by Josie Brown
I’ll say. I don’t know what I can say to help Emma get a reprieve, but I’ll do my best. I give him a really big smile. “What’s up?”
“I think I’m in trouble. I was rigging two explosives for the second unit’s next scene—a car chase—when I got a call from some guy claiming to be Whitford’s assistant. He told me to report to the main soundstage. When I got there, Whitford said he never called. A moment later, I get a call from a woman requesting that I meet with Addison. When I got to his office, Jeff was there. He said the producer never made a call—that Addison had been in meetings with the stars all morning, reading them the riot act. When I went back to the Special Effects shed, the explosive devices were gone.” He frowns. “What should I do now? If I tell the second unit director, I’ll probably get fired.”
“Not if I can help it,” Jack assures him. “Go back to the shed and rig up two replacement devices. In the meantime, Donna and I will see if we can find them, and more importantly, who took them.”
Arnie nods furtively. “They’re wrapped in red tape. Each is the size of a paperback book. Thanks!” With shoulders slumped, he’s out the door.
Jack grabs his cell. “While I search the cabanas and exterior sets, you take the plantation house. Corner anyone looking suspicious, even if the devices aren’t in sight.”
“Will do,” I say. My kiss expresses the thought uppermost in my mind: stay safe, because I can’t afford to lose you.
The incendiary devices are nowhere to be found.
Whoever has them has hidden them well.
Arnie must have handed off the replacement devices because the second unit has already set up for the car chase scene. In it, “John” and “Jane”—or in this case, Ellis and Candy—are in separate cars, chasing down a bad guy in a third car. They will come at him from different directions, shooting at him simultaneously.
Of course, one of the bullets “kills” him. When this happens, the car will roll and explode, using Arnie’s replacement devices.
The scene is being shot on the empty private jet way adjacent to the resort. I watch as Candy and Ellis take off on the same road, in different directions. Through my ear bud, I hear Chad, the second unit director, shouting instructions to them. When they are far enough apart, he commands them to turn the cars around so that they face each other. They then wait for the signal that will put them in motion.
The bad guy’s car takes off when its driver hears, “Action!” It approaches them from a lane that intersects their road.
Candy and Ellis finally get their signal and they’re rolling toward each other. The cars—one is a Porsche, and the other is a Ferrari—take just a few seconds to accelerate past sixty miles an hour—
Only to explode—simultaneously.
“What the Hell?” Chad screams. “Cut! Cut! Oh my God!”
The fire unit comes running. They hose down the infernos with fire-retardant foam so that the med techs can pull Ellis and Candy from the wreckage.
The production’s medical emergency team has split up into two groups, one for each of the victims. I watch them work furiously to save the couple’s lives.
After whispering something to one of the responders, Ellis succumbs.
Candy dies a few minutes later.
Jack, Arnie and I watch as the med techs cover their bodies before hoisting them onto gurneys and wheeling them away.
The lead emergency responder heads over to Chad. We walk over just in time to hear Chad exclaim, “What do you mean, they made ‘final confessions?’”
“I’m not kidding,” the team leader swears. “Ellis said, ‘If she lives, tell her I rigged her car. If she doesn’t, I’ll see her in hell.’ At the same time, Candy was telling her team almost exactly the same thing.”
At least now we know who took the IADs.
Chad is too shaken to say anything.
He walks toward the plantation house to break the news to Whitford.
An hour later, Addison gathers the cast and crew together.
He’s so longwinded that I find myself tuning him out. At the same time, I hold my breath as I wait for him to say what I fear is the inevitable:
The production is being shuttered.
Since the family Stone can’t go back to the US, we’ll have to figure out some other way to get off this island.
Or else go back to the mainland and join Venezuela’s revolution.
“—and so, in memory of our fallen colleagues, let’s rally as a team and as a family! Let’s show the world their lives weren’t taken in vain! This movie will be dedicated to the memories of…”—he pauses. Jeff stands on tiptoe, to whisper their names in his ear—“of Candy and Ellis Cunningham.”
The show must go on—at least for Montague Studios’ stockholders.
Love hurts, but jealousy kills.
I didn’t need Candy and Ellis to teach me this lesson when I’ve got Carl breathing down my back.
Chapter 11
American Psycho
“My need to engage in homicidal behavior on a massive scale cannot be corrected, but I have no other way to fulfill my needs.”
—Christian Bale, as “Patrick Bateman”
Even if you can’t walk down the red carpet for a premiere, you’re quite welcome to stand on the sidelines and cheer the film’s stars as they make their grand entrances. However, you’re wise to follow these do’s and don’ts:
Do stay behind the red velvet rope. If you’re caught on the carpet, you’ll be goose-stepped off the property by two gorillas in tuxedoes. Take this as a hint that you’re not getting anywhere near that carpet, let alone those who tread it so regally.
Don’t reach over the rope and grab a star. You are not at a petting zoo, despite the aforementioned tuxedoed gorillas who now have their paws wrapped firmly around you.
Do leave all sidearms at home. Despite your desire to give your favorite star a snappy military salute, the embarrassment of being arrested as a possible terrorist won’t encourage him to appreciate you, let alone get you any closer than five hundred yards of his next public appearance.
Don’t try to crash the carpet by getting primped up and hiring a limo to drop you off. The guest list to these things is always written in blood—that of the publicist in charge of the event. They are orchestrated to perfection, so no matter how dazzling your over-the-shoulder smolder, she’ll think nothing of wrestling you to the ground herself, so that the real stars can arrive on time.
The deaths of their stunt doubles left the stars of our picture duly chastened. Replacements were on the set the very next day. However, both are so plug ugly that even Willow and Reed wince when they see them.
Smart move on Addison’s part, or perhaps Jeff’s.
Three weeks ago, shooting shifted to Paris. The production is moving through its list of tourist-friendly outdoor location shoots. In the movie, they will be sinister, as well as beautiful and familiar.
Whitford is shooting some choice, universally recognizable interiors, too. These include a salon in the Louvre; the pews in Notre Dame; Printemps Department Store; and a suite at the Georges V, the grand hotel where the leads, the director, the producer and the family Stone (greatly pleased) have been placed.
The supposed-child actors are needed at some of these locations, but most of the filming revolves around the leads.
To be honest, I’d kill for the heroine’s wardrobe. Willow has it written into her contract that she gets to keep any dress she likes.
She’s lucky she’s not my size.
Mary and Rachel are still joined at the hip. Having been to Paris for a couple of film shoots already, Rachel is an accommodating tour guide. When they come back from their many romps, they sequester themselves, sometimes for hours on end. I catch the two of them whispering and giggling. When I ask them why, they freeze and make up some excuse so flimsy I can see right through it.
Trisha is now so comfortable with hotel living that Jack calls her “our little Eloise.” She prowls every new home
-away-from-home from top to bottom so that the floor plans and grounds become second nature to her. She orders room service like a pro, and charms the housekeeping staff into leaving extra chocolates on our pillows.
Willow and Reed’s shenanigans put the production off schedule by a couple of weeks, and that has Jack and me worried. Abu sends Serena and Tomas coded messages via Twitter, reassuring them that their stateside trip will take place any day now—that is, when Jack and I can join them and keep them safe.
In the meantime, we make the most of our time here. For once, we get to enjoy playing the role of tourists, relaxing in the city’s numerous parks and museums. We owe it to ourselves. Our last time here was much too eventful. Quorum assassins chased us as we followed up on a clue to the terrorist group’s next act of mass violence.
Aunt Phyllis has also found a way to keep busy during her hours away from the children. Her nightly poker games with the crew are adding some heft to her nest egg.
“If that Reed guy shows up, I’m switching the game to strip poker,” she promises.
I don’t have the heart to tell her he’s not her type. She may already be aware of this, since he stays far away from the card players. He’d much prefer to play doctor. Now that we’re off our intimate island, he’s free to pick up anyone walking down the Champs-Élysées.
“His room needs its own revolving door,” Jack mutters. “Every liaison is an affair to forget.”
Sebastian’s room is the opposite. No one is allowed either in or out of it, not even the hotel’s housekeepers. He insists he needs peace and quiet to complete his scripts for the next season of Bloomsbury. To help him keep track of the show’s many plot threads, he travels with a full set of scripts from previous season’s episodes.
He grudgingly leaves his room when called to the set when, for whatever reason, a line needs to be tweaked. In that case, either Jack or I need to be there, too, since our contract calls for us to have dialogue approval as well.
As we stand on the sidelines listening to Willow and Reed butcher their lines, Sebastian assuages his disappointment by teasing me. “As always, you look ravishing, Mrs. Smith. I miss our little script assignations.”
“I do, too,” I say. “Here’s a thought! Perhaps I can help you with Bloomsbury.”
For some reason, he finds this laugh-out-loud funny.
“I’m offended at your response, Sebastian. I’m not a complete illiterate, you know.”
“I have no desire to offend, madam.” He bows his head in mock shame. “In truth, the joke is on me, not you. I can only imagine what nuances you’d instill in my heroines. With you putting words in their mouths, Virginia and Vanessa would become much better people indeed.”
“Thank you for the compliment,” I say sincerely. “But I don’t think the critics—or more importantly, the viewing public—would agree with you. Mary, for one, is crazy about the show! Lately she’s been watching it incessantly. I can see it popping up on our Netflix viewed list.”
“Yes, so I’ve been told, by Mary. In fact, if you wouldn’t mind asking her to cool her ardor for my attentions—platonic, let me assure you—I’d be forever in your debt.”
“Has she been a bother?”
“I’m sure Rachel has put her up to it. They aren’t exactly stalking me, but they corner me at every opportunity with a list of questions about the show’s characters and plots.” He sighs. “Maybe I can convince JK Rowling to release another Harry Potter book, so they can find another target for their literary devotion.”
“I’ll ask her not to disturb you any further.”
“It would be greatly appreciated…Ah, Jack—excuse me, I mean ‘John,’ seems to be waving you over. Are you two off again on some urban adventure?” He straightens the collar of my jacket, a retro dusty rose number I picked up from a street vendor who insisted it was vintage Chanel. It may not be, but in any event, it meets my two prerequisites: it’s pretty and it keeps me warm.
“Sorry, no secret missions. Just some sightseeing.” I glance over in the direction of his gaze.
Of course I’m lying to Sebastian. Abu must have made the connection with Carl’s former handler. Jack’s subtle wink is a high sign for us to get moving.
We’re about to meet the man who inspired Carl to join the Quorum—and lived to tell about it.
Eric Weber lives almost two hours outside of Paris, in a small French village called Dormans, located in the Marne Region.
Once outside of Paris proper, we find ourselves on small roads taking us over rolling hills, lush with vines that will soon be budding with the white grapes from which the region’s renowned champagnes are created. The countryside is dotted with ancient churches and the ruins of centuries-old castles.
Eventually, we turn onto a narrow lane, bordered on both sides by high trees. Two hectares later, it dead-ends at the front gate of a grand estate, which is flanked by vineyards on all sides. The main house is a castle made of blocks of dark gray stone. Its rooftop turrets are ancient, but the men with guns standing sentry are not.
There are two other guards in a secure post at the entry gate. When Jack gives his name, they nod and allow us through.
We drive another half hectare to the formidable two story wood doors at the entry to the castle.
Jack and I park and get out of the car. As we walk toward the doors, they open outward soundlessly. The only thing I can hear is my heart beating in my chest.
What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?
The massive foyer has two staircases, one at each end, which lead to a mezzanine over the foyer. A man—perhaps in his early seventies—stands between the staircases. His broad shoulders are outlined in a suit that fits his body like a glove. Not a hair on his steel-gray mane is out of place. His military stance keeps his spine straight, his hands at his sides, and his eyes alert.
Yes, I can imagine this man would have inspired Carl.
To what ends, I can only guess.
He is quite aware of Jack’s presence, but he only has eyes for me.
His voice is commanding without having to raise it above a murmur. “Ah! Finally, I meet Peter’s wife! Or I presume you’d prefer I call you Mrs. Stone?”
The accent is German.
I have never forgotten that voice.
I’ve only heard it once before—when Carl was still my husband, and I so naively believed his position with Acme involved high finance, and that his far-flung trips involved the care and feeding of high-rolling international investors. After coming home from one such trip, he jumped into the shower, leaving his cell phone on top of the bed. I answered it when it rang, mistaking it for my phone.
This man was the caller, talking rapidly in his native tongue. By the time he realized I was not whom he’d expected, Carl was out of the shower. He took the phone from me and closed it without a word to either me or the caller.
It was the first time I suspected my husband was keeping secrets from me.
“Do you drink champagne?” Eric Weber asks me as Jack and I stroll with him through his vineyard, which seems to go on for as far as the eye can see.
“I will, but I lean toward reds,” I confess.
He smiles. “It was a fifty-fifty chance that you’d say no. I’m glad I’m not a betting man.”
“Aren’t you?” I raise my hand in order to shield my face from the high afternoon sun. “I mean, you took a very big chance on Carl, considering his position at Acme. And you’re taking a very big chance now, in agreeing to testify against him.”
Within the past hour, Eric has already told us what we want to hear—that he’s willing to go stateside to be deposed about his role in turning Carl from an Acme assassin to a Quorum double agent; to turn over a list of Carl’s hits, many involving agents and assets working for US intelligence agencies; and to provide documentation of Carl’s initiatives in recruiting Quorum agents and assets throughout the world.
In return, Eric Weber gets worldwide immunity.
Eric shakes
his head. “Carl never saw himself as a mere assassin—or for that matter, a company man. The Quorum offered Carl something he could never have with Acme—actual power and real money. Granted, your agents are well paid, but not on the scale of the payday that comes with bringing a country to its knees.” He smiles. “Then again, money is sterile. These days you don’t even get the joy of rolling around in it. Instead, you move it from one electronic deposit account to another. What’s the fun in that?” he shrugs. “In the Quorum, Carl had the added benefit of moving up the ladder. Granted, back in those days it was more like the Hunger Games. Quorum agents were pitted against each other—not only on kills, but on bigger missions, such as commanding a terrorist cell on its next mission, or blackmailing a country. Those who were successful lived to see another payday.”
“Dog-eat-dog, just like Mary Kay distributors,” I murmur.
He raises a brow. “I’ll take your word for it. As for Carl, he proved to be the one dog smarter than his masters. After Breck’s ignominious death at Carl’s hand—or was it yours, my dear? With all the rumors flying around, I don’t know whom to believe—he didn’t know whom to trust. Thus, the massacre of those Quorum members in London, right under your noses.”
“How did you happen to live to see another day”—Jack asks—“and in such sumptuous surroundings?”
“This is nothing more than a gilded cage.” Eric points to the guards positioned on the roof. “If he could, Carl would have my head on a stake. Yes, I have something that keeps him at bay, but my hold over him is gossamer thin.” His eyes shift from Jack to me. “You see, I know the whereabouts of the microdot, which holds the code to access the DaaS cloud with the Acme worldwide directory of agents and assets.”
My heart leaps into my throat. “You have it here?” I ask.
“It was left with someone very close to Carl.” He smiles. “That is all I can say—for now. Should our joint effort to put Carl in prison be successful, I’ll let you know who has it.”
