by Neil Russell
Many of my houseguests and my valet, Mallory, claim to have seen him wandering the grounds or sitting at the iron picnic table on the far edge of the yard, using a yellow pencil stub to make notes on the stock page of the August 3, 1954, edition of the Los Angeles Examiner. Why that particular paper, I have no idea, and even though I’m not in the visual loop, I’ve smelled cigarette smoke from time to time where there shouldn’t be any. I tracked down a copy of the paper which now resides permanently on the table in the foyer. So far, no investment tips.
As I entered the lighted, limestone drive, a gray Jaguar sedan was parked near the Apollo fountain. It wasn’t familiar, and Mallory, who usually comes out to meet me, was nowhere in sight. I parked behind the Jag and went in. I heard voices in the living room and rounded the corner just as my houseman was serving Booth’s Gin Rickeys to two men dressed in expensive, vested suits.
I knew the younger one, R. Beaumont Stephenson, a ramrod-straight, sandy-haired gentleman in his forties. Beau, as he is known, had been named the U.K.’s Consul-General in Los Angeles last year, and I had attended his welcoming dinner. He came quickly to his feet. “Mr. Black, so wonderful to see you again. Please forgive our calling on you without an appointment. Mallory has been a most gracious host.”
The other gentleman stood as well, though it took a moment for him to get his feet under him. He was in his seventies, and somewhat infirm, but there was a keenness in his cobalt eyes and a real warmth to his smile.
“Mr. Black,” the Consul-General went on. “This is a colleague of mine from London, Lord Anthony Rittenhouse.”
I shook both men’s hands. “Lord Rittenhouse,” I said, “my father used to speak about you ... warmly, I might add.”
His smile got wider. “James and I did tear things up a bit when we were young. Back before he owned all those newspapers and had to learn to stay off his own front pages.” He allowed himself a chuckle. “From what I heard, you had some wild moments of your own.”
“Most of them I’d like to forget.” I urged both men to sit and took a wingback chair across from them.
“Would you like something, Mr. Black?” Mallory asked.
“Not right now, Mallory, thanks. But tomorrow, run the Rolls down to Nino and have him stitch up the seat. It’ll need a new phone as well.”
“Certainly, sir.” And he departed.
“I’m sure you’ve been told you look just like your father,” Lord Rittenhouse said. “A little taller, possibly, but as I age, everyone looks bigger.”
I looked at the man my father had called the finest sailor he’d ever known. His family lineage ran back to Charles II, and the Rittenhouse seventeenth-century ancestral home, Lyonesse, was only a few miles from my own Derbyshire residence, Strathmoor Hall.
“What can I do for you, Lord Rittenhouse?”
“Actually, Mr. Black, I’m here to do something for you. You see, you’ve been selected to be knighted by Her Majesty. The Most Distinguished Order of Saint Michael and Saint George. Will you give me leave to carry back your acceptance?”
I don’t know what I was anticipating, but this was so far off my radar that I was speechless. My father’s lordship had died with him in a Himalayan avalanche, and as both a British and American citizen, the idea of one day being titled myself never crossed my mind. Not only had I served in the United States Army, I’ve never made any bones—publicly or privately—about my love for my adopted country.
I finally managed to get out, “I’m sorry, Lord Rittenhouse, I’m simply floored. Whatever did I do to be considered for such an honor?”
“As it was explained to me, it is for brave and exemplary service to the Crown. I’m afraid that’s all I know.”
I had assisted a past prime minister in a delicate matter, but my success had been more from name and social position than courage or cunning. It certainly hadn’t warranted notice by the queen. Whatever had prompted this was a mystery.
I stood and walked to the front window. The home’s previous owner had spent the GNP of a small country on landscaping and lighting. Tonight, it was as beautiful as ever, but the deep, desperate loneliness that I try to keep locked away now hovered over it like a shroud. My father, mother, wife and unborn child were all dead—no, all murdered— and what should have been a moment of joy and sharing had suddenly become one of solitary heartbreak.
Beau Stephenson’s voice came from behind me. “Mr. Black? Is anything the matter?”
I didn’t trust myself to turn around.
* * * *
5
Bold Kings and MacBeth
DECEMBER 7, 1857
PEARL RIVER
SIXTEEN MILES NORTH OF HONG KONG
In the unseasonably hot Asian sun, two British warships eased into the turquoise water of the narrow rain forest gorge jutting east from the Pearl River. From the deck of the seventy-two-gun HMS Wellesley, Capt. Jeremiah Blaine, sweat running down his face, watched as crewmen lashed to the high masts used swords to hack away the thick, barbed limbs that threatened the sails. Thirty yards behind, the HMS Furious followed, its gun crews standing nervously along the rails, searching the dense foliage for any sign of danger.
Two miles farther to the rear, still in open water, loomed the breathtaking spectacle of the rest of the British fleet. Forty more warships constituting the greatest concentration of sea power ever assembled. Aboard the largest, Adm. William Trask, Commander of the Fleet, anxiously watched the scout vessels through a long, brass telescope.
Never one to enter an arena softly, Captain Blaine nodded to his aide, who gave a command, and a conductor’s baton rapped against a thin, wooden podium. A moment later, on the foredeck, the Royal Marine band, attired in their best red regalia, launched into a lively rendition of “The Bold King’s Hussars.” The captain allowed himself a small smile as the crash of cymbals sent a flock of large birds flapping skyward and startled a family of golden monkeys into hysterical screams.
Moments later, the world erupted in fire. Hundreds of pieces of artillery and heavy mortars camouflaged along the high banks rained shells down on the helpless ships, ripping apart decking and tearing through flesh. Amid screams and shouts, men sprinted to their battle stations, but there was little cover. Then, suddenly, the main mast of the Furious splintered, groaned and toppled, taking sailors and cannon into the river with it.
A few of the ships’ big guns returned fire; but in the narrows, they could not elevate high enough, and their shells fell harmlessly short. Marine riflemen fired wild fusillades, but with no visible target, they did little but move leaves. And then, a tumultuous wave of spin shells shaped like children’s pinwheels dropped onto both ships’ decks and fragmented into thousands of pieces of hot lead that chewed up what remained of the resistance.
Just as quickly as it had begun, the onslaught ended, and an eerie quiet descended. The two ships, now with no one at their helms, drifted aimlessly in the gorge, ablaze. Captain Blaine, bleeding, his jacket torn, one arm hanging at his side, lay amid the burning remains of the Wellesley. His eye caught the band conductor’s baton, lying on the deck, still gripped by a severed, white-gloved hand.
* * * *
The cave was close enough to the edge of the ridge that Maj. Ethan Jellicoe and Lt. Freddie MacBeth could see the campfires dotting the valley below. Dressed in khaki, their heads and faces wrapped in green silk scarves, the two British soldiers lay watching through binoculars.
Far below, two hundred Chinese soldiers were passing opium pipes among themselves, sending clouds of smoke wafting upward. Lieutenant MacBeth sniffed the air. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Major, this opium business is nasty going.”
Jellicoe shook his head in agreement. “ ‘Tis indeed, Freddie. The Chinks don’t give two shits if we steal the whole goddamn country. Just as long as they don’t have to pay for their yen-shee. By Christ, I do miss India. It’s bloody, dusty hot, but at least a man can get a cold glass of gin. You see any artillery, Freddie?”
�
��None, Major.”
“Aye, and none along the river either. Just the paths to get it in and out.”
“Those cliffs are almost straight up, and we counted 138 emplacements. It’s a safe bet those blokes down there didn’t do it. So how? “
“Don’t rightly know, Freddie, but we’ve got to find out before the fleet can move upriver. Admiral Trask won’t risk any more surprises like yesterday.”
Jellicoe eased a silver flask out of his pack and opened it. He took a long swig and offered it to Lieutenant MacBeth, who declined. “Then get some sleep, lad. They’re waiting for something, so we’ll wait right along with them. Maybe we’ll be able to give the admiral an early Christmas present.”
“When should I relieve you? “
“Not the least bit tired tonight, Freddie.” He held up his flask. “And got my best girl along. Pretty as a Dover sunset, and never a harsh word.”
Lieutenant MacBeth shouldered his rifle and pack and started out. Jellicoe’s voice stopped him. “Why not sleep under the roof tonight? Looks like rain, and those buggers down there are too chandooed to do much patrolling.”
“You’re probably right, sir, but regulations . . .”
“I know, the deadly bed is the obvious bed. Just don’t go more than a hundred yards. And don’t snore.”
As the lieutenant crawled away, there was a low rumble of thunder and a flash of lightning. And the rain came.
* * * *
At daybreak, the storm had passed. Morning birds called out as Lieutenant MacBeth picked his way through the still-wet underbrush. Though he did his best to move quietly, the mud made loud sucking sounds under his boots. Shortly, the cave came into view, and he froze. Jellicoe’s rifle was stuck bayonet first into the ground, and the early sun glinted off the silver flask, balanced delicately atop its butt. There was, however, no sign of its owner.
MacBeth dropped and belly-crawled to the edge of the cliff. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight below. Extending to the distant horizon was an undulating line of thousands of men, women and children, most carrying a cannon barrel, a ramrod or a shell. It was a convoy of unfathomable proportions, urged along by fierce, whip-wielding men on horseback, its perimeter patrolled by large, long-haired dogs.
But as awe-inspiring as this procession of humanity was, it was eclipsed by the tigers. Using his binoculars, he tried to count them, but still they came. A hundred cages, perhaps more, each sagging on four long poles slung over the shoulders of six men—twenty-four bearers to a cage—while inside, the great, striped beasts with fearsome yellow eyes, paced and growled and sometimes reached out a plate-sized paw to swipe at a passing back.
“My sweet Lord,” MacBeth whispered. Ten years earlier, as a schoolboy, he had been among the first visitors at the London Zoo, and he remembered standing at the big cats exhibition until his father had to pull him away. Again, he felt the exhilaration of seeing something so wild, so close, and he tried to imagine what it must like to hunt one.
After a while, he trained his binoculars on the dogs. They were not like the dogs he had grown up with in England. These massive black and tan animals had heads like bears and full manes, and they snarled and bit at anyone who deviated from the columns, even, from time to time, challenging the tigers. Suddenly, something familiar caught his eye. Major Jellicoe, badly beaten, staggered under the weight of a cannon wheel tied across his shoulders, his hands secured to its spokes. As strong as he was, it was clear he would not last long.
As the convoy passed, the Chinese soldiers rose and joined it, many showing the effects of a drug hangover. Nearby, astride a magnificent black stallion, sat a figure whose stature and ornamentation set him apart. Gold-helmeted and with regal red silk billowing beneath his chain mail breastplate, the warlord surveyed the spectacle with the easy calm of accustomed command. His men all had carbines slung across their backs, but he wore only a wide sword in a scabbard that reached below his boot and a dagger tucked near his heart.
As he watched, a bearer, lurching along under an ammunition case nearly as large as he was, stumbled and fell. Two men with their own loads broke from the line, and with the dogs converging on them, retrieved the man’s cargo and rushed back into formation, leaving their fallen comrade to his fate.
Calmly, the warlord drew his sword, a horrible, steel instrument shaped like a longboat hull, and brought it hard across the throat of the armed rider closest to the disruption. As the man’s severed head dangled down his back, held only by his spinal cord, his horse bolted, crushing several people and initiating fresh chaos.
* * * *
Aboard the fleet flagship, Freddie, still caked with mud, stood with Admiral Trask and his commanders at the map table. Trask regarded the young lieutenant. “Tigers you say? What the bloody hell are they doing with tigers? “
“The Orientals believe they possess mysterious powers, sir. They grind their bones for medicine and make potions from their organs. And only the most revered families are permitted to display their skins.”
One of the generals spoke, “I’m told the beasts can increase a man’s . . . how shall I put it. . . prowess.”
Freddie turned to him. “That is correct, sir. They soak the penis in alcohol, then consume it.”
“My God, what heathens.”
“Perhaps not,” said another. “From the damn number of them, it seems to be working.” The officers laughed.
“You don’t think these bearers will fight?” Trask asked Freddie.
“They’re forced labor, sir. Probably raided from villages. Even if they wanted to resist, they’re unarmed and undernourished.”
“And the warlord?“
“He’s in the tiger business. Somebody paid him dearly to move those weapons, not to do mercenary work. The government has no interest in enriching these rogue operators any more than necessary.”
“May I ask how you know all this? “
“University of Edinburgh, sir. China studies. Thought I might join the foreign office once my tour is over.”
The admiral poured himself a glass of brandy. “How many men do you think one would need to put an end to this narrows problem? “
“Thirty would be ideal, but properly planned, it could be done with twenty. Plus half a dozen sharpshooters to take care of the dogs.”
A general scoffed, “Against two hundred trained soldiers? Impossible.”
Freddie answered calmly. “I believe most of them will run when the shooting starts. Opium doesn’t increase one’s sense of mission.”
The admiral regarded his officers. “.Anyone have an objection to the lieutenant’s commanding this operation?”
The doubting general frowned. “It’s a job for a major at the very least, Admiral. Tactics and all, you know.”
“Is that a military assessment or Royal Academy nonsense? Besides, it seems the last major didn’t fare particularly well.”
The general’s face reddened, but he made no reply. Trask nodded at MacBeth. “Select the men you need. But take the thirty. We must get the fleet upriver.”
“Yes, sir.”
When he had gone, Trask looked at the assembled officers. “MacBeth’s Tigers. It has a certain ring to it. Use it in the report. And if he’s successful, I want a place made for him on my staff.”
* * * *
6
Matadors and Ambulances
There are three major agencies in Hollywood: Creative Artists, ICM and William Morris Endeavor. Each will tell you it has global reach, and to an extent, they all do. However, their real power base is a compass rose beginning with Disney in the north, extending to Sony in the south, then Paramount east and Fox west. Within these few dozen square miles lie a trillion dollars’ worth of entertainment, sports and news assets, along with the writing and visual talent to sway the world. Yet, for the most part, unlike the second-stringers who live in New York and a few local ideologues, the real power brokers are timid about wielding it.
CAA used to occupy an I. M. Pe
i masterpiece at the corner of Santa Monica and Wilshire Boulevards in the heart of Beverly Hills. William Morris was a couple of hundred yards down the street, and ICM just a few blocks farther. Today, CAA and ICM have relocated, but only to Century City, a single mile west. This continued closeness is not by accident. They like to keep an eye on each other.
I knew Michael Ovitz, one of the five founding partners of CAA and by far the most ambitious. I liked him. Not in a let’s-grab-a-beer way, but because he was transparently ruthless—even with the people he depended on to watch his back. And that recklessness and lack of pretense made him interesting. He overdid the Sun Tzu and cloak-and-dagger crap, but in less than a decade he took a startup to the top of the planet’s most competitive industry. Most of the grousing is done by the same kind of crowd that made jokes about Napoleon—at his funeral.