entrapment
entrapment
ronald bass
first draft screenplay
december 2, 1996
story by:
ronald bass
and michael herzberg
ext. hancock tower, chicago - late night
lake shore drive. four o'clock in the morning. minimal traffic,
minimal life. as main titles begin, we pan up the face of...
...hancock tower. up, up, forty floors, sixty, eighty, very dark
up here, street sounds fading fast, and as credits continue we can
just make out...
...a dark figure. like a spider. inching its way up the steel
surface of the 98th floor, and we close to see...
the thief. all in black, nearly invisible, with a sleek visored
helmet that conceals the face. two long, oblong backpacks, climb-
ing ropes and harness across back and shoulders, tools at the belt.
moving straight up the face of the skyscraper. how is it possible?
closer still to see...
...the piton-like bolts are electromagnetic, clanking to the steel
to support weight. a button releases the magnetic charge when the
bolt is pulled up by cords to a higher position. the thief is
remarkably strong and agile, scaling the wall with fluid precision,
until...
...our summit. a softly-lit, glass-walled penthouse on the
100th floor. subtle spots which bathe paintings, sculptures,
in a cavernous coldly-decorated space.
swiftly, deftly, the thief rigs a suction-mounted harness to the
steel casing above a massive window. pulleys, metal caribiner
clips, yellow kevlar ropes. so superbly practiced, the rigging is
placed in seconds, huge suction cups pressed to the surface of the
glass. the thief reaches to a metal rectangle at the top of the
rigging, touches a button, a motor whines, the ropes tighten and
the window...
...pops free, hangs suspended by the kevlar ropes which amazingly
sustain its awesome weight. the huge pane shudders in the wind,
and the thief slips...
...into the penthouse. nearby, an alarm box softly beeps its
60-second warning to the pulsing of a green light, and the thief
attaches a small computerized device which runs a series of
possible codes at dazzling speed on its display panel, until...
...the right one stops. illuminated in red. the beeping, the
green light, go off. the device is removed.
back to the window, air rushing in, attach a similar suction-
mounted harness from the inside, all exquisitely engineered to rig
in seconds, press new suction cups to the inside of the dangling
window pane. a small remote control clicker...
...releases the outside suction cups. the window's weight now
supported by the interior rigging. the outside equipment pulled
into the apartment in a single tug. the whine of a motor, and the
pane pulls up, the thief expertly popping it into place.
no trace of entry.
rapidly folding the rigging into an astonishingly compact bundle,
the thief scans...
...the profusion of priceless art. the paintings run to otto dix,
franz marc, marcel duchamp. one statue an obvious rodin. the soft
lighting makes walls seem invisible, everything with an infinity
perspective in mind. an obsidian slab dining table that seems to
end at the horizon.
the thief has packed the rigging away, taken out a large cylin-
drical tube bearing a label we can't read. knows the way, quickly
through the spectacular apartment, past oils by early german
expressionists, russian futurists, a rothko, a kandinsky, a francis
bacon. the thief has no interest in these, and as credits continue,
we enter...
...a powder room. a lime-green poured concrete sink, a copper-
plated commode, and across from these...
...a single painting. unlike the others, clearly an old master.
a 17th century city on the water, churches, spires, an ancient
bridge. the thief wastes no time, unceremoniously...
...cuts the painting from its frame with sure, perfect strokes.
rolls it quickly in acid-free paper. opens the cylindrical tube,
pulling out...
...another canvas which we cannot see. deftly unrolls this,
fitting it carefully into the stolen painting's now-empty frame.
re-hangs it. stares for a beat through the opaque helmet visor.
approves. slips the rolled-up stolen canvas into the empty tube.
leaves. before we follow, we shift angle to see the replacement
canvas...
a cheerful acrylic portrait. bozo the clown.
with the thief now, moving fast, into a panelled library. there is
a chute built into the wall, a brass lid with the words u.s. mail.
the thief pops the labeled tube down the chute. gone. steps...
...onto a bookshelf, reaches up to punch out an overhead grating,
and...
disappears into the vent. reaching back to refit the grating
seamlessly into place.
int. vent
halogen flashlight leading the way, our thief shimmies down the
narrow space, arriving at...
...an open vertical air shaft, blasting air straight up the 100
floor height of the skyscraper, with frightening force. calmly,
the thief clips on a different harness, unzips a nylon cover from
the backpack, and simply...
leaps down the air shaft, startling the shit out of us, as, for an
instant...
...the force of the updraft seems to hold the thief in place,
suspended above 100 stories of nothingness. then suddenly, the
thief...
...drops sharply, an exhilarating moment of absolute free fall,
until a cord is tugged and...
...a nylon parachute opens with a pop. we watch the thief drifting
lazily down. a ride any kid would pay big money for...
ext. hancock tower - late night
our original exterior view of the skyscraper's penthouse. reverse
angle now to see in far distance...
...the dense forest of silhouetted office towers of downtown
chicago against the night sky, and we zoom toward them, covering
miles in three seconds, to close on...
...the highest floor of the sears tower, and through an unlit
window to see...
...a telescope. a silhouetted figure looking through it. snap
to...
view through the scope's lens. an amazingly close detail of the
hancock tower penthouse. the scope now pans down the length of the
tower, to...
the street. the thief climbing onto a battered old lambretta.
calm as you please. and as the scooter glides off...
we hear our unseen voyeur walk away from our telescope. a door
opens somewhere, and as credits conclude, it...
closes. softly.
int. webber assurance - day
a basement corridor. long, bare, dimly lit. silent. we're in the
bowels of somewhere. a startling clank, like a prison cell
unlocking. a figure enters the corridor, coming this way, on the
hurried side of brisk.
hector cruz is 42, tanned, fit, graying hair swept back in a pat
riley do. he wears riley's armani, too. maybe this guy coaches.
heels echo until he reaches a plain door with discreet lettering...
no admittance for any reason. there is a dull silver rectangle
below the words. he holds his hand up to it...
nothing happens. shit. dries his palm on his perfectly-creased
slacks. one more time. click. enters...
int. situation room - day
an unexpectedly vast semi-circular room, the entire inner circum-
ference made up of a single continuous wall screen, separated into
a seamless array of images...
three-dimensional rotating graphics of every room in the hancock
tower penthouse, schematics of electrical, plumbing, and ventila-
tion systems. see-through rotating multicolored models of every
piece of security equipment imaginable, components flashing as
performance simulations are run. rapid-fire sequences of inspan-
idual human profiles, complete with photos and bio blurbs. screens
flickering with blizzards of data, hurtling past at warp speed.
the pentagon and cnn would kill for this room.
the largest segment of screen, twenty feet square, runs a live feed
from the crime scene. the living room of the penthouse, crawling
with slow-moving cops and technicians, doing their slow-moving
thing. surrounding this image are a dozen smaller screens, showing
this and other rooms from a variety of camera angles. all live.
we see the library, the mail chute. the powder room. bozo.
cruz skips down three steps to floor level, nine separate control
stations, each outfitted with super-tech panels to process the
avalanche of information. but today, all stations are empty.
except one.
cruz
baker. you got it solved?
and now we see her. from the rear. slouched at her station.
looks like a skinny teenager in tousled tawny hair, rumpled
oversized workshirt, vintage jeans.
gin (o.s., from the rear)
actually. yeh.
not a kid's voice. throaty. music and whiskey and sex and
effortless confidence. even the voice turns us on.
cruz (glances at his watch)
what took you so long, gin? i
called 4:30 this morn...
and stops. because she turns with a look that would freeze anyone
to stone.
gin
i was with someone, all right?
now we really see her. delicate bones and features, slender body,
radiating the power of a natural heart-stopping beauty. ginger
baker is 32, ethereal and feral at once. electric green eyes
crackle with an intellect and a will that are not to be fucked
with.
cruz
so? this is work.
he is not kidding. stainless steel beneath the dapper. they are a
matched team.
gin
hector, i hardly know the guy.
why be impolite to strangers?
and he smiles. maybe she's lying. he likes her.
cruz
look at those assholes...
he means the cops on live feed.
cruz
if the vermeer were lying on that
table, they'd toss their doughnuts
on it.
gin
yeh, well, they didn't insure it,
so they don't have to solve this.
to them it's a crime. to us it's 24
mil, less re-insurance, which is...
cruz (grim)
only thirty percent, gin.
ouch. really?
cruz
which is why you're on this.
soft and straight. you're the best. i need you.
gin
he came in through the window.
cruz
that's not possib...
gin
what's not possible is entry through
the doors or the vents. that would
have triggered instant alarm.
cruz
the windows are wired, too.
gin
only for trauma. they used smart
glass, where the sensors respond to
violation of the panel's integrity.
he's listening. he always does with her.
gin
i think he scaled the wall, popped
the frame. in one piece.
she sounds awfully positive. then again, she always does.
gin
then, he only had to deal with
heat and motion sensors. they
were on 60-second delay, so the
owner wouldn't trigger the alarm
just be walking arou...
cruz
the pane weighs 200 pounds, the
building's 1100 feet high.
gin
this particular guy is the best.
the best there ever was.
almost as if she knows who. cruz shakes his head...
cruz
popping the frame would trigger
the alarm.
she smiles. first time. even at one-tenth power, it is dazzling
light. she touches the panel before her...
gin (gently)
i wrote a program and ran it, dumbo.
the live feed is replaced by a red-outlined rotating three-
dimensional diagram of the living room. the alarm box glows green.
one window pane glows lavender. she touches the panel, and the
window shatters, the alarm instantly emits a piercing screech.
reset. as he watches. this time the window slides away into
thin air. no sound. a stick figure appears, crawls through the
opening, and the alarm begins the slow beep we heard last night.
cruz just stares.
gin
here's how i figured it out...
live feed replaces the diagram. our camera zooms toward a vase of
lilies by the window. all the flowers are tilted in one direction.
over the lip of the vase, away from the window.
gin
no one arranges flowers like that.
it was the draft from the window.
he turns to her.
cruz
you said. this particular guy.
now she is beaming. excited. and just above a whisper...
gin
andrew macdougal.
delighted at his stupefied reaction.
cruz
why not houdini? or pretty boy
floyd? maybe jesus christ.
gin
because they couldn't do it.
his slow smile. this fucking kid.
cruz
he's been out of the business.
for ten years.
gin
maybe not. no one ever proved,
hell, even arrested him, for
stealing anything. but we all
know he was numero ichiban for
thirty years. why not forty?
she's serious.
cruz
why? because of the bozo switch?
guys have been copying his pack-
rat signature for decades. maybe
the thief wanted it to look like
macdougal.
she doesn't even answer. just touches her panel, and one of the
data screens blows up to huge size. it is...
gin
a list of his private collection.
complete to three acquisitions
last thursday.
names scrolling up endlessly, next to titles, descriptions,
estimated retail and black market values. turner, corot, thomas
coles, dekooning, klimt, cezannes, odilon redon, braques, mary
cassatt...
cruz
no vermeer. nothing close.
gin
don't be a putz. this is his
legitimate collection, which he
buys. presentable for any search
warrant surprise party.
names keep rolling, degas, paul klee. amazing.
gin
what he rips off, he fences. and
the money feeds his portfolio of
investments, which are daring, savvy,
and obscenely succesf...
cruz
oh, i get it. he has no interest
in vermeers, so that proves he stole
one. by that logic, he oughta be a
suspect most of the time.
she shakes her head, sadly.
gin
you love to embarrass yourself.
touches her panel. the big screen now shows a grainy videotape
of...
gin
the auction. where our client
bought the painting...
we see the great room of an english country estate. perhaps a
hundred attend. genteel to the max.
gin (o.s.)
ashcroft hall, buckinghamshire,
four weeks ago.
the tape pans five paintings on the block. we recognize our
vermeer, the city of delft, the canal, the bridge. the view pulls
back to include the crowd, and...
freezes. one tiny section is circled. and blows up twenty feet.
high, so blurry as to be unrecognizable. then, snaps to amazing
resolution. the image of...
gin (o.s., murmur)
anyone we know?
...andrew macdougal, perhaps 60, as charismatic and shamelessly
virile a face as one can recall. etched with character and worldly
experience, lit by a twinkle behind the razor-keen gaze. tall,
wide shoulders, massive hands. this guy would be more fun to fuck
than fight. by a lot.
cruz
so he was there.
gin
staking it out. why bid, when
you can mark the buyer, and jack
it within the month?
she leans way back in the molded chair. lifts her long legs
up onto the console. they end in slender bare feet. the toes
wriggle.
gin
at this moment, he is winging on
jal flight 307 to narita, ostensibly
to attend a prestigious auction at
the hotel akura, which will include
a mixed media collage/oil by georges
braques, on which he supposedly has
his eye.
cruz
but you know better.
gin
bet your ass. at vegas odds.
touches the panel. the big screen now holds three faces, three
names.
gin (o.s.)
research reveals three known fences,
still at large, who are believed
to have brokered vermeers to black
market buyers. sandrine palmer is
hospitalized in malta with ovarian
cancer.
one face and name disappears. two remain. koichi naruhito.
hiroyuki yamaji.
gin
the other two. live in tokyo.
a tiny, dry, adorable, shrug. which says, bingo.
cruz
and you did all this since 4:30
this morning.
grinning small at each other. she can't help that hers is hot.
she never can.
cruz (murmur)
plus. you were polite to a
stranger.
one of those moments when his attraction to her is too obvious to
ignore. best to defuse by pretending it's a joke...
gin (soft and playful)
sounds like you're sorry you're
already a friend.
said as banter between pals. which doesn't make her wrong.
int. hotel okura, tokyo - night
auction in progress in the huge traditional lobby, where bonsai
trees, paper lanterns and elaborate painted screens counterpoint
the sleek, international, big-money crowd. everyone milling,
drinking, schmoozing, networking in a babble of languages, as up
on the raised platform...
...the auctioneer has a new piece on the block, a 6th century
temple scroll, from the asuka period. it is exquisite, and bidding
seems to be big time, from the rapidly escalating numbers on the
overhead digital display, which reveals bidding status in thirty
currencies simultaneously. as we pan the hall, we see...
...all non-asians either wearing headphones, or acompanied by
personal translators at their elbow, to follow the rapid-fire
auctioneer.
except one.
andrew macdougal stands alone in black tie. tall and rugged and
polished and focused, and, well, pretty gorgeous. he is bidding on
the scroll, indicated only by subtle gestures with his program and
the repeated finger-stabs of the auctioneer in our direction.
woman's voice (o.s., subtitled japanese)
don't do it.
pull back slightly to reveal gin, who has stepped to his shoulder.
she is barely recognizable to us in her satiny slip of a pale
golden gown that drapes her frame perfectly. breathtaking would
be an insult.
macdougal doesn't turn, doesn't seem to even hear her. just raises
his program to up the bid.
gin (softly, subtitled japanese)
you're already over value. by
15 percent.
and now he turns. straight to her eyes. this is not an admiring
glance at seeing the loveliest woman in the northern hemisphere.
it is a look that says, in the most understated terms, shut up or
i'll kill you. she shuts up.
his glance goes to his obvious bidding rival, a rather butch
middle-aged chinese woman in an embroidered version of a mao suit.
she indicates her bid by gesturing with a tiny yorkshire terrier,
whom she holds in her stubby hands. macdougal raises back.
gin (subtitled japanese)
will you stop being stubborn
for one sec...
and stops. because he has turned. with the eyes of a lion. being
pulled from an antelope carcass.
mac (quietly, subtitled japanese)
i have a question.
rich scottish voice. impeccable japanese intonation.
gin (brightly, subtitled japanese)
who the fuck am i?
mac (subtitled japanese)
that is of no interest.
oh. in spite of herself, she looks a little hurt.
gin (subtitled japanese)
what, then?
mac (subtitled japanese)
why. are we speaking. japanese?
her eyes move across his formidable face.
gin
uh. i'm showing off.
his eyes scan the length of her gown. her body.
mac
something of a habit?
she is minus a comeback.
mac
you know the alleged value of this
piece from some fucking computer,
which has no clue of the price i
can turn the scroll around for in
30 minutes.
a beat.
gin
no, you can't.
he blinks. no?
gin (really sorry)
it's sold.
his great head whips around to see madame mao kissing her pooch,
flushed with victory. he stares for a long moment, a veneer of
philosophical almost masking his rage. when he turns back...
mac
are you a confederate of my
adversaries? or are you just
stupid.
and walks. away.
hold on her. feeling like both.
ext. hotel okura - night
mac among the guests awaiting their cars, standing slightly apart.
from behind him...
...a feminine throat clears. nervously. he closes his eyes for a
beat. then, turns.
gin (softly)
how about. if i try humility.
and presents a business card to him with both hands, japanese-
style. mac looks in her eyes. takes the card with both hands.
reads...
mac
virginia romay...
gin
gin, actually, gin romay. i
was named after a card game.
mac
or a cheap cocktail.
she blinks. his brows raise...
mac (softly)
as in. i'll have a gin romay,
please. with a twist.
that laser, unsmiling stare. beyond sexy. she gets lost in it for
a beat.
gin
you're supposed to be charming.
mac
i'm supposed to be selective.
glances back to her card. reads...
mac
art and antiquities acquisition
advisor, how alliterative...
looks up. still no smile.
mac
and am i the antiquity?
gin
in mint condition.
she sighs. achingly lovely.
gin
look, i've studied you, i know...
pretty much...everything.
do you.
gin
made your first millions selling
scrap metal. then, gold mining
concessions, gems, art, and lately
strategic metals for new technologies
- platinum, zirconium, titanium...
mac
you said. everything.
huh? oh.
gin
the cat burglar stories? why
would anyone...with so much to
lose...take those kinds of risks?
guileless smile.
gin
you'd have to be. stupid.
a held beat. his glance lifts beyond her shoulder.
mac
excuse me.
and walks off toward a sleek custom touring car just pulling up.
she goes after him.
gin
i didn't know porsche made
things like this.
mac
well, they don't...
tipping the valet. sliding in...
mac
...as a rule.
shutting the door. through the open window, she hands something
from her bag. a plastic rectangle which opens into a slide viewer.
she presses the light on. he looks at the slide.
gin
recognize that?
no reaction.
gin
my seller is in shinjuku, we can
go there tonight.
she leans closer.
gin
he wants 4.6 million. i can
get it for three.
he hands it back. looks in her eyes.
mac
no, you can't.
and takes off. her jaw drops slightly, but in one fluid motion...
she's hailed a cab.
int. imperial hotel bar - later
graceful, timeless room, designed by frank lloyd wright in the
'20s. burnished. elegant. way cool. a place to drink, to deal,
to dream. pan down the polished surface of the bartop, til we
come to...
...a tropical drink. cute little umbrella, tilted back toward the
room. rotate angle to see...
...inside the umbrella, something small, something mechanical. a
woman's hand adjusts the point of the umbrella ever so slightly,
and we pan up her arm to see...
...gin. still in her gown. she is reading, with half-glasses, and
one of the bows curls around her ear, which we close on to hear...
...static. gin adjusts the drink umbrella, which is a directional
mike, and hears...
mac (o.s.)
...only it's not bloody football!
snap to mac's table, well across the room. drinking giant beers
with a large, really fat japanese guy in a costly; if wrinkled,
suit. the hulk listens with stone attention to mac's rant, as if
he actually gave a shit.
mac (o.s.)
...it's just that crap americans
call 'football', like you could
call your ass a butterscotch scone
and have it be one!
the guy nods seriously. maybe he's a sumo dude.
mac
why you'd want to bring that
foolishness to japan, you're
just pissing your investment
down a bungee hole.
sumo guy (major accent)
you got cubano this trip?
that he does. mac pulls out a leather cigar holder, and passes it
over. flat against one side is an envelope, which sumo guy palms
skillfully, slipping it seamlessly into his pocket as he withdraws
a small match box. takes out one long cigar, lights up...
mac
seriously, put the money into
pharmaceuticals or prostitution,
something stable.
the big guy pushes the cigar holder and match box back toward mac.
opening the box, mac sees one match and a small microchip fastened
to the cardboard. lights up. slides the match box in his pocket.
mac
garbage, perhaps. or industrial
plastics.
angle...gin still engrossed in her reading. a figure leans down
next to her. she startles, slightly. so surprised to see...
mac
my favorite thing in life.
coincidence.
she gives him the great smile.
gin
i'm staying here, what's your
excuse?
and now he smiles. first time ever. a little chilling, the way he
does it.
mac
staying here, as well. you
are in room...?
gin (half a beat)
one thirty-eight.
in one motion, he flags the bartender...
mac
will you send a half-bottle of
chateau d'yquem '67 to room 138,
please? and some berries and
chocolates for the lady to enjoy
it with.
he presses some currency into the barkeep's hand. turning back...
mac
actually, i was just across the
room, dickering with a gentleman
over the purchase of an interesting
spitzweg. until i determined the
painting was apparently stolen...
oh. she's shocked. he agrees...
mac
goes against my grain. the
dekooning in your slide, the 4.6
million you can get for 3. can
you get it for 2 and a half?
she looks in his eyes.
gin
sure.
and as if he believed her...
mac
my checkbook is in my safe. you
wait here.
his smile evaporates. he is gone before she can say...
gin
okay. i'll wait here.
int. car, shinjuku district - night
mac driving in silence. gin stealing glances at him. suddenly and
smoothly, he reaches down, and picks up...
gin
that's my purse.
he opens it. one eye on the road, he begins to rummage...
mac
just want to see if i'm with the
person you say you are. can't be
too caref...
she snatches the bag away from him, he grabs it back, the car
swerves left, and...
...crashes violently into a parked pure white bentley. metal
buckles and tears, both alarms go off, a cacophony of horrific
noise.
mac (quietly)
oh, dear.
people come running, but our focus is drawn to the refined elderly
couple who were just returning to their precious bentley. their
wails and anguish would be suitable if all their grandchildren had
been crushed beneath mac's wheels.
mac and gin are out of the car. as he exits, mac has palmed a
small blade, and in a quick unseen motion, ripped a jagged tear
in his left trouser leg. the old couple rush to mac, shrieking
their rage and grief in japanese, gin is trying to calm them as
bystanders gather, but mac cuts through...
mac (subtitled japanese)
we'll go in there, and call
the police.
and hobbles off toward the nearest building, a block-square
30-story skyscraper bearing the name fujitsu. the couple, the
crowd, all race after the limping mac...
gin
are you all right?
no answer, he looks dark enough to rain. into the public lobby of
the huge industrial complex. two night guards come hurrying from
their desk, as the small mob pours in. mac in the lead, a
commanding presence, tells the guards in a loud, clear voice...
mac (subtitled japanese)
i have damaged the car of these
kind people. please help them
call the police...
one guard leads the hysterical couple toward a phone. mac pulls up
his trouser leg, and gin gasps to see a bloody gash. mac drops the
trouser back over the wound. asks the remaining guard...
mac (subtitled japanese)
may i use a washroom, please.
the guard nods absently, disoriented by the chaos. mac hands his
billfold to gin...
mac
these are my papers, passport, car
registration. if the police arri...
gin
you're going to need stitches,
let me get you to a hospital.
soft words, genuine concern. and his eyes flicker. as if somehow
seeing her for the first time. a small spark, but she feels it.
softer still...
gin
really, this can all wait.
i'll handle it.
the look holds.
mac
that's actually. very sweet.
his first real smile. it was worth waiting for.
mac (to a guard, subtitled japanese)
might you have a first aid kit,
of some kind?
int. toilet stall
we are inside an empty, closed, japanese-style toilet stall.
porcelain foot rests. a hole. the door bursts open, and...
...mac enters fast with the first aid kit, locking the door,
hitting the stopwatch on his wrist, which begins counting at
zero. he pulls up his trouser leg, revealing the bloody gash,
and simply...
...rips the entire wound off, the rubbery prosthetic wound dangles,
dripping its phony blood. mac pulls gauze strips from the kit,
soaks them in bogus gore, expertly wraps his leg, then flushes the
prosthetic down the hole.
he pulls off the fujitsu visitor badge clipped to his lapel, and
from a ziploc bag slides a small sheet of plastic, which he presses
to the face of the badge, fitting perfectly, turning the badge
into...
...an employee i.d., the name kawakubo, m., the photo of a surly
japanese male. quickly, mac takes out the match box from the hotel
bar, and with a fine tweezers gently removes the microchip, placing
it inside the badge, activating it with a soft beep-beep. he
reaches now...
...behind his back, up under his tux jacket, and rips free a
tightly-compressed pack of what seems white paper or cloth. he
snaps it loose, revealing it to be...
...a baggy clean suit, not unlike hospital scrubs and falling to
the floor...
...a white hood. with opaque tinted visor.
int. security corridor
mac in his clean suit and opaque-visored hood at an elevator marked
cleared personnel only in english and kanji (japanese characters).
he holds his badge to the scanner, the door pings and slides open..
int. prep room entrance, 29th floor
mac emerging from his elevator at the entrance to an air-lock with
sign clean room - class 10. holds his badge to the scanner, the
air-lock door lights flash froin red to yellow to green. he
enters...
...the prep room. recorded voices purr safety instructions in
japanese, while mac stands, being bombarded by air shower, chemical
sprayer, blinding uv light. the next air-lock opens. he enters...
int. clean room
...a long assembly line, where robot arms work on a stream of black
silicon wafers, which pass along a clear lexan conveyor belt. the
wafers move through various airtight chambers, exposing them to
multi-colored gasses, cyan, sodium yellow, magenta, etc., as part
of the microchip manufacturing process.
more than a dozen technicians in their hooded clean suits watch
over every phase of the work, attached to the walls by grounding
wires and air hoses, which create a deafening noise. mac simply
hooks himself up, and saunters straight through the area, toward
the place where the conveyor belt with its newly-processed
microchips...
...disappears through the wall. nearby, a hatch is built into the
same wall, and mac calmly clanks it open, squeezing through into...
...a dimly-lit maintenance bay. panels of switches, wires, fuses,
fans, air cleaners. maximum claustrophobia, as mac clangs the
hatch shut behind him, looking instantly to...
...an overhead hatch with letters in kanji and english, danger
argon gas. mac throws back his hood, yanks out his mini oxygen
pouch, fits the slender forked breathing tube into his nostrils,
and slips on thick round infrared goggles that make him look like a
refugee from 12 monkeys. no time to lose...
...up through the overhead hatch, closing it behind him as he
enters...
...the conveyer tube, a horizontal lexan cylinder three feet in
diameter, filled with billowing red gas. mac stretches out on his
belly, glancing up to where the clear conveyor belt, with its
precious cargo of microchips, runs along just above his head in
eerie red light. he begins to...
...shimmy, crawl, squirm along the length of the tube. gas too
thick to see the end. he is agile as a commando, hauling ass, when
suddenly...
...the floor beneath his tube falls away, and he is crawling in
space 29 stories above tokyo, as his tube spans the distance
between manufacturing and shipping structures. he goes faster,
harder...
int. microchip vault
a black chamber. we can scarcely make out the endless rows of
shelving, the air purifying equipment, the conveyor belt entering
through its air lock, as machinery folds each priceless microchip
in foil wrappers, stacks them on shelves. through the gasket...
...mac tumbles into view, swinging himself neatly down to the
floor, and in a single motion, he is already flashing a neon-green
pen light along the shelves of microchips. we see now the wrappers
are different colors, with different kanji characters, and mac is
definitely looking for something special, until...
...he's found it. a single row, 35 chips, nothing special from
here, but mac...
...whips out something coiled, snaps it to full length, revealing a
strip of shiny black satin cloth. three feet long, little more
than an inch wide. carefully, mac lays the strip down directly
over the row of microchips. and when he lifts it up again...
...the chips have adhered to the underside of the cloth. in one
deft snap of his wrist, he coils the cloth again, like a yo-yo.
turns to leave, and...
oh, yeh.
tosses a small sack of something where the chips used to be. tim's
cascade brand potato chips. sea salt and vinegar flavor.
int. clean room
mac exiting from the maintenance hatch back into the clean room.
no one sees, no one cares. hooking up once again, he ambles toward
a door clearly marked exit only to employee lounge - return only
through security area.
by the door is an employee notice tacked to the wall. he pretends
to scan it. a stack of flyers. he takes one. exiting into...
int. employee lounge
past a changing area, vending machines, guys bullshitting. mac
just strolling along, reading his flyer, as...
a hand. touches his shoulder
voice (subtitled japanese)
excuse me.
mac turns, stares through his opaque visor at a well-built security
officer. dead straight eyes.
officer (subtitled japanese)
the company picnic. saturday or
sunday?
his eyes cut to the flyer mac is 'reading'. mac hands it to him,
and without a trace of scottish accent...
mac (subtitled japanese)
better eat first.
int. guest lobby
gin is up to her ears in grief. there are no less than five cops
grilling her, taking notes, while the old couple has their second
wind and are shrieking in top form. the bystander gallery has
grown to maybe three dozen, and they're all getting their word in.
as gin struggles to cope...
...she keeps looking at the clock. darting glances toward the
corridor. she is freaking out.
finally. she can't stand it. hands mac's billfold to one of the
cops, pushes her way through the mob, and...
...takes off down the corridor, a security guard in belated
pursuit, we go...
...with her down the hallway, wheel around a corner, flat-out
sprinting, skids to a stop at the right doorway and bursts into...
int. men's room
an empty washroom. she listens. nothing.
gin
mr. macdougal? sir?
no sound. uh-oh.
gin
uh. mr. ma...
mac (o.s., from the stall)
just 'mac'. and whatever became
of a gentleman's privacy?
the security guard barges in.
mac (o.s.)
my god, more females?
the guard starts railing at gin a mile a minute. she calmly takes
a wad of bills from her purse. hands them to the guy...
gin (subtitled japanese)
stand outside. that door. two
minutes...
he does. alone again.
gin
i was worried, it's been twenty...
mac (o.s.)
eighteen, actually. the leg is
fine, but i got sort of...woozy.
gin
woozy.
mac (o.s.)
lost my stomach once or twice.
cut inside the stall. he is just re-taping the folded clean suit
and hood to the small of his back.
mac
i'm an old man. you probably
noticed.
awkward silence. he smiles at that, much amused. slips on his
jacket.
mac
you should see me without
my teeth.
unlocks the door. remembers...
mac
ah. mustn't forget to zip up.
that's not what he forgot. he pulls out the coiled black satin
cloth strip, snaps it free, microchips snug to the underside. and
fits it neatly...
...down his trouser leg. the perfect tuxedo stripe.
out the door. to meet her gaze.
mac
odd place, this.
he goes to her. offers his arm.
mac
what do you suppose they make
here? video recorders?
she takes it, wrapping both hers through.
gin
microchips, i think, for computers.
he opens the door. ushers her through...
mac
bad investment. the best ones
are here today...
follows her out...
mac (o.s.)
gone tomor...
closed door. quiet.
int. cab, nihonbashi district - night
they sit together in the rear of the taxi, as it makes its way
through late night traffic. she is looking around.
gin
this isn't the way to my sel...
mac (quietly)
i've changed my mind.
looking straight ahead. contemplative. she stares at his
profile...
gin
mind telling me why?
mac
you can't get it for me at 2.5,
can you?
gin
well, we can tr...
mac
you were setting me up. the correct
price is 2.8. you conspire with the
seller to start at 4.6, so i'll be
grateful when you 'bargain' him down
to three. close enough to fool some
people. unfortunately...
he sighs. never looks at her.
mac
i'm old. i know what everything
is worth.
she keeps staring.
gin
so where are we g...
mac
i am going to the airport. you
are going on to the rest of your
life. which...
he thinks. admits...
mac
...should be interesting.
her turn to think.
gin
you forgot your lugg...
mac
the hotels deal with that. the
things i need are always waiting
at the next one.
(afterthought)
i don't carry. baggage.
little twist on that.
gin
sensible. and you're off to...?
mac
oh, that's highly personal.
he still stares straight ahead. the taxi pulls onto a freeway.
toward narita airport. time running out. and in her dearest, most
vulnerable, voice...
gin
i did so hope to impress you.
she puts the fingertips of her left hand. on his chest. a
silence. no reaction.
gin (hopeful)
i'm still hoping...
and he smiles. turns to her eyes.
mac
young lady. i am old enough to
be your grandfather.
she shakes her head. uh-uh.
gin (soft)
my father.
leans her mouth in for the kill.
gin (whisper)
that's part of the rush.
and softly. fits her mouth to his. the green eyes close, as
she tastes him. nothing predatory in this kiss. it is tender,
exquisite. a kiss of deep longing. of true love.
his arms slip around her. and in less than five seconds...
taxi driver (o.s., racist accent)
still on fo' airport?
nobody. says. nothin'.
int. mac's suite - late night
a small bottle. an ornate label. chateau d'yquem '67. gin lifts
it from the table, studies the label. she wears only a man's
oversized t-shirt. our rotating angle reveals the empty bed,
tangled sheets. gin looks pretty rumpled herself.
she lifts the bottle, two glasses, a plateful of chocolates and
strawberries, and goes to the sliding glass door overlooking...
...the terrace. mac sits on a futon at the balcony railing,
overlooking downtown tokyo. he wears a thin japanese robe called
a yukata, and is wrapped in half of a huge down coverlet from the
bed. the other half obviously waiting for...
gin
here. a reward.
she curls down into the billowing coverlet, just against his body.
sets her things beside him.
mac
a reward for what?
gin
for not being old. after all.
it is a lovely smile. he studies it for a beat.
mac
you mean. not as old as i look.
she traces her finger along his cheek.
gin (a whisper)
yeh.
and kisses him. it takes awhile. she seems to enjoy it. with
him, it's harder to tell. when she pulls back...
...he picks up a chocolate. tears it in half. offers her the
larger piece.
gin
do i deserve a reward?
no answer. he puts the chocolate into her mouth. with great
tenderness, he traces the line of her lower lip. as she swallows.
gin
it's so hard to find good casual
sex, anymore. i'm probably out
of practice.
but he just looks at her.
mac
what's hard to find. is someone
you truly want to be with.
and leans closer. just above a whisper...
mac
even for awhile.
he kisses her. beautiful and deep, the way he does it. and
when he pulls back, she is staring at him. as if at a loss for
something to say.
gin
it's lucky we stopped by my room,
for the wine.
she swallows. because his gaze is unrelenting. as if not
forgetting that she's changed the subject.
gin
otherwise, we'd never have found
my bag was stolen. until tomorrow.
mac
would that make it more stolen?
she smiles. his face looks kind now, not formidable at all. maybe
she's wondering if she actually likes him.
gin
they even got my prescriptions.
mac
something you need? there are
all-night chemists...
he does look concerned. and therefore sweet. she kisses his nose.
gin
i take prilosec. for stomach
acid. and an inhaler. for asthma.
she gets her old smile. the soft, wicked tease.
gin
but since i didn't have to work
all that hard tonight...
he stares at her. cocks a finger, like a gun, right between her
eyes. pantomimes pulling the trigger.
gin (softly)
ouch. i had that coming.
she pivots, and snuggles her back comfortably into his chest. he
wraps strong arms around her. pulling her close.
gin
why would someone steal my luggage?
every guest in this place must
have more than a wannabe art dealer.
mac
ah. maybe the thief thought you
had something valuable in there.
something in the tone.
gin
such as...
mac
well. wannabe dealers make
excellent fences.
a flicker. in her eyes. and she cuddles back. as if enjoying the
humor.
gin
he thought i had a stolen
painting. in my bag.
mac
i'm joking, of course.
kisses the top of her head.
mac
the vermeer wouldn't fit.
her eyes widen. just a little.
gin
excuse me?
mac
why, did you do something wrong?
she turns all the way around. their faces are inches apart. each
reading the other's eyes.
gin
you said. vermeer.
mac
the most famous painting stolen
this week.
his turn. to kiss her nose.
mac
if you don't keep up on your
craft. you'll miss all the jokes.
and lowers her gently onto her back. still staring in her eyes, he
winds her legs around him. her mouth parts, but...
...he fills it with his own.
this conversation. is over.
int. mac's suite - morning
view of the empty terrace, the rumpled, twisted coverlet. maybe
they spent all night. hear the shower running full blast in a
distant bathroom. pull back to see...
gin, hair wet, wrapped in a plush hotel robe, rapidly and expertly
going through dresser, night stand, closet, sofa cushions, every
goddam thing in the room. she comes to...
...mac's tux. the jacket, rifles the pockets, pats the lining.
the pants now...
...something peculiar. the right leg has no stripe. touches the
cloth. slightly sticky where the stripe should be. odd.
angle...the bathroom. shower running full blast. but there's no
one in it.
angle...a storage closet. mac crouching in the smallspace. we
see the travel bag. the luggage tag, virginia romay, a darien,
connecticut address. the embossed initials vr. but there is
something else in mac's hand...
...a prescription bottle. prilosec. and a name, ginger baker.
chicago address. mac puts the pills in the pocket of his robe...
...exits the closet. locks the door.
angle...mac ambling into the bedroom, toweling his hair with one
hand. holding his billfold in the other. gin is starting a room
service breakfast. eggs, sausage, belgian waffles. the girl can
eat.
mac
i'm so glad i didn't leave tokyo.
she looks up. trademark dry grin...
gin
i love a guy who knows how to
sweet talk.
he stands over her. smiling. what he meant was...
mac
there was a call. while you
were sleeping.
a call.
mac
an art dealer i know. he has a
monet. minor, but it is giverny.
he'll let me have it for 5.3 million.
she stares at him.
gin (cautiously)
we can maybe beat that.
mac (pulling plastic from his billfold)
i agree. this is a bank debit card.
it gives the bearer access to an
account containing 4.6 and change.
i dislike round numbers.
and hand. the card to her. as her eyes move over it...
mac
i'd like you to go down there,
and pick up the painting. if
that's all right.
without looking up...
gin
me.
mac
if i'm there, he'll haggle. you
just hand him the debit card, with
that...luminous smile. and say,
take it or leave it.
now her eyes come up. she says nothing. hesitant.
mac
oh, dear. i thought you so
wanted to make a good impression.
gin
thought i already did th...
mac
and along with making an excellent
impression. you will also make 2
percent of the purchase price.
she blinks.
mac
that's $92,000. and change..
for two hours work.
the look holds. he goes to the desk. lifts a cellular phone.
