The Notional Agent

By Romolo Cotta

This is a frame story: A story within a story about a story which may, or may not be entirely a work of fiction. Readers will not only notice early on in the novel the narrative point of view switches between characters, and that the timeline is not static; but, also, events within the sub-plots as well as personal interplay and action will be linked to the closing chapters. The guts of the tale lies in the encounters between friends, international criminals, spies, and a female journalist who found great pleasure whenever she was near anyone thriving on the razor's edge. 'The Notional Agent' is also a tale that confirms the depths of loneliness experienced by people who are saddled with the feeling of bewilderment in a fragmented society.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543904512

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

EXT. THE AUSTRIAN ALPS-1945. DUSK.

BLACKSCREEN: PRESENTATION TITLES

FADE IN:

AERIAL POV- AUSTRIAN ALPS- 1945-MAGNIFICIENT RANGE

An ocean of jagged snow covered mountains for mile after mile. The late sun turns the landscape every wintry color from grey to black.

Now our CREDITS fly…

CAMERA PULLS: A JU-52 TRANSPORT AIRPLANE painted in Arctic white, is flying over the mountains. Its shadow swims over the contours of the formidable mountains.

We pull back further and see that two other identical JU-52’s which are following the lead plane, forming a loose V- formation. The three aircraft now dominate the screen.

Superimpose: SOUTHERN AUSTRIA-1945

INSIDE each airplane are sixteen figures, in full white, winter camouflage. The only hint which gives it away these are members of the elite Third Reich parachute regiment, the Fallschirmjager, are their distinctive helmets. All are fit and if it seems they are not armed it is because their weapons, radios, ammunition and other gear are tucked inside a steel tube: the Waffenhalter.

CU. WAFFENHALTER. Taking up additional space inside the aircraft is a container approximately five feet long. A crushable corrugated metal base plate which acts as a shock absorber at one end, and a parachute at the other end. Once the parachutists reach the ground, it will be their responsibility to reach these containers.

JU-52 COCKPIT

THE PILOT, donning goggles and a leather helmet, has flown similar missions before, is not frightened. He scans the landscape. Judging by his expression, he knows he’s close to the drop zone. He adjusts the airplane’s controls.

INSIDE THE JU-52- FLYING POV-CONTINUING ACTION

The JU-52 gently rocks up and down as the parachutists begin to check their personal equipment.

CUT TO:

EXT. CONCEALED GERMAN ANTI-AIRCRAFT POSITION- AUSTRIAN ALPS- SAME TIME-EARLY MORNING

Sitting on sand-bags and stacked ammunition boxes are WAFFEN SS SOLDIERS, having spent the early morning engaged in cards, smoking and eating rations. They suddenly become distracted by a distant sound. Some of the other soldiers begin to hear it. Conversations cease. As the sound of the JU-52’s engines become louder….

A SUDDEN CLUSTER OF MEN AND MACHINES, camouflage nets draped over the sprawl of armored vehicles. An SS OFFICER, A GERMAN, focuses his field glasses. The glasses pick out the MARKINGS on one plane and then another. The insignia on the side and tail of both planes make it clear these are aircraft of the Third Reich. Nevertheless, he quickly reaches for a field radio.

SS RADIO OPERATOR

(into radio in German)

Three Auntie-Jus approaching!

INT. DENIED AREA COMMAND BUNKER- -AUSTRIAN ALPS- SAME TIME-EARLY MORNING

We are INSIDE COMMANDER WERNER’s office which is hardly a Spartan setting. The room is furnished in lavish style. Carpets from France, gaudy miniature statues- all of course looted property. Very little to suggest this room has any military purpose with the exception of some files and a large map of Austria. On the other side of the room, lying on its side is a LARGE, formidable GERMAN SHEPHERD, ‘Frau.’

COLONEL JERI WERNER (51) is alone, seated at his large desk, writing a personal letter.

WERNER is an urbane, relaxed, precise man. He is tall and trim. His strong, intelligent face maintains a classic DeGaulle-like aloofness from those around him. It’s not difficult to tell…It’s almost as if, judging by his iron-grin expression, he’s expecting something to happen very soon.

Just as he pauses to read what he’s just written, the FORMIDABLE SOUND OF AN AIR RAID ALARM begins to blare.

Werner slowly rises. FRAU merely lifts her head off the ground.

A field telephone on his desk rings.

WERNER

(Phone in hand/Cooly/In German)

How many?

(Beat)

Do not let them reach the ground.

Werner walks to the closed armor-plated louvered window before deciding to take a tentative peek. He peers out, and listens for a moment more. From his vantage point, it may as well be complete darkness. His brow furrows.

Meanwhile, FRAU is already at the door on all fours already anticipating her human’s next move.

EXT. TREVOR MOORE’S RESIDENCE-U.K.-TIME UNKNOWN-NIGHT-CONTINUOUS

HIGH ANGLE on…

Pounding rain hitting panes of window glass…Through the glass we can see a blurred, hunched male figure. We move in closer and see that he is dressed in a bathrobe seated at his writing desk, typing away on a very old MANUAL TYPEWRITER.

NOTE! Whenever we see text in Typewriter Polyglott, this is to denote what Moore has created – a scene or scene from a chapter within ‘the Notional Agent.’

NEXT.

RETURN TO SCENE:

EXT. AUSTRIAN ALPS- SAME TIME-EARLY MORNING

C.U. shot. With brilliant precision, we watch each of the parachutists throw themselves forward out of the JU-52s in the facedown position.

EXT. AUSTRIAN ALPS- SAME TIME-EARLY MORNING

THE ‘OSTWIND’ (AN ARMORED PERSONNEL CARRIER MOUNTED with an ANTI-AIRCRAFT GUN) manned by WAFFEN SS personnel swivels furiously. We pan up and we realize the gun is pointed directly at the PARACHUTISTS which are descending from the sky.

RETURN TO SCENE

INT. TREVOR MOORE’S RESIDENCE-U.K.-TIME UNKNOWN-NIGHT

SERIES OF SHOTS.

A brick fireplace, handwoven rugs, Mayan pieces, a shelf unit containing books, an Italian inlaid table. Enough to make Sotheby’s drool.

Sheet lightning illuminates the sky, an almost solid curtain of rain must be sweeping across the landscape.

Now, we get a clear picture of the man seated on the other side of the glass panes still typing away on a 50’s-era typewriter. It is novelist TREVOR MOORE (51).

Moore looks up at the window still being beaten by the rapid, tat-tat-tat of rain.

Hearing a savage wind- - - he resumes typing.

SHOCKING BURSTS OF GUNFIRE as it becomes clear the OSTWIND’s anti-aircraft gun is committed to killing as many parachutists as possible before they touch the ground.

The hard clacking of the keys suggests he’s angry at something or someone, sparring with his past, fighting with publishers and agents over payments due. Suffice to say, he carries himself like a man who gravitates toward regimented solitude to get any meaningful writing done.

JUMP CUT

Moore looks beneath his desk and checks up on his own German shepherd, ‘Frau,’ completely resigned to continue lying on her side just beyond Moore’s feet. Satisfied, Moore turns to the source of much of his writing material-a small stack of genuine, and still classified, SECOND WORLD WAR-ERA BRITISH INTELLIGENCE DOCUMENTS. He begins to type again…

EXT. MOUNTAINSIDE-AUSTRIAN ALPS. 1945- DAY

Two BRITISH ARMY OFFICERS explore the soggy ground, using saucer-like METAL DETECTORS and HEADSETS. The two soldiers are utterly focused as they inch along ground. One of them stiffens as he registers metal. With a bayonet he carefully scrapes at the dirt surface.

Something GLEAMS: A WATCH.

What the officer finds is so surreal that neither man registers it at first, and then one of them shouts.

EXT. BRITISH RAF INTELLIGENCE TENT-AUSTRIAN ALPS. 1945-EARLY MORNING

Several bookish RAF INTELLIGENCE PERSONNEL with somber expressions hover over map tables. There is nothing which gives away the purpose of their presence. Even their uniforms mark them as regular army. They’re gridding maps and pouring over deployment charts. Tedious, detailed work.

Standing alone chain-smoking outside the tent under a steel-grey sky is one of them: Major GRAEME DUFFY (25), a thin, RAF intelligence officer with intense, nervous eyes. He clearly hasn’t slept in a long time.

A field radio inside the tent crackles. It is the voice of one of the soldiers at the sight of A DISCOVERY. Graeme, who is within earshot of the excited voice over the radio, nervously cranes his head up.

BRITISH FIELD RADIO OPERATOR

(Over Radio)

(excitedly)

Michael Six, this is Team Leader of Alpha Team, over.

BRITISH RAF INTELLIGENCE OFFICER

(Clutching radio)

This is Michael Six- - you are coming in loud and clear.

BRITISH FIELD RADIO OPERATOR (static.. Over Radio)

Located several items of interest, over- - -I repeat- - - items of interest. Request immediate identification.

(Beat)

Refer to coordinates A-14 on grid map.

INT. BRITISH INTELLIGENCE TENT. AUSTRIAN ALPS. SAME TIME-MORNING

The other RAF personnel looking at the maps turn their heads up and look at Duffy. Could this be it?

C.U. Duffy’s reaction.

For a brief moment the life drains from Graeme, but he regains his bearings.

RETURN TO SCENE

INT. MOORE’S RESIDENCE-U.K.-TIME UNKNOWN-SAME NIGHT

MOORE stops typing and picks up a HAND HELD DIGITAL TRANSLATION DEVICE and takes a digital photograph of a VERY OLD, and certainly genuine WORLD WAR II-era SECRET THIRD REICH SECRET DOCUMENT.

CLOSE.

On a section of the THIRD REICH document.

NEXT

C.U.

A translated sentence within the same document into English…

MARBLE DO NOT DROP

CUT TO:

INT. SITE 3557-LOADING DOCK-1945-SAME DAY

Groups of WAFFEN SS INFANTRYMEN-in pairs of twos, are carrying slender CRATED BOXES with rope handles to awaiting HEAVY TRUCKS. Stenciled on each of the crates, in black spray paint, are the words (in German) MARBLE DO NOT DROP.

WERNER, standing just feet away, gazes as these crates as they are being loaded.

FADE OUT

FADE IN

EXT. ROGER RANGLETHORPE RESIDENCE- WENLEY, U.K.-TIME UNKNOWN-DAY-CONTINUOUS

A grey sky…

The mood outside the mature, detached chalet-style bungalow is equally somber.

The Ranglethorpe home fulfills the three L’s of the property bible: location, location, location. Dating back to circa 1878, it was originally a stable block for horse drawn carriages for the largest house in Wenley.

Roger Ranglethorpe, the owner of the home who still lives here, always had a passion for motor racing. So there should be no question as to why he decided it would be a great place to store his highly collectible cars and those belonging to his friends. The cobblestone courtyard and attractive garages with custom-made heavy wooden doors and ironwork had, long ago, enhanced its period charm.

Coarse, twisted vine, now strangle the landscape.

We HOLD on what we can still see through the thick vines and tall, uncut grass: littered rusting vehicles, discarded appliances which date back to the 60’s, rotted furniture.

It is difficult to determine whether, by accident, or by good fortune, the unsightly siege batteries of greenery is the only thing keeping the main house of cards from completely listing to the side.

EXT. ROGER RANGLETHORPE RESIDENCE- WENLEY, U.K.-TIME UNKNOWN-DAY

SERIES OF SHOTS…

. . of the rear of the house: Half-buried appliances; a sad-looking, rusted 1929 VAUXHALL R-TYPE with a cloth tarp only covering half of it.

NEXT.

Inside a DILAPITATED EMPTIED GREENHOUSE: Piles of scavenged motor scooter parts. We also see, on their sides and scattered haphazardly are 6 or, perhaps 7 VINTAGE LAMBRETTA SCOOTER FRAMES-discarded after their parts had been cannibalized years ago….Only two of them still have their original paint.

EXT. ROGER RANGLETHORPE RESIDENCE-WENLEY, U.K.-TIME UNKNOWN-MORNING-CONTINUOUS

Standing yards in front of the house…

We do a 360 degree turn, revealing NICHOLAS RANGLETHORPE, the grandson of the man who owns this dwelling. Nicholas is late in his 40s, with coarse, red hair and a beard. More distinguishing is the fact his skin is ENTIRELY BLUE from head to toe.

He has an expression of weary disdain- because, it’s fair to assume, both inside and outside of the dwelling, there’s nothing salvageable. Everywhere is a maelstrom of decay. For now, time alone will be blamed.

Standing next to him are FIVE WORKERS from the company, Facile Clean, who, dressed in disposable bunny suits and respirator masks aren’t in the slightest fazed at the volume of junk they see; however, they are silently curious as to why the person who hired them (Nicholas Ranglethorpe) has DARK, BLUE SKIN.

EXT. ROGER RANGLETHORPE RESIDENCE-U.K.-TIME UNKNOWN-MORNING-CONTINUOUS

NICHOLAS slips into a one-piece paper BUNNY SUIT and then dons on a pair of disposable blue gloves.

EXT. ROGER RANGLETHORPE RESIDENCE-U.K.-TIME UNKNOWN-MORNING-CONTINUOUS

CLOSE.

As Nicholas’ gloved BLUE HAND knocks furiously on the front door.

INT. ROGER RANGLETHORPE RESIDENCE-U.K.-TIME UNKNOWN-MORNING-CONTINUOUS

We can hear the furious knocking….

Like a fly ourselves, we travel up a barely discernible stairwell riddled with garbage…

We reach the top of the barely visible stairs…

From the knees down, we see the pale, elderly legs of a sickly male figure, dressed in a raggedy robe-this is ROGER RANGLETHORPE (88) who spends his days wandering about his house in a lethargic trance. It’s as if the man has been seeking a way out of some venomous fogbank which rolled upon his mind just as the knock on the door echoes throughout the house. Roger ignores the knock.

CHAPTER TWO

EXT. FRENCH VILLA-SOUTHERN FRANCE- TIME UNKNOWN-DAY-CONTINUOUS

The middle of a hot, merciless summer.

SERIES OF SHOTS

Dotted here and there are various blossoming fruit trees and some Italian cedars.

An abandoned gatekeeper’s house. It is plain, locked and needs major restoration.

A jagged, bone dry stone wall.

EXT. FRENCH VILLA-SOUTHERN FRANCE-TIME UNKNOWN-DAY

Years of neglect, aided by freakish weather has been a detriment to the villa’s former glory. But although the villa has nearly been swallowed up by rampant growth, one cannot help but still be drawn to the property’s semi-faded elegance. There is beauty and history here.

INT. FRENCH VILLA-SOUTHERN FRANCE-TIME UNKNOWN-DAY-CONTINUOUS

CAMERA moves through darkened hallway-a sea of cobwebs. Walls hang with perished wiring. The rooms are high ceilinged, sonorous spaces. Strips of wallpaper curl to the floor like weeping silhouettes.

A SERIES OF RAPID CUTS: a case of bottled water, canned provisions, a cellular, charger, mini-cassette recorder, batteries, a printer, and several reams of white paper.

We now know that besides the tiny shriveled insects which dot the floor. It’s fair to assume the villa is occupied by at least a single occupant- it is.

DONALD HUME (36), his own only company is the space around him, his writing supplies, and the laptop he’s now facing and the faded beauty which surrounds him.

It is Hume’s laptop which contains the body of his unfinished work-a biography which, in truth, is more an accumulation of unsubstantiated facts, which, on their own, are sketchy at best. Judging by Hume’s tired eyes and worn expression, we get a sense time has beaten him, the watertight doors of his emotions are now only closing inside him, containing the pain. Coming here was not enough.

Positioned next to the laptop is a framed picture of a handsome young woman, HELEN HUME and their young son, OLIVER.

INT. FRENCH VILLA-SOUTHERN FRANCE-TIME UNKNOWN-SAME DAY

Hume stands and collects his thoughts. Standing at the edge of a long table which abuts his writing desk are his collection of documents and newspaper clippings- essential supplemental information to what he’s trying to accomplish. Hume picks up a professional, pencil-drawn, ARTIST’S RENDERING of a deceased woman, lying on her side in the fetal position inside a cramped closet. Most disturbing is the fact is the victim is half-hooded by a pillow case and the wrists and ankles are bound. No matter how many times he’s looked at it, his face cringes.

CUT TO:

INT. HOTEL HALLWAY-SOMEWHERE IN ECUADOR-TIME UNKNOWN-MORNING

ASSASSINS wearing dark suits and sun glasses walk down the hotel’s low-lit hallway.

ASSASSINS POV as they approach ROOM 344. They stop and nod to each other.

The camera stops, too…

And then it descends and stops at the door’s keyhole- - The camera then begins to bore through the keyhole like an intruding phantom…

Midway through the keyhole the camera stops. We begin to hear not the commotion of the hotel room’s occupant but….

A SHEARING SOUND…metal turbine blades grinding against metal. Getting LOUDER.

CUT TO:

EXT. SOMEWHERE IN THE JUNGLE OF CENTRAL AMERICA-DAY

DREAM SEQUENCE….

TERRA FIRMA POV- It’s as if we’re beneath the canopy of thick jungle and we suddenly look up and see…

Shattered, flaming, smoking pieces of a SMALL COMMUTER JET arcing through the air…CRASHING through dense canopy.

FAAST! A large, long, and box-shaped object careens in a somewhat controlled manner through the air.

THUMP!

Like a stone.

A moment passes…

TWO surviving passengers, one male, the other female, are still strapped to their adjoined seats. The female survivor is JADE VEERS…the male passenger, DONALD HUME. They silently turn to face each other. . Their expressions only reveal-Have they really survived?

SMASH CUT:

INT. SOUTHERN FRANCE-FRENCH VILLA-TIME UNKNOWN-DUSK.

CLOSE.

HUME, still in front of his laptop, lifts his head from off his writing table, gasping for air. Thank God it was only a dream.

EXT. HUME RESIDENCE. U.K.-DAY

We see what Don sees…or rather, can remember, through an upstairs’ window.

REVEAL HELEN HUME (35) hunched over, her back to him. She swings around-

She has a look of disgust and loathing: an image burned indelibly into Hume’s psyche, re-created here by him…Suddenly, sunlight shafts through the window, all but obliterating her face, so that it appears as a negative halo; a mass of light framed by the darkness of her hair.

RETURN TO SCENE

INT. VILLA-SOUTHERN FRANCE-SAME TIME-LATER

WE READ what Hume has typed…. (moving forward, ARIAL NARROW FONT will indicate what Hume has written).

The hotel where Jade’s seemed becalmed in the midst of the sprawling city….

Upstairs on the fourth floor, a chambermaid scurried from room to room as she began her duties. In room 344, the morning light cast a pearlygrey shadow throughout. The central air-conditioning was turned off. The air was damp and lifeless. Poking under the door was a carefully folded newspaper. On a desk in the hall area of room 344 were documents and hand-written notes spread out beneath the pale glow of a table lamp. They included technical data of a military nature. A black leather valise stood at the end of the bureau next to a black wallet. Both lay open.

On the floor, dozens of green and pink five and ten thousand peso notes were scattered amongst clothes strewn across the carpet. An empty suitcase lay upturned in the corner by the television. A pillow without its case sat crumpled on the bed. The top sheet had been twisted up tightly like the length of rope. On the lower half of the bottom sheet near the end of the bed was a small blood stain. A laundry bag, also twisted up like a rope, was half hidden under the bed. It was damp and empty. On the floor under the other corner of the bed lay a torn photograph of a merchant vessel.

On the bedside table was a recently emptied syringe. The red numbers of the digital clock-radio next to it glowed 7:03 am.

In the bathroom, damp, twisted towels were sprawled across the white-tiled floor. Another suitcase blocked the entrance to the bathroom, clothes spilling out of it.

Just inside room 344 was a walk-in closet-its door was slightly ajar. The light that should have come automatically was off. There was something inside it.

Slumped in the closet, her neck was hooked to the clothes rail by a shirt, her legs slightly bent behind her, was the corpse of a woman- the corpse of a dear friend, Jade Veers.

CUT TO:

EXT. CAFÉ-U.K.-TIME UNKNOWN-DAY

A typical greyish afternoon…

A busy coffee house with tables and chairs set up inside and outside. Many of the patrons are enjoying their tea and pastries outside, including a bookish, fifty-ish looking man who’s seated alone making notes on a stack of papers-TREVOR MOORE. If you were to look closely enough at him, one could tell he was wearing a fake moustache and clothes which don’t really fit him.

REVERSE POV

Roughly fifty feet away seated inside a parked car are two men looking directly at MOORE, oblivious of the fact two men are watching him closely. Seated in the car is private detective, LIONEL CRABBE (53), in the driver’s seat, and DONALD HUME, who seated in the front passenger seat.

CRABBE

There’s Moore…still wearing that frumpled jacket which just screams, I’m craving for attention.

HUME

What’s he doing? Writing?

CRABBE

Or, possibly just pretending to do so.

Hume takes a deep breath.

CRABBE (Cont.)

Are you going to introduce yourself in person?

HUME (allowing a moment to pass)

No. I think it would be better if I

have it with me when I do.

CUT TO:

INT. VEERS RESIDENCE-U.K.-JADE’S BEDROOM-TIME UNKNOWN-MORNING

OVERHEAD VIEW

MARGARET VEERS (67), Jade’s mother, is sitting on the edge of her deceased daughter’s bed with a small, rectangular banker’s box in her lap. Margaret removes the lid from the box whereby revealing a cheaply-bound manuscript.

C.U. of the top page

The Notional Agent

By Trevor Moore

We can also see, scrawled in pencil, the letters, B.C. followed by a large QUESTION MARK, directly beneath Moore’s name.

RETURN TO SCENE

EXT. CAFÉ-U.K.-TIME UNKNOWN-SAME DAY

HUME

If I introduce myself now there’s no way to predict whether or not he’ll make a scene.

CRABBE

(with obvious sarcasm)

Oh, that’s right, you’re technically in possession of his stolen property.

HUME

Tonight…I’ll make a go of it tonight and just hope he doesn’t slam the door in my face.

RETURN TO SCENE:

EXT. JUST BEYOND DENIED AREA-AUSTRIAN ALPS-1945-SAME TIME-DAWN

SERIES OF CUTS

Meanwhile- - -

Near the action- - - within earshot.

Four MYSTERY PARACHUTISTS are following each other in staggered formation along the side of a snow-crusted hill. They are dressed the same as the men inside the JU-52. Are they part of the Fallsjirmjager attack force having drifted away from the drop zone or, something else?

Next.

We continue to follow the FOUR MYSTERY PARACHUTISTS as they make a headlong advance along the winter landscape. They can hear distant, intermittent gun fire.

Next.

Shoulders almost touching as they peek over the edge of a plateau, looking upon giant flute granite shafts which terminate into millions of man-sized limestone boulders.

Next.

One of them looks through his FIELD BINOCULARS straight ahead.

Mystery Parachutist’s POV

EXT. SITE 3557-AUSTRIA-ADJACENT SUB-CAMP-SAME TIME

MEDIUM

ANGLE ON. EMACIATED ‘HAFTLINGE’ SLAVE LABORERS, who may as well be oblivious to what is occurring only a few hundred kilometers away, who are at busily erecting an inner, electrified perimeter gate as SS Guards and leashed Alsatians watch.

Next.

Still in the prone position, the MYSTERY PARACHUTIST lowers his binoculars- - -

It is the smile of satisfaction. They are at the base of Site 3557. The MYSTERY PARACHUTIST cranes his neck around slowly and addresses the man lying next to him.

MYSTERY PARACHUTIST

(in distinct Queen’s English)

Alert command we’ve spotted it.

Now we know at least these four parachutists ARE NOT GERMANS. The man who just gave a command is a British Commando, MAJOR GUY FAULKNER.

INT. TREVOR MOORE RESIDENCE-U.K.-TIME UNKNOWN-NIGHT.

CLOSE. On a 40’s-era black and white photograph of one MAJOR GUY FAULKNER dressed in British Army officer’s uniform. Faulkner is inside a pub standing in between four other British Army officers-fellow COMMANDOS.

MOORE is holding the photo as if it served to remind him of his own family.

MOORE

(referring to Faulkner with sincerity)

Pity…would have loved to pick your brain.

MOORE places the photo into an accordion file, sets it down, and then turns his attention to an OLD BRITISH INTELLIGENCE FILE marked MOST SECRET. He removes the contents of the file. Then, gingerly, he turns the first page over revealing itself to be the full personnel record of one IRENE MEADOWS.

CUT TO:

Spring, 1942

JOINT TECHNICAL BOARD, London, England

It was late in the afternoon.

Colonel Douglas Pendleton (56) hard-built, self-denying man, thinboned and well-preserved. He is of that age and generation which can do with very little sleep. Yet the strains of the last twenty four hours were already showing in the small, uncommon bruises at the corners of his eyes, and the unnatural pallor of his complexion. Seated directly across from him is IRENE MEADOWS (24) dressed in a First Aid Nursing Yeomanry uniform. With her porcelain skin, auburn hair and gentle frame. It’s hard to believe she is a trained field operative with Special Operations Executive (SOE) and trained in sabotage and black propaganda.

The Colonel studies Meadows without comment.

She is young. Too young to recognize Pendleton to be the type of person who only achieves some semblance of happiness just as long as he knows he can portray the role as someone’s international mercenary.

There is a knock at the door.

Before it opens Meadows can hear the hushed murmur of busy voices, the clip of feet, the faster chatter of typewriters, and the phantom throb of code machines from the cipher room.

A woman, Pendleton’s secretary, enters with the Colonel’s lunch, bread and soup. She sets his lunch on an exposed part of his desk without comment.

Thank you, Mildred.

Meadows watches Mildred’s careful movements having spent the last thirty minutes reading and digesting an intelligence file concerning a warehouse located in Aubervilliers, which is close to Paris. The file provides details concerning the firm which formally owned the warehouse- a film company which had once stored their large, in-door movie sets. In 1938, the firm had gone bankrupt and into receivership; soon thereafter, it had become a place where the French government thought it secure enough to store illicit cargo the police had confiscated from the holds of ships and airplanes. Finished with what she just read she looked up and sat the file on Pendleton’s desk, a signal, for him to lean forward in his chair, his bony fingers fidgeting with a fountain pen. This shifty behavior suggested he felt apprehensive about her, or even guilty.

Without thinking too much about it, tell me about some of the thoughts you have about what you just read?

As I said after our initial briefing, Colonel. I’m confident this assignment is well suited for me.

Pendleton’s jaw muscles clenched.

Yes, well, this time, I must warn you, it’s nowhere close to what you’ve experienced in the past. You won’t have a high-ranking member of the Italian navy as your de facto chaperone catering to your every whim. You’ll be second in charge of a reborn resistance circuit, BURGEON tasked with re-establishing trust between members of several, nearly blown sub-circuits under the very noses of a brutal organization.

Pendleton could not help but notice Meadows’ penetrating brown eyes.

Besides your impeccable French, I think your background in horticulture is why you’re best suited.

She nodded approvingly.

Bernard Lambert? The wine magnate? She asked.

Pendleton twisted his pencil between his thumbs and considered Meadows’ question. It was his way of being emphatic that he will not be hurried.

Critical to Burgeon’s security, Pendleton finally answered.

How so?

He’s formed a symbiotic relationship of sorts with the Abwehr, most notably, to one Captain Ernst Munstersteiger.

I don’t understand. She then said, with the respect of an attentive pupil.

Pendleton noticed that her eyes suddenly lacked the subservience which so often sickened him.

It began with their shared love for horse racing and waging bets.

Both men are astutely aware of the internecine rivalry between the Abwehr and the SS which is reaching a boiling point- - Each day Germany loses territory, Hitler places more faith with the SS.

Also not in bold print, Pendleton added, is the fact Bernard is perfectly aware of De Gaulle’s strained relationship with H-M-G. He knows we’re keeping a vigilant eye on his activities.

Would you mind elaborating?

He’s deeply aggravated he must accept our guidance. He’s rattled nerves by admitting he wouldn’t mind dealing with the Communists, just as long as they do their part in kicking out the ‘Boches.’

Meadows eyes another section of the intelligence file.

Meadows’ POV: A black and white photo of a bronze creature with a lion’s head and the body of a fish. And then a second photo of a wooden crate with German writing stenciled on it.

And the relevance of this statue?

The creature is referred to as a Merlion. Pendleton replied, forgetting for a brief moment she could not be referred to as our accomplice.

It’s obviously Oriental in origin, she said.

As it also turns out it’s made entirely of gold, Irene- - -Japanese gold- - completely concealed within a bronze shell. At first, we thought the statue was just a plain bronze statue which the Germans randomly picked up with the intention of melting down to manufacture shell casings.

Now, I need to share more about the warehouse.’ He continued. A Schenker truck makes regular drop offs of looted furniture, tapestries, that sort of thing- - Some Nazi high functionary comes by- - has a chance to pick what he wants, the remainder ends up being transferred to Germany."

When did the statue arrive?

We don’t know; but, it was at the Port of Bordeaux at some point. Four months ago, when the photo was taken, the ownership of the warehouse where the statue was discovered was transferred from the Schenker Co. to the D-U-B.

D-U-B?

Yes, they did remarkably well during Germany’s rearmament period financing the German export of finished product like machinery, chemicals- - - photographic instruments.

Meadows looked up.

This is your first task- - We want you to inspire Bernard to cultivate Munstersteiger into revealing where the statue came from, to whom it was destined, and why it sat unbothered for weeks, left there without any protection whatsoever with the exception of a single, pad-lock before suddenly disappearing- - carried away by parties unknown.

A gift? Meadows suddenly asked.

A gift- - - or a payoff of some kind. We do not know.

CHAPTER THREE

EXT. TREVOR MOORE RESIDENCE-U.K.-TIME UNKNOWN-NIGHT

Hume is seated in the driver’s seat of his car and it is pouring rain.

From his POV he can see that someone inside the Moore residence is home because a shadow figure has just passed one of the illuminated windows.

ANGLE ON.

In the front passenger seat is a small box, the type of box which is used to transport a manuscript.

NEXT

Barely seconds pass when beams of powerful headlights burst through the front windshield over Hume’s left shoulder, filling the back of his vehicle. Just as quickly, darkness closes in.

Hume, with the box containing a manuscript in hand, a section of newspaper over his head, musters up the courage to brave the HEAVY RAIN and runs to the front door of Moore’s residence and knocks furiously.

A minute or two passes before an eye reveals itself through the door’s view port.

MOORE (muffled)

A delivery? At this time of night?

HUME (yells because he knows he’s competing with the sound of crashing rain)

For God’s sake, it’s pouring outside.

HUME (Cont.)

I’m Donald Hume- - I contacted you a few weeks ago…I brought your manuscript.

There’s a beat. A moment of uncomfortable silence. It would seem Moore couldn’t care less whether Hume stands there for eternity.

MOORE (cracks open the door)

Inside that box you’re holding?

Show me…

Moore’s eye looks at him and then down but says nothing, allowing the emotion of the moment pass.

HUME

(Removing the box lid)

As I stated over the phone, your original.

Moore opens the door. We can see he is wearing a robe. Standing next to him is his dog, Frau.

MOORE

Come inside- - - the dog is friendly.

I’ll get you a towel.

INT. TREVOR MOORE’S RESIDENCE-U.K.-SMALL STUDY-SAME TIME-NIGHT

A small chunk of time has passed…

Hot tea has been prepared. Hume, sitting across from Moore, is still drying his hair off with a cloth towel.

CLOSE.

On Moore fingers, as he studies the stack of papers. We can tell by his expression he recognizes several of the original pages –of his original first draft manuscript. Moore pulls out the last page and is finally satisfied it’s all there. He turns to Hume.

MOORE

I made some calls- - confirmed who you are- -

HUME

With all the freaks in our world, I figured you would.

MOORE (referring to Jade)

I gather the two of you were good friends?

HUME

Yes, we were- -

MOORE

(at a loss for words but already desperate to cut the point where Hume recognizes his face time with a famous author is nearly over)

I’m sure my face doesn’t show it, please know a weight has been lifted off my shoulders- - - Thank you for this.

Hume’s jaw tightens.

MOORE

How foolish of me, some sort of reward is in order.

HUME

Actually, it wasn’t money which motivated me to come here.

MOORE (almost dismissing the significance)

Regardless of the reason, I wish I could repay you in some way- - -

HUME

You can. It’s just- - - I still have questions.

MOORE

More questions? I see.

HUME

Only important ones.

MOORE

I suspect, the main one being how it ended up in her hands in the first place?

HUME

Yes.

MOORE (slim humor)

Off the record?

HUME

Alright.

MOORE (boldly)

I’m unmarried, Mr. Hume. In comes this strikingly beautiful woman who makes it very clear her interview is very important to the magazine she works for- - Day turned into night, my flirtations weren’t getting me anywhere, so I turned to the bottle for comfort- - At some point, it seems, I lost my bearings and became extremely crass. (Beat) I made no secret what I wanted to do- - - orally.

Hume can’t help but recoil after hearing these words.

MOORE (Cont.)

What else could I offer her as an apology? She could keep it for a few weeks- - -I relied on a simple promise that it would be returned either personally, or via messenger.

INT. ROGER RANGLETHORPE RESIDENCE-U.K.-1948-DAY

It would surprise many indeed, that many years ago, the setting inside this home was different. In fact, the Ranglethorpes frequently invited guests, colorful guests.

SERIES OF SHOTS

It is Christmas and we can see a large gathering of well-dressed guests standing in semi-circles, holding glasses of champagne, holding plates of food.

Both he and wife MILDRED (23) took pride in adorning the outside of the house with Christmas lights in early December. All the appliances worked, the pipes underneath the floorboards didn’t groan as they did now when the cold tap was turned on.

NEXT

INT. ROGER RANGLETHORPE RESIDENCE-U.K.-TIME UNKNOWN-SOMETIME DURING THE 90’s

Hundreds of angry, buzzing flies argue over a pile of half-empty microwaveable dishes. The whole place is so full of clutter, there reached a point where Roger would find himself crawling, sometimes on all fours, navigating through piles of newspapers, mail, food containers, restaurant napkins, and empty plastic bags-zillions upon zillions of plastic bags.

This setting fit the criteria for what is called Diogenes Syndrome, characterized by extreme self-neglect, and syllogomania (hoarding rubbish). The excessive, pathological attachment of the rubbish hoarder to the hoard is manifested in their conviction that they may require the objects someday regardless of kind and consider the objects aesthetically pleasing, even when others may not.

If a therapist were on scene, he or she would explain any gasping onlooker depression is a disorder of mood, so mysteriously painful and elusive in the way it becomes known to the self-to the mediating intellect-as to verge close to being beyond description. It thus remains nearly incomprehensible to those who have not experienced it in its extreme mode, although the gloom, which people go through occasionally and associate with the general hassle of everyday existence. The depression Roger Ranglethorpe experienced was not the manic type, the one accompanied by euphoric highs, which could have most probably presented itself earlier in his life.

Roger Ranglethorpe was sixty when the illness struck for the first time, in the ’unipolar’ form.

Roger picks up from the floor a 14 inch X 8 inch DARK RED MEMORY JOURNAL. He looks at it as if it were a precious family album. A moment of meditation…

He drops it to the floor like an empty milk carton.

INT. MINISTRY OF DEFENSE-LONDON-1945-DAY

A BRITISH SENIOR INTELLIGENCE OFFICER (42) looks down languidly at a pile of MOST SECRET DOCUMENTS which lay before him. This includes…

CLOSE

Miscellaneous photos of DAMAGED GERMAN MILITARY VEHICLES, a BURNT-OUT JU-52 and, various GERMAN ARCHITECTURAL BLUEPRINTS of a CYLINDER-SHAPED BUNKER…A MOST SECRET intelligence file of one GRAEME DUFFY.

BRITISH SENIOR INTELLIGENCE OFFICER: Who took these photos?

BRITISH RAF INTELLIGENCE OFFICER (36)/(O.S.): The Wehrmacht war crimes department.

BRITISH SENIOR INTELLIGENCE OFFICER: Really? Whatever for?

BRITISH RAF INTELLIGENCE OFFICER: They were there to record the effect of the type of ordnance used- - - which was described as aerosolized, fuel-air bomb- - coal dust, apparently. Their report indicated the explosion within the confined space was immense. Those near the ignition point were obliterated. Those at the fringe were likely to have suffered many internal, invisible injuries, ruptured lungs and internal organs.

INT. ROGER RANGLETHORPE RESIDENCE-U.K.-1949-NIGHT

LOW LIGHT…

Roger catches Lilian lifting her gaze to the far end of the empty table. Her face is a mix of things Roger can only guess at. Deep in his heart it has occurred to him that their marriage might be dying.

It would be his friend from childhood, Graeme Duffy who had warned Roger that no marriage dies a natural death, to be very much on the alert for it. But Duffy also recognized there existed more than just a few grains of loyalty the married couple had for each other. Roger would defend her to the death and Lilian would do the same, even if there wasn’t a point for her to continually try to scratch through the surface of a world she could never enter.

Graeme suddenly stands up and takes a grand step forward. He is prepared to deliver questions and answer this and any other fire-tipped question truthfully. He had already told Roger and his other friend also present in the room, Edward Dennison, albeit unconvincingly, he had tacked the job with the systematic approach of an amateur archaeologist by reviewing photos and interpreting interrogation and situational reports. God only knows how many thousands of pounds have floated under the bridge since others have stepped aboard this sinking barge with a sizable part of eroding credibility stowed aboard.

DUFFY: A Potemkin fortress? What about the recovered shell casings of various calibers? The splintered tree stumps? The packaging of the provisions?

DENNISON (O.S.): Why not? The Germans were simply inspired by our creative example, and put together their own, magic gang. That’s all.

ROGER: This remote military site you’ve described, Graeme, it does sound like an ideal place for the Germans to set up shop for one of their various wunderwaffe projects. If that was, indeed the case, they could have been conducting regular mock raids.

‘Mock raids?’

‘What better than a mock raid to keep the defenders consistently vigilant?’ Dennison offered.

‘Using live ammunition?’

‘Sure, the acting participants most likely culled from penal battalions- - slave laborers - - - bedraggled remnants of several terribly shattered foreign volunteer units.’

JUMP CUT

The corridor Graeme and Roger were now standing in suddenly felt like a silent suburb. Lilian watched them both amble down it, peering through them, half-expecting her husband to utter something unintelligible to a distressed companion. She knew Roger felt as though he was amongst a tiny number of mourners on their way out of a chapel.

Duffy and Ranglethorpe enter Roger’s study where Roger finds his cat, Good Fellow, sleeping.

Ranglethorpe reaches for his smoking pipe.

‘There is very little encouraging advice I can muster at the moment.’ ‘I won’t sugarcoat it. Let’s say you stumble on the truth one day, Graeme, it won’t go further than that.’

‘No?’

‘No,’ Roger answered sharply, ‘regardless of how many shattered bones you bring back in tiny boxes. You’ll be pelted with claims you’ve plucked it all from your imagination- - that you fell for one of Germany’s greatest cinematic tricks…Ireefuhrung- - - playing material.’

‘I take it you that would include dismissing the possibility our own commandos are still out there, buried in shallow graves?’

CHAPTER FOUR

RETURN TO SCENE

INT. TREVOR MOORE’S RESIDENCE-PRIVATE STUDY-TIME UNKNOWN-SAME TIME-NIGHT

MOORE

I’m sure you’ve done your own research and know that when I come up with an idea for a story, I mean for much of it to be rooted in fact?

HUME

I do.

MOORE

Reason being, I have no desire to placate the conspiracy theorists. I don’t want to spend precious time going on my fan page and spending hours re-tinkering muddled logic.

HUME

You’d earn more.

MOORE

I don’t need their money.

HUME

Continue- -

MOORE

Well before I conceived the Notional Agent, I had another idea in mind- - - an equally compelling mystery also set during the war. Instead of a mysterious woman and her strange past being the central focus, I wanted it to be about the theft and subsequent search for the Amber Room.

HUME

The amber panels from the museum in Leningrad stolen by the invading Germans in ’41? They’re still looking for that, aren’t they?

MOORE

No, Mr. Hume. As it turns out, after having invested thousands of Pounds, I discovered why it has not been sought after by any relevant, well-funded organization since the 1960s- - - Only closed-minded eccentrics with too much time on their hands.

MOORE (Cont.)

We could get into that later, but the most important thing to know is that I got pretty close to knowing who it was who had a sizable chunk of the Room concealed in such and such place and which people had been secretly shuffling it around western and eastern Europe for decades.

HUME

What for?

MOORE

Each panel alone is said to be worth a fortune, which is why pieces of the Amber Room serve as collateral by the criminal elite. (Beat) Anyway, as I was opening doors and collecting information, I unexpectedly caught the attention of people, the sort of people conspiracy theorists like to blame for all that goes horribly wrong in the world.

HARD CUT:

INT. MARBLE FOYER OF VADRON MEDIA GROUP-LONDONTIME UNKNOWN-MORNING.

The PUBLIC RELATIONS FIRM Vadron Media Group, which had once been confined to a building which had once been a proud merchant bank, was originally founded in Scotland in 1994. Vadron’s offices had taken over what had become an insolvent institution whose existence had been unnaturally prolonged. The bank, just before its final departure, had, due to incompetent service and decision-making, evolved into a zombie bank.

In 1996, still declaring itself