by Stuart Woods
“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 amp; 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. Greenf
ield.”
“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.
Finally, they were driven down streets occupied by a mix of small office buildings and cottages, and the cart stopped in front of a traditional California bungalow with a wide front porch and a beautifully tended front garden. Goldman led everyone to the house and opened the front door with a key. “Peter,” he said, “this was your father’s… excuse me, your stepfather’s bungalow for more than fifty years. I’ve left it just as it was the last time he used it. It’s sentimental of me, but in fact, no one on the lot has had the courage to ask me for it.”
They walked through the bungalow, which contained a living room, dining room, and kitchen, plus three other rooms, several utility rooms, and Vance Calder’s office, which opened onto a back porch that offered a good view of the entire lot from a small rise. Nobody said much of anything.
Peter took a chair and waved to the others to gather around a table on the porch. “Leo,” he said, “Hattie, Ben, and I have been on an accelerated program at Yale, going to school the year ’round, and we’re going to graduate next year.”
“What are your plans then, Peter?” Goldman asked. “I know you well enough already to believe that you have some.”
“Our plan is to come to L.A. and make pictures for Centurion.”
Goldman broke into a wide grin. “I’ll tell you the truth, I was hoping you’d say that. Your first film, Autumn Kill, has already grossed more than sixty million dollars, and we’re about to release it in Europe and Asia, where we project it will earn at least that much more. And a lot of people couldn’t understand why I paid so much for it! The quicker we have another film from you, the better.”
“Thank you, Leo. Hattie, Ben, and I want to operate as a unit on the lot, drawing on the studio’s resources as we need them, and, of course, we’ll need a space to work in. Do you think you could keep this bungalow for our use?”
“I’d be delighted to do that, Peter. Of course, you’ll want to bring it up to date, but we’ll have plenty of time to get it ready for you.”
“I think the main things we’ll need are soundproofing, a piano, and recording facilities for Hattie’s studio, and an editing suite for Ben and me, and, of course, wiring for computers and wi-fi.”
“Tell me which rooms you’d like to use, and I’ll get an architect started on some drawings for your approval.”
“Let’s go take a look,” Peter said. They went back into the house, where the three of them discussed their needs in the space and Leo took notes. Half an hour later, they were done. They had a late lunch at the studio commissary, then resumed their tour of the Centurion lot.
Late in the afternoon, after a look around the executive offices, Goldman walked them to the waiting hotel SUV, and they started back to the hotel.
“That was a very exciting day, wasn’t it?” Ben said.
“Nobody’s more excited than me,” Hattie said. “Immi is doing an all-Gershwin program at her concert, and Mr. Greenfield wants me to come back tomorrow and rehearse a number for her with me on piano.”
“Wonderful! It was a very satisfying day for me, too,” Peter said. “I can see a future for all of us. It’s what Dad calls ‘severe clear.’”
“What does that mean?” Hattie asked.
“It’s a pilot’s term, it means a cloudless sky, ceiling and visibility unlimited.”
“Severe clear,” Ben said. “I like it.”
When they arrived back at the hotel the Cayenne was shunted into a parking area again.
“I thought we wouldn’t have to go through this another time,” Peter said, “coming and going in one of the hotel’s cars.”
“Something must have happened,” Ben said.
After the search of the car had been completed, Hans drove them back to their cottage. They arrived simultaneously with Mike Freeman, who was carrying a briefcase.
Ins
ide, Stone was sitting with another man they hadn’t met.
“Hi there, kids,” Stone called out. “I don’t think you’ve met Special Agent Rifkin, of the Secret Service.” Everybody shook hands.
“Dad,” Peter said, “they put us through the big search again at the front gate. Has something happened?”
“No, no,” Stone replied. “The security folks are just a little nervous, what with two presidents here and a lot of celebrities to arrive tomorrow. Will you excuse us, please? We have some things to discuss.”
“Sure,” Peter said. “What about a swim, everybody?”
The others nodded, and they all went to change.
“Let’s go into the study,” Stone said when they had gone. The three men got up and walked into the next room, and Stone closed the door behind them. “All right, Mike, what’s up?” he asked.
Mike sat down. “First of all, Agent Rifkin, I want to apologize to you and the Secret Service.”
“For what?” Rifkin asked.
“Late yesterday I got word from the NSA that they had located the geographical point from which the e-mails were sent by our friend Algernon. It was an apartment house in Palo Alto.”
“Why didn’t you call me at once?” Rifkin asked.
“That’s why I’m apologizing,” Mike said, “for that and my reason for not calling you.”
“Which is?”
“Frankly, I don’t think your people are sufficiently trained and experienced to work a scene as well as… well, some other agencies. Nor as well as our people at Strategic Services.”
Rifkin thought about that, but didn’t contradict him. “Go on, what did you find?”
“Not much,” Mike said. “The place had been cleaned and wiped down-very professionally, I might add. Except for one thing.”
“Come on, Mike,” Stone said, “spit it out.”
Mike set his briefcase on the coffee table and unlatched the locks. “We found these under a table.” He reached into his briefcase and removed a zipped plastic bag containing a pair of heavy gloves.
“I’m sorry,” Stone said, “I don’t get it. Gloves?”