Microsoft Word - Rogers, Rosemary - The Crowd Pleasers (33 page)

Barstow had a photographic memory-a natural talent later trained and developed. He had been with the OSS during World War II; stayed with Intelligence until he was hand-picked as one of "Reardon's Boys" by Reardon himself. His record showed that he had long since been retired, was now comfortably employed by a large and prosperous private corporation. But then, not many people were left alive who would remember him. The small group he'd worked with had taken a lot of risks and suffered a lot of casualties. The last and most recent one being Duncan Frazier.

Officially CIA, but working for them.

Barstow's face was cold and hard as he bent over the thickest file. Dune's. Filled with his reports, including the last.

Cross-referenced, with references to the other files stacked along with it. When he'd gone through them all he might find something-some clue.

Damn those recent leaks anyhow, and goddamn the newspapers that printed them!

So many agents dead because their cover had been blown. He hoped that Hyatt was okay. He was expected in today, and Security had already been alerted, just in case.

Fortunate that Hyatt had been in France-digging up some background on Yves Pleydel, his ex-wives, and that Egyptian fellow who professed to be an actor-when Frazier bought it.

Bought it! Barstow grimaced. He'd picked that particular phrase up from the British.

Some of their reports ended up on his desk as well, especially since they'd been working together-almost!-on the Irish matter. And then the telephone call on the hotline only this morning. Quiet, rather drawling voice that to Barstow's ears always sounded rather affected.

"Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, old chap. Afraid your man Frazier bought it. Late afternoon, our time. A bomb. There'd been threats, of course, and we'd been taking all the precautions we could, but these IRA boys have been getting cleverer at slipping past. At least that's who we think it was. You have any different ideas?"

He'd passed the call on to Reardon and sent for the files. And he hadn't said anything about it to Tarrant. Let Reardon be the one to tell him, and calm him down when the general blew up. Dammit, he didn't have any answers to the enraged questions that Tarrant would snap out. His job was to sift through the mass of detail that lay before him, memorizing and correlating, checking fact against surmise. Hoping he'd come up with something-some tiny coincidence or common denominator that would provide a clue. When Hyatt arrived, maybe his personal report would help.

Barstow kept reading doggedly, scanning pages with incredible swiftness.

Occasionally he picked up a pen to mark a section for microfilming. Get all the salient facts together into one document.

Christ, but there were a lot of people involved! Unfortunately including Reardon's daughter. Just an unwitting pawn or a member of the other side herself? Fleetingly, while he drew on his pipe, Barstow permitted himself to wonder what she might be doing right now. How much did she know, what was she thinking?

Lying in the sun always made her feel drowsy. Her body felt sun-drenched, heavy and warm, even after she stepped out from under the shower. Quickly, without stopping to think about it, Anne shook a capsule out of the bottle in the mirrored cabinet and swallowed it. She grimaced at her flushed reflection. Not really an

"upper." Just something to keep her alert and alive during the evening that loomed ahead. And she'd better hurry, or Harris would be upset.

She wore the thin choker he had given her-very tiny platinum beads, each studded with a miniature diamond. A little-nothing crepe-de-chine blouse, open almost all the way down the front, worn with a full gypsy-style skirt and high-heeled sandals. Her hair up tonight, but artfully untidy, with strands escaping down the back of her neck and framing her face. Lip gloss, a touch of mascara. That should do it. She looked very different from the Victorian miss she'd played this morning. Tonight she was ready to play the sophisticated hostess; the role was becoming easier.

"Darling, you look simply stunning this evening! Is that One of Thea's creations you're wearing?" Sarah Vesper, in floating green chiffon, pressed her cheek lightly against Anne's.

"You look great. Wish I could wear the kind of clothes you do, but I guess I'll stick to my own style." Jean Benedict's formal evening wear was a buttoned-up blue denim skirt, with a matching vest that left most of her midriff bare. She wore chunky Indian jewelry, and it suited her dark good looks. Her hair, as usual, flowed down her back.

But later on, when she sang, her guitar picking out lonely chords, the whole room was hushed. "I like to sing for the ocean, and the wind and the mountains-for everything that's free, and I hope to hell that includes me," she had said quietly.

Singing, her voice was pure and true and soaring, taking the highest and lowest notes without effort; wrapping its spell around everyone there.

"She's beautiful, and she's real," Sarah whispered, watching Jean take her ovation as unself-consciously as she'd sung.

Real, Anne thought. Are any of us real? Is any of this real? She was remembering jean's dedication of her first song to "everything that's free." Well, Jean was a free soul. Maybe it was her talent that had made her that way, or the yoga. I've got to talk to Dr. Brightman, Anne thought distractedly. She was watching Harris talk to a tall, dark-haired man who was starting to go gray at the temples-someone she hadn't seen before. And that reminded her that she had heard the helicopter fly over while she'd been sunbathing. More new arrivals? He looked vaguely familiar, but then all of Harris's friends did.

Jean Benedict had stopped singing and taped disco music took over as everyone scattered into small groups. This could have been a fashionable house party anywhere in the world. "Coming home" was not really like coming home at all. This was still Danny Verrano's house, in spite of all the changes that Harris had promised and made. Perhaps it was best this way.

"Anne, I'd like you to meet Sal Espinoza." Of course, that was why his face had seemed so familiar. He bowed over her hand, kissing it. Flashing her his consciously attractive smile. "This is such a pleasure. I've been looking forward to meeting you."

His friend, Anna-Maria, exhausted from too much traveling, had asked to be excused. She'd retired to bed already.

Harris left them alone, and he was a charming man-an excellent dancer. Better than Taki Petrakis, who had held her close enough for her to feel his erection, while he kissed her ear. He had invited her to visit his private island, and to cruise with him on his yacht.

Dexamyl and martinis didn't exactly mix, but Anne was past caring. She liked Espinoza, who talked to her about the races he'd been in instead of whispering compliments and innuendos in her ear.

Anne danced with him a second time, because she enjoyed his company and because she wanted to avoid Karim, who had been glowering at her from across the room, where he stood dutifully by his uncle.

Danny Verrano had converted one of the seaward-looking balconies into a covered terrace, and they had just come indoors, Anne laughing at something that Sal had said, when she saw Webb. He looked as if he'd just got in-he was wearing faded blue denims and a patterned blue silk shirt, open to the waist. He had a drink in one hand, and he was kissing Claudia, holding her around the waist with his free arm.

It was like watching one of those movies where the action was frozen for a few seconds to catch everyone in midmovement. Anne felt herself frozen, too, and then Espinoza said, "Shall I get you' another drink? It's beginning to get quite hot in here,"

and everything came back to normal again.

"I'd love one. I'll come with you and get it." She didn't look at Webb again. "Not tonight," she thought. "Tomorrow will be time enough."

ALL THE WAY UP HERE he had damned the fog and Harris Phelps's halfhearted directions that had almost gotten him lost, and most of all his own mood of frustration. On this occasion, driving took all his concentration as he took curves he shouldn't have tried to take at the speed he was traveling. And his thoughts weren't worth thinking. Far better to concentrate on the sweet wonder of the Ferrari that responded better than any woman he had ever known.

Harris had wanted him to fly in by helicopter, like the rest of his "guests." But hell, this fog would have kept the chopper grounded. And he needed the time and the fresh air to clear his mind of its own fog of emotion. Ever since the telephone call from good old buddy Peter, coming just after he'd finished a particularly strenuous set of tennis with Dave, who couldn't stop chortling over the fact that he'd beaten him.

"You're getting out of condition, old man! Too much of the fleshpots of Europe?" "I don't have my own private tennis court where I can practice every day, like you do!"

He had almost started to relax by then-almost. But then Hiro, Dave's houseboy, had come outside. "Telephone call for Mr. Carnahan. A Mr. Markus, from New York." Leo Markus was his agent. And he had given Leo Dave's unlisted number, just in case.

He knew that Leo wouldn't call unless it was absolutely necessary. Leo wasn't the kind to make casual telephone calls-especially when he was on the verge of starting a new picture. Leo was a soft-spoken chain smoker who preferred to have business discussions with his clients in person.

He should have known. And yet when he heard the slightly nasal voice over the line, it was all he could do to keep from slamming the receiver down.

"Hi, Webb. This is your old school buddy Peter here. You were expecting to hear from me, weren't you?"

Just like old times. And his conversation with Vito suddenly fresh in his mind, Webb forced himself to swallow his anger while he listened.

"Glad we're going to be working together again. We used to make good partners in the old days." Peter used to enjoy snapping necks. "Just like chickens . . . but then, you weren't brought up a farm boy like I was, were you, old buddy?"

When there was killing to be done, Webb had preferred using a gun or a knife. And he'd never liked Peter. It came back to him in a rush of hate and self-disgust. A feeling that stayed with him all the way down the road until, almost unbelievingly, he'd traveled through all of the elaborate security checks (electrified fences and gates with armed guards, no less) down the dirt-road turnoff he'd almost missed-to arrive at the water's edge and a goddamn drawbridge.

"What the fuck is this? A missile base?"

They had turned the lights on when the Ferrari roared up, stopping inches away from the black-painted wooden shack. Checkpoint Charlie, he thought, even while he tried to hang on to his temper.

"Sorry, sir. Do you have your pass?" The man who spoke had an expressionless face, and a shotgun cradled in the crook of his arm.

"It's starting to get worn out. It's already been checked three times."

Webb's voice was dangerously soft, and he had to fight the impulse to swing the wheel around and head back the way he had come.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carnahan," the man said without inflection. "Just doing my job. You know how it is. I'm supposed to keep uninvited visitors out. Not too many of the guests chose to drive all the way down here." He gave a wave of his arm to the other man in the shack. "It won't take long now. He'll press the button, and the bridge will come down. When you drive across it, swing to the right and follow the road that takes you up towards the house. You can't miss all the lights."

A fucking island, of all things. And more security than Fox had used while they were shooting Superman.

The man had been right about his not being able to miss all the lights. Up here, the fog was below, and the house looked more like a castle, with lighted outbuildings sprawling on either side of it.

Webb brought the Ferrari to a savage halt before a flight of shallow stone steps, gravel spurting under the tires. A massive wooden door, relic transported from some ancient castle, like the damn drawbridge, stood open. Music and more light, and a man came down the steps.

This time, at least, he didn't have to show his pass. Maybe they'd called ahead.

"Mr. Carnahan?" He had a glimpse of a swarthy, acne-scarred face. "I'm Palumbo, Mr. Phelps's chauffeur. And I can drive her into the garage for you and see that your luggage is taken to your room if you'd like to go right in and join everyone for a drink."

Palumbo was letting his eyes run over the Ferrari's sleek lines. Admiringly, a little enviously. She sure was something! And then he watched Webb Carnahan uncoil his long frame from the cramped space behind the wheel, coming easily to his feet in one lithe motion. He had an easy smile, too-a pity he couldn't tell Gina he'd actually met her idol (she watched all of his movies on TV, and bought all the fan magazines that had his picture in them). But then, he never discussed his work with Gina; it was an understanding they'd had ever since they'd gotten married five years ago. On this job he'd met a hell of a lot of people he and Gina had only read about before.

"Thanks. It seemed like a damned long drive behind about five cars piled up behind a goddamned camper. A drink sounds exactly like what I need." Webb added carefully,

"Crazie"

And almost saw Palumbo's eyes snap into focus on him before the man said politely and carefully, "It's straight ahead, sir. Through the hall and some double doors. You'll hear the music and the voices."

Contact? Time to make sure later. Right now there was a damn party he was supposed to attend.

The bright lights and the laughing faces formed a startling contrast to the blackness of his thoughts. They were all here-the crowd pleasers. Some faces he had expected to see and some he hadn't. Nonetheless familiar. A cross section of the world of money and power: mass media, music, acting, even politics. All big, all celebrities.

People who influenced people in one way or another. Right now they all seemed engaged in having fun.

Webb headed straight for the bar. "Scotch. Chivas, if you have it. Over ice." He turned back to the room with his drink, to meet Harris Phelps's tight-lipped, reproachful look.