Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army (18 page)

“Yes, but—”

“And it does make a kind of sense.”

“Sense?”

“How else could Bea Cherbourg do harm to Sara Hutton?”

“She was going to ‘find out something about her.'”

“And do what with the knowledge? Turn it over to the police? It would have to be something illegal for that to cause Sara Hutton any harm. I don't really think Sara Hutton is doing anything illegal.”

“Well, an association with Maxwellton James....”

“No, I truly believe he is ‘retired' from all that. I think something far worse than the illegal is going on. I think something ideological is going on, and as much as we might dislike and distrust the ideological, it is not, in America, illegal. Otherwise America wouldn't be America, would it? So Bea found nothing useful. Just probably something that disgusted her. She was, unfortunately, prone to that. So a situation came up where she saw an opportunity to cause Sara Hutton much grief. It would mean her own death, but—”

I stopped. There really hadn't been much time to think this all through, but now, making the thoughts solid and hearing them expressed, I could see that my preliminary conclusions were just not logical. “It was an accidental death.” I stated it with a finality that Roee knew to take seriously.

“What's the track?” he asked.

“Bea, in the middle of the retreat, in the middle of the meeting of the Communion of the Golden Arse, saw that, although it was weird and awful, it was not much more than embarrassing for Sara Hutton—if anybody on the outside could see what was going on. That, at least, was something, but how do you call attention to a secret meeting of a secret society? An accident. A medical emergency that they would have to deal with might do it. Whatever ‘fire' they were playing with, Bea thought she could handle and control the damage. She was wrong. She was na
ï
ve, romantic, idealistic—and wrong. So she died. Tragically fulfilling her goal far beyond any of her romantic revenge fantasies.”

“So it was accidental. So where does your duty lie?”

“I misspoke. Not duty. Pleasure.”

~ * ~

We arrived at Heathrow airport at noon and were picked up by a limo arranged by Hamo Thronycroft. It was part of a commercial fleet used almost exclusively by companies working within the City, the financial district of London. The driver Hamo had requested, he had assured us, was known for the occasional verbal indiscretion. We had no interest in hearing anything he had to say. We planned to do the talking.

“The meeting is set for what time?” I as Elsworth Henderson asked Roee as Charles W. Pinsker as the limo pulled out of the airport.

“Three PM”

“Well, I think she'll be happy. All the ducks seem to be in a row.”

“I talked to her yesterday. She seemed very happy indeed. This would be a quite a big leap for her. To go from owning a Greek TV station to ownership of Olympic Pictures.”

“Do you think we have completely talked her out of putting this funding into the European Satellite business?”

“Lydia Corfu has a passion for the product. Always has had. She's involved herself in the delivery systems only to allow her to have a hand in the product. If she builds Olympic like she plans, getting into satellite down the road will be no problem.”

“She buys that?”

“Her heart buys it—and that woman is all heart.”

“Ah, the passionate Greeks.”

~ * ~

The limo took us directly to the Savoy Hotel on the Strand. As it pulled up to the front of the hotel we could see Hamo Thronycroft standing by the curb. Short and thin, Hamo stood there in the cold in a long sleeve—but with the sleeves rolled up—solid blue silk shirt and rather wrinkled black slacks. He gave a little wave as we stepped out of the car, saying in a quiet voice, “Hello Fixx. Hi Roee.” He was not being necessarily discreet. He rarely spoke above a hushed tone.

I gave him a good look. His light blond hair had thinned to nonexistence at the top since I had last seen him, but was maintaining a fuzzy presence around the ears. His narrow face was ruddy, as always, but now possibly more so from the cold. His basic deportment was nervousness—I have never seen it any other way—which always gave him the impression of a man wanting to get on with it, get it over with, and get back to the comfort of a home and hearth not open to guests. Yet I have never met a more kind soul—genuinely kind. The nervousness, if that is what it was, probably derived from the sure knowledge that the world does not treat the kind in kind, that it often smears them to nothing but a slightly moist smudge, as one can easily do to various small harmless insects. Watching out for the giant thumb of indifferent evil can give one the aspect of the timid and shy.

“Hamo?” I greeted my friend with a question in my voice.

“Yes, Fixx?”

“You're not wearing a coat and tie.”

Hamo looked down on himself confirming that I was correct. “I never do.”

“Well, that's somewhat of an inconvenience as this is the Savoy, and it is forbidden, at this particular establishment, to even use the public loo without the required accouterments. What if I had decided to take you into the Thames Foyer for high tea?”

“Wouldn't have gone. Only go to low tea.”

“I see. Well, then, the other concern might be, as it is probably in the 40s—Fahrenheit, of course—aren't you cold?”

“Probably, yes, but it was warm in the taxi coming over; it'll be warm in the hotel; it'll be warm in the taxi going back. A coat would just have to be put on and taken off. Waste of time when you're in a hurry.”

“But you've been standing here in the cold waiting for us?”

“Ah, yes, but the thought of you, Fixxer, kept me warm.”

“I'm touched.”

“I'm freezing,” Roee grumbled, “and I've got on a coat and an overcoat and a muffler and gloves. So can we go inside?” He pushed pass us to lead the way.

“Born and bred in a hot and arid land,” I said to Hamo by way of explanation as we followed Roee in.

“It's a pity. It truly is,” Hamo said.

~ * ~

We had first met Hamo in Syria in the late Eighties, where he was producing and directing a documentary for BBC2 on the tapping of the Euphrates River for irrigation. Despite the dry subject matter, it turned out to be a good and fascinating film, especially given the fact that, while he was making the film, Hamo was also in the secret employ of British Intelligence spending time looking into reports of a major terrorist training camp in the area. He found the camp, “stumbling” upon it while he was trying to get to just the right spot for an establishing shot of the Euphrates as it dropped out of the Taurus Mountains by the Turkish border. The instructors and students at “Hafez al-Assad U,” as Hamo liked to call it, were not happy at the intrusion. Hamo swears he was but a millisecond from death by various types of blows, when, “The light emanating from my harmless demeanor shown upon them and illuminated what was left of the good in their nature.” They spared him, but ripped all the film out of his cameras. Then they invited him and his crew to lunch. As they ate, the well-concealed video and sound recorders in their film equipment boxes, which had been set down in a seemingly haphazard manner, documented the camp in many of its particulars. After a long afternoon of passable food and political prattle, all in a friendly atmosphere, Hamo and his crew picked up their equipment boxes, made their good-byes, and left to continue the good work of immortalizing the Syrian effort to bring paradise to Earth through irrigation.

Hamo had provided such services to British Intelligence for many years, traveling to many interesting locations, and making quite a number of award-winning documentaries along the way. Lately though, he had forsaken self-sacrificing service to Queen and Country and kept the cameras rolling only for CNN and Sky News and, occasionally, me. The pay is decidedly better. Especially when he works for me.

He is kind. Not stupid.

~ * ~

After we checked in we went up to our suite for a quick report from Hamo before moving on to his offices. The suite was very Astaire & Rodgers in design, if not in scope. Reality has never been able to compete with the Hollywood of the 1930's. Which, I must admit, leads to a bit of a disappointment with reality at times. Good view of the Thames, though.

Roee gave Hamo a beer, fixed me a vodka tonic and passed on any refreshment for himself.

“Roee tells me you have everything in place.”

“Absolutely. The plan worked like a charm. She took the bait without a second thought.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Well, of course, I had no problem with my credentials, in fact, I think a couple of my old documentaries have run on her station. Inexpensive programming. So, I just told her that I happened to luck into some information on certain members of the Greek Parliament that she's very opposed to. She's been trying to get something on them for a long time. The station gave her a power base in Greece, and she's using it to brilliant advantage.”

“Sort of like a hobby.”

“More like a passion. I told her that I had recently done a film in Athens and inadvertently got some information I thought she would be interested in, but that I did not intend to return to Athens to show it to her, that I didn't feel safe there, and so she had better come here and meet me in London. She had no problem with conceding to that request.”

“And you arranged for her pickup at Heathrow?”

“Yes, early this morning, with the same driver you had. So when you mentioned Lydia Corfu I'm sure it made the proper impression. The name would have been fresh in his mind. He's probably already made a few phone calls and received a few fat gratuities for the effort.”

“And the rest of it?”

“All set. We'll be meeting her in just a little while at the building. If all goes well, then we'll head over to The Pavilion in Finsbury Circus for drinks.”

~ * ~

The building was Hamo's; recently bought to house his First & Foremost Films. It was not on Wardour Street in Soho, where most of the London film community housed itself, but in the City, within sight and sound of St. Paul's. No 2 Wardrobe Place was built in 1680, part of the rebuilding of London after the Great Fire of 1666. It was in a location that, before the fire, used to be the King's Wardrobe, literally the area where the King's possessions were stored. It was much in Hamo's character to prefer the shadows of this historic ground as opposed to the bright lights of Soho, and it was much to my advantage. The financial world is often the only world that mattered. It was good to have Hamo's ear to this particular ground.

The buildings that made up Wardrobe Place were off Carter Lane, arranged in a rectangle forming an open quadrangle, by which the buildings were entered through narrow Seventeenth Century doors. The quad was all hard brick and cobblestones except for three old London Plane trees that had grown tall enough to snatch some sun at their tops. A truly urban tree (it's rarely found outside of London anymore), slightly older than the surrounding buildings, the London Plane had thrived in the sooty atmosphere of the old city. It had something to do with the soot aiding how the tree naturally exfoliated, shedding its bark in patches. The irony now being that with modern pollution controls the trees were somewhat anemic compared to their robust past.

 
Five stories in all, including a basement with an old and creepy vault that Hamo used for a wine cellar, Hamo's building was registered with the English Heritage Commission, which would allow nothing to be done to alter its Seventeenth Century look. This was fine by Hamo. He had restored it as close to its original condition as possible, even finding some charming na
ï
ve wall paintings that had been buried under plaster and paper. Hamo, no longer completely loyal to the England that is, was extremely loyal to the England that was.

We gathered in Hamo's office on the ground floor and sat around the small marble fireplace to wait for Lydia Corfu. Soon we heard a disturbance outside in the reception area, as if a force of nature had blown open the door and pushed all obstacles aside. Out of the ensuing cacophony a female voice arose. It was a voice unlike any I have ever heard. Radio static able to articulate was my first and continuing impression.

“Tea? Don't want any fucking tea! Water perhaps—with ice—plenty of ice. What the fuck do I care if it's cold outside? You English ought to drink more ice water. It would stimulate your blood flow! Is this where I go?”

The door to Hamo's office opened and Lydia Corfu, wrapped in a pure white ankle length fur coat, walked in, stopped and stared at us, one after the other. “You must be Thronycroft,” she stated to Hamo, when she got to him.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“You look so typically English.” Then she looked again at Roee and me, looked as if we not only expected the scrutiny; but welcomed it, “and you two look like lawyers, but you're not. Lawyers all smell alike. It has something to do with what they secrete. You don't have that smell. Not that you don't smell. You just don't smell like lawyers.” She took in a deep breath, testing our scent. “It's a dangerous smell, though. Who the hell are you?”