic schedules that take them around the world, and we are fortunate both of them agreed to work in this production on short notice. They have juggled those schedules over the last two weeks, and I am happy to report that both Steven Soderberg and George Clooney arrived in Charleston two hours ago, and are excited about getting to work. We expect to swing into full production mode over the next week." She paused to let that sink in. "Again, thank you for your interest and your understanding of our production uncertainties."

The second Gwen stopped speaking, forty of the fifty people in the seats stood up and yelled questions at her. She turned her back on them for a moment, winked at her husband, and then turned to face them again. Jinny put his arm around Gale and said, "Here we go," still wishing she had pulled a gun and fired a couple of shots to emphasize her announcement. Laleh and Shimmey just looked at each other, thinking, "This is going to be wild." All five of the other June Enterprises team were surprised that Gwen had told the mother of all lies about the hotshots being in town, but none of them doubted she would produce the goods.

Gwen heard ten people ask the same question, so she said, "They're staying at a private home on The Battery, under a full security detail. Please respect their privacy," knowing that wasn't going to happen. Then she heard another ten people shout another question, and she said, "We don't know who is going to star opposite Mr. Clooney. That hasn't yet been decided. We have approached a number of actresses you will be familiar with, but the final decision will be made by the Director."

Gale was disappointed that Gwen hadn't announced her as the leading lady, but at least she hadn't yet been ruled out. The next group question was about the form of the production. Is it a play or a film? Twenty five people pointed at Gale and said, "She doesn't know if it's a play or a film. How can you make something when you don't even know what it is?"

Gwen was ready for this, and said, "You all know Mr. Soderberg recently retired from making movies. What most of you don't know is that his favorite film maker was Ingmar Bergman, and those of you who know Bergman may know he was involved in the theater for most of his life. When he retired from film making he continued directing plays for several more years. The point is that Mr. Soderberg now is interested in other types of artistic media in addition to film."

She waited for the inevitable, 'What about Clooney?' and continued, "Mr. Clooney has stated publicly many times his three favorite movies are Oceans Twelve, Leatherheads, and Oh Brother Where Art Thou. So we will have two of those directors involved in this production. Neither Mr. Soderberg nor Mr. Clooney know the form of this project, but are anxious to get to work on it and let the creative process take its course. It's the role of June Enterprises to support that creative process, and we have no doubt about the quality of the final product. Now, one last question, please."

It was weird how ten of the reporters would ask the same question at the same time, but that's what was happening. In a chorus they said, "What's the plot of whatever this thing is, and who wrote it?"

"To answer the second part of the question first, the screenplay, or the script, hasn't yet been written. Mr. Soderberg's method will be to write as the process goes along." Shimmey wondered at this. Was he to be involved? "We do know something about the plot, because that concept is what got Mr. Soderberg and Mr. Clooney interested in the project." Gwen thought about how to put this, then said, "The production is about a young woman living in a Middle Eastern country who gets fed up with being a second class citizen. She has certain skills which allow her to steal a very large sum of money from a very important person. A political and religious person."

An astute reporter from the Boston Globe interjected, "It's The Ayatollah, isn't it? The Iranian Ayatollah."

Gwen didn't bite on that, and continued, "This woman leaves her country to make a new life for herself and lands here in Charleston, of all places. She meets a man, played by Mr. Clooney, and falls in love. Meanwhile, the person from whom she stole the money is able to track her to Charleston, and sends an assassination team after her. There you have it, the story, and you can guess that Mr. Clooney will protect her. And that is all we're going to divulge. What Mr. Soderberg makes of the production is up to him. Now, ladies and gentlemen, our time together today is over. Tomorrow afternoon at 1pm we again will open the theater for another press conference to accommodate the media. Thank you, and please leave by the doors at the rear." She motioned to Jinny to get these people out of the place, and took the others back into one of the offices at the rear of the stage.

They all sat down and Roger said, "The fat is in the fire now, hon. Good job."

Laleh said, "I remember a story about some explorers who sailed across the ocean to a new land, and when they got there, their commander burned their ships, which had the distinct consequence of motivating his team to achieve their mission, whatever it was. Gwenny, you just burned our ships. I wonder if Clooney will take the bait?"

And Roger's cell phone rang.

# Chapter 45 – She Reels Him In

Roger answered and an accented female voice said, "Bonjour, is this June Enterprises, Charleston, America?"

Without a seconds delay he said, "Oui, Mademoiselle, je suis Roger June. Je t'aime, your voice, where are you?"

Now there was a delay on the other end, and it wasn't due to the distance between Charleston and Lake Como. Monique didn't expect anyone at June Enterprises to tell her they loved her and her voice. Most of the film industry production people she'd dealt with were a bunch of cut throat barracudas, from whom, between the words of their speech, if you listened carefully, you could hear the clack clack of their large and sharp incisors. She looked at the phone, then at Clooney sitting across the porch table, and said, "Mr. June. Roger. May we speak English? I have Mr. George Clooney with me and he doesn't speak French." She smiled at George and said, "At least not very well. He really shouldn't try. Is that ok?"

Roger didn't speak French either, not at all, and had no idea where those words had come from. He heard her voice, her accent, and the words came, Je t'aime. He said, "That's ok. What's your name? And I also have people with me. I'm going to put you on speaker."

"My name is Monique, and it's a pleasure, and I will put our phone on speaker so Mr. Clooney can join. Can you hear?"

Clooney said, "Roger, George Clooney here. English ok? I get so tired of listening to that accent of hers, very distracting when we're supposed to be working. My personal assistant, you understand. Who's with you?"

"I have most of June Enterprises here in the office, you caught us working hard on your production. I have my wife, Gwen June, and Little Jinny Blistov, Gale (he didn't add The Mouth, though he was tempted), Shimmey, and Laleh Khorram, who conceived the project." They all heard the female voice on the other end say, faintly, 'Wife, merde', and then heard Clooney say, faintly, 'Shusss'. "Thank you for calling, Mr. Clooney."

"Call me George. Listen, Steven and I saw all the crap you wrote around the world, and we talked yesterday about it, and, well, I guess it worked. Very clever, and there's something about it, and we want to know if it's all a scam, or what? I told Steven I'd set up a conference call, but I wanted to check you out and see if June Enterprises really exists, and what's going on. So, what the hell is going on?"

Gale stood up and practically shouted into the phone on the desk, "George, my god, it's not a scam. We're real and we're hot and we want you and Soderberg here to do this show. It'll be a knockout, you have no idea. We did the Stravinsky ballet with Pete Townshend, the greatest songwriter in the history of rock and roll, and we did the rock opera with McCartney and Fleming, and now we're going to do this, this, whatever it is, with you two. When can you get your asses here?"

Gwen looked reproachfully at Roger as if to say, 'She's your responsibility, and here she is blabbing right out of the gate, you should have controlled her for god's sake'. Jinny smiled at his favorite Junie and mouthed to her, 'rock on', while Shim and Laleh just looked at each other.

They heard Monique giggle on the other end, doing the French giggle thing, which is very sexy, and then George said, "I take that to be Gale, the shrinking violet of your team? Hi Gale. Anyone else want to tell me what's going on?"

Roger said, "Yes, George, that's our Gale, how'd you know? I don't know if you travel with your own bodyguard, but if you don't, when you come here, it'll be Jinny's job to protect you from her. Let me say that the things she said were true. Two years ago we discovered a lost ballet score by Stravinsky, never seen by anyone but him, and we produced the premier here in Charleston, played by Townshend, choreographed by Baryshnikov, and danced by defecting members of the Mariinsky Ballet. A year ago we produced the new rock opera written by Paul McCartney and sung by Renee Fleming. We financed as well as produced, and that will be true of this production, if you agree to do it. We are well financed," and he smiled at Laleh. "If you're asking was the PR thing a scam, yes. But the production is not. We want you and Steven here, to do it, and we think it will be great. That's part of our pitch."

There was a pause on the other end, and then, "Roger, all apologies to you and Gale, but I get pitches all the time. One of the best pitches I ever heard was the by the guy who wanted to make his first film, and titled it Convincing Clooney, and it was great, and I was tempted to help him out, obviously creative, but I just couldn't justify it."

Roger took a deep breath, smiled around the table, ending with eyes twinkling at his wife, and said, "Yes, we're aware of that situation, and we respect your schedule, and the demands on your time and talent, and those of Steven. We want to thank you for getting in touch with us. I'll ask just one thing of you, George. Will you speak with Gwenny? She's the producer here, and she'd like a minute or two?"

"Hi, Gwenny. You from Charleston? You do those other two shows Roger and Gale mentioned? I love Renee Fleming, her Dark Hope CD. What a singer. Now if you had her on board, I'd think twice about this deal."

"I'm from Charleston, George, America's most beautiful town. You know why it's America's most beautiful town? Because of the people. We still do politeness here; some of us, anyway. Some folks still say 'Ma'am' and 'Sir'. Sounds a little old-fashioned, but we like it. We do our best with our bads from the past to make it better now. Not a small town, not a big city. We do some nice art, here, too. Can I tell you a story about Renee Fleming?"

Sitting on the porch of Oleandra on Lake Como, Monique and George didn't look at each other, the way you think they would. They stared at the cell phone on the table between them listening to Gwen speak. There was more than words coming from the phone; there was presence. George said, "Yes, Gwenny, tell me about Renee Fleming."

"And after Renee Fleming, George, I'll tell you about Renee Zellweger, ok?"

"Yes, Gwenny."

In the office at the back of the stage in The Hall, Roger, Gale, Jinny, Shim, and Laleh also listened to Gwen speak. Roger, Gale, Jinny, and Shim knew what was going on, the first three being familiar with the phenomenon, Shim to a lesser degree but had seen it twice, and Laleh seeing it for the first, but not the last, time. Roger listened to his wife with his eyes closed, thanking god for his marriage, Jinny and Gale smirking, knowing Clooney was toast, Laleh watching closely.

"When Paul McCartney was here he agreed to write songs for a rock opera on one condition; that we get Renee Fleming to sing them during the performances here, in the theater we're sitting in now." Gwen didn't mention that McCartney had been kidnapped in Charleston, and the kidnappers demanded that he write the songs as part of the ransom. Charlestonians are polite, but not always entirely honest and forthcoming. "We did that, George. We got Renee Fleming to come to town and sing the performances with McCartney. They did eight great shows, and they had a little fling together, and they're friends today."

Even through the little cell phone speaker and across 3000 miles of the Atlantic Ocean, the magic of Gwen June's voice touched Big George Clooney, the guy with all the babes in the world. There was a combination of power, mellifluousness, delicacy, and playfulness in it, and George likes playfulness; ask Monique. What is special about Gwen's voice and Gwen's presence is that it touches more than a person's emotions and more than a person's intellect; it touches people's intuition. People feel they want to be around Gwen and accommodate her in all the ways she wants, if and when she wants something from them, which isn't that often, because she pretty much gets what she wants using regular human communication. But sometimes, like now, she resorts to this intuitional magic thing she has, and George and Monique were transfixed.

She went on, "You know what happened after the last performance, after we shut down the production?"

"What?"

"Renee cancelled her engagements for two weeks and sailed over to St. Barths with us. Hung out. We did some more music over there, some more songs, in a little studio a guy has set up. It was relaxing and creative; a little more work and a little more fun. Those songs will be on her next CD, and we know how great Dark Hope is."

George, Monique, Gale, Jinny, Shimmey, and Laleh all closed their eyes and imagined Renee Fleming singing the songs she'd done on St. Barths. They could hear her singing, see her standing on a stage, singing to them. Roger was the only one who didn't close his eyes because he was used to this Gwen stuff having been exposed to it since the day he met her twenty some years earlier, and had ended up asking her to marry him because he wanted to accommodate her and she wanted him to ask her. He watched her now and listened and made sure Jinny kept breathing properly because Jinny was especially vulnerable to Gwen when she did this intuitional magic thing.

George said, "I want to hear those songs, hear her sing."

"George, you did something special in those two scenes in Leatherheads. The scene in the hotel lobby and the scene on the train. You know that, don't you?"

"I did?"

"Yes, you did. You and Zellweger. You did Grant and Hepburn, just like those two did a long time ago. Those movies still live today; we love Grant and Hepburn. We love Myrna Loy and William Powell. We love that romance, today, George, and we want more of it."

She stopped speaking and looked at Roger, doing the little kiss symbol with her mouth. Roger looked at Jinny, hoping he still had his eyes closed, because if he'd seen Gwen do this his heart would have infarcted and then Roger would have to do CPR on the little Russian gangster. Monique managed to open her eyes and look at George, who she loved in a sisterly kind of way, being too smart to get involved with him in other ways. She saw him mesmerized, with eyes closed and mouth twitching, and figured she might as well just go and start packing for Charleston.

"If you come to Charleston and do this production, you'll add it to the list of your credits, George. Right up there at the top. You and Grant and Powell, kings of romance and fun, comedy and entertainment. We'll have fun doing this, making something special; something for other people to enjoy. We have the story. We have the funding. We'll have the director when you get Soderberg on board, and we'll have the actress, whoever that is. Maybe Zellweger, George. You and her, a team again. Killer team."

George said, "You, Gwenny? You around?"

"I'm here, George. Part of the team. We'll have fun, do something good. Charleston's our oyster."

"See you soon, Gwenny."

Roger smiled. Laleh thought again, 'I gotta remember that'. Monique went to pack.

# Chapter 46 – The Killers Arrive

The boys from Tehran were met at the Charleston airport by Hablibi, who'd been sent down from Washington DC to act as liaison between them and American culture. The Iranian Embassy, such as it was in DC, a small sandstone building which had the insides of all the windows painted black, had sent Hablibi at The Colonel's request. The Colonel hated the idea of giving even an iota of power to anyone outside the Guard Elite Assassination Corps, and especially to a diplomat, but his better judgment told him he had to rely on someone who had experience dealing with the American infidels on their home turf, this playground of all that was unholy and morally twisted in the world; this festering swamp of gluttonous mange that infected the planet, the lowly place ultimately destined to serve as training ground for that more perfect playground festooned with fortyvirginsforever for every true believer.

On the long plane ride over from London, Lewy The Lieutenant and Priss The Private had discussed that playground for several hours. Priss leaned close to Lewy and asked his older comrade and superior officer, "What's with the number forty? Where'd that come from exactly; I've never figured that out or actually read it in the Koran? I mean, we're talking eternal paradise here, the land of languishing pleasure and truth, where everything and everyone is perfect. How can one virgin be different or better than another? Perfection is perfection, right, so one perfect virgin should be enough to serve one perfect male believer."

Lewy's brain went into an overdrive of ambivalence at this, on the one hand wondering where such a weird thought had come from in this youngster, on another hand thinking it was kind of interesting in a perverted sort of way, and on a third hand hoping no one in the seats behind them or ahead of them had heard it, him guessing it wasn't a common topic of conversation on planes flying between London and Atlanta, Georgia, the Peach State. Lewy doubted there was a single virgin extant in either of those tainted metropolises. It was a question that deserved an answer, however, him having responsibility for mentoring the younger assassin in all manners of life, from spiritual conundrums to practical methods of silent strangulation. He gave it his best theological effort, and said, "It's like this. Eternity is a long time, right? And so performing our sacred duty of servicing one virgin, forever and ever, eventually might lead to a sense of monotony on the part of one or both parties. So when Allah set this system up way back when, him being a pragmatic guy as well as a perfectly spiritual guy, decided he couldn't in all conscience bring his believers into this paradise with even the most remote possibility of creating dissatisfaction. He looked at it this way: it doesn't matter if a guy does it twice a week, or four times a week or six times, it's possible over the long haul of eternity that the guy might get bored. He figured out there had to be some variation in the banquet in order to keep perfect order in his perfect paradise. Ergo, there had to be more than one virgin per guy. It just goes to common sense." And he opened another package of peanuts.

Priss thought for a few moments, interspersed with checking how many packages of peanuts he had left, and said, "Ok, so I see the point of needing some diversity and variation to keep the troops happy and peace in the kingdom. But why forty? I mean, if you do the math and multiply four times a week by forty babes and divide that figure into eternity, the answer isn't THAT much different than if you multiple the four times a week by ten babes and divide it into eternity. Clearly the answer is four times as much fun, but when you put that into the big picture of screwing forever and ever, the difference seems inconsequential." And he opened his last package.

At this juncture of the conversation, which again Lewy hoped was private and was not being recorded by someone in back of them holding an IPhone towards their seats, Lewy realized fully why Priss had been assigned to the psychological warfare branch of the Guard Elite and not the hit squad that actually did the strangling and the poisoning and the throat-slitting. He tried to wrap his head around Priss's argument, but when he delved into the math and tried to ascertain the exact difference between getting laid four times a week by one chick for eternity and four times a week stretched out over forty chicks for eternity, things got gooey in his mind. Was the difference quantitative, or qualitative? How do you quantify eternity? What about the chicks? Do they perform differently if they have sole responsibility for satisfying the male than if they are one of a squadron of forty which collectively has that sacred responsibility? Lewy realized not only were these weighty matters indeed, but they may be more than his as yet unperfected mind could tabulate. He had no doubt whatsoever that when his day in this rat hole of an existence came to an end, perhaps with one of his victims turning the table on him with a greater level of skill and dexterity, and sticking the knife up under HIS ribs rather than being on the receiving end, he would transmigrate into a state of perfect thought and understanding, when the answer to Priss's question would became crystal clear, as Allah always had planned and taught his children (male children). Lewy didn't feel at all intimidated by Priss, or feel inferior in any way, him knowing that the duties of the assassination soldier always have been and always will be superior to those of the thinking class. He said in a way that told Priss the conversation was over, at least for the time being, here on a 747 in close proximity to 350 infidels with black ink flowing in their veins, "Don't sweat it. Screwing a celestial virgin for eternity, whether it's the same one or just one of a squadron of forty, is going to be great. It'll be nothing like screwing a terrestrial virgin, nothing like that at all. MUCH better. We practice with the sludge here so we can try to keep up with the angelic ones over there. It's our duty to try. Don't get bogged down in details about dividing this into that and adding something to nothing. Doesn't apply over there. It's all good." He looked sternly at Priss and continued, "What you have to worry about is getting over to there, and that takes doing a good job back here, killing people like all these sludge monsters we're surrounded by right now. We got a mission to perform, which The Colonel is going to tell us about when we get to this sludge pond called Charleston. Be ready. Be strong. Be nasty." And he smiled at the stewardess, asked, "Any more peanuts, hon?"

Hablibi hadn't heard this conversation on the plane, so he didn't have any clue as to what kind of guys he now had in his rental car driving down the expressway from the airport into town. When the Iranian ambassador to the US had given him this assignment two days earlier, telling him he had to babysit three guys from the Guard Elite Assassination Corps on a secret mission here, immediately he wondered what guys like that talked about. He knew what the guys in his office were like and what they talked about at the blacked out embassy, but he'd never met an assassin before, though of course he knew of their existence, and even had heard of the Guard Elite Assassination Corps. Were these guys normal or abnormal? How many people had these three guys killed? What was a normal quota for an accomplished, full-performance level assassin? Three? Thirty? A hundred? Jesus. Do they ever sleep when on a mission, or do they just fuel themselves with strange experimental drugs? Do they ever go to a soccer match, or eat out at a restaurant, watch a soap opera on TV? Do they have to pay taxes like everyone else? He was a little scared at the prospect of meeting them and having to teach them about American culture so they could be successful in their mission, but at the same time he hoped it would be interesting and maybe a little exciting to see them in action. His own job of spying on the infidels had its moments, but in large part it was boring, listening to peoples phone calls and reading their emails. Occasionally a package would come in that would have to be delivered somewhere, and he'd be told to put on his face mask and take it to such and such an address, and be reminded not to breath very deeply in the vicinity of the package, but that was about as exciting as things got for him.

As he took the exit off the expressway the thought occurred to him that if they were successful in their mission, and he was sure the Guard Elite wouldn't send out anyone that wasn't completely competent at their job, he might then be able to consider himself to be an assassin because he now was part of their team, even if only in a support role. Wow, to be both a spy and an assassin, that would be cool. Support personnel are very important; think of delta force teams without their cooks; they'd be nothing. Hablibi had been given a generous allowance by his boss for the mission, the boss not wanting to take a chance on offending anyone from the Guard Elite Assassination Corps, for obvious reasons. The team was flush and Hablibi decided he was going to blow the wad, so he headed for the Charleston Place Hotel on King Street, where he booked four rooms. He was a little apprehensive, thinking The Colonel and The Lieutenant and The Private usually slept on the sands of the desert, and may not be used to 3000 thread count silk sheets and feather pillows made from endangered avian species, but he didn't know for sure, and didn't want to err in the other direction by booking them into the relative squalor of a Motel 6 and thus offending them. He handed each of them their key card and said, "How about we all get washed up and meet in the lounge in an hour?"

The Colonel didn't want to betray his ignorance and was smart enough not to say anything, but Priss said, "What's a lounge?"

Lewy held up the key card and said, "What do I do with this?"

Hablibi looked from one to the other to the other and thought, 'is this a good situation to be in or a bad situation?' When his boss told him he was going to babysit some assassins on a mission he thought his boss was speaking figuratively. Now, he wondered. He got them into their rooms and settled, also wondering about the arsenal of sophisticated weapons they had stashed in their bags, and how they had gotten them through customs in Atlanta. An hour later the four of them sat in the hotel lounge and looked at each other when the cocktail waitress asked them what they wanted. Hablibi, the cosmopolitan sophisticate, said, "Cutty on the rocks with a splash of soda."

The waitress looked at Priss, who looked at Hablibi and said, "I'll have what he's having."

Lewy said, "Same."

The Colonel wasn't as intimidated by the waitress's question as his associates and asked Hablibi, "What is Cutty?"

"It's scotch. From Scotland. Very nice, try one."

The Colonel was dubious, but decided to go with the flow, and nodded to the waitress, who said, "Four Cuttys coming up, gents."

Hablibi said, "How can I help you? Everything has been very hush hush, no one told me anything."

Priss and Lewy looked down at the table, observing their training to tell no one anything. The Colonel now had to decide what to tell Hablibi about their mission, hating every second of this but knowing he was a babe in the woods here and needed support. He realized it was time to tell his team exactly what they were doing here in this cesspool of a culture. The waitress had realized she had an unusual group on her hands and intuitively saw she could soak them for a few extra bucks, so she ordered doubles from the bartender, and now set them on the table, saying, "Let me know if you guys want some hors d'oeuvres, ok? We have some great fois gras on toast points, and grilled baby lobster tails on toothpicks."

Priss said, "What's hors d'oeuvres?"

Lewy said, "What's fois gras?"

Hablibi, deferential to The Colonel and wanting to hear the mission said, "Good stuff. We'll have some later." He watched the reactions as they took their first pulls on the drinks: a set of bulging eyes, a cough, a look of amazement. Could have been worse.

The Colonel looked at his drink with surprise but not fear, and deciding to come clean and be succinct about it said, "We're looking for someone here who stole money from The Aya. A woman. It's our job to get the money back and, umm, exact retribution according to the laws of the state and the laws of Islam, in our case those being the same thing. That's it."

The key word The Colonel had uttered and that had registered with all three of the others was money. When you're Iranian and you hear the word money coupled with the name of a government or religious figure, in this case those being the same thing, you think oil; and when you think of Middle Eastern oil you think in terms of lots of money, and those were the thoughts that entered the heads of Hablibi, Lewy, and Priss. Here they were in America, that den of iniquity, in search of money. The Ayatollah's money. Holy shit!

All four guys took long pulls on their scotches and let it settle into a warm feeling in their stomachs. None of the three neophytes had had anything to eat since their peanut binge on the plane, and the alcohol went straight to their brains. Priss, the most vulnerable, said, "The Aya has money? Enough money that someone would steal it, and enough to send a team from the Guard Elite after it? What's The Aya need with money? He's a spiritual guy, the top spiritual guy."

The Colonel did his duty and said, "It's not The Aya's money, it's the People's money The Aya is holding in trust for us until some date in the future when he'll distribute it fairly and equally." The other three nodded in understanding, looked at the glasses in their hands, sipped, and thought, 'Scam money, and it's here in this hellhole called Charleston, and we're here after it, and Tehran is a long way away, and man, is this scotch good stuff.'

Hablibi, holding his liquor better than the others said, "Who's the woman? She's the key, right? We find her, we find the money. Then you do what you guys do."

"Her name is Laleh Khorram, and I think she's involved with some people here called June Enterprises, who are making a movie or something with some famous people in it. This movie thing is about someone who stole money from someone in the Middle East, and that lines up with this Laleh woman, who we know for sure is the thief. What we have to do is find out if she is here and is involved in the movie, and if she is, well then...."

Finally, the cat was out of the bag. They knew the mission, and it was a lot more interesting than any of them thought it might me. They figured it was someone who had stolen Iran's nuclear secrets and was giving them to Satan's disciples. But this, The Aya's personal stash, oh yeah, this was great. This had all sorts of potential. The question was, how much? How much had this woman taken? One million? Two? TEN? The Colonel's explanation had been succinct but meaningful, and the guys had no more questions, for now. They sat back and dreamed. Hablibi motioned to the waitress, who came over. "Another round, hon. And some of that fois gras and lobster tails, ok? Double order." His mind was working well: lots of money on the line here; good to motivate the front line troops; do that by showing them the good life, even if it had to be lived here in the cesspool of the world; scotch, hors d'oeuvres, and silk sheets to come. Yeah baby. Maybe tomorrow have a talk with the concierge, slip him a couple hundred of the Ambassador's mission funds and see if he could round up a virgin or two for the boys. All he had to do was find out who these June Enterprises slugs were. Then find the girl. Easy. They'd never know what hit 'em.

# Chapter 47 – What Does Laleh Do?

Early the next morning Laleh and Shim sat on his balcony sipping coffee and watched the dog walkers at Waterfront Park. The last forty-eight hours had been a whirlwind for them, culminating the previous afternoon with the news that George Clooney was coming to Charleston to do the project. The team didn't know anything about Soderberg, and they didn't really care. They'd gotten Big George, and that was the key. Roger had said Soderberg would come too, and maybe he was right. In any case it appeared that the movie or play or whatever it was would happen at The Hall. There had been another whirlwind later that evening for them, here at Shim's apartment, and it had been great for both of them. Now they sat quietly together with their thoughts.

Laleh asked herself if she had a role other than financier? If so, what was it? Shim asked himself if he was going to write a screenplay or a script for whatever it was that Clooney and Soderberg were going to cook up? Roger had suggested that Gwen would use her considerable influence to get him the job, but nothing further had been said by Gwen, who Shim knew was calling the shots, as usual, and he hadn't started working. So both of them were in limbo on the production front, but had developed their compartmentalization skills enough to keep that from influencing their sex life, which was cookin.

Laleh said, "So we have our star, and probably have our director, if Roger's right, and we have the money to do this, and Gwen as the producer, and Gale as herself, and Jinny to protect George from Gale, and Roger as associate producer. What we don't have is a leading lady, because just between you and me I don't think Gale is going to get the job, as much as she wants it. You think George will come up with the actress?"

"I think George will do what Gwen tells him to do. If she tells him to get a big name actress he'll do it. If she tells him he's acting opposite their dog, he'll do it."

"The dog's a guy dog."

"You get my point," said Shim.

"Ok. So what do we do? I know I sign the checks, but what else? And what about you?"

"I got two possible roles: script writer and gopher. I could do either or both. Oh, and there's a third role, dog walker. When the Junes crank on a production, it's seven days a week, and they keep the dog at The Hall, and he needs walking and someone to talk with. You can help me with him." Shim looked at her stunning profile as she gazed out at the harbor, and realized he didn't know much about her background. He said, "What are you good at, other than, you know? What did you do when you lived in Iran?"

She smiled at his compliment, then said, "I'm good at managing businesses. I know about finance and money and world markets and business stuff. Boring stuff, which is why I decided to do this thing."

Shim said, "This is a business. A complex business, even if it's temporary. Hiring staff, PR, everything going on at The Hall, insurance, salaries, supplies and equipment, extras, utilities, rentals, tons of stuff. Gwen had a professional working for her on the other two productions. Maybe you should do that. It would be challenging, and it's an essential position; big part of the team."

Laleh looked at him and said, "Hmm, yeah, I can see that. Maybe." Then she said, "If Roger told you to start writing the thing, whatever it is, why don't you start?"

"How can I start when I don't know what it is? No one knows what it is."

"So, umm, figure it out. Make them do what you want them to."

"Me tell George and Steven what to do? Huh?"

"No. You figure it out, get Gwenny to buy it, and she tells George and Steven what to do." And she smiled at him. "Or, you get Roger to buy it, and he sells it to her, and then she tells them what to do. Or...." and he interrupted her.

"Don't say it. Or, I get the dog to buy it, and he sells it to Roger, and Roger sells it to Gwen, and she tells George and Steven what to do." Now they smiled at each other, knowing their relational intuition was growing. Just then Laleh's phone rang, and she answered it on speaker.

Gwen said, "Good morning. Hope you slept well. You and the boyfriend ready to go to work?"

"What work?"

"Business manager of the production for you and writer for Shim. The rest of us are down here at The Hall. When can you two get here?"

Lahley said, "Fifteen minutes." Shim violently shook his head no, making funny motions with his hands. "Check that. How about forty-five?"

Gwen said, "See you then. Leave some energy in him for writing."

# Chapter 48 – Big George Arrives

The Gulfstream touched down in Charleston two days later after a seven hour flight from Milan, a two hour layover in New York to refuel, do Customs, and pickup Soderberg, and an hour and a half flight south. Gale and Jinny waited at the entry gate, Gale acting like a caged tigress, scaring other passengers and gaining the attention of airport security. Jinny told the Transportation Security Administration officers, "She's waiting for her boyfriend. They've been separated for a month, and she's hot to trot." That satisfied them, but a few minutes later Jinny had to take her behind a pillar and slap her to calm her down. He'd seen her wild before, but nothing like this. He'd thought Gwen was joking about him being Clooney's bodyguard, protecting him from Gale. He said, "Get a grip, girl. You'll scare him away, and then you'll answer to Gwen."

Monique, Soderberg, and Clooney descended the stairs of the Gulfstream, walked across the tarmac into the terminal and over to the baggage claim. Monique was styling in a white leather dress and magenta boots to just below her knees, the lapels and collar of the dress matching the boots. She is a knockout. Soderberg looked raggedy in black jeans, black hightop sneakers, and a dark green mock turtleneck, but he was smiling and joking with Monique. Clooney looked like he was going out to the hardware store for light bulbs, dressed in a way that would make Woody Allen look stylish. His gray sweatshirt said Laglio Popes on it, this being the name of the Laglio High School soccer team, the school in the town on Lake Como. Evidently he was a fan. His jeans were baggy and hid the contour of his butt, which was the first thing Gale looked at as he walked across the baggage area towards the carousel. Then she looked at his face which was shrouded in four or five days worth of scraggly beard, and partially hidden by a slinky baseball cap that said Milan Polytechnic on it. George is big on the local educational institutions.

Gale turned to Jinny and said, "Are you kidding me?"

He said, "Don't worry, that's his traveling disguise. Otherwise he'd get ripped to shreds by the fans. He's still Big George under all that crap." Jinny was happy to see Gale deflate a little, knowing it would make his body guarding job easier.

Monique had been in contact with Roger when they landed in New York, and Roger had given her the information about their arrival in Charleston, describing Gale and Jinny and telling her they would take them into town and to the Charleston Place Hotel. Monique walked over to them and said, "Bonjour. Hello. You must be Gale and Mr. Blistov. We're happy to be in Charleston."

Jinny said, "Welcome, from the June Enterprises team. We're happy you're joining us for the project. Gale and I will take you into town, and in the morning we'll pick you up and take you to The Hall, where you will meet the others. Is there anything you will need for today?" He touched Monique's elbow and moved them towards the carousel where George and Steven stood, watching it go around.

George sensed their approach and turned to meet them, looking from Gale to Jinny and back to Gale. He said, "Hi. I feel like we've met before. I saw your interview a week ago on TV, talking about the project. You made it sound very real, like it was all legit. Nice job. The interviewer said your name is Gale. I'm George, and this is Steven." He offered his hand in the old fashioned way, not positioned for a handshake, but simply out there, palm down, limpish. Gale, having been put through the ringer of a Charleston finishing school at a young age, recognized the gesture and was astonished at seeing it here and now, but the early training kicked in after all these years and she placed her hand on top of his, whereupon he leaned down and brushed it with his lips. Seeing and feeling this, Gale morphed from tigress to kitten, and suddenly fell in love with his stupid clothes and scruffy beard. He was here.

Jinny, not ever having been subjected to finishing school on the Saint Petersburg docks by his stevedore father and fisherwoman mother (the one who could tear the heads off the fish she caught, not requiring a knife as did most of her fellow fishermen), stared at the hand kissing thing, wondering what was going on. Soderberg ignored the whole thing, having seen it a hundred times, and Monique thought, 'Thank god, she'll take care of him and I can go hang out on the beach.' There are no sandy beaches on Lake Como.

Ten minutes later they were in the June's white Mercedes and heading into town, with Monique in front with Jinny, asking him about this local dish called shrimp and grits, and Gale in back between the director and the star. All the luggage that had been in the hold of the Gulfstream wouldn't fit into the trunk of the car, so Jinny paid a cab to transport the rest of it behind them. As Jinny accelerated up the entrance ramp onto the expressway, Gale found her hand being held by George's hand. The two hands fit together nicely, and felt natural to both of them, and Gale was surprised her hand wasn't perspiring considering her heart rate was double it's normal count. She looked from her hand to her chest and could see the palpitations jiggling her tits. She closed her eyes and said to herself, 'Calm down. I'm not holding hands with Apollo or Adonis. He's just a guy from the sticks of Kentucky who has an oversize jaw, brown eyes, and a decent smile.' She gave him a quick glance which showed him staring out the window, and turned to Soderberg. "Do you know yet if this is going to be a film or a play? We have an office pool with odds on this. I'm down for a film." She paused, then said, "Either one's ok with me. I know it's going to be great, either way."

Soderberg smiled at her and said, "I have no idea what's going on here. Yesterday I was practicing making homemade gnocchi in my kitchen with my wife, utterly content to be retired and out of the rat race, and today I'm in Charleston with him, doing something neither of us have any idea about. If Jesus had asked me to make a movie for him about the parting of the Red Sea, I'd have said no. So I can't answer your question, though I wish I could. All the responsibility for this gig is over there with your new boyfriend." And he leaned forward and looked across the car at Clooney, who ignored him and continued to stare out the window. Soderberg went on, looking up front at Monique, "Do you know if we're making a movie or a play? Do you know what your boss has gotten us into? Do you know what the hell is going on?"

Monique was still trying to get her head around the concept of grits, as it had been described by Jinny. Apparently it was made of corn, though it wasn't yellow, and it wasn't in the form of kernels, but something finer, and it was boiled. She hadn't eaten anything that had been boiled since she was in elementary school. And on top of that the cook added a lot of butter, and then the shrimp. It sounded absolutely horrible, but Jinny had told her it was to die for and he would make some for her the next day. She put her arm on the back of the seat and turned to look at Soderberg. "We're in this because of Gwenny June. We called up June Enterprises and talked with her husband, Roger, and then he put her on the phone, and then we lost all control; simple as that. I'd like to be able to blame him," jerking her head at Clooney, "and say he's a marshmallow and a sucker and a wimp, but I can't. Gwenny convinced me too, and I don't know how, or what she said or did, but by the end of the call we both knew we were in and heading to Charleston. And here we are." She paused and then added, "You are the marshmallow and the sucker and the wimp for allowing him to talk you into doing something you didn't want to do. God knows he doesn't have what Gwenny has, nothing like it. No magic. She has magic. You were convinced by a regular, plain old guy. Ha!," and turned back to look out the windshield. There was no malice in her condemnation; it was more a statement of fact combined with the hint of a joke.

Jinny looked at Soderberg in the rearview mirror and said, "Don't feel left out. When you meet her you'll see what that means. You'll be happy you came to do this thing even though you don't know what it is."

Soderberg said, "Who gets to decide what it is? Me, us, her, who?"

Gale put her other hand on one of Soderberg's hands and said, "Gwen likes teamwork. I'm sure we'll all sit around and talk about it. You'll meet Laleh and Shim tomorrow, too, and that's the whole team, and we'll figure it all out, and then we'll do it. Simple."

Jinny said, "Don't forget the dog."

Monique asked, "What about the dog?"

"He's part of the team. He's special too. Like Gwen."

"How's he special?"

Jinny looked at Gale in the mirror who shook her head, meaning don't answer that. He said, "You'll see."

Soderberg said, "So this project is a democracy? Everyone gets a vote? There's no boss, like on most film or theater projects, either the director or the producer?"

Gale said, "Oh, no. Gwen's the boss. But she's benevolent, don't worry."

Jinny said, "She's benevolent with her friends. She's not benevolent with anyone who tries to fuck with the production. That happened with the other two projects. Whatever the opposite of benevolent is, that's what she was with them."

Monique and Steven and George pondered this last statement, and then Steven again leaned forward and looked at Clooney and said, "You know about this benevolent dictatorship thing by your friend Gwen June? You know that neither you nor I am the boss? You knew about that, and you got involved?"

Still looking away through the window he said, "Wait'll you meet her."

# Chapter 49 - The Intersection

Hablibi sat in his room at the hotel and did a web search for June Enterprises. It didn't have its own website, but up popped a hundred articles written over the last two years that described the two earlier productions, the ballet and the rock opera. The articles had been published in Le Monde and the Los Angeles Times and the Tokyo Chubun and The Dancer and Rolling Stone and dozens of other newspapers, magazines, and websites around the world. He read about Pete Townshends and Mikhail Baryshnikovs and Catherine Deneuve's involvement in the premier of the lost Stravinsky ballet; and about Paul McCartneys and Renee Flemings and David Gilmours and Christine McVie's involvement in the rock opera. Most of the articles were glowing critiques of the productions and painted a picture of a series of wild performances at a venue in Charleston called The Hall. There were lots of photos of and interviews with the participants, including a woman named Gwen June and her husband, Roger. Hablibi had struck a gold mine of information, and spent two hours reading through the accounts.

He had a laptop in his room, but the three assassins didn't. They woke up that morning and got down to assassination basics, which start with a rigorous program of personal fitness, modulate into a mediation period during which the assassin recommits himself to his spiritual mission and cause, and end with a session devoted to exercising his dexterity skills with a variety of weapons, including but not limited to, piano wire, stiletto, bazooka, rattlesnake poison, and extract of cesium 235. The fact that the assassins didn't have any of these weapons in their possession, as yet, truncated the last part of the daily drill. No matter, The Colonel, The Lieutenant, and The Private got to work in their rooms immediately after ordering breakfast from room service, each polishing off sticky buns, pancakes with maple syrup, and double orders of thick cut Tennessee bacon. The Colonel dropped to the carpet and did ten US Marine Corps style pushups and twenty sit-ups, followed by a lot of jumping jacks, which left him winded. He then lay back down on his king size bed to do his fifteen minute mediation session, which started off with a set of standard prayers to Allah and Iran, and ended with him thinking about the The Aya's stash, and how much it might amount to.

Lewy The Lieutenant pumped out a much more impressive twenty pushup and forty sit-ups, though he dispensed with the jumping jacks. He then sat on the floor and invoked the same set of prayers to Allah, which likewise was followed by calculations regarding possible amounts of US dollars The Big Guy might have stashed away in the account that the woman Laleh had found and rifled. Priss, that paragon of psychological warrior, dispensed with the physical calisthenics altogether and set his mind to formulating strategies and tactics for raining pain and suffering on this Laleh person for the effrontery to Islam she had perpetrated, and on any and all infidels who had come into her evil orbit and now circled around her corrupt and metastasizing nucleus. He sat on the floor, leaned his back against the bed, closed his eyes, and imagined plot after plot, scene after scene, in which he and his comrades in arms fooled, tricked, duped, and otherwise discombobulated her and her associates, all of which ended with the stolen cash under his control (well, ok, under The Colonel's control) and Laleh begging him (well, ok, The Colonel) for mercy and forgiveness.

His fantasy at this point leaned towards granting her the mercy and forgiveness if, perhaps, she might find herself inclined to grant him, in return, certain personal favors. He doubted The Colonel would accede to such a scenario, but Priss was made of a different fiber, more noble and spiritual. That is why he was a psychological warrior, and Aliaabaadi and Lewy mere hatchet men. The fantasy continued with Laleh agreeing to the deal, begging him for mercy, him granting it, and her then granting him the personal favors. It was during this part of the fantasy that Priss, his head resting so comfortably against the corner of the goose down covered bed, nodded off. This psychological warfare planning was strenuous work.

A little before noon, after getting the address of The Hall from the concierge, Hablibi rounded up his troops in the lobby and asked them how they were and what they had done that morning. The Colonel reported that Lewy had practiced the assassin's killing arts till his skills were razor sharp, Priss had formulated a strategy that would break Laleh's willpower into little shards of glass, and that he had developed methods for returning the stolen funds to the possession of The Aya, who in turn soon after would dispense them throughout the kingdom to benefit all the People of Iran. Hablibi said, "Right, great, all of you, way to go," thinking, 'This is the best and brightest our country has to offer?'

He said, "The good news is that now we know all about these June Enterprises people. I found all kinds of stuff about them on the internet, including where they hang out, a place near here called The Hall, just up King Street. They're a bunch of pansy ass artist types that do dances and sing songs like they did a hundred years ago, ballet and opera stuff. If you're right and this Laleh bitch is with them, we oughta to be able to snatch her easy, find out where she has the money, and get it. Get it, er, to return to The Big Guy, back home. Ok?" He looked at his Elite Corps guys, ready for battle. They nodded, ready.

Lewy asked, "How 'bout lunch, for we take on these evils souls?"

Hablibi looked at his watch, seeing it was 11:15am, and said, "Why not. An army marches on its stomach," and led the way into the hotel dining room. They emerged an hour and a half later and Hablibi led the way up King Street to John Street, where he turned right, walked a block and crossed the street to stand staring at the front of The Hall. Just then the June's white Mercedes pulled up in front of The Hall, with Jinny driving, Monique next to him, and Clooney, Gale, and Soderberg in the back. Jinny said, "Here we are, your creative haunt for the next month. This is where you'll make a masterpiece, or Gwen will kick your asses." Gale giggled, loving the way Jinny tells it like it is, a little goofy after having actually stood in George Clooney's hotel room. An hour earlier, following Gwen's directions to have the star on stage at noon, Gale had rousted George out of his bed, into the shower, and into some decent clothes that made him look like a movie star rather than like he was on his way to the hardware store. Gwen had known better than to send Gale on this mission alone, knowing what kinds of havoc she could wreck on the hunt for a piece of Big George, and had sent Jinny along as chaperon cum bodyguard. Jinny had knocked on Monique's door and asked her to be ready in half an hour, then had done the same on Soderberg's door, and then had accompanied Gale to Clooney's door. George had answered, smiled at Gale, and said like Humphrey Bogart did to Lauren Bacall, "Come into my boudoir." Gale had fainted, being lucky Jinny was behind her to catch her. Jinny picked her up under one arm and carried her into the suite like a newspaper, setting her in a chair.

Both he and George stood staring at her long legs, them having emerged to a great extent from her short yellow skirt trimmed with burgundy hems. Jinny said, "She'll be ok, just give her a minute."

George said, "Not the first time for me. They always come out of it."

"Must be fun, huh, being you?"

"Not bad. Has its ups and downs, but more ups than downs, I gotta say. How are you this morning? I love Saint Petersburg. Great place. Love the Hermitage, all that gold, all those little decorated eggs that guy Fabion made."

"Faberge, I think his name was. I used to work there, long time ago, at The Hermitage." Jinny didn't tell George that was how he'd become friends with the Junes, three years before. He'd met them in Charleston, become their enemy, then become less of an enemy, then had proposed a caper to them, stealing stuff from The Hermitage warehouses, with him as inside man. They had pulled off the caper, smuggling the stuff back to Charleston, which in turn had led to a war with a Russian guy named Stirg who thought stealing historic stuff from his homeland was a travesty. Jinny didn't tell George he was the inside man on the heist due to his position at the Hermitage as janitor, whose principle job was cleaning most of the three hundred bathrooms in that huge complex of old buildings. He skipped that part. After that caper Jinny had moved to Charleston permanently, had modulated from business associate to trusted friend, and now was part of the production team. Still standing and looking at Gale's legs, he said, "I'm your bodyguard."

George said, "Who do I need protection from?"

Jinny nodded at Gale, said, "First, from her. She's a wild one. You know much about southern women?"

"A little. I learned some stuff while I was making Oh Brother Where Art Thou."

"That's good. You'll like Gale, she's the bomb, but we gotta watch her. Then after her, I got to protect you from anything else that might arise during the show."

"Like what?"

"Don't know anything specific, I just know that whenever the Junes do one of these productions, something comes up. It just happens with them."

"Is that what you meant when you said they weren't benevolent when someone tried to fuck with their productions?"

Jinny nodded but didn't say anything.

"What happened before," George asked.

"I better let Gwen or Roger tell you about that, if they want to. All I'll say is there were more guns around The Hall those days than around CIA Headquarters."

"Who had the guns?"

"Who didn't have a gun."

"You?"

"Oh yeah."

"Roger?"

Jinny nodded.

"Gwen?"

Jinny nodded.

"Gale?"

Jinny said, "She refused to carry it on her belt behind her hip, under a jacket, like Gwen does. She kept trying to carry it in a thigh holster, said it felt good there, but it made her walk funny, and none of the guys liked seeing that, so we took it away from her. We don't want nothing interfering with Gale's walk."

"These were productions of a ballet and an opera, and people were carrying guns around?"

"A rock opera. But yeah, some guys didn't like what was going on, starting interfering. We had to, um, take 'em out. But that's all I'll say. How 'bout getting dressed, and I'll get sleeping beauty up and looking fresh again, and then we'll head down to The Hall."

Here they were now, entering The Hall, with the four Iranians, the one a diplomat and the other three assassins, watching them. Hablibi said, "This is the place. This is the June Enterprises place, and that's the group you said the Laleh woman was hanging out with." He paused. "I think it's time to turn things over to you. I found them, now it's up to the field operatives to take over and do your thing. I'm here to support you. What are you gonna do?"

The Colonel said, "Now we watch. Reconnoiter. Learn more about our enemies the infidels than they know about themselves. Insinuate ourselves into their lives the way a cobra does into a field of gophers. Then, when the time is right, when they are at their most vulnerable, we strike with the speed of the snake and the force of Allah's red scimitars. Laleh and The Aya's, er, the People's money will be ours, and our honor will be restored."

And all four of them thought, "And we'll be rich."

# Chapter 50 – It Starts

Jinny didn't realize what body guarding George Clooney was going to be like later. There was no hint of what was to come from this first day of work, this first venture of the stars into The Hall. After Gale had recovered from her fainting spell and realized she was in Big George's hotel room and he was in the bathroom taking a shower, she went wild, but Jinny was ready and grabbed her again like a feather and threw her out the door into the hallway. When George came out into the living room with a towel wrapped around him, he heard her pounding on the door and screaming, but that was nothing new to him. She'd calmed down in the car, plotting death to her friend Jinny. There were no fans camped out on the sidewalk in front of The Hall, the word not yet having circulated around town of Big George's presence, and the assassins were quiet and unobtrusive, sitting and standing down the block, having commenced their pre-attack surveillance. So Jinny had it easy today.

He led the group into The Hall, Gale bringing up the rear, both figuratively and literally. They marched down the center aisle, Soderberg stopping halfway to scrutinize the ceiling, the seating, the lighting gantries, and the sound system, starting his technical assessments of the venue. The other four climbed the stairs at stage right, looking to the center where they saw four people sitting in large upholstered chairs on wheels, looking at them. Roger, Gwen, Laleh, and Shimmey stood up and smiled at Jinny first, and then at George and Monique. George looked at Gwen, knowing who she was and not confusing her with Laleh, and smiled back. He stood still for a moment and then walked towards her, holding out his hand.

George was used to women banging on his hotel room door, and Roger was used to guys being entranced by his wife. He'd been married to her for twenty years, and he still was entranced. He just didn't show it.

Gwen said, "Welcome to Charleston. Ready for the big time?"

George said, "Hello, Gwen. I'm ready for whatever you cook up. On the phone you said we'd have some fun and do some good, so that's what we'll do. Pleased to meet you. And this is Roger?"

Roger stepped forward and shook his hand, saying, "Sorry about the scam, but Gwen decided we needed you, and that was the only way I knew of getting you. It'll be worth your time and trouble."

George said, "I've been scammed a lot, and this is the only one that's worked. Good job."

Roger turned to Shim and said, "This is Shimmey, our writer in residence. We're hoping you can work with his material." They shook hands, George very warm and encouraging. And then Roger turned to Laleh and said, "This is Laleh. Laleh, George Clooney. Laleh is our business manager."

George looked at her and stared, not saying anything, with her staring back, completely neutral in expression, relaxed. After a minute he looked at Gwen, then at Gale, who was sitting in one of the chairs, her skirt again hitched up high on her thigh, the slash of burgundy hem contrasting with her creamy skin tone. Then he looked back at Laleh once again, and then at Roger and Jinny, who knew what he was going through. It's not easy being a guy and having these three babes in close proximity. It's like being in the Toulouse-Lautrec room at The Musee d'Orsay, surrounded by masterpieces and not knowing which one to look at. George regained his wits and offered his hand to Laleh, saying a simple, Hello.

While George was being initiated into the June women's tapestry, the June men were noticing Monique, who is not chopped liver. She was dressed in screaming gold colored leather, paper thin and supple, showing every nuance of her Sharon Stone-like figure, trimmed in silver and black that matched her three inch pumps. Gale saw them looking at her and said, "I had to carry a towel around to mop up the puddles of drool Jinny's been leaving behind her. Totally pathetic to let a simple little sexual attraction affect you, make you act like a fool." Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. The others sympathized with Jinny, and discounted Gale, knowing her to be the biggest sexually manipulated fool around. Monique smiled and shook hands all around.

With the introductions done and the sexual heat dissipating a little, they looked out from the stage and saw Soderberg up in the small balcony, scanning his creative landscape. George yelled, "Hey, Steven, what the hell are you doing up there? Come down and meet the team. Gwen's here. Everyone's here."

He came down the balcony stairs and down the aisle and up the stage stairs, and then they had to go through the whole thing again, with him staring at Gwen, mesmerized, her saying, "Hello Steven. I've been wanting to meet you ever since I saw Oceans Twelve. That's a perfect movie of its kind. It's great to be working with you." Then he met Laleh, tearing his eyes away from hers when Roger introduced him to Shim. His was multitasking like crazy, feeling the effects of the three new women, the excitement of the physical environment of The Hall, his new playground, and the nervousness of knowing he wasn't the boss of the production, a new experience for him. But Gwen, his boss, exuded presence, and it was ok. It was really ok.

Gwen pointed to the chairs Jinny had wheeled out from the back, and everyone sat down. Here was the core team, minus one. Here were the nine people who were going to produce the show and create the thing, whatever it was. They were missing the other star, the actress. Well, they were missing her and they were missing the thing, the undefined product, the consumable that was to be consumed by the public. Gwen said, "I've ordered lunch from McCrady's restaurant, and it should be here in an hour. Now that we've met, now that everyone is here, we have two things to work out, and we're going to do that before we eat." Everyone looked around the circle of chairs. Big George Clooney, mega star, and Steven Soderberg, mega director, were like children listening to their teacher, all eyes and ears. Gwen went on, "First, we have to decide on exactly what this production is: a movie, or a play, or something else. Ok? Second, we have to decide on the actress who will work opposite George, play the woman who is threatened by the assassins." She looked around at her team. "We have an idea we want to propose to you. Or rather, Laleh and Shim have an idea they want to propose."

Gale the Mouth piped up. "What idea? I haven't heard anything about an idea." She looked at Jinny and said, "Have you?" He shook his head, no. She said again, "What idea?"

Roger said, "It's something they came up with last night, and they ran it by us this morning while you were at the hotel. It's great, Gale, very interesting and creative. We like it, and we think you will too." Now looking at George and Steven, saying, "And you guys. We think you'll like it."

Gwen said, "First the new idea. Let's get that settled. Then the actress."

# Chapter 51 – Assassins Need Weapons, Don't They?

Hablibi was anxious to get back to the hotel, talk with the concierge and see if he could rustle up some virgins for his boys, keep them happy during this dangerous mission, vital to the security of the fatherland. He doubted there were any virgins in this godforsaken country, but then he doubted his boys would be able to detect any flaws in the rental equipment, them not having any experience in screwing infidels. He also figured he might order one extra, just to test the merchandise, make sure he was providing good quality material. Nothing but the best for the Iranian boys in service to their country. He said, "I got diplomacy to do, maybe have something lined up for you guys later. I'm heading back to the hotel."

The Colonel said, "Whoa, wait a minute. You got something more important than diplomacy to do. We need weapons. That's your line, too. British Air didn't exactly let us bring an arsenal on the flight over from London. You're the local; you know these people, such as they are; you gotta find us some guns and knives and stuff. Tools of our trade."

Lewy added, "Yeah. We can't strangle everybody. That gets old, fast. No bloodletting. We need some items with which we can wreck carnage on these people, make 'em remember their sins against Allah." Priss remained quiet, him being the pacifist among the group, the intellectual assassin, having killed only two people during his four years of training, the minimum required to get his degree.

This took Hablibi by surprise, his boss not having informed him of this responsibility. He did this sort of thing up in DC, as mentioned, but he didn't know anybody in this little town, and had no connections. He didn't even know where the hell South Carolina was, just assumed it was somewhere south of where he lived. He said, "Ok, can do. The knives should be no problem, but I'm not sure about the guns. I know people in the south don't like people in the north telling them what to do, especially about how they protect themselves from people like you....us. So maybe it's easy to get them here. It's not easy at all up in DC. There's a college here, I'll try their bookstore. Might sell 'em there. What else you need?"

Lewy said, "Poison. Non-detectable but excruciatingly painful poison."

Priss thought he better at least put on a front of the assassin's persona, so he said, "How 'bout some cesium 235, in powder form. Capsules. Ever seen that work on someone's stomach? Oh my Allah. Nasty. If you can't come up with that, a rocket propelled grenade launcher. That usually does the job even if it's hard to conceal under your shirt."

The others looked at Priss thinking, 'Not exactly subtlety personified, are you?'

Hablibi said, "You boys are the experts. I'll see what I can do. See you back at the hotel. Dress for dinner, say eight o'clock in the dining room." And he waved goodbye, thinking, 'Virgins or weapons, virgins or weapons....which are more important to look for today?'

The Colonel and his boys sat on a bench across the street from the theater, plotting their surveillance. He said to Lewy, "You're pretty much dead in the water until we get some weapons. When they come, we'll turn you loose." Looking at Priss he said, "You're the psychological warfare technician. We can start with that stuff, make these rats uncomfortable. And we gotta find out who's who in this June Enterprises thing, especially where the Laleh woman is." He opened his College of Charleston canvas tote bag and took out the articles about the June's previous two productions that Hablibi had printed out for them, and handed a few to each guy. Hablibi had given each of them a tote bag that morning that he'd bought in the hotel gift shop, knowing they'd have to carry their weapons in something, once they got some. They sorted through the papers until they found photos of Roger and Gwen and some of the others that had been involved in the productions.

Priss said, "Here, look, two of the people that just went in the building," and he handed a shot of Gale and a shot of Jinny to The Colonel.

He nodded, and said, "Any photos of the other three we saw, the babe in the screaming gold leather dress, the guy with the big jaw, or the other non-descript guy with the ugly black glasses?" The guys shuffled through their papers and said, no.

Lewy asked, "Any shots of the Laleh person?" The other two looked at the principle foot soldier, thinking, 'You idiot, she wasn't here last year or the year before, she just got here.' The Colonel said, "First thing we gotta do is see if the Laleh thing is with them. If she is, then we find out where she lives and what's going on in there. Ok?" They boys nodded.

Priss said, "How we gonna do that?"

The Colonel said, "If we had stealth clothing the way the Israeli commandos do, we could just walk in, look around."

Lewy said, "We don't, do we?"

"Not yet. Someday soon. After we get the Bomb, our guys will start work on the noseeum clothing. Next year maybe." Then The Colonel said, "The other way to get in there is to tunnel in, the way those dirty fuckers do over near our nuke sites."

Priss said, "How do they do that? Start five hundred miles away and end up within spitting distance of our secret sites, we never see 'em?" The Colonel had been asking himself that for years. He didn't answer Priss, just sat there. Priss said, "So we can't do that either, right?" The Colonel still didn't answer, staring at a passing College of Charleston coed. He knew for sure she wasn't a virgin. Priss continued, "We can't walk in, invisible, and we can't tunnel in and up periscope. How about we start sending them emails and text messages saying, 'Prepare to meet thy doom at the hands of the Red Scimitar.' Stuff like that."

Lewy said, "How's that gonna help us find the Laleh bitch?"

"That'll terrorize them, soften 'em up, psychologically. Then we just walk in there, ask 'em where she is. They tell us."

The Colonel tore his eyes away from the coed, said, "Yeah, good plan. Let me think about it."

He was saved from this arduous effort when, a minute later, Laleh came out the front door of The Hall with Jinny. Roger knew the team would achieve the two goals Gwen had set for them before lunch, and everyone would want wine with lunch to celebrate, so Laleh and Jinny had been sent out to buy an assorted case from a shop down the street. Laleh would choose the wine and Jinny would hump it back.

The boys all saw her at the same time and thought in unison, 'Payday.'

# Chapter 52 – They Meet

Jinny stood in the wine shop looking at a bottle on the shelf that said Ménage a Trois. He didn't know what it meant but his intuition told him it was something interesting. He'd ask Gale when he got back to the theater. Laleh was with the shop owner selecting a mixed case: two French burgundies, two German Rieslings, two California cabs, two Australian shirazs, two Italian barolas, and two French sancerres. Jinny went to the front of the shop and stared out at the passing coeds, wondering what is was like to go to college. His education had been elementary school on the Saint Petersburg docks, high school in the Russian army, and higher education at The Hermitage on janitor's duty. Then he got into crime. Two guys stood together across the street, not exactly fitting into the King Street crowd, which around here was a mixture of students and tourists. Laleh hefted the case of wine and walked to the front of the store, where Jinny said, "Gimme that," and tucked in under one arm like a loaf of bread.

They walked the five blocks back to The Hall, trailed by The Colonel and The Lieutenant, The Private having been left on sentry duty across the street. Three blocks after leaving the wine shop, Lewy stopped at a vacant lot and picked up a brick that had been made out of Wando River clay in 1844. He hefted it, getting a feel for its weight and proportions. Aliaabaadi said, "What's that for?"

"Weapon. We don't have anything yet, so gotta improvise. Assassin's Rule 312, 'A man skilled in the assassin's art can make a lethal weapon out of anything when the need arises. Even an ostrich feather can kill horribly when wielded by a master of mayhem.'"

"What do you mean? You're gonna try to kill her now? Here, on the street?"

"The vengeance of the Red Scimitar brooks no delay when the honor of Islam has been stained," said Lewy.

"How do we find the money if you kill her? Isn't that what we're after? The money?"

"I thought our mission was to exact vengeance. Teach the infidels not to fuck with us."

"That too, yeah, course. That's important, no doubt about it. But our secondary mission is to return to the People what is rightfully theirs. Right?"

Lewy thought for a moment and dropped the brick. "The money thing is important. Gotta get that back for the People. The other thing can wait, I suppose."

The Colonel was happy to see his foot soldier enthusiastic about his work, but he wished there was a stronger connection between his brain and his hand.

Laleh and Jinny entered the street doors of The Hall, and Jinny dropped the case on a table on the stage. He continued to the back of the stage, out the employee door, down the short flight of steps, and down the alley out to the street. At the end of the alley he poked his head around the corner of the building, and saw the two guys who were across the street from the wine shop, now with a third guy. They still were out of place. He walked back up the alley and continued to the other end, where he turned and walked around the block, back to John Street. He took off his red pullover, under which he had on a black t-shirt stretched wide by his barrel muscled chest. He unclipped his Sig Sauer nine millimeter from his belt at the rear of his right hip and rolled it up in the pullover. Then he walked down the street, where he stopped next to the three dark skinned guys and said, "Hey, how ya doing?"

Even though Jinny's voice was congenial, neutral, and non-threatening, the boys knew they were being braced. Here was this guy, build like a concrete bollard protecting the main entrance to The White House, standing close in front of them and pretending to be friendly. Who was as out of place among the students and tourists as they were. They could see he was in the strong arm business, same as they were, maybe not a certified assassin, but still prone to violence on occasion. Lewy noticed Jinny wasn't holding his pullover in his hand but rather had it wrapped around his hand in an unusual manner that screamed weapon. Lewy knew all the tricks about concealing weapons. The Colonel was quite sure he'd break his hand if he tried to punch Jinny in the gut, and Priss thought here was a guy who'd probably standup to water boarding pretty well.

The Colonel said, "What the fuck do you want?"

Jinny smiled at this, wondering if today was going to be a really unusual day. It had started out interesting, with Gale fainting in George's hotel room, and then Gwen leading the way through the two fundamental issues of what kind of production this was going to be and who was going to star opposite Big George, and now he had these three bozos to deal with who he knew were watching them and The Hall. Who are they? He could see they either were southern Mediterranean or Middle Eastern, and from their accents he would bet on the latter. What did they want with June Enterprises? This wasn't as strange a question as it might appear, because Jinny had gone through the conflicts of the two previous productions, the ballet involving Stirg the Nazi hunter, and the rock opera involving two sets of kidnappers, one a crew of neo-Nazis from Idaho and the other composed of an aristocratic Charleston woman and her English butler. So the idea of some Middle Eastern guys hanging around casing the joint was odd, but not particularly surprising. As Jinny had said to George and Soderberg, the June's productions always seemed to attract trouble in one form or another, which was one reason Jinny liked to hang around them. And here he was, gun in hand, staring down three guys, one of whom just had used a swear word in his salutation, "What the fuck do you want?"

Jinny replied with equanimity, "Saw you guys down the street when we were in the wine shop. Now you're here, watching our place of business. Just curious, that's all. No problem, really."

"We're looking for the best shrimp and grits, that's all. We're tourists, from Greece, like to eat the local specialties," said Priss, him conducting a less confrontational brand of psychological warfare than his boss, employing trickery and subterfuge. "You know a good place for that?"

Jinny smiled at the bullshit, thought, 'Keep your enemies close,' said, "Shrimp and grits is the best thing Charleston has to offer in the way of high culture, and I am an expert on the subject. I make it as well as anyone and will eat it three times a day if subjected to the right influences, like some honest tourists wanting a real southern culinary experience. Why don't you come on in to The Hall for a few minutes, meet some people, and then we'll go out for some eats."

Lewy looked at his buddies, then back to Jinny and said, "You want to invite us into your place? There?" pointing at the doors of The Hall.

"That's what we do here in Charleston, friendly. We's number one in amiability, according to Conde Nast Travel Magazine. Come on in." Jinny wanted Gwen and Roger to vet these characters right away, before the production really geared up, and if they told him to, then he'd take 'em out and dispose of 'em in the usual place, the rocks on the back side of Fort Sumter, far out in the harbor. Dump a body there and it's out in the Atlantic in no time. He motioned them to follow him across the street, all three of the boys thinking, 'These Americans are even dumber than I thought they'd be, inviting three avenging angels right into their foul nest. This mission is going to be a cakewalk, and profitable to boot.' Jinny opened the doors and led the way down the center aisle towards the stage.

Gwen saw them first, noticing Jinny had his pullover draped around his right arm and hand, and realized something was up. She knew he always carried his gun on his belt, and it wasn't there now. Casually she walked to the side of the stage, picked up her purse, and brought it back to one of the tables at the center of the stage. Roger noticed his wife do this, then noticed Jinny and his followers, and instantly went on alert himself. He knew Gwen had her gun in her purse, and he felt for his at his hip under his sweater. The others on the stage were oblivious to these precautions.

Jinny stood near the front row of seats below the stage and yelled up, "Hey Gwen. Got some folks here from out of town, met 'em outside, they're lookin for good shrimp and grits, local culture, so I thought I'd invite them in, meet you and Roger."

Gwen and Roger came to the front of the stage, Gwen with her purse over her shoulder now. Roger said, "Welcome to Charleston. Welcome to The Hall. Where're you from?"

"Greece," said The Colonel. "Athens. Our first trip to America, and people said this is a friendly place, so we came here. We're friendly, too. And we heard about this local seafood dish, and then this man introduced himself outside, and here we are."

While The Colonel talked, Lewy and Priss both looked at the people on the stage, saw Laleh talking with George and Monique, and looked at each other knowingly, a gesture not lost on Jinny or Roger or Gwen. Roger said, "My name is Roger and this is my wife Gwen, and that's Jinny you've met, and we're rehearsing a show here. If you're still around in a while, maybe you'll come and see it."

The Colonel also saw Laleh, and said, "Thank you for the invitation, but we'll just be here for a few days. We know what we want, some good food, meeting nice people like yourselves, maybe a day or two of duck hunting, we like to hunt, then we have other parts of your wonderful country to see." Lewy and Priss smiled up at Gwen, saying to themselves, hot, hot, but no virgin, and an infidel, remember that.

Gwen said to Jinny, "You know the places that have the best shrimp and grits. You should tell them where those are, then we need you for rehearsal, ok?"

Jinny nodded and turned to lead the boys back up the aisle to the street, where he told them the name of a place nearby that had the worst shrimp and grits he'd ever tasted, like glue flavored with powdered fish flakes. The boys knew for sure he had a gun under the pullover, no one would keep that draped over their arm for this long. There was some tension now, the boys having penetrated the enemy's perimeter and seen their target, and Jinny and Gwen and Roger sussing out the BS about being Greek tourists. The boys kept up their posture of friendliness, but Jinny sent out warning vibes they picked up. 'Don't come around here again. If we see you, there'll be trouble.' He waved as the boys headed up the street towards the bad food, and Jinny went back into The Hall.

Gwen and Roger were sitting on the edge of the stage as Jinny came down the aisle, and they spoke softly. Gwen said, "Where the hell did you find them?"

"They were outside the wine shop when Laleh and I went there, and they followed us back here, outside. I decided to introduce myself and check them out. They stunk badly, so I brought 'em in for you to see." Jinny threw his pullover on the stage and clipped his gun back on his belt. Roger motioned to him to hide it from the others on the stage.

Gwen looked at Roger, asking what he thought of them. He said, "I think they're from the Middle East somewhere, not Greece. And I don't believe in coincidence. And we have someone here from there, whose background we don't know. I think something's up. Serious."

Gwen nodded and said, "Ok, let's keep this to ourselves for now, but the alert is on. We go armed all the time now, and we share a watch over all the others. Let's get the production rolling, give Steven the reins, and then we can figure out what's going on. We'll have a talk with Laleh and find out if there's a connection; and I'm guessing there is. Jinny, you're the man now, bodyguard for everyone, twenty-four seven."

He smiled and said, "Here we go again."

# Chapter 53 – The Idea and the Actress

After the Iranian boys had left, Gwen took Laleh to one of the offices at the rear of the stage. Gale the Mouth was mouthing off about Pete Townshend playing the entire Stravinsky lost ballet score by himself on synthesizer, right here where they were sitting, while Jinny kept pointing out the holes in the ceiling where Gwen had fired her Glock one morning at rehearsal to emphasize to everyone that Pmirhs Stirg the ex-Nazi hunter had threatened their well-being. Soderberg listened to Gale while Clooney stared at the ceiling and listened to Jinny. George liked anything to do with Gwen.

Gwen said to Laleh, "You need to tell them your idea now."

"It wasn't my idea, it was Shim's idea."

"I know that, but you're the one who has to propose it to them."

"Why? Why not Shim?"

"Simple, because they're guys and you're you."

"You mean the sex thing?" Gwen didn't even nod; just sat there looking at her."

"Ok. You think they're going to go for it?"

Gwen nodded, so they went out to the stage and everyone stopped talking. That would have happened if just one of these women were standing there looking at them, and now there were two. Nazi storm troopers marching by the thousands in front of a frowning, stern, and Seig Heiling Adolf Hitler would have stopped and stared if Gwen and Laleh had appeared on the review stand. Gwen sat down and Laleh had the floor. She said, "A couple of days ago, after we found out you guys were coming, Shim came up with an idea for this thing we're going to do. We talked it over last night and again this morning, and we like it. Shim, I'm going to describe it to Steven and George, ok?" Shim smiled cause his girl was talking. "We know Steven retired from making films; at least for a while. We also know he thinks Ingmar Bergman is the greatest film maker ever, and we know Bergman was involved in theater his whole life, including the last ten years after he retired from film making. So we know Steven respects the art of theater production." Soderberg stared at Laleh, not taking his eyes from her face. George was next to him and did the waving of the hand in front of Steven's face thing, smiling at the entrancement. She went on, "We talked about that, and then Shim told us about a film he'd seen a long time ago that made a big impression on him. It was a Woody Allen film called The Purple Rose of Cairo. Anyone seen it?"

Jinny certainly hadn't. When it came out in 1985 he was cleaning toilets in The Hermitage. Gwen looked at Roger who said, "I remember it. That was when he was with Mia Farrow, before the scandal." Looking at Gwen he said, "Just before we got married."

Laleh went on, "Shim told us the plot, with Mia married to a bore and a bruiser, and her loving movies and going to the theater all the time to get away from him, and one time going to see a 1930s style romance thing set in Egypt, sort of an old style Indiana Joneser, with the leading man an adventurer archeologist. Woody sets it up with Mia sitting in the theater watching the movie, and the actor in the film doing this thing at the pyramids, and then Woody does this brilliant thing that Shim never had seen before, maybe it was completely original with Allen and no one ever had done it, we don't know; some film historian should know. Anyway, Mia has been transported psychologically to Egypt and has fallen in love with the leading man, when all of a sudden the actor on the screen turns towards the camera, which simulated the viewpoint of the people in the theater, including Mia, and he notices Mia sitting out in the seats. He looks towards the camera that is filming him, which makes it seem he's looking out of the screen. And he IS looking out of the screen, and he is looking at Mia, and no one maybe had ever done this before Woody did it."

Steven was smiling big and nodding, clearing knowing what Laleh was describing. He said, "I've seen every film Woody's ever made, including The Purple Rose of Cairo, and I love him and I love that film. I know exactly what she's talking about." He turned to Monique, who just had taken Jinny's hand off her thigh for the second time, and then to George.

Monique shook her head no, not knowing the movie, but George nodded yes, and said, "I saw it. That was great. Very cool. I remember it exactly. It was Jeff Daniel that played the archeologist and looked out of the screen at Mia, eating popcorn in the seats."

Laleh motioned to Shim to continue. "I love that movie and I've never forgotten it from twenty something years ago. So we were talking about Bergman and film and theater, and then that memory popped into my head, and I thought, why not do what Woody did, only more. Take his idea one step further. Do a production that is half film and half play. It would be different than just doing a play or a performance with a big screen behind the stage showing video while people acted on the stage. In our production the actors would be shown on the screen, in film, and then at a certain point they would come out of the screen onto the stage, and the action would continue live. And then they would go back into the screen and it would be film again." Soderberg and Clooney listened intently. So did Gale, and even Jinny stopped staring at Monique's thigh for a minute and looked at Shim. "The story and the action would bounce back and forth between the screen and the stage. Same actors, same story, same costumes, just a different presence, and a different presentation to the audience. The director would have to choreograph all the transitions, and the actors would have to perform the transitions. They would be filmed doing scenes, and then they would act other scenes live, and back and forth, back and forth. The whole thing done here in The Hall." Shim sat down, exhausted from his recitation, not used to being the center of attention, but revitalized when Laleh leaned over and kissed his cheek.

Gale, used to being the center of attention, exploded with, "Yes. Yes. Far out, what an idea, Shimmey boy." She was up and bouncing around the stage, mimicking the actors stepping out of the screen onto the stage and acting, then stepping back into the screen and acting in that film format.

Roger applauded and said, "Great, Shim. Great idea." Gwen didn't say anything, just smiled at him and then at Laleh.

Monique turned her chair a quarter turn towards Jinny and put her legs up on his lap, both long legs pouring out of the golden leather dress, the very expensive leather dress, and said, "Well Georgie boy, waddya think? Like it?" Jinny was paralyzed: everything but his autonomic nervous system had ceased functioning, his arms hung loose at his sides, not daring to touch the goods, head and eyes not moving to look at George the way everybody else did, waiting for his reply.

George leaned his head against the high back chair and stared at the bullet holes high in the plaster of the ceiling overhead. His sub-conscious mind wondered what kind of woman would pull out a handgun on the stage of a theater and fire two shots into the ceiling to emphasize a point to her theater crew, while his conscious mind thought about Shim's wild idea. A movie and a play! He pulled his two minds together and looked at Soderberg. "What do you think? I like it. I like this place."

Soderberg stood up and walked around the circle of chairs, head down, arms behind his back. Then he looked at Gale and said, "Would you do that again? What you did before, pretending to jump out of the screen onto the stage, and then back into the screen. Just like you did before." Bashful Gale was up in a flash, legging it, showing a lot of thigh, thinking she still might have a shot at the role opposite Big George. She hopped out of the pretend screen and then back into it. In, out. In, out. Soderberg watched her while everyone else watched him. Then he put his hands behind his back and walked around the chairs again, looking down at the pine boards of the stage. Monique knew what his answer would be before he did, and gave everyone else the thumbs up, accentuated with a nod and a smile. He came around and sat down in his chair and said, "I'm in. Great idea. I can do it. When do we start?" looking at Gwen, to whom unconsciously he had deferred.

She said, "Tomorrow morning, 10am." Everyone nodded except Jinny who still couldn't function properly with the exception of his breathing, which was rapid but still performing its duty. Then Gwen said, "Ok, one problem down, one to go. We have ten minutes to decide on the actress," and she turned to George.

George had to compartmentalize, but he was good at it. One by one he closed the compartment holding the question of a woman who fired bullets into theater ceilings, then the compartment holding his vision of Laleh's dark silky hair, and then the compartment containing Shim's idea for the production, and he opened the compartment which in a few minutes would hold his decision about a leading actress. Standing up he now commanded the group, and said, "You guys mentioned Zellweger. I loved doing the movie with her, double so because I acted and directed. She's a trip, and in that movie I think did her best work. If she could do that again, and then in a few more films, she could rise to the top of the heap; she's that talented. I'm willing to give it a try, if Steven is."

Both Gwen and Roger looked at Gale to see how she took this, and were happy to find her with a hint of smile on her face. She had recognized she would be out of her league in something like this. Knowing her as they did they also detected a different and separate hint of mischief there, and Roger whispered to Gwen that Jinny would have to watch her.

Steven looked at the floor, thinking, a posture the team would see again and again over the next two months. He raised his head and said, "She was so good with you in that scene in the hotel lobby where you met in the story. Good humorous dialogue and the two of you were on fire. Like William Powell and Myrna Loy. That chemistry doesn't happen very often, no matter how good the two actors are. It will be a challenge to bring that out in the two of you again. That works for me. Let's try to get her."

George looked over at Monique who still had her legs up on Jinny's lap, a sure sign they had made friends, and Jinny was regaining motor coordination in his arms and neck. She reached in her purse, took out her phone and thumbed through the contacts list. She hit the call button and then the speaker button, and George went over and held it up so everyone could hear. There were some clicks and buzzes and then a thin voice came through the speaker, "Weger. What's ooo want?"

"Hey Weger, George here. How the hell are you? Where the hell are you? You sound thin and weak."

"GEORGE. Lover boy. Wow, nice, long time no screw. I'm lousy, how you?"

"I'm good. Sitting here with Sody and a few other folks, talking movies. How come you sound so weird? You under water or something?"

"No, not under water, just far away. Himalayas, foothills of the Himalayas."

"They got cell coverage out there?"

"I got a satellite phone. Sometimes it works. Hey Sody, how you?"

Steven said, "I'm ok, Wegs. Learning to cook Italian."

"Just add a lot of olive oil and garlic to whatever it is, and it'll be great. Where are you guys? LA, NYC?"

George said, "We're in Charleston. South Carolina. Place called The Hall."

"You had any shrimp and grits yet? I love that stuff."

"Not yet, we just got here yesterday. What the hell is shrimp and grits?"

"It's the local yokel dish. Ground up white corn, butter, and shrimp, all mushed together. All southern, all the way."

George looked at Roger with a pained expression on his face, incredulous. Roger said, "It's better than it sounds. Jinny makes it pretty good."

"Wegs, what are you doing in the Himalayas? You're a city girl."

"Yeah, I am, and the city's what got me in trouble. I'm out here searching for the true me."

Soderberg yelled at the phone, "What you searchin for?"

"The reason I've made so many dumb movies. That's my problem. Tired of it. Thought maybe one of these local guys could tell me. All I got from the city guys was a lot of crap, and I bought it. Ergo, the dumb movies I've done."

"Hey, Wegs, it's Monique. I gotta ask, one reason for the dumb movies was they paid you like $10 mill each right? That's not so dumb."

"Hi Monique. George behaving himself?"

"Yeah, he is, which is too bad. Very boring," and she smiled at her boss\companion.

"The money was the reason I did the dumb stuff, and it's good in its way, but it ain't everything. I want something else."

George said, "We got something else for you, very cool. Sody and I are doing a project here, and we want you in. It's not exactly a film; it's something sort of filmy thing but not exactly. Part play."

There was silence on the other end. George looked at the phone, then around the circle of chairs. "You there, Wegs? You fall off your yak?"

"I'm here. George, would you repeat what you just said?"

"I said Sody and I are doing a project and we want you to be in it. With me."

"Like before, George? Opposite? Main roles?"

"Yeah, like before, you're the lead. Only this time it'll be better because Sody is directing rather than me."

More silence. Monique said to Jinny, "She's in. She's like you were a few minutes ago, having trouble breathing. She'll get it started again."

Zellweger said, "Steven, is he bullshitting me? Is this a real deal? I thought you retired from making movies."

"I'm back. For this. He talked me into it. It's real. C'mon Wegs, we want you. It'll be fun. A strange idea, but like he said, cool. Get off your yak and get your ass to Charleston."

Roger was right when he thought he saw a mischievous gleam in Gale's eyes a few minutes ago. Gale stood up and moved close to the phone. "Renee, this is Gale."

"Hi Gale."

"Listen, we don't want to mess up your mission to find your true self out there. That's a very important and noble quest. This is just a little show here in Charleston, not a big deal," and she stuck her tongue out at Clooney.

Gwen looked at Jinny, telling him telepathically to stop dinking around with Monique and do his job of controlling Gale, who was climbing out on a limb. Jinny got the message and, using Herculean self-discipline, took hold of Monique's legs, swiveling them off his lap and onto the floor. He got his muscles to respond to brain commands, stood up, and waddled over to Gale. She saw him coming and grabbed the phone, saying, "Listen Wegy hon, if you really want to come back, but don't want to fall back into bad habits, we can forgo your fee for the job here. Pay you union scale, even though we don't allow any fucking unions here in Carolina. Keep you corruption free, living your new life in a state of humble charity." Jinny caught up with her, took the phone and handed it back to George, then picked Gale up under an arm and went back to his chair where he sat her on his lap the way a ventriloquist does his dummy.

There was silence on the phone again, then Zellweger said, "Gale, honey, there's pure and then there's pure. I want to do things differently, but a girl's still gotta eat. I take your point, though. Sody, what's union scale? I think I can do that. For you I know I can do that."

George said, "She's just joking, Wegs. We'll pay you. Does that mean you're in?"

"I'm in. Let me turn this yak in at the rental corral, and I'll tell my pilot to fuel the Lear. He should be able to find Charleston. I got no idea how long a flight that'll be, but see you soon."

Soderberg and Clooney said together, "See ya, Wegs."

George thumbed the end button and tossed the phone to Monique, who caught it one handed and dropped it in her purse. He said, "That went well."

Gwen stood up and said, "That went great. Nice going, guys. Roger, open the wine. McCrady's will be here any minute. We meet tomorrow morning at ten, and talk writing."

# Chapter 54 – The Screenplay

It was ten o'clock the next morning and the artists wondered at the loud thumps that came from Gwen's purse and Roger's and Jinny's backpacks as they dumped them on the tables at the center of the stage. The noises came from the weight of the guns each of the June Enterprises soldiers had brought to work; one on their hips out of sight and a backup in their bags. Shimmey circled the chairs and the nine team members sat down, ready to go. Roger looked at George and asked, "You hear from Renee? When she's coming?" He liked the nickname Wegs, but couldn't bring himself to say it until he'd met her, which he was looking forward to.

George nodded, "Yeah, last night, late, woke me up. They were refueling a second time, in the Azores, she said they'd be here sometime tonight. They had to give the pilots ten hours in the sack. I can't wait to see her again."

Monique said, "I bet you are, you pillock."

Roger said, "When she lands she'll have to go through customs here, and they don't do that a lot, so it takes a while. Have her call, and by the time she gets through and gets her luggage, we can be at the airport and pick her up."

Gwen looked at Gale, who said, "Why me? Send Jinny." Gale was pouting a little.

Gwen said, "Jinny's got other duties. You and Wegs might as well have it out right away, and then you can be friends. We aren't going to have any envy or jealousy around here. Can't afford it."

"What duties? He's just crawling around after Monique, the cretin. That his duty?"

Gale sounded worse than she was, just acting up a little, establishing her turf in the operation, trying to impress Sody with a kind of toughness so he would cast her in some role. Everyone ignored her hard edge, especially Jinny, who loved her. They knew she'd do the airport pickup later that night.

Gwen said, "Yesterday we made the two biggest decisions. Now we have to make another one; we need to choose the writer and the type of vehicle." She looked at Soderberg and said, "We know you can write. And this is your decision, you're the director. We mentioned that Shimmey is a published novelist, and you know he's Laleh's boyfriend, and you know Laleh is financing the production. We're not hiding anything around here about relationships and roles." She looked at Shimmey, who sat relaxed. She went on, "Now we know the nature of the beast, part film and part play. We'll need something between a script and a screenplay, and we gotta have it fast. I'm going to suggest something here, that's my role as producer, and then Sody decides." She looked at Sody, who nodded. "I say we spend two days as a team creating the story, whoever wants to sit in and contribute. We know the basic concept, and we'll brainstorm on that until we have the storylines, and then we divide up into directorial tasks and writing tasks. Sody starts figuring out how to actualize the story in this building, on the stage and on film, and Shim starts on the screenplay. He's never done a screenplay before, so it'll be a real challenge. But I have faith." She smiled at him and then at Laleh, telling her she had to support him. "We let that work for a week and see where we are. If everyone's happy, the show goes on. What do you think?"

The only people in the room that cared were Sody, Shim, Gwen, and Laleh, and Gwen knew Sody was the key. Would he accept directing a filmy\play based on the work of a novice screenwriter? That was asking a lot. He was a master director, and had written some of his films himself. Gwen waited, but didn't have to wait long. After a minute, Soderberg said, "This whole thing is crazy. Movies and plays are not made this way. But here we are, and everyone is in and we're moving forward as if this is going to work; and I think it will work, and so who am I to try to bring order to chaos? Let's give it a try. This is a party, and that's how I'm going to treat it, as a serious party with lots going on and some fun and creative people who've come up with a wild idea and the money to make it happen. Let's go with the flow, and keep things moving. Shim, let's do it, you doin' most of the screenplay, and I'll work with it and the actors where changes need to be made, and we'll see what comes out in the end. Let's rock."

Shim didn't show it but he was relieved and elated. He'd always wondered what it would be like to write a screenplay, and now he was sure he could do it. It reminded him of years ago when he started out writing short stories, and after a couple of years he wondered what it would be like to write a novel. He'd found out, and was successful at it. Now, a new challenge. One thing he knew for certain; he'd never write a line of dialogue in which the person talking said the person's name to whom he or she was speaking. He'd never write, "You get the picture now, Rocco?" or "I love you, and can't live without you, Wendy." He knew there is software for writing screenplays, but he doubted he'd use that. He'd use his experience and skill to produce a rough first draft, throw it at Sody and George, and follow their advice for the revisions. He'd never been a writer planner, who charted and outlined a book ad infinitum, figuring out every character and plot line before he started writing, knowing the ending and every twist and turn ahead of time. He was a winger, starting with a central concept and a core cast of characters, and feeling his way through as the writing happened. That was what made the work entertaining. Years ago he'd read a quote from John Dos Passos on writing, in which he'd said the central characteristic of writing fiction is curiosity. Dos Passos meant that the central motivator in a writer is curiosity about what happens next in the story and the characterizations. Shim'd always liked that perspective, and applied it to his work. He was VERY curious about what would happen now, with this group of people, in this creative environment, under this pressure.

With another big decision under her belt, Gwen looked around the circle, her gaze coming to rest on Big George. She said, "What do you want out of this? How do you see your role?"

He said, "I'm an actor. I wait around until the director tells me what to do. That's my role. I learn my lines. Now, what I want to get out of this is, creative fun. Something new and different. That was your scam, that's what you presented me with, and it worked. I'm here, ready to work on whatever it is that comes my way. You need help with some part of the production, you ask, and I'll help. You want to brainstorm the storylines, fine, I'm in. If nothing comes my way, I'll ask people to go out to lunch: Monique and my darling, Gale," and he looked at her suggestively, "Wegs, Jinny, whoever. Even you, Gwen," and here he actually bowed his head bashfully. George Clooney, bashful. "You and Roger, of course."

Gale snickered, Jinny snickered, the dog, who'd made his first appearance at The Hall since the arrival of the new team members, snickered. Speaking of the dog, who lay next to Roger's chair, what did he think of the movie star and the big name director? While Gwen surreptitiously got Shim lined up as writer, the dog and Roger had had a quiet conversation, using their usual telepathic communication method.

Dog: "So that's the big stud, huh. Seems friendly enough."

Roger: "That's Big George. I like him. No BS, no apparent ego, not addicted to drugs that I can see, straightforward so far."

Dog: "What's his relationship with Monique? She is some dish."

Roger: "Don't know. Even Gwen can't figure it out. They have separate rooms at the hotel."

Dog: "Connecting?"

Roger: "Yeah, Jinny told us that. She's loose and funny too, not just a babe. We think she's his assistant, but whether she assists him with his libido, don't know. Has really good hand eye coordination, something I appreciate. Since when have you become such a snoop?"

Dog: "What else do I have to do around here? You see any rabbits to chase? Postmen to bite? Oh, so sorry, 'mailpersons'."

Roger: "What about Sody, the director? What do think about him?"

Dog: "Other than the ugly black glasses, he seems nice too. Not a prima donna Hollywood asshole. Can't Gale do something about those glasses?"

Roger: "Give her time; he just got here yesterday. Maybe his wife likes them. Monique is beautiful, isn't she? Look at that dress, what the hell is it made of that it clings like that?"

Dog: "That's Burmese silk. The Buddhist monks in some of the monasteries there over the last thousand years have learned how to communicate with and train the silkworms to make an incredibly delicate strand that follows the shape of whatever it touches, down to the molecular level. Great stuff, and it works on her, doesn't it?"

Roger: "Where'd you learn about Burmese silk clothing?"

Dog: "Pulleze, don't insult my intelligence. Anyone with an iota of sartorial savoir faire knows that. I bet Gale knows. Let's ask her....Gale, yo honey, stops staring at Big George's crotch. We have a question, 'What's Monique's dress made of?'"

Gale looks over at Monique, sitting next to her new bud, Jinny, and says, "Silk. That special stuff from Cambodia, very clingy. I got underwear made out of it. In fact, got some on now, wanna see?" And she stands up, facing Clooney.

Roger: "Sit down, for god's sake. Save it for later. This is a business meeting."

Dog: "She was close: Burma, Cambodia, Ceylon, Myanmar...."

Roger: "You know the whole production is going to be done in here? The whole movie\play thing, whatever it is. Whatever it will be. Whatever the geniuses cook up. You want to be here during the day or at home, doing the guard dog thing? The regular dog thing?"

Dog: "Do I look like a regular dog? Talk like one? I wanna be here, where the action is. Just bring the food bowl, and let me out in the alley once in a while. Besides, this is Shim's first shot at a screenplay. He's gonna need some help."

Roger: "Right, forgot about that. Ok."

The dog got up, went over to where Monique sat, and lay down in front of her chair. She took off her emerald pump and began to stroke the dog's back with her sexy foot. He looked at Roger, smiled, and closed his eyes. Roger said to himself, 'Why didn't I think of that?'

# Chapter 55 – Plan of Attack

Lewy said, "That fat little fucker had a gun on us the whole time, and what'd I have? Nothin. Not even a lousy brick with which to cave in his thick Russian skull."

Priss said, "I don't think that was fat on him; it was muscle. We better be careful of that guy."

"Shit, those morons just invited us right into their pigpen of culture. We penetrated their inner sanctum without even trying. We could've snatched the Laleh woman right then if we'd had weapons. Be counting the money now. Where the hell is that diplomat spy, supposed to being getting me what I need to do my job."

The Colonel looked at his principle assassin and wondered what had gotten his dander up. He said, "Look, we're on track. We've found our target and we know what we're up against. One tough guy with a gun and a bunch of actors and dancers, up on the stage. We can do this. We just need to do a little planning, figure out our tactics, and we'll be rolling in dough. We get the Laleh bitch to hand over the money, we take our turns with her, get rid of her, and, mission accomplished. We're heroes."

Both Priss and Lewy noted their boss had dispensed with all references to the People's money, to their patriotic duty to their country, to everything associated with a higher calling, including future interludes with celestial virgins. And that was fine with both of them. At this point neither of them were adverse to a little violence followed by a little earthly infidel delight followed by cash in hand.

They were sitting on a bench down the street from The Hall, watching the coeds, when Hablibi appeared carrying his own College of Charleston tote bag, which was bulging. He said, "Hey. Got some stuff for you. What you been up to?"

The Colonel puffed himself up a little and said, "We have infiltrated the enemy's camp and ascertained our mission objective. We have identified the enemy's attributes and resources, formulated both a battle strategy and a redundancy of battle tactics, and are prepared to execute the next phase of the operation." Priss and Lewy both gave him a fist pump, indicating, 'Yeah, dude.'

Hablibi looked at them and said, "Right on." He didn't believe The Colonel, but figured maybe they'd done something while he was away, and even if they hadn't, it was his responsibility as de facto leader to encourage them to the extent possible. "I couldn't get the exact weapons you requisitioned, the cesium 235 and the rattlesnake poison, for example, but I was able to procure what I think you'll find to be an arsenal of weapons both lethal and entertaining to use. He sat down on the bench and reached into his bag, first extracting a ballpeen hammer. "Got that at the hardware store. Look at that knob. Imagine what it can do to a human skull," and handed it to Priss. Next he took out a package of Dulcolax, and handed it to Lewy. "I couldn't get the poison, but this stuff was easy to find at the drugstore, and is just as effective."

Lewy said, "What is it?"

"It's a laxative, industrial strength. Kickass stuff."

"What's a laxative?"

"It's a purgative. It purges ones bowels."

Lewy looked at The Colonel, indicating 'This is a joke. This guy's a fucking joke. I'm a certified third level vermilion belt assassin, and this is what this diplomat flunky gives me to do my job. Come on.'

The Colonel, sympathetic with his staffer, said, "Exactly how is he supposed to take revenge on this enemy of the People, secure justice for our cause and our great leader, The Ayatollah, with this substance?"

Hablibi answered, "Look, if he's good enough to get the woman to eat a poison, he's good enough to get her to eat a bunch of this. He's just got to apply a really hefty dose, and voila, it drains all the moisture out of her body and she dies of desiccation."

The boys looked at each other and thought, 'This is the best and brightest our country can offer the diplomatic corps?'

The Colonel said, "What else you got?"

In rapid succession Hablibi removed from his bag a set of imitation bone handled steak knives, a ball of waxed twine one sixty-fourth of an inch thick, a length of three inch diameter PVC pipe with a canister of propane and a small sack of potatoes, and a bag of plastic straws with a package of large sewing needles. He spread these out on the ground in front of the bench and beamed at the guys from the Elite Corps. "I couldn't find piano wire for garroting, but the waxed twine should give the same feel to the executioner of the infidel's precious breadth slipping away. Being the innovative guys you are, you should be able to fashion deadly blow darts from the straws and needles. The knives speak for themselves, and I thought the matching set was a nice touch." Here he paused, looking at the PVC. "I really liked your idea, your request, for a bazooka. That would make a real splash here in quaint, charming Charleston. Up in some of the sections of DC or New York, maybe Chicago, not so much. But down here, that would be huge. KABOOM ! Only problem is I couldn't find one. Someone has one for sale on Ebay, but I don't really trust them, ya know? So what I did was get the stuff you need to make something similar. Not as big, not as mean looking as a bazooka, probably not as loud, but still the same principle."

Lewy said, "What's that?"

"A potato launcher. Some people call them spudzookas. Get it? Nearly like the real thing."

"What's a potato launcher?"

"You make it out of pieces of PVC and a combustible gas, like propane. Looks like a shoulder fired missile, sort of, but fires a potato. Kids make 'em all the time, shoot 'em at cars and people's houses, get in trouble. Could be really badass, we paint the PVC army green, maybe a little camo. Can fire up to two hundred yards with deadly accuracy." Hablibi was exaggerating this last part, about the accuracy, but he was sensing some concern among the troops. Jesus, he was doing his best to procure advanced weaponry under difficult battlefield conditions. And the pressure.

Priss picked up the straws and needles, started playing with them. Lewy picked a potato out of the bag and tried fitting it in the end of the PVC pipe. The Colonel unrolled a length of twine from the ball, wrapped the ends around his hands, and tried slip it around Priss' neck, see if it held up under some throat tension. Priss said, "Get outta here," joking around with his boss, pretended to shoot him in the crotch with a poison dart out of a straw. They played with their toys for a few minutes, then looked at each other and shrugged. Priss asked, "No guns? No Glocks or Berettas or H&Ks?"

Hablibi said, "I checked the college bookstore, but they don't carry them anymore. The guy said they used to, back in the good ole days before Civil Rights, but not anymore. Said you have to go to the swap meet now to get them. I'm not sure what a swap meet is, but I'll work on that."

The Colonel said, "This stuff may do. After infiltrating their camp and seeing their setup and defenses, we don't think this is going to be much of a challenge. They have one fat guy with a gun, but we can take care of him. The rest look like creampuffs; actors and intellectuals, probably a writer of some kind in there. You did ok. Got anything else for us?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," he said with a smirk. He hesitated, milking the guys' interest, hoping to add value to his efforts. "We been working hard since arriving in this pestilence pit, so I thought we needed a little relaxation, recharge the batteries. A little downtime coupled with a little excitement."

Priss thought, 'We just arrived day before yesterday; been working day and a half; these diplomats got a sweet deal if they think this is working hard.'

"How you boys like to try some infidel nooky? Some American terrestrial virginity material?"

The Colonel, bringing his sophisticated cosmopolitan acculturated suspiciousness to bear on the issue said, "They got virgins here? In this place? America, seat of all that is evil and corrupt in the world, exemplar of that which shall be resisted with our last breaths of Islamic purity of heart and purpose?"

Hablibi now feigned nonchalance, saying, "They got terrestrial virgins just like we got 'em in Tehran. Ya ask them, 'Are you pure', they say yes, and it's off to the races. What's the problem?"

The Colonel looked at The Lieutenant who looked at The Private. Employing communication codes and processes only known among brethren of the Guard Elite Assassination Corps, they searched their souls and presented their findings. The Colonel collated the findings and said, "Let's go."

# Chapter 56 - The Show is Made

The next morning at ten o'clock the team met at The Hall for a brainstorming session on storylines. The Iranians slept in, never having experienced American hookers before with their arsenal of tricks designed to soak both their client's wallets and their bodies. Laleh stood up and presented the central concept, saying, "The Middle East is not a homogeneous culture, with all one religion and one history and one set of customs. It's a quilt of these with a thousand colors and patterns. But there are some things that are common almost everywhere. First, there aren't many atheists over there. At last count there were six, and they all lived in holes in the ground like the one they found Saddam hiding in. Another thing common everywhere is the second class status of women. In some countries like Saudi Arabia, it's horrendous. In others like Iran, it's better. But everywhere it's bad, in my opinion. And that's the basis for my idea of what this filmy play is about. It's about a young woman who gets tired of her status and her life, and decides to get even by sticking it to one of the big shots over there, one of the religious rulers. She's not political, and she doesn't do this as some cultural or sociological statement, she makes it personal between her and this guy. She doesn't know what the results are going to be, and she doesn't do it to make things better for all the other women over there. She's not trying to be a hero. She just wants to get out of there, live a different life in a different place, and STICK IT TO THIS FUCKER." Laleh emphasized the last statement by broadcasting an intense and grim expression on her beautiful face. The expression came suddenly, and went suddenly, but everyone sitting around her got the message. That is what the filmy play is about.

She continued, "This women is good with computers, and good with financial matters, and knows a lot about monetary markets around the world. She spends a couple of years tracking the paths of certain banking operations in her country until one day she discovers what she's been looking for: the private bank account of the religious ruler she despises. She studies it, finding tentacles that bring money into it and tentacles that carry money out. It's not all that complex, and soon she knows everything she needs to know to do what she wants to do, which is to steal it. One thing she knows about the account is that it's hidden from everyone else, and that the money in it has come from government operations, including, of course, oil. It's clear the big rat has stolen this money and stashed it for a rainy day."

Questions formed in the minds of the other team members, but Laleh's presence and presentation were so dramatic they held them inside. At the same time Laleh's subconscious realized these questions were forming, and so she built the answers to them into her presentation. She said, "Look, this woman is not a saint and she's not altruistic and, basically, she's a thief. A big time thief. She's not a Robin Hood figure who steals the money from the bad guy and gives it back to the People from whom he's stolen it. She just wants out of her life, and she wants to leave a mark on a guy who represents everything she dislikes about her culture: religious fundamentalism, disparity between the sexes, and a hatred of modernism. That's why she does what she does, which is, one day, to transfer all the money out of the guy's account and into her account. When that's done she packs up her computer, throws some clothes into a backpack, takes a bus to the airport, and gets her ass out of Dodge. She leaves her country and her family and her culture, and makes a new life for herself." And here Laleh's face changed from serious to a smile. She goes to the low table in the center of the circle of chairs, pours herself a cup of coffee from the silver service, and sits down in her chair. She sips and says, "That's all I have. That's all Shim and I have. What happens next, no idea."

Soderberg didn't hesitate even a few seconds. His mind had processed Laleh's central concept as she described it and immediately began creating storylines stretching outwards from it. He stood up and began pacing around inside the circle of chairs, looking down at the pine board floor, and starts a stream of consciousness rant, "I got it, I like it, it's not sentimental, it's about something most American's don't worry about or think about, it's got a serious base but also room for lots of action and humor, and of course she goes to a new culture, of course she ends up in the place that's most different from her culture, America, of course she meets a guy and falls for him, and she's got all this money, and we can have fun with that, and she's good looking, and Wegs and George can do their hot and fun couples thing, I'll squeeze stuff out of them they didn't know they had in them..." (he's still pacing around the circle, faster and faster, not looking at anyone, the directorial wheels are spinning fast, the other team members are checking out, wondering what to have for lunch, seeing that Sody is doing his thing, filling the holes in the story, fabricating the story lines, imagining the sets and scenes and dialogue and camera shots and all that stuff, taking on the tough tasks, Gwen and Roger seeing what's happening and are happy, George also happy knowing he can spend most of his time chasing the women and taking them out to lunch, Shim feeling good about the raw material he will have from which to write the screenplay, Gale forgetting about Sody and conspiring to get George in the sack as soon as possible, Laleh wondering what she has started, never having been part of an entertainment production, Jinny wondering what tricks Gale was going to play in order to bed George, Jinny knowing it was his duty to prevent her draining every last drop of energy from the poor boy leaving him vapid, voiding, empty for his acting responsibilities, Monique taking a nail file out of her purse, not concerned about much, having seen Sody and George work together before, an old hand at this creativity business, wondering what it would be like with Jinny in bed, herself five foot eleven and himself five foot four and build like one of the blocks of marble from which Michelangelo had carved a bust of David, the dog in dog heaven perhaps never having experienced a back massage as wonderful as the one Monique had bestowed on him with that stupendously sexy foot of her out of the emerald pump, my god) Sody is still pacing and talking, "....and, oh, shit, yes, of course, what happens, what happens is that she wasn't as smart as she thought she was in stealing the money, and the religious rat guy puts his security force on it even though he stole the money from the People, and they find a clue about her, and they track her, track her across the Middle East and then across Europe, Germany maybe, and then they track her here, somehow, to wherever this place The Hall is supposed to be, since it's weird cause we're filming the whole movie in this building which we don't know, yet, where or what it is or how we're going to do that, but I can figure that out, that's my job, right, no problem, but she comes here to this weird place and meets George and they fall in love and spend her money...." he takes a deep breath.... "and then the bad guys show up here in the weird place, The Hall place, and they want her and the money, not to give back to the rat guy or the People, but they turn bad and want the money for themselves to live a life of luxury in the Caribbean, drinking dark rum and chasing native girls, and these are bad men, violent, assassins maybe, professional assassins, and they infiltrate themselves into the weird place somehow, and then they try snatch the woman and get her to give them the money, but of course Big George is smarter than them and he protects her and she's smart too and helps him and they are so cool together as a team and all this action happens here in this little building in Charleston and how am I going to do all those action scenes and then this strange idea that came from Woody Allen and his wonderful movie The Purple Rose of Cairo and now I have to figure out how to make a thing that is half movie and half play and the actors are going to be on the screen in film and then they'll come out of the screen onto this stage around which I am pacing and they will act here and follow Shim's dialogue and then they will jump back into the screen and the story will continue with people watching that, sitting out in the seats out there...." and he briefly looks up from the pine floor and out to the seats in the theater, waving at them, and then looks back at the floor and goes on, "....and we have to have music that is great and we have to get David Holmes to do the score and I have to keep Wegs under control and make her and George the hottest couple in the world like they were in Leatherheads, and then we have all this weird editing to do to the film to coordinate it with live acting on the stage and maybe Wegs and BG can't do that, oh my god, yes, they can, I hope, if there's a problem I will turn it over to Gwen who can do her magic thing on them and make them get it right she can do anything, and maybe if we work on this for ten years we'll get it right but I don't think Gwen will allow that...." and here Sody stops again and looks up, and turns around to face Gwen, and asks her how long they have to produce the show, and she tells him eight weeks, after that she and Roger are going to the wine festival in Burgundy, in France, and he says oh my god, and then he continues his rant, "....eight weeks, no way, eight weeks, ok, that's what I have, eight weeks, ok, I can do it, that's just another challenge, I have good people here, Monique can kick butt when she needs to, and no one's ever done this before but that doesn't mean I can't do it, I'm pretty good at this job, and...." and then Sody gets a strange vibration, a telepathic buzz enters his consciousness, he doesn't know what it is, but there's a voice in his head that says, 'Don't worry, you can do it, you're great, and I can help out when you need it,' and he looks around the stage for the source of the buzz, for the voice, looks around the circle of chairs at everyone, something tells him it's not coming from any of them, so where the hell is it coming from, and then he looks at Monique's long languorous leg, sans shoe, running up and down the back of the dog, with the dog looking very content, almost like he's in heaven, and the dog is looking right at him, looking him in the eyes, and there's an encouraging smile on the dog's face, and then Sody realizes the voice is coming from THE DOG, and he says what's going on here, but he gets it under control, and feels comforted by the voice even though this is a new experience, and he says to himself, go with the flow, and he starts talking again after nodding at the dog, thanking him for the encouragement and the offer of assistance, "....and there's not much time and no one's ever done this and it's a small building....but, but, I can do it. We can do it. We will do it. Ok? Everyone ok with this? We got the concept and we have the main story line, and we have the money and the actors and the place....we got everything we need, so let's do it." And he stopped pacing and looked up and went to his chair and sat down and closed his eyes, briefly opening one for two seconds to look at the dog whose own eyes were closed again in the blissful luxuriating sensation of Monique's massage.

No one said anything for quite some time. First they had to absorb this bizarre but fascinating behavior by Soderberg which really could best be described as a performance in itself, and then they had to absorb the import of his newly created storyline of the assassins identifying the woman as the thief of the rat's money and then tracking her halfway around the world. And then they had to imagine what would happen when they find her in The Hall, whatever sort of venue Sody would make that into, find her in love with Big George, and try to snatch her, first to get the money out of her, and second to kill her. And George to the rescue and him protecting her. All that was a lot to absorb, and each of the team members did it in their own private way.

As usual, it was Gale the Mouth that spoke up first, saying, "Gwenny, isn't that enough work for one day. He just figured it all out, nothing to it, we're on track, and the actress, such as she is, ain't even showed up yet. It's five o'clock in Paris. How 'bout we order in some champagne, celebrate our first day on the job?"

Roger held up his hand, said, "I second the motion."

Jinny said, "Third."

Monique said, "Can we do that McCrady's thing again? That was great food."

Laleh needed a drink after listening to Sody create the story line of the assassins.

Shim wondered if he was over his head in this. He'd never experienced a display of creativity like he'd just seen from Soderberg.

George was loose. Whatever. Champagne sounded good to him.

Which left the dog, who thought, 'This is one weird bunch of critters I'm hanging out with.'

# Chapter 57 - Gale and Renee

At 1:15am the morning after Sody figured out the main story line of the filmy play, the assassin's thing, George got a phone call from Renee Zellweger. He didn't answer it because he was out cold in his hotel room; out cold because he drank the best part of two bottles of champagne sitting on the stage at The Hall, having a great time with the crew, especially Jinny, who kept him in stitches for hours telling him stories about crime in Saint Petersburg. Monique finally answered the phone, not because she was sleeping with George or because she didn't get drunk with the rest of them, but because she got less drunk than George and because he always forwards his phone to hers when he senses he is losing control of his responsibilities.

Monique said, "How the hell are you, Wegs?"

"I'm not bad considering I just flew halfway around the world."

"Could have been worse. Could have flown coach halfway around the world."

"Right. I shouldn't complain. I'm waiting for these Customs guys to wake up and check me through. George said someone would pick me up."

"Yeah, that would be Gale. You met her on the phone call."

"I couldn't tell if she's a bitch or not. Gave me some shit about money, but that's not necessarily bitchiness."

"She's not, she's a riot. Just has a big mouth, but what she says usually is funny. She'll be up there right away. We look forward to seeing you tomorrow," said Monique.

"How's George? Still studly?"

"Oh, god, didn't you hear? No, we managed to keep it out of the news, and you've been off yaking it in the hills."

"Those aren't exactly hills. You've heard of the Himalayas? What haven't I heard about George?"

"Lost part of his nose. The left side nostril. Was skiing in Switzerland, drank too much schnapps and fell asleep in a snowdrift for two hours. Frostbite. It doesn't look too bad if you stay on his right side and maintain the profile. That's how Sody's gonna have to shoot him for this filmy play thing. Everything from the right side."

"Very funny. As long as his pecker didn't get frostbit, I can put a bag over his head. What is this filmy play thing? That's the second time I've heard that."

"Listen, we'll tell you tomorrow. We start work at 10am every day, and Gwen doesn't take no for an answer. Let me call Gale and roust her ass out of bed and get her up to the airport. See you tomorrow. Don't be late. Do not fuck around with Gwen. Bye."

Monique dialed Gale. "Hi Gale. How you doin?"

"Are you in bed with him?"

"Who, Gale?"

"You know who. Is it great? Really great? What's it like?"

"Gale, last I heard about three hours ago he was snoring like a platypus. Very slobbery sounding, and there were bubbles on his lips. He was sleeping on his stomach with his arms underneath him in a weird position, and his bare butt was up in the air. Not a pretty sight. Don't believe everything you read about him. I went in to check he wasn't drowning in his own vomit. He does like champagne. And he was funny, wasn't he?"

Gale said, "He sounds good to me. Can I come over and wake him up?"

"What you can do is get your ass in your car and go pick up Wegs. She's at the airport, waiting on Customs."

"No way. It's George or nothing."

"Cut the crap. Gwen gave you the job; get on it. We gotta get Wegs to bed so she can show up at ten tomorrow. I don't want her starting off on the wrong foot with Gwen. It's your responsibility to get her to The Hall on time. See you then," and she hung up.

Gale looked at her phone, said screw you, and got dressed. In ten minutes she was in her Ferrari and on her way to the airport. Gale didn't have to work, but that doesn't mean she's wealthy. People just seem to want to keep paying her way to things. She didn't buy the Ferrari, it was gift from a rich guy. He was tooling down King Street at twice the speed limit, and Gale stepped off the curb in front of him, wearing one of her normal eye-dropping short skirts and four inch silk pumps. He manages to swerve out of the way, barely, she's pissed and is holding an umbrella with a heavy wooden handle, she yells at him, "You cretinous moron."

This pisses him off and he gets out of the car, grabs the umbrella out of her hands, and snaps it over his knee. She grabs the half with the wooden knob out of his hands, smashes the right side headlight of the Ferrari, walks in front of the car, smashes the left side headlight, walks to the rear of the car and smashes both taillights. The guy watches this, takes it all in, her form and figure now registering in his brain, and he says, "You wanna go for a drink?"

His form and figure how register in Gale's brain, as does the fact that he's driving a $200,000 Ferrari, and she says, "If you promise to try and not run over me again."

He now walks to the passenger side of the car, opens the door, and Gale gets in, taking a little extra time swinging her legs off the pavement and into the car. She punctuates the move by accidentally deliberately losing one of her pumps, thus revealing a Cinderella like foot. He picks up the shoe and hands it to her, at which time she flashes a smile that would make Julia Roberts cry. End of story. Well, not exactly. They spend a long weekend together at the end of which he tells her he's taking his yacht over to St. Barths and does she want to go? She tells him she wishes she could but she has the orphans to take care of again starting tomorrow, and hey, look me up next time you're tooling down King Street at twice the speed limit. He says, "I'll do that," hands her the keys to the Ferrari and says the papers are in the glove box, it's yours, honey. It cost her $5,000 to get the headlights and taillights fixed, but obviously it was worth it.

And now she's on her way to pick up Wegs, having thought beforehand about the very small trunk space in the car because most of the car is taken up by the monster 180

MPH engine, thinking wouldn't it be too bad if all of Wegs's luggage wouldn't fit, and she has to send it to the hotel later, yeah, that would be too bad. Gale wasn't a bitch but she could be bitchy where men are concerned.

It's 2am but airport security never sleeps, so Gale has to sweet talk the cop into letting her park at the main entrance next to the sign that says in HUGE letters All Vehicles Impounded by Order of Transportation Security Administration. The cop is a car guy and Gale tells him she'll give him a ride in the Ferrari someday, plus maybe something else, if he'll let her leave it here for "two minutes", and all she's wearing is a pair of tight blue jeans and a silk Justified tee shirt falling below one shoulder (she loves that show), barefoot, he can't resist, hopes she's not a tricky Al Qaeda agent and there's really a monster 180 MPH engine in the car and not a sewing machine motor surrounded by plastic explosives. She waltzes in, knowing where the small Customs office is because this isn't the first private jet that's flown in from Europe on June Enterprises business, sees a woman slumped over a huge pile of Gucci luggage, the whole thing, including her, looking like it was dumped out of a Caterpillar front end loader, holding a bottle of Courvoisier cognac.

Gale walks over to the mess and thinks, 'This is the competition?' She says, "You Wegs?"

Zellweger looks up at Gale and thinks, 'Oh, shit, this is the competition?' She says, "Hi Gale. How 'bout a drink?"

Gale likes cognac, is a big fan of Sidecars and Stingers, and she's tempted, but says, "I've already gotten drunk once today, champagne, with George, and I've gotta get us home."

Wegs says, "Was that today today, or yesterday today? It's the next day here in Charleston, right? Can't you get drunk two days in a row?"

Gale is warming up to Wegs, thinking, this bitch may be all right. "C'mon, we gotta go or they'll tow my car. And we gotta be at work tomorrow at ten or Gwen'll throw a fit." Gale helps her off the pile of luggage and helps her load all twenty pieces onto a couple of big carts and gets everything rolling towards the exit, where she finds the cop asleep in her car. So much for airport security. She rousts him out, pats him on the cheek, and turns to look at Wegs, who's looking at the Ferrari.

"Shits not gonna fit, is it?"

Gale likes that Wegs likes cognac but is not exactly going to pave her way into the world of June Enterprises without a little hazing. She stands looking at Wegs, neutral expression on her face. Wegs sizes things up, turns to the cop who's still hanging around now watching two hot babes next to the hot car, and does HER thing on the poor guy. Then she turns to Gale and asks, "What hotel?" Three minutes later she picks up one small suitcase, throws it in the back of the car, and says, "Let's go."

At 2:45am the Ferrari pulls up to the hotel overhang and Gale kills the engine. Wegs says, "What time we gotta show up?"

"Ten."

"That means I gotta get up at nine, and do something with my body. That's six hours from now."

Gale was tempted to say, 'Honey, you gotta do a lot with your body if you're gonna compete for Big George with me,' but uncharacteristically she held her tongue.

Wegs stood looking at Gale sitting in the car, said, "Wanna come up?"

Gale looked at the body she just has dissed in her thoughts, looked at the bottle of Courvoisier Wegs still was holding onto, looked at her watch which now said 3am, thought about driving home and then driving back to hotel to pick up her charge in time to get to work on time so she didn't get her ass kicked by Gwen, looked back at Wegs, remembered her in Leatherheads, how very hot, and said, "Why not."

They got a key card to the suite from the desk, told the night clerk to park the car and to expect a delivery of luggage, sometime, by a cop, and walked to the elevator. The clerk could see the elevator from the registration desk, and as the elevator doors closed, he saw two hot women leaning shoulder to shoulder against the back wall, looking at each other.

# Chapter 58 – Renee Rocks The Hall

The next morning at 9am a Transportation Security Administration Tactical Force Omega SWAT team van pulled up to the Charleston Place Hotel front door. Two regular security officers got out of the front, one of them being the cop from on duty at the airport earlier that morning, and two SWAT guys in full battle gear got out the back. The hotel manager happened to be in lobby, and said, "Oh shit."

The regular cop came into the lobby, went to the desk, and asked the clerk for the room number of the two women who checked in around 3am. The manager came up to the cop and said, "That's private, I'm afraid. We can't give out that information unless there's an official problem?"

The cop looked at the manager, then motioned one of the SWAT guys over, who said, looking through the Darth Vader visor of his helmet, "It's official, ok, pardner?"

The manager nodded to the clerk who looked at the computer and gave them the suite number. The manager said, "Can I help with anything?" to which the cop replied by ignoring him. From their SWAT van the four guys proceeded to unload the other nineteen pieces of luggage Wegs had brought with her from the Himalayas, and got it into the double sized service elevator and up to her suite. The cop who had fallen asleep in her car at the airport knocked on the door, with the other three cops in the hallway behind him, visors still down on two of them, tending the luggage. He knocked and said, "It's Soso. I got your stuff."

Gale opened the door, smiled at Soso, said, "Hi Guys," and motioned them into the suite. She was dressed in the same tee shirt as the night before, down over one shoulder, nothing else, the shirt was on the long side, thank goodness. Or not. As the SWATS lugged the stuff into the living room she said, "Let me see if I can get the princess up and at 'em." She went into the bedroom, over to the bed in which Wegs was unconscious, and said, "C'mon, get up, it's 9:30, we got half an hour to get to The Hall, and the guys are here with your stuff. You gotta thank 'em." There was no movement, so Gale took hold of the sheet and ripped it off the bed, leaving Wegs naked and exposed. Gale said, "Get up you lazy bitch, or I bring the guys in here, let them roust your ass. And these are SWAT dudes."

The guys heard this from the living room, and wondered what was up, the fantasies flying around and through the helmets. A minute later both of the girls appeared in the living room, Wegs wrapped in the sheet, eyes half open. When she saw the four cops standing there next to her mound of luggage she got her eyes open all the way, a smile formed on her face, and she said, "Morning guys. Thanks. Thanks a lot." She turned to Gale and said, "Free tickets to one of the performances, ok? Can we do that here?"

Gale nodded and said to Soso, "Believe it or not, that's Renee Zellweger, the actress. On the screen she's a knockout, not like she is now, which is a wreck. She's in town with George Clooney, making a filmy play. When it's done, there will be some live performances, and we'll get you guys tickets. Ok?"

Soso asked, "What's a filmy play?"

"We don't know yet, sort of half movie and half play, on the stage. We're figuring it out. However it turns out, it'll be great. Sound good to you guys?"

They all nodded yes, and Soso gave Gale his email, and they took one last look at Wegs the Wreck and Gale the Almost Naked Bomb, and walked out, on to more conventional duties than delivering luggage to drunken starlets hotel suites.

Wegs dropped the sheet and headed for the shower, asking over her shoulder, "How'd that guy get the name Soso?"

"His nickname. Said the other SWATERS gave it to him cause he can't shoot straight. They say he's a soso SWAT dude, won't let him wear a helmet and carry four guns. That's why he's on midnight shift at the airport. Shit duty."

"Right. A soso SWAT dude. Right."

"Hurry up, you got five minutes in the shower and five minutes to get dressed, and you can fix your hair, such as it is, in the car."

"Listen, who made this Gwen person god around here? Since when are stars on time for anything? You telling me she tells Big George and Steven Soderberg what to do?"

Gale said, "You now have four minutes in the shower, and believe me, you need every one of them. You want to find out who made Gwen the boss around here, just show up late. The answer is yes, she tells George and Sody what to do, she has this stealth way of commanding things that makes people think they're in charge of themselves. Now hurry up; I know I'm not gonna to be late."

While Wegs was in the shower Gale called valet service and ordered her car, then opened most of the pieces of luggage and got out a change of clothes and a tooth brush. As she stepped out of the shower Gale handed her the toothbrush, took a towel and dried her off. Gale jammed her into a pair of jeans, no underwear, and a blouse, handed her a hairbrush, picked up a pair of sandals with heels, and dragged her out of the room. The Ferrari zoomed up Meeting Street, turned left onto John Street and into the alley next to The Hall. Wegs finished with the brush, slapped on some lipstick she found in Gale's purse, and followed Gale up the short flight of steps and through the stage door onto the rear of the stage. Gale looked across the stage at the other seven team members, eight counting the dog, and looked at her watch which read 10:02. Not bad. She took Wegs' hand and led her to the group, sitting in the upholstered chairs with wheels, and said, "This is Wegers. Wegs, that's Gwen and that's Roger and that's Little Jinny and that's Laleh and that's Shimmey. These other two you know. Welcome to Charleston and the June Enterprises' production of, of, whatever it is." Gale sat down, worn out from boozing and fooling around all night.

Renee Zellweger, on the other hand, looked like a million bucks. She'd just flown half way around the world, drunk half a bottle of cognac on the final leg from the Azores, acquired a new bedfellow, gotten two hours of sleep, not had any coffee or anything to eat, and she stood there in her slinky sandals with heels and plain white blouse and curvy jeans, ready for the camera. Absolutely ready to roll tape. Laleh heard a funny sound and looked away from Wegs to see drool dripping onto the pine floor boards from the mouths of the four guys. It was like someone had rung Pavlov's bell, and that someone was Wegs, whether it was intentional or not.

George was the first one to get his mouth closed, turning to Sody sitting next to him, raised a hand demanding a high five, and said, "I told you so."

Sody slapped the high five and nodded, saying quietly, "Thank god she's not fat."

Gale recovered enough to pour two cups of coffee from the sterling service on the low table, and took one to Wegs. She stood looking at Wegs and then said to the others, "All that climbing around those hills on and off that yak, kept her in shape. You should see her without the jeans."

Jinny finally got his mouth closed and and the drip faucet turned off, looked at his friend Gale and said, "Come again."

Gale said, "You heard me, fatboy. In your dreams," and slapped the back of his head as she sat down again next to him. Gale owned Jinny like a big sister.

Wegs sat down, at which point the dog left his spot next to Roger, crossed the circle, and lay down in front of her. Wegs automatically shook the sandal off her right foot and commenced running it up and down the dog's spine. The dog looked at Jinny and winked, sticking another barb into Jinny's psyche right on top of Gale's, "In your dreams." It's a good thing Jinny learned about deprivation at a young age, first on the Saint Petersburg docks and then in the Russian army.

Wegs knocked back the hot coffee, blinked, smiled at everyone, and said to Gwen, "Ready to roll, boss."

Then George was up and across the circle and the dog had to get out of the way, and there was a big hug, and then Sody did the same, and then Monique gave her a hug and a kiss on the lips, which Gale saw and didn't like, and then Roger got in the act, him not being a shrinking violet where beautiful women are concerned, and then Laleh, who wondered just what Wegs did look like without the jeans on, that was a new fantasy for her, and Shimmey got his ass out of the chair and got a hug from the new babe, all this babism becoming overwhelming for a person of his wimpy writerly constitution, and finally Jinny, who had to look up at her, as he did with most women, got his share of the pie, and was thankful for it. He always said a life lived vicariously is better than one not lived at all.

When all the schmoozing was done and Wegs was feeling at home, Sody stood up and picked a manila envelope from the coffee table. He said, "We're going to do this the way Miles Davis did the Kind of Blue album recording sessions. Every day Shim is going to write a new scene or two, and the next day we hand out the script, rehearse it once, and shoot. Some days we'll shoot film and some days we'll rehearse for live performance on the stage. I don't have it all figured out yet, especially how the transition from film to stage and back again will work, but that'll come soon enough. I got feelings about it, and that's a good sign. From feelings come thoughts and from thoughts come actions, so I think we'll be ok. We just have to work through the mechanics as a team, trial and error. Here's the first script Shim wrote yesterday. I read it early this morning while you two," looking at Gale and Wegs, "were doing god knows what." He handed a copy to everyone except the dog, who didn't mind, him being occupied by Wegs's fab back massage.

Wegs said, "We're starting work today? No warm up, no transition from soul searching in the vast mystique of the Himalayan foothills to Hollywood egomania? No sex romps between the stars, infighting among the crew, firings and rehiring of writers and cinematographers? And what's this about a play? Something about a filmy play? What is that? Live performances?" She looked at George. "You didn't say anything about live performances. Me? I'm a twenty take girl, everyone knows that. You know that, Sody. Me fucking up nineteen takes before I get it right. What kind of deal did you get me into?"

Before either George or Soderberg or Gwen could answer, the dog lifted his paw to signal Wegs to stop the massage which she had kept going subconsciously during her mini diatribe, stood up, did the dog circle thing and sat down, looking at her. He shielded his telepathy from the others and transmitted just to her. After a minute she nodded, then nodded again, then smiled, then said, "No shit," and then leaned with her head against the chair back, eyes closed. Everyone watched her while the dog went back and lay down in front of Roger. When she opened her eyes she said, "That's the wildest thing I've ever heard. Let's get going."

# Chapter 59 – The Boys Get to Work

Right around the time Gale dragged Renee into The Hall for the first time to meet the rest of the team and be reunited with Big George, The Colonel managed to get one eye open, but the other malfunctioned, so he tried his mouth. When he discovered that it too wouldn't perform according to tradition, his brain, which was slightly more operational, thought, 'The fucking infidels grabbed me, and I'm in a torture chamber, and they've superglued my mouth shut, and if they see I am awake, the waterboarding will start,' so he closed his eye and waited.

After a minute something bumped against his side, and he froze. He felt it again, and kept stone still. Then he heard a snoring sound and a gurgle and some wheezing inhalations of breath, and then felt another bump. His brain told him to stay still to avoid commencement of the waterboarding, but his curiosity got the better of him so he opened his one good eye and turned his head to the side. What he saw was so horrible his autonomic nervous system elicited a scream reflex from his diaphragm which rose through his throat with enough force to blow open his glued together mouth and flip open his other eye like a roller shade that gets loose from your fingers and retracts with a loud snap at the top of the window. "Ahhhhhyeeeee." Next to him, rubbing against him, was Lewy, and Lewy was naked. Instinctively he jerked away from Lewy on the torture platform (the bed) and came up against something on the other side. He turned his head in that direction, and ejected another "Ahhhhyeeeee", because there he saw Priss, and Priss was naked. Both of his boys were naked from stem to stern. In shock he closed his eyes and lay still, waiting for the first words from the infidel torturer, sure to be something like, "Well my little jihadist friend, so you're awake. I've been waiting for this. It's payback time. Elmer, bring over the hose."

But nothing happened, and The Colonel's brain started working again, and it produced another bad thought which caused his right arm to move away from Priss and onto his own hip, at which point his worst fear was realized; he too was naked. Yes, there was his limp little pecker, open to the air and the view of any and all present in the chamber, including his boys. He thought, 'This is really bad news.'

He resigned himself to his fate, kept his eyes closed, and waited for the worst, which happened immediately when Lewy regained consciousness and extended his arm to his right, with the palm of his hand landing square on The Colonel's balls. The Colonel said aloud, "Ok infidels, let's get this over with, kill me please right now and send me over to the land of my forty blessed and horny virgins."

Priss said, "What?" and sat up on one side.

Lewy said, "What?" and sat up on the other side.

Both of them opened their eyes, looked around, and simultaneously emitted a loud, "Ahhhhyeeeee," with Lewy's being louder because he found his hand where neither he nor The Colonel wanted it. Priss also saw it and thought, 'That cat's outta the bag.'

The screams transported all three of them back to reality, and they were surprised to not see guys in black shirts holding scalpels and long hoses connected to plumbing fixtures in the walls. What they did see were the walls of The Colonel's hotel room, their clothes on the floor around the king size bed, and a cluster of empty tequila bottles on the table by the window. In unison the three brains said, "Ya Ya Ya, Yippee, TEQUILA, baby. More, more."

And then it all came flooding back: Hablibi bringing the four hookers into the room; the hookers saying, "Yes, we're pure, absolutely;" them breaking out the bottles; then breaking out the coke; then the clothes coming off and the games beginning; Hablibi and one of the hookers leaving for some private time together, him being the diplomat and therefore more inhibited in his personal behavior than the three assassins. All of this started about 9pm and ended about 3am with the hookers packing up and leaving the scene of destruction, each a thousand dollars richer and thinking, 'These Arabs boys cannot hold their liquor, and ain't much for screwing, either.'

Lewy climbed off the bed to the left, Priss climbed off to the right, and Aliaabaadi climbed off the end, all three able to stand up, though not steadily, and then able to bend over and pick up their clothes, each keeping an eye on the other two during this maneuver. The Colonel said, "Meet me downstairs in one hour," and hobbled off to the bathroom.

An hour later the boys from Tehran met in the coffee shop and drank green tea, not wanting to test their stomachs quite yet with food or coffee. Priss said, "What the hell happened?"

Lewy said, "We ain't got no virgins like them, back home."

The Colonel said, "Sweet Jesus, that was fun," and then all three broke out in a giggling fit, slapping each other on the backs, high fiving it, thinking of how to make next time a little wilder. "That Hablibi ain't such a wuss after all. Wonder what he ended up doing? Couldn't be as good as what we got, could it?" And the other two agreed. Then The Colonel got serious and said, "Ok, playtime's over. Now we got work to do. You ready to get the bitch and the money?"

"Yes, boss," the soldiers said in unison.

"Let's head up to that place and see what's going on. You guys got your weapons?" They both nodded, with Priss carrying the straws and sewing needles and Lewy the wax coated garroting twine. Lewy had tried to assemble the potato launcher but couldn't figure out how to attach the small propane canister to the PVC tube.

Priss said, "Boss, can we stop for lunch on the way. I'm starting to feel better."

"No, no lunch. An empty stomach can do wonders for a person's disposition; make a mean man ever meaner; a killer more cold bloodied; a true blue assassin more in need of a victim. I want you guys ready in case we run into the Laleh woman. Might as well get on with the mission. Remember, if we want to conquer more infidel virgins like those last night, and leave our mark on this godless society, we gotta have some money, and lots of it. Right?"

"Right," they said, grinding enamel off their teeth and digging their finger nails into the palms of their hands, trying to draw blood. They'd learned these tricks in the course titled, Self-Motivation: How the Successful Assassin Prepares Himself for the Ultimate Moment When the Time for Vengeance Finally Arrives. The Colonel looked at Priss until he got the message and paid the check, and they headed up King Street, on the prowl for their quarry, their stomachs making loud noises.

They turned right onto John Street, crossed to the side away from The Hall, and sat down on their favorite bench to reconnoiter. Inside the theater Sody was walking George and Wegs through Scene One, which he had decided would be live on the stage, the opposite of Woody Allen who had started his characters on film. Woody had shocked the viewers by having the actor come out of the screen and onto the stage. Sody wanted to shock his viewers by having the actors disappear off the stage, climbing into the screen and continuing the action on film. HOW he was going to do that he hadn't quite figured out yet, but he wasn't worried, it would come to him. It always did.

Gale watched Sody direct, hoping to pick up some acting tips. Shim watched, seeing his screenplay realized on stage for the first time. Laleh and Gwen were in the back office working on the budget, getting ready to move a few million from Laleh's account in 'St.' something to the new June Enterprises account Gwen just had opened for the production. Roger and Jinny watched for a while but got bored, and looked at each other. Roger said, "How 'bout we take the dog for a walk?" Jinny nodded and they left by the stage door into the alley. At the street they turned right and headed towards the small park three blocks down.

When they appeared out of the alley the three assassins saw them and lowered their chins to their chests, pretending they were napping like old guys. As Roger and Jinny disappeared down the block, Lewy said, "There goes the guy with the gun; now's our chance. Let's just go in and snatch the bitch, be outta there before they know what hit 'em." The Colonel looked at him, and then at Priss, and then all three heard their stomachs growl again. The Colonel took that as a sign from Allah to wreck vengeance on the non-believers NOW, and nodded. They crossed the street and entered the double doors, stopping inside to let their eyes adjust to the darkness. They looked down the center aisle and saw people on the stage bathed in green and blue lights. Laleh wasn't one of them. Lewy, hunger and a hangover gnawing at him, took the waxed twine from his pocket, wrapped it around one of his hands, and marched down the aisle. Priss took a straw from his pocket and then the package of sewing needles, loading three of them into his mouth, an agent of the Red Scimitar, ready to strike like a cobra.

At the bottom of the aisle Lewy went left, Priss went right, and Aliaabaadi vaulted onto the stage in the center. All three shouted, "Allah Akbar, where's the Laleh bitch, we are the Red Scimitar, here for vengeance."

The director and the two actors stopped reading their lines and looked at the interlopers. Shimmey looked at Gale and said, "I didn't write them into the script."

Gale looked at Sody and said, "What are you doing? If you want to change the script, you gotta tell Shim first. You can't just stick something in there without telling us."

Sody said, "I didn't make any changes. I wouldn't do that to Shim. I don't know anything about these guys."

The Iranians approached the center of the stage, Lewy brandishing his twine string garroting weapon, Priss menacingly holding up a sewing needle, loading it into his straw, and putting the straw to his mouth. The Colonel again said, "Where is the Laleh woman. We have come for her; there is no escape from the wrath of Allah disturbed."

Gale giggled and said, "Hold on, I'll get her." She headed to the offices at the rear of the stage, entered one and said to Gwen and Laleh, bent over the desk, "Laleh, hon, there's some boys here to see you, and I think they're from your neck of the woods. They mentioned someone you might know, a dude named Al, something like that." She looked at Gwen, said, "They don't look friendly. One's got some string he's playing with, making like a noose or something; the other put something in a straw and is pretending it's a blowgun, like kids do with spitballs. But they don't look like kids; they look kinda mean. Maybe you could come out, see what they want. They're interrupting the rehearsal."

Gwen looked at Laleh and said, "You know anyone here named Al?" Laleh shook her head. Gwen got up and left the office, the other two behind her.

As they came onto the stage Lewy saw Laleh and yelled, "There she is, Boss. Gimme the execution command."

Priss yelled, "Thief. Upon thee will fall the blade of the Red Scimitar."

The Colonel looked at his boys, keeping a cooler head than them. Once again he wondered how they could forget that if they killed the traitor they wouldn't get the money. He said, "Hold on. Take that straw away from your mouth," and looked from Laleh to Gale to Gwen to the others on the stage, and back at Gwen, who he sensed was a VIP in this interaction. To her he said, "Who are you?"

Gwen said, "Who's asking?"

This took The Colonel by surprise, him not being used to females questioning members of the Guard Elite Assassination Corps. "I'm asking, Colonel Aliaabaadi, of the Guard Elite Assassination Corps. You will answer me, now."

Gale giggle again, knowing something interesting was going to happen.

Monique, who was sitting at the edge of the stage reading McCrady's wine list on her smartphone, looked at Sody and Shim and said, "You two should watch what's going to happen now. Might get some ideas for the storyline, and how to direct some action scenes."

Gwen processed the situation instantly and acted. She moved in front of Laleh, watching Priss because he had the only viable weapon in sight, the blow gun. She didn't think it was real but couldn't take a chance. She said to Priss, "Take that out of your mouth."

Priss heard the command in her voice, stronger than anything he'd ever heard from The Colonel, and didn't know what to. He wanted to do as she said, but also had thoughts about what Lewy would think of him. These conflicting influences confused him, and he did something stupid. Gwen was in front of Laleh, so he pointed the straw at Gale, who was close to him, and blew. ZIP, the thing actually worked and the sewing needle flew out the end.

"Ow," said Gale, and looked down at the needle sticking in her right boob. She looked at Priss and said, "You little shit."

With this stupid move, Gwen brushed aside the flap of her hip length jacket and pulled her Glock nine millimeter compact handgun. On the way up to firing position she racked the slide and assumed a shooters stance. In a second and a half the gun pointed at Priss's chest. This time she said, "Try that again and you'll find out whether your celestial virgins are real or not. You really want to take the chance that they're not?"

Priss dropped the straw and the package of needles and said, "How do you know about them? You're an infidel."

"Us female infidels are allowed to read books. Now," and she looked at Lewy and The Colonel, "All three of you are going to sit down," and she motioned with the gun to the chairs. "You ok, Gale?"

Gale pulled out the needle, dropped it on the floor, and pulled her sweater up and over her head, which caught everyone's attention. She dapped at a drop of blood on her boob and said, "Look at what the little shit did. Perfection marred. Shoot him, Gwenny." She looked at Priss and said, "You're lucky Jinny's not here. He doesn't have the self-control she does."

Wegs recovered her wits at seeing Gwen draw a gun, Sody and George still mesmerized, went over to Gale and put her hands on Gale's shoulders. "You ok?" Gale nodded, and Weg's dabbed off another drop of blood and leaned down and kissed the tiny wound.

Gale looked around at the others, smiled and said, "That makes it better. Again, please."

Monique wasn't sure which group of guys was more surprised by Wegs, the three boys from Tehran or the two boys from Hollywood. She decided it was a tossup. She walked over and put her arms around Gale and said, "Let's go in the back where we can take care of you some more. Let Gwen handle this out here." And the three women walked off the stage, Gale looking backwards at George, flirting.

Gwen again motioned to the intruders to move to the chairs, which they did. "Face the chairs and put both hands on the back. Lean over. Laleh, search them." She moved to the other side of the chairs where she could see their faces, and where she would have a clear line of fire away from Laleh. Laleh never had searched anyone before, but she did a passable job, taking the waxed twine away from Lewy and going through their pockets, running her hands down their legs, Gwen watching carefully. She said, "Turn around and sit down." When the boys were seated she said to George and Sody, "Come over here," and had them sit down facing the boys, and then she motioned to Laleh to sit, and then she did. When the four westerners were facing the three Middle Easterners, she said, "Let's all relax for a minute, and we'll figure out what's going on here."

At this point the doors at the rear of the theater opened and Roger, Jinny, and the dog started down the aisle. The dog said, "Heads up," which stopped the two guys in their tracks and caused them to look at the stage. Roger sensed tension and reached for his gun. Jinny already had his out and moved into the seats to the left. Roger moved into the seats to the right. They both watched Gwen as they made it to the side aisles and then towards the stage.

When they got to the bottom of the aisles Roger said, "Everything ok, hon?"

She nodded and said, "Come on up, we've got guests."

Roger and Jinny kept their guns out as they wheeled chairs from the wing to the line now facing the three intruders. Roger was slightly amused, Jinny seemed more serious. The dog looked around for Monique, hoping to resume the spinal massage therapy. Roger looked sideways at his wife, her holding her Glock in a relaxed but pointed way. He said, "Where are the girls?"

"They're ok, they're in the back. One of these idiots shot Gale in the boob with a needle."

Jinny looked away from the boys, at Gwen, then back at the boys. He stood up, pointed his gun in their general direction, and said, "Which one shot Gale?"

The three Iranians weren't the only ones to detect menace in Jinny's voice. George, Sody, and Shim tensed up, this being the first time anywhere any of them had come face to face with guns drawn in earnest, let alone on a theater stage. This was dramatic action of a type the actor and director only had played at.

Now Jinny walked around behind the three intruders and again said, "Which one shot Gale?"

Gwen knew Jinny very well, including how Jinny behaved under stress, and she sensed he was under control, so she let him have a little rein, thinking it might soften these boys up a little, and then she wouldn't have to do it. She nodded at Priss.

Jinny moved close to his chair, raised his gun, and touched the end of the barrel to the back of Priss's head. "You fucked with Gale, and she's my special friend. You got any last words?"

Roger knew Jinny wasn't going to kill the guy, but Shim and Sody and George did not, and at this point they were almost as nervous as Priss. Jinny can be a very intimidating presence to those who don't know him well. Just then the three women came out from the back, Gale having put her sweater back on, much to the chagrin of all the guys present. She said, "Go ahead, Jinn Jinn, blast away. That little fucker shot me in the boob, and it hurt." Monique and Laleh joined the group that was wondering if Jinny really was going to do it.

Gwen leveraged the uncertainty that was in all the minds except hers and Roger's and Jinny's and said, "Before you do that, Jinny, maybe we should ask these boys exactly what they're doing here." She looked at The Colonel. "What's this about the Red Scimitar and vengeance? And what do you want with Laleh?"

The Colonel was just as nervous as Priss. He thought Jinny was serious, and that after Priss's brains were dislodged from his skull, Lewy's and his would be next. He had no idea Americans were so bloodthirsty, despite the fate that had befallen those ole rascals Osama bin Laden and Sadaam Hussein. So he decided he had no reason to hold back, and said, "She stole money from the People of our country, and we were sent to get it back. We have failed but there will be others who come after us until vengeance has been exacted. That is the way of the Red Scimitar." And he bowed his head in resignation.

Gwen looked at Lewy, said, "You got anything to add?"

Half-heartedly he said, "Yes, we came to return the money to the People, from whom the witch stole it. We act only for them that have been wronged by her and you non-believers."

Gale was tempted to say, "I'm a believer, I believe I'll have another glass of champagne," but she recognized it was a weak joke and kept it inside her big mouth, which was a miracle.

Gwen looked over at Laleh and asked, "You know these goons? You know anything about the Red Scimitar?"

Laleh felt maybe it was time to come clean, tell her friends, yes, she was a thief, just like the goons had said, tell them she was from Iran and had left town in a hurry, just ahead of the goon squad, the Red Scimitar boys, but then she thought she should keep that disclosure for later, after Jinny had done whatever he was going to do. She said, "I don't know them personally, but they are from my country. I know about the Red Scimitar, everyone in Iran knows about it. They are The Ayatollah's personal guards and a very nasty bunch. When they came into The Hall the old guy said something about a Guard Elite Assassination Corps. I've never heard of that. Maybe it's the same as the Red Scimitar." The Colonel winced at being referred to as an old guy, but it came from the mouth of a woman so he didn't have to give it much weight. "Anyway, they're here after me, and I'm sorry I got you guys involved in this. I didn't think they'd be able to find me."

Monique, who was smart as well as beautiful, said, "Is this a political thing? Are they after you because you got in trouble at home politically, and they want to assassinate you for it?"

"Not exactly."

Jinny, who also was smart, though not in any way beautiful, said, grinning, "Are you a crook, like they said?" Jinny likes crooks, very sympathetic, unless they're in competition with him.

Laleh said, "Umm...."

Gwen cut in, saying, "We'll figure that out later. Right now we gotta get rid of these guys and get back to work."

Sody, speaking for the first time since the assault on The Hall began, said, "This is good stuff, Gwen. Very dramatic. Can you keep it going a little longer? If you give me a little more I can use it as the core for another movie, easy."

George said, "If you make that one, I want in."

Gale said, "Hey, I was the victim here, the one that took the hit. I want in the movie too, top billing."

No one said, 'Gale, you lost all of two drops of blood, and then you had one and maybe two women kiss the wound and make it better. Leave it off.'

Roger thought, 'This is one weird day, even for June Enterprises.'

Roger, Jinny, and the dog all thought, 'Wish I'd been here to see Gale with her sweater off.'

Gwen got back to work, facilitating the debate after which she would make the final decision. "We got three options. One, we let Jinny do his thing with the gun. Problem with that is we'd have to clean three brain and skull remains off the pine flooring, and I'm not sure we could all the blood stains out of it. Two, Jinny and Roger can take them out in the harbor and dump 'em off the rocks at Fort Sumter, let the tide take the bodies out to sea. Three, we let 'em go and tell 'em to get out of town and if we see 'em again, Jinny gets the go ahead. What do you think?"

Jinny and Gale said together, "Option one, Option one."

Roger said, "I agree about getting the blood stains out of the wood flooring. Too much trouble. I vote for Option two."

Gwen looked around at the remainder of the artistic team, all of whom looked back at her, blankly, thinking, 'Is she serious? She wants us to vote on what to do with these guys?' George now understood what Jinny meant when he had told him when he first arrived about previous trouble associated with June Enterprises productions. About Gwen not acting benevolently towards some people. Monique was the only one to answer. "Gale's wound is not serious. It was a very small needle, and both Laleh and I sucked on her boob in case there was any poison on it. So I don't think this rates killing them. I vote for Option three. We need to be bigger people than them, not assassinating someone for a minor offense."

This statement caused a variety of responses: Shim looked at his girlfriend Laleh and said, "You sucked on her boob?"; George looked at his personal assistance cum companion Monique and said, "You sucked on her boob?"; and all three of the assassins said, "Option three, Option three, listen to her, she's got it right," and then, "You call stealing a hundred million dollars from the leader of a major country a minor offense?"

Gwen stood up and holstered her gun, leaving Jinny standing behind the boys with his gun alternately knocking at the backs of each of their heads, keeping them awake during the final deliberation. She walked around the circle of chairs, head down, like Sody had done when he was thinking up the main story line of the filmy play thing, which everyone now was realizing was some kind of ironic premonition. After three circuits, she made up her mind, stood facing the boys and said, "We're going to let you go. The matter is simple: you show your faces anywhere around here, or around any of us, and you're dead. First we shoot you, then we take you out in the harbor and float your dead asses back to the Persian Gulf. Understand?" The Colonel managed to maintain a stern semblance of professional decorum, assassin style, but both Priss and Lewy smiled and nodded, breathing normally for the first time in a while, almost grinning.

Gwen said, "Ok, Jinny, take 'em out and kick their asses down the street. Then come back. And don't shoot 'em. Got it?"

# Chapter 60 - The Stage and the Screen

When Jinny got back he found the two actors, the director, and the writer still sitting on the stage, talking about what they'd just seen and how to make it into a movie. He dumped a pile of cloths on the floor and said, "Where're the others?"

George said, "They're in back, working on the budget."

Wegs said, "What's that?"

Jinny answered, "That's the idiot's clothes."

Wegs looked at the pile and saw three pairs of briefs. "You stripped 'em naked? Where?"

"In the park down the block. Gwen said don't shoot 'em, not, don't embarrass and humiliate 'em." He took three cards out of his pocket and threw them on the coffee table. "Room cards from the same place you're staying. Basic rooms are $800 a night. Our assassins have quite the expense account."

Sody pointed at the pad of paper on the table and said to Shim, "Get a note down about that scene, stripping the idiots naked in a public park. We gotta get that in the next movie."

George looked at Jinny and said, "Now what?"

"Now you do whatever Gwen says to do. I assume you go back to what you were doing with the directing and acting stuff."

"Just like that? Guys come in saying they're assassins, try to kidnap Laleh, and we go back to work?"

"I told you stuff happens around the Junes. Don't worry, we got you covered. Now we know who these bozos are, we keep an eye out for them. You got three bodyguards, which considering my skills, are two too many. But I guess we gotta cover you 24\7, so I can use the help. How long is this filmy play gonna take?"

Soderberg said, "I have no idea. I've never done this before. We know what we're going to do, the live stage vs the recorded on film thing, but I haven't yet figured out how to do it. That's what we were going to work on today before the interruption. Gwen said we have eight weeks, but that's impossible. I'd say we need three months to pull this off."

Jinny said, "I can help you with that," and went back to the office, where he asked Gwen, "How long do they actually have to do this thing? They're a little nervous after the visit by the morons. Maybe if you gave them a deadline it would help focus them."

Gwen said, "I told them eight weeks before. Did they say how long they thought it would take?"

"Three months. Said they know what to do but not how to do it."

Gwen looked at Gale and asked, "When's the wine festival in Burgundy?"

"I think it's two months from now. I'll check the website...yeah, this time, two months."

Gwen said, "I guess we do the same thing we did for the ballet and the rock opera, performances Thursday, Friday, and Saturday for three weeks; total of nine. That seemed to work for everyone. So...tell them they have five weeks to get it together, then three weeks of performance, and then we're out of here." Jinny didn't blink at the decision, just went back out on the stage and told them.

"Five weeks," screamed Sody. "Is she crazy? She think this is a high school play? Our reps are on the line here."

Wegs looked at George who looked at Shim who looked at Monique, filing her nails and waiting for Jinny to come sit next to her, tell her about the assassins in the park, standing around naked in the middle of the weekly Farmers Market. Monique got up, went to Sody, and led him down the stage steps, up the aisle, and up the stairs to the small balcony. The others watched her as she talked with him, motioning out towards the theater, telling him that is your canvas, you're better that Rembrandt, you have all the tools to make something unique and great, you can do it in five weeks, then three weeks of performances, and then you can go back to Manhattan and play with your pasta dough and tomatoes. And don't worry about the assassins. Did you see how Gwen pulled her gun on them? Sody said, yeah, that was cool, very nonchalant but very threatening at the same time. They didn't even think of challenging her.

They came back down to the stage fifteen minutes later, Sody saying, "We can do this in five weeks, no problem. But we gotta figure out how the actors go from stage to screen. How you guys do that. Any ideas?"

Shim said, "How 'bout we get the others out here? Do a team brainstorming thing?" Jinny went and got the other four from the office. Shim said to them, "Sody says we can do the production in five weeks," (everyone looked at Monique with an invisible thanks), "but we gotta figure out the screen and stage trick."

Gale said, "Cut holes in the screen so the actors can just go in and out. I can do that." Gale had the biggest heart in the group, and the biggest mouth, and the best ass, but not the biggest mind.

Roger said, "Have the actors disappear down into the stage through mechanical trap doors; then fade the stage lighting into the images on the screen."

Jinny said, "Naw, the opposite. Have the actors wear invisible wires, and when it comes time to switch, jerk 'em up into the overhead gantries, zip and they're gone; then their images fades onto the screen."

Wegs said, "I'm willing to ride a yak around the hills in Nepal, but I don't know about being jerked up into the ceiling twenty times a performance on a thin little wire. Might lose my lunch."

Laleh, who a few minutes earlier had transferred twenty million dollars from her account in 'St.' something to Gwen's account in Charleston, held up her hands in an offering gesture. "Maybe there's something to Gale's idea about having holes in the screen."

Gale said, "There is?"

"Yeah, how about we have two screens, one behind the other, with the front screen having slits cut into it. When it's time to switch from stage to screen, the film is projected onto the front screen, which is ok but not great with the slits. The audience can see the slits, but they are distracted with the first image that appears on the screen. The actors do go back through the slits, like Gale said, then we do some slick lighting effects that distract the audience a little, and the front screen is pulled up or to the side, maybe it's two screens and one goes to each side, and then the lighting effect goes away and the film image is on a regular screen behind the first." She looked around at the group. "When it's time to switch again, we reverse the process. The actors on the screen are positioned to come out of it, the lighting thing happens to distract the audience, the front screen comes back into place, the actors come onto the stage from the wings and stand between the two screens, the lighting thing goes away, and they come through the slits. Then another lighting distraction, and both screens go away."

Soderberg got up and did his walking around the circle looking at the floorboards thing again. Even Gale shut up, realizing this was a crucial point and was the director's decision. After three rounds he looked at Laleh and said, "Good idea. Great idea. Let's try it. We'll need a lighting expert, but I can get someone down here quickly. I shoulda thought of it. That's what I get for staying at home, playing with dough. Creative skills go to hell."

# Chapter 61 – Laleh Confesses

The rest of that day, and the next, consisted of setting up Laleh's ingenious system of dual screens. It was all hands to the pumps, including the prima donnas Wegs and Big George. They thought they'd be able to slip away for lunch with wine followed by afternoon delights, but Sody said hell no, he needed stage hands; and that's what they did. By the end of the second sixteen hour day, they had the two screens in place, the film projectors installed in the rear of the theater, and a lighting guy up in the gantries, crawling around like a monkey, who had flown the redeye from LA. After three hours of playing with the lighting, Sody took a box cutter and made four incisions in the front screen, each shaped differently and located at different heights from the stage floor, to create different effects. Wegs, George, and Gale took turns climbing through the slits from front to back, and back to front, mimicking different actions and behaviors and moods, at Sody's direction. At 10pm, finally he said, "Ok, that's good. I think we got it. I think this is going to work."

Everyone thought, "Thank god, let's go eat," which is what they did, heading down the street for a late night dinner at La Fourchette. They took up the entire small dining area, which was ok with the owner, being it was late and he knew the Junes were big tippers. Within minutes the table was covered with three decanters of burgundy and a dozen small plates of hors d'oeuvres. There was little conversation until the first glasses of wine and the food was gone. Everyone felt better, and Laleh decided it was a good time to confess. After the appearance of the goons, she owed it to them. "I need to tell you about those guys. I didn't mean to bring that onto you or into our project. I'm very sorry, and if you want to cancel out, I'll understand." Everyone just looked kindly at her and sipped the burgundy, which was excellent.

Roger said, "You don't owe us anything, and don't have to tell us anything. We all can make up our minds about participating in this, or not. As for the goons, well, Jinny, you scared of 'em?"

He said, "After I left with 'em the other day and took 'em down to the park, I put 'em in a three seat stroller, rolled 'em around for a while letting the ole ladies go 'kuchee kue' to 'em, tickle 'em under their chins. Made 'em giggle like lil babes."

Roger looked at his wife, said, "You 'fraid of them, hon?"

She played it straight against Jinny's joking, saying, "They'll be back, and we'll have to be aware of that all the time, on guard. But I'm not terribly afraid. When they show up, we'll deal with it."

Laleh said, "We've only been working together a few weeks, but I trust everyone here, and I feel like telling the story, so everyone knows what's behind this thing. You know I'm from Iran, and those guys are from Iran. I got sick of my life over there a few years ago, and decided to do something, and I did it. The Ayatollah is the symbol of everything I hate about my culture: anti-modernism, religious fanaticism, oppression, misogyny. Those guys were right: I did steal from him, from his personal account. And that's the money we're using here. I thought I'd covered my tracks completely, but I guess not. Sorry. Sorry. When I got to Charleston I just liked everyone, and the place, and the idea of the production; and I didn't think of possible trouble from them. Sorry. That's the story."

Now it was Monique's turn to say something. She looked around the table at her crew, which included Shim, George, and Sody, and said, "Are we afraid? Do we want to bail out? We can. We don't have to play here; don't have to do this show. We don't have to sit around worrying about those guys coming back. We can go back to Lake Como, play soccer with the school kids. Learn how to make good gnocchi, smiling at Sody. What do you think?" George looked at Sody who looked at the wuss writer who looked back at Monique, each in turn positively shrugging their shoulders in acquiescence. Monique picked up her wine glass and offered a toast, "Fuck the Ayatollah."

# Chapter 62 – Revenge

The Colonel, The Lieutenant, and The Private sat in The Colonel's room at the hotel and plotted revenge. In a matter of hours they had gone from all the fun and games with the tequila and the hookers, to being subjected to suffocating humiliation at the hands of the hated infidels. They were so humiliated they hadn't even told Hablibi what had happened. He had come to the hotel that evening to see if they were over their hangovers, and if they wanted a repeat of the night before. He did. Of course, he'd spent the day in his suite, getting recuperative massages from the spa staff. Three hours of hot and cold compresses on his throbbing head had done the trick, and he was ready to rubble again. They wouldn't even let him in the room, and told him to go screw himself, this time; the heck with the virgins.

Of course, Jinny hadn't really put them into a triplet's baby carriage and wheeled them around the park, showing them off to bystanders. But he had required them to divest themselves of their clothes, all their clothes, including their wallets and money and room cards and weapons, such as they were. Doing this required that he brandish his gun, which he couldn't comfortably do in the middle of the park out in the open, so he had herded them into a cluster of small magnolias in the center of the park which hid them from view. When they were down to their birthday suits, he picked up their valuables and clothes and said, "Have a nice day, gents. This is compliments of June Enterprises. I ever see you again, any of us ever see you again, I'll remove your skins, too." And walked away.

The boys sat there hidden by the trees, surrounded by infidels in a hellish country, wondering how to get back to the relative safety of their $800 a night hotel rooms. Priss, the psychological warfare strategist, suggested they wait for nightfall, which they did, thus sparing themselves the embarrassment of streaking across the park's open space and incurring the amusement of the College of Charleston coeds that use the place for sunbathing, i.e. acquiring their first doses of solar radiation poisoning. At 3am they negotiated six blocks of downtown alleyways and residential gardens, ending up in the ornamental shrubbery that surrounded the fountain that welcomed guests to the hotel with a frothing display of southern hospitality.

Lewy looked at Priss and said, "Now what?"

He replied, "Why's it always me has to figure stuff out? I don't know how to get into our rooms without our cards."

"Because you're the strategist and tactician. I'm the sword of the Red Scimitar. That's the division of labor on our team, right boss?"

The Colonel didn't answer, him not having an idea for getting into their rooms, either.

Priss said, "If we had the stealth clothing that Mossad has, it would be a cinch. Walk right in, go behind the reception counter, do up three cards, into the elevator."

"But we don't have the stealth clothing, do we, genius? What we got is no clothing, stealth or regular."

Just then the guy that doubled as the hotel night janitor and the room service deliveryman came outside for a smoke. He looked familiar to The Colonel in a foggy sort of way, who pointed to him and said, "Didn't we meet that guy last night, somehow?"

Priss looked and said, "Yeah, he was the guy that brought up the other bottles of tequila after we killed the first two."

"Did I stiff him or over tip him?" Both Priss and Lewy shrugged. They'd been occupied with other things. "Gotta take a chance that I tipped him good." The Colonel stepped out of the shrubbery and called to the guy, "Hey, you, remember me from last night? The tequila?"

The guy looked across the entryway area around the fountain, and after a minute, remembering the $100 tip he'd gotten, said, "Yeah, man, I got you. Room 1024, 2am, hookers and tequila. Sounded like fun. You out for more action tonight, huh? Lose at strip poker?"

The Colonel said, "I got $500 if you get me and my friends into our rooms."

And here they were, plotting revenge against Jinny, June Enterprises, the United States of America, and infidels everywhere. Priss the strategist took charge. "I figure we got one shot at this thing, one big operation that achieves all the goals: get the woman, get the money, and get revenge against these people. We can't pick away at them in a bunch of small ops. What we're going to need is cover, distractions, and smokescreens, all hiding one big assault." He paused and thought some more. "What do we know about them? We know they're all together as a group, working on some project in that theater place. So, so, so, I got it, we figure out what they're doing there, and it's probably a public event because that's what those places are for, and we wait until that happens, and go in with everyone else. And then, in the darkness, with all the action going on, we attack. Grab the woman, kill the rest of them, and escape in the confusion." He looked at his colleagues, who thought over the plan.

Lewy said, "I got one thing to add. After the op we come back here, force the woman to give us the money, I execute her with the cesium 235, providing Hablibi can find some laying around, and we order up the virgins and tequila again. Celebrate."

The Colonel thought about this addendum to the plan, and said, "Works for me."

# Chapter 63 – June Weirdness

Roger, Gwen, and the dog strolled along The Battery on a cloudy day, threatening rain, needing to get away from the maddening crowd for a couple of hours. After two miles Gwen asked, "Don't you think it was totally weird that Laleh did what she did back home, and then we met her, and she followed us here, and she proposed this thing with us, the production, but didn't tell us about her stealing The Aya's money, and we got George and Sody involved, and then Sody independently comes up with the storyline about assassins chasing someone? Isn't that weird? And at that time Laleh didn't know the goons had found it was her that did it, and had tracked her here and were on her trail? And now life is imitating a story which seems to have originated in real life. How did these things come together the way they did; sort themselves out, but with links to each other? Isn't that really weird?"

The dog looked up at Roger and said, "Not for this family."

# Chapter 64 - The Filmy Play Takes Shape

A few days later David Holmes showed up at The Hall and was introduced to the crew. Sody sat everyone in the chairs and Monique slipped a CD into the sound system player. She passed the CD case around the circle and everyone saw it was the soundtrack for Oceans Twelve. When they'd listened to the whole thing Sody looked around and said, "Any questions?"

Gwen looked at David and said, "You can do something that good for our show?"

He looked back and said, "Better."

So that part of the production was in the bag. Now she looked at Sody and asked, "Have you figured out how to do the entire production in here? We seem to have an action story going, with the assassins attempting the assassination, and George thwarting them, protecting his new squeeze and making it with her, all that stuff. Is this going to be all done on stage like a play, plus the in and out of the screen thing?"

"I don' think so," said Soderberg. "We have to do something more, expand the stage out into the theater. A lot of people are doing that kind of thing, sort of performance art, actors out in the seats, engaging the audience. But we have something special, the in and out of the screen thing, and we can use the rest of the theater for most of the action sequences. The theater's not made for that, but we can adapt it as much as possible. We'll have some stuff going on in the balcony, and in the aisles, and up in the overhead lighting gantries. Some people in the seats won't be able to see some stuff, but we tell them they can stand up, move around. It'll be a little chaotic, and some people won't like it, but, you know, we gotta try it. I'll make the action sequences as simple as possible, and we'll do a lot of stuff on the stage, and remember half or more of the production will be on film. Maybe we should do, like, 75% on film and 25% live. I don't know yet, and I don't feel like I have to figure all that out ahead of time. It will come as we write the screenplay and rehearse things."

Roger said, "What about the other actors? At the very least you need some assassins, right, even if this is some minimalist production, which it seems to be? Instead of your usual cast of hundreds, it'll be a cast of handfuls. Maybe two handfuls."

Sody said, "Minimalism. I like that. Very limited number of characters and actors, like in a play, but with lots of screen time, on film. That's all we can do with the time and sets we have."

"Seems like we do the romance stuff on stage and the action stuff on film," said Wegs. "We express the character and life of the Middle Eastern woman on stage, the talky stuff, and her falling in love with the American. The other stuff about the assassins on film."

Sody said, "Maybe. But I think the assassins have to be live too, in the theater, at least some of the time. All the characters have to be on film and on the stage."

Gale was sitting next to Wegs, and now she took hold of Wegs's hands, and said, "For the romance stuff on stage, the rehearsals, you feel like sharing him a little? If you get tired of it, maybe, I stand in, keep the show rolling?"

Wegs looked at George and said, "What about it, big guy?"

George said, "Not only will we have to rehearse those scenes a lot on stage, but I should think, given our compressed time frame here, less than five weeks now, we probably should rehearse the romance stuff on our own time, after we're done here. Like back at the hotel. I'm up for some sharing like that."

Gale and Wegs high-fived. Monique sniffed, looked disparagingly at her boss, and said, "You're not as young as you used to be. Save something for Sody and the show, ok?"

And that was it for the strategizing session. Two days later three guys showed up, also having flown the redeye from LA, good stunt type actors, two Italians and one Greek that could pass for the Middle Eastern assassins. A day later the remainder of the technical crew showed up, and the team was set. Laleh and Gwen began spending long days in the office, attending to the rest of the production details: PR, payroll, lodging and food logistics, insurance, publicity, ticketing, websites, and costumes.

Gwen told Jinny and Roger they were the security team. One of them was to cover Laleh and the other was to cover everyone else. She said if she was working twelve hour days, seven days a week, so were they. Shim sat up in the balcony with his laptop from morning till night, pecking away, writing and rewriting until Sody and the actors liked the script. Each morning he'd hand some pages to Sody, who'd read them with his morning coffee. When he understood and liked the content, he'd call the actors to the chairs on the stage, where they'd read through the narrative and dialogue together. George and Wegs never saw the script ahead of time, as they did in a normal production. They were winging it just like the musicians did each day in the studio during the Kind of Blue sessions, when Miles Davis handed them his sheets with the day's arrangements on them. When the actors understood the dialogue and the sequences of the scenes, they would do their best to memorize their lines, and then the action would start.

Sody managed the improvisation and ad hoc realizations of Shim's screenplay masterfully, alternately driving and cajoling the actors into their performances. After a few days of feeling their way through this method and process, everyone knew there would be precious little time for after hours recreation, which pissed Gale off royally. After a ten hour day at The Hall, George and Wegs would head back to the hotel, where they would work through parts of the script they hadn't gotten down on film, or felt weren't ready for live on stage performance.

Gale found herself without any playmates, and Wegs started asking herself how much she was earning for all this hard work, sometimes wishing she was back on her yak searching for her true self in the Himalayan foothills. George was happy to be working with Sody and Wegs again, but at times longed for his patio overlooking the beautiful Italian lake with nothing more stressful during the day ahead than choosing the best wine to go with the lunch his housekeeper would prepare for him and Monique. Roger spent most of his time close to Laleh while Jinny kept watch inside and outside The Hall. He started hanging out with the stunt actors, learning how to take falls that looked realistic without getting injured. When Gale realized her time in bed with George and Wegs was going to be very limited, at best, she also started hanging out with the Italians and the Greek, who weren't chopped liver.

After two weeks of experimentation, Sody had the team and the method down, and had the production process humming along. Shim got used to writing in screenplay form, and was cranking it out, day by day. It was hard work, but new and exciting. And opening night was three weeks away. The filmy play thing was taking shape.

# Chapter 65 - The Other Guys Are Working Too

Hablibi's suite cost $1,100 a night, and that's where the boys sat, planning their big op. There wasn't enough space in the $800 a night rooms for all the brainpower they were generating. Priss said, "The first thing we gotta do is find out what's going on in that place. They're preparing for some kind of public event, and we need to know what it is if we're going to crash it."

"No, for Allah's sake, the first thing we need is weapons; real weapons, this time, not fucking pea shooters," said Lewy, glaring at Hablibi. "We need something that can deal with that Russian guy that humiliated us, and with that chick that drew a gun on us."

The Colonel said, "The what? The what that drew a gun?"

"Chick. That's American for girl. Woman. Especially a good looking one, like her. She was something, wasn't she, way she held that on us, not really pointing it, but we all knew she woulda blown us away if we tried anything." The boys drifted away for a moment, visualizing Gwen pulling her Glock from her hip, racking the slide, and assuming the shooters stance in one easy motion, casual but effective. That was a big surprise.

Hablibi wondered if the boys were being contaminated by their contact with the infidel's culture, and maybe he was partly to blame for bringing in the hookers and the booze. He better watch that. It was ok for him to get involved in that recreational stuff, him being a diplomat and all; it was part of his job to engage in the foreigner's society, but it probably wasn't healthy for assassins to do that. Their job was to remain pure at heart so as to be able to inflict maximum mayhem on the enemies of state. He said, "You guys are still sleeping on the floor, right? Not on the beds? Staying tough and rugged, not getting soft in this land of blubbery capitalism? You still shave in the morning with your pocket knives?"

Lewy looked at Priss, winked, said, "Oh, yeah, still hard as nails, don't worry about us."

The Colonel said, "We need to do both. Find out what they're doing, and get some real weapons. The only way we can watch them and maybe get inside is to use disguises." He looked at Hablibi. "While we're working on those, you need to get us the weapons; the ones we told you about before: poison, guns, radioactive matter, stuff like that. No more spudzookas, ok?"

He nodded, feeling both guilty and resentful. What's wrong with a spudzooka? Could be very effective in the right hands and with the right level of training. He bet Lewy hadn't tried very hard to attach the propane cylinder to the PVC tube. How hard could that be? But he had to admit that an assassin without a gun was like a chef without an egg beater, and that's where his guilt came from. He'd better find one of these swap meet places where you could buy guns without anybody checking up on you. His guilt was limited, however, and he went on the offensive, saying, "What kind of disguises are you going to use? Charleston is not exactly the land of dark skinned swarthy men, like us. These people all had ancestors that came from up north, cold places like France and Belgium. All that snow made their skins that ugly pale white. Shit, most of these guys only shave every other day, not twice a day like us."

Priss said, "I think I can pass as one of these college students. Dress like them, walk around staring at my cellphone every minute, bumping into lamp posts, sending messages asking people if they know of any available virgins. I can carry my new weapons in my backpack, perfect. Students are around that place all the time."

The Colonel looked at Lewy. "What about you?"

"How 'bout I try being a pizza delivery person. We saw one of them go in that place a couple of times, carrying four or five flat boxes. That'll work cause pizza is Italian, and they're swarthy like us."

"Pizza's not Italian, it's Greek," said Priss.

"Italian."

"Greek."

"Italian. From Italy. That's where it was invented, same time as perspective."

The Colonel said, "What's perspective?"

Lewy said, "It's an art thing; makes the picture look three dimensional instead of flat, like it was before the Italians invented it around 1450."

Hablibi asked, "They teach you that in assassin's school? Where'd you learn that?"

"From my sister."

"Oh, yeah, she's not supposed to know stuff like that. Where'd she learn it?"

"Never you mind. She's a good girl. Thirty-two years old, still a virgin."

The other three guys thought, 'Yeah, right.'

The Colonel took command of the situation and said, "Ok, each of you have your orders. Get the weapons and get the disguises. We need to know when the infidel's public event is going to take place, so we have to be ready. Let's go."

# Chapter 66 - Laleh and Shim

When the entire team was in place with all roles assigned, and after the collision of the team and the assassins, Gwen had set the date of opening night - five weeks away. It then had taken Sody two weeks to work out his methods of alternating the filming and the stage play, at which point the process was humming. During those two weeks Shim had been working furiously, sitting up in the balcony, learning to produce rough copy of the screenplay. There was nothing polished about the Kind of Blue method Sody had implemented, and they winged it every day. Then, with two weeks to go until opening night, both Gwen and Roger realized everyone was toasted from working sixteen hours days without a break, and they had to give the team a day off. One, that was it.

When they got home at 9pm, Shim's mind mush from the pressure of creative output, he said, "What do you want to do tomorrow?"

Laleh thought for a minute and said, "Water. I want to be outside, all day. Can we get a boat and stay out on the water? Tomorrow night too? Then go back to The Hall early the next morning? I want to be away from rooms and computers and music and people. If you had a desert nearby, I'd want to go out there for the day; sleep out in the dunes; get away from it all. But here, out on the water would be great."

So Shim made that happen early the next morning. He chartered a small cruiser, telling the owner he wanted it anchored out in the harbor on the back side of Fort Sumter. They brought tote sacks of food and wine and a few other essentials down to the marina, and the owner motored the boat out to the place, trailing a dingy behind. He dropped the anchor, hopped in the dingy, and said he'd see them tomorrow at 8am.

It was just what they needed; time together and away from everything and everyone. They sat in captain's chairs on the flying bridge, put their feet up on the console, closed their eyes, let the breeze blow across their faces, and the decompression began. After a half hour, Laleh said, "What are you going to do when the show is over?"

Shim opened his eyes and looked at her, her almost black hair just touching the tops of her bare shoulders, her dark eyes looking at him with a relaxed intensity. God, what a face. What was he going to do? He hadn't thought about that over the last weeks, having little brainpower available for anything except the writing. He didn't want to think about it now; he didn't want to think about anything; he just wanted to relax. But his feelings came up with her question, and they told him a lot. He answered her simply and immediately. "I want to stay with you. I'm in love with you, and want to be with you when the show is done. I don't have a clue what I'll do, but I want it to be with you." And he smiled at her.

Hearing what he said, she closed her eyes and let her head lean against the high back of the canvas chair. She didn't want to think the thought that came to her, and she didn't want to say the words that came to her, but she had to. "What about the guys? They're going to do something. They have to. They were ordered here, and they're serious. I can't know about the future with them around. Our future. What we're going to do."

Shim found it interesting that he didn't share her worry. It was interesting because he knew he wasn't a tough guy. Being self-confident is not the same thing as being emotionally tough; engaging in and staring down conflict. Basically he was a wuss writer who lived vicariously through his characters and stories. He let his thoughts float, and it took him only a few seconds to know why he wasn't worried. He dropped his feet from the console to the deck, leaned forward and put a hand on her knee. He said, "I'm not going to tell you not to worry, because that would deny your emotions. What I can do is tell you why I'm not worried about those guys. It's because of the Junes. You've only known then for a few months. I've known them for a long time, and one of the most important things to them are their friends. Their friends love them, and they love their friends. We're their friends, and they'll take care of us. It's as simple as that. You got a taste of that when the idiots came into The Hall. Jesus, they had three guns on them in the blink of an eye, and if they'd done anything more stupid than shooting Gale with the needle, they'd be dead. Understand that. The Junes can do that sort of stuff. I can't, but they can. And Jinny's with them. He and Roger are watching you all the time." He stopped talking and took her hand. "When I told Roger we were going out here in a boat, he said Jinny would come with us. I told him, 'no way,' we want to be alone. I had to fight with him. He said, ok, one day." He kissed her hand. "I'm not telling you not to feel worried, but I am telling you I have faith in them to take care of the situation. They will, one way or another. And when the show is over, we'll figure out what we're going to do. I just know I want to be with you."

When Laleh had hovered her finger over the mouse button six months earlier in her apartment in Tehran, she knew that if she clicked it, her life would change. And she had done that, bathed in an impression that whatever happened would be an improvement in her life, and a sense that she could manage whatever it was that transpired. And here she was, in the United States, working with a great film director, some fun actors, the Junes and Shim, on a wild artistic project. The sense of confidence she had in her apartment as she debated whether to click or not had not taken into account the possibility of having three Guard Elite Assassination Corps soldiers on her ass, though, because she thought she would be able to cover her tracks completely.

Closing her eyes again and thinking of what Shim had said, feeling the gentle rocking of the boat, visualizing Gwen pulling her gun from under her jacket and assuming the shooters stance in front of assassins, all assuaged her feelings of worry. She let them slide down her back and into the waters of the harbor, replacing them with thoughts and feelings of Shimmey. Nestled within all the craziness surrounding her now was the knowledge that she was in love with him. Nice. She decided she thought him being a writer was a good thing, and was something she wanted to be part of. And she also knew she liked watching Sody do his thing as director. Day in and day out he made things out of nothing, and that was a new world for her.

It was 3pm when she said, "How many bottles of wine did we bring? Do you think they'll be able to tell if we show up at work tomorrow with hangovers?" Shim smiled at her, and she said, "If one of those idiots shoots me in the boob with a needle, will you kiss it and make it better?"

Shim nodded.

# Chapter 67 – Disguises and Weapons

Hablibi stood in front of the long folding table at the swap meet on which lay a small arsenal of handguns. Hanging down in front of the table was a large banner that read 'Go Ahead, Make My Day' and 'Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson Dare You'. Both of these aphorisms were lost on Hablibi, but the gentleman sitting behind the table was not. He weighed two hundred and eighty pounds, seventy percent of which was located in the immediate vicinity of his waist. His long gray beard was divided into two pigtails, one of which was braided into the shape of a swastika and the other braided into the shape of an AK47 assault rifle, both of which were done by a local fiber artist who was paid a hefty fee in coke. He said to Hablibi, "You ain't from Charleston, is you, pardner?"

"No. Greek. I'm from Greece. Visiting."

"You's a philos'pher?"

"Umm, no. I'm a, a, a bodyguard, for a shipping guy. He's here looking at your container shipping terminals. May send some ships here."

"Too bad. Always wanted to fuck with a Greek philos'pher, see if I could get him riled up. They's always claiming they's pacifists. Work differences out rational. I say's we gotta a better way here in the south – guy with the bigger gun gets his way."

Hablibi processed this and found it oddly familiar. He remembered one of his uncles telling him something similar when he was a kid, on a family outing in the desert outside Tehran, only his uncle was talking about knives rather than handguns. Hablibi said, "That's my problem. This guy last night got in my boss's face at a restaurant, and he had a bigger gun than I did. Made me look bad. I need something badass."

The guy didn't like furiners, but he sympathized with being on the short end of an armed confrontation. He said, "The bigger the piece of badass you want, the more it's gonna cost ya. You got the cash, I got the ass."

"How much for your biggest piece?"

The guy started to lean forward to pick up a gun on the table, but felt the tug of gravity on his gut and slumped back in his lawn chair. He pointed and said, "Right there. 50 caliber Desert fucking Eagle. That's the big dog on the block. Two grand."

"That include shots?"

"What?"

"The shots. The things it shoots"

"We talking bullets, pardner? That what you mean?"

"Yeah, bullets. In Greece we call 'em shots."

"Bullets is extra. Two bucks each, and I got a box of a hundred."

Hablibi looked around, wondering if there were security people watching, like they always are in Iran. He said, "What's it take to buy the Desert fucking Eagle big dog? That looks like what I need."

"Just cash for the ass, baby. That's all. Just a little private transaction between consenting adults. That's the law down here. Unless you's nuts. Are ya?"

Hablibi thought, 'With whom around here as the reference point?' but he just said, not today, my brother, not today."

"Then we's good to go."

"You happen to have two of them big dogs?"

The guy looked up at Hablibi and said, "You want two Desert fucking Eagles? One's not enough? That guy last night musta scared you good."

"My boss said, don't let it happen again, and when he says something, he means it. I gotta protect my job."

"I got two of 'em, but they're my last ones, so the price just went up to five grand. Plus the shots, er, bullets."

Half an hour later Hablibi lugged the thirty pounds of iron out to his car in the parking lot and put it in the trunk. As he left the guy said, "Watch the kick on those bad boys. First time I fired one it came back and knocked out one a my teeth." Hablibi thought, 'Maybe I'll pass that tip on to The Colonel and Lewy, and maybe I won't. See how much the assassins know about ordnance.'

As he drove back towards town he wondered if he really needed to google 'cesium 325' when he got back to the hotel, or if the two big dogs would satisfy his troops. He had an idea finding some of that hot stuff lying around might be tricky, and, besides, he had a date later with Mr. Cuervo and Ms. Smith, one of the hookers.

While he was accomplishing his objective, Lewy and Priss were working on theirs. Priss stopped in the College of Charleston bookstore and bought stuff to make himself look like a student. The cashier asked him, "What year's your son? Freshman?"

It took Priss a few seconds to understand the question and get over his surprise at someone thinking he would send his son, if he'd had one, to a school in this hellhole of democracy. If he did decide on something other than home schooling for his son, he'd send him to one of those jihad commando nursery schools over on a mountaintop in Pakistan, eat one meal a day of cactus stew. Bring him up right. He said, "Yeah, freshman, on exchange program."

"What country are you from?"

"We're from Ir....Ireland."

"Yeah, your family been there long?"

"We been drinking Guinness for centuries."

The cashier thought, right, and handed him his receipt.

While Priss was in the bookstore, Lewy was on his second large pepperoni pizza, sitting in Angelonis, a few blocks away from The Hall. He was casing the joint and learning the ropes, however superficial, of his new profession. If he was going to be a delivery boy, he had to know the product, right? They didn't have good pizza in Tehran; probably had something to do with the amount of sawdust they mixed in with the flour to make the crust. Just about the time he finished packing the last slice into what formerly was a lean and Spartan stomach, the delivery boy came from behind the counter carrying three boxes and headed out the door, with Lewy, the self-designated apprentice, right behind.

Two hours later Priss and Lewy were in The Colonel's room, demonstrating their newly developed skills and disguises. Priss's clothes were new and clean, but had some holes in them made in the factory. He wore his baseball hat backwards, just like Lewy, but his said, _Wanna Make It, Sugar_?, while Lewy's said, _Angelonis Plumbing_. And Lewy's clothes were old and smelly, him having traded with a homeless guy he saw hanging out near the shop dumpster. He had learned in assassins school that when adopting a disguise, don't cut corners just for the sake of personal comfort. Priss had a huge backpack he hoped to fill with guns, knives, canisters of sarin gas, small vials of radioactive dust, and an iPhone a College of Charleston female student had scammed him $1,400 for, telling him it would function as a police taser by holding the end against someone's neck and typing in 'ZAP NOW' in caps. The only prop Lewy had were two large pizza boxes he'd retrieved from the dumpster.

Sitting on the bed with a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand, The Colonel reviewed his troops. "AttenHUD," he yelled, and the two junior assassins snapped into ramrod position. "Status report, in full."

Priss said, "I'm portraying a College of Charleston student, Sir. Clothes all authentic, backpack soon to be filled with deadly weapons, and I've been practicing walking down the sidewalk constantly looking at and playing with this phone, without running into lamp posts or women with baby carriages. That took a while, and I had a few accidents, but I think I have the hang of it now. Sir. Oh, and Sir, this phone is really cool, the Guard Elite Assassination Corps should consider adding it to our official assassin's standard equipment issue package. It works as a taser, which isn't a deadly weapon, I grant you, but it can inflict a lot of pain on an enemy of the state, like the Laleh woman."

The Colonel said, "Have you tried it out yet?"

Priss looked at it in his hand, then said, "No, but I can now," and leaping behind Lewy, pressed it to the back of Lewy's neck.

Lewy screamed, "Are you crazy?" and twisted away, falling to the floor.

Priss looked at The Colonel and said, "Just joking."

The Colonel took a swig from the bottle and, like Hablibi, wondered again about cultural contamination. Back home members of the Guard Elite Assassination Corps didn't joke around. He looked at Lewy and said, "What do you have to offer?"

Lewy got up from the floor, looking daggers at Priss, and said, "I spent time in the pizza place, know what it's like to eat two large pepperoni pizzas by myself, and know how to do the delivery thing now. I can get into the theater place and look around."

"How's the pizza at Angelonis?

"Lots better than ours. I asked the guy if he used fine grain sawdust or course grain in the dough, and he looked at me like I was crazy. That may have something to do with it."

Just then there was a knock on the door, and Hablibi entered. He looked at the three assassins and the new guy, Jack Daniels, and said, "I got something I think you'll like." He dumped the two huge handguns and the box of bullets on the bed. The three Guard Elite guys looked at them, did the math, and said in unison, "Who doesn't get one?" Jack, being new to the team, didn't say anything.

Hablibi said, "Those were expensive, ten grand. I figure they're badass enough, only need two. I gotta watch the expense account." Already he had wired the surplus five grand back to his mother in Tehran for a new sixty inch flat screen.

The Colonel set Jack on the night table, picked up one of the guns, looked at it, and said to Hablibi, "You idiot. You know what you bought? Jew guns. Big, badass Jew guns. Desert fucking Eagles, for Allah's sake. How we gonna walk around with these? People'll talk: 'Can't the Iranians make their own guns? They have to use Israeli weapons?' This is embarrassing."

Hablibi, thinking he'd done so well, suddenly felt deflated. Jew guns. Shit. Why hadn't the idiot at the swap meet mentioned that. How was he to know about Jew guns? He reached over and grabbed Jack by the shoulder, looking for solace. He swigged, thought for a minute, and said, "Look, you're not walking around the assassins school back home, showing off your weapons to the cleaning ladies, trying to impress them. You can keep these hidden until the attack, and then no one will notice them in all the mayhem and bloodshed. Right?"

The Colonel had to agree, and privately he was thrilled, always having wanted to shoot one of the Jewboy's bigass guns, the most powerful handgun in the world, Clint Eastwood's assertion notwithstanding. He said, "Ok. We keep the Eagles for the attack. Me and Lewy carry them. Priss, you're the strategist and tactician. Your job is to plan the assault after we find out when they're going to do their show." He looked at Hablibi and asked, "What other weapons you get? Priss has to have something."

Hablibi took another swig and looked at the floor. "That's all I got so far."

Priss felt deflated, and thought the same thought he had before. 'What kind of assassin doesn't have even a single deadly weapon?' What was he going to put in his College of Charleston backpack? Books?

# Chapter 68 – The Home Stretch

Laleh and Shim were at work on time after their day off, but god, did they have hangovers. On top of the champagne aperitifs they had drunk a great French cabernet, and on top of that a bottle of aged port. It was lucky the captain had shown up a few minutes early to take the boat back to the marina, because it was him rousting them out of bed that got them to The Hall in time to avoid Gwen's managerial wrath.

Everyone was glad for the day off, and everyone wished they'd had more days off, but they realized they were in the home stretch of the production, and that excited them. They could taste opening night. The first direction Sody gave was to David Holmes: play the musical score. He rocked the house for an hour and fifteen minutes, and everyone loved it. The music was the same sort of eclectic mix he'd used for Oceans Twelve: a lot of synthesizer, a lot of orchestrations, a few simple ballads here and there, just one great song after another. He and Sody still had a lot of work to do mixing the action and the music, but all the raw material was in the can.

Jinny and Roger had felt uneasy letting Laleh out of their sight the day before, but they realized she and Shim needed not only time away, but time together. Alone. Now they were back on guard duty, Jinny hanging around Laleh, and Roger covering everyone else and The Hall in general. He and Jinny had spent part of their day off at the outdoor gun range up in the Francis Marion National Forest outside of town, operated by the Forest Service. Those had been Gwen's orders. They had taken Monique along and given her a lesson in gun use and safety, after which she did well firing a hundred rounds at the targets Roger set up. Jinny and she were an odd couple together, him a hundred ninety pounds of Russian constructed concrete molded into a five foot four inch frame; her a lissome French blonde who hung Stella McCartney haute couture rags on her five foot eleven inch frame which had been molded in both important regions by none other than God's little helper, himself. For some reason the others couldn't quite fathom, however much they loved him, she thought he was cute. He thought she was, acceptable. The good news for everyone was that Big George is not the jealous type.

Now, that might have something to do with George's newly rekindled interest in the yak girl, the woman with whom he'd set the screen on fire in Leatherheads. They had spent their entire day off avoiding Gale, who figured this was her last opportunity during the production to pin George's ears to the headboard and ravage him until his entire physiology screamed for mercy, after which it was her plan to start on Wegs, and then, if she could find her and the twenty-four hour period wasn't yet expended, Monique. There is a word that inadequately describes Gale's libidinous inclinations, and it is spelled prodigious.

First she bribed the hotel detective to let her into George's room, where he and Wegs found her waiting for them when they came back from breakfast. They threw her out, kicking and screaming. When she wouldn't leave, they ordered a car and headed out of the historic district towards Sullivan's Island, with Gale trailing in her Ferrari. They thought they'd be safe taking a walk on the public beach there, but Gale kept trying to drag George into the obscurity of the dunes. He was ready to call 911 when Wegs thought instead to call Gwen, who knew the only person who can handle Gale when she's like this is Little Jinny Blistov. Gwen called him, who just was finishing his first shave of the day at Pierre's Mens Salon, Monique sitting in a huge leather chair watching the lumbering procedure, sipping on a Bellini. Jinny and Monique hightailed it over to Sullivan's, found the trio on the beach, whereupon Jinny said, "Sorry girl, Gwen's orders," picked Gale up like a newspaper, tucked her under his arm, took her back to the June's house on Church Street, opened the front door, and threw her bodily into the vestibule, him wanting to get back to having fun with Monique during their day off. He wasn't sure just how long Monique was going to hang around Charleston after the production was over, considering her alternative of going back to a mansion on Lake Como in Italy and hanging out with Big George, in peace, quiet, and wealth.

Sody hadn't taken the day off at all, but spent it in The Hall, perfecting his method of transitioning between a live stage performance and a canned film performance. He had realized he wasn't made to spend his days in his New York City apartment, experimenting with different kinds of semolina and olive oil; he had realized this was his element, and now he was making serious hay. One thing he worked on was how the actors left the stage when the presentation shifted to film, and then reappeared when it shifted back to live acting. He had two methods: one was having the actors literally climb through slits in the outer screen, the one closest to the audience, this movement being obscured by trick lighting, and the other was the traditional use of mechanized traps doors in the stage floor. The Hall had three of these trap doors, and Sody and the three actor assassins, the two Italians and the Greek, who he paid to work on the day off, spent a couple of hours under the stage testing the trap doors and making sure they operated perfectly. After changing the hydraulic fluid in them and oiling the moving parts, the lifting mechanisms worked not only smoothly, but also noiselessly.

Two of the actors spent another hour jumping back and forth through the screen slits while the third guys worked the lights, to Sody's direction, sitting out in the theater seats. With just the right levels, angles, and colors of light, Sody got it so both the actors and the front screen disappeared on stage, and then the actors would simultaneously appear in the film projection on the back screen.

Now everyone was back on duty, Gale being the only unsatisfied member of the troupe. Jinny attempted to assuage her pain by telling her they'd be friends again when Monique and George went back to the old country, but it didn't work very well. When Gale is horny, nothing short of a legion of Roman soldiers is going to do the trick. Gwen figured out what to do, as usual, which was to tell Sody he needed an assistant director, now that they were in the home stretch of the production, and that person was Gale. He looked at her like she was crazy, but then got the unmistakable message this was not a request, and put her to work with the assassin actors working out an action scene in the balcony during which the assassins make their first appearance and announce their mission: to exact justice in the name of Allah and his number one on earth, The Ayatollah, against the traitorous Laleh and her infidel collaborators. The two Italian stud action actors and the not-exactly chopped liver Greek guy, all thought Gale was a riot, them having to beat her off with sticks in order to accomplish the tasks Sody gave them.

At the end of that first day back, Sody called a meeting on stage to go over the status of the production. Gale appeared calm after Jinny mixed her a double Sidecar to sip on. Sody said, "Ok, here's where we stand. Let me know if you disagree or see things differently. First, we're using the Kind of Blue process to transfer the information from Shimmey's script to the actors, and it's working. That's a tribute both to Shim and to the actors, who've found a way to communicate content through an informal and fluid process. Not everyone can do that. George and Wegs help Shim get the dialogue right, and he's doing a great job of realizing my visions and getting them down on paper in rough form. Second, the story is such a natural that it's writing itself. The combination of theft of money from a powerful person, and the protection of a new love interest in the face of retribution, is simple and dynamic. Wegs is just killing the character of Laleh, at once smart, fearless, and adventurous, while at the same time engaging with a strange man she's falling in love with, and whom she recognizes as someone she needs help from. Bravo, Wegs. Lastly, we have the filmy play, which is a lot of fun to mess with. Yesterday we worked through all the kinks of transitioning between film and play, and that process works.

"So, now we have twelve days until opening night, and things look good. We just have to crank out the script, rehearse, fine tune, and we're there." He paused and looked at Gwen and then Laleh. "How are things from your perspective, Madame Impresario? And yours, Madame Story Creator and Financier?"

Gwen looked at Laleh, and Laleh looked back. Then Gwen looked at Roger and Laleh looked at Shim. The two boyfriends looked at each other, then at everyone else on the stage, and back at their girls, nodding. The girls looked back at Sody and said, "Rock on."

# Chapter 69 – Final Preparations

Five days after creating their respective disguises of College of Charleston student and pizza delivery man, Priss and Lewy stood in front of Hablibi and their boss in the $1,100 a night suite. The Colonel and the diplomat couldn't believe their eyes. The two assassins had grown five inch long beards in the five days simply by not shaving twice a day with their pocketknives, as they had done since arriving in this Islamic-god forsaken country. America has great hookers and fine tequila, but when it comes to the Big Akbar, it sucks. With the addition of ten pounds of facial hair, their disguises were complete. Both were confident they could sit down to dinner with Jinny, the guy who'd stripped them naked in the public park, and he'd never recognize them.

The Colonel said to Priss, "I dig the _Wanna Make It, Sugar?_ hat, and the clothes look right, and the beard completely hides your face, but I'm not sure you look exactly like a College of Charleston student. They're all so white and fluffy and clean and, and, American." With the last word he spit on the two inch thick synthetic hotel room carpeting made in Omaha. "You don't fit that description."

Priss was ready for this critique, and said, "Boss, I'm the diversity element. All these schools are striving for cultural diversity no matter how discriminatory the policy is they create to achieve that goal. If they want a hirsute individual of slightly advanced years, I'm it. I'm the one that contributes life experiences to the campus environment. And, I'm a grad student, a guy who's been in the real world for a while, slugging it out with the competition, now going back to get a degree that will advance me to the management level."

The Colonel wasn't sure about this stuff, and looked at the diplomat for guidance. Hablibi said, "That's sounds fine, Priss, except that your life experiences consist of guerilla training camps in the Iranian desert and the mountaintops of Pakistan, learning to kill just by looking at someone. I'm not sure that's exactly what the college here is looking for in terms of cultural diversity." He thought for a minute and added, "And I'm not sure how many of the clean, white, and fluffy coeds are going to want to snuggle up against that beard of yours with the intent of joining the rest of the female population of this shithole in losing that which we, Allah be Praised, value most highly, the sacred state of holy virginity."

The Colonel jumped in to defend his soldier, saying, "He's not here to snuggle up to American tramps. He's here to inflict justice on them, and especially on the one big tramp, the Laleh bitch."

He turned his gaze to Lewy and said, "You look good, either as a pizza guy or a plumber. That's smart, doubling up on your disguise potentialities." He looked at Hablibi for confirmation, and got a fist pump, so he said, "Go forth, both of you. Find out what's going on in that theater place, and when their event will happen."

The soldiers about-faced and left the suite, at which point The Colonel asked the diplomat, "What time the girls coming?"

Priss and Lewy looked at each other in the elevator down to the lobby, and could tell they were of one mind: let's do it, now. Let's get inside the theater and reconnoiter the battlefield. As the doors opened, they bumped fists and headed up King Street to Angelonis, where they ordered five large meat-lovers pizzas. While they waited for their props, Lewy asked, "You got your taser?" Priss took the iPhone out of his College of Charleston backpack and held it up. "You figured out how to make the taser thing work?"

Priss said, "Not yet, but we don't need it today. I'll have it figured out by the time we do the final assault." Then he asked, "You got the Desert fucking Eagle?"

Lewy reached into his backpack and pulled the huge gun out just as the counter clerk brought the stack of boxes to their table. He looked at the gun, thought for a few seconds, and said, "These are on the house. Enjoy," and walked back behind the counter.

Lewy said, "I hope things are that easy during the assault."

With that, they walked around the corner to John Street, checked that their hats were positioned slightly crooked on their heads and their beards were fluffed out, and looked at the doors of The Hall. Both of them were tempted to turn around, head down the alley and pig out on the pizzas, but they steeled their resolve and entered the rear of the theater. The David Holmes music was blasting, Jinny was with Laleh and Gwen in the back offices, Shim was in the balcony rewriting the scene in which George and Wegs go to bed for the first time, Sody was with the actors and the stunt guys on stage going over a rescue sequence, Monique was trying to persuade Roger to start drinking wine from the Languedoc (he was a snob and only drank Bordeaux), and Gale sat in the middle of the theater, relentlessly thinking she should have had the starring role opposite Clooney, not that nothing of a little girl, Renee Zellweger.

The assassins walked down the center aisle, taking this all in, winging it and hoping for the best. When they reached the seats near Gale, Priss, in his best fake southern accent, said, "How y'alls doing today? We come with the pizzas y'all ordered."

Gale looked at them, processed and said, "Y'all ain't from 'round here, are y'all?" This made the boys nervous, Lewy ready to pull the 50 caliber Desert fucking Eagle and start blasting, but they called on their Assassination Corps training, and maintained control. The smell of the four meat-lovers pizzas distracted Gale from the delivery guys, and she reached into her purse for her wallet. She pulled a hundred dollar bill and handed it to Priss, who, being the intellectual assassin, felt inspired.

He said, "Ma'am, we are here at the college in the theater department, him learning acting and me learning directing, on an exchange program from Greece, and we've never been in a theater like this during a rehearsal, and we're done delivering pizzas for the day, and, can we stay here quiet and watch?"

Gale didn't think either of them would get very far in Hollywood with those Adirondack style loggers beards, that not being the current style among the La La beautiful people, but she said, "Sure, have a seat." She didn't want to hang around them, particularly, her being a beautiful person of the highest order, and carried the stack of boxes up to the stage, where she set three of them on a table and took the last one back to the office. Priss and Lewy breathed a sigh of relief, not having to wield the phone taser or the gun in anger, and settled into the darkness to watch. Which they did, for the next three hours.

At the end of the three hours they snuck out of the theater in the darkness and headed straight for Angelonis, where they ordered a pitcher of beer. Beer wasn't in the same class as tequila, they had discovered that right away, but they needed something to decompress with while they talked, and besides, they had gotten into the habit of saving the tequila as an adjunct to their romps with the hookers. They both knocked back a glass, poured another one, and looked across the table at each other. They couldn't believe what they had seen and heard in The Hall. Priss said, "My mind is blown. How can that be? How can that have happened to us?"

Lewy said, "I don't know, but I do know that Allah himself is watching over us and making this incredible thing happen in the way it is. It is his wish that we redeem the honor of his way and our culture from the attack upon it unleashed by the Laleh bitch. It is he who has stuck this arrow in our quiver and provided us with the means to wreck destruction on the infidels. There is no other explanation."

Priss nodded and drank more beer. To think that here, in Charleston, art was imitating life. The reality was that a traitor had stolen money from The Ayatollah, and fled to the land of iniquity. The righteous had tracked her to her den and were poised to exact vengeance of the highest order. And now, they discover the traitor engaged in a filmy play with that very story as the plot. They had watched and listened to Sody work with the actors and walk through scene after scene in which assassins attacked the thief in her lair. They had watched the two Italians and the Greek, in full assassin costume, enter the The Hall and engage the traitor and her protector in battle. They had seen how the filmy play was done partly on stage, partly out in the theater, and partly on film projected on the screen. The entire thing was wild, and they'd never anything like it. But the direction by Sody was so well done that they understood and followed the story perfectly.

They finished the pitcher and ordered another one in celebration. They high tened across the table, knowing now how they would enter into the final conflict.

# Chapter 70 – The Final Conflict

Gale greeted the 800 people who crowded into The Hall on opening night. She was decked out in a gold silk dress with burgundy trim and burgundy pumps, and decorated with a yellow gold diamond necklace and earrings. Most of the male members of the crowd would have paid the price of their ticket just to see her. She handed each guest a small card that informed them that parts of the performance would take place out in the theater, and they were welcome to stand up or get out of their seats if they needed to. Sody knew this would inconvenience a few people, but he said it had to be done.

Jinny and Roger were dressed in tuxes, and hadn't wanted to carry their guns, but Gwen had insisted. Her intuition told her not to let down their guard even though nothing had happened over the final twelve days of rehearsals. Jinny complained it made him look fat in his tux, but that reason cut no ice with her. Roger said, "You really think the idiots are going to try something on opening night?"

"I don't like it that they haven't tried something before now. They're not the brightest assassins I've ever known, but that doesn't mean they're not committed to their orders. They seemed committed to me."

Jinny looked at Gwen and asked, "You've known assassins before this?" Gwen never ceased to amaze him.

"That was a figure of speech. But I've known bad guys before, and they qualify."

So Roger and Jinny came to the performance heeled, and assumed their security duties, with Jinny hanging around Laleh and Roger cruising the theater at large. Shim was so nervous he was sick, despite the ministrations of Laleh, Monique, and Gwen. David Holmes sat at the soundboard next to the lighting director, and got ready to blast throughout the theater the greatest soundtrack in the history of filmy plays. Big George, Wegs, and the supporting actors were excited and relaxed at the same time, knowing the performance was tightly choreographed by Sody, yet had a Kind of Blue improvisation and fluidity component built into it. He had given them leeway to go with the flow if they needed to.

The theater was small enough that everyone saw the large movie screen at the back of the stage, and wondered about it. Was this a play or a film? Gwen's PR materials deliberately had been vague about this, adding more mystery to the bigger mystery of why Steven Soderberg and George Clooney were presenting a new work in Charleston. The PR simply had stated that Clooney and Zellweger would participate in each of the nine performances, in person, and tickets had gone for $1,000 a pop.

Colonel Aliaabaadi, Lewy The Lieutenant, and Priss The Private had spent their last twelve days rehearsing for their performance. Just like actors and directors and producers hope for a big payoff from their investments of time and effort (writers know better than to expect much in the way of material rewards, them being both nobler and wussier than others involved in the biz), the assassins also hoped to be rewarded for their performance. These rewards would be of two types: the spiritual satisfaction of laying upon Laleh's head the wrath of Allah as delegated to and implemented by the chosen soldiers of The Red Scimitar, and the material satisfaction that would accrue from squeezing out of her during her last breath the account number and routing number of the bank that held whatever remained of The Ayatollah's Money, which they hoped was a lot.

It was during their twelve days of rehearsal that Priss, the assassin strategist and tactician, had come up with the way to execute their mission. In his $800 a night hotel room, sitting on the two inch thick synthetic carpeting rather in the large upholstered armchair so as to maintain his physical toughness, he had rented The Godfather. Fascinated, he watched the scene where Al Pacino goes into the men's restroom of the Italian restaurant, gets the gun hidden behind the toilet, comes out and kills the police captain. As soon as he saw that, he whooped it up and ran down the hall to The Colonel's room. He knocked and said, "Boss, I got a great idea, let me in."

"Not now. I'm busy. Tomorrow morning in the coffee shop, 10am."

"Boss, I solved the problem, how we're gonna do it. Let me in, I gotta tell you now."

Two minutes later the door opens, Priss goes in, says to Ms. Smith, "How ya doing? Sorry to interrupt, but this is business."

The Colonel said, "This better be good."

"It is, Boss. All the PR stuff on the website says opening night is black tie, right. But we want to make a statement about who we are and why we're kidnapping the woman, right? And we can't do that if we're wearing tuxes, right? We gotta look like badass Islamic terrorists, with turbans, smelling like camels. So, we get into the theater the day before the performance, right, and we hide our assassin's clothes and stuff in the cloak room. Then we arrive at the show in our tuxes, get in, go to our seats. When the time comes, we get up like we have to take a leak, get our stuff, change into it, and attack. It'll work just like it worked for Michael Corleone. Bam, Bam, right in the head." Priss looked over at Ms. Smith, then back at The Colonel, smiling.

The Colonel got up and started pacing the carpeting made with loving care by the crafts persons in Omaha, just like their counterparts used to do on the steppes of Persia. Ms. Smith said to him, "Just because you're doing business here doesn't mean you're off the clock. I'm doing business here, too, remember, and my time is just as valuable as yours."

The Colonel doubted the validity of her statement, but he didn't make anything of it, saying, "No problem, honey, you'll get paid. Relax, have another of shot of tequila," which she did. Finally he looked at Priss and said, "Ok. I think it'll work. Let's practice it tomorrow."

They practiced it, including the bit where after donning their turbaned assassin's garb in the theater restrooms, they sprinkled themselves with extract of camel urine to make their performance personas authentic and instill terror into the hearts of the audience members. They thought it would work, though they decided only to practice it once because it took four showers each to get the camel stink off. In any case, that was their plan to get into the theater, and then to take over the performance. Change clothes, create a diversion in the balcony, assault the stage, grab Laleh from the wings, make a political statement to the audience, and then get the hell out of there, taking Laleh with them. Get back to hotel, extract the account and routing numbers, and execute her using the cesium 325, which they continued to rag on Hablibi to get for them, the lazy little diplomatic shrimp.

And now here they were, sitting in their tuxes on opening night, sweating a little, listening to Sody make his introductory speech. When the lights dimmed, Sody came out on stage, wearing his goofy black glasses, and followed by the actors. He said, "Good evening, and welcome to Charleston. We hope you enjoy the show. Our format is unusual, so we're going to start things a little differently from what you may have experienced before. I'm going to brief you on the story, and then introduce you to the actors. As the card you received when you entered the theater says, some of the action is going to take place out in the theater, so feel free to move around if you want to.

"This is the story of a young woman from a Middle Eastern country who wants a better life. She wants to make a big change and to make a simple statement to a powerful politician whose cultural policies she disagrees with. She takes something valuable from him, leaves the country, and starts a new life here in Charleston. She thinks she's safe, but soon learns that men are after her who wish her harm. But, she has new friends here, and a new man in her life who protects her." He paused. "That's all I'm going to tell you about the story, and now I'm going to introduce you to the stars of the show, George Clooney and Renee Zellweger."

George and Renee step forward and George says into a microphone, "HELLO Charleston. Are you ready?"

The audience yells back, "YES."

Renee says, "Then let's get this show on the road," which David Holmes does, in spades, by launching the soundtrack. And with that, Sody's show begins, with George and Renee starting on stage. When the first transition happens and they disappear from the stage and reappear on the screen, the audience is wowed. The story carries through its plotlines from the theft of the money to Renee and George meeting in London to him bringing her to Charleston, where they fall in love. Then comes the arrival of the assassins, a first attempt on her life which George foils, and then another attempt. The action jumps back and forth between the stage and the screen, and then explodes out into the theater, with action sequences in the aisles and the balcony. Sody's choreographed mayhem captures everyone present, including the three Iranian assassins, who still can't believe this art is imitating their real lives. Finally, during an interlude on stage with George telling Laleh their lives won't be like this forever, The Colonel gets a grip on reality, and signals his troops that the time has come; the time of truth.

They get up and go to the cloak room at the rear of the theater, where they open the air conditioning duct panel and remove their hidden tote bags. Off come the infidelish tuxedos, and on go the noble attire of turbans, robes, and camel scent. Allah, does that stuff stink. The Colonel pulls out one of the Desert fucking Eagles, and Lewy pulls out the other. They look at each other, and The Colonel issues his final words of command leadership: "If anything happens, remember, FORTYVIRGINSFOREVER." They exit the cloak room, with The Colonel taking the center aisle and the others taking the sides. The love scene on stage is over and the action has transitioned back to the screen. The attackers run down the aisles, beards flowing behind them, guns raised, camel stink invading the seats. Priss and Lewy run up the steps at each side while The Colonel vaults onto center stage, like he did before, all three screaming Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar.

Gwen, Roger, and Jinny are standing in the wings at stage left, while Laleh, Sody, Shim, Gale, and Monique are standing in the wings on the other side. With the appearance on stage of the three musketeers from Iran, Sody looks at Monique and says, "What the hell?"

Priss, who doesn't have a gun and so is not trying to impress and intimidate the members of the audience, looks to stage right and sees Laleh standing next to the woman who gave him the hundred dollar bill for the pizzas he'd delivered. He yells to his boss, "There she is." The Colonel looks, see her, and both he and Lewy run to the side, point their big dog guns at her, and drag her back onto the stage. Gwen isn't as shell-shocked as Sody and the others on the far side of the stage, and acts instantly. When The Colonel starts making his big speech to the audience about the wrath of the Red Scimitar falling heavily on the corpusculating neck of American culture, she whispers to Roger and Jinny, and they disappear behind the screen.

This was show time for The Colonel. He had been rehearsing this speech for most of the last twelve days, whenever he wasn't making time with Ms. Smith or recuperating from another tequila hangover. He talked about American imperialism, and the clash of cultures, and the evilness of modernity, and how MTV was corrupting the youth of the world. He went on about how the sanctions were killing Iranian babies and how the presence of American military bases in the heart of Islam was an affront to every believer of the one true faith. He went on long enough that Lewy's arm got tired holding the fifteen pounds of Desert fucking Eagle iron over his head, trying to impress the audience, and he had to lower it down to where it now pointed at Laleh's head. Priss was starting to get a feel for what is was like to be on the stage in front of 800 mesmerized people, all of whom were thinking, this is the wildest performance I've ever seen. He hoped The Colonel would leave him a little airtime, even though he hadn't prepared a speech. He was ready to improvise, and had the introductory lines worked out, when something happened.

None of the assassins knew exactly what it was, and neither did Laleh, who didn't like having that big gun pointed at her and was getting ready to clock Lewy across his forehead. None of them heard or saw anything because they were pandering to the audience and it happened silently behind them. What the audience saw, and what startled them again, was three people rise out of the stage on mechanical lifts, two men wearing tuxedos and one woman wearing an Yves Saint Laurent emerald green dress trimmed in silver, with silver four inch pumps, all holding guns in their hands. The audience saw them carefully walk up behind the three assassins and place the end of their gun barrels against the backs of the assassins' heads, lean forward, and say something the people in the audience couldn't hear. But whatever they said to the assassins had an effect, because the The Colonel stopped blathering and Lewy dropped his gun away from Laleh's head and Priss stopped trying to figure out what he was going to say when his turn came to proselytize about the greater glory of Islamic culture. This hiatus in the dramatic action was followed by the seven people on the stage exiting to stage left, and Roger motioning back across the stage to Sody to gear up the programmed action again.

Sody did his best, and so did Big George and the gorgeous Wegs, and David Holmes tried to recapture the atmosphere with his music, but there was something anticlimactic about the rest of the performance. The whole thing came off well, and the reviews were great, and the remaining eight performances all sold out. But, that opening night blast, that was a hard act to follow.

###

Richard Dorrance lives in America's most beautiful town,

Charleston, South Carolina.

You can look at other books on his website: richarddorrance.com

