Spy Who Jumped Off the Screen : A Novel (9781101565766) (7 page)

Twenty meters down the line, the exact process was repeated by his Russian army counterpart under the gaze of the American disarmament expert. After this each case was loaded aboard one of two trucks that—following a three-quarter-hour drive with land, air and sea escorts—would arrive at an otherwise disused rail station. There the transfer would be swift and, even as a wintry daylight lingered, floodlit. The final leg of the journey, entirely covert, would be across limitless fields still tended with scythes.

In all, twenty-one warheads were to be transported. And when the loading and recording had been completed at every stage, twenty-one crates of exactly similar weight and dimensions shone on every copy of the manifest. Therein was the elegance of Ian's conceit. In the confusion, madcap turmoil and despair that had attended the dissolution of the Soviet Union, Ian, by then trafficking far more profitably in contraband than in shares, currencies, or ideas, had approached his sometime client, sometime purveyor Colonel Zhugov, a man of humble appearance and expensive tastes, with a proposition. The good soldier had only to falsify certain records in certain places, had only to secrete and maintain within his impregnable base three warheads until the day came when either he would have to suddenly “rediscover” them to save his skin or, as Ian thought much more likely, it would become feasible to remove them. In the maelstrom of revolution, Ian believed, millions of accounts of all sorts would be fudged rather than justified. That was a lesson of history, he had told Philip. Recalling this, Philip wished he himself possessed more of his mentor's patience and trust, more of Ian's confidence that no matter how far off, a path to the main chance would sooner or later reveal itself.

Back in the utilitarian office of the installation's present commanding officer, Andrej said, “It's a good thing a place can't think, can't know what's become of it, can't feel regret.”

“Your sentimental nature never ceases to surprise me,” Philip told him. “It's at odds with your uniform.”

“All I meant is that one minute you are—what is the word?—the
cynosure
of the world's attention . . . well, at least that of other armed forces, your possible and probable enemies.”

“‘Cynosure,'” Philip repeated. “What dictionary have you been reading this time?”

“The
Oxford English,
of course,” Andrej replied. “The word means ‘center of attraction or admiration.' But from now on, no one will give a damn about this place.”

“You're wrong.”

“I wasn't thinking of tourists.”

“You'll be surprised how many will come.”

“No. They come already. The new ones will just be of a different type, a better class, the sort who would now fly off to Antalya. Anapa is just down the road. It has always had its share of tourists, more than ever since the old Soviet Union collapsed and taking one's holiday in Sevastopol and the like meant crossing the border into Crimea. I suppose what the builders have in mind is more on the order of Sochi's resorts.”

“The artist's renderings,” Philip said, “would suggest something more bucolic than grand. But you are correct; it's to be Russian in character.”

“Of necessity,” Andrej replied. “No one else can get there without the most enormous hassle.”

Philip allowed himself a smile.

Andrej said, “I am sure it will be lovely, first class in every way, but even so, to be admired for one's natural beauty is not the same as to be respected for one's power.”

“No, it isn't, nor is that an argument I was making.”

“Real admiration is based in fear,” Andrej declared coolly.

“What about attraction?”

“At the beginning not always, but eventually fear plays its part. No one will fear this place ever again, which is good, but sad, too, in its way. That's all I was trying to explain, Mr. Frost.”

“What remains?” Philip asked.

“To sign off that the weapons are gone,” Andrej told him. “That's it.”

“All four principals must sign and witness that decertification order, if I remember correctly. Once that's done—”

“The guards can go home and the soldiers can go elsewhere. There'll be nothing left to secure. Then just you watch: The construction crews won't waste a day before they move in. I'm telling you, we'll hardly recognize this place in a month.”

“Well, it's the new Russia.” Philip sighed. “What can I say?”

“And where there's money at stake . . .” Andrej's voice trailed off. “Where is the seal, by the way? Do you have it?”

Philip shrugged off Andrej's impertinence. “Of course I have it. It's in my left coat pocket. I've been fidgeting with it all afternoon.”

“Let's wrap things up, then. It's already dark, and I'd like to get back to my room, run a hot bath, change my clothes and pour myself a drink.”

“You're entitled to do that,” Philip said. “You've worked hard, done a fine job, too. But tell me, what will you do tomorrow, and the day after?”

Andrej hesitated, then shot Philip a sly smile. “Forget,” he said with all the reassurance he could summon. “And you?”

“I'll anticipate,” Philip told him. “That's the business I'm in.”

Chapter Five

Gripping the lime green
two-by-four rail that ran, hip-high, along the precipice, Ty Hunter stared south across the Mediterranean. It was late morning and the May sun was almost overhead. The sky was absent of clouds. Was it any wonder that this place had been named the Côte d'Azur?

“Like a shot rubber band,” he explained into the mouthpiece of his phone's headset. “That's how I feel, to tell you the truth.”

“Is it any wonder?” Greg Logan, on the other end of the connection, agreed.

“Not really,” Ty said, “after four pictures in three years, two of them, as you know, very long shoots.” To his right lay the Golfe-Juan
,
and beyond the far promontory that defined it, sat Cannes. It was the Film Festival he had come for—not because he had another blockbuster in competition or about to open, but because of the cameo role he'd taken, for scale, in
Something to Look Forward To,
which promised to be Greg Logan's comeback picture. It was Greg who had discovered him in the rehab center at Walter Reed seven years before. Newly photogenic after the sequence of surgeries that had followed the fiery crash of the armored personnel carrier in which, as the intelligence officer of a tactical infantry unit of the Third Army, he'd been traveling on maneuvers, Ty was then only weeks away from discharge from the hospital. Greg, who was still doing commercial films, had trained his camera on Ty's smile and, even before the half-hour promotional piece had wrapped, given the young soldier his card.

Now, as Ty watched motor yachts exit and enter the harbors on either side of the lush Hôtel du Cap, he thought that he could hardly have wished for better luck. With no specific job to go to once he left the army, he had decided to take a flier, called Greg, then bought the cheapest flight he could find to Los Angeles. He'd given himself three months to find his footing, but it hadn't taken that long, and he'd still had a reasonable portion of his savings in the bank when his first paycheck arrived. In a manner of speaking, he'd caught a wave, he realized, having appeared in Hollywood just as Greg had begun casting his first feature, a road movie called
The Boy Who Understood Women.
Although Ty had no idea from what reservoir of experience or imagination he'd summoned his portrayal of a young drifter who trades his life for his lover's, he had won an Oscar nomination for it, then, quickly in its aftermath, the roles that had made him the number-one box-office star in the world. Greg's own fortunes had fared less well over the same period, his projects becoming smaller, more personal and subtle in a marketplace that craved just the opposite. Everyone, however, had agreed that the script for
Something to Look Forward To
was brilliant and, if only there were stars attached, exactly right for a director of Greg Logan's sensibility. So Ty had repaid his mentor's faith, taken on the cameo role of a playboy Robin Hood, and, drawn by his presence, other stars had followed.

“Have you seen the trades?” Greg inquired.

“I haven't been awake that long,” Ty replied.

“What time did she leave?”

“It must have been early.”

“You're a lucky man.”

“Not true. I spent the night alone, as I often do lately. Don't tell anyone?”

“If that's true, it was by choice,” Greg said.

“You'd think so, but you'd be wrong.”

“There were a lot of beautiful women at the
Vanity Fair
party. And the waters parted when you arrived. Need I say more?”

“Maybe I'm looking for something that's harder to find,” Ty said.

“People do that,” Greg told him. “It's usually a mistake.”

“When I'm ready to give up, I'll give up. I'm not ready yet.”

“Yeah, well, never mind. The buzz on the picture's fantastic.
Variety
loved it; so did the
Reporter.
They loved
you.
They loved everyone. I can't explain it. Sometimes people get it. Anyway, this time the ball landed on the right number. You know what you are, Ty? You're charmed.”

“Wouldn't it be nice to believe that?” Ty said.

“You're a goddamned booster rocket, that's what you are.”

“You made the film. The bows belong to you.”

“So tonight should be pretty swell.”

“By the sound of it,” Ty agreed. “I've just been watching boats come and go, wondering which one it might be.”

“‘None' is the answer.
Surpass
is still in Monte Carlo. They'll come this way after lunch.”

“Who did you say it belonged to?”

“Ian Santal.”

“I've heard that name. I can't remember where.”

“Man of mystery! Started out as an academic of some sort, then became, like, the world's biggest broker or something. I don't know of what. The important thing is that he's an old friend of Sid Thrall's. You know Sid.”

“Who doesn't?” Ty asked. “He owns the studio. Of course I do—not well, but I know him.”

“Actually, he used to own it. Now he owns a lot of shares in the company that bought it, but you're right, he still has his job. Sid's the reason we've been asked. He likes to shine in reflected glory. He'll want to show you off to his glamorous friend. Santal's goddaughter, who's English, is a jewelry designer in Rome and pretty good, I hear. The party's for her, to celebrate her new collection. So we can have a look at that and a longer one around the boat, which should be more interesting. I've never been on a three-hundred-sixty-foot yacht before, have you?”

“Can't say that I have.”

“Anyway, I've got to get going. I have two interviews, a lunch, and meetings at two and four. I'll show up at your hotel at six, and we'll go on to the launch together.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Ty said. “Where are you now?”

“At the Carlton,” Greg answered. “Half an hour, three-quarters at most, away.”

“Call me if you need me.”

“Be careful! It's always possible I will.”

For a moment after he hung up, Ty continued to stare at the sea. He'd first seen the Med as a soldier. Even by stealth, in the twilight-to-dawn regimen of a commando, it had kidnapped his imagination. He'd always been attentive to history, and the lure of a sea that washed upon so many storied shores had immediately intoxicated him.

Ty's accommodation, befitting his visibility, was a seaside hut of a villa off a private path just east of the grande allée that ascended to the magnificent Napoleon III hotel at the summit of the hill. Polynesian in inspiration, compact yet luxurious, the incongruous villa was a monument to 1950s chic. Returning to it, Ty thought it seemed the sort of place Sean Connery or Cary Grant might have put up. He drew a deep breath of coastal air that was also fragrant with the surrounding pine and roses. For the moment he slipped his BlackBerry into the side pocket of his Vilbrequin swim trunks that featured an almost comical pattern of banana bunches against a powder and steel blue background. The last woman he'd ever loved had bought them for him on Nantucket. In his bathroom he found the waterproof sunscreen he'd come for and, after applying it, placed his wallet, signet ring and the BlackBerry beside his other valuables in the portable safe at the back of the closet. For the safe's combination, he had, as usual, chosen the unforgettable last four digits of his U.S. Army serial number.

Returning smiles without breaking stride, he made his way across the terrace of chaise longues that were populated this week by movie-industry executives and ingenues, to the Eden Roc pavilion. Just before the changing rooms and lunch café, he turned left and, stepping up his pace, descended the steep staircase that had been cut into the rock. Beside him, the infinity pool beckoned, and he noticed that the name of the magazine that had sponsored last night's party had already been erased from its floor. When he reached its level, however, Ty chose instead the high diving board that rose over the Med just to his right. He waited behind a trio of ten-year-olds intent on outdoing one another's cannonballs, then, after a perfect half gainer and another minute or so of the Australian crawl, reached a pontoon from which he could regard the hotel and Cap d'Antibes in the distance, far enough away not to be recognized without binoculars. He wished he could see his own life and future as lucidly. The business had changed. What business hadn't? He was grateful to have cleared its hurdles when he had, even as he recognized that success was never a passive state for long. One rose or fell. Stars formed or died. Never mind, he told himself; there would be time enough for careful thought once he had a chance to rest. He was sure he'd made the correct decision not to read any of the scripts his agent had been sending on to him, for he was not ready to commit to a new role now. Going into character required reserves of energy and emotion that, after successive films, he had depleted. Although he had no doubt of his ability to replenish both, in the meantime the only part he wished to play was that of Ty Hunter getting on with real life.

Triangulating from landmarks on shore, he drew in his mind a straight line from the bobbing pontoon to the immaculate white house that stood, beyond a tended slope of grass, in isolation on the far point. Slowly, he began to swim this line, to and fro in more-or-less Olympic laps, changing his style with each turn. With his last stroke, which was as forceful as his first, his fingers found the brass hold on the side of the pontoon, and he released himself to its protection, buoyed on a soothing cushion of waves as he regathered his strength. Then he heard voices—two at least, perhaps more. They were feminine voices whose rhythm was familiar but whose language foreign. Listening intently, he decided it must be Russian, which was not a tongue he spoke or understood. Keeping his head just above the surface of the sea, he eventually caught sight of three young women in similarly slinky one-piece bathing suits. All were blond, long-legged, with high, full chests. At first he wondered if they were sisters but then, detecting a lack of sufficient intimacy in their manner, guessed not. Two of the women appeared to be engaged in a sharp exchange. When the third spoke, it was in English, with a pronounced accent but an intonation that suggested she had learned the language from an American. Her voice was higher than the others', nasal and shrill as if something ugly had been trapped inside a beautiful shell from which it was determined to force its way out. She said, “I can't wait to see it. I'm told he has the longest one in the world.”

“Once upon a time perhaps,” replied the woman farthest from her, “but no longer. Actually, it's not even in the top ten anymore. Believe me, I've seen them all.”

“We believe you,” replied the woman in the middle. “How long would you say it was, then?”

“Not even four hundred feet. The number three hundred sixty sticks in my mind for some reason, but I'm not sure why.”

“Perhaps from geometry,” said the woman who had switched the conversation into English. “Anyway, what does it matter? The longer the boat, the shorter the owner's equipment. That's what they say, isn't it?”

“As a general rule, it's true,” one of the women replied.

“Do you know him?”

“Santal? Our paths have crossed, not professionally. Why do you ask?”

“I hear he is very generous.”

“With things, perhaps, but not with his emotions.”

“There's a girl in Saint-Tropez he gave a pair of earrings from Guardi in Rome. Rubies and marquise-cut diamonds. I happen to know that she had them appraised in Monaco at twenty thousand euros. Not bad! Of course, he paid her fee as well.”

“Word is he wasn't always so generous. But who's to say? The man's a sphinx, simple as that. There has to be more there than meets the eye. Why else would he be thick as thieves with Philip Frost?”

“I know who you mean,” put in the girl who appeared to be the youngest. “He's very dishy.”

“Tell me that after you've fucked him.”

“I wouldn't have thought he had to pay for it.”

“Men pay for different things. Surely you've learned that by now. Some—old-timers like Ian Santal, for example—pay for intimacy, to stay in the game. With Philip's type it's just the opposite. What they want is distance and power. Oh, they'll pay a premium price, that's true, but they'll make you grovel for your money. Your very ‘dishy' Mr. Frost, for example, throws out his wad of notes and makes his girls get down on all fours, like cats or dogs, just to collect them. I'll grant you he has a pleasant exterior, all very correct. He's a handsome man, no doubt very professional in bed. But he has ice in his veins, darling, not blood. And Santal dotes on him. Draw your own conclusions.”

Ty smiled to himself. He had no experience of whores and had never overheard their chatter. Amusing and instructive as it was, however, he decided that it would be imprudent—indeed, very likely injurious to his carefully wrought image—to linger. And so he submerged his face and dove away from the pontoon, swimming far enough underwater that by the time he surfaced he and its present inhabitants could not be captured in the same camera shot.

Cliffside at the eastern end of the hotel's waterfront, an outdoor gym of a sort had been established; a rope ladder descended toward the sea, a trapeze and circus hoops swung above it. Ty made his way to the bottom rung of the ladder, then ascended quickly and jogged overland toward his villa. The hotel phone was ringing when he unlocked the door.

“Hello,” he answered.

“It's me again,” Greg Logan said. “Where were you? I tried your cell twice and got the same recording.”

“In the sea,” Ty said, “swimming. What's up?”

“Slight change of plan: Apparently traffic is at a standstill. I'm in the lobby of the Carlton. It's all anyone's been talking about for the last half hour.”