There were no peaks this majestic in Australia and they couldn’t afford a European shoot. So they shot spots like this in New Zealand. The local production company swore there’d be snow on the Aspirings in November. They were right. It looked like Nepal.
Cain turned back, checked the clouds. They’d got great stuff in the can this morning but now they seemed about to be weathered.
The DOP and assistant were back behind the Arri and the sun was almost in the break. The glider pilot held the nose up, touched his helmet, ready.
‘Standing by,’ the DOP called.
The spine was flooded with crystalline light.
‘Okay for exposure.’
‘Turn over.’
‘Rolling.’
No ‘speed’ call. They weren’t recording sound.
‘And… action.’
The madman ran down the slope, avoided ankle-snapping holes and launched himself into space.
They kept rolling until they ran out while he soared against the peaks. Then he was too low, too distant.
The DOP straightened. ‘Good stuff there.’
The assistant fussed with the camera. ‘Gate clear. Mag change.’
Cain pressed the tit and told the chopper, ‘He’s down. Go get him.’
They heard the machine wind up and soon it was slapping overhead. It kissed them with its shadow and did a near vertical down the face. It would take twenty minutes to pack the glider, lash it to a skid and bring it up from the valley floor. While they waited Cain asked the DOP what he’d got, wishing he had a video split.
The slapping sound again. They turned, surprised. The chopper was behind them — hovering high.
Cain grabbed the handset. ‘What’s he up to?’
‘It’s not ours,’ the DOP said.
The thing dropped out of sight to settle on the mound behind the spine.
‘Rich skiers,’ the DOP said. ‘Got more money than sense. They hire these four-blade turboshaft jobs to drop them off up here.’
‘He can’t sit there,’ the grip said. ‘Our lot’ll be back in six minutes.’ The flat New Zealand ‘i’ made it sound like ‘sucks’. ‘I’ll tell him to sod off.’ He struggled up the slope.
Cain followed more slowly, breathing hard. When he reached the crest, he saw a man stumbling toward them from the chopper, leaving deep holes in the snow. The grip met him halfway. The man pointed up at Cain. The grip continued toward the chopper while the man kept coming.
The visitor wasn’t a skier. Apart from the parka, he seemed to be in ordinary clothes and was trying to wade through the drifts with his hands in his pockets. Then he fell and the hands flew forward to save him. He didn’t even have gloves. No ski pants either, or boots.
Cain unzipped his jacket a little so that he could reach for the SIG if he needed it. Cold air poured in on his chest.
At last the man came up to him — shivering, panting, blue.
Cain said, ‘What the hell are you up to? We’re trying to do a shoot here.’
The man gasped — knee-deep in snow. He wasn’t very dangerous. He’d been dumped 3000 metres up. No wonder he couldn’t breathe. ‘Cain?’
It wasn’t the name he was using. He assessed the sodden clothes, the parka, probably borrowed, the pained soft face — said nothing.
The panting man blurted, ‘Dragoons’ chorus. Patience. Auber. Laughing song.’ He had an American twang. It was all he could get out.
‘What about it?’
‘Need to talk.’ He fought to breathe.
‘You’ll have to do better.’
The man gasped, ‘Farewell my own. Only octet. Oh God, don’t keep me out here, please.’
‘Credentials?’
‘Company.’
‘Since when do we deal with the Company?’
‘You do now.’
‘Like hell.’
‘Please. My feet are ice blocks.’
‘And I’m in the middle of a shoot. And you’re on our landing spot. So get that crate off it.’
‘When you get back. Motel bar. Okay? I’ll wait.’
‘Okay. Now naff off.’
The man half fell back down the slope. Cain glanced at the clouds, cursed and waded back, trying to invent a plausible explanation for the crew.
They were weathered mid afternoon and it took three trips to ferry back the gear. On the last run, when they dropped out of blowing sleet, Queenstown was golden with late-afternoon sun. He watched the corn-coloured airfield coming closer and thought about the man.
Nine months into his exile things were going well. He’d graduated to medium-budget spots and established himself as worthy of a check-quote. Now this blast from the past. What the hell did the guy want?
In the motel room, he rechecked his shot list, showered, dressed comfortably and headed for the bar. He could use a stiff one and was determined the fellow would buy it.
The man was propped on a stool. He stood up and smiled. ‘Harry Frost.’
‘If you’d stayed up there much longer, you would have been Jack.’
‘Yeah. Pretty dumb of me. Didn’t think I’d be exposed so long. God was it cold!’
‘I’ve been in colder spots.’
‘Name your poison.’
Cain let him pay then walked to one of the tables by the window, knowing the crew would fly-blow the bar the moment they’d checked the gear.
He slumped into the booth, exhausted, sipped his drink and gazed out at the lake. The dying sun tinged the steep cliffs ochre, painting the beautiful scene with light.
‘Great place, this,’ the man said. ‘Good shoot?’
‘We’ll know after the air-to-air stuff tomorrow. So what’s up?’
‘Yes, well.’ The American smiled uncertainly. He wore half-frame spectacles now and looked professorial. ‘It’s about your new assignment. Rhonda said I could look at you.’
‘If you’re CIA, how come you’re in bed with Ron?’
‘It’s a side job.’
‘Our charter vetoes side jobs.’
‘It’s a delicate matter. Would you mind having dinner with me? She said I had to tell you it’s the job you could do chained to a rock.’
Cain smiled.
‘In the restaurant here at seven, then?’
‘Fine.’
The crew were filing in. He excused himself and joined them.
Dinner was pleasant, the local red acceptable, despite the country being better at whites, and the conversation parabolic. Frost talked about the end of the cold war, displaying a mordant sense of humour.
Cain, warmly fuzzed and several glasses in, said, ‘Okay, enough lovemaking. Give.’
‘I’m told you’re what I’m looking for — a highbrow hybrid — a hard man with a renaissance mind.’
‘I mostly provoke less flattering descriptions. But at least I’ve earned my comparisons, not read them.’
‘I believe you. Do you like women?’
‘Generally more than they like themselves.’
‘And I imagine they like you. Now you’ve been partly raised as Muslim so I doubt you object to polygamy.’
He shrugged. ‘In EXIT, we’re stuck with serial monogamy. But I could bow to business demands.’
‘Good, good.’ Frost looked relieved. ‘Now your attitude to ghosts?’
Cain yawned. ‘What’s all this ghost stuff?’
‘Specifically — poltergeists.’
‘If they’re polter they can’t be geists. Contradiction in terms.’
‘Ah, yes. Logical enough. But we know there are four possible forces — electromagnetic, gravitational, nuclear and radioactive. There may be an unknown fifth force. Would you accept that there could be some kind of nervous energy — not quite physical — that can manifest on this level?’
He shrugged. ‘God knows. As we’re on the subject of spooks, you don’t seem to fit the CIA mould.’