Hollywood Scream Play (19 page)

In the meantime, we make the most of our time here. For once, we get to enjoy playing the role of tourists, relaxing in the city’s numerous parks and museums. We owe it to ourselves. Our last time here was much too eventful. Quorum assassins chased us as we followed up on a clue to the terrorist group’s next act of mass violence.

Aunt Phyllis has also found a way to keep busy during her hours away from the children. Her nightly poker games with the crew are adding some heft to her nest egg.

“If that Reed guy shows up, I’m switching the game to strip poker,” she promises.

I don’t have the heart to tell her he’s not her type. She may already be aware of this, since he stays far away from the card players. He’d much prefer to play doctor. Now that we’re off our intimate island, he’s free to pick up anyone walking down the Champs-Élysées.

“His room needs its own revolving door,” Jack mutters. “Every liaison is an affair to forget.”

Sebastian’s room is the opposite. No one is allowed either in or out of it, not even the hotel’s housekeepers. He insists he needs peace and quiet to complete his scripts for the next season of 
Bloomsbury
. To help him keep track of the show’s many plot threads, he travels with a full set of scripts from previous season’s episodes.

He grudgingly leaves his room when called to the set when, for whatever reason, a line needs to be tweaked. In that case, either Jack or I need to be there, too, since our contract calls for us to have dialogue approval as well.

As we stand on the sidelines listening to Willow and Reed butcher their lines, Sebastian assuages his disappointment by teasing me. “As always, you look ravishing, Mrs. Smith. I miss our little script assignations.”

“I do, too,” I say. “Here’s a thought! Perhaps I can help you with 
Bloomsbury
.”

For some reason, he finds this laugh-out-loud funny.

“I’m offended at your response, Sebastian. I’m not a complete illiterate, you know.”

“I have no desire to offend, madam.” He bows his head in mock shame. “In truth, the joke is on me, not you. I can only imagine what nuances you’d instill in my heroines. With you putting words in their mouths, Virginia and Vanessa would become much better people indeed.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” I say sincerely. “But I don’t think the critics—or more importantly, the viewing public—would agree with you. Mary, for one, is crazy about the show! Lately she’s been watching it incessantly. I can see it popping up on our Netflix viewed list.”

“Yes, so I’ve been told, by Mary. In fact, if you wouldn’t mind asking her to cool her ardor for my attentions—platonic, let me assure you—I’d be forever in your debt.”

“Has she been a bother?”

“I’m sure Rachel has put her up to it. They aren’t exactly stalking me, but they corner me at every opportunity with a list of questions about the show’s characters and plots.” He sighs. “Maybe I can convince JK Rowling to release another 
Harry Potter
 book, so they can find another target for their literary devotion.”

“I’ll ask her not to disturb you any further.”

“It would be greatly appreciated…Ah, Jack—excuse me, I mean ‘John,’ seems to be waving you over. Are you two off again on some urban adventure?” He straightens the collar of my jacket, a retro dusty rose number I picked up from a street vendor who insisted it was vintage Chanel. It may not be, but in any event, it meets my two prerequisites: it’s pretty and it keeps me warm.

“Sorry, no secret missions. Just some sightseeing.” I glance over in the direction of his gaze.

Of course I’m lying to Sebastian. Abu must have made the connection with Carl’s former handler. Jack’s subtle wink is a high sign for us to get moving.

We’re about to meet the man who inspired Carl to join the Quorum—and lived to tell about it.

Eric Weber lives almost two hours outside of Paris, in a small French village called Dormans, located in the Marne Region.

Once outside of Paris proper, we find ourselves on small roads taking us over rolling hills, lush with vines that will soon be budding with the white grapes from which the region’s renowned champagnes are created. The countryside is dotted with ancient churches and the ruins of centuries-old castles.

Eventually, we turn onto a narrow lane, bordered on both sides by high trees. Two hectares later, it dead-ends at the front gate of a grand estate, which is flanked by vineyards on all sides. The main house is a castle made of blocks of dark gray stone. Its rooftop turrets are ancient, but the men with guns standing sentry are not.

There are two other guards in a secure post at the entry gate. When Jack gives his name, they nod and allow us through.

We drive another half hectare to the formidable two story wood doors at the entry to the castle.

Jack and I park and get out of the car. As we walk toward the doors, they open outward soundlessly. The only thing I can hear is my heart beating in my chest.

What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?

The massive foyer has two staircases, one at each end, which lead to a mezzanine over the foyer. A man—perhaps in his early seventies—stands between the staircases. His broad shoulders are outlined in a suit that fits his body like a glove. Not a hair on his steel-gray mane is out of place. His military stance keeps his spine straight, his hands at his sides, and his eyes alert.

Yes, I can imagine this man would have inspired Carl.

To what ends, I can only guess.

He is quite aware of Jack’s presence, but he only has eyes for me.

His voice is commanding without having to raise it above a murmur. “Ah! Finally, I meet Peter’s wife! Or I presume you’d prefer I call you Mrs. Stone?”

The accent is German.

I have never forgotten that voice.

I’ve only heard it once before—when Carl was still my husband, and I so naively believed his position with Acme involved high finance, and that his far-flung trips involved the care and feeding of high-rolling international investors. After coming home from one such trip, he jumped into the shower, leaving his cell phone on top of the bed. I answered it when it rang, mistaking it for my phone.

This man was the caller, talking rapidly in his native tongue. By the time he realized I was not whom he’d expected, Carl was out of the shower. He took the phone from me and closed it without a word to either me or the caller.

It was the first time I suspected my husband was keeping secrets from me.

“Do you drink champagne?” Eric Weber asks me as Jack and I stroll with him through his vineyard, which seems to go on for as far as the eye can see.

“I will, but I lean toward reds,” I confess.

He smiles. “It was a fifty-fifty chance that you’d say no. I’m glad I’m not a betting man.”

“Aren’t you?” I raise my hand in order to shield my face from the high afternoon sun. “I mean, you took a very big chance on Carl, considering his position at Acme. And you’re taking a very big chance now, in agreeing to testify against him.”

Within the past hour, Eric has already told us what we want to hear—that he’s willing to go stateside to be deposed about his role in turning Carl from an Acme assassin to a Quorum double agent; to turn over a list of Carl’s hits, many involving agents and assets working for US intelligence agencies; and to provide documentation of Carl’s initiatives in recruiting Quorum agents and assets throughout the world.

In return, Eric Weber gets worldwide immunity.

Eric shakes his head. “Carl never saw himself as a mere assassin—or for that matter, a company man. The Quorum offered Carl something he could never have with Acme—actual power and real money. Granted, your agents are well paid, but not on the scale of the payday that comes with bringing a country to its knees.” He smiles. “Then again, money is sterile. These days you don’t even get the joy of rolling around in it. Instead, you move it from one electronic deposit account to another. What’s the fun in that?” he shrugs. “In the Quorum, Carl had the added benefit of moving up the ladder. Granted, back in those days it was more like the 
Hunger Games
. Quorum agents were pitted against each other—not only on kills, but on bigger missions, such as commanding a terrorist cell on its next mission, or blackmailing a country. Those who were successful lived to see another payday.”

“Dog-eat-dog, just like Mary Kay distributors,” I murmur.

He raises a brow. “I’ll take your word for it. As for Carl, he proved to be the one dog smarter than his masters. After Breck’s ignominious death at Carl’s hand—or was it yours, my dear? With all the rumors flying around, I don’t know whom to believe—he didn’t know whom to trust. Thus, the massacre of those Quorum members in London, right under your noses.”

“How did you happen to live to see another day”—Jack asks—“and in such sumptuous surroundings?”

“This is nothing more than a gilded cage.” Eric points to the guards positioned on the roof. “If he could, Carl would have my head on a stake. Yes, I have something that keeps him at bay, but my hold over him is gossamer thin.” His eyes shift from Jack to me. “You see, I know the whereabouts of the microdot, which holds the code to access the DaaS cloud with the Acme worldwide directory of agents and assets.”

My heart leaps into my throat. “You have it here?” I ask.

“It was left with someone very close to Carl.” He smiles. “That is all I can say—for now. Should our joint effort to put Carl in prison be successful, I’ll let you know who has it.”

“Why would you do this?” Jack asks. “Why not get it yourself?”

“Power is a younger man’s game, for those who wish to make their mark, or leave behind a legacy. I have no family and no heirs. I have all the money I will need for several lifetimes. Most of all, I have no need to destroy the world. I much prefer living in it, and enjoying it. With Carl out of the way, I’ll do more of it.” Eric beckons us on down the hill. “Come now, I’ll show you my private cellar, where we will share a glass of my best champagne, and toast the downfall of my Peter, and your Carl.”

Chapter 12

They Shoot Horses, Don't They?

“I may not know a winner when I see one, but I sure as hell can spot a loser.”

—Gig Young, as “Rocky”

Before you win your Academy Award for the role of a lifetime, you must first be cast in a movie. (Yes, I know—a small detail; still I felt it wise to mention.) To that end, here are a few tips to help launch you into the firmament of stardom:

Tip #1: Don’t just memorize the lines—embody the role! If you’re to be a teen dream queen, look like a slut and eat enough pizza to get a few zits on your face. If you’re to be a drug-addled prostitute, wear your roomie’s whore couture, hire a pimp to attend your audition with you, and shoot up before you go in to read for the part. Even if the pimp ends up robbing everyone in the place, you’ll certainly impress the casting director by the lengths you’ll go to just to get the part.

Tip #2: The fact that you didn’t get a callback doesn’t mean you should give up on the role. Go ahead and text the casting director to see if she lost your telephone number. Better yet, wait outside the front door of her house. By letting her know you know where she lives, even if the role goes to someone else, believe me, she’ll never forget your face—and neither will the local police.

Tip #3: If you don’t get the role, be philosophical about it by remembering there are other ones out there better suited for your talents. You know, like the role of waiter. Or dog walker. Or as a personal assistant to the star whose life you covet. Just remember—the whole world is your stage!