My name, kind sir, is Punyabrata Desgupta, and as you might surmise, I am a very long way from home.

How did I come to be involved with the affairs of one of the world's most dangerous men? It is barely comprehensible to me. I will ask that question of myself many times over the years to come, you can be sure. All I can say is that he lived up to his incredible reputation. I did not know for one moment that he was not who he claimed to be. Although I must admit I did have somewhat of an inkling, when…

But let me begin at the beginning. I am from the city you know as Bangalore, in India – perhaps you have heard of Bangalore, it is known as the information technology center of our country. I am a Customer Contact Manager. What is that? That is someone who manages people who work on the telephone assisting customers – as I once did, before receiving my most welcome recent promotion. I am employed by the company of my best childhood friend, Manit Banerjee, who went to the United States to study engineering but quickly discovered that considerably more money can be made from Americans who have too much work and not enough help to do it all. So instead of completing his degree, Manit returned home to Bangalore – if he had not, he would have very much upset the parents of his intended bride, the lovely Miss Anarghya Mukopadhyay (we call her Arghy, of course, which suits her very well). He wasted no time in gathering together quickly those of his friends who could speak English without making too many mistakes, and named his new company "Outsource U!" I understand the name has created a little confusion from time to time for Westerners, who sometimes think we might be a university. Here, give me your pen and I will write it down for you.

Why does it have an exclamation point? Ah, Manit says that market research has proven that a definite statement is very exciting to our customers, and what is more definite than an exclamation point? We are encouraged to think of exclamation points as we talk to our customers, to keep everything as exciting as possible.

Manit was also going to use an exclamation point on our recently announced manned Customer Contact Satellite, for which he had proudly chosen the name "Up U!" However, for some reason that name was not very popular with the customers…or perhaps it was because at the same time we experienced those unfortunate strikes by several Sikhs in the employ of "Outsource U!" who were complaining that because of the turbans they must wear, they could not fit their heads into the helmets of the vacuum suits, and would thus be denied the opportunity to spend three months at a time in a satellite eating frozen meals that taste like very old rubber tires.

But I am digressing.

It was a particularly hot day in Bangalore (which I would like to inform you usually has a very moderate climate) when the first call came to the company from a gentleman who identified himself only as "Mr. Stutt." He would not give his first name or his telephone number – our state of the art detection software was regrettably unable to tell us anything, either - and his reaction when asked if he had an account with us caused some consternation in my associate Pradeep Rangarajan. Pradeep was somewhat intimidated by what he called the very deep and commanding voice of Mr. Stutt, and asked me, as his manager, if I could take the call.

I was perhaps a little more disagreeable than usual that day because I had been out late the previous night celebrating the birthday of one of my many brothers-in-law, and our trip to that fine Bangalore establishment the Toit Brewpub can best be described by the line on Toit's very own teeshirts that reads: "Drink your liver out." So I was perhaps a little firm when informing Mr. Stutt that before we could respond to his request for virtual assistance he would have to create an account. Mr. Stutt, who indeed was possessed of a very deep and commanding voice, was quite unhappy. However, after some negotiation - although he still would not give me his telephone number - he eventually agreed to provide me with an address in Malaysia. Which most unfortunately our system could not verify. After some more heated discussion, Mr. Stutt then gave me the address of his apartment in Singapore instead, which Google Maps did recognize. I could not identify his accent, which was quite strong, but deduced that our new customer was perhaps an international traveler. I told him about our new customer special in which we would bill his credit card for five months and he would get his sixth month free, but alas, he did not seem very interested.

Since he was not proving to be the easiest client, I decided to keep myself on his account for the time being instead of giving him back to Pradeep. I have come to regret that decision most sincerely.

Mr. Stutt's first request was that we research film companies currently looking for funding for projects. My third brother-in-law Aamir is a Bollywood writer, so I have listened to all the stories, and that request caused me to exhibit some amusement. I told Mr. Stutt that almost every film company is always looking for funding, and could he perhaps narrow down his field of interest so we could perform to his satisfaction the task he was requesting? Once again Mr. Stutt was upset, and I should note here that his choice of expletives was rather exotic. (I was evidently correct in my assessment that he was well travelled.) However, I am a professional, so I merely waited until he calmed down.

"America," he said. "I want something that has to film in a remote place in America."

I told him we would begin work immediately. I then asked him how I was to inform him when his research was completed, since he would not give me his telephone number or email address.

"I will know when it is completed," he intoned. "I will contact you then."

I did not really know what to make of that.

I assigned the task of compiling the report to one of our most talented researchers, Miss Anupama Patel. Anupama's second sister-in-law has a very nice Toyota Qualis and graciously provides a carpool for several of our associates and myself to work every day, and she recommended Anupama to "Outsource U!" upon her graduation from university in New Delhi. Anupama has proven an excellent employee, and she never disappoints her most important client, a politician in California for whom she does everything you can imagine that is possible from such a long distance away. She has disputed his cell phone bill, applied for new credit cards, sent birthday cards to his family, found a new chauffeur for his limousine and researched the backgrounds of several prominent members of the opposing political party. Her most recent triumph was the location of a Moon Colony Elmo for his youngest child for Christmas, a feat most admired by her client since none of his friends' children received one. Anupama told me that he informed her that the child's mother, whom he called Guadalupe, was very happy indeed. But I am thinking she must have misheard, because according to all the news reports, the wife of our client is named Annette.

Anupama was quickly able to produce a short list of film companies which were attempting to raise funding for projects that would film in remote areas of the United States. She compiled histories on each company and project, biographies of their chief employees, charts of profit and loss, and tax records for the previous seven years. To say that Anupama is a "power user" of Microsoft Excel would be an understatement.

I had only just opened the email from her that announced the completion of her project when my personal telephone vibrated on my desk. When I answered it, I was very surprised to hear the deep voice of Mr. Stutt.

"You have my report," he said, and I am very sure he did not phrase that as a question.

"Yes," I answered. "But how did you know? And how are you able to call me on this number?"

He ignored both my questions. "A messenger will be there to retrieve it in thirty minutes. Make sure it is in an envelope at the front desk."

"An…envelope?" This was a most unusual request. "You mean…you want an actual…file? A paper file?"

"You have thirty minutes," he growled, and hung up. I still did not know how he obtained my personal telephone number, which was most disturbing, but I very much had the feeling that he was not going to tell me.

I sent an email to Anupama informing her of this most unexpected turn of events, while she searched for a printer to make hard copies of all her documents. She was sure that there must be one on her floor somewhere, although she could not remember seeing it. I myself went to the office supply storeroom to locate an envelope. It had been many years since I had had the occasion to use one, and I was not sure our clerical staff would know what one was.

Mr. Stutt called me, again on my personal phone, two days later. He told me he had chosen a project from our research. His pick was a science fiction film entitled "Martian Invasion," written by a gentleman named Mr. Ari Goldheimer, who was also the director, as I understand is common with these small budget films. Anupama's research had revealed that Mr. Goldheimer had actually begun filming some weeks earlier in a desert location in the American State of Nevada, but after only a few scenes were "in the can," as they say in the film industry, his financial backers had unexpectedly withdrawn their support, and he was now looking to replace them. Rather anxiously, from what I could see. Apparently his daughter was in a somewhat expensive private school and his third wife was very fond of designer shoes and their country club.

"Get me the script," Stutt ordered. "But do not reveal who is asking."

After consultation with my brother-in-law Aamir, the Bollywood writer, I determined the best way for me to proceed. With his assistance, I contacted a man he had met several times in connection with his work, a somewhat unsavory film producer named Mr. Carl Bletcher. Mr. Bletcher, Aamir informed me, had the reputation for being willing to do almost anything at all for the right price. Mr. Bletcher readily agreed to procure the script from Mr. Goldheimer, and did not even ask who the request was for - something that must have endeared him to Mr. Stutt, since my client's voice warmed up almost to freezing point when I relayed the message to him.

We received the script in three days, with a note from Mr. Bletcher that looked as though he had written it with a very thick marking pen meant for labeling boxes. I only gave it the briefest of glances but I remember it said something about how Mr. Bletcher thought Mr. Goldheimer was "desperate" and would be "an easy mark." I did not want to inquire too closely into his meaning. Once again, Mr. Stutt seemed to know within moments that I had received the package, and he sent his messenger firm to retrieve it. At least this time I did not have to find an envelope. I had only been able to find one the last time in the bottom of a box, and I was not sure we had any at all left.

Mr. Stutt was back on the telephone four hours later, and this time he said he wanted us to find him a writer. There was a scene he wished to add to "Martian Invasion."

Naturally, I thought of Aamir. His current Bollywood project, an epic science fiction retelling of "The Ramayana" set during the colonization of Venus, seemed to lend itself to the kind of help Mr. Stutt was requesting. The scene my gruff-voiced client had outlined to me over the telephone involved the two protagonists of the movie, policemen named Maguire and Slim. In the script so far, they had become trapped in a cave by Martian invaders, who were firing gas bombs at them in a most unfriendly manner in order to persuade them to surrender. Mr. Stutt wanted the Martians to cause a large explosion. I managed to convince Aamir that it was not a good idea to add a song and dance number to the outline that Mr. Stutt had specified, either before or after the explosives were used. Aamir was very disappointed, saying that if a musical number worked so pleasingly in a story about Venus, surely Martians would not be averse to learning the steps. I reminded him that my client did not impress me in any way as a flexible man.

The script pages were delivered to Mr. Stutt in the normal fashion – that is, normal for him. Fortunately, Aamir possessed an envelope. Since my client was showing every sign that this would become a habit for him, I made a note to myself to ask the very nice Miss Asha Gupta in the purchasing department to please look into providing us with a supply.

I did not expect the next telephone call from Mr. Stutt to be a request to hire me as his personal assistant.

I demurred, of course, since I had a very good salary and a generous benefits package that I must consider, as well as an allowance for a vehicle should I choose to purchase one, and I was very loyal to my childhood friend Manit Banerjee. I offered to recommend one of the younger members of our office, telling him that several of them were extremely very well qualified and would probably be very willing to travel. I confessed to him that I would not be a good choice for him – not only was I rather set in my ways, but I become rather airsick in planes. Mr. Stutt expressed extreme displeasure at my refusal, although I must admit by this time I had grown somewhat used to him and simply held the telephone away from my ear until he had finished cursing very colorfully in what sounded like the Oirat dialect of Mongolia (I am not a language specialist, but we have a client from Mongolia, his company manufactures yurts for Westerners for adventure holidays on the Steppes). Then I wished him good day and informed him that if he would like to complete a customer satisfaction survey, he would have to provide us with an email address. He elected to depress the red bar on his telephone instead.

I left work as usual that day, expecting just to journey home with my associates in the Toyota Qualis of Anupama Patel's second sister-in-law. It had been a particularly long week and I was very much in need of rest. As I arrived in the lobby, a man with broad shoulders and very large hands came to my attention, standing at the reception desk. Our receptionist, the lovely Miss Ayushmati Sharma, was looking a little concerned. Never one to be able to resist a lady in distress, I introduced myself to the large-handed man and asked if there was anything I could do to help him.

I know you will probably not believe me, but I will swear to my dying day that when he looked at me, his eyes glowed.

When I awoke, I was not in the lobby of Outsource U! any more.

The floor beneath me was very hard. I managed to open my eyes and nearly fainted again at the sight that greeted me. I had been taken to a place that seemed to be a temple! The walls were so far away that it was hard to see them in spite of the many candles, but they looked like there were made of some kind of stone. There were carved pillars and many statues made of gold and jewels, some of them…well, let us just say that some of them were engaged in activities that would not have been approved by the Bangalore Broadcasting Censorship Department. The floor was hard because it was also made of stone, polished very highly. There was a heavy smell of incense in the air and I had to suppress an urge to make an excessively loud sneeze.

The situation I found myself in was so far from my usual experience, even after a night out at the Toit Brewpub, that I did for a very brief moment wonder if this was one of Aamir's movie sets, and he was playing a joke on me. Those hopes were dashed almost immediately, alas, when I heard a very familiar voice. "It is time, Kyrano, for you to help me once again…"

It was none other than my client, Mr. Stutt! This confused me very much indeed. I turned toward the voice to tell him that this was obviously a case of mistaken identity, since my name was most definitely not Kyrano. But then I realized he was not talking to me. He was kneeling about twenty feet away with his back to me, dressed – somewhat disturbingly – like an ancient prince in one of Aamir's Bollywood films. His arms were raised as though in prayer, and he was facing a statue surrounded by narrow columns and many jets of flame that came up out of the floor, which had the effect of making the statue's enclosure look a little like a crematorium I saw once on an American detective program. There were many strands of golden beads hanging from either side. From the circular track above, I surmised that the beads might form a curtain to shroud the statue when they were closed.

Was this "Kyrano" a deity of whom I had never heard? It was starting to dawn on me that this might not be a very good situation that I was finding myself in. Was my client involved in some sort of strange religious cult?

Mr. Stutt lowered his arms. His bald head was large and most shiny, and it shimmered in the candlelight. "Soon," he intoned, "You will be under my influence."

From his words, I surmised that this "Kyrano" was perhaps not a deity after all. But then I had an even more disturbing thought. Was this a demon my client was praying to? The statue did not look particularly frightening, but still…

It occurred to me at that moment that perhaps I should be looking for a way to leave this place, wherever it was. But where was I? What if I was not even in Bangalore? How should I find my way home? I have never been blessed with a very good sense of direction.

"You will do just as I say," Mr. Stutt continued, rising to his feet. "You cannot resist me. I have a power over you. The distance between us is great…"

That was good, I thought. Most reassuring.

"…but you cannot escape me…"

That was not so reassuring, however.

Mr. Stutt was raising his arms again. "Kyrano," he chanted, his voice growing louder. "Kyrano!"

There was a pause, and although I cannot swear to it, I thought that I heard a voice cry out in distress, somewhere. My intake of breath alerted Mr. Stutt, and he turned swiftly toward me. His countenance was heavy-boned and distinctly Asian, although of precisely what descent I could not readily tell…and quite terrifying, especially in the light of the candles. His eyes were very dark.

"Mr. Stutt," I began, haltingly.

"Sleep," he commanded. And I did.

When I awakened again, I was in the open air.

The air was hot and dry, and the sun was very high up in the sky. I was sitting in the passenger seat of an open-topped jeep-like vehicle that I could only imagine the owner had purchased from a military surplus catalogue. I had not seen its like since Aamir made a musical film several years ago about an important battle during the Second Bereznik War. The film was very good, actually, and I remember very much liking the songs. I was humming them for several days afterwards.

I am digressing again. I must apologize most humbly.

I once again did not know where I was. When I looked around, I saw several other vehicles parked nearby, and two of them very much resembled the trailers that Aamir had showed me once when I visited him at the studio where he worked. I put it all together, with the sand and the rocks around us, and I knew where I had to be. This must be the American State of Nevada, and I was at the location of Mr. Ari Goldheimer's film, "Martian Invasion!"

It was a very confusing moment for me. How had I reached this place without remembering the journey? Although perhaps, considering my tendency to uncomfortable internal difficulties while airborne, the fact that I had apparently slept through the flight was a blessing.

I heard the sound of footsteps and saw a young man approaching me. He was wearing a headset and carried a walkie-talkie radio and a smartpad. "Hey, you Dennis Gupta?"

"My name is Punyabrata Desgupta," I said, with all the dignity I could muster.

"Close enough. Come on, move your ass. Mr. Stutt wants you on set."

His accent and his vernacular were decidedly American. I had surmised correctly, then. I suppose I could have refused, and somehow escaped this place in the jeep-adjacent vehicle I was sitting in. Provided I could find the keys. But I have never been particularly brave. I resolved to wait for a better moment to make my "break for it."

I followed the young man.

The film crew was gathered at the bottom of a rocky cliff, and I immediately received further confirmation that I was right about the production because the model of the Martian spacecraft I remembered from the pictures Anupama had included in her research was standing nearby, a large bronze colored flying saucer on three spindly legs. A man on a ladder was applying paint to its surface. Beside the spacecraft a man in an alien costume sat in a wooden folding chair with a red canvas back – I had seen these many times when visiting Aamir, he had called them "Director's Chairs." The lower face of the man was made up to look like green and black scales, and a shapely young woman was doing what Aamir had told me were called "touch ups," using a brush. As we passed by, I heard some of their conversation.

"So I said, look here, O'Reilly, either you get me out of these Martian monster parts or yours truly's gonna find another agent."

"So what did he say?" the woman sounded very bored indeed.

"Well, so I said, look here, I've been in this business twenty-seven years and I reckon I could find better parts than these..."

It seemed that actors were the same everywhere.

I followed the young man past another man, also wearing a headset, who was sitting at a console that contained many buttons and a large screen. There were only a few people present, which surprised me somewhat. I was used to the film sets Aamir took me to, where so many crew members hurry back and forth that it resembles a bee hive stirred by a bear.

No, I have not actually seen a bee hive. Not even one that a bear is stirring. But there are many excellent documentary programs on the Discovery Channel.

The young man with the walkie-talkie left me near three more men who were standing a small distance away from the console. I recognized one of them from his photograph on his profile at the International Movie Data Base. It was Mr. Ari Goldheimer. He spoke quickly and seemed very nervous, shifting back and forth on his feet as he talked.

"With the new automatic cameras we can operate from one console. Six remote-control cameras, all set up."

One of the two other two men nodded his head. He was short and somewhat round in stature and older, with gray hair and a voice that Aamir would call "gravelly." He held a lighted cigar in one hand. "Great. I hear they photograph like a dream. Can they work independently?"

"Oh, yes, yes." He gestured with one hand toward the top of the cliff. There was a camera mounted up there, some distance above us. "That one up there, that's the real beauty. A complete range of three inches to two miles. Focusing is as sharp as a knife. That's the one Mr. Stutt ordered personally."

He nodded his head toward the third man. I felt quite queasy in my stomach as he did so. I had been sure that there was something familiar about the third man's broad shoulders and large hands, but this was not the face of my client. This man, who wore glasses and like the second man, smoked a cigar, was Caucasian, and he was not bald. He had thick brown hair and a mustache.

The man did not speak. With a slight smile, he turned and gazed up at the camera on the cliff. Then he looked at me and I knew that despite his appearance, it was Mr. Stutt. There was no mistaking his eyes. I will wake from nightmares when I am an old man, remembering those eyes.

"Okay, let's get started." The short man spoke. I realized that he was probably Mr. Carl Bletcher. "You're beginning with Scene number 141 – the scenes Mr. Stutt included."

"Okay, but I don't understand why we can't, er," Mr. Goldheimer laughed nervously, "stick to the schedule I prepared. It'd be more economical."

"Listen, pal," Bletcher said in a most grating tone, waving the cigar, "It's his money, he calls the tune. You start where he says, or you don't start at all."

Even though he was wearing sunglasses that hid his eyes, I could feel how dismayed Mr. Goldheimer was at that remark. "Oh, sure, sure, sure," he stammered with much haste, once again giving that nervous laugh. "Anything you say."

I felt most sorry for him at that moment. It could not be much of an artistic triumph to be finally making his movie, when he had men like this still telling him, as the saying goes, "when to jump, and how high."

The young man with the walkie-talkie called out "Places, everyone!" Mr. Goldheimer sat in one of the red director's chairs, behind the man at the console with the large screen. The chair had his name printed across the back in white letters. There were two more chairs, I was sure these were for Mr. Stutt and Mr. Bletcher. Those two gentlemen were conferring with each other in low voices nearby. I could not make out most of their words, but as Mr. Bletcher turned his head at one point, I thought I heard him say, "Everything's fixed, just like you said."

I did not find that very reassuring at all.

Mr. Goldheimer suddenly began talking, although I could not see to whom. "You guys in there ready?"

He was dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, and I worried that perhaps the heat was affecting him. Then I heard a voice that sounded like it was coming over a radio: "Okay, Mr. Goldheimer!"

"Scene one-four-one, cameras two, five and six, speed…interlock!" said the man who was sitting at the console with the big screen. I looked at it now, and saw that it was divided into six squares, obviously to correspond with the view of each of the cameras. On one square I could see two men in police uniforms in a cave…the very one at the bottom of the cliff nearby, I could see it on the long range viewpoint of another camera. Another man was also in the cave on a yellow hover scooter. He was not in a uniform. I could make out the words "Mobile Smoke Unit" in white on the nose of the machine. I smiled to myself as I remembered a funny story Aamir had once told me, about a smoke unit that had malfunctioned most egregiously at a performance of a play he had attended, completely obliterating the stage from view and causing the audience to flee the theater.

Then I caught Mr. Stutt looking at me, and I decided perhaps smiling was not a very good idea.

"Okay, Brian," the director said, "Hit your smoke."

The man on the scooter responded and smoke billowed from the nose of the scooter. When the director was satisfied he ordered the driver out of the cave, and called "Action!"

We watched as the two "policemen" on the screen pretended to be affected by the "gas." I knew what was supposed to be happening at this moment, of course, since I had read the script while still in my office in Bangalore. That seemed like a very long time ago at that moment. Then the actor I had seen having his makeup attended to, now in full Martian mask and headdress, which was really most impressive, went to the mouth of the cave. Apparently able to speak very good English, he threatened the policemen with his large Martian ray gun, ordering them to leave the cave. They refused, of course, and he informed them that the cave, in that case, would become their tomb!

It was all very exciting, and I must say that if I had been watching this under different circumstances, I would have been having very much fun indeed.

Mr. Goldheimer gave the signal, and the man at the console reached for a trigger. Instantly there was a most shockingly huge explosion, and I clapped my hands over my ears as the ground trembled. Big pieces of rock rained down in front of the cave with a noise like thunder. It was very spectacular, like being on a ride at Universal Studios. Except that there was so much dust and dirt in the air that nobody could see anything for a few moments, and in Universal Studios they probably would not have allowed that to happen.

Then I noticed that everyone on the film crew, including Mr. Goldheimer, was looking very startled, as if this was not at all what they had expected.

Everyone except Mr. Bletcher and Mr. Stutt.

When the dust finally settled down, we could all see that the cave entrance was completely buried behind the rocks that had fallen. "What went wrong with those charges?" Mr. Goldheimer exclaimed. "They've blown half the mountain away!"

I began to realize that although to be sure Mr. Stutt's addition to the script had specified that the two policemen be trapped in the cave, it was actually not a good thing that this had apparently taken place. My opinion, and I am sure that by now you will not be surprised by this, was not shared by Mr. Stutt. As Mr. Goldheimer called out for the rescue of the two actors, declaring this to be "terrible," my client said, with satisfaction, "It looked very good to me. A fine piece of filming."

Mr. Goldheimer was distraught when his crew informed him shortly afterward that they were unable to move the rocks. Worse, water was pouring in from somewhere inside the cliff and the roof was giving way. "But, I don't understand," Mr. Goldheimer kept repeating. "Someone must have tampered with those charges!" If he had been a nervous man before, he was a frantic one now. "Two men are dying in there, and we're helpless! No one can save them!"

It did occur to me to think that perhaps he was being a little dramatic at this point, since we had lost contact with the camera that had been inside the cave and therefore could not see what the true situation was. Then another crew member informed Mr. Goldheimer that the radio that was also in there with the actors was apparently still working, since the noise of the water falling could be heard quite clearly, but the actors were not responding to enquiries about their condition. So perhaps Mr. Goldheimer was right to be so concerned. I kept silent, however. I did not think Mr. Stutt would appreciate hearing my speculation as to the condition of the unfortunate trapped men.

Then I saw my client give a slight nod to Mr. Bletcher – unseen, I think, by anybody else. Mr. Bletcher then moved forward to where Mr. Goldheimer was pacing and flapping his hands, obviously seeing his film and quite probably his reputation, such as it was, going down in flames. The more I observed Mr. Stutt and Mr. Bletcher, the more I had the uncomfortable feeling that they had planned this entire situation and were pulling the strings, step by step. I could not fathom the reason why, however. "Say, er, what about this, er, International Rescue outfit?" Mr. Bletcher said.

"International Rescue? Why, yeah," Goldheimer responded, grasping most eagerly at the straw he was being offered. As he was meant to do, I am sure, from the gleam in Mr. Stutt's eye as he watched. "I've heard about them. They've pulled off some real tricky rescues. But how do we contact them?"

"Well, the way I hear it, you just send out a call," Bletcher responded, as smoothly as though he had rehearsed these lines, "from any radio transmitter, and somehow, they pick up the message."

Mr. Stutt was nodding. That unpleasant little gleam of satisfaction was still there, although I made sure he did not see me noticing it.

Sure enough, as soon as Mr. Goldheimer made the radio call, International Rescue acknowledged it and said they were sending help immediately. I was most impressed, but Mr. Goldheimer was still fretting. Five minutes had not passed since the radio call when he said, "Do you think International Rescue will make it in time?"

Mr. Bletcher just told him he worried too much. He then left Mr. Goldheimer and walked over to where Mr. Stutt stood, a little apart from the others. They had a discussion that looked perhaps a little heated, but they kept their voices low so no one was able to hear what they were saying. Then Mr. Bletcher began to sidle away toward the place where the vehicles were parked. Nobody paid any attention to his departure, and Mr. Stutt's glare made sure of my silence.

We waited for a while. I do not know exactly how long. The young man with the headset and the walkie-talkie brought around bottles of cold water for everyone, which was most welcome. The whole time, under my breath, I was trying very hard to think of what I could say to Mr. Stutt that would persuade him to let me go without bringing unfortunate damage to my person. None of the scenarios I could imagine turned out very well for me at all, however.

My client inclined his head suddenly, as though he were listening to something. After a few moments I was able to hear it, too – it was the sound of a jet aircraft of some kind. Mr. Stutt said nothing, but then Mr. Goldheimer became very excited and jumped up from his chair. "It must be International Rescue!"

I jumped most involuntarily when Mr. Stutt's voice growled in my ear, "Come with me, Desgupta. Now."

I have to say, however, I was somewhat flattered that he remembered my name correctly. It does not always happen in these client relationships.

I followed him back to the parking area, but he turned left before we reached the vehicles. I gave them a look of utmost longing, but despite my very strong desire to escape, I had an even stronger desire to not be torn limb from limb. I decided obedience was the safest policy.

My client led the way with much haste up a very steep and sandy trail. So intent was I on not lagging too far behind him – and that was not easy, since he moved very fast indeed – that I was surprised when he stopped all of a sudden. We were at the top of the cliff overlooking the film crew. The view was quite breathtaking, but Mr. Stutt paid it no attention. He strode straight over to the camera that Mr. Goldheimer had pointed to earlier.

"That one up there, that's the real beauty. A complete range of three inches to two miles. Focusing is as sharp as a knife. That's the one Mr. Stutt ordered personally."

Then, in a rush of utter clarity, I knew the enormity of Mr. Stutt's evil plan. He was going to film the machines of International Rescue. The very thing that nobody was permitted to do under any circumstances. And I was powerless to stop him.

As if to prove the accuracy of my fears, he took a firm hold of the control grips with his large hands and put his eye to the eyepiece, swinging the camera toward the sky. There was a small monitor screen mounted to the camera base, upon which I could see what my client was observing. I was not sure if this silver and blue aircraft that was approaching us was a rocket or an airplane; it seemed perhaps to be a little of both. It was long and silver with a red pointed nose, and as we watched, wings tipped with blue stripes swung out on either side of its body. I could clearly read the lettering Thunderbird One on its side.

"Excellent," Mr. Stutt said – most exultantly, I must report. "My plan is working perfectly!"

I knew what the red light on the camera meant…he was filming. On the monitor screen, Thunderbird One lowered what must surely be her landing struts and her vertical landing jet roared into life, brighter even than the heated desert sky. You must do something, Punyabrata, I argued with myself, you cannot let this man get away with this heinous act! (It is seldom that I can get away with using a word like "heinous," but fortunately nobody could hear me as I was talking only to myself at this point.) I then looked around for something I could perhaps use as a weapon…but then Mr. Stutt was in front of me, holding my arms in a grip that reminded me of Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Arnold Schwarzenegger. The Terminator. I do not believe you do not remember him! There is something lacking in your education about the cinema. I shall ask you for your email address and send you some recommendations.

Yes, yes, I am digressing yet again. I am very sorry.

"What are you doing?" Mr. Stutt demanded as he held my arms.

I made the mistake of looking into his eyes.

When I awoke again, Mr. Stutt was still at the camera. He was wearing an earpiece, which I surmised was connected via the camera to the radio system down at the film set. He was also talking to himself (I was receiving the impression that he did this quite often. Perhaps it is the penalty of being an evil genius with no sidekick to talk to. No, no, I thought to myself immediately, remove that thought from your brain. You do not want to become his sidekick!)

I am serious. I did not want to become his sidekick. Please stop regarding me in that fashion.

Where was I… Ah, yes, my client was talking to himself. "They are still alive in there!"

"That is very good..?" I ventured, making sure to end my sentence as a question in case my client was not happy about the news. I was not sure what he might be wanting to hear at this point.

He glared toward me. "Of course it is, you fool. International Rescue will want to know there is somebody in there to save!"

I tried to estimate the kind of sound that one such as he would expect me to produce after a pronouncement of that nature. It did not matter – my client was listening only to his earpiece. "Wonderful! They are going to use a piece of equipment I have never seen before!"

I did wonder at that moment how many pieces of International Rescue's equipment he had seen, but decided it would be imprudent to ask. Although I did wonder if perhaps for him this was a little like that English hobby of trainspotting.

I peeked over the cliff down at the film set. A tall, dark haired man in a blue uniform was seated at an equipment console of some kind, talking to Mr. Goldheimer. Mr. Goldheimer was not noticeably calmer despite the presence of International Rescue. Then we both heard the sound of another aircraft approaching, and Mr. Stutt bared his teeth with what I can only describe as glee, managing to accomplish that without letting go of his cigar. "Thunderbird Two is here!"

I hope you will understand that I could not help but be caught up in the excitement of the moment. For those who have never seen Thunderbird Two, it is an incredible sight and much larger than I had expected it to be. It was painted green and and yellow and made the cars in the parking area behind us look very small indeed. It was even bigger than its sister ship, the much more slender Thunderbird One, which seemed to be less than half as long. It had four vertical landing jets and the sound was so loud when they fired during the landing that I needed to cover my ears.

My client was so happy by now he was actually humming. I was mostly ignoring him at this moment, I must confess, lost in boyish awe as Thunderbird Two, now on the ground, slowly rose up very high on her four very shiny hydraulic struts (at least, that is what they call them on the television news) and revealed that she had brought Pod 5. After a few moments, the pod door very slowly folded down, and a red painted vehicle that looked like its parents might possibly have been a tank and a bulldozer came rolling out on caterpillar tracks. A long set of silver arms at its front held a cylindrical structure set with some very impressive looking metal teeth. My goodness, this was much better than watching "Heavy Metal Task Force" on the Science Channel!

"They call it the Excavator," Mr. Stutt gloated as he filmed. "What a machine! My price goes up every minute!"

At the bottom of the cliff, the Excavator paused for a moment, lowered its massive arms, and the metal teeth began to spin. Then the machine resumed its journey to the place where all the rocks had fallen. As soon as the teeth came in contact with the loose rocks, it began to grind them up with a most earsplitting roar. A wide scoop under the spinning teeth collected the debris and the Excavator then expelled it all rather violently behind itself through two very large tubes.

When the loose rock had been cleared, the teeth lifted again and stopped spinning. "Now they will drill a hole!" my client declared. Discounting the possibility that perhaps he was clairvoyant, I surmised that he must have overheard International Rescue's intentions via the radio.

Exactly as Mr. Stutt had predicted, the Excavator then extended a very long metal boring device through the center of its front scoop. The noise was still most impressive. This continued for several minutes, while my client hummed and filmed. "Ah," he said suddenly. "Water! They have struck water! And not a moment too soon."

The Excavator withdrew its long boring device and backed away from the rock fall. In a matter of seconds water came flooding from the hole it had made in the rock, and with it two men tumbled out into the open air. They were safe!

I began to applaud, but very quickly thought better of my impulse.

After the men had been retrieved and led back to the trailers, Mr. Stutt zoomed his camera in on the two International Rescue operatives, who were now gathered with Mr. Goldheimer at what I gathered from my client's muttering was called "Mobile Control." The pilot of Thunderbird One was distinguished by a light blue uniform sash that bore the emblem of their organization. The pilot of Thunderbird Two had a similar sash, except that his was yellow in color.

My client suddenly began cursing in what sounded to me like Mandarin, striking his earpiece with the palm of his hand repeatedly. Then he tore off the offending piece of equipment and threw it into the dirt, making many slurs on its possible ancestry. He then reached up to something long and narrow that was attached to the lens housing of the camera. I thought it looked like a microphone, and I was gratified that I turned out to be right when we both started to hear the conversation down at the film sight.

"How can I ever thank you boys?" Mr. Goldheimer was so relieved he was positively gushing.

The pilot of Thunderbird One shrugged it off with a wave of his hand. "Forget it. Glad we could help." I am sure he was very used to people thanking him for performing the impossible.

Mr. Goldheimer was not to be dissuaded that easily, however. "But, I…I…I…I must do something! Say – can I feature you in the movie?"

Looks of dismay instantly came over both of the pilot's faces, and the one in the yellow sash turned to look at the other, who laughed – a little nervously, I thought. "Well, I guess we're not the movie star type," he said, although to be perfectly honest, both men were very handsome indeed. "But thanks all the same."

Before Goldheimer could interrupt, he pushed on. "Now we have to get back to base."

"That's right," the second pilot added quickly, obviously eager to be away from this place. "We have to be on hand in case maybe another emergency call is received. Life is pretty hectic in the International Rescue organization." He did sound a little like a recruiting brochure, but I cannot blame him under the circumstances for saying the first thing that came to mind.

Both men rose and shook Goldheimer's hand, then walked together toward their ships. Mr. Stutt kept filming, exulting as he did, "This is magnificent! Now, all I require are the last shots. The two Thunderbird crafts, taking off!"

We both watched as Thunderbird Two sank down over its pod. It fired its vertical jets with a great roar (Mr. Stutt had to quickly turn down the volume on the microphone) and rose into the air. Did I mention that it is a very, very big ship indeed? It was a little like watching a football field take off. We saw flame shoot from the boosters and the magnificent craft zoomed off toward the horizon with quite remarkable speed for a craft so large.

When she was out of sight, Mr. Stutt swung the camera back to where Mr. Goldheimer was standing beside Thunderbird One. He was talking to her pilot, who was already in his ship. The pilot was objecting to Mr. Goldheimer's attempt to take a photograph. "Sorry, no pictures."

"Ah, gee, that's a shame," Mr. Goldheimer said. "But how about the couple I already got?"

I was beginning to understand why Mr. Goldheimer was not getting ahead very quickly in his career. He was not excessively bright.

The International Rescue pilot was astonished. "You mean you've had that camera working? But that's impossible! The detector would have warned me!"

Mr. Stutt chuckled. It was not a very attractive sound to say the least. I was immediately convinced that he had something to do with this unfortunate turn of events, although I could not fathom how this would have been possible.

The pilot was beginning to sound a bit like Mr. Goldheimer. "Someone's tampered with the detector! Anyone could have used a camera and I wouldn't have known it! Even taken a whole film!"

Mr. Stutt was beside me again. "Come," he ordered. "It is time for us to go."

With a shock I saw that he had done something to his appearance…he now looked like the harsh-featured Asian man I had seen in the temple! How was such a thing possible, I asked myself? Then I saw something hanging from the camera…a mask, looking very menacing all by itself with its empty eye sockets, and a dark brown wig. My client was a veritable master of disguise!

Now where had I read recently about someone like this..?

Before I could follow that particular train of thought any further, my client demanded my attention again. He had removed the film magazine from the camera, and he tucked it under his arm as we departed. I had to run so fast I very much risked falling, in order to keep up with him as he lunged down the trail to the parking area. He pointed to his jeep-like vehicle. "Get in and keep your head down!"

I suppose I could have summoned my courage and run away. But you must understand that this man was very intimidating indeed, not to mention large. I did as I was told.

Mr. Stutt got into the driver's seat and the vehicle hurled itself forward. I slid down on to the floor and began to pray very sincerely.

It was an exceedingly bumpy ride. My client drove fast with and with little regard for the terrain, with the unfortunate result that I was bounced around most upsettingly. I would have significant bruises the next day, of this I was positive.

I became aware that Mr. Stutt was talking into a radio. "Agent Seven-Nine to General X. Calling General X."

If anyone had been in a position to ask me to speculate, I would have guessed that the man who answered in heavily accented English was of Chinese origin. We have a significant number of clients from that part of the world, and the accent was quite familiar to me. Perhaps this man was the reason Mr. Stutt spoke Mandarin so fluently. "Go ahead, Agent Seven-Nine. I trust you have good news for me."

I could tell Mr. Stutt was smiling. "I am happy to report that the mission has been entirely successful. In fact, it is in the can."

I had not suspected that my client possessed a sense of humor. I could see there was much I did not know about him.

No, please do not look at me in that manner again. I did not ever consider becoming his sidekick! I am a most respectable man and the only illegal act I have performed in my life is to once make the mistake of placing my regular kitchen refuse into my recyclables container! That was two years ago and I still cannot look the man who drives our refuse collection vehicle in the eye.

Please allow me to continue before I become even more upset.

Mr. Stutt was still talking to this mysterious "General X." He told him that the information he required was secured and would be delivered in person. "At last," he finished, "I have outwitted International Rescue! Their plans are secret no longer!"

It occurred to me that he was deriving a disproportionate amount of satisfaction from these last statements. It was obvious that he had crossed paths with International Rescue before. I was very curious indeed, but did not think it would be very healthy to ask him to elaborate.

I soon had quite different problems to be concerned about. We had been speeding along for about ten minutes when I heard the definite sound of jet engines, very loud and close to us indeed. An immense shadow fell across the jeep-adjacent vehicle, and my client looked up. I peeked over the seat and hastily crouched back down again. It was Thunderbird One and it was right above us!

The pilot loud-hailed us through his open hatch, demanding that we stop and surrender the film. Mr. Stutt ignored him. "If you don't hand over the film now, I'm going to have to use more persuasive methods," the pilot said. "I'll give you a count of five!"

I had never been so terrified in my entire life. What if the International Rescue jet was armed? Would he shoot us off the road? I had never heard of this organization doing such a thing, but they were very particular about not allowing themselves to be photographed.

For one completely insane moment I thought that I might jump into the back seat, get my hands on the film and throw it out of the vehicle. Then I realized that it would not help me at all…it might prevent the pilot of Thunderbird One from firing upon us, but it would not save my life, because Mr. Stutt would undoubtedly kill me immediately.

The pilot counted from one to four…and then Mr. Stutt swerved right at a fork in the trail. Thunderbird One overshot, her rear boosters so close that I could feel the heat. Mr. Stutt chuckled. At this point I could not deny the impression that he was getting a great deal of enjoyment from this chase.

The jet engines grew louder again overhead and the shadow swept across us again. I began to wish I had visited the bathroom at the film set when I had had the chance. I am ashamed to say that I let out a shriek of a quite girlish nature when my worst fear was realized and Thunderbird One opened fire. It was very loud indeed. It was quickly evident however that these were warning shots, since they did not hit us, and I honestly cannot imagine anyone with such experience missing us at so short a range.

Suddenly we were plunged into darkness and for a moment I could not see. I did manage not to embarrass myself by shrieking out loud this time. Mr. Stutt made a sound that was part of the way between a laugh and a bark, and the jeep-like vehicle skidded to a very abrupt halt.

Then it came to my attention that the terrible firing had stopped.

I summoned the courage to look around us as my vision adjusted. Rock walls above us and to either side. We had entered a tunnel!

Mr. Stutt was back on the radio. "Calling General X, from Agent Seven-Nine."

The Chinese accented voice came back immediately. It sounded a little annoyed. "Go ahead, Agent Seven-Nine. I was expecting you to have arrived by this time."

"My apologies, General, but I have been delayed."

"Delayed? What do you mean?" the voice went up in pitch quite considerably. This is a sound I am accustomed to hearing occasionally as a Customer Contact Manager – it means the client is not happy at all. And that is never a good thing. "When do I get my film?"

Mr. Stutt stayed calm, which was quite impressive considering the precariousness of his current circumstances. "Soon. Soon, General. Once I have shaken off International Rescue."

Revealing this information was not a mistake I would have made, but then I am highly trained in customer service and I would venture a guess that Mr. Stutt was not. General X was now extremely agitated indeed. "International Rescue?" he demanded. "I do not understand! One minute you boast you have defeated International Rescue and the next you say they are chasing you! Just what is going on, Agent Seven-Nine? If these designs are not in my hands within the hour, our agreement is at an end!"

I am fairly positive that my client was not expecting this particular outcome. For the first time, I heard his confidence falter a little. "Ah…yes, General…"

"I advise you to get rid of International Rescue rather soon. I don't want them to follow you here and find me! Is that clear?"

The General clicked off the conversation without waiting for a response from Mr. Stutt, which I felt was a little rude, if understandable. Mr. Stutt was really quite worried. "Now…" he pondered, out loud. "What do I do…?"

Since I did not delude myself for a single moment that he was asking me, I kept silent.

It did not take Mr. Stutt long to realize that the jet engines had fallen silent. "Hmmm," he pondered. "Either he has landed…or he has gone to the other end of the tunnel to wait for me there. I will investigate." He looked at me meaningfully. "Do not move."

I tried to make myself terribly small.

I listened as his footsteps receded. Then he gave a shout of triumph. "Good! No sign of International Rescue! The fools have gone to seek me at the other end!"

He returned to the vehicle, got in and turned us around. Here we go again, I thought, with considerable trepidation.

We burst out of the tunnel into the full sunlight. Did I mention that the American State of Nevada is exceedingly hot? Mr. Stutt seemed happy to be back in control…but his rejoicing was short lived. Above us, jet engines whined again, much louder this time, and the shadow of Thunderbird One was nothing compared to what passed over us now.

Thunderbird Two had found us.

Only a brief moment later there was a most frightening explosion. My goodness, was International Rescue now firing missiles at us? Mr. Stutt said something that would have made my mother very embarrassed indeed, if it had been possible for her to have heard it. I peeked over the dashboard of the jeep-like vehicle only to duck back down again quickly, as the hillside in front of us appeared to be falling down.

My client stopped the vehicle immediately, which I felt was a wise choice. He sat there, staring upwards. When I stole another glance of much furtiveness, I saw Thunderbird Two hovering there, as if waiting for us. And the road ahead was now blocked by very large rocks

Mr. Stutt hauled me by the scruff of my neck up on to the passenger seat and thrust a smartpad into my hands. "Find me a way out of this!" he commanded. "Hurry! It will take him a while to land and we cannot afford to lose our advantage!"

I made my frozen fingers move in a more or less efficient manner. I thanked every god I could remember the name of with reasonable accuracy that the smartpad seemed linked to a very reliable satellite internet provider. I do not know what would have happened to me just then if the Google Maps had been unavailable! Using the tunnel we had just been inside, and my previous knowledge of Mr. Goldheimer's movie location for "Martian Invasion" – very much blessing the thorough research of my excellent colleague Miss Anupama Patel – I was quickly able to estimate where we currently were. I searched the surrounding area for anything that might possibly be of assistance. "There is a small airfield," I said after what felt like a very long time. "It is a little southwest from here."

"How far?"

"Approximately one mile," I responded.

He hauled me out of the vehicle, grabbed the film magazine from the back seat, and pushed me in front of him. "Run," he ordered.

A mile had never felt like such a long distance in my entire life, I am telling you. There was no sound from Mr. Stutt as we ran through the small forest but the pounding of his footsteps and the heaviness of his breathing, but it was a miracle that I managed not to collapse completely in terror and refuse to go any further. Once in a while I thought that I heard the whine of an unfamiliar machine behind me…it reminded me a little of that hover scooter that had discharged the smoke before the filming of the scene where everything went wrong.

At last we were out of the trees and on to the blessed paved surface of the small airfield. My client pointed toward a small yellow plane with an overhead wing – a Cessna, I think they are called. A man was taxiing it slowly off the single runway. As we watched, he stopped the plane and departed it, but he did not turn the engine off. As he walked away, he waved toward another man who was heading in the direction of the plane from the small group of airfield buildings. This second man wore the coveralls of a mechanic.

Mr. Stutt pushed me, hard. "Run for that plane!" he ordered.

We were much nearer to the plane than was the mechanic. Mr. Stutt opened the door on the pilot's side and climbed in. Evidently he was so sure of me by now that he knew I would obey him without question.

I hesitated for just a moment, my hand on the passenger side door. I looked back the way we had come, and I saw the pilot of Thunderbird Two come out of the trees on a red and silver hoverbike.

It was then that I knew without a shadow of a doubt that if I was going to save my life, it was now or never. I looked up at the face of my client, who was busy with the controls of the plane and not looking at me.

Then I looked back at the friendly face of the man from International Rescue.

And I began to run toward him.

And that, kind sir, is how I came to be delivered into your custody by the exceedingly courteous and generous men of International Rescue. I would tell you more about the gentleman you describe as the Hood if it were possible…but I only knew him as Mr. Stutt, my somewhat irascible and eccentric client. I did not have any idea he was a master criminal in disguise.

I am only grateful that this man chose an adversary as formidable as International Rescue. If not for that, I very much doubt that I would be talking to you here today. As it is, I am not very comforted knowing that although you say the plane he stole crashed into a private house, the body of this man was not recovered. It does not make me happy to know that I might encounter him again one day.

When I get home to Bangalore, I think that I will talk to my friend and employer Manit Banerjee about finding another position for me at Outsource U! It seems that Customer Contact Management can be a very dangerous job indeed.