The Showstone

by Glenn Cooper

At the mention of the name, the officer puckered his mouth and asked Cal to wait at the bottom of the stairs until he got someone to speak with him.

  Cal sidled up to a group of three women huddled on the sidewalk and asked them if they knew what was going on.

  ‘Someone’s had a heart attack, apparently. It’s very sad.’

  ‘Who is it?’ Cal asked.

  ‘Omar Rasouly. He was such a lovely man.’

  EIGHTEEN

  The call came in over the Wi-Fi network of George Hamid’s Falcon jet. There was some distortion on the line and Hamid had to talk loudly. His wife, Nella, grimaced from her cross-aisle seat and took her fashion magazine to the rear. There was no one else in the cabin to disturb.

  ‘Yes, I hear you now, Tariq. I know, I know. I’m on a flight to LA. You’ll need to speak up. Tell me what’s going on.’

  Barzani was in an inexpensive hotel in the Paddington area. He was concerned about the thin walls; a couple having sex had kept him awake that night. He tried to find a level to be heard without having to shout.

  He told his boss about meeting Rasouly and tried in his own way to describe his malady.

  ‘He was all fucked up. He thought I was Donovan. And he couldn’t remember shit.’

  ‘What, like dementia?’ Hamid suggested.

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  He told him about going to his office and finding the letter in his files.

  Hamid was mightily disappointed. He asked what happened next.

  ‘He’s dead. I made it look natural.’

  ‘Did anyone see you?’

  ‘Yeah, but it looks like it was natural. No blood. Nothing broken. He was old.’

  ‘Okay. Well you know where you’ve got to go next.’

  ‘I already made the arrangements. I’m leaving today.’

  ‘Good. Keep in touch.’

  Hamid got up to use the lavatory. The Grand Canyon was off the port side. He pointed it out to his wife, who couldn’t be bothered to look.

  ‘Who called?’ she asked.

  ‘Tariq.’

  ‘Where did you say he was? He usually comes with us.’

  ‘He’s doing something for me.’

  ‘He’s always doing something for you.’

  ‘That’s what I pay him for.’

  The reception was at the Beverly Wiltshire Hotel and although Hamid’s suite was over the top in size and appointments, he was fuming. He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t been booked into the Penthouse Suite or at least one of the two Presidential Suites. He complained to the front desk manager and when that didn’t secure an upgrade, he took to the phone to savage his assistant back in New York. The problem was that the event was dripping with ultra-wealthy types who had snapped up the three best rooms, and his belated decision to attend had not helped. At 2,200 square feet, the Governor Suite was only half the size of the penthouse, his usual lodging at the hotel, and he was aggrieved.

  ‘Who is in the penthouse?’ he had demanded of the general manager, who scampered up to the suite to do damage control.

  The reply in a high-brow French accent was, ‘We cannot divulge guest details, Mr Hamid. I am sure you can understand?’

  ‘Would I recognize the name?’

  ‘Of that you can be sure.’

  ‘If I had known I couldn’t get the suite I wanted I would have gone elsewhere or rented a house.’

  ‘Perhaps if you give us a touch more lead time on your next visit we will be able to accommodate you more appropriately. In the meanwhile, is there anything I can do for you to make your stay more comfortable?’

  Hamid considered asking the fellow if he didn’t mind screwing himself, but for the sake of his wife, who was looking miserable and waiting to unpack, he let the man off with a dismissive wave.

  ‘I’m going to fire Tammy,’ he told his wife when they were alone.

  She didn’t answer. How many times had he threatened to fire his assistant?

  ‘No, I mean it this time.’

  There were two master bedrooms.

  ‘Which one do you want, George?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t care. They’re both rather small.’

  The ballroom was already crowded when Hamid and his wife made their entry. He hadn’t been to the annual meeting of the ACRF in several years, but he had decided, spur-of-the-moment, that this would be a good year to make a grand reappearance. After all, his company had just gone public in a high-profile offering and he was aching for a shot of adoration and envy from his peers and competitors. And he was keen to meet this year’s keynote speaker. The gala dinner was always for the benefit of charity and Hamid had paid enough for tickets to ensure a place at the speaker’s table.

  He picked up a couple of flutes of champagne from a waiter and whispered to his wife that he wanted to check out their seating. He had bought a new tuxedo for the occasion and strutted with the confidence of a man in a well-tailored suit that flattered his rotundity. Nella Hamid had a new sequined gown but was feeling low. She had emerged from her room wanting to know how she looked and he had asked in his typical marital ignorance if it wasn’t a bit tight around the middle.

  Table One, closest to the stage, sat eight and when no one was looking, Hamid swapped his name plate with the president of the organization so he would be next to the speaker.

  ‘It’s a good thing I checked,’ he told his wife.

  ‘Who am I next to?’ she asked

  ‘Lonergan’s wife, I think. Don’t do your usual thing.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘You know. Acting like a turtle. I need you to stick your head out and be talkative. These are important people.’

  A few attendees, mostly New Yorkers, came up to Hamid to congratulate him on his IPO and he basked in the attention. The lights flickered and several hundred guests began making their way to their tables. Hamid motioned for his wife to come along and hurried to make sure he claimed the coveted seat before anyone figured out they had been moved.

  The president of the organization, a big developer from St Louis, approached the table with the keynote speaker and their wives. He looked a little confused when he saw Hamid sitting in his seat, but he graciously took it in stride and found his new spot.

  ‘I think you’re over there, Gabe,’ the president said. ‘And Gretchen, you’re next to Gabe.’

  Gabriel Lonergan held his wife’s chair then unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket to sit down. He had patrician looks, neither handsome or plain but decidedly distinguished, with light-brown blow-dried hair, and a long tennis-player’s body. When the sixty-year-old passed through the room his strides were fluid, his posture erect, his handshake firm, his eye-contact declaring a personal interest.

  Lonergan struck first, turning to Hamid and offering his hand. ‘Gabe Lonergan. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘George Hamid.’

  ‘George, this is my wife, Gretchen. Is that lovely lady across the table your wife?’

  ‘Nella, yes.’

  Lonergan waved at her and made a joke about table decorations always getting in the way.

  ‘I know we haven’t met, George, because I never forget a face, but I know who you are. I’ve been reading about your company and its IPO. Hearty congratulations are in order.’

  Hamid lit up. ‘Thank you, Gabe. We’re not in your league – yet – but it’s nice that the market appreciated what we do.’

  ‘And your stock’s up a bunch over issue price. Good job all around. I’m going to have to beat up my broker for not getting me in on it.’

  ‘If I had known I would have gotten you a friends and family allocation.’

  ‘Well, next time.’

  With that, the ACRF president got Lonergan’s attention and the two of them began talking over Hamid.

  If there was one thing that Hamid respected it was wealth, and Lonergan was said to be worth twenty billion, give or take. In his home state of California, a few Silicon Valley types were wealthier, but he was top of the pile in his n
ative Los Angeles. But as the dinner progressed, Hamid sensed a bit of a cold shoulder. Lonergan was polite to him but downright jovial to the president and the other man in the grouping, an Orange County shopping-mall developer.

  But just before dinner plates were about to be collected and the speeches begun, Lonergan said to Hamid, ‘Say, George, you’re an immigrant, right?’

  ‘I am, Gabe. I came to America from Iraq after the first Gulf War. Nella and I came with nothing. America was very good to us.’

  ‘The reason I ask is that I’m going to be making a few references to immigration during my speech. I have a couple of things to say about the Muslim situation and I wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to offend you.’

  ‘But I’m not a Muslim, Gabe.’

  ‘What are you?’

  ‘I’m a Christian. That’s one of the reasons I left Iraq. We were a persecuted minority, you know.’

  Lonergan’s face brightened a few shades. ‘I had no idea, George. I think I’ve got a couple of minutes before I’m called up. Tell me more about your story.’

  They stopped chatting when the president took to the stage. He lowered the microphone that Lonergan’s people had adjusted to his height ahead of time and welcomed the group.

  ‘The American Commercial Real Estate Forum is honored to have a keynote speaker tonight who is a second-generation LA developer. Gabriel Lonergan inherited the company his father, Ralph, built and took a great company and made it a whole heck of a lot greater. You can’t drive – or sit in traffic – in southern California without looking at dozens of Lonergan towers, hotels, and office complexes. And now he’s even branched out into mixed-use commercial-residential planned communities. If you know Gabe as I know him, you’ll understand that he isn’t one of these plain-vanilla, politically correct types. He generally speaks his mind and even the few endangered species in the ballroom tonight – and by that, I mean Democrats – even they have got to respect him for that. I give you our speaker tonight, my friend, Gabe Lonergan.’

  Lonergan sprang up and took the stairs to the stage in two big youthful leaps. He discreetly removed his speech from his pocket and smoothed the fold on the podium, then raised the microphone back where it should have been.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it’s my honor to address our wonderful ACRF tonight, an organization that gives back to our communities all over this great country of ours and, I am pleased to say, is ranked number two in the country for its philanthropy out of all the nation’s commercial interest associations. But let me tell you, I hate being number two in anything. Let’s all make it our mission to get to number one.’

  He paused for the applause and went for the obligatory humor.

  ‘You know, how you can tell how wealthy this group is? I was told so many private jets flew into LAX today that the runway congestion got the pilots confused. They thought they were on Interstate 405 between Venice and Wiltshire at rush hour.’

  There followed a nakedly political speech which was little surprise to most in the room. It was a matter of when-not-if speculation that Lonergan was going to be running for something on the state or federal level. A lot of his remarks revolved around economic prosperity and how too many politicians stupidly thought that government action, not an unbridled private sector, was the way to achieve accelerating growth. But then he segued into immigration, a favorite red-meat issue.

  ‘Now we here in California know the importance of agriculture to our economy. And I’ve had people come up to me from all over and say, “Mr Lonergan, how can you be such a hawk on immigration when you know the farmers in California and other states can’t get Americans to work the fields?” And I tell them what I’m about to tell you – I am not against immigrants. I am for legal immigrants but dead set against illegals. I say expand our seasonal visas for agricultural workers but when the season is over, see to it we have enough Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers on the job to make sure we kick every last backside back across the border! My friends, I love legal immigrants. They are one of the reasons we have a great country. Let me tell you one success story.’

  Lonergan looked away from his text and pointed at his table.

  ‘Hey, George Hamid, would you get up and take a bow.’

  Hamid glanced at his wife who looked confused then stood to wave and smile.

  ‘Okay, George,’ Lonergan said, ‘you can sit down again. You’re stealing my thunder. Folks, George Hamid, came to this country from Iraq right after the first Gulf War. Saddam Hussein and his Muslim cronies persecuted the hell out of George and his fellow Christians. They forced his boy into the army where he was tragically killed by one of our boys or girls in the US military. But this country, the greatest country in the world, took George and his wife and their daughter in with open arms and George Hamid, who arrived with a few crumpled dollars in his pocket, built a great company in New York City, and that company just went public in one of the largest IPOs in the history of our sector.’

  The audience clapped warmly and Hamid took it upon himself to stand and wave again, prompting Lonergan to point and laugh.

  ‘Good man, good man,’ Lonergan said. ‘The Muslims in Iraq and other places wanted to grind our Christian brothers and sisters into dust and let me tell you something – we must never let that happen.’

  When he was finished with his talk, Lonergan basked in the applause and settled back to his table. His wife pecked him on the cheek and everyone else tossed around praise.

  Hamid waited his turn and said, ‘Gabe, that was an amazing speech. And I am so proud you used my story. You have made this a very special night for me.’

  ‘Well, George, it went over well. I’ve been getting a lot of requests for speeches around the country lately. With your permission, I’d like to include you as a shining example of what can happen when immigration is done the right way, vetted, legal, and proper.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Hamid said. ‘I’ve been following the speculation in the media that you might run for political office.’

  ‘Yeah, the media likes to speculate about all sorts of things,’ Lonergan said with a sly grin.

  ‘What are your favorite speculations?’ Hamid asked slyly.

  ‘Well, you hear all sorts of things.’

  ‘There’s only one position you should consider,’ Hamid said.

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Absolutely. The only office a man like yourself should bother with is the presidency of the United States.’

  ‘That’s interesting, George. Very interesting indeed. You’re a bit of a mind-reader, aren’t you? But if that time ever comes, I’ll appreciate your support. Say, let me give you a date to hold on your calendar. Maybe we can see each other again soon.’

  Hamid took down the details and said, ‘I will definitely be there for you, Gabe. I will support you in ways you simply cannot believe.’

  NINETEEN

  Krakow, 1584

  The winter journey across the Channel and into eastern Europe had been arduous and it had taken its toll on John Dee’s family. The children were feverish and coughing, Jane Dee had withdrawn into a painful silence, and John Dee was given to rants at his servants and hostelers at every stop along the way. His flashpoints invariably involved the cost of things and suspicions he was being exploited by the locals. However, other members of Dee’s entourage seemed to be enjoying themselves. Edward Kelley and his bride, Jane, who was several years older than he, were generally mirthful, bumping along in the back of one of the coaches. She was plump and plain and possessed a child-like simplicity that seemed to suit her new husband. This was her first trip abroad and she seemed tickled by the shifting languages and foods as they journeyed east. And as the party drew closer and closer to his ancestral home, their guide, Albrecht Laski, became more adept at navigating the local customs and he grew ever more animated.

  ‘Do you smell it?’ he would exclaim. ‘The air of ancient Silesia! It is sweet as honey, is it not?’

  Laski had
appeared in Mortlake during a particularly painful period for the magus and Dee had declared him angel-sent. Dee had become increasingly desperate for funds to maintain his household and his scientific experiments, unaware that the unseen hand of Francis Walsingham had been thwarting him at every turn. Dee had spent years lobbying the Queen for the steady income of a royal commission, but as much as she valued his astrological, navigational, and map-making expertise, his promised alchemical advances to convert base metals into precious ones had not materialized. Nor had he made progress toward finding the philosopher’s stone, the long-sought agent for permutating metals, healing illness, and conferring immortality. Absent an offering of something of demonstrable value, Dee was nothing more than one man in a huddle of Crown supplicants, albeit the most erudite one in all of England. Still, Elizabeth long held a soft spot for Dee and had urged Grindal, her archbishop – against the wishes of Walsingham – to grant the magus from Mortlake the dispensation to hold for life the two rectories at Upton and Long Leadenham, ecclesiastical positions that guaranteed him a sustainable annual income. However, Dee, distracted by his experiments, had failed to follow through on the legal necessity of having the seal of the archbishop attached to the Crown documents, and Walsingham pounced on the discovered error. Despite Edward Kelley’s spying, Walsingham had failed to confirm his suspicion that Dee was a papist plotter. Nevertheless, he preferred that Dee should wither on the vine of financial ruin and he pushed Grindal to withdraw the rectory positions on account of their invalidity. By late 1583, deprived of income, Dee was desperate.

  Albrecht Laski seemed to breathe new life into his tired soul.

  The flamboyant Polish lord arrived in England that year in an attempt to revive his own fortunes. Driven from his ancestral seat by the king of Poland, Stephen Bathory, Laski was received at court by the Queen, who had been thoroughly seduced by his reputation as a warrior-humanist and by the elegant letter he had written her in Italian, describing the lady as the refuge of the disconsolate and afflicted. His appearance at Whitehall Palace had caused a stir, and perhaps stirred the royal heart as well. He was tall and handsome with a pale complexion. He wore red, only red, except for yellow boots with curled toes, evocative of the Middle Ages. It seemed he had never ever trimmed his gigantic white beard, so long it was that he wore it tucked into his belt. And when he talked it was with the bookishness of a scholar and the resolute temperament of a military man. A smitten Elizabeth set him up at Winchester House in Southwark, where he began a round of expensive entertaining with money borrowed from a variety of Court grandees. No one apparently was fully aware just how impoverished the Polish palatine was. In truth, Laski had traveled to England to meet one man, John Dee, who had the reputation on the Continent as one of the preeminent alchemists of his day. If he could just convince Dee to work with him on the discovery of the philosopher’s stone, then riches would follow, and his inherited lands and positions would be restored.