“You won’t need it tonight, and you’ll have it by tomorrow,” Oliver said, “along with whatever else you want from Surpass. Have you been to La-La Land before?”
“No,” Isabella admitted, “never.”
“Everyone should see it,” Ty assured her.
“We’ll be traveling at Mach 1.6. Flying over the pole, we should be there in a bit more than four hours,” Oliver continued. “Given that it is nine hours earlier in California, we’ll arrive five hours before we left. By that time, should reports of Ty’s involvement with our mission here surface, they can be as quickly dismissed as fanciful by his presence at home.”
“If Frost’s still alive, he’ll know otherwise,” Ty said.
“Who will believe him?”
“That’s just the sort of thing you never know, isn’t it?”
Isabella, her moist eyes wide open, looked up at Ty as though she had suddenly found her way through a bewildering thicket. “You really do believe that Philip murdered Ian, don’t you?” she beseeched him.
Ty glanced at Oliver.
“Philip had the most to gain,” Oliver said, “and perhaps the most to lose if he didn’t.”
“Ian was a player, not a killer,” Ty told Isabella. “His blood ran warm, not cold. I can’t prove it yet, but I strongly suspect that every killing that took place as this plot unwound was expedient, above all, for Philip. Ian’s death, as Oliver’s just said, fits that description. So do the deaths of many others, including Colonel Zhugov and, when you think about it, Luke Claussen’s father.”
Isabella breathed heavily, her fury at the completeness of her betrayal by a man she had once thought she loved rising as her head shook in disbelief. “It’s awful.”
“It’s over,” Ty told her.
“Only for the moment,” Oliver said quietly, then looked out from the oversize window as the QSST completed its ascent to fifty-five thousand feet. With the setting sun rising before it and the sky above permanently dark, it burst through the sound barrier.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Isabella remarked when the digital airspeed indicator flashed this fact.
“Nor did anyone on the ground,” Oliver said. “This plane’s equipped with sonic-boom-suppression technology.”
Ty regarded his friend circumspectly. “Is that a joke?”
Oliver shook his head. “The speed of light’s next.”
Now, as the plane banked, through the window that framed Isabella’s profile Ty observed the gentle curvature of the earth.
“What do you mean by ‘only for the moment’?” Isabella asked Oliver a few seconds later.
“That out of sight isn’t necessarily out of mind,” Ty interjected. “I think that’s what Commander Molyneux was trying to say.”
“Don’t mistake me,” Oliver elaborated. “I’m thrilled we recovered the warheads. That was the most important thing. But I hate it that Frost got away, just as I hate it that events forced us to act as quickly as they did. I’d like to have tracked down the entire conspiracy for intelligence purposes, to have neutralized, and I mean for good, every bloody one of those bastards. It tears my guts out that that diabolical murderer eluded us—and with money and, no doubt, those jewels! Nevertheless, he escaped for today, not forever. He’ll pop back into sight sooner or later. He won’t be able to help himself.”
“I hope you’re right,” Ty said, “but if you are telling me to expect another call, much less another unannounced visit and summons from you, I am going to change my number and beef up the security at La Encantada.”
“You won’t do that,” Oliver said.
“I will.” Ty’s forceful insistence dissolved into a smile.
“Tell me it doesn’t piss you off every bit as much as it does me. Tell me you wouldn’t relish another—this time final—crack at Philip Frost.”
Ty paused in reflection. “You know I can’t tell you that,” he said. “You know exactly how I feel.”
Oliver drew a long breath. “That’s all I wanted to hear,” he said. “Look, I don’t know about you, but I’m knackered. There are two cabins at the rear of the plane. You two take the one to starboard. It’s the owner’s.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Ty relented. “You are staying on with us in Los Angeles, Ollie, aren’t you? I hope so.”
Oliver shook his head. “Someone’s got to return this toy.”
Ty winked at his friend.
In their cabin Isabella suddenly shuddered. “I don’t know what to think,” she whispered.
“Don’t think anything,” Ty told her.
“How is that possible?”
“With experience,” he promised. “This never happened.”
Isabella considered this, disbelief and hurt suddenly swimming in her jade green eyes. “None of it?” she asked softly. “What about the parts worth remembering?”
Ty drew her to him and kissed her. “Those, darling, are between us.”
.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Although the character of Ty Hunter appeared almost fully formed in my mind, his history and personality grew—and, I hope, became deeper and more intriguing—over time. So, too, did the particular nature of this, his first recorded adventure, not only alter but elaborate itself, often in unexpected ways (even by me), as I set it down.
In the process, many friends and experts gave advice and encouragement of inestimable value. First among these is my longtime agent, Peter Lampack, without whose faith, patience and keen editorial insight this book would surely not have found its way to readers. Peter was consistently supported in his efforts by his amiable and astute son, Andrew, as well as by the high standards of his unfailingly good-humored associates Rema Dilanyan and Christie Russell.
At Viking I have benefited beyond measure from Kathryn Court’s innate, penetrating, uniquely subtle sense of story and human behavior and from Allison Lorentzen’s invariably fresh, intelligent and rigorous attention to every line of the manuscript. They have made the editorial process a pleasure, as has their colleague Tara Singh.
Beyond a professional context, I am, of course, inexpressibly grateful to President Clinton—not only for reading the novel in an early draft and the skill with which he wielded a literary scalpel that decidedly sharpened the story’s narrative, dialogue, focus and tension, but for his gracious and evocative introduction.
For reading and commenting upon The Spy Who Jumped Off the Screen at various stages of its development or for particular knowledge that they were generous enough to share and that has enriched the text, I am indebted to: Philip Bobbitt, Tom Campbell, Bill Cassidy, Susan Eisenhower, James and Arabella Gaggero, Robert Gottlieb, Geordie Greig, Giuseppe Guillot, David Hutcheon, Jamie Kerr, Riccardo Lanza, William and Sandra Lobkowicz, Ileen Maisel, Jim Moore, Flavio Murarotto, Diana Patterson, George Porchester, Marykay Powell, John and Jane Prenn, Giovanni Revedin, Sean Routt, John Saumarez Smith, Steve Scheffer, Alex Schemmer, Michael Sheehan, Andrew Solomon, Michael Sudmeier, David Walton, Alice West and Hope Winthrop.
As every lucky writer knows, particularly during a sustained period of work, the confidence and support of friends—even, sometimes, of acquaintances—can be crucial buoys in a sea of vicissitudes. A list of all those who kindly offered such to me, often at pivotal moments, would be far too long to publish here. But they know who they are and so do I. My appreciation to them is boundless and will be felt as long as I feel anything.
Thomas Caplan
British Embassy
Paris
September 5, 2011
s book with friends
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