“No, wait, guys, wait,” I’m saying. “It was Gibson. Her name was Gibson.”
“No, it was Cannon,” Delta says. “Her name was Marina Cannon.”
“Wait, wait, guys,” I’m saying. “Sent to warn me by who? About what?”
“That’s what we’re trying to piece together,” Palakon says, overly patient.
“We think that whoever sent her didn’t want you making contact with Jamie Fields, and by extension Bobby Hughes, once you arrived in London,” Crater says. “We think she was provided as a distraction. As an alternative.”
“Provided?” I’m asking. “Provided? What in the fuck does that mean?”
“Mr. Ward—” Palakon starts.
“Jamie told me she knows her,” I say suddenly. “That she knew her. Why would Marina want me to stay away from Jamie if they knew each other?”
“Did Jamie Fields say how she knew her? Or in what context she knew her?” Palakon asks. “Did Jamie Fields let you know what their connection was?”
“No … ,” I’m murmuring. “No …”
“Didn’t you ask?” Crater and Delta exclaim at the same time. “No,” I say, dazed, murmuring. “No … I’m sorry … no …” From behind me Russell says, “Palakon.”
“Yes, yes,” Palakon says.
On the TV screen the camera keeps panning across the length of the deck and, whenever Marina glances at it, always back to Lorrie Wallace. But once it stays for several moments on Marina, who gazes at it almost as if the camera were daring her.
“Where did you get this?” I’m asking.
“It’s not an original,” Delta says. “It’s a copy.”
“That’s an answer?” I ask, jaw clenched.
“It doesn’t matter how we got it,” Delta snaps.
“The Wallaces took that,” I say, staring at the screen. “Turn it off.”
“The Wallaces?” I hear someone ask.
“Yeah.” I’m nodding. “The Wallaces. They were this couple from England. This English couple. I forget what they do. What they told me. I think she opens restaurants. Whatever. Turn it off, just turn it off.”
“How did you meet them?” Palakon asks, pressing a button, causing the TV to flash black.
“I don’t know. They were just on the ship. They introduced themselves to me. We had dinner.” I’m moaning, rubbing my hands over my face. “They said they knew my father—”
Some kind of connection is automatically made and resonates among the three men sitting across from me.
“Oh shit,” Delta says.
Immediately Crater mutters, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.”
Palakon keeps nodding involuntarily, his mouth opening slightly so he can take in more air.
Delta furiously writes down something on the folder resting in his lap.
“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” Crater keeps muttering. The Japanese man lights a cigarette, his face illuminated briefly by the match. Something’s wrong. He’s scowling. “Palakon?” Russell calls out behind me. Palakon looks up, knocked out of his concentration.
I turn around.
Russell taps his watch. Palakon nods irritably.
“Did Marina Cannon ask you anything?” Delta asks hurriedly, leaning in.
“Oh shit,” I mutter. “I don’t know. Like what?”
“Did she ask you if—” Crater starts.
I suddenly remember and, interrupting Crater, I murmur, “She wanted to know if anyone gave me anything to bring with me to England.”
her departure from the Queen’s Grill, the desperate phone call she made later that night, and I was drunk and grinning at myself in a mirror in my cabin, giggling, and there was blood in her bathroom and who else except Bobby Hughes knew she was on that ship and you were heading toward another country and there was a tattoo, black and shapeless, on her shoulder
I’m wiping sweat off my forehead and the room starts slanting, then it catches itself.
“Such as?” Palakon asks.
I’m grasping at something, and finally realize what it is.
“I think she meant”—I look up at Palakon—“the hat.”
Everyone starts writing something. They wait for me to continue, to elaborate, but since I can’t, Palakon coaxes me by asking, “But the hat disappeared from the QE2, right?”
I nod slowly. “But maybe … I’m thinking … maybe she took it and … and gave it … to someone.”
“No,” Delta mutters. “Our sources say she didn’t.”
“Your sources?” I’m asking. “Who in the fuck are your sources?”
“Mr. Ward,” Palakon starts. “This will all be explained to you at a later date, so please—”
“What was in the hat?” I’m asking, cutting him off. “Why did you tell me to bring that hat? Why was it torn apart when I found it? What was in the hat, Palakon?”
“Mr. Ward, Victor, I promise you that at our next meeting I’ll explain,” Palakon says. “But we simply don’t have time now—”
“What do you mean?” I’m asking, panicking. “You have more important things to do? I mean, holy shit, Palakon. I have no idea what’s going on and—”
“We have other photos to show you,” Palakon interrupts, handing three glossy 8×10s to me.
Two people dressed in tropical clothing on a foamy shore. Yards and yards of wet sand. The sea rests behind them. White sunlight, purple at the edges, hangs above the couple. Because of their hair you can tell it’s windy. He’s sipping a drink from a coconut shell. She’s smelling a purple lei hanging from her neck. In another photo she’s (improbably) petting a swan. Bobby Hughes stands behind her, smiling (also improbably) in a kind way. In the last photo Bobby Hughes is kneeling behind the girl, helping her pick a tulip.
The girl in all three photos is Lauren Hynde.
I start weeping again.
“That’s … Lauren Hynde.”
A long pause, and then I hear someone ask, “When did you last have contact with Lauren Hynde, Victor?” I keep weeping, unable to hold it together.
“Victor?” Palakon asks.
“What is she doing with him?” I sob.
“Victor met her while they were students at Camden, I believe,” Palakon says softly to his colleagues, an explanation that doesn’t accomplish anything, but I nod silently to myself, unable to look up.
“And after that?” someone asks. “When did you last have contact with Lauren Hynde?”
Still weeping, I manage, “I met her last month … in Manhattan … at a Tower Records.”
Russell’s cell phone rings, jarring all of us.
“Okay,” I hear him say.
After clicking off he implores Palakon to start moving.
“We’ve got to go,” Russell says. “It’s time.”
“Mr. Johnson, we’ll be in touch,” Delta says.
I’m reaching into my jacket pocket while wiping my face.
“Yes, this was … illuminating,” Crater says, not at all sincerely.
“Here.” Ignoring Crater, I hand Palakon the printout of the WINGS file. “This is something I found in the computer in the house. I don’t know what it means.”
Palakon takes it from me. “Thank you, Victor,” he says genuinely, slipping it into his folder without even looking at it. “Victor, I want you to calm down. We will be in touch. It might even be tomorrow—”
“But since I last saw you, Palakon, they blew up a fucking hotel,” I shout. “They killed the French premier’s son.”
“Mr. Ward,” Palakon says gently, “other factions have already taken blame for the bombing at the Ritz.”
“What other factions?” I’m shouting. “They did it. Bruce Rhinebeck left a bomb at the fucking Ritz. There are no other factions. They are the faction.”
“Mr. Ward, we really—”
“I just don’t feel you’re concerned about my welfare, Palakon,” I say, choking.
“Mr. Ward, that’s simply not true,” Palakon says, standing, which causes me to stand as well.
br /> “Why did you send me to find her?” I’m shouting. “Why did you send me to find Jamie Fields?” I’m about to grab Palakon but Russell pulls me back.
“Mr. Ward, please,” Palakon says. “You must go. We’ll be in touch.”
I fall into Russell, who keeps propping me up.
“I don’t care anymore, Palakon. I don’t care.”
“I think you do, Mr. Ward.”
“Why is that?” I ask, bewildered, staring at him. “Why do you think that?”
“Because if you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be here.” I take this in.
“Hey, Palakon,” I say, stunned. “I didn’t say I wasn’t scared shitless.”
18
Russell races down the stairs in the building on Avenue Verdier two steps at a time and I’m tumbling behind him, for support grabbing on to a marble banister that’s so encased with ice it burns my hand, and outside on the street I hold that hand up, panting, telling Russell to slow down.
“We can’t,” Russell says. “We have to go. Now.”
“Why?” I’m asking uselessly, bent over. “Why?”
I brace myself to be pulled along toward the black Citroën but Russell suddenly stops moving and he’s breathing in, composing himself.
Disoriented, I stand up straight. Russell casually nudges me.
I’m looking over at him, confused. He’s pretending to smile at someone.
Jamie Fields is walking uncertainly toward us, clutching a small white paper bag—no makeup, sweatpants, hair pulled back with a scrunchie, Gucci sunglasses.
Behind her the French film crew is piling equipment into a blue van that’s double-parked on Avenue Verdier.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, lowering her sunglasses.
“Hey,” I’m saying, gesturing mindlessly.
“What’s going on?” she asks, a little mystified. “Victor?”
“Oh yeah, y’know, just hanging,” I’m saying vacantly, semi-stunned. “I’m just … hanging, um, baby.”
Pause. “What?” she asks, laughing, as if she hasn’t heard me. “Hanging?” She pauses. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, baby, I’m fine, I’m cool,” I’m saying, gesturing mindlessly. “It looks like rain, huh, baby?”
“You’re white,” she says. “You look like you’ve been … crying.” She reaches out a hand to touch my face. Instinctively I pull away.
“No, no, no,” I’m saying. “No, I haven’t been crying. I’m cool. I was just yawning. Things are cool.”
“Oh,” she says, followed by a long pause.
“Whoa,” I add to it.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“Well, baby, I’m here with”—I glance at Russell—“my friend and we’re …” I land on, “Well, I’m taking French lessons from him.” She just stares at me. Silence.
“You know, baby, I can’t speak a word of it. So.” I shrug.
She’s still staring at me. More silence.
“Not—one—word,” I say stiffly.
“Right,” she says, but now she’s staring at Russell. “You look totally familiar. Have we met?”
“I don’t think so,” Russell says. “But maybe.”
“I’m Jamie Fields,” she says, holding out a hand.
“I’m Christian Bale,” Russell says, taking it.
“Oh right,” she says. “Yeah, I thought I recognized you. You’re the actor.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He’s nodding boyishly. “I recognized you too.”
“Hey, looks like we’re all famous, huh?” I chuckle dreadfully. “How about that, huh?”
“I really liked you in Newsies and Swing Kids,” Jamie says, not at all facetiously.
“Thanks, thanks.” Russell keeps nodding.
“And also Hooked,” Jamie says. “You were great in Hooked.”
“Oh thanks,” Russell says, blushing, smiling on cue. “That’s so nice. That’s so cool.”
“Yeah, Hooked,” Jamie murmurs, staring thoughtfully into Russell’s face.
A long pause follows. I concentrate on the film crew lifting a camera into the back of the van. The director nods at me. I don’t nod back. From inside the van ABBA’s “Knowing Me, Knowing You” keeps playing, a reminder of something. I’m squinting, trying to remember. The director starts moving toward us.
“So what are you doing in Paris?” Jamie asks Russell.
“Oh, just hanging,” Russell says confidently.
“And … teaching French?” Jamie laughs, confused.
“Oh it’s just a favor,” I’m saying, laughing with her. “He’s owing me a favor.”
Behind us, walking out of the front entrance of the apartment building on Avenue Verdier, are Palakon, Delta, Crater—all in overcoats and sunglasses—without the Japanese man. They maneuver past us, walking purposefully down the block, conferring with one another. Jamie barely notices them since she’s preoccupied with staring at Russell. But the director stops walking toward me and stares at Palakon as he passes by, and something in the director’s face tightens and he worriedly glances back at me and then once more at Palakon.
“It’s a favor,” Russell says, putting on Diesel sunglasses. “I’m between roles. So it’s cool.”
“He’s between roles,” I’m saying. “He’s waiting for a good part. One worthy of his skills.”
“Listen, I gotta split,” Russell says. “I’ll talk to you later, man. Nice meeting you, Jamie.”
“Yeah,” Jamie says tentatively. “You too, Christian.”
“Peace,” he says, moving off. “Victor, I’ll be in touch. Au revoir.”
“Yeah man,” I say shakily. “Bonjour, dude,” I’m saying. “Oui, monsieur.”
Jamie stands in front of me, arms folded. The crew waits, slouching by the van, its engine running. I’m focusing on slowing down my heartbeat. The director starts walking toward us again. My vision keeps blurring over, getting wavy. It starts drizzling.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying not to whimper.
“I’m picking up a prescription for Tammy,” she says.
“Uh-huh. Because she’s, like, very sick, right?”
“Yeah, she’s very upset,” Jamie says coolly.
“Well, right, because she should be.”
I’m wetting my lips, panic coursing through the muscles in my legs, my arms, my face—all tingling. Jamie keeps staring, appraising me. A longer pause. The director is jogging up the street, grimly advancing toward us, toward me.
“So let me get this straight,” Jamie starts.
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re taking French lessons.”
“Uh-huh.”
“From Christian Bale?”
“No, we’re having an affair,” I blurt out. “I didn’t want to bring him to the house.”
“I don’t necessarily find that unbelievable.”
“No, no, it’s French lessons,” I’m saying. “Merci beaucoup, bon soir, je comprends, oui, mademoiselle, bonjour, mademoiselle—”
“All right, all right,” she mutters, giving up.
The director is getting closer.
“Send them away,” I whisper. “Please, just send them away, send them the fuck away,” I say, putting my sunglasses on.
Jamie sighs and walks over to the director. He’s on a cell phone and he snaps the mouthpiece closed as she approaches. He listens to her, adjusting a red bandanna knotted around his neck. I’m crying silently to myself and as Jamie walks back to me I start shivering. I rub a hand across my forehead, a headache’s building.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I try to speak but can’t. I’m only vaguely aware that it’s starting to rain.
In a cab heading back to the house she asks me, “So where did you take your French lessons?” I can’t say anything.
“How did you and Christian Bale meet?” she asks.
The cab lurches forward in traffic, its windows streaked with rain. The air inside the cab is heavy with i
nvisible things. I’m slouching in the back of the cab. My foot has fallen asleep.
“What is this?” she asks. “Are you doing your big deaf routine?”
“What’s in the bag?” I ask, nodding at the white shape in Jamie’s lap.
“Tammy’s prescription,” she says.
“For what? Methadone?”
“Halcion.”
“I hope you got her a lot,” I say, and then, “Can I have some?”
“No,” Jamie says. “What were you really doing with that guy?” I blurt out, “How did you know Marina Gibson?”
“Oh god,” she groans. “Are we back to that?”
“Jamie,” I warn, then relent. “Please.”
“I don’t know,” she says irritably. “I knew her in New York. Modeling. Whatever. Nightlife.”
I start giggling. “You’re lying.”
“Oh shit.”
I ask softly, “Could this have all been prevented?”
Finally she answers flatly, “That’s speculative.”
“Who else is involved with this?” I ask.
She sighs. “It’s all very small.” Pause. “The larger the group, the greater the danger of detection. You know.”
“I’m sure that works well on paper.”
“Did you look at the file?” she asks.
“Yes,” I murmur.
“Good,” she says, relaxing, and then, “I think Christian Bale’s cool.” She checks her fingernails. “In a fairly obvious way.”
I turn to look at her. “What does that mean?”
“Christian Bale wasn’t in Hooked, Victor,” Jamie says. “He wasn’t in that movie.”
I stall, then move into, “Maybe he was just being … polite.”
“Don’t bother,” she mutters.
And outside the house in the 8th or the 16th patches of sunlight start streaming through the dissolving clouds and Jamie and I open the gate and move together silently through the courtyard. Inside, with Bruce Rhinebeck gone the house seems less heavy, better, emptier, even with the second unit setting up. Bobby sits at the computer while talking on a cell phone, smoking a cigarette, tapping ashes into a Diet Coke can, stacks of spiral notebooks piled high on the desk in front of him, lounge music playing in the background. A pool table has been delivered, another BMW is ready to be picked up, new wallpaper has been ordered, there’s a party somewhere tonight. “It’s all confirmed,” Bobby says simply. Inside the house it’s twenty degrees. Inside the house, shit, its fragrance, churns everywhere, muddy and billowing. Inside the house there’s a lot of “intense activity” and everything’s quickly being lit.