The Medici Dagger

of slate all around me. I scrambled to get my body turned around before I ran out of roof.

I slid over the edge feet-first, latching on to the big tin rain leader with my fingertips. One of the men in the forest yelled something in Russian. I heard two bursts of gunfire and felt the metal rip on either side of me. The section of leader I clung to groaned and broke off, and I fell twenty feet, barely managing to get the jagged piece of tin under my boots. I hit the steep, sloping ground in a crouch and slingshotted down the hill like a snowboarder on a double-diamond trail. Four guys jumped on two snowmobiles, roared their two-strokes to life, and took off after me.

I yanked my gun out of its shoulder holster, pointed it at the snowmobile on my far right, and squeezed off three rounds. The driver grabbed his chest, and the snowmobile smashed into a tree and exploded.

With the second sled closing in, I entered a steep, bumpy clearing. Fifty yards ahead, a single red and yellow hang glider launched off a sheer cliff. I aimed for the glider and crouched, feeling the spring in my thighs and the stir in my belly as I prepared for the dive. In an instant, the ground disappeared and my board dropped off into space; the snowmobile driver behind me swerved to a stop at the edge of the precipice.

I arched my back and stretched every fiber in my arms and fingers toward the glider, shot by the wing, and grabbed on to the frame at the front. The glider took a sharp dive. Some biceps and body English would have snapped it back up, but I leaned forward and to the right and we went into a spin. One, two, three, four, five electrifying, corkscrewing seconds ticked by before I countered with my hundred and eighty-five pounds, yanked the frame with all my strength, and pulled the glider straight to sail out over the icy blue lake.

The second unit director’s voice came over my earpiece. “Jeeeezusss, Reb! What the hell happened up there?”

I locked my harness to the glider frame. My hands were trembling, but not from the chilly mountain air. It was “the heights”—the shakes I get whenever I fly or take a fall. I don’t make the heights public.

“Did you get the shot?” I said into my lapel mike, feeling the ebb of adrenaline.

“Of course I got it! It was gorgeous. But major heart attacks are happening here. Who said spin? Did anybody say—”

“Marty, nothing bad happened, right?”

“Uh, right.”

“Then please just say ‘thanks.’ And ‘that’s a wrap.’ Don’t forget to say that.”

“Okay, okay,” he squawked. “Thanks, that’s El Wrappo!”

“You’re welcome,” I said.

I’d nailed it—the whole scene. It was over the top. I knew it would be. Knew it when I talked Charlie, the hang-glider pilot, into going for the spins. He didn’t want to, of course, but I swore to him it would be all right. “Think of the bragging rights,” I told him, “and besides, you can always break off and pull your chute.” Charlie didn’t know I left mine in my trailer.

Nine cameras rolling—one take. A good morning’s work andthe end of the picture for me. Later they’d punch in the close-ups of the star, the dapper and always cool Tom Sloane, apologizing to a beautiful hang-glider pilot:“Sorry to drop by unannounced.” Meanwhile, Charlie was giving me the thumbs-up. I grinned, unclenched a hand, and pulled my earlobe, hoping he didn’t see the heights.

There was major whooping and back-slapping when we got back to the set, followed by everybody thanking everybody and exchanging temporary goodbyes. I made the rounds fast, then changed out of my getup into a tight black T-shirt, faded jeans, brown leather bomber jacket, and custom-made Beatle boots.

I was getting ready to leave when the producer, a slim woman named Rhonda, all red hair and big lips, headed my way with the star himself.

Tom was about my size and looked remarkably like me—dark wavy hair and brown eyes—which kept me busy as his double. His best quality, though, other than his naturally good teeth, was his wife’s spinach and mushroom quiche.

I heard Rhonda telling him, “Are you kidding me? With this in the trailer we could show two hours of you sleeping and still rake in a hundred and fifty mil. And that’s just domestic.”

Today I’d fallenandflown, and still had a touch of the heights. I slipped my hands into my pockets.

Tom flashed me his famous smile. “Jesus, Reb, how’d I do that?”

“You had no choice,” I replied with a shrug. “They were trying to kill you.”

“Good line,” Rhonda said. “Very macho. But that spin, Reb. One of these days you’re going down. Don’t you know the meaning of the word ‘danger’?”

“Danger’s my maiden name,” I said, forcing a grin.

She laughed. “C’mon, let’s all go celebrate.”

“Can’t,” I replied, turning in the direction of my ’68 silver-blue Jaguar XK-E. “I left some wet towels in my washer.” I could feel my gut churning and knew I’d better get out of there fast.

Tom turned to Rhonda. “Towels?” he bristled. “What’s he talking about, towels?”

As I made my escape, I heard Rhonda smoothing him: “ Stuntmen . . . strangers in a strange land.”

I pulled off the road at the first deserted spot, sank to my knees, and threw up all over some wildflowers.Rhonda had it almost right. But I’m not going down one of these days. I already went down.

The warm western sun presided over a shiny sea as I pulled up the short driveway to my Malibu bungalow. I let the motor idle for a moment before turning it off, not wanting to hear the lonely crackle of the cooling exhaust system or the single cardinal singing to itself, as if it didn’t matter that I was alone again.

I reluctantly entered the house, quickly stripped, and threw on my old Speedo shorts, a holey T-shirt, and my