Paul looked around and said, “Nice. No windows, lots of bare concrete walls, smells a little musty, but nice. No windows, no distractions.”
Stella was not as enamored of the bunker as her father. She looked at Jools and said, “Let me get this straight. You were going to kidnap my father, lock him up in here, alone, steal millions of dollars from him, and make him write songs for you?”
“Well, not all alone. Scotilly was planning on spending time with him in here, singing with him. And I would help out with things, press his clothes, fix a meal here and there. But see how great things have turned out. Now he’s not alone. He’s got you two for company.”
She went on, “You were going to lock him in a musty, concrete WWII army bunker, alone, for months? No windows. Extort music from him. And then what? After he writes the music, then what?”
“Then we do the show, here, in Charleston. The rock opera. Like the ballet some people did here. Smashing success, that.”
Anna took up the slugfest, said, “Where’s the piano? How are we going to record the music? Where the recording studio? Who’s going to produce the show?”
“We didn’t know what instrument he was going to want to write the songs. Piano or bass. We figured he’d tell us, and we would go get one. Same with the recording thingy. Figured he would tell us.”
“You don’t compose music on a bass guitar. He plays that, but he doesn’t write songs on it, do you?”
Paul said, “Not normally, no. But in an emergency I probably could.”
Anna said, looking at Jools, “What about the show? Producing the show? Who’s going to do that? You? And when? You going to keep us here during the whole production cycle? All the planning, the pre-production, the rehearsals? You know how long that takes? It takes a year. That’s how long they worked on the ballet. A year.”
Jools said, “How do you know?”
“Because I know those people. Who, by the way, are going to be pissed when they find out you snatched us. You’re going to have Gwenny and Roger June on your ass, to say nothing of my grandfather. You’re going to need this bunker, brother.” Anna was venting a little.
“Look, I’m just the butler. Scoty is the brains, talk to her. Who’s this Gwenny and Roger?”
“They’re the ones who produced the ballet you went to.”
“And I’m supposed to be scared of people who do ballet?”
“You got a family plot picked out, Jools? Got a place in the ground next to someone special? Where is it, The Netherlands, England, here? Is it paid for? You better look into that. That’s who the Junes are. They’re, ah, protective of their friends, and we’re their friends. And, like I said, there’s my grandfather, the guy the three idiots on King Street don’t like. If the Junes don’t get you….”
Jools remained nonplussed, said, “Let’s continue the tour. This is the biggest room. You tell us what you need, and we’ll get it for you. Across the passageway is the bedroom. We have it all set up for Paul. And guess what, there are two other rooms, too. We’ll get beds and stuff in those. So you’ve got a living room, work room, store rooms, everything you need.”
Paul said, “We need a Steinway. Grand. They cost $140,000. You got one of those around? You got recording equipment? I don’t need fancy, but even simple stuff is going to run $100,000. Some guitars and a synthesizer.”
Stella said, “You going to do this? You going to do what he says? Stay here months, in this place?”
“I don’t want him dropping you on your head. I love you. Besides, writing music is what I do. I’m seventy. How much more productive time do I have? Maybe this is a blessing in disguise. I’ll sit here and write, my last hurrah. And maybe they’re right about this rock opera thing. Could be really cool. Could be great. I loved doing Oceans Kingdom for the New York City Ballet. Follow that up with an opera. And the ballet here was great. The Junes did an incredible job. We could do just like he says, produce the opera right here.”
“But you have all the other things going on around the world.”
“That’s all performance. Special events. Concerts and parties and appearances for this and that. It’s not creative. It’s not writing. I love all that stuff, great fun, keeps me going, but it’s not writing music. I gotta ask myself what’s more important? Parties, or writing?” He paused, then looked at Jools. “If I do this, cooperate, can they go?”
Jools said, “Well, that’s up to the boss. But my guess is no, cause they might go to the FBI, who would come knocking on our door here. Even if they said they wouldn’t do that, we couldn’t trust them. Neither of us want to spend our golden years in prison.”
Anna said, “You mean locked up in a bunker, like this?”
Jools didn’t answer, but led the way back to the living room. “So that’s the place. The kitchen is stocked, though for one person. I’ll have to get more food in there right away. I’m going to talk with Scotilly, tell her everything here is set. Tell her all the stuff you need. That’s a lot of money, and I don’t think she’s got it lying around, but we’ll figure something out. She’ll come see you soon. I’ll get sheets and blankets for the other two beds. Bring that right back.”
Anna said, “Jools, there aren’t any beds in the other two rooms. Just the one room.”
Jools looked surprised, then pained. “Oh, yeah, I fixed up one bedroom, for him. Didn’t expect you two. Well, I’ll work on that.” He turned to go.
Anna said, “Jools, baby.” He looked back at her. “When this is over, you and I are gonna have words.”
Chapter 7 – Gone Missing
It was after 11pm, and Richard sat in the lobby of the Charleston Place Hotel. He was supposed to meet Anna around 9pm, after she’d had dinner with Paul and Stella, and he'd started calling her about 10pm, and tried again now.
At the same time, Jools was rummaging around the linen closet in the big house, looking for sheets and pillows for the other two bedrooms in the bunker. He had no solution for the fact that there were no beds in the rooms, but when he did figure that out, he wanted to be ready with nice, clean, ironed sheets. His father had trained him well. Out in the hall he heard a cell phone ring, and because of his father’s impeccable training, he pulled it out of Anna’s purse and answered it. “Good evening. Jools here. May I help you?”
“Ah, I’m calling Anna. Who are you?”
“Jools here. May I help you?”
“Anna. I’m calling Anna on her cell. Who is Jools?”
Jools thought the voice on the other end sounded surprised at first, and then slightly accusatory. It wanted Anna, who a few minutes earlier had said in a menacing voice, “Jools, baby, when this is over, you and I are gonna have words.” He wondered how such a sense of menace could come from such a pretty face. And now, here was another person who sounded displeased with his performance. He wondered if this was going to be the rule during this whole kidnapping thing.
“I’m sorry, Anna is not available right now. May I convey a message?”
“What? Who are you? Where’s Anna?
“Jools here. Anna is indisposed. May I convey a message?”
“Look Jools, tell her to call Richard. Right away.”
“May I take it that you are Richard, sir?”
“Yes. This is Richard. Her BOYFRIEND.”
“Yes, Mr. Richard. I’ll convey the message. Good evening.”
Jools went back in the linen closet, knowing he had to find two more beds, and pronto. All the spare beds in the big house were kings, so he knew he wasn’t moving any of those. Maybe take the cushions off the sofas, take them over to the bunker. The two women could sleep on them. Plus, now he had to deal with the boyfriend. What was his name? Maybe he’d better alert Scotilly to this new development. And he had to get more food over there, food for three instead of just one. It was closing in on midnight, and a butler’s job was never done.
Scotilly had better get enough cash out of this deal to make it all worthwhile. He wondered how much she was going to ask. One million? Two million? Five million? Now you’re talking. Bahamas, here I come.
He carried the linens and the two women’s purses into the living room, and removed the eight cushions from the wraparound sofa. Scotilly came in and said, “What are you doing?”
“Going to take the cushions over to the bunker. The two women don’t have beds. We only put one bed in there, for him. Now we have three people to feed and board, and they need lots of stuff. Paul told me all the music stuff he needs, like a grand piano, and a whole recording studio, all that equipment, and guitars and something called a synthesizer. And they need food. We only put food in the kitchen for one person. So I got a lot to do, still, before bed.” Just then Anna’s cell phone rang again.
Scotilly said, “What’s that?”
“Probably Richard.”
“Who’s Richard?”
“The boyfriend.”
“Who’s boyfriend?”
“Anna’s.”
“How do you know?”
“I talked with him a few minutes ago. He called her cell, in her purse. It rang, so I answered.”
“You know they can track the location of cell phones?”
“Who?”
“What do you mean, who? The FBI. The fucking FBI. They’re the ones who investigate kidnappings. They’re on our asses now, or will be.”
“Oh. I thought the Junes were the ones on our asses.”
“Who are the Junes?”
Jools said, “The Junes are the ones that Anna said she is friends with, and who she said are very protective of their friends. And then she said something about her grandfather. Said if the Junes don’t get us, he will.”
“Yeah, I remember now. I’m more worried about the FBI.” The phone still was ringing in the purse, so Scotilly answered, even though she had not been trained to do so as a butler. Butlerette. “Hello.”
“Who’s this? Where’s Jools?”
“Jools is busy. Is this Richard, the boyfriend?”
“Yes. Who are you? Where’s Anna?”
“I’m, ah, a friend. Anna’s busy.”
“What’s going on? I wanna talk to her. Now.”
“Sorry, no can do. Maybe later. She’s ok, just busy. Bye.”
Jools said, “The boyfriend?”
Scotilly nodded, said, “As if we don’t have enough to worry about with the FBI, these June people, and the grandfather. You really going to take the sofa cushions?”
“Unless you want them to sleep on the concrete floor, which hardly is hospitable and up to our standards.”
“Ok. Look, I know it’s late, but we gotta figure out how we announce the kidnapping. You have any ideas?”
“People announce when they kidnap someone? I thought they wanted to keep that fact quiet?”
“We have to get the ransom, so someone has to know we kidnapped McCartney. And if he wants a piano and recording equipment, it sounds as if he’s going along with us, and will do the opera. So we have to start preparing to do the opera production. You got any ideas about that?”
Jools sat down on the sofa springs, since he’d taken the cushions off and piled them near the door to the living room. He thought, first, about how to announce a kidnapping, and second, how to produce a rock opera written by Paul McCartney. Being a butler he had only minimal experience with these types of endeavors. He was a good butler, though, quite smart, and he answered, “Maybe we can use the boyfriend. We have his number. We call him, say we snatched McCartney and his daughter, and his girlfriend, Anna. Say if our demands aren’t met, we’re going chop their head offs, like the Taliban do. CHOP!”
Scotilly looked at Jools. In all their years together, she’d never heard him talk about chopping off someone’s head. “Where’d you get that? Really.”
“Look, if we’re leaving town after the performance, for good, we’re gonna need a lot of cash. We need the ransom people to think we’re serious. Ergo, the head chopping bit.”
“Ok, makes sense. I’ll have to practice my serious and violent persona. What about the opera thing?”
“I’ll have to work on that.”
“So, should we put the first phase in play, the ransom demand?”
“Why are you asking me? You’re the boss. I’m the butler. This whole thing was your idea.”
Scotilly had to admit that. She pantomimed chopping off someone’s head with a sword, and then picked up Anna’s cell, hitting the button that dialed the last call received. Richard answered. “Hi! Anna, are you alright?”
“This isn’t Anna. We talked a few minutes ago.”
“Where’s Anna?”
“She’s ok, for now, but not for long, if you don’t do exactly what I say. Understand?”
“No. What’s happening? What do you mean?”
Scotilly had adopted a deep voice after she dialed the phone, a full actave lower than her regular voice, and somehow had added a raspy quality to it. Jools was impressed. Very Talibanish, except it was in English. “Anna’s been kidnapped. Along with the other two. They’re all ok for now, but we have a ransom demand.”
“What other two? You mean Paul and Stella?”
“No, I mean Miney and Moe. Of course, Paul and Stella. We’ve kidnapped Paul McCartney, and are demanding a huge ransom. Anna and Stella are part of that, and you’re going to be the ransom conduit. Paul will call you at this number tomorrow and give you the demands. Understand?”
Richard said, “Are you crazy? You’ve kidnapped one of the most famous people in the world, and you think you’re going to get away with this? And my girlfriend, the woman I love. And Stella McCartney, one of the most famous fashion designers in the world? Are you crazy?”
“Yes, we’re crazy. We were trained by the Taliban, and we’re serious about this. If our demands are not met, fully and completely, we’re going to chop off all three of their heads. Chop, chop, chop! Got that? And don’t tell anyone about this. Not the FBI, not the police, not People Magazine.” Her voice had risen from a low raspy growl to a shriek. Jools was scared, and wondered if his boss had gone a little crazy. Money does strange things to the best of us. “Tomorrow. You’ll get a call tomorrow from McCartney. We might cut off one of his fingers tonight, to show we’re serious.” And she ended the call.
Jools said, “How’s he going to play piano and compose songs if we cut off one of his fingers?”
She didn’t answer, just yawned and said, “Been a long day. I’m going to bed. Make sure they’re locked up tight. See you tomorrow. I’ll have tea instead of coffee in the morning, and oatmeal with blueberries.” Jools watched her leave the living room, thought about the multiple voices she used on the phone call, picked up four of the eight big sofa pillows, and carried them out to the bunker.
Chapter 8 – The Junes Head Home
It was at this point that Richard dialed the number of the satellite phone on the sailboat.
He said, “They’ve been kidnapped. Anna and Paul and Stella. They’ve been kidnapped.”
Gwen thought, damn! Halfway to St. Barths, and this happens. She said, “When, how?”
“Tonight. I’m not sure when, but earlier tonight. When they were out to dinner. I was supposed to meet Anna later, but she didn’t show up. Just now I got a call from her cell phone, some crazy sounding lady said she’d kidnapped them, and would kill them if we didn’t meet her demands. Said something about the Taliban. She’s with some guy named Jools, who sounded the opposite of crazy. Really polite. Strange accent, very English.”
“What else? Did they say anything else? Is this a joke, or is this real?”
“I think it’s real. They didn’t say anything else, just that they would call again tomorrow. They have my cell number now, because I called Anna’s number. Said I was the ransom conduit. What should I do?”
“Richard, take it easy. We will help. We’ll turn around now, be back in Charleston tomorrow afternoon. Take it easy tonight, make sure to charge your phone for tomorrow, and don’t contact anyone else. Don’t call the police.”
“Ok. Please help. It’s Anna.”
“We’ll call you as soon as we get back to the marina. Take it easy. Bye, Richard.” Gwen put the phone back in the instrument rack next to the radio array, and sat down on a bench. Someone had kidnapped Paul McCartney, here in Charleston. Jesus. And now they had to help. Over the last few days she had done everything she could to put the whole ballet production out of her mind, but now she recreated a synopsis of it. They had found a score for a ballet by Igor Stravinsky that had been lost for over a hundred years. They had persuaded Pete Townshend of The Who to transcribe and perform the music, and part of the persuasion had taken the form of creating the illusion of a competition between him and Paul McCartney, who just a year earlier had written the score for a ballet performed by the New York City Ballet. Townshend was friends with McCartney, and had persuaded him to attend the premier of the Stravinsky Charleston production. McCartney had loved the performance, and had returned three weeks later for the last two performances, with this daughter, Stella. And now, and now, he had been kidnapped. Him and Stella and Anna. Shit. No St. Barths today.
Gwen climbed out of the cabin and into the cockpit with a grim look on her face the others noticed immediately. Roger said, “What’s up, babe?”
Gwen looked at Constantine and said, “Put ‘er into the wind. We gotta talk.” Constantine looked up at the wind vane on the mast, and spun the wheel clockwise. The big boat came around until its bow pointed directly into the wind, and it slowed almost to a stop. Without the sounds of wind and water rushing down the hull, it was easier to talk. Jinny immediately felt better, though long ago he had emptied his stomach. He sat down in the cockpit next to Gale, who, because he smelled like puke, ungraciously pushed him away.
“Jinny, you stink.”
The Kidnapping of Paul McCartney Page 4
