Chapter 31 – Lunch at The Fort
When Helstof told her husband they were going to have lunch with Stirg and Nev out at Fort Sumter, he looked at her like she was crazy. Six months earlier, out on the back side of the fort, Stirg had attacked the team while out on an evening pleasure cruise in Henric’s sailboat. Only Roger’s quick thinking and experience at handling boats had kept them from being cleaved in half by Stirg’s monster power cruiser. At the time, Stirg was infuriated over the theft of heritage artifacts from the warehouses of the Hermitage Museum by the June’s team, and had decided on revenge. Now he was inviting them to lunch.
At the marina, the entire team went on board a boat Stirg had rented to take them out and back. Twenty minutes later they climbed up the ladders onto the Fort Sumter dock, where they were met by a park ranger. Also at the dock was another boat that had been rented by the catering company. The ranger had been told this was a special, two hour event. She should give them the standard ten minute talk about the history of the fort, and then stand by for any questions, or to provide any assistance needed. She led the group down the long concrete dock and through the Sallyport of the fort.
Emerging onto the Parade Ground they saw a small tent under which were long folding tables graced with white table clothes, vases of flowers, and wine buckets filled with champagne. A team of five caterers stood by in white jackets, ready to pour wine and serve food at Stirg’s order. Stirg and Nev were standing high above the Parade Ground, on top of Battery Huger, the massive concrete gun emplacement the Army built in the middle of the fort in 1899. When they saw the June’s team enter through the Sallyport, they waved and headed for the metal staircases leading down to the Parade Ground level.
Seven of the eleven team members had been on board Henric’s boat when Stirg and Nev had attacked out on the water. They remembered the murderous look on Stirg’s face as he stood on the flying bridge of his power cruiser, bearing down on the much smaller sailboat at flank speed, intent on hitting the sailboat directly from the side and cleaving it in two, and they remembered Nev, next to Stirg, holding his 50 caliber Desert Eagle handgun. And they remembered the outcome of the attack, with both Stirg and Nev lying on different decks of the cruiser, semiconscious, and the cruiser plowing a deep vee into the sand and shell bottom of Morris Island, from which it had to be pulled off the next day by a tugboat.
Selgey, Bart, the woman, and The Whosey had not been present at that event, and Roger and Gwen had debated whether to tell them about Stirg’s attack six months earlier. On the one hand, why worry them about something that happened in the past. On the other, they thought the newer team members had a right to know, considering the very real possibility that Stirg might take action against them in the near future because of the ballet production. That issue is what this lunch was all about. To talk about the production - Stirg hadn’t arranged this get-together because he liked and admired the Junes and their associates. So Roger and Gwen had told the others they had had a conflict with Stirg in the past, but they didn’t tell them this conflict was over the theft of nine large shipping containers of artifacts from the warehouses of the Hermitage Museum, and the smuggling of said artifacts into Charleston. They didn’t tell them Stirg had found out about this, and had objected to so many pieces of Russia’s heritage ending up in the living rooms of well to do Charlestonians. They just said that Stirg was a serious man with whom they had had disagreements, and that, upon occasion, he was prone to resort to violence to express his feelings and opinions. Gwen and Roger knew that Gale, the Ps, and Helstof would fill in the details, as warranted. They knew how to delegate.
With that as background, the team now found itself face to face with an ebullient Stirg, striding across the Parade Ground towards them, arms outstretched in a welcoming gesture. Nev followed, his demeanor hardly ascending to a level that could be described as friendly. Gwen could see a very large bulge under his Hawaiian style shirt that certainly indicated the presence of a Desert Eagle. Gwen had not armed the four newer team members, but the remaining seven were. She sincerely hoped she and Roger were not going to be responsible for the first gunfire to erupt at the fort since hostilities ceased out there in 1865.
As Stirg approached the group, he dropped his arms to his sides. Neither he nor Nev offered to shake hands, and there wasn’t a lot of inclination for that salutation on the part of the Junes, either. But he did maintain a smiling countenance, for which you had to give him credit. He really hates the Junes. Stirg said, “Welcome to Fort Sumter. Don’t you love all those flags? I can just barely see them from my house. It’s a very patriotic display. The park ranger told us each of the flags signifies a different era in the fort’s history, or the association of a different group with some event here. This place has a long history and symbolizes a turning point in American culture. It’s just the place for us to have a little talk about matters that concern us. But, I think we should eat and drink before we talk, don’t you. Try to be friends, understand each other. That’s what this lunch is about. Understanding. Ok?”
Helstof did what Gwen hoped she would do. She answered for the group. In Russian she said, “Look Stirg, we’re happy to drink some wine with you and eat some of whatever you brought out here. It smells really good. Maybe we can get past our differences. But remember, it was you who sent an agent into the June’s house in the middle of the night. And it was you who tried to drive your big fucking boat through the middle of our little boat. And it was you who sent Nev to brace our little brothers, the Ps, in our rehearsal hall. You know he scared the shit out of them? You know they’re artists, the sensitive type?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She wondered how Russian swear words came across to Americans. Her language was vulgar but her tone was quite civil. She hoped the Ps weren’t offended by what she said about them. “So, as long as you understand our general perspective on things, let’s, by all means, sit down. See if we can get along.”
Gwen didn’t understand Russian, but she understood Helstof. Bravo, babe, bravo. Everyone got the gist of her speech, except maybe Gale. Gale understood clothes and pretensions to aristocratic culture. Gale the fashionista. Gale the good-hearted snob. Gale, who now carried a Beretta in her Louis Vuitton purse. Stirg took the dressing down well, and maintained his friendly face. He led the way to the tent, and told the caterers to pour and serve. The next forty-five minutes went well. Nev was civil, and, sitting between the Ps, actually apologized for scaring the shit out of them. Gwen sat next to Stirg, making polite conversation with him, asking how much it cost him to get his cruiser pulled off the Morris Island beach, and that they appreciated he hadn’t asked for his Bosendorfer piano back, which still sat on the stage of The Hall, having been used by his granddaughter, Anna, to compose the music for the team’s first attempt at staging a ballet in Charleston, now in abeyance until she returned from filming in France. Gwen also introduced Stirg and Nev to the woman, Selgey, Bart, and Pete Townshend. She said, “This is Pete Townshend, of The Who.”
Stirg is sixty-seven years old, and Townshend is four years younger, so it was reasonable to think that Stirg had heard of this famous guy. But, remember, while Townshend was doing all his crazy shit with from the middle 60s to the middle 70s, Stirg was getting involved in Nazi hunting. Even in his formative years, his twenties, Stirg knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to avenge the murders of his parents at the hands of the Nazis during World War II. Maybe that explains, to some extent, the nature of Stirg’s intensity of purpose, even now in his declining years, here in Charleston. He is just one heavy dude.
Anyway, upon the introduction, he said, with no pun intended, “the who?” Townshend had heard this stupid joke fifty thousand times over the last forty years, and this was the first time he actually believed it was said in earnest. Townshend looked at Stirg, and Stirg looked at Townshend. It was like a Martian looking at a Venusian, and vice versa. Gwen intervened and got the c
onversation back on line. The food was excellent and the bottles of champagne cost $300 each. Nev noticed Gwen was the only one on her team not drinking, and she noticed the same about him. The two bodyguards. Nev guarding one body, Gwen guarding her ten. That made things about equal. The young park ranger didn’t notice the bulges under so many of the shirts, or if she did, thought they were cell phones. The advent of cell phones was a boon to those who carry concealed weapons. Cops can’t tell one bulge from another.
They didn’t have all day to shoot the shit out there, so after forty-five minutes, Stirg stood up and led the group away from the tent and over to one of the walls. He let them cluster around him, and then pointed to the wall, where they saw a metal object sticking out from the brick, which the astute among them recognized as an artillery shell. It was one of four such shells that still are embedded in the masonry of the fort, their trajectory from outside the fort to inside dating to the eighteen month bombardment that occurred during the period 1863 to 1864. That bombardment had reduced a monumental masonry fortification to a pile of rubble. The greatest military bombardment to occur in the western hemisphere.
Stirg let them look at the shell for a minute, then led the way fifty yards down the wall, and pointed to another shell. He said, “Your history, right there. American history. Your Civil War, which set America on the course it has followed to this day. One country, not two.” He let those statements sink in. If the park ranger had heard, she would have been impressed. The group went into a row of casemates that had not been destroyed in the bombardment, and looked at the eleven identical cannons, pointing towards the harbor channel. Stirg said, “These cannons protected the City of Charleston, one of the most important ports on the entire east coast. Ports mean maritime trade, which means commerce, which is the economy, which is the backbone of countries and societies. These cannons are your heritage.”
They moved out of the casemates and up the metal stairs to the museum, built into one of the gun emplacements of Battery Huger. The museum is full of interpretive panels, cannonballs, Civil War artifacts, models of ships, and historic photographs. Stirg led the group to a wall against which leaned a large glass and wood case, twenty feet from left to right and ten feet from top to bottom. Inside was displayed the Storm Flag, which was raised over the fort during that fateful three-day engagement that marked the start of the Civil War. Pointing to the flag, Stirg said, “Flags are symbols. Symbols of countries, people, places, causes. This flag is one of the most important symbols of America. It says that one group of people believed in something they were willing to fight for. Fight to the death. This flag symbolizes your history; it is your heritage.”
The group left the museum with Stirg in the lead and Nev bringing up the rear. He wondered where and when his boss had learned all this American history stuff. He must be hiding books under his bed, and reading late at night. Back down on the Parade Ground, sitting under the tent again, Stirg had the caterers pour coffee, then waved them away. He said, “You know why we’re here. I want to see if we can come to terms on the ballet thing. The Stravinsky thing. We’ve had battles, and you’ve won some, and I’ve won some. You guys stole the stuff from the Hermitage, and got it here. Then I stole it from you. I came after you out in the harbor, and ended up on my ass, with my boat beached on a sandbar. You came into my house, where Roger hit me in the head with his gun. Now we have this ballet thing, and once again, you’re stealing my country’s heritage. Stravinsky was Russian, not American. Just because he lived here for many years doesn’t make him American. And you’re going to do the first performance of his lost ballet here. It should be in Saint Petersburg, not Charleston.” He paused, sipped some coffee, trying not to get emotional.
This was the first time the woman, Selgey, Bart, and Townshend had heard a few details about stealing stuff from Russia, physical conflict on the high seas, and hitting people in the head with the butt of a gun. The woman and the two former ballet dancers got a little nervous, the woman wondering if there was another glass of wine sitting around somewhere. Townshend, the former destroyer of hotel rooms, thought it all sounded rather interesting. Maybe this Charleston gig wasn’t going to be so boring after all.
Stirg stood and got to the point. “What if I stole your Civil War flag? What if I came out here with a hammer and chisel, and took those shells out of the walls of the fort; took them back to my house as souvenirs? Pinned that flag up on one of my walls? What would you think of that?” He looked around at the surrounding faces, his own face becoming agitated, wiggling in places, involuntarily. “I want the Stravinsky score. You found it in one of the Hermitage artifacts you stole. It belongs in Russia, not here.” He sat down, and leaned back in the chair. “Ok. We’ve had lunch together. I told you what I think and what I want. Now you tell.” He looked first at Gwen, and then at Roger.
Gwen was pleased there wasn’t going to be any shooting on the Parade Ground, as that would have been hard to explain to the Park Service. She found Stirg’s presentation to be fascinating. Really. The old boy had created a play to express his feelings, and it had been dramatic. The setting of the fort, the cannons and shells, the museum and its artifacts, the lunch under the tent. All very impressive. And of course the $10,000 price tag to buy the setting. He was something of an impresario himself. Gwen had figured all this out during the boat ride over to the fort, at least the basics, if not the details. She knew he was going to demand they stop the production and give him the score. She knew he deserved an answer, and that she would be the team’s spokesperson. She knew all this before she set foot on the fort’s dock.
She stood up and looked at Roger. “You ever eaten lunch out here? Private, like this?” Roger shook his head. “You ever hear of anyone eating lunch out here, private party?” She looked at Gale, also a native Charlestonian, who shook her head, no. “This is great, Stirg. A first. We’ll be the envy of Charleston’s luncheon circuit. And not only a nice meal with nice wine, very nice wine, but a history tour and lesson, all in one. I doubt if that nice ranger could give a better spiel than you did. I'm impressed.” Gwen looked across to the far side of the Parade Ground, and saw the ranger there, cooling her heels and chatting with the waiters, waiting for these hoity toitys to finish their fancy lunch, and get out of here, so the regular people could come back on the commercial tour boat. Carefully Gwen pulled her gun from under her jacket at the rear of her hip, and laid it on the table between an empty champagne bottle and a carafe of coffee, so the ranger and waiters couldn’t see it. Nev resisted the temptation to do the same. He could see that Gwen’s gesture was symbolic.
“You made your point, Stirg. And you did it really well. We know you were pissed that we stole the Hermitage stuff, but that took a lot of work and a lot of risk on our part. We’re kind of pissed that you stole it back. Where is it, anyway?” Neither Stirg nor Nev answered. “Ok, fair enough.” She looked at Roger, said, “Babe, you working on finding out where it is, so we can steal it back from him?” Roger nodded, yes. Helstof and the Ps knew all about these incidents, and the rest of the team was intrigued, especially Townshend, who was new to the whole scene. He kept looking at Gwen’s gun lying on the table, then at her, trying to reconcile this incredibly beautiful woman with someone walking around packing heat. Gwen worked hard to find more ways to tease Stirg and Nev.
“We also know you don’t like the idea of us having the lost Stravinsky ballet score. You know what we know; that no one has seen this music since Stravinsky stuck it in the secret compartment of a desk he was using in Saint Petersburg in 1914. We’re the only ones ever to have seen it, other than him.” Gwen left her place at the table and slowly walked around the perimeter of the tent, talking. She knew Roger was covering her gun on the table, because he always covered her. Always. “So, we have this Russian thing, this piece of music. We have it here, and we’re going to produce the ballet. We have money
, we have talent (looking first at Townshend and then at Selgey and Bart), and we’re committed. That’s our problem, isn’t it, Stirg? You’re committed to your viewpoint, and we’re committed to our viewpoint.” She came back to her chair, but kept standing. She poured herself more coffee, added cream, gave the cup a single stir, but she didn’t drink any. She was thinking, and everyone else was waiting, especially Stirg.
“We’re something alike, Stirg. Me and Roger and you. Sometimes we’re nice and good, and sometimes we do things that a professor of ethics and morality would question. Or condemn. You did very good things, hunting down expatriate Nazis, and bringing them to justice. In our smaller way, we sometimes do good things, too. We taught your granddaughter how to use her intuition, and that made her a very special person. We’re going to make a great work of art here in Charleston, with our ballet production, and that will be a contribution to our culture.
“But both of us also do some not so good things. We stole the Hermitage stuff, which makes us thieves. Aristocratic thieves, but still thieves. And you, Stirg, have done some not so good stuff, too. Not all of those Nazis you caught went back to The Hague for trial, did they? Some went directly into the ground, didn’t they? Ok. So. Well. Some good things on both sides, and some not so good things. We choose, we act, we live with our decisions.” She picked up her china cup and saucer, and took her time sipping the coffee. “I feel pretty good about things in general. I like my life, I love my husband, I enjoy eating great food and drinking excellent Burgundy, and Charleston is a beautiful place to live. How about you, Roger?”
“Umm, I like sleeping with you. The other stuff is ok, but sleeping with you is tops. Really good. I’ll do a lot of bad stuff to keep doing that.” Sometimes Roger was complex, and sometimes, like now, he was simple, and Gwen enjoyed this diversity of personality. Of course, occasionally Roger was simple-minded, and she didn’t like that quite as much, but who’s perfect? Townshend thought he, too, would do a lot of bad stuff in order to sleep with Gwen. A whole lot of stuff.
Gwen didn’t bother going down the line of her team, asking them if they were ok with being involved in this ballet caper. She knew the conflict was between Stirg and her and Roger. The rest were accessories. Valuable, wonderful, talented accessories, but not the source of the conflict. Not the principles. Not really responsible for what would come next, so she got back to addressing Stirg. “We get the point of your play out here today. We stole your heritage, which was a bad thing, so you’ll steal ours. We believe you. We know you can do that sort of stuff.” She paused. “We’ll just have to live with that. We want to do this production, and we’re going to do it. It’s who we are, right now, and it’s going forward. All the way. Sorry, we can’t do what you want, and quit. Sorry.” She checked on the ranger and waiters, picked up her gun, looked at it, and stuck it back in the holster on her hip. “Nice lunch, Stirg. Nice lunch.”
Those were the last words spoken by the group that day on the Parade Ground out at the fort. Stirg didn’t say anything to answer Gwen. He just stood up, looked around the tables under the tent, and nodded. He understood, everything. The war was on.
The Lost Ballet Page 31
