by Ted Bell
The next day, the day of the world premiere dawned bright and clear over London. But the luscious babe depicted on Hitchcock’s arm, the current rage of London, was clearly in a state of rage herself. She stormed about her rose-filled three-bedroom corner suite at the Dorchester, screaming at all of her handlers in general and one in particular. The new Hitchcock Girl had practically reduced Luigi Sant’Angelo, her wardrobe assistant on Lies, to tears.
“Non abbastanza petto! Desidero più petto!” she cried, yanking down the neckline of her yellow de la Renta and thrusting her breasts upward.
“Scusi, scusi, signorina, ma…” Luigi sputtered, cringing on the sofa with his legs tucked beneath him, “But you cannot show any more bosom, signorina. Not with this gown—”
“Sciocco! Fool! What did I tell you a thousand times, eh? Bosom, bosom, bosom!”
She plucked a few dozen long-stems from the nearest vase and flung them at the cowering creature. The man ran screaming from the room, hands flailing about his head like diving birds, tears pouring down his cheeks.
Francesca looked over at the dark-haired man sitting serenely in an armchair by the sunny window. He was scribbling furiously in a small notebook, intense, making sure he was getting all this. She went over to him and collapsed at his feet.
“Roberto, caro, do you think I was too mean to him?”
Bob Fiori was senior correspondent for Vanity Fair, the American magazine, which had exclusive rights to the London premiere of Body of Lies. He was working hard. The film and its star-studded premiere would be next month’s cover story. He looked up from his small spiral notebook, pushing his heavy black glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. He was one of the few men on earth capable of ignoring a direct question put to him by Francesca d’Agnelli.
“Roberto! Answer me!”
“Sorry, did you say something, Francesca?” Jonathan Decker said from behind his camera. He was the photographer covering the story. He was very happy about the stuff he’d just gotten, Luigi being attacked with roses.
“My God! Does no one around here listen to me?”
“Calm down, Francesca,” Fiori said. “Sorry, I didn’t hear what you said just now. I was concentrating on what you said before that.”
“I feel bad about Luigi.”
“Maybe you were a little mean. But you’re under a lot of stress. Tonight is a big night for you, dear Francesca. Here, have a glass of champagne.”
“I wouldn’t let my dog drink this piss the studio sends up. Will you be a darling and order me the Pol Roger or the Krug? Scusi, Roberto, you’re right, I’m just a wreck about tonight.”
“Darling, Jonathan and I went to the screening, remember? You’ve got nothing to worry about, I promise.”
“Nothing at all, baby,” Decker added, with the wry smile that was his trademark.
Of course, it wasn’t the movie she was worried about.
The London audience’s reaction to Body of Lies that evening at the Odeon in Mayfair was astonishing by any measure. The sexual frisson between Ian Flynn, the fifth actor to play Nick Hitchcock, and his latest Hitchcock Girl, as played by Italian bombshell Francesca d’Agnelli, was palpable. Riveting. You could, as one L.A. film critic said next morning, tongue firmly in cheek, “cut it with a knife.”
No Oscar nominations, certainly, but big box office, definitely.
Raed, the black-liveried chauffeur, who was in reality a heavily armed Syrian assassin Lily had organized for the evening, nosed the big silver Rolls up to the red carpet extending from the Park Lane entrance of the fabled Grovesnor House Hotel. This was the site of the international Body of Lies premiere gala now at full tilt in the Great Room, the largest ballroom in all Europe. There was a gaggle of jostling paparazzi and crush of screaming, cheering fans as Francesca exited the Rolls. In the life of most stars, it was a moment to be cherished. For Francesca it was merely necessary, a moment to be endured, a prelude to the evening’s true climax.
The international press was out in force. Mobile video units lined both the north and south sides of Park Lane and the airspace above the hotel was host to four of five helicopters, their pilots and cameramen all vying for the best angle to cover the arrival of the celebrities. Casting her eyes upwards, Francesca wondered how they managed to avoid each other. An air collision tonight would be a disaster in more ways than one.
Security, as she’d expected, was pervasive. Metal detectors at every conceivable entrance, names and pictures on every invitation, British and American security men with skinny ties talking to their lapels everywhere you looked. Francesca, Lily, and the slightly drunk director Vittorio, fully accredited, blew through without a problem, according to plan.
Entering the tightly packed and raucous ballroom, Francesca, with Lily in tow, moved with the confidence of a woman who knew she possessed more sheer wattage than any other woman in the room.
“Darling!” a famous American gossip columnist said, taking her arm, “I’ve just been with Steven. He thought you were brilliant! He wants to breakfast with you tomorrow morning in his suite at Claridge’s! Isn’t that fabulous?”
“Fabulous,” Francesca said. “Darling, have you met Lily? Wasn’t she enchanting as Nick’s secret paramour?”
Without waiting for a reply, Francesca left Lily with Liz and made her way though the press of bodies, dodging the flashing capped smiles and breezing past the wafting air kisses proffered by the botox brigade. She was looking for a man wearing a star sapphire ring on his left index finger. She didn’t know what he looked like, but she didn’t need to. He would recognize her. After tonight, the whole world would recognize her.
“Lovely ring,” she said. A bulky mustachioed man in a white silk Nehru jacket had smiled at her from his post at one of the many, many bars. This one was just to the right of a pair of French doors opening onto a small balconied terrace. Beyond the traffic of Park Lane, the heavy leafy green of Hyde Park lay under the dark summer sky.
“Thank you,” the dark man said, “I bought it in Cairo.”
“So he’s here,” Francesca replied, and motioned to him to follow her out to the terrace.
Lily found the photographer Jonathan Decker five minutes later, chatting up the Duke and Duchess of Somewhere.
“Oh, Johnnie,” she breathed, “May I steal you for a small tiny minute, s’il vous plaît?”
Decker turned away from the duchess and regarded the budding starlet with the towering, diamond-studded red hairdo and the neckline plunging due south. “Hey, baby,” he said.
“Johnnie?”
“Yes?”
“Was I good?”
“Phenomenal.”
“It was only the one line. Merde. Everything else, they cut me.”
“It was the delivery of that one line, baby, believe me. Sultry. You could feel the testosterone levels spiking all over the goddamn theatre. Say it for me.”
She smiled through pouted lips and repeated the line.
“I’ve been a naughty girl, Nicky.”
“Yeah, baby. Just like that.”
“I don’t know anybody here.”
“Count yourself lucky. I know everybody here.”
“Really? Who’s that?”
“Who’s who?”
“That tall one over there. The incredibly good-looking one with the curly black hair. He looks bored. I like that in a man.”
“Good eye, my dear girl. That is Alexander Hawke. One of the richest men in Britain, or so everybody says. He’s got a title, too, a good one. Not a ‘Your Grace’ or anything, but still. Christ, I hope I get old enough and rich enough to look down on new money some day.”
“My God. Beautiful. Is he married? Say no. Who is he talking to and why isn’t it me?”
“Want to meet him?”
Ten minutes later, Lily found herself alone with the most attractive man she’d ever seen. He asked her if she’d like to join him for a drink at the bar.
“I drink too much at these damn things,” he said, “E
verything I say bores me to tears. I’m having a spot of rum, Goslings Black Seal. Bermudian. Quite good, if you’ve never tried it.”
“Just a glass of white wine would be fine.”
“Pisse-de-chat,” Hawke said, “Try the rum.”
“Oui, c’est bon. Merci.”
Hawke nodded at the barman who came right over and took the order. A minute later, the drinks arrived. He raised his glass to her and smiled.
“You look familiar. Are you?”
“Pardon?”
“You know my name, but I don’t know yours. Sorry, I didn’t stick around for all the closing credits.”
“Lily Delacroix, Monsieur Hawke, une plaisir.”
“Pleasure,” Hawke replied, and realized he had nothing to add. He looked around the massive room, having no idea where to take this. He was slightly amused with his situation. This little red-headed starlet wasn’t much over twenty, he was sure. What on earth was he thinking when he—
“I don’t know anyone here, I’m so sorry,” she finally said.
“Don’t be sorry. I’ll fill you in. That group over there, for instance. Finance men from the City. The fat one doing all the talking is Lord Mowbray. The others are Barings, Rothschild, Hambro. The one who’s laughing at whatever Mowbray just said is Oppenheimer. Diamond chap from South Africa. Throw in a couple of wealthy dukes and you’ve got the whole lot.”
“Merci.”
“Je vous en prie, mademoiselle.”
“You speak French.”
“Not if I can help it. There are one or two French idiomatic expressions I find amusing. A way of describing a woman with a figure like this latest Hitchcock Girl, for instance. Francesca something or other.”
“D’Agnelli. What is the expression, Monsieur Hawke?”
“Il y a du monde au balcon.”
“Everyone is seated in the balcony,” she said, laughing. “Big bosoms.”
“Precisely. Now, my dear girl, if you’ll excuse me, here comes young Tom Jefferson, an old American friend of mine. I must—”
“Hello, Hawke, old buddy. Helluva movie, wasn’t it? The boys loved it. And this pretty young lady was in it if I’m not mistaken. How do you do, I’m Patrick Kelly. What’s your name?”
“Back off, Brick. I saw her first. Don’t pay any attention to him, Lily, he’s married.”
“Bonsoir, monsieur l’Ambassadeur. I am Lily.”
“Now, how in God’s name do you all know what I do for a living?”
“Because my closest friend, she told me you might come tonight. I will tell you a secret. She hopes to get a chance to speak with you, monsieur, if you still remember her.”
“All right, now you’ve piqued my curiosity, mademoiselle. Who is this mystery woman?”
“Francesca d’Agnelli.”
“Francesca?” Brick said. “Good lord!”
“Leave me out of this,” Hawke said, and sipped his rum.
“Where is she? I’d love to say hello.” Brick said.
“She’ll be so happy. I just saw her walk out onto one of the balconies over there. For a cigarette, I’m sure.”
“Which one?”
“By that bar. Come along, I’ll take you to her.”
“Alex, you hold down the fort,” Kelly said. “Order me a Ketel One on the rocks with a twist. I’ll be right back.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Miami
STOKELY WOKE UP WHEN A RAINDROP BOUNCED OFF HIS forehead. He opened his eyes. Chalky dust made them sting. He blinked out tears to clear them, and did a quick survey. What hurt and what did not. His nose still hurt like hell, inside the left nostril where the guy had stuck his trademark silver scissors. Legs hurt too, like a weight on them. It was, shit, a big chunk of plaster on top of him. Heavy mother, too. Pinned his arms and legs both. Oh, right, the ceiling fell down when the bombs went off. And now it was dark clouds up above, crackling with lightning, spitting out rain, and there were guys with flashlights climbing all over the rubble. Rescue team. Hey, over here, he almost said.
No. This wasn’t Dade County EMS on the scene. These guys were all shouting in Spanish. That wasn’t the thing, though; the thing was they were all in black and had camo paint and all had automatic weapons. He heard one go off. A Chinese guy, had to be one of Don Quixote’s guards, screamed in pain, another burst, quiet once more. They were shooting the survivors.
He closed his eyes. Dead again. Listening.
You spend enough time, like he had, standing on street corners in Spanish Harlem selling product, you’re bound to pick up a lot of español. And Stoke had. Donde está del Rio? He heard one say. Where’s the river?
They were shining flashlights all around him, now. They were looking for a river? Calling out the name, over and over. Del Rio! Del Rio! The river, right? No.
Don Quixote. The star formerly known in Cuba as Rodrigo del Rio. This blown-up museum used to be his house. These guys, Cuban forces most likely, were the ones who’d knocked it down. The guy they were looking for had a pair of scissors up Stoke’s nose when the lights went out. Where was he now? Stoke’d like a piece of this action. Only he couldn’t move.
He was wondering about Ross, too. Ross, just before lights out, saying get down, Stoke. Was Ross dead or just playing possum again? He heard another guy scream, not Spanish, Chinese again, and then a burst of automatic fire. Shut the guy up. He could see it now, even with his eyes closed. A blind man could see it. They were going through the rubble, looking for del Rio, and shooting anybody who didn’t fit the description.
He had to get to Ross, help him before they found him and shot him. Trying not to make any noise, he got his hands and knees pushing up against the plaster. Didn’t move more than half an inch but something slid off, glass most probably, least it sounded like glass when it broke.
Instantly, a guy was shining a light in his face. Another guy kicked him in the head with the toe of his boot. Stoke’s eyes popped open and he looked into the flashlight, smiling even though he couldn’t see anything but a ball of fire that made him squint. Jesus. Hurt like hell.
“Buenas noches,” Stoke said, “Americano. Amigo.”
Having pretty much established his ties to the Hispanic community, he was surprised when the boot caught him just behind the ear. A couple of guys were lifting the roof off him and four other guys had him by the arms, yanking him out. He wondered if four would be enough. Alex always described him as being about the size of your average armoire. Actually, he was bigger, from what little he’d seen of armoires.
Anyway, they finally got him on his feet and shoved him back against something that was still upright. A beam or a column felt like. Then they got his arms behind him. He was still groggy and there was a guy with a pistol in his ear. Otherwise no way they would have tied his wrists together with the plastic military handcuffs.
“Stoke? You alive, then?” It was Ross, his voice cracked and broken sounding.
“Silencio!” another Cuban guy said, and he heard the thud of metal on bone, somebody taking a pistol to Ross’s face. This Miami vacation was not going the right direction. He’d rather be checking the action poolside at the Delano anytime.
“Hey, listen up,” Stoke said to the guy in his face, “habla inglés, aquí? Somebody speak English? Who’s the jefe around here?”
“Sí, señor, I speak English,” the little guy with the gun in his ear said. “So I am able to understand your last fucking words.” He cocked the hammer. “Say them.”
“Oh, man, hold up.”
“Where is he, señor?” the Cuban said. He was short and had terrible acne scars which probably accounted for his bad attitude toward life. “Tell me where your jefe is and maybe we can talk.” He slammed his fist into Stoke’s ribcage for emphasis, most probably broke a few of his fingers in the process.
“Hey. We got a problem here? You talking about Don Quixote, right, a.k.a. Rodrigo del Rio, right? He ain’t my jefe, man. I’m Stokely Jones, NYPD retired. Me and that guy you beating
up on over there, we both cops. We’re looking to bust this Rodrigo’s ass just like you. You guys’re all Cuban right, ’less I’m wrong.”
“How would you know this?”
“I know a lot of shit, you let me talk. You in command of this outfit? You the jefe?”
“Sí. Talk fast.”
“This cat del Rio betrayed your government a while back, I know that. Switch-hitter. He was Fidel’s chief of security. But he ratted out Fidel to them three rebel generals who took over. But me and another guy, who shall remain nameless, we went down there and spoiled their little military coup. Killed two, sent one away for life. That’s how Fidel got his banana republic back. And that’s how come Rodrigo, with a price tag on his head, he cut and run. Now, Fidel got you boys out trying to whack him, right? You’re Cuban Special Forces, right? RDF? Shit, amigo, I know your boss. The comandante himself.”
“Shoot these two fucking gringos,” the bad-skinned guy said, taking his gun away and stepping out of range. Stoke heard three or four automatics racking they bolts. “No witnesses.”
“Wait! You’re not thinking straight. Two things. One, my friend over there ain’t no gringo! He’s English. Royalty. Put it together, pal. English. Royalty. You shoot him, you got a major international crisis on your ass. Two. You talking to a personal friend of Fidel’s. As in Castro. We tight, motherfucker. You whack me, you in the land of pain soon as you get back to sunny Havana. You shoot me, Fidel shoots you, okay? Boom. Boom.”
“Shoot him.”
Stoke closed his eyes. Didn’t want to see it.
“Shoot me first, boyo!” Ross shouted, sounding stronger. “I don’t want to see my friend die. But before you shoot either of us, take a look at the medal he’s wearing around his neck.”
“What stinking medal?” the little jefe asked.
The medal? Oh, yeah. That medal. Stoke smiled over at Sutherland and then shouted at his interrogator, getting right up in his business.
“Hey! You! Focus! What are you, ADD?”
“ADD?”
“Attention Deficit Syndrome, man! Try and concentrate, all right, till I can drum you up some Ritalin? You don’t believe what I’m sayin’? Look inside my shirt! Rip it open! You looking at one bona fide Cuban Medal of Honor winner, boy. Just check it out. You don’t recognize what you see, I’m shit out of luck, you boys go right ahead and shoot us.”
