life. After his death his wife, Arrington, bought the final two plots, which he had optioned a year or so before. The total property now runs to twenty acres.”
“Even larger than that of the Bel-Air Hotel,” Hamish pointed out.
She smiled. “A fine establishment with its own clientele.”
“And how many of them do you expect to steal?” Hamish asked.
She laughed. “Oh, I’m sure there will be some, but Los Angeles attracts a worldwide army of regular travelers, and our initial market research indicated to us that there was room for another top-of-the-line property in Bel-Air.”
Hamish saw a procession of unmarked white vans come through the front gate without being stopped and proceed up the hill to the reception building. “What are those vans about?” he asked. “They weren’t even stopped and searched like every other vehicle entering the property.”
“Oh, they’re just part of the security for the weekend,” Clair said. “Don’t worry, their presence makes us all that much safer.”
Hamish watched as they drove past the reception area. A couple of dozen men were unloading equipment, some of which appeared to be detectors of some sort. He couldn’t be sure if it was for detecting metal or nuclear material. He felt a light sweat break out on his forehead.
Then they were underground. “One of the great features of the hotel is that we’ve been able to hide a great many parked vehicles down here. It helps keep the grounds so much more attractive, don’t you think?”
“I do,” Hamish replied.
“The landscape architects wanted a pastoral feeling about the place.”
“They’ve done a wonderful job.”
“I hope room service has been doing a good job of feeding you,” Clair said. “Our restaurants won’t be opening until lunchtime tomorrow, when our guests begin to arrive.”
“How did you manage to get Immi Gotham to perform?” Hamish asked.
“Centurion Studios and The Arrington share some important investors, so Centurion has arranged for most of its stars to be here, either as guests or performers. They’ve taken a quarter of our accommodations for the opening weekend, and Leo Goldman Junior, their CEO, arranged for Ms. Gotham to appear. I don’t think she’s ever done a concert like this before, preferring to appear in films and make recordings.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing her,” Hamish said. “I’m a big fan.”
“Who isn’t?” Clair said. “I’ll certainly be there, if I have to sit in a tree.”
Hamish reflected that by the end of the concert, there wouldn’t be any trees.
Clair pulled up to his cottage. “Now you’ve seen it all,” she said. “Please give me a call if there’s anything else I can do for you, Mr. McCallister, and we look forward to reading your reportage.”
Hamish hopped out of the cart. He could think of a number of things she could do for him, but he imagined she was far too busy with her duties to provide them. He let himself into his cottage, went to the bar and poured himself a glass of San Pellegrino from the fridge. He pulled the curtains back in his bedroom and gazed down into the Arrington Bowl, imagining it at capacity for the concert.
It was that concert that would be the cherry on the sundae of the event he had planned. Not only would he take out two presidents, he would cause to vanish virtually the entire roster of stars of one of Hollywood’s top studios, all in a single flash. The worldwide media would print and broadcast nothing else for weeks. It would be bigger than 9/11, he reckoned-a much greater loss of life and property in the heart of America’s most decadent community, with the possible exception of Las Vegas.
And he would be alive and well to read about it, hear about it, and bask in its afterglow for decades to come. Then there would be London to deal with.
40
Kelli Keane got off a corporate jet at Burbank, followed by the photographer Harry Benson, his four assistants, and their luggage, plus many cases of photographic equipment. A very large van pulled up to the airplane and began stowing their bags, while Kelli and her team climbed into the seats.
When they arrived at The Arrington, the van was waved to a parking area and two men in dark blue jumpsuits approached. “Okay, folks, everything out of the van, we’re unloading your luggage,” one of them said.
“Wait a minute,” Kelli said, holding up a hand. “We’re not unloading any of our stuff. We’re here from Vanity Fair to photograph this event.” She held up a letter. “Here’s my authorization from the director of public relations.”
The man read the letter and handed it back to her. “Very nice,” he said, “now here’s my authorization.” He held up a badge.
Harry leaned over and whispered in Kelli’s ear, “They’re Secret Service. Shut up, and let’s get everything unloaded.” Two bellmen appeared in a big cart and began removing luggage, while the two agents opened the black equipment cases and started taking out equipment.
Kelli got on her cell phone.
“Clair Albritton,” a voice said.
“Clair, it’s Kelli Keane from Vanity Fair. I’ve just arrived with my team, and we’re being given a hard time by the Secret Service.”
“Kelli, please remember we have two presidents and a lot of other important people in residence. Everybody is being given a hard time. Please do as they ask.”
Kelli put away her phone and turned to find an agent pawing through her underwear. He closed the bag and started on another. She stood there, sputtering, while Harry relaxed in the van, looking through an L.A. Times.
“Take a few deep breaths, Kelli,” Harry said, in his Glaswegian accent. “This is a little more than par for the course, but there’s nothing you can do to rush it. Just have a seat and relax.”
Kelli leaned against the van and longed for a cigarette. She had quit, cold turkey, two years ago, but when she was annoyed about something the urge came back, and she was very annoyed at the moment. Now the agents started closing the cases, and two others began removing the seats from the van. Another one was lying on his back on a creeper, surveying its underside.
“Okay,” somebody said finally, “you can reload now.” The bellmen got everything back into the van.
“You see,” Harry said, “that took only forty minutes. It’s not like we have to be somewhere. There’s nobody to photograph until tomorrow.”
“There’s the grounds,” Kelli said.
“Somebody else is doing that,” Harry said. “I’m not a landscapist.”
Kelli finally wilted before the wisdom of one of the world’s great photojournalists. “All right,” she said, “I’ll settle for a cold beer.”
The van moved off up the hill and finally stopped in front of the reception building. Clair Albritton was there to meet them. “Hello, Kelli, sorry about security. A warning: if you leave the grounds, you’ll have to go through all that again when you return.” She spread a map on the hood of the van and gave Kelli and Harry a briefing on the layout of the hotel.
“Where are you going to want to put the lights, Harry?” Kelli asked.
“Lights? We’re not going to need any lights that aren’t handheld. This place is too big, and there are too many people to do setups. I’m going to be working on the fly. Don’t worry about it, dear, it’s not my first time.”
Everybody got back into the van, and they followed a cart with Clair and the two bellmen down the hill to a two-story building. Clair got out and began instructing the bellmen. “Kelli, you and Harry have the two ground-floor rooms. Your assistants are upstairs in two other rooms.”
“We don’t have suites?” Kelli asked. She had become accustomed to suites.
“The suites are all reserved for the people you’ve come here to photograph and interview,” Clair said. “We could have let them all three times over.”
