Spy Who Jumped Off the Screen : A Novel (9781101565766) (13 page)

A step down beyond a hedgerow, pandered to by royal palms, a swimming pool of pink alabaster had been built into a ledge of the lush hillside, its privacy ensured by stands of spruce and eucalyptus.

Ty shed his clothes and dove naked into the cool, dark water. After ten laps he paused and looked up at the partially illuminated mansion, its intricate silhouette eerie against the night sky. He knew that, like much of the town and many of its inhabitants, his house was an illusion, a magnificent façade upon which years of superficial surgery had forestalled any intimation of the decades of structural decay beneath.

Irritated, even if intrigued that his long-anticipated chance to concentrate on renovating his home was to be disrupted by the President's unexpected request, he put his face back into the water and began the first of another round of ninety freestyle laps, turning at each end with the urgency and concentration of a natural competitor, propelling himself with a commando's power.

After drying off, Ty went immediately to his bedroom. His housekeeper had prepared it that afternoon, and he felt comfortable, if momentarily lonely, in the enormous bed. He fell asleep quickly, without setting an alarm for the first time in months.

At 7:43
A.M.
, however, the insistent ringtone of his BlackBerry startled him from a dream in which both he and the world had been much younger. Fragments of it lingered in his consciousness as he groped for the device on his nightstand. He had been a frat boy in Charlottesville, en route somewhere with his friends, but where exactly? All save the setting of his dream dissolved the instant he palmed his phone. The message he received was from NetJets, confirming his booking of an overnight flight from L.A. to London in three days. As he read it, his temper rose. He had made no such reservation, but had no difficulty imagining who had. He saved the message, then turned back onto his side in a vain attempt to recapture sleep.

Chapter Eleven

From the terrace of
his hotel suite, Philip Frost studied the medieval façades and rooflines of Prague. He had arrived at the Four Seasons after midnight, so this was his first glimpse of the city in daylight, and almost immediately his gaze was caught by a small wooden skiff bearing an oarsman and his girl along the Vltava.
High on the opposite riverbank, the morning sun dappled the crenellations of Prague Castle.

At twenty minutes to eight, dressed for the business day, he proceeded to breakfast in the Allegro Restaurant, just off the lobby. He was the third customer. The maître d'hôtel
led him across the polished marble floor to a table for two, where he assumed the seat facing the door.

“Will anyone be joining you?” the maître d'
inquired.

“Yes, one gentleman for certain,” Philip replied. “And perhaps there might be another coming along a bit later.”

The maître d'
nodded. “Coffee?” he asked, handing Philip a menu.

“Please, black,” Philip said. “Then I will wait for my first guest before deciding.”

The wait was short. No sooner had the maître d'
departed than Sven Lorentz appeared. Tall and balding, he had the aspect of an aging footballer.

Lorentz took his seat and appeared immediately comfortable in it. “My, my.” He sighed but smiled at Philip. “So it's come to this, has it? I have to admit it's sooner than I would have predicted.”

“Really?” Philip asked. “I would have said just the opposite. Three years, after all, is a long time for a man to be doing the kind of work I've been doing.”

“It's very important work,” Sven replied, perusing the menu.

“None more,” Philip said, “but arduous, and even the best intentions have half-lives.”

“Are you getting stale?”

“Tired maybe, but not stale. Of course, the thoroughness involved
is
exhausting in its way. But that is not my dilemma. Think back a few years, Sven. There comes a time, doesn't there?”

“Could it be that all you need is to refresh your perspective?”

“I'm listening.”

“There is more involved in deterring nuclear threats than disarming and decommissioning weapons, as crucial as those protocols are. For instance, one might concentrate on the emerging science of nuclear forensics. You have the necessary background, and you could do a world of good there.”

“I don't see myself in a laboratory somehow.”

“Logic suggests that the only sure way to dissuade a nation with nukes from selling them, or even giving them away to a sympathetic proxy, is to leave no doubt in its leaders' minds that whatever mask or masks they've contrived will be pierced, expeditiously, even from debris, and that once their identities are known, they will be subject to what President Kennedy, at the height of the Cuban Missile Crisis, so colorfully termed ‘a full retaliatory response.'”

Philip nodded. “We both know there are better candidates for that sort of work than me. And besides, it doesn't pay well.”

“It pays enough.”

“I'm not a rich man, Sven. I might have been by now had I stayed on in the City. Mind you, money hasn't been my priority up to this point, but a man's life changes. How can I settle down and take on responsibilities without enough of it?”

“What's her name?”

“Isabella,” Philip answered.

“Still?” Sven did his best to sound surprised. “The same woman for quite some time now. It's almost out of character.”

“You've met her.”

“Only in passing.”

“Nevertheless, you're not blind.”

“No, but love is. Is that what you expect me to say?”

“I'd expect you to say that in this case it obviously isn't. Let me be candid. I have enjoyed working with you and our group immensely. It has been the greatest privilege of my life, as well, at times, as one of the great pleasures. In all modesty I think I've excelled at the work, too. To use a cliché, I do feel I've ‘made a difference,' which is satisfying.”

“You have. You're my top performer, numero uno, but you already know that. To say I'm reluctant to lose you is to understate things woefully, but I do understand.”

“And I am reluctant to go, but at the end of the day a married man, perhaps a family man one day, has to think of more than himself.”

Sven shook his head. “As usual you win the argument,” he said. “I concede. Anyway, congratulations are in order. When did you decide?”

“I've been in the process for quite some time.”

“What I meant was, when did you make it official?” Sven said, tucking into the first of his eggs.

Philip smiled ruefully. “We haven't yet,” he admitted.

“But she has accepted your offer?”

“She will.”

“You seem very confident, even for you, Philip.”

“It's my nature,” Philip said.

Sven swallowed. “Well, I suppose you've every right to be,” he continued. “It
is
the age of preconsummated marriage, after all.”

“Exactly,” Philip told him.

“Your replacement—No, I don't like that word; it doesn't fit. Your
successor
will be Rhys Llewellyn.”

“So I've been told.”

“He wanted to join us, but his flight from Brussels arrives a few minutes after my train back to Vienna departs.”

Philip nodded. “I'm grateful to you for taking the time to let me tell you in person what I couldn't put in my letter.”

“You're welcome,” Sven Lorentz assured him.

“I will bring Llewellyn entirely up to speed,” Philip said. “I won't leave you in the lurch. Don't worry about that.”

“No,” Sven told him, “I won't. Where will you base yourselves?”

“Probably in Rome to start with,” Philip said, “even if it necessitates a bit of a commute for me. Isabella has a job there that she loves. I'll find something.”

“You'll miss the buzz,” Sven said, “the high of saving the world from itself, all that.”

“Maybe,” Philip replied, “or maybe not.”

Chapter Twelve

When the landline at
La Encantada finally jingled Ty stared at the old avocado telephone and let it ring three times before lifting the receiver. There was a point to be made. Even though he knew better than to ask what precisely was to be expected of him, much less when or where, he was still the number-one box-office star in the world, a man ready to be helpful but not toyed with.

“Yes?” he said.

“Ty, it's Zara, darling,” announced the exuberant, unexpected voice on the other end.

Ty smiled to himself. “Where are you?”

“At your gate,” Zara Chapin said. “You've changed the fucking security code without telling me.”

“They just did it. I only found out myself yesterday. I was going to call you later.”

“Nice recovery, but never mind.”

“It's the truth,” Ty replied.

“What's the code?” Zara asked.

“I'll let you in from here.”

“What's the code?” she repeated.

“Be a good girl,” Ty said, “and I'll tell you,” then pressed the remote that retracted La Encantada's gates.

To Ty, Zara appeared to float, appropriately goddesslike, along the columned portico that led to his front door. Without breaking stride she crossed his threshold, clasping her arms about his neck, drawing him to her, kissing him fully on his lips, deliberately but with a passion more recollected than felt. He inhaled the trace scent of her usual perfume, tasted the sweet beeswax of her lip balm. She felt comfortable, comprehending, most of all trustworthy. They had ascended to fame within months of each other, costarred in a picture, become involved on location, then gone their separate ways, not because the attraction between them had waned but because their trajectories were too distinct and powerful to remain for very long entwined.

“So,” Zara exclaimed softly, “you're really back!”

“Touch me!”

“Oh, I have, darling, and I intend to.”

Ty laughed.

Zara said, “You know you've caused me to lose a bet with myself?”

“Which was?”

“That you wouldn't actually make the break, that you'd find another project, attach yourself to it, keep right on going with the throttle open.”

“You're right,” Ty said. “Your bet's lost. What about you? Are you working?”

“Not really. I have a few days of looping lines, that's all. My next picture doesn't start until September.”

“Sweet,” Ty said.

“Isn't it?” Zara replied emphatically, and let her hand drift lower to settle beside his.

Ty squeezed it. “Did anyone spot you on your way over here?” he asked.

“Unlikely. I came in my trainer's car.”

“And how did your trainer get home, or wherever she had to go next? In your Porsche?”

“Bingo! I even gave her one of my scarves to confuse any paparazzo.”

Ty looked at Zara and smiled. “Did your mother ever tell you that you were dangerous?” he asked.

“All the time,” Zara said.

“I've missed you,” Ty told her.

“I can't imagine why, with all the starlets in Cannes.”

“Starlets.” Ty sighed. “The stuff of schoolboy dreams!”

“I wouldn't believe a word of it,” Zara told him, “except that there weren't any pictures of you in the press, and I'm sure they tried. I beg your pardon, there
was
one picture—that one with Greg Logan.”

“By design,” Ty said. “Otherwise I hid.”

“Alone?”

“A gentleman doesn't talk,” Ty teased. “Yes, alone.”

“I guess I'm not surprised.”

“What does that mean?”

“Only that you can be picky, darling,” Zara said.

“What makes you think I'm picky?”

“You should be able to answer that question yourself. You're Ty Hunter. You were in Cannes. And you met
no one
who elicited an erection?”

“Right,” Ty lied.

“Well, that's a damned shame, isn't it?”

“Not with a gorgeous woman like you in my life.”

“Don't be disingenuous. We have each other, but don't. We understand that.”

“We do.”

“What does Nikki Finke call us in her blog?”

“‘Friends with benefits.'”

“How original!”

Once they entered the cavernous bedroom, Ty hesitated, then, leaning Zara against a blank space of wall, kissed her more deeply than before. He had made love and even begun to relinquish his emotions to other women in his long search for love or solace, yet, from the first, with Zara his instincts had told him to proceed not toward commitment but in a two-step of abandon and caution.

Naked, it was Zara who kissed her way down his body. Ty placed his palms on the sides of her temples, ran his long fingers through her hair, losing himself in the moment. Finally, before it was too late, he drew her upward until her forehead nestled at his chin. Sliding his right hand gradually down her back, he cradled her and carried her to bed.

Atop her he smiled, slid inside her, moving in a slow rhythm that she caught. Zara leaned back onto the down pillows, and soon Ty settled another beneath her. He traced his fingertips across her nipples, raised her, went deeper, accelerating.

Afterward he leaned over her. That it was a classic film moment was not lost on him: her hair amiss, her breasts exposed, the expensive bed linen ruffled just enough. He ought to have lit a cigarette, handed it to her, then lit another. But neither of them smoked.

“What do you feel like doing?” he whispered.

“This,” she purred. That was all. Before he knew it, Zara had reversed their positions, was draped over him, nibbling his lip. Her hair fell across her breasts, but Ty pushed it back. When he was hard, she squeezed him tightly, then lifted herself before at last inserting him and riding.

Ty found it almost unreasonably fortunate to have such beauty, so much glamour, and so few demands available in the same person. If a part of him craved more, wanted not to give up on the simple promise of love, another part was content with a reality that left him, at least for the time being, both satisfied and independent.

Afterward once more, as if to taunt him, his imagination returned to Isabella Cavill. He had not mentioned her to Zara. Now he wondered why. There had been nothing between them, nothing to hide beyond his incipient, soon-thwarted lust. Yet long before the President's charge, something about the young Englishwoman had frightened him, as though she might have power to summon feelings that could cost him control of his life.

“I suppose we should have lunch,” Zara said.

“That's a great idea,” Ty agreed.

“Do you have anything here?”

“All kinds of welcome-home presents.”

“Sounds delicious! Let's have a look, shall we?”

They settled on cold chicken and salad and ate it at a round table near the tennis court, because the sun was directly overhead.

“Are you going to the Thralls' party on Wednesday?” Zara asked idly.

“I don't know anything about it,” Ty replied. “I saw Sid in Cannes.”

“Have you gone through your mail?”

“Not yet.”

“I'm sure you were asked. Mitzi practically asked me if you were coming when I ran into her the other day. We could go together if you like.”

Ty hesitated. “I'm not sure about Wednesday,” he said.

“Why? What's Wednesday? Never mind, it's none of my business.”

“Nothing important, it's just that I may have to be away for a few days.”

“You're chasing a script. I can tell.”

“I'm not,” Ty assured her.

“I'm not that easily fooled, darling. So please don't try.”

“I am not chasing any script or any project. I promise.”

“Of course you aren't,” Zara mocked. “Look, Ty, you may have fallen into the business by accident, but come on, you've been an actor all your life, haven't you? We all have.”

“Until I was twelve, I wanted to be a spy,” Ty protested. “‘Agent 008,' that's what I called myself as a kid.”

“Two sides of a coin.”

“Not really.”

“Have it your way, but you have to admit that both spend most of their time pretending.”

“Actors lie to tell the truth,” Ty said.

“Do they,” Zara asked, “always?”

It was evening by the time Ty, alone once more, found the invitation to the Thralls' party. Nominally in honor of Mitzi's birthday, it was also a benefit in support of her favorite charity, the Motion Picture & Television Fund. It was bound to be an enormous affair, at which he would be but one star among a galaxy. If he could be there, he would. Otherwise he would send his regrets. As he tore open envelopes, separating bills from personal letters that had been collected by his housekeeper at the post-office box he kept under another name, he still had no idea what the White House had in store for him, much less whether Ian Santal was actually implicated in the theft of nuclear weapons or Isabella Cavill somehow involved. Were those weapons even missing? It was possible he might be going off on a wild-goose chase, not to save the world from nuclear terror but to correct an accounting error made by accident in a time of revolution.

He had connected his iPod to the speakers in his study and, as he worked, listened idly to Leonard Cohen. The tracks had been scrambled, and he was waiting for “Hallelujah,” one of his favorite songs since high school. Right now the singer was doing a live performance of “Bird on the Wire,” another track that suited Ty's ambivalent mood, and for a moment he found himself mouthing the familiar lyrics.

By the time “Hallelujah”
finally began, the shadows outside had deepened, and Ty concentrated upon the garden as though he were once more a child, fearful that the world itself would vanish with the day. Even in his brief, episodic stewardship of La Encantada, he had absorbed a sense of its landscape, especially of the patterns laid down by the still or swaying limbs of its trees in different winds. He had always been attentive to his surroundings, but the unusual blend of his training at Thunder Mountain and eventual experience as a special operative had imparted professional techniques that intensified his powers of observation. They had taught him to evaluate every element of every scene as a potential clue, to register subtle as well as salient details, and to be alert to change, particularly when it could not be readily explained. To a young officer embarked on a hazardous mission, spotting the slightest variation in a current or wind, in vegetation or the placement of an apparently innocuous object often meant the difference between living and dying.

As he studied the garden in the waning twilight, his eye was caught by a sleek, moving figure far too dark and fast to be the branch of any tree. One minute it appeared to fall through the open air; the next, with the tenacity of a wildcat, it pressed itself against the steep hillside until to all but the most attentive observer it had rendered itself invisible.

At once Ty felt his old instincts, the product of the same intensive training, respond as he smoothly shifted gears from fear to action. Careful that his own movements not betray him, he retrieved his Glock 23 .40-caliber semiautomatic from the holster he'd designed and had installed in the well of his mahogany sea captain's desk, secreted the weapon in the waistband of his trousers, and let his polo shirt fall over it. Then, with calculated nonchalance, he moved across the study toward its exterior door. There was no time to call the security patrol, and, this being Sunday, his housekeeper was off. He opened the door, stepped away from its sill. It was a risk he knew he had to take, and he struggled both to keep his stride casual and to listen for any sound, to be alert to any sign of approach. There was none, and after two seconds he pivoted and took direct aim at the motionless figure dressed in black and clinging to the canyon ledge. Judging by the position and length of his lifeline, the intruder had been rappelling from the summit of the ridge.

“Drop your firearm. Then come down slowly,” Ty commanded. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

The figure did not respond.

Ty said, “When you reach the ground, place your hands in the air.”

Still the intruder did not reply.

“I meant what I said,” Ty continued, his temper spiking. “I am going to count to three. I don't want to shoot you, but I damn well will. All right, one . . . two . . .”

Now, suddenly, the figure flew toward him, then back to the rock and did not rise again.

“Stand up,” Ty said.

But the only response was an outdoor silence in which, Ty knew, stealth could easily be masked as nature.

Ty drew a long breath. “Stand up,” he commanded again.

“Behind you,” a soft yet threatening voice announced, followed by a tae kwon do knife-hand strike to Ty's wrist powerful enough to dislodge his pistol.