by Winona Kent
“Never mind,” Anthony said, with a genuine sympathy. “We all have our brushes with greatness.” On his way back from the telephones, he had detoured through the parking lot and removed a miniature tape recorder from the glove compartment of his car. It was the size of a Walkman with a record button and a built-in condenser mike. He stuck in a ninety-minute cassette, stood back at a distance, and aimed the microphone at Charlotte. “Speak.”
“Mandy Sterling, rigorously trained in Far Eastern methods of self-defense, graduate of Miss Morrissey’s School for Proper Young Ladies in the exclusive borough of Knightsbridge—” Charlotte was reciting the voice-over used in Spy Squad to introduce the show’s three main characters. Anthony rewound the tape, leaving Charlotte to ramble on about Huffnagel’s dark beginnings as an ex-con, and Jarrod’s rich, anonymous benefactor who set him up as the Playboy of the Western World. He hit the playback and listened. Not bad. Good range.
“OK,” he said, jumping off the table with renewed enthusiasm. “Here’s the plan.”
Robin’s bodyguard had arrived. He strolled into the Coal Harbour Steakhouse as if he owned the place, greeting the hostess at the door by her first name, helping himself to the pastel-colored mints in the wicker basket, waving at the bartender, catching the attention of several of the waiters. He walked through to the booth at the back.
Robin was tucking into the last few morsels of an extremely sweet and sticky concoction known as Chocolate Lust. The kid was a chocolate freak: he ate Skor bars for breakfast. Lundberg’s insides revolted at the thought. He sat down beside Evan, who was pouring out what was left of the wine.
“Mr. Lundberg,” Evan said, sliding over to make more room. “A Spanish coffee, perhaps?”
“No thanks.” Randy patted his stomach. His tapered shirts were already on the tight side. “Perrier with lime,” he said to Mike.
“Perrier,” Robin repeated, disparagingly. He was somewhat inebriated but, like his father, tended not to show the condition off. “My brother swears by Perrier.” He glanced mischievously at Evan. “However, I find its high mineral content ensures an almost constant urgent need.”
Evan laughed and Lundberg, not in on the joke, said, “Is this the amorous Anthony?”
“No,” Robin replied, shaking his head, “it’s the effervescent Ian.”
“One day I’ll have to meet these guys,” Lundberg said to Evan. “The Harris legacy. And here we all thought you were the last of the great untamed. Who the hell’s their mother? Not Susan…?”
“Not Susan,” Evan confirmed.
“Susan,” Robin said, drunkenly, “is my step-significant-other.”
“Susan,” Evan said, “is not inclined toward motherhood. I fear she may be getting ready for a life in the convent.”
Robin slid his fork around the plate, trying to pick up the last few crumbs of Chocolate Lust. When the waiter came back he was going to ask for another one. “Has she heard the call?” he asked.
Evan shrugged. He didn’t appear particularly happy to find himself discussing his private life in public. But then, he didn’t seem particularly unhappy, either. “She’s heard something,” he said. “She’s jetted off home to Mother. In Cortina d’Ampezzo.”
“Oh,” Robin answered carefully.
“I should have realized something was wrong when she stopped hurling the contents of the kitchen cupboards at me and started to employ reason instead. The beginning of the end.”
“Oh,” Robin said, again. He felt terrible. When had this happened? They’d been together for five years. Now was a hell of a time to break off the relationship. The coward. She’d waited til he was in Vancouver—out of the way for six weeks. And she’d even got a part in Snake Dance. He glanced across at Randy, who was sitting with an uncomfortable expression on his face, staring at the candle in the red marbled glass in the center of the table. Robin hoped she’d taken her parrots with her.
“Salud,” Evan said, a little sadly, picking up his wineglass.
Robin drank a silent toast in sympathy with his father. “Did you remember my book?” he said to Randy, wanting to talk about something else quickly.
“Yeah. Here.” Lundberg tugged it out of the pocket of his jacket.
The glossy cover, with its posed action photo and stylized Spy Squad logo, diverted Evan’s attention. “I haven’t seen one of these in years,” he said, reaching over to intercept the book from Robin’s outstretched hand. “Where did you get it?”
“Anthony.” He watched his father, intrigued by the interest he was showing in the picture on the front. Fascinated, too, by the changes that had occurred in Evan’s face since the photo had been taken. “I should warn you—if you plan on reading it, it’s fairly silly.”
“The entire premise of Spy Squad was pretty silly,” Evan replied, turning to the middle of the book. “‘From where he had been dropped, Jarrod Spencer was only able to see a small portion of the room. His mind had climbed the Matterhorn of Madness. There was A Plan—A Plan to Destroy Civilization—and he was helpless to prevent its inevitable conclusion.’” He glanced up. “And for tomorrow night’s bedtime story…”
Robin smiled. Randy had been reading over Evan’s shoulder. He closed the cover of the book on Evan’s finger. “That woman,” he said, pointing to Mandy. “What’s her name?”
“Lesley Towne. English girl—RADA. Couldn’t quite get the hang of American television.”
“What’s she do now?”
“I don’t know,” Evan replied. “I don’t think she’s acting anymore. Spy Squad just about did her in.”
“It’s Lesley Towne?” Randy asked. “Not Lesley something else? You’re sure?”
Evan flipped over to the back cover. “‘Another exciting adventure from the hit TV series starring Evan Harris, Barry Rider, and Lesley Towne.’” He held it up for Randy to see.
Randy scratched his chin. “This lady I saw with Berringer—Mara.” He nodded at the picture. “It could have been her. Twenty years or so later. You know what I mean?”
Evan glanced at Robin.
“The only thing is…I’ve been told Mara’s real name is Lesley Totter. Not Towne. Could be a stage name, maybe?”
Evan was thinking. “I can’t remember,” he said.
Randy stared at the picture. “It was her. I’m positive.”
“Watch those hands.”
“A thousand pardons.” Anthony was sitting on Charlotte’s shoulders in a pitch-black utility cupboard down the hallway from the Shirda’s office. He steadied himself against the wall. “I had no idea that was you.”
Charlotte giggled.
“Somebody has exceedingly hairy legs,” she said, slipping her fingers under his trousers and into the tops of his zippered suede boots.
“Exceedingly ticklish legs,” Anthony corrected, with a playful kick. “Stop that.”
“A thousand pardons.” Charlotte smiled. “I had no idea that was you.”
She swayed a little as Anthony probed the acoustic tile ceiling for a loose panel.
There. He gave it a push.
“How much do you weigh?” she asked, suspiciously, as she struggled to keep her balance.
“One forty-eight,” Anthony replied. “How much do you weigh?”
“A lot less than that. Do you think you could maybe hurry it up a little?”
“Patience,” Anthony said, as his head disappeared inside the rectangular hole. “I’ve never done this before.”
“As if I have.”
Grasping the strapping, Anthony managed to get both of his knees onto Charlotte’s shoulders.
“For God’s sake,” he said, his voice far away, “don’t move.” One foot—the other—he was up. Spread-eagling his arms and legs to distribute his weight, he poked his head and one hand back down through the hole. Charlotte passed the tape recorder up to him.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” she confirmed.
“Break a leg.”
“Thanks,” she sa
id, dryly.
She watched him crawl away, then took a deep breath and ducked out of the closet.
“I never liked writing for Spy Squad,” Hamelin was saying. “It was a steady job, it brought me good money, I was able to exercise my imagination on a daily basis—but I hated it. You know, of course, why I was dumped after forty-two episodes?”
Lesley Towne, who was sitting on a couch in the Shirda’s office, had blossomed into quite a deep shade of red.
“I was given the boot. Not that I would have stayed on—I wanted out. But I was fired before I could quit. Do you know anything about that, Mara?”
“Larry, I—”
Hamelin held a finger up to silence her. “Cast and crew went to director, director to producer, producer to executive producer. Hamelin has an attitude problem, wasn’t that it? I’ll tell you who had the attitude problem: you hotshot actors. Harris. He was the worst.”
Up in the ceiling, Anthony listened with great interest, the tape recorder whirring. The old frustrated-writer cliché. And blaming it all on Evan, too. A low blow.
“The sad thing is, I never again got a deal as sweet as Spy Squad. Never scored so big, never wrote so steadily. Never got as much attention. Until now.” He fixed Lesley with his steel-gray eyes.
“I’ve more than made up for my prior shortcomings,” she stammered, uncomfortably. “I’ve apologized for wanting you off the program. My God, Larry, it’s been seventeen years…”
The Shirda’s eyes blazed. “You have been helpful,” he said, evenly. “You have worked hard. I regret you found it necessary to hire a couple of incompetents in the form of Mr. Berringer and Mr. Grosch. You will, of course, remove them from the project if they happen to fail a third time?”
Mara’s mouth opened, and then shut again, abruptly. “Of course,” she said, lowering her eyes.
Timidly, Charlotte knocked on the door of the office. There was a heated conversation going on in there; she hated to interrupt. The discussion ceased; there were footsteps. A large man with an unsmiling face opened the door and looked out and then down.
“Hi,” Charlotte said, mustering confidence. “I wonder if I might have a word with Mr. Bagraj.” The man glared at her. “Mr. Shirda,” she corrected herself.
The large man said nothing.
“What is it?” Larry Hamelin’s voice came from somewhere within the room.
Charlotte cleared her throat. “Hello? I’m from Vancouver. I’d like to talk to Mr. Hamelin.”
The High Bagraj of New Dehra Dun opened the door wide and gazed down upon the young woman who had requested his presence. He was smiling. Charlotte shivered.
“What is your name?” he inquired, in a patient voice.
“I’m Charlotte Kelly.”
“What do you wish of me?”
Charlotte dragged her confidence up from around her ankles. “I’m looking for someone—a friend of mine.” She wasn’t very good at this.
The High Bagraj of New Dehra Dun observed his visitor with enforced serenity. He was very tall.
“He told me he was coming here—I have an urgent message from his father—and I don’t seem to be able to find him. Ian Harris. Do you by any chance happen to know where he is?”
The Shirda’s smile refused to wane. “Perhaps you should come into my office,” he said, stepping back to allow Charlotte access. The large man disappeared into the shadows. Up in the crawl space, Anthony settled with his chin on his arm to listen. So far, so good.
Charlotte noticed, in surprise, that Lesley Towne was in the room, wearing the bright yellow robe of New Dehra Dun.
“This woman,” Hamelin was saying to her, his voice rapidly losing its mystical quality, “appears to be attached to Mr. Harris, Mara. She’s come all the way from Vancouver.”
Charlotte flashed an adoring grin at Lesley Towne. “We met outside, remember? I’ve always been one of your biggest fans.”
Up in the ceiling, Anthony suppressed a groan. Not now, Charlotte. Stay in character!
Mara looked annoyed. “Charmed, I’m sure,” she said, in a thoroughly uncharmed sort of voice.
Hamelin sat down behind his desk, pulling his leather-backed chair forward with a decided squeak. “Mr. Harris is rather busy at the moment. Perhaps you’d like to leave the message with me. I’ll see that he gets it.”
“Oh, no,” said Charlotte, quickly. “I couldn’t. It’s, um, extremely confidential. He’d never forgive me.” He had to know she was making it up. She’d never been a very convincing liar. Her cheeks were blazing; she couldn’t look at him.
Hamelin leaned back; his chair protested loudly. “A follower of Spy Squad, are you?”
At last, something she could be honest about. Perhaps she’d be able to win him over with flattery. “Definitely,” she said. “I especially liked ‘The Christopher Robin Caper.’”
Hamelin smiled, briefly. “Interesting. Out of all the episodes I wrote, why that one?”
“You named the villain after one of Ian’s brothers. I can really get into obscure trivia like that.”
Up in the ceiling, Anthony buried his head in his hands. No, Charlotte, no, no—you’ll make him suspicious!
“The satellite dishes,” she continued, cheerfully. “And that plot to control the world—it was really wonderful. Where do your ideas come from? Do you actually base your characters on people you know?”
Hamelin’s mouth, which was already partway open in amusement, expanded into a wide grin.
At that very same moment, up in the ceiling, Anthony shifted his weight slightly, in order to take some of the pressure off his right leg, which was falling asleep. As he did so, the strapping holding the assembly of acoustic tiles together parted company with its supporting superstructure, and all 148 pounds of Anthony Quinn Harris tumbled straight down into Larry Hamelin’s office, landing with a thwuump on his leather couch, narrowly missing Mara, who had leaped to safety at the first sound of splitting tiles.
For a second, as the dust settled and bits and pieces of the ceiling continued to waft earthward, there was silence. Then, very quickly, things began to happen. The large man ran from the door to the couch, seized Anthony by the arm, and dragged him to his feet. Mara withdrew a nickel-plated gun from the folds of her robe and leveled it at Charlotte. And Hamelin stepped around to the front of his desk, arms folded, the beatific smile no longer apparent behind his gray-streaked beard.
“Well, now,” he said, curiously. “What do we have here?”
Anthony was silent. He’d met Hamelin a couple of times before, when he was six and visiting the Spy Squad set. He couldn’t count on anonymity. That was why he’d sent Charlotte into the room instead of going in himself. He didn’t know how good the man’s memory would be after all these years.
Hamelin bent down and retrieved the miniature tape recorder from the floor. “Yours?” he asked.
“What do you think?” Anthony countered. The large man had powerful, stubby fingers, like hard pink sausages. They were making dents in his arm.
Hamelin switched the tape off and stood it on end, sentrylike, on his desk.
“And who might you be?” he inquired.
“Tony Raymond,” Anthony said, gambling.
“And are you a part of this Spy Squad social club too?”
“I’m their most loyal member.”
Quickly, Hamelin crossed the room and relieved Anthony of his wallet, then searched Charlotte’s knapsack until he located her I. D. Anthony studied his boots while the High Bagraj flipped through his driver’s license and his birth certificate, his social insurance and his UBC student cards.
“Tony Raymond,” he said, tossing the wallet onto the desk. It landed beside the tape recorder. “Your I. D. says Anthony Harris.”
Anthony raised his head. His partner in crime was burning holes in him with her eyes. Her jaw had dropped about four inches. Be cool, he thought. Be really cool, Charlotte.
“I had another Harris in here earlier,” Hamelin said. “Ian. I p
resume you two are brothers?”
Anthony was silent.
“Come, come,” Larry Hamelin said, the smile returning to his face. “There’s another one of you lurking about somewhere—Christopher Robin. Where’s the youngest kid, Mara?”
“He’s being followed. Berringer’s report is expected shortly.”
“Good,” Hamelin nodded. “Good.” He turned his attention back to Anthony. “Did you come to Dehra Dun with Ian or are you two freelancing?”
“Ian doesn’t know I’m here,” Anthony said.
Hamelin chuckled. “I should hope not. You might irrevocably jeopardize our pleasant working relationship. Much as I dislike your father, I have to admit your older brother seems to have developed some fairly astute business acumen. I’m fond of him.” He ran his finger down the middle of his beard. “I’m currently in the market for a certain item of information. I believe this item first fell into the hands of your younger brother. Since then, it seems to have disappeared. What might you have to offer by way of enlightenment in this matter?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Anthony replied.
“Obstinate, aren’t you? I suppose you’re going to claim total innocence, in much the same way Christopher Robin did.”
“Of course I am. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The large man’s pork sausage fingers were digging into his arm again, five painful points of pressure, pinching skin and muscle. He winced.
“Then what,” Hamelin said, still stroking the gray hairs in his beard, “may I ask, are you doing here?”
“Precisely what Charlotte told you. Looking for Ian.”
Hamelin smiled, nodding. “Mara,” he said. “Take this delightful innocent girl out and lock her in a room somewhere while I have a private word with young Harris.”
Mara gestured with the gun at Charlotte. “Do come with me,” she said, her educated voice purring with cordiality. “And please don’t think of trying anything foolish—this is a real weapon.”
