by Stuart Woods
“It was the great pleasure of all concerned to do what we could, Mr. President,” Stone replied.
Will Lee sat back in his chair and sipped his ginger ale. “Now tell me bluntly—bluntly, please—what you think is going on with this nursery-rhyme trio,” he said.
Stone and Mike looked at each other, and Stone nodded to Mike.
“Mr. President,” Mike said, “as you pointed out, all the relevant parties are in agreement on the information we have so far. We think there is an active al Qaeda team in California, probably in Los Angeles, whose mission it is to disrupt your talks with President Vargas.”
“And perhaps kill both of us and a great many prominent people, as well,” Lee pointed out. “You’re going to have an extraordinary grouping of entertainment, business, and media folks gathered in one place, and that has to be an inviting target for them. It was suggested to me that I should cancel the event, but I decided to go ahead for many reasons, not the least of them that to cancel in the face of a mere threat would put our government in a bad light.”
“I can’t disagree, Mr. President,” Mike replied, “and I’m impressed with the way the government agencies are cooperating. Interagency rivalry has been put aside.”
“That’s something I’m trying to engender all the time,” Lee said, “and not always with success.”
Stone spoke up. “Felicity Devonshire at MI-6 has been very helpful, too.”
“Yes, I understand they’ve connected one of the names to the subway bombings in London a few years back. That’s very disturbing.”
“And that information has caused a redoubling of all our efforts,” Mike said.
“My wife and I appreciate that,” Lee said. “Has there been anything new while I was sleeping?”
“No, sir,” Mike replied.
“Then let’s rejoin the others,” Lee said. “Since it’s a special occasion, I think I’ll stand myself to a second ginger ale.”
They went back to the living room. “This is a beautiful house,” Kate Lee said to Stone.
“Thank you. Arrington worked with the architect on the design until shortly before her death,” Stone replied.
“We saw her portrait in the reception area,” Kate said. “I loved it.”
“I hadn’t seen it before today,” Stone said, “but I loved it, too. How did the intelligence summit go?” he asked, indicating Felicity and Holly.
“I wish all my intelligence were so smooth and cordial,” Kate said, and the others laughed.
A young woman wearing a Secret Service button in her lapel approached. “Mrs. Lee, you asked me to remind you when it was time to return to the residence for dinner.”
“Thank you, Agent,” Kate said. “Will,” she called across the room. “Dinnertime. I hope you haven’t had too much ginger ale.”
Lee set down his drink and joined his wife. “I’m still steady on my feet,” he said. Good-byes were exchanged, and the presidential party left.
“I hope we can all get together before this weekend is over,” the president said, as he led his party out of the house.
“Wow!” Peter exclaimed. “I can’t believe I just met the president of the United States!”
35
That night Felicity and Mike stayed for dinner, and everyone was in a good mood, in the afterglow of their brush with the president. Almost everyone turned in early, tired from their cross-country travel.
Felicity left by the front door, then, half an hour later, parted the curtains of the master suite and stepped in from the patio.
“Haven’t we met somewhere before?” Stone said.
Felicity sat down on the bed, released a silk stocking from her garter belt, and rolled it down her beautiful leg. “Yes, and you know very well that the man you call Mike Freeman and I have met before, too.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” Stone replied, pushing back the covers for her. He was already in bed, naked. “Who else on your side of the pond thinks he may have met Mike before?”
“I believe myself to be the only one. Of course, I’ve done everything I can to paper over that crack in the history of my service.”
Mike Freeman, when younger and under his original name, had been a rising star in MI-6, until an episode in his private life made him a target of people who wanted to see him dead. He built an identity for himself in the United States and was brought into Strategic Services by its founder, Jim Hackett. Stone and Felicity had both been instrumental in seeing that he was not exposed.
“I’ll tell Mike that,” Stone said.
“Please don’t, I’d rather that only you and I shared the details of that episode. There are still people in high places who would feel great resentment toward us, if they knew. Let sleeping dogs snore.”
Stone laughed. “My lips are zipped.”
Felicity went into the second bathroom with a small bag she had brought. Stone dimmed the lights and waited for her to emerge, naked, and get into bed with him.
She snuggled close. “One of these days I’m going to retire from the service, and when I do you are going to be in big, big trouble,” she said.
“I could use some of that kind of trouble,” Stone replied, turning to her and slipping a leg between hers, where he found her to be already wet. He kissed her eyes and her face, then bit her softly on a nipple. “I believe this is the start button?”
“Yes, and it’s in perfect working order,” she breathed. She pulled him on top of her and brought him inside her. “There,” she said, “that’s where you belong.”
And he remained there for some time.
—
Before dawn, Felicity dressed and slipped out onto the patio, then let herself out of the garden and strolled down the pathway to her nearby cottage, passing a Secret Service agent on the way. He gave her a little salute, but they did not speak.
It was eight hours later in London, so she called her office on her encoded cell phone.
“Aren’t you up very early?” her secretary asked.
“I couldn’t sleep—jet lag,” she lied, “so I thought I’d check in.”
“Do you want your messages?”
“Just e-mail them to me. I’d be interested to know, though, if there’s anything from GCHQ?”
“Nothing,” the woman replied.
“If they should call, get in touch with me without delay,” Felicity said. “And now, I’m going to try to get a couple of hours’ sleep.” She hung up, undressed, and was out as soon as her head hit the pillow.
—
Stone slept soundly until he heard voices from the living room. He showered and joined them for breakfast. “Everybody sleep well?” Stone asked.
“I was too excited to sleep well,” Hattie said. “I get to play on a movie sound track today.”
“That’s wonderful, Hattie. By the way, I’ve arranged for a hotel car to take the four of you to Centurion and wait to drive you back. The great bulk of the guests won’t arrive until the day after tomorrow, so they won’t need the car, and it will be faster to clear security on your return if you’re in the vehicle you left in.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Peter said. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”
“No, thank you, Peter, I’ve had that tour, and I need to speak with my office about some things. I might even get some actual work done.”
After breakfast he called Joan. “Good morning from fantasy land,” he said to her.
“Is it absolutely wonderful?” she asked.
“Absolutely wonderful. Tomorrow the guests start arriving.”
“And the Immi Gotham concert?”
“That’s the day after tomorrow.”
“I would kill to be there.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be televised later. Any messages?”
“Bill Eggers and his wife will be with you tomorrow, and Herbie Fisher wants to talk to you. That’s it.”
“Okay, can you transfer me to Herbie?”
“Hang
on.” There was a click, and Herbie’s secretary answered. “Mr. Fisher’s office.”
“It’s Stone.”
“Oh, yes, he wants to talk to you.”
Herbie came onto the phone. “Hey, Stone.”
“Good morning, Herb.”
“I’ve shunted some work out of the way, so Harp and I are coming out there. I’ve booked us into the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
“Great, Herb. I’ll check with the manager and see if there have been any cancellations.”
“Thanks, Stone. If you can do anything about the Immi Gotham concert, I’d appreciate that, too.”
“That may be one miracle I can’t work,” Stone said, “but I’ll try. What time are you due in?”
“Midafternoon tomorrow.”
“I’ll get back to you.” Stone hung up and called the hotel’s executive director, Morton Kaplan. “Good morning, Mort.”
“Good morning, Stone. I hope everything is all right with your cottage.”
“Everything is absolutely perfect. We had the president and first lady for drinks last evening, and your staff performed beautifully. I wanted to ask a favor, perhaps an impossible one.”
“Tell me what you need.”
“I have a friend and associate at Woodman & Weld coming out tomorrow. He’s booked into the Beverly Hills, but if you should have a cancellation here . . .”
“Hold on a moment and I’ll take a look,” Kaplan said.
Stone heard the sound of a computer keyboard, then Kaplan came back.
“No cancellations, but we have some smaller rooms that are normally for the use of our guests’ air crews or secretaries, and I have one of those available.”
“Wonderful! I’m sure that will be just fine. His name is Herbert Fisher, and his companion’s name is Harp O’Connor.”
“I’ll get their names to the Secret Service for checking, but I’m sure there’ll be no problem. And if we should have a cancellation, I’ll try to improve Mr. Fisher’s accommodations.”
“One other thing: any chance of concert tickets?”
“We can put a couple more chairs in your box.”
“Perfect. Thanks so much, Mort.”
“Would you like your friends met at the airport?”
“Yes, they’re arriving at midafternoon. I’ll get you the flight number.”
“That won’t be necessary. There’ll be a little stand with the hotel’s name on it—tell him to go there, and they’ll have a car for them.”
“Wonderful!” He thanked Kaplan again, then hung up and called Herbie with the news.
“Thank you, Stone,” Herbie said. “Now Harp will think I’m a god.”
36
Peter, Hattie, Ben, and Emma walked through the hotel reception building and out under the portico, where a white Porsche Cayenne with The Arrington’s logo, a gold A on the door, waited, and they got in. Peter took the front passenger seat, and there was plenty of room for the other three in the back.
“Good morning, Mr. Barrington,” the driver said. “My name is Hans.”
“Good morning, Hans,” Peter replied. “Do you know the way to Centurion Studios?”
“Frieda knows the way,” Hans replied, starting the navigation system. “Turn left at the main gate,” a gentle voice said.
“Ah, Frieda,” Peter said, patting the dash. “We are in your hands.”
Frieda guided them precisely to the studio’s front gate, where the guard stuck a pass to the inside of the windshield, then waved them through.
“We’re looking for the executive building,” Peter said, pointing at a sign.
They pulled into a parking lot, where a woman holding a cell phone waved them into a guest slot, then spoke briefly on the phone. “Mr. Goldman will be down in thirty seconds,” she said.
A stretched electric vehicle pulled into the lot and stopped as Leo Goldman, the chairman and CEO of Centurion, came out of the building. “Good morning, everybody,” he said, turning the front passenger seat around so that it faced the rear. “Hop in.”
Peter got in facing Leo. “Thank you for greeting us, Leo, but is it a good use of the CEO’s time to be a tour guide?”
“Spending time with a major stockholder is always a good use of my time,” Leo said, sticking a cigar into his mouth, but not lighting it. “Forgive me, I’m giving these up, and I haven’t smoked one for months, but chomping down on it still helps.” He turned to the driver, a studio intern. “Let’s go to New York,” he said.
“Mr. Goldman,” Hattie said, “we just came from New York.”
“Not this New York,” Leo said, laughing.
Shortly, they were driving down a composite big-city street. “This is the largest, most-used standing set on the lot,” Leo said. “We can dress it as New York, which is how you see it now, Chicago, or half a dozen European cities. Amazing what the set dressers can do with a little Styrofoam molding and some streetlamps. These are only facades, of course. In a movie, when someone walks through a door we cut to a studio shot on a sound stage.”
They turned a corner and emerged from the set, then turned down a row of huge hangarlike buildings. “These are our sound stages: there are eight of them, constantly in use for films and television shows.” They pulled to a stop before a large stucco building. “And here we have our music department. Follow me.” Goldman led them through a reception area, down a hall, and through a large steel door. They emerged into an audio control room, which had a row of comfortable chairs behind the engineers’ stations. “Hattie, you come with me, the rest of you take a seat.” He waved at the row of chairs, then led Hattie through another door and into a large room with chairs for an orchestra and a giant movie screen behind them. A man was standing on the podium, leafing through a musical manuscript.
“Good morning, John,” Goldman said. “This is your guest artist for the day, Hattie Patrick. Hattie, this is John Greenfield, the studio’s musical director.”
Greenfield, a tall man with a shaved head, turned and offered Hattie his hand. “It’s a pleasure, Hattie. Leo has told me about you. Did you get the music I sent you?”
Hattie handed him a thick brown envelope. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Greenfield.”
“Well, you’ll need it,” he said, trying to hand it back.
“That’s all right, I’ve learned it.”
Greenfield paused for a moment, then tossed the envelope onto the podium next to him. “Well, we’ll keep it here, in case we need it.” Orchestra members began to file into the room and take their places. “Hattie, we’re waiting for Andrei Serkinoff to join us to rehearse a piece he’s playing at Immi Gotham’s concert at The Arrington the day after tomorrow. He’s also playing piano on our film’s sound track. While we’re waiting, would you mind running through what you’ll be playing for me? Just cue yourself when you’re ready.”
Hattie sat down at the Steinway concert grand and, without hesitation, began to play. Greenfield watched with interest, looking slightly puzzled. When she had finished, he took the podium. “All right, everybody, Mr. Serkinoff is late, so let’s rehearse the title music with our guest artist, Hattie Patrick. Ready, Hattie?”
She nodded and waited as the conductor gave the orchestra a downbeat, then joined in when she was cued. They played for a little over four minutes by a large clock on the wall while the film’s opening titles appeared on the screen behind the orchestra. When they were done, Greenfield turned to Hattie. “That was perfect. If you were a member of the musicians’ union, I’d say we’d have that in the can.”
“I am a member of the musicians’ union,” Hattie replied.
That brought Greenfield up short. He turned toward the glass panel separating him from the control booth. “How was that for you, Jerry?”
Jerry’s voice came back over a loudspeaker. “Absolutely perfect, John. The time was right on, too.”
“Then we have the title music in the can,” Greenfield said. “Can you burn a DVD for Ms. Patrick to take home?” He looked at his watch
. “Mr. Serkinoff is now forty minutes late,” he said, “and I have to rehearse his piece before Immi gets here. Hattie, do you think you can get through a performance of ‘Rhapsody in Blue’?”
“Yes, Mr. Greenfield.”
“Get me a copy of the piano part, please,” Greenfield called to an assistant.
“What arrangement are you using?” Hattie asked.
“The Previn,” Greenfield replied.
“I won’t need the music, I know it,” she said.
He stood, staring at her.
“I recorded it with the Manhattan Youth Orchestra two years ago,” Hattie said.
Greenfield turned back to the orchestra and raised his arms. “All right, everybody, this is a rehearsal, but I’m not going to stop. Let’s see if you can all get it right the first time.” He raised his arms and cued the clarinetist, who played the opening trill, then the glissando, the entire orchestra came in, and Hattie played her first phrases.
—
At the end of the piece, the orchestra gave Hattie an ovation, and Greenfield simply beamed at her, shaking his head. Then Immi Gotham entered from the control room where she had stood at the rear, listening. She was applauding, too. She hugged Hattie and introduced herself.
Hattie was flushed and smiling. She thanked everyone. “And thank you, Mr. Greenfield, for allowing me to . . .”
But John Greenfield was on his cell phone. He finished his conversation, then hung up. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said to the orchestra, “I’ve just been told that Andrei Serkinoff was in an automobile accident on the freeway an hour ago, and I’m told he’s now in the emergency room at Cedars-Sinai, having a broken left wrist set. We are without a soloist.”
There were sympathetic sounds from the orchestra.
“John,” Immi Gotham said, “I’m sorry to hear of Mr. Serkinoff’s accident, but you are not without a soloist.”
Greenfield turned to Hattie. “Are you doing anything Saturday evening?” he asked.
37
The group left the music department, Hattie with two DVDs under her arm, and got back into the electric cart to continue their tour. They visited set design and the props warehouse, the motor pool where a collection of vehicles, some of them going back decades, was kept, ready to be used in scenes, and the costume department, where they watched Immi Gotham being fitted for her concert gown.
