The Spiral Path (13 page)

O
ne of the
worst parts of moviemaking was the insanely early hours required. Kenzie
yawned, then swallowed another mouthful of scorching coffee. John Randall and
his native cavalry rode at dawn.

All
around him, the chilly New Mexican night reverberated with the sounds of
recalcitrant horses and tense riders trying to position themselves to the
assistant director's satisfaction. Luckily his own mount was a placid beast,
specially chosen so as not to risk breaking The Star's neck.

Rainey,
who was buzzing around like a wasp at a picnic, materialized in front of him.
Dressed in jeans and the official
Centurion
show jacket, which was a
shade of British military red that had not been chosen to go with her hair, she
radiated a mixture of excitement and nerves. "Ready to go, Kenzie?"

He
nodded. "It's nice that my first scene doesn't require me to say a word. I
can ease my way into the part." Rainey wore no makeup except for a little
lipstick and mascara. The result was very close to the natural bedroom look
he'd always liked best. Not the face of the glamorous actress, but his wife.

The
divorce would be final a week or so after they finished shooting her movie.

She
looked anxiously upward. "I hope those clouds don't move in. This is the
first morning since we arrived with a decent sky."

She
was poised to dart away when he caught her shoulder. Awareness crackled between
them like static electricity. "Relax, Rainey. You've got a great crew and
everything that needs to be done is being done. Fussing will just put everyone
on edge and increase the chance of mistakes. Have some coffee."

"More
caffeine is hardly likely to make me relax." Nonetheless, she drank
deeply. They both liked coffee the same way--scalding hot, milk only.
"Thanks."

She
glanced up, and for an instant they were caught in one of the unsettling
flashes of intimacy that persisted even though the marriage was over. He was
grateful to have the moment interrupted when Josh, his sharp-eyed assistant,
rushed up with fresh coffee. Taking the cup, he asked, "Why did you choose
this area to stand in for North Africa?"

"Mostly
because it fit my budget I had some license because the military campaign in
Sherbourne's novel is imaginary, though it was inspired by a real campaign in
the Sudan that involved angry Arabs who wanted to drive out the Europeans. One
of Queen Victoria's messier little wars."

"The
one where the noble General Gordon died at Khartoum a mere two days before a
relief army arrived, I presume? One of the famous Victorian military
martyrdoms, though I seem to recall that an officer who knew Gordon said the
man wasn't worth the camels lost in the rescue attempt."

"I
never cease to be amazed at your memory. Sherbourne's novel specified a remote,
desolate setting, and this canyon fits the bill." She gestured at the
stark landscape. "I also needed dozens of good riders for the skirmishing
between Randall's patrol and the rebels, and it's easy to hire them around
here. Since they all wear scarves wrapped around their faces, we don't need
real Arabs, just people who look like they were born in the saddle."

"You
got your money's worth. The dailies I saw yesterday are first-rate. Plenty of
fierce, chaotic action. When it's cut together, viewers will feel like they're
in the middle of the battle. My stunt double did a good job of going down
fighting bravely."

"At
this stage of the story, John Randall has the courage of the
unimaginative." She checked the lightening sky again. "Almost time.
Make sure you don't fall off your horse. We might not have another chance to
get this shot right."

"I
shall endeavor to stay on my horse." He handed his coffee cup to Josh, and
swung onto his mount. "Don't worry, Rainey. We rehearsed this ride six
times yesterday. It will be fine."

"From
your lips to God's voice mail." She jogged over to her Jeep and drove off
to join the camera crews on the other side of the hill.

As
Kenzie waited for the signal to start moving, he became John Randall, erect and
arrogant, an officer of the empire on which the sun never set. He and his
patrol would ride west over the hill, appearing as silhouettes against the
rising sun. Though his men were in drab khaki with faces swathed against the
dust and heat, Randall wore his regimental uniform. The blood-red blaze of his
tunic would be the only color in the dun landscape as they descended the hill
to their fate.

The
second assistant director who had been organizing the scene used his radio to
announce that all was in readiness. Another two minutes of increasing light
passed before the first assistant director's voice crackled back over the
radio, "Rolling!"

Kenzie
set his horse into motion, letting it choose its own footing in the dim light.
Shoulders square, face determined, a man as at home in the saddle as he was in
the world. These rough hills held nothing that a true-born Englishman need
fear.

In
typical movie fashion, this scene came before the battle scene that had been
shot over the previous days. Rainey had set up the schedule to allow him to
start as late as possible, in case his previous film ran longer than it was
supposed to. It hadn't, though. He'd arrived in New Mexico two days before,
using the time to visit the set and take long drives along remote roads.

The
shooting schedule was a tight one. Since John Randall was in almost every
scene, from now on he'd be working six days a week. After the battle and
capture exteriors were done, the production would move to England for location
work. The final phase would be shot on a London sound stage.

Kenzie
crested the hill and rode down toward the cameras, accompanied by the thunder
of hooves, the jingle of harness, a trailing haze of dust. Below, Rainey stood
with the two cameras and crews recording the approaching riders. One caught the
whole scene while another zoomed in for close-ups. Randall and his patrol rode
forward steadily, not expecting trouble but ready for any that might show up.

"Cut!"

Just
short of running over the cameras, Kenzie and his patrol reined in their
horses. Rainey called, "Great job! You all looked fantastic against the
sunrise. Dramatic. Ominous. Doomed."

She
grinned. "Now get back over that hill as fast as your horses will take
you, and we'll do a second take, just in case."

"Cut!" The
marker snapped shut on take sixteen.

Kenzie
sighed. They were tying to get the master shot of the first, critical scene
between Randall and his charismatic captor, Mustafa, leader of the rebels. It
took place moments after Randall was captured, and had to establish the complex
interplay between the characters.

Kenzie
prided himself on his professionalism, always knowing his dialogue. Usually he
could nail a scene on the first take. Unfortunately, Sharif Asuri, the young
Pakistani-British actor playing Mustafa, seemed incapable of walking and
talking at the same time. Though Sharif had done well in rehearsal and had the
physical presence to play the rebel leader, he'd flubbed every take so far.
Tension was rising among the crew, and Sharif was a nervous wreck.

Rainey
was admirably patient. "Take a few deep breaths and we'll try it again,
Sharif. Forget the cameras and act like you did in rehearsal."

Sharif
nodded and took his place. Kenzie was lying half-propped against a pile of
rocks, wrists tied in front of him, bruises and smudges of blood artistically
scattered over his face and hands.

"Now."
Rainey gave the signal to start another take.

Lithe
and cruel as a panther, Sharif knocked aside the spear one of his men was about
to drive through Randall's chest. "Don't! This one is an officer." He
kicked Kenzie's carefully padded ribs. So far, so good. "I shall find a
use for him."

"You
might as well kill me now, because I'll do nothing that might help you,"
Kenzie spat out. Randall was fiercely defiant at this point, sure he could face
death with courage, not knowing that dying would be simple compared to what lay
ahead. "Or if you're the warrior you claim to be, cut me loose so we can
fight like men!"

Sharif
smiled with vicious anticipation. "There's m-m-m-more..." His words
trailed off in a stutter.

"Cut!"

The
youthful cable puller gave an audible groan. Sharif flushed violently. Rainey
took one look at his face, then whirled and stormed over to the culprit.
"You're off the movie. Now!"

He
gasped. "But ... but..."

"It's
not your job to judge performances," she snapped. "If you want to
continue working in this business, remember that in the future. Now
go!"

The
boy left in the midst of paralyzed silence. Even his boss, the head of the
sound crew, didn't protest. Rainey was well within her rights to fire the
idiot, and she'd proved to the crew she was tough enough to be the boss. But
something had to be done to get production back on course.

Kenzie
scrambled to his feet. "Someone take these damned ropes off me. We all
need a break."

Seeing
his expression, Rainey said, "Kenzie's right. Take ten."

As
the first assistant director, Bill Meriwether, called the break to the crew,
Kenzie said to Sharif, "Let's take a walk. Stretch a few of the knots out
of our legs."

Looking
like a lamb on the verge of being sacrificed, Sharif nodded. Kenzie fell into
step beside him and headed away from the trucks and cameras. In the desolate
canyon, it took only a dozen paces to start feeling alone in the wilderness.

Sharif
had his head down as if he was walking through a minefield. Despite his height
and a splendid beard that made him photograph older, Sharif was quite young,
Kenzie realized. Early to mid-twenties, which explained a great deal. "Is
this your first movie role?" he asked conversationally.

"Yes
,
sir. I graduated from the Central School of Speech and Drama last spring.
I've done several small television and stage parts, but nothing like
this." Though he used an accent for Mustafa, his natural speech was as
crisply British as Kenzie's.

Central
was one of London's top drama schools, so Sharif obviously had ability and good
training. While Kenzie was wondering what might get him to relax, Sharif
blurted out, "I'm so sorry, Mr. Scott. I thought I had my lines down
perfectly, but... "He made a helpless gesture with his hands.

"Being
in a Hollywood movie terrifies you."

"That's
part of it." Sharif swallowed. "And ... and it's also you, sir. I saw
you play Romeo at Stratford. The way you made him come alive... You lit up the
whole stage. That's when I knew I had to become an actor."

Ah.
As a RADA student, Kenzie once shared a stage, in a very minor role, with Sir
Alec Guinness. He'd almost expired from awe. Though he was hardly in Guinness's
class and only a dozen or so years older than Sharif, an idol was an idol.
"So I'm your hero?"

"Yes,
sir."

Kenzie
swung around and faced the younger man. "I'm not your hero," he
snarled. "I'm a son-of-a-bitch Englishman who knows I'm superior to you
and your whole filthy country."

Sharif
stared at him, shocked. "What ... why are you saying that? I was born in Birmingham
and I'm as English as you are."

Kenzie
pushed harder. "My people have better guns and a better God, so that makes
us a better race. You miserable heathen savages should be grateful that a
Christian nation even bothers with you."

"You
arrogant Pommy
bastard."
Sharif's British civility vanished in a
surge of fury.

As
the younger man's fists clenched, Kenzie balanced on the balls of his feet so
he could dodge if necessary. Then Sharif caught his breath, rage vanishing into
understanding. "I see, sir. You mean I should stop being distracted by
heroes and Hollywood and just do the job. Be Mustafa instead of a nervous
actor."