End Games - 11 Read online

  It was only once they were married that he found out Madrona came from a fundamentalist Bible Belt family and believed that when the end times came, believers would be spirited up to heaven in the Rapture while Jesus and the Antichrist duked it out in the scorched wasteland below. Up until then, religion had been pretty much off the radar for Jake, but the more he heard about the coming Apocalypse – and Madrona had told him plenty, particularly back in the early days – the more interested he got. He hadn’t bought into the sales talk and begging letters of the sleazy pastor out at the glass-and-plywood church where Madrona worshipped, but their promotional material plus some trawling on the web made the general scenario clear, and also that millions of other Americans, including the president, believed in it.

  The God game was for sure the greatest total immersive reality challenge of all time, but these fundies were just hunkering down and trying to defend their corner instead of going out there and taking the initiative. That was always a losing strategy, and most of them were indeed losers, gambling on their free pass to eternity working when the time came. Maybe that was all they could do, but Jake was both rich and bored. To be honest, even the top-end, interactive, massively multiple role-playing stuff didn’t really cut it for him any more. The stakes were too low and he was too good. Why piss around within the limits of the current technology when there was this persistent universe game that had been running for thousands of years, with killer graphics, no sharding or instancing and unlimited bandwidth? Not to mention an opponent who could come up with off-the-wall moves like targeting the lawyer Martin had sent out to work with the treasure hunters in Cosenza.

  When he took his mug back to the kitchen for a refill, Madrona had emerged, wearing the retro baby-doll nightie Jake had given her for her birthday. It ended about an inch below her crotch and was pinkly transparent with appliquéd rabbits. It didn’t matter what she wore, or what she didn’t.

  ‘Cuddle,’ she said.

  It was an imperative. The only problem with babes young enough to be your daughter was they had so much goddamn energy. Back when Jake was her age, he couldn’t get laid to save his life. Now his problem was rationing the available supply to meet Madrona’s demands. Still, the cost-per-fuck ratio was good, although Jake had an uneasy sense that it might develop a negative tilt some time in the future.

  He tweaked his goatee and displayed an arc of perfect teeth.

  ‘Are you Rapture-ready?’ he said.

  ‘Are you happy with the script?’

  ‘It comes from the highest possible source.’

  ‘Who is the screenwriter?’

  ‘I was referring to the basic material, or Bible if you prefer. “Divinely inspired”, some critics have been kind enough to say.’

  ‘A bit long and rambling, though. Hitchcock said that to film a novel you first have to cut it down to a short story.’

  ‘Which is where all novels started out and most should have stopped. And it was Truffaut, actually.’

  Annalise Kirchner consulted her notes in a frigid fluster.

  ‘Are you employing a theological consultant, maestro?’

  ‘No pieces of silver have yet changed hands, but the subject naturally comes up when I meet one of my many friends in the Vatican.’

  ‘How about alternative scenarios for the end of historical time? Do you plan to consult any scientists?’

  ‘I simply can’t be bothered. Atheists are such bores. They talk about God all the time.’

  ‘Do you see this movie as making some sort of statement, and if so, what is it?’

  Luciano Aldobrandini sighed. The young woman was quite decorative, if you liked that sort of thing, but clearly an idiot. It was time for him to take charge.

  ‘Fräulein Kirchner, I have made many movies. Too many, some have said. Most of them were good, a few perhaps even great. But never have I faced a challenge such as this.’

  The interviewer nodded empathetically. Behind her, the Austrian TV crew continued to monitor their equipment with disinterested concentration.

  ‘Of course, the Holy Scriptures are hardly a new field for this medium,’ Aldobrandini went on discursively. ‘But most of the attempts that have been made, from De Mille to Mel, have taken as their subject the life and death of Christ, since that represents a human drama with which audiences can easily identify. Others have treated episodes from the Old Testament, which are also relatively straightforward to adapt for the screen since they portray aspects of the great human epic of the Jewish people.’

  He puffed on his cigar.

  ‘But neither the teachings and sufferings of Jesus, nor the trials and tribulations of the Jews, constitute in and of themselves the essence of the Biblical message. Like all great religions, Christianity has both a human and a superhuman – one might even say inhuman – face. Its mysteries are revealed in the natural world around us, but their fons et origo is supernatural and by definition passeth all understanding.’

  ‘So how can such mysteries be transferred to the cinema screen?’ asked the interviewer.

  Luciano Aldobrandini did not like being interrupted when he was in full flight. He held up his hand like a traffic policeman.

  ‘All in due course. As I was saying, previous cinematic treatments of the Bible have focused on its human aspects. The two great bookends of scripture, its alpha and omega, are of course Genesis and Revelations.’

  He laughed reminiscently.

  ‘As one of Dino’s friends, I was involved in a minor way with John Huston’s attempt to tackle the first of these back in the 1960s, and in my sentimental moments regret that I cannot be kinder about the result. But the second has never even been attempted, no doubt because parsing such a narrative for the lens has always appeared impossible.’

  A young man appeared in the background, just behind the floodlights, waving frantically. The interviewer signalled the cameraman to pause the tape.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Aldobrandini curtly.

  ‘Marcello’s on the phone. He says it’s urgent.’

  ‘Tell him to wait.’

  The young man disappeared and the interview recommenced.

  ‘Saint John of Patmos has been variously described as an inspired visionary, a deranged drug addict and a delusional psychotic,’ Aldobrandini continued smoothly. ‘The work for which he is famous was only very narrowly accepted for inclusion in the biblical canon and has been the subject of controversy ever since. But the finer theological points do not concern me. What is incontrovertible is that in our post-9/11 world, the Book of Revelations touches many exposed cultural nerves. We all know that if terrorists gain access to nuclear or biological weapons, it will quite literally mean the end of the world. We also know that such a prospect would not give them a moment’s pause, and that we are therefore potentially facing imminent extinction. That knowledge provides the necessary human element which now makes Saint John’s eschatological ravings seem not merely relevant but even realistic.’

  The young man reappeared.

  ‘Marcello again, maestro. He says it’s a matter of the highest priority and he must speak to you immediately.’

  Luciano Aldobrandini slumped disgustedly.

  ‘For the love of God, Pippo, I told you I wasn’t to be disturbed! What do you think I pay you for? Oh well, I suppose we both know the answer to that. However, my agent works for me, not the other way round. Tell him I’ll call him when I’m good and ready – and not to dare interrupt me again.’

  He turned to camera again, but the incident had clearly unsettled him and he appeared to have lost the thread of his presentation.

  ‘Nevertheless, it’s hard to see how the actual content of the Book of Revelations can successfully be brought to the screen,’ prompted the interviewer. ‘The text reads more like a violent fantasy video game. One might perhaps be able to imagine a Japanese animé version, but I understand that your work is to be filmed on location in Calabria.’

  ‘The raw material, yes. And some will remain r
aw. Other segments may be freeze-frame, slow motion or vastly speeded up. During the apocalyptic experience, as in Einsteinian physics, time and space become purely relative. The majority of the footage will be radically edited and post-processed using all the resources of modern computer graphics, and the results, I can assure you, will be something never before achieved, never even imagined or dreamt! Some envious individuals have been saying for years that I would never make another film, that I was burned out. Believe me, it’s their eyeballs that will be burned out when they see this film, the ultimate and crowning work of my life!’

  He paused motionless for a few seconds to allow for editing, then clapped his hands loudly, rose and announced, ‘That’s all the time I can spare, I’m afraid.’

  He hastened off towards a door in the far wall of the vast room, the interviewer at his heels.

  ‘Just one more thing!’ she called. ‘When does filming actually start?’

  Aldobrandini ignored her. He locked the door behind him, then crossed the two antechambers leading to his private quarters at the far corner of the building. Once inside, he kicked off his shoes and collapsed supine on the sofa. Pippo appeared.

  ‘Beulah, peel me a grape,’ commanded his master. ‘No, pour me a potent whisky and soda.’

  ‘I’ve got Marcello on hold.’

  Aldobrandini giggled.

  ‘Well, don’t squeeze him too tightly, caro, or he might spill all over you. God, I’m wrecked! Why do I even bother doing interviews?’

  ‘Because it’s in the contract that you have to, and because you’re an applause whore.’

  ‘Ah yes. And tomorrow?’

  ‘Spanish, French, Swedish and Russian press, plus Fox, CNN, the BBC, some Japanese cable station and three highly influential media bloggers.’

  ‘Dear Christ. All right, pass me Marcello. And that drink.’

  Pippo handed over a portable phone and shimmied off towards the liquor cabinet.

  ‘Marcello, how delightful to hear from you. What news on the Rialto?’

  ‘Cut the crap, Luciano, this is serious. Jeremy’s off the movie.’

  Pippo returned with a brimming beaker, half of which Aldobrandini downed at one go.

  ‘That’s absurd. I spoke to him only the other day.’

  ‘Yes, but what Jeremy didn’t know then was that his agent had heard some bad buzz about the project and had decided to dig a little himself. He didn’t like what he came up with and advised his client to pull, which he now has. It’ll go public tomorrow, so you’ll need to be prepared when you meet the media. Those Austrians hadn’t heard, I hope?’

  ‘They didn’t mention it, but I’ve kept them hanging around the palazzo all day because I was simply too overwhelmed to talk to anyone.’

  ‘Well, it’s bound to come up. I suggest you spin it as a creative disagreement thing. Both you and Jeremy are great artists and can only achieve your full potential if you are in complete accord. Unfortunately on this occasion your views differed, and so with the greatest regret you have mutually decided that further collaboration would not be fruitful. You wish Jeremy all the best in the future and look forward to working with him again. Negotiations are in progress with a number of other big Hollywood stars, but it would be inappropriate to mention names at this stage.’

  Aldobrandini sat drinking and thinking. This was a blow, no denying it. The author of Revelations played a key part in the high concept he had in mind for the film. Saint John had not only declared his work to be an account of a mystical experience, but had grounded this by locating it on the island of Patmos. That island could easily be invoked with some shots of Calabrian caves and shoreline, but the figure of the prophet himself was central. The idea was to leave the audience uncertain whether his visions had been an objective visitation or a subjective hallucination, but it was the visual image of John himself that must convince them that any of this was worth their attention. For that, the slim, saturnine and massively talented British actor had seemed perfect. Aldobrandini could just see his lugubrious yet oddly fragile frame hung with a simple cloak, while the inspired face, the expression pitched on the cusp between the ecstatic and the demonic, gazed up at the heavens. The El Greco look.

  ‘So what did Jeremy’s agent find out?’ he asked Marcello.

  ‘Well, that’s the other thing we need to discuss. I have to say it’s slightly disturbing. No more than that at this stage, but we need to tread carefully.’

  ‘Cut the crap yourself, Marcello.’

  ‘He didn’t give me all the details, but basically it goes like this. He was in LA last week and of course mentioned our project. The response was, “It’s great that Luciano’s back in harness, but who’s this Rapture Works outfit? No one’s ever heard of them.”’

  ‘Neither have I.’

  ‘They’re the money behind the whole thing. Hollywood people always look at the bottom line. That’s where the deep pockets are if you need to sue.’

  ‘Why didn’t you know this already, Marcello?’

  ‘I did, but it didn’t seem relevant. Our production company has an excellent reputation for making quirky, low-budget films that do very nicely with a largish niche audience worldwide. They get great reviews and have never ever lost money on a project. And frankly, Luciano, your career wasn’t in the most sensational shape when this came up. It looked like a good deal all round.’

  Aldobrandini sighed theatrically.

  ‘All this business shit gives me a headache. You know that. That’s what you get your cut to shield me from.’

  ‘All right, I’ll keep it brief. Jeremy’s agent’s people reported back that Rapture Works was incorporated just seven months ago and that its money seems to be channelled through a shell company in Bermuda. Now as I said, there may be nothing to worry about. You’ve had your upfront cut for vetting the shooting script and other advance work, and if it proves difficult to find a suitable replacement for Jeremy then you can do those scenes last. But after what I heard I reviewed the contract. Financially, everything’s now in limbo until the first day of principal photography. I would advise you to bring that forward and start work as soon as possible.’

  ‘What’s the hurry? If they’re going to default, they can do it any time.’

  ‘Because it’s just possible that this whole project is some sort of scam.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Some clever tax dodge, or maybe money laundering. What I’ve heard is that the film may never get made. But there’s a quick way to find out, which is to get the cameras rolling. On that day they are contractually obligated to move a significant sum out of escrow and into our account. If they don’t, we’ll start looking for alternative financing. If they do, you can forget all this and get down to crafting the great work of art that I know you still have it in you to make, Luciano, whatever your detractors may say. But my professional advice is to fast-track the shoot and force these people to get real or get out.’

  Luciano Aldobrandini turned off the phone and hollered for Pippo.

  ‘Another cocktail, darling.’

  ‘The doctor said –’

  ‘I know what the doctor said. I also know that I need to get drunk right now. Where’s the Narcisso?’

  ‘Last I heard, she was having her bottom scraped.’

  ‘Don’t be smutty, Pippo. Call the boatyard, tell them to get her seaworthy, then whistle up some matelots. I feel an urge for southern climes.’

  ‘So you won’t tell me what you discussed.’

  ‘I don’t remember every detail! In any case, it was all business matters relating to the film project. Nothing that could have the slightest bearing on this tragic event.’

  Zen strolled to the window, looked out for some time, then lit a cigarette. The official ban on smoking in government buildings added a particular piquancy to this gesture, virtually making it part of the interrogation.

  ‘What language did you speak?’ he asked, turning back to face Nicola Mantega.

  ‘Italian, of
course.’

  ‘Not Calabrian dialect?’

  The witness hesitated just a moment before answering.

  ‘Dialect? Signor Newman is an American lawyer. How could a man like that know the dialect?’

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘We spoke Italian.’

  ‘Newman spoke it fluently?’

  Mantega shrugged.

  ‘For a foreigner.’

  ‘So how did he learn Italian?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘You didn’t discuss it?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Didn’t you think it unusual? And perhaps mention it? Some flattering comment …’

  ‘I really didn’t think about it. This wasn’t a personal relationship! As I keep telling you, it was strictly business. Maybe he took lessons before coming out here. What do I know?’

  Zen stared at him in silence for a moment.

  ‘That’s precisely what I’m trying to determine.’

  Nicola Mantega’s appearance was of a classic Calabrian type, with thick, lustrous black hair, a crumpled, oval face that barely contained all the troubles it had seen, a florid moustache and an expression of terminal depression.

  ‘Let’s just go back over that final phone call,’ Zen said. ‘You rang Signor Newman at ten thirty-two on the Tuesday morning …’

  ‘It was some time that morning, yes.’

  ‘It was at the time I stated. Newman hired a mobile phone and we have obtained a copy of the records. What we don’t have is a transcript of what was said, but you have stated that you told him that some new factors had arisen regarding final arrangements for the film project, and that you needed to meet again. You then suggested that he come to dinner at your house at seven that evening, but he never turned up.’

  ‘Exactly.’