Soon (27 page)

Paul phoned Ranold’s room a few minutes later to be sure he was there. “What time did you say that flight was?”

“Oh-eight-hundred. Meet you for breakfast at oh-six-thirty.”

“Roger that.”

Paul phoned Angela but got Willie instead. “She’s still talking with some of the girls.”

“Willie, this is really important. Tell her not to return to her hotel. Have someone else pick up her stuff and her kids and find them someplace new to stay. Got that?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“This is not negotiable, Willie.”

Paul’s final call was to Straight, who was horrified about the coming raid. “I have to tell you, Paul, we’ve been expecting some kind of backlash. One of our Washington people even guessed there was some major muscle behind Balaam. But we never thought it would come down this hard or this soon.”

“I need contacts with believers in L.A., and I need them fast,” Paul said. “I wish you could be there with me.”

“Interesting you should say that, Paul. Now that the battle has been heating up, I’ve often wished that I could be more on the front lines. But not just yet.”

Straight promised to have everything Paul needed within twenty-four hours.

28

BREAKFAST AND THE FLIGHT
proved exhausting for Paul, the victim of his father-in-law’s bluster. Everything was about how Paul should be thrilled at this opportunity for visibility.

“We’re staying at Tiny Allendo’s in Beverly Hills,” Ranold said as they got off the plane at LAX. “You’ve never seen a place like his.”

Allendo was the studio chief. “We’re
staying
there?” Paul said. “That sounds like a conflict of interest.”

“He works for the government too, remember?”

“He’s paid on profits, Dad. That’s why nobody else who works for the government lives in Beverly Hills.”

A stretch limo pulled up with
Decenti
on a card in the window.

“That’s Tiny for you,” Ranold said as the driver put their bags in the trunk.

Ranold asked the driver to take them through Hollywood on the way to Allendo’s home. “You’re going to get an idea what’s happening here,” he told Paul. Paul enjoyed the vibrating massage of the passenger seats and the array of radio and TV signals available through his molar receptors.

“Pull off here a second,” Ranold told the driver. He pointed out to Paul a billboard that announced one movie, yet the hologram depicted another. “Disgusting.”

The billboard advertised a new erotic thriller, but the holographic image was from
The Ten Commandments
where Charlton Heston as Moses throws down the tablets in disgust at the sin of the Israelites. It played over and over, the tablets breaking to pieces and Moses chastising the people.

“What’s that about?” Paul said.

“What do you think? It’s the zealots. They’re convinced Hollywood is immoral, and they’re determined to change it. We can’t let that happen.”

That Hollywood and her product were immoral was hardly news. Even in Paul’s previous life he could hardly stomach the new movies. All were now holographic and most were interactive, but there was hardly a thing he could enjoy with his family. Nothing was off-limits now.

“It’s high-tech vandalism,” Ranold raged. “And because this industry is government run, that’s a federal felony.”

“How hard would it be to stop this?” Paul said.

“That’s why we’re here.”

“Billboard mischief?”

“We can’t find the source, Paul! We can override it only temporarily with interceptors, but we can’t stop it. That’ll be your job. At least part of it. That’s only the beginning.”

“I hope so, because you said—”

“I said it was a crisis, and it is. This is just one manifestation. Driver, take us to where we can see the Hollywood sign.”

It seemed every house in the area was trying to top the one next door. All had fountains and swimming pools. Many had several golf holes and misted landscaping. “You should have seen this city before you were born, Paul. Smog so thick you wouldn’t have been able to see the houses. Thank technology—primarily electric-powered cars and trucks—for cleaning that up.”

A few minutes later the limo pulled over again, and Paul peered into the Hollywood hills where the famous white sign had been standing for roughly a century. For the last twenty years its letters had consisted of laser light images, and there the vandals had struck again. One of the
L
s had been snuffed, and the sign now read
Holywood
.

“Same people?” Paul said.

“Well, of course it’s the same people,” Ranold spat. “The problem is not only that these people exist, but also that they are out of control.”

Tiny Allendo was not, of course, tiny. His was an ironic nick-name for a man six-foot-eight with wavy black hair, supposedly bright blue eyes, and an easy smile. Paul wouldn’t see those eyes until late in the evening, because Allendo wore wraparound gold-mirrored shades, even indoors, until past dark. He dressed in black on black, was a paragon of style, and proved a generous host. Nearing fifty years old, he looked ten years younger. He enjoyed carrying the conversation and, while pleasant, was unable to hide an underlying rage about what was happening in Hollywood.

Tiny had a staff that rotated in sets of eight, and after the butler, whom he referred to as simply a doorman, welcomed Paul and Ranold, they were shown to their respective rooms—in opposite wings of the sixteen-thousand-square-foot home—by valets who unpacked their bags and hung up their clothes. They were invited to relax until brunch, which was to be served by the pool at ten.

Though Tiny was technically a government employee, Paul was not comfortable with the arrangement. The marble-and-stucco home was the most lavish Paul had ever seen. Everything was sleek and ultramodern and custom-made, from the furniture to the draperies and linens. Paul’s private bath was as large as his living room at home. Lights came on when he entered a room and went off when he left. A valet stood at the end of the hall, waiting to be paged if he needed anything, anything at all.

Paul didn’t know whether to dress for the pool or for work. He decided he was there on business and should look the part, even if he was dining poolside with one of the wealthiest men in Hollywood. He put on light slacks and a sport jacket. His only concession to the weather and the location was a pullover rather than shirt and tie.

His valet escorted Paul to the pool, and he arrived the same time Ranold and his chaperone did. Ranold showed up in a three-piece suit, looking wholly uncomfortable and promising to buy pool gear that day for a swim that evening. The pool was filled with at least two dozen bronzed and bikinied lovelies.

Tiny had changed into a skimpy gold thong to match his sunglasses, black flip-flops, and a white dress shirt as a cover-up. He enthusiastically welcomed his guests and directed them to sit facing him at a round table, placing his female secretary and his young male assistant at his sides. The five of them were served a light brunch of fresh seafood by the hovering staff.

“And you two are related somehow, do I have that right?” Tiny said.

Ranold explained the relationship and waded through the formalities of greetings from Washington.

“I’m grateful you’re here,” Allendo said.

“In just days, you’ll be even more grateful,” Ranold said. “Washington will be working within the National Peace Organization bureau headquartered in Los Angeles, to which Paul has full access, owing to his advisory role with the Zealot Underground task force. Agent Bia Balaam and I, representing the Congress of the United Seven States of America, have all the resources of the federal government at our beck and call. I assure you, Mr. Allendo, that these attacks on Hollywood will never have the chance to spread. We will not leave here until we crush the efforts of these zealots to destroy the movie industry.”

“That’s a relief,” Tiny said. “This is more than a nuisance, you know. These people are trying to overthrow us. And regardless what they think about our product, is it just me, or are these people breaking the law simply by practicing religion?”

“Of course they are,” Ranold said. “That’s why it is imperative that the uprising be quashed and the underground dismantled as quickly as possible. We have marshaled a formidable army contingent. By this evening it will have encircled not just Hollywood but also the entire city of Los Angeles.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Quite. It’s a huge area, of course, but not such a difficult job. Our men will interface with your local NPO bureau, which, under the guidance of our Agent Balaam, has already been investigating, infiltrating, and attempting to apprehend those responsible for the attacks against your operation.”

Infiltrating?
That was what Balaam had bragged about doing in D.C. too.

Allendo proved a dainty eater for a big man. He dipped his hands in a water bowl to wash the drawn butter from his fingers and dried them on a towel. “The press would love the operation, Mr. Decenti, so—”

“You may call me General Decenti.”

“Very well. How do we keep this from the press?”

Ranold dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “So far, we’ve managed to control the spin rather well.”

“The billboard vandal is just a hacker with access to one old movie,” Tiny said. “And the Hollywood sign defacers are pranksters. Their disinformation campaign is a failure. We still beam our message throughout the world.”

“Exactly. And we’ll continue to spoon-feed the press what we want them to say.”

Allendo smiled and nodded. “How long do you think a press blackout can be maintained?”

“Excellent question,” Ranold said. “Not long. The nature of the beast. So we’ll make a swift surgical strike. Believe me, Mr. Allendo, we come with a zero-tolerance policy, committed to ferreting out and decimating these zealots.”

“I see
movie
written all over a mission like this.”

Ranold beamed.

When they had finished eating, Allendo said, “I have reservations this evening at a wonderful club, the Studio. General, you mentioned wanting to do some shopping this afternoon. Please feel free to use my limo and driver.”

“Most generous,” Ranold said, “but I have a government car and chauffeur at my disposal.”

“And you, Dr. Stepola?”

“I’m having a car delivered from the agency.”

“Your car has just arrived,” the secretary told Paul.

Allendo walked Paul to the front of the estate, where a solid gold replica of Buckingham Fountain shot water a hundred feet into the air. Shaking Paul’s hand again, Tiny purred about how happy he was to have him as a guest. “I just wanted to add that evening companionship is available. After-hours drinks, conversation, that kind of a thing. Merely mention your pleasure to your valet.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Paul said.

“No?”

“No, thank you.”

“As you wish. If you’re not busy, you’re welcome to join me for the rest of the afternoon by the pool.”

“Would you excuse me?” Paul said. “I really need to get some calls made and legwork done.”

“Of course. But you will join us at the Studio tonight?”

“Yes, certainly.”

Allendo disappeared as two unmarked, government-issue sedans pulled up to the walkway that encircled the fountain. Both drivers got out, one a woman of about sixty, the other a man of about forty.

“Tough gig,” the man said. “So much for the water shortage, eh?”

“Yeah,” the woman said. “You wanna stay at my place and let me have your room here?”

Paul tried to sound amused. “Doesn’t seem right, does it?”

“Too bad you don’t get a Benz like Triple-D.”

“Sorry?”

She pointed to the limousine and driver that waited closer to the house. “Deputy Director Decenti. That one’s his.”

“Former Deputy Director,” Paul said. “He’s here as General Decenti.”

“Whatever. We’re starting with a briefing at nine tomorrow morning at headquarters, sir. Does he want to be in on that?”

“I’ll inform him.”

As the two drove off, Ranold came out, and Paul filled him in on the briefing.

“Don’t expect me to get involved in meetings where the blind lead the blind, Paul. Balaam and I are meeting with the regional governor and his people tomorrow morning, and then I’m getting together with the army’s commanding general. You take care of your own little schedule, and when I want you to de-brief me, I’ll let you know. How’s that?”

“Perfect.”