Robert admired an enormous portrait of a fair-haired young man in a white military jacket framed by an ornate gold frame. Engraved on a gold plaque at the base was the name ‘L’Aiglon’.
“L’Aiglon was Duc de Reichstadt,” Yvette added helpfully. “The soubriquet of L’Aiglon or baby eagle is the nickname for Napoléon’s son,” she explained to Christo.
“Are these real?” Christo asked a little wide eyed Yvette smiled and gave a nod.
“McConnell would have a fit. He’s a Napoleon freak,” murmured Robert.
As she turned, she saw the chauffeur had come to the door of the room with the bags and was looking in. Yvette clapped her hands and made a shooing motion, slightly irritated that this man was still here after being dismissed.
The driver nodded and went into the elevator. As he got back into the Mercedes, Jonathan removed his driver’s peaked cap, sunglasses, neatly trimmed mustache and beard. He had heard all he needed. Clearly Kelso’s comment about his boss loving Napoleon showed he had no idea he actually owned it. In fact, as the small tiger carved over the portico subtly denoted, the entire apartment block belonged to one of McConnell’s companies. He recalled Kelso’s indiscreet outburst.
Mr. Louis was right. Talent means treachery, Jonathan thought to himself as he drove away.
25
CAR EN ROUTE TO CANNES
Marcus travelled light. He slung into the trunk the soft bag containing his clothes and tossed a Guide Michelin on the passenger seat of his beloved Maserati Mistral convertible. The cost to retrieve it from storage had been covered by a good chunk of his savings and to give him some extra cash he had sold off some of the few valuable items he still had left. He knew that image was all and the more you look like you don’t need money, the easier it sticks to you.
He headed via the ‘Chunnel’ towards Cannes and the Festival du Film. The car meant a lot to him. He had proudly bought it for a pittance twenty years earlier with the advance on his fee from THE LAST COMPANY. It was the epitome of La Dolce Vita and everyone’s idea of a classic 60s Italian drophead.
* * *
Returning to London after THE LAST COMPANY had been shut down, he had wanted to sell it, to rid himself of any reminder of that disastrous shoot in the Philippines. But he came to see the car not as an indulgence, but as a warning not to let his own desire to get things done blind him to danger. The car kept him grounded. It was a stark reminder that no matter how much he achieved; tragedy often walked hand-in-hand with success. It was one of the only things outside of the royalty payment generated from his movies that Marcus still truly owned; and the last thing he would sell.
Despite all the glitz, glamour and awards, including the coveted Palme d’Or prize for the best movie in competition, the true business of the Cannes Film Festival was business; the financing and distribution of new movies.
Marcus drove down the mountain, the bark of the exhaust note bouncing off the cliff walls. Below him he could see the glittering Mediterranean as he descended into the small, fortified coastal town of Antibes, about five miles east of Cannes. It had become a ritual for him to always park his car during the Festival at a favorite fish restaurant, Le Bacon. His reasons were practical. Leaving valuable cars for days on end in car parks in Cannes or in busy hotels, however well-guarded, invited the attention of wandering fingers. It was also impractical to try to drive during the Festival. There was never anywhere to park and the traffic moved at a snail’s pace. Here the car was safe and as an added bonus he could enjoy a quiet lunch before heading into the craziness of the Festival.
It was nearly 4:00 p.m. when a taxi arrived for the short ride around the Cap, past the lighthouse to the magnificent Hôtel du Cap. Set in 22 acres of pine forest right on the water’s edge, it was a bastion of extravagance and elegance. Although searingly expensive, Marcus always justified the cost. He had made as many deals in the hotel’s bar in the small hours of the morning as he had at meetings during the working day in the Palais des Festivals. He really hoped this year would be no different, but he was worried. A large number of people had declined a meeting or had initially agreed, and then cancelled. He checked in.
“Only one night this year Mr. Riley?” said the well coiffured receptionist with a hint of surprise.
“Only need one deal,” he smiled, trying to keep up the appearance of the successful producer.
“Here are your messages and accreditation badge.” The sun shone, the sky was blue, and the sea glittered.
“May I take you to your room?” asked the porter.
Among the large stack of messages were two more cancellations and a blizzard of pointless PR events. He stopped at the last one, reading it twice. It was short and to the point.
‘Drop it or join Bill Baines.’
26
BEL AIR, LOS ANGELES
Louis glanced around the magnificent room filled with the treasures he had acquired over the years. Not bad for a second-generation Irish immigrant. He forever rankled at the cruel and soul-crushing treatment of his people that had gone on for centuries. Well, now he was just as cruel, just as rich and just as powerful as those who had looked down on him and his heritage. Looking at the bounty he had stolen from unsuspecting dupes made his soul soar. Revenge takes many forms. No one was going to take all this away from him.
His first name hinted at a French background although he disliked the association with monarchy. He was a republican through and through. The last name was closer to his dirt-poor roots. Many years ago, Louis’ grandfather Ronan had set sail from Dublin, leaving behind the country’s troubles, but bringing his anger and violent nature with him. The boomtimes of the early1920s had just begun and Ronan had arrived at Ellis Island accompanied by his young daughter Rosaleen, who would become Louis’ mother.
After the hardest of starts in the new world, Ronan made a way in the tough underbelly of the Irish immigrant’s world ending up in Boston and Rosaleen eventually married a third generation Irishman, James McConnell, a career sailor. Sadly she died when Louis was only five, leaving James alone to bring up his son. Louis, an only child, grew up a Navy brat and, hand on heart, could claim no state in the union as his own. Whenever his father was deployed that meant home was the lilting voice of his grandfather, whom he’d stay with in Boston. It was where the old man had settled after a lucrative career in whiskey smuggling during prohibition and other kinds of borderline activity ever since. From the stories heard at his grandfather’s knee, Louis became infatuated with history, especially the overthrow of monarchies. He had no real friends or heroes, except for his grandfather… and Napoleon Bonaparte.
Although Louis knew Sam’s script could unravel his little empire, Louis was confident he had a well-planned defense. Marcus had to be feeling uneasy by now. Louis had instructed Jonathan to make his presence known to those poor fools on Marcus’ appointment list that had not yet heeded Louis’ request to cancel their meetings.
He had Kelso all primed to appear as the shining knight, Marcus’ last hope. Marcus must have sold his soul to raise the development money for FALL OUT. The lawyers’ and accountants’ fees would already be in the tens of thousands of dollars. Marcus was rolling the dice but the odds were stacked high in the McConnell house’s favor this time.
Louis had expected a more compliant and grateful Kelso at their lunch; after all, he was offering to finance his comeback. The interest from the damn press had apparently given him balls. Talent, you could never completely read them.
When THE LAST COMPANY had folded, Kelso’s coke induced paranoia had made him believe the collapse was somehow his fault. Instead of licking the wounds from his damaged career and lying low, he had started jabbering to McConnell. “What have I done… how did we let it get so out of control… is Bill my fault…?” At that point Louis had seriously thought about silencing Kelso. He started making plans for an accident or overdose, but before Jonathan could get to him, Robert had checked into rehab.
Nevertheless, Louis had ne
arly pushed him over the edge when he had Jonathan slip a bouquet of evil smelling purple flowers into his room. Kelso knew exactly what those blooms from the jungle signified.
Louis had not bargained on Christo. Luckily, the young man’s calming presence unwittingly solved McConnell’s ‘Kelso problem’. Christo convinced his lover that his guilt was simply the drugs speaking and that what happened in Pagsanjan had been outside anyone’s control. When Robert was clean, Christo insisted he needed a break from the career that was killing him before he could rebuild it. The director became a busted flush. A recluse, not a threat.
All Louis needed to do now was relax, sit back, and wait for the rights to FALL OUT to drop into his lap.
* * *
A rush of fire flowed through Louis’ body, bringing his thoughts back to the here and now, as he looked down to his groin and the blond-haired girl bobbing her head backwards and forwards. An old guy like him, getting blown by a babe like that. Only in this town. That was power.
The girl got up to leave, trying to make herself believe that the powerful man would give her a break with a decent role and that the $400 was just taxi fare, not payment for services rendered.
Louis watched her leave. Youth trading favors for hope. Precisely on time the phone rang. It was Jonathan. He was brief. “Repeat it again word for word,” instructed Louis.
“I’m going to get those rights, Christo. When I do, no way I’m assigning them to anyone, least of all Louis. This time I call all the shots.”
* * *
A fan churned the humid air as Jonathan lay back on the thin mattress. This faded hotel suited him, reminded him of his simple beginnings and values. He disliked overt luxury, although he never minded that it seemed so important to his employer. Mr. Louis had other virtues.
“Well,” said Louis, “Kelso’s made his bed, so let him lie in it… and die in it. What about Riley? And that de Turris girl?”
“Riley’s Film Festival is only going one way…” replied Jonathan. Louis gave a clipped response.
To which Jonathan calmly replied, “It’s under control.”
* * *
There was a click in Jonathan’s ear as Louis hung up. Jonathan knew his boss had utter faith in him. He snapped the ‘burner’ phone in pieces, dropping it in the bin. He pulled out another from the dozen or so he had purchased. He then gently lifted the old Bakelite receiver from the cradle of the 1950s rotary phone and asked for a beer.
Tomorrow they’d all be dead.
27
THÉOULE-SUR-MER, FRANCE
Mako spent the day basking in thanks for work done well or dousing the odd complaint with her easy charm. Her team had met every challenge head on; her reputation as a CEO whose company delivered creatively and on time had continued to grow, along with her bank account.
And the nights? The nights had been full. Despite the death of her father, her anger at him still burned brightly. His funeral was in a few days, and she hadn’t yet decided if she would go.
Returning to her villa to dress for the evening, she pulled back her shoulder-length black hair with a ribbon to apply her makeup. Standing in front of the mirror she squinted, her tongue licking her top lip in studied concentration as she applied mascara. She was willowy and unusually tall, her almond shaped eyes bright blue and piercing above her high cheek bones. A true mix of her Chinese mother and Swiss father.
Tonight’s extravaganza was taking place at the Carlton Hotel’s private beach to promote a new 3-D animation movie ‘PARKOUR NIGHTS’. The entire area had been decorated to look like a scene from the movie. A gang of cats host their own parkour championship on a huge construction site in New York.
There were going to be real parkour athletes dressed as the lead characters jumping around girders, ladders, concrete blocks, pick-up trucks, a cement mixer, and even a small crane. The waiters and waitresses would be dressed as construction workers complete with hard hats and tool belts.
There were workmen’s huts for drinks and barbecues of lobster and steak hidden among the random piles of bricks. The cost had already made it into six figures; the set a light show with lasers topped with a firework display that would light up the sky for miles around. A couple of dozen parties would all be competing tonight for media attention and, ultimately, cash at the box office. Mako was confident that hers would be the best event tonight and would attract the most press coverage.
A few days earlier she had added a name to the guest list; Marcus Riley. She could see the model of the Aquarama Riva S he had sent reflected in the bathroom mirror. That was a novel way of introduction. Quite cool. A note inside the box had simply read,
* * *
“Dear Miss de Turris,
I’m told your real version of the enclosed model is far more beautiful.
Apart from a shared love of fine machinery, we also have mutual acquaintances. Love to chat in Cannes.
Best,
Marcus Riley”
* * *
She was intrigued. She had googled him. Not bad looking. An up and down career but not a quitter. She liked that. What on earth did he want? In view of her hard and fast rule of not mixing business with pleasure, she genuinely hoped it was about mutual friends, but she doubted it. That model was a very expensive calling card. He wanted her attention, and it had worked. The right button had been pushed.
Mako pulled the ribbon that held back her hair and shook it loose. She put on a short black evening dress and picked up a matching clutch bag. She slipped on a white gold ring with a four carat tanzanite stone, supported on each side by smaller two carat diamonds. Never wore a watch and this time no necklace, the deep cleavage on the dress held all the attention needed there. She wore a Tahitian black pearl in each earlobe and two white gold rings on her pedicured toes.
This was a beach party, so she had decided on a pair of black Emma Hope slippers, embroidered with black and silver sequins. She wondered how many stilettos would be discarded once their owners realized the dance floor tonight was sand.
She gave herself a final check in the full-length mirror and judiciously sprayed a three mist clouds of perfume. She re-checked the contents of her handbag and skipped out the patio doors and down the stone stairway to the boat tethered below at her private pier.
She looked up a moment at the naked bronze statue of herself. She had commissioned it a few years earlier to sit perched on the rock guarding her private harbor. The figure was seated with her arms locked around knees drawn up to her chest, head buried as if not daring to watch who came into the house.
She turned the key, hit the starter for the twin V8s, and gripping the turquoise and white leather rimmed wheel, pulled back the throttles and gunned the boat out into the inky black sea, steering around the point towards Cannes.
Ten minutes after she left, the phone rang at the villa.
“M’sieur, as I have told you before Madame does not take meetings during Festival week, comprenez-vous? From her private line, never, jamais.” Garance impatiently listened to a question.
“Oui. She read it, but no interest to her. She does not finance films. I threw it out today. Please téléphonez son bureau demain call her office for an appointment. She is at an event now. Au revoir,” said Garance.
Jonathan hung up. That was all he needed to know.
28
Cannes, France
Marcus wanted this year’s Cannes Festival to begin all over again; put another coin in the slot and reboot what should have been the frantic pinball game of ricocheting from meeting to meeting. Depressingly so far, all attempts at setting them up only flashed ‘tilt’.
He was running out of money and hoped he could remain pokerfaced at the meeting with Kelso the next day. With Robert on board he could be shooting within a year. Without the director things were looking pretty bleak.
With some effort, he turned his mind to more pleasurable prospects, perhaps a ray of sunshine in an otherwise shitty day? He was dressed for a party organized by Stefan de
Turris’ daughter and was looking forward to meeting her. He was pleased with himself that he had managed to translate the nurse’s garbled description of the boat into the fabled teak-hulled speedboat The Riva Aquarama S; the sine qua non of the jet set in the 1960s. Mako had received his gift and sure enough, it had got a response and an invitation to one of her events.
She was clearly successful… that apple did not fall far from the tree. A few calls to some of her clients had revealed that in business she was utterly focused, smart and when needed to be, ruthless. She never mixed her day job with her apparently prodigious appetite for pleasure at night.
Twenty minutes later he could see the flashing camera lights as he stepped out of a taxi and approached the Carlton Hotel’s stretch of beach. The event was in full swing, with security on every entrance and reckless abandon on the dance floor.
Over the beat of the music, he heard the distinctive deep-chested throb of a pair of V8s. Looking across the beach, Marcus saw the familiar silhouette of Carlo Riva’s most celebrated creation glide up to the Carlton’s private pier.
Marcus just hoped that she would know something about the past that was locked in her father’s mind.
* * *
Mako handled her craft with expertise as she approached the dock. She was standing, the driver’s bench seat pulled up behind her. She eased both levers into reverse and gave a blip of throttle, before turning the engine off to let it glide to a halt at the dock.
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