Spy Who Jumped Off the Screen : A Novel (9781101565766) (21 page)

“You won't believe where I'm going tomorrow.”

“Knowing you, I'm sure you're right, but try me.”

“To a bullfight.”

“A bullfight?”

“In Seville.”

“According to the papers,” Oliver said, “you were just in one at Puerto Banús.”

“Oh, that,” Ty said.

“You're not going to the bullfight with that bitch?” Oliver asked.

“Jesus, no,” Ty said. “With friends. In fact, I'm staying with them now.”

“Glad to hear it. Don't even think of becoming a matador. Your face is too valuable.”

“So you've told me once or twice before.”

“It's the box office talking, not me. The box office talks to the front office. That's why they talk to me. You know how it works. By the way, I had a chance to go by your palace, if that's the reason for your call.”

“It was one of the reasons,” Ty replied. “What's the story there?”

“‘Creative destruction,' I think is what they call it. They're working, but they're a long ways from there yet. Incidentally, sorry about the bust-up of your pickup
—
forgive me, but I don't know what else to call it.”

“Plenty more fish,” Ty said.

“When are you coming home?” Oliver asked. “Do you know yet?”

“Netty, I have no idea. Maybe soon, maybe later. For the moment I'm here and have no reason to be there.”

“Don't you want to hear about the Thralls' party?”

“Is there anything to hear?”

“Come to think of it, I don't suppose there is.”

“Bye,
then,” Ty said.

“Yeah,” replied Oliver, “bye-bye.”

Chapter Twenty-five

“Tell me again what
Andrej told you,” Ian said. “And, Philip, don't leave anything out this time.”

They were in Ian's study, yet another, smaller, soundproofed glass structure in the Pond House complex. In the dark of the Spanish summer night, the room glowed, its sleek furnishings and Arabian carpets unpredictably harmonious.

Philip replied, “He said questions had been asked, as high up as the Main Directorate Number Four, about Zhugov.”

“I expected there would be.”

“You hadn't mentioned it. Anyway, Zhugov, as you know, is dead.”

“A fact that pains me,” Ian said. “I had wanted him to prosper. He deserved to.”

“I'm sure you're right and that he was a very nice man, but he cut an outrageous profile, which might have become more dangerous if he'd cut it for longer. His tastes were growing ever more expensive and flamboyant. What can I say?”

“That you had no hand in his death. You could say that.”

“Of course I didn't,” Philip said. “You know better than that. It's a very different thing to note that a man's death is convenient than to have had a hand in arranging it.”

“That's true,” Ian said. “I apologize if I sounded accusatory.”

“Accepted,” Philip told him. “Anyway, it was known that he and you had dealt hands to one another from time to time.”

“Neither of us made much of a secret of that fact, but the devil lies in the details. How much was known about those ‘hands,' as you put it?”

“Andrej couldn't say.”

“So naturally you're wondering if you are tarnished by your association with me. That's another well-known fact, after all.”

Philip paused. “It is,” he replied, “but Andrej assures me that I'm not. So far I'm in the clear, and he expects it to remain that way.”

Ian shook his head, not at the accuracy of Andrej's prediction but at the ease with which people were fooled by credentials—the right family, the right school, the right posting, such as Philip's to the Nunn-Lugar initiative. “Because of your good works, I take it?”

“Apparently so,” Philip said.

“Nevertheless, on your own initiative you had our cargo re-rerouted?”

“Yes.”

“Don't you think I should have been made aware of this before rather than after the fact?”

“We had a contingency plan in place for a reason. All I did was activate it.”

“By doing so you also risked activating more interest in our turbines. Did that occur to you?”

“Naturally, but the risk seemed small in comparison with the risk of doing nothing.”

“Think about whom you're dealing with.”

“Our friends in the Camorra are as interested in handing off those turbines and being paid their last installment as we are in taking receipt of them.”

“In all probability, but they're human. Don't forget that. They possess curiosity. What if, once aroused, they pursue it?”

“What if?
Your question, in this context, is hypothetical. Anything is possible, sure, I'll grant you that, but the real what-if question here is this: What if, Ian, you
are
under closer scrutiny than you think? Not for cargoes that no one knows exist, that according to the best-kept records don't, but because some suspicious bureaucrat or eager politician playing cop has decided you might have had your hand in Zhugov's pocket or he in yours? What if, while they're building their petty case, a precious cargo lands right at your doorstep and they say, ‘What's this—let's open it and have a more thorough look'?”

Ian swallowed hard. “Be that as it may,” he said, “my earlier point still stands. I should have been made aware of your action
before
you took it,
not simply before you'd left Prague for Geneva.”

Philip studied his mentor. There were times, grave and pivotal moments of which this was one, when Ian's famously piercing eyes seemed only to refract the available light. “I agree,” Philip said, “and I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

“No,” Ian said. “Well, good night.”

Chapter Twenty-six

The bullfight, one of
the last of the season, was held in the Plaza de Toros de la Maestranza
in Seville, a two-hour drive north by northeast from Pond House. They arrived at the ring with time to spare and so, before entering their box, toured the nearby Museo de la Real Maestranza de Sevilla, where Ian carefully explained the history of the bullfighting artifacts on display, including a cape that Picasso had painted. Of the guests at the party the evening before, only Ty and the Foos had joined the excursion, so once they made their way past the main structure's baroque façade to their assigned seats, Ty was surprised to find a number of vacant chairs, indicating that others were expected.

Ian beckoned Ty to the front-row seat beside his own, gesturing that he was to assume it only temporarily, until a guest of higher rank or more immediate importance arrived. “
Corrida
—that's the Spanish word for bullfighting . . .” Ian began. “You don't speak Spanish?”

“I took it in high school,” Ty said.

“The corrida is older than you might think. It goes back to the ancient Greeks and Romans, so it's one of the very oldest traditions in the world.”

“I read that on one of the plaques in the museum.”

“You may also have read that for a long time it was reserved for royalty and done from horseback. Sometime after the fifteenth century that changed. The sport gradually became less formal, more impromptu.”

“I see,” Ty said, sensing that Ian had been waiting for Isabella and Philip to take their places higher in the box before turning to the subject on his mind.

When they had, he said, “You've got yourself into a bit of a situation, haven't you?”

“Go on,” Ty said.

“One with three corners. Those are never good.”

Ty raised his eyes, as if to look over his head and back at Isabella and Philip. “
I've
gotten myself into nothing,” he said.

“That is beside the point.”

“Your goddaughter called
me.
”

“After you invited her to meet the Queen. Make no mistake. I have nothing against you, Mr. Hunter. In fact, I rather like you. Had I had a talent such as yours, a face such as yours, I should think that I, too, would have rolled the dice. Alas!”

“You've gone rather far on your own talents.”

“Thank you. I've been fortunate. You must understand something about Isabella. She is beautiful. She is talented. She has a way with people, a certain style. Even when she was a young girl, her father used to say that she entered a room as though she were in a classic film. She has always been enamored of film and film stars. Need I say more?”

“I'm not trifling with her,” Ty said, squirming slightly as he smoothed the lapels of Philip's splendid summer jacket, feeling suddenly uncomfortable in the other man's clothes.

“No, you wouldn't dare,” Ian said. “Don't you understand? People such as my goddaughter, who dwell in the world of style, even when they make their names and fortunes there, are inevitably prone to place too much importance on unimportant things. It's a habit and a vulnerability of their nature and occupation. I don't want her hurt. If she enjoys your company, as I do, and you enjoy hers, that's fine. But I implore you, do not lead her on! Do not break her heart!”

“I wouldn't think of it.”

“In my experience, which is not so limited as you might imagine, people of the stage often turn on a dime.”

“That's not entirely fair,” Ty protested.

“But it
is
my impression.”

“I beg your pardon, but Isabella seems very happy and more than satisfied with Philip. I can't believe my appearance on the scene has affected that.”

“Philip Frost has a lot to recommend him. Still, I can't help but wonder, is she truly in love? Or is he, for that matter? I can't see into their hearts.”

“This is
your
country,
your
box. Last night it was
your
house and
your
party and, before that,
your
yacht. I would be ungracious if I didn't ask, what exactly would
you
like me to do from this point on?”

Ian smiled. “Treat her as you would wish to be treated,” he said. “She is a grown woman with a great deal of experience, a kind heart and a fine mind. She no longer needs me for much, except now and then to protect her from herself. I'll tell you what I don't want to see. I don't want to see—and
will not
abide seeing—her sweet and lovely face in tears on the cover of some glossy fan magazine or cheap, vulgar tabloid.” A vein rose in Ian's forehead as he spoke. “I will not see her life, her name, everything she's worked for tarnished because her heart got ahead of her brain.”

Ty waited until he was certain Ian had calmed down. “None of that will happen, I promise you.”

Ian put out his hand, and Ty shook it. “You're a gentleman,” Ian said. “Now, how much do you know about this sport? Where should I start?”

“At the beginning—” Ty said, but Ian's attention was immediately distracted by the arrival of a pair of Arab businessmen. Of medium height and in their mid-forties, they had caught his eye from the entrance at the top of the box and were now descending toward the first row.

“Salaam,”
Ian said, offering a quarter bow, a single revolution of his hands as he made it, a gesture of respect. “Now that the Al-Dosari brothers are here, the corrida can begin. Sheik Wazir, Sheik Fateen,” he continued, urging them forward, “may I present Mr. Ty Hunter?”

Both men smiled. It was clear to Ty that Ian enjoyed having surprised them.

They possessed such an intense resemblance to each other that Ty was sure they must be twins. As a boy, in Kuwait and then Saudi, he had heard of Crusader Arabs, modern-day men and women who bore the genes, especially the brilliant blue eyes, of Northern European invaders. But he had never seen one. Now, suddenly, here were two at once, their black hair tinged with russet.

As Ty stepped back, Philip approached.
“Wazir, Fateen,” he said, with an absence of reserve Ty had not previously seen him show to anyone.

“Philip,” the nearest of the Arabs replied, with suspicion in his darting gaze.

“I trust your trip was not too taxing,” Philip said.

“Not in the least,” the other brother replied.

Ty studied the men. Quite apart from their unusual eyes, there was something both disturbing and familiar about them. He had come upon their type before, first in his previous incarnation as a soldier in special ops. Like the arms runners and
narcotraficantes
he'd dueled with then and a few “financiers” he'd encountered on the periphery of the movie business, these two Crusader Arabs were decidedly men of the world, dapper men whose fine, exactly right clothes and studiously cultivated manners could not quite hide the menace that lurked beneath their surfaces.

Philip gestured for them to take seats in the front row next to Ian, but they remained standing, poised as if to flee, while the latter spoke. “He belongs to you now,” Ian said, lightheartedly, his eyes in motion to and from Philip.

“Ah, but we are expecting great things from him,” said Wazir.

“We shall do great things
together,
” clarified Fateen.

As if he had practiced the speech, Wazir said, “Surely. The de Novo Fund will bring together the capital and energy of parts of the world that have too long been at arm's length from one another. Who better to lead it than a man of Philip's education and experience and high purpose?”

So, Ty thought, the Arab twins were here because they were Philip's new employer, another twist of fate no doubt managed by Ian. That left Sir Timothy and Lady Foo. Where did they fit in? Ty wondered as Isabella approached to fetch him.

She was wearing a beige linen suit, the jacket of which came down over her slender hips. Her hat, a shade lighter, featured a wide brim. “Do sit with us,” she beckoned. “You'll have more fun.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Ty replied. “I meant to tell you earlier: Your suit is beautiful.”

“Thank you. I found it in a consignment shop in Paris. It was designed by Gustave Tassell. Real fifties movie star kit, don't you think?”

“I do, just like my house.”

“Very Audrey Hepburn, that's the effect I'm going for,” she added with a wink. “Shall I tell you about the main attraction?”

“Please,” Ty said. “Your godfather was about to when—”

“Something came up. Been there, done that.”

“I'll bet you have,” Ty said. “I gather Philip's gone to work for the twins.”

“Indirectly,” Isabella said. “Philip is now chairman of de Novo, but it's largely their money . . . well, theirs and their friends'.”

“De Novo?” Ty inquired. “That's paradoxical, isn't it? A Latin name for an Arab fund?”

“It's globalization. The name comes from the Latin for ‘anew, a fresh start.' Their idea is to use their investments to help forge a new and better relationship between our civilizations. That's what attracted Philip. Whatever he does, even when it involves making money, has to be for a higher good or he simply is not interested.”

“That's admirable,” Ty said.

“
I
think so,” Isabella told him. “Anyway, back to bullfighting. Ordinarily there are six bulls in each corrida, two for each event. You'll see, in the ceremony that's about to begin, the toreros will be introduced, immediately after which they'll request the keys to each bull pen.”

Ty studied the unfolding scene. “What's the difference between a torero and a matador?” he inquired.

Isabella laughed. “The difference between an actor who has just got his first decent part and you,” she said. “Once the bull is released—”

“The shit hits the fan,” Ty interrupted. “Sorry, couldn't help it.”

“In a manner of speaking,” she replied. “The fight is divided into
tercios.
In the first
tercio,
the torero will employ a purple-and-yellow
capote.
During this part of the fight, the picadors, two men on horseback, will use a spear to weaken the bull, with the goal of forcing it to keep its head down. After that comes the second
tercio,
the
suerte de banderillas
—”

“Don't tell me too much too soon,” Ty said. “You'll spoil the story.”

“As you wish.”

“Isabella,” Celia Foo said then, speaking across her husband. “I wonder if there is an extra scarf anywhere about. This sun is very hot.”

“Isn't it?” Isabella agreed as she began to search through the large pigskin tote bag she'd brought with her. “Here you are.”

“Thank you,” Celia said. “I am going to wrap my face in it like a mummy.”

“Be careful,” Tim Foo said.

“It preserved
them
well enough, didn't it?” Celia told him as a man whom none of them could identify made his way into their box.

“I am looking for Dr. Santal,” the man said.

The use of the honorific “Dr.” suggested to Isabella that the visitor might once have been Ian's student. It was difficult to place the man's age, for he appeared both young and worn. His chestnut hair was still as thick as it must have been in his university days and still unmarred by gray, but there were crow's-feet etched beside his eyes, which looked dry and distant. “And you are . . . ?” she asked.

“Luke Claussen,” he said.

Isabella hesitated. It took a moment for his name to register.

“My father and Dr. Santal were friends.”

“Of course, I know who you are. I was very sorry to hear about your father's—”

“Murder,” Luke said, completing her sentence.

“Exactly, his very sad death,” Isabella continued. “Ian will be so pleased to see you. Is he expecting you?”

“I'm afraid not,” Luke Claussen said.

“Never mind,” Isabella said.

Luke put his hand up. “I was going to call him later today or perhaps tomorrow, but I overheard someone in the bar say that he was here, and . . . well, I thought I might come by just to say hello.”

“You are here with friends?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Come on,” Isabella said, encouraging him down the steps, through the prestigious
barreras,
toward ringside. “Ian,” she said as soon as he had paused in his conversation with the Arab twins.

“Yes, my darling,” he replied, leaning back over his shoulder.

“This is Luke Claussen,” she told him. “He heard you were here tonight and stopped in to say hello.”

Ian appraised the man. “Billy's son?” he asked.

Luke nodded.

“I
loved
your dad,” Ian said. “I can't tell you how much his death distressed me.”

Luke paused. “It had that effect on a lot of people,” he said. “Thank you for your kind letter and your contribution, by the way.”

“It was the least I could do. Come sit by me.”

“I won't stay long. I'm not here on my own.”

“Stay as long as you like,” Ian said as Philip, Wazir and Fateen abruptly shuffled chairs to make room for Luke.

“Who was that?” Ty asked when Isabella returned to her seat.

“Luke Claussen. His father was a friend of Ian's, an American tycoon who met a very bad end. You may have read about it.”

Ty shrugged, suggesting that he hadn't.

Isabella looked at him curiously. “It was in all the papers,” she said, “even over here. It was a gruesome murder. Not only was his father killed, but his sister and her young son and daughter, who were staying with Mr. Claussen for Christmas.”

“Now that you mention it, I think I do remember hearing about that. It was really awful,” Ty said.

“The son's better known than he thinks he is,” Isabella said.