《变脸》FACE/OFF

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 indiv-

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.