called it.
“That’s a wrap, ladies and gentlemen,” Vittorio said, still applauding all the grips and gaffers up amidst the forest of klieg lights mounted high above on the studio catwalks. “Grazie mille a tutto, mille grazie!”
A small army of production assistants and caterers appeared, setting up craft services tables full of caviar and crab, carrying trays of glasses and magnums of cold champagne onto the Orient Express set. Vittorio splashed some into a glass, first for Francesca and then one for superstar Ian Flynn, the ruggedly handsome Irish actor who played Nick Hitchcock, currently busy pulling his pajama bottoms up, eager to hide the fact that he had not much to hide.
Raising his own glass to the assembled, the director said, “To the legendary Ian, brilliant as always, for a magnificent performance! And, to our newest Hitchcock girl, the talented and beauteous Signorina Francesca d’Agnelli!”
She raised her glass, then tipped it back and downed it quickly. She had a plane to catch.
Some eight hours later, Francesca heard a light tapping on the cabin door. She sat up in bed in the darkness, heard a dull roaring noise and wondered where she was. The door cracked open and she saw a girl framed in the soft light from the corridor. The girl was wearing a snow-white apron over a black dress. The uniform of all the female staff aboard the Pasha’s private 747.
“Signorina d’Agnelli?” It was the perky English one named Fiona.
“Si?” she said, sitting up and rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Che cosa, Fiona?”
“So sorry to disturb you, Signorina, but First Officer Adare in the cockpit informs me we will be landing in approximately one hour. I thought perhaps you might like some breakfast? Some time to freshen up?”
“Si, some tea and toast, e il bagno, per favore.” The girl pulled the door closed and Francesca lay back against the pillows. A hot bath. Delicious.
The Pasha had been extremely generous, she thought, sending his plane to Rome for her as soon as the production had shut down. It was the first time he’d done it. He was pleased with her. Her last assignment had been carried out flawlessly. Pleased, his generosity knew no bounds. But then, neither did his brutality when you incurred his displeasure.
It was one of the reasons she was so strangely attracted to the man, despite his recent increase in belt size. She’d always had a taste for the unusual.
She rose from her bed and padded across the thick carpet to the marble-clad bathroom. She twisted the gold spigots, and the tub began filling with water. She poured oils and salts and flower petals from the crystal containers and bowls into the steaming water. She smiled. Air Pasha was certainly an upgrade over first class on Alitalia.
Two staff girls appeared with a tea tray and a stack of luxurious white towels.
“Grazie,” Francesca said, as the pretty blonde one poured her a cup of herbal tea while the other one tested the water temperature, then turned off the golden spigots. Francesca nodded and smiled, clearly waiting for them to leave. They bowed, and were gone.
Dropping her robe to the floor, she caught herself smiling in the mirror; she was still aglow with champagne from the wrap party and in the limo on the way to the airport. It was an amusing distraction being a movie star. It allowed her to move freely about the globe, come into contact with whomever she wished, exert her will. No one in this world, she’d learned, was fully immune to the star-fucker syndrome.
But this particular star fucked back.
She raised her right foot up onto the wide green marble lip of the deep tub. Using her right hand, she reached into the curly blonde thatch between her legs and removed the porcelain sheath and the dagger it contained. She held it up admiringly. How she would have enjoyed using her piccolo coltello, her little knife, on that arrogant Hitchcock. The Irish prick.
An imaginary tabloid headline floated across her mind as she stepped into the steaming hot water.
“Hitchcockless.”
Chapter Twenty
Nantucket Island
SOME FOUR HOURS AFTER THEIR BRUSH WITH DEATH, HAWKE and Ambrose were joined by Stokely and Sutherland in Blackhawke’s library, a fire going against the late June chill. Hawke was sitting cross-legged on the floor before the fire, his parrot Sniper perched on his shoulder. Feeding the feisty bird pistachio nuts from a bowl he held in his lap, he seemed lost in his thoughts.
Oh nuts! Damright! Sniper shrieked, and Hawke gave the old girl a few more. Congreve was regaling everyone with the tale of the perilous flight, delighted to recount the chilling death spiral, how they’d been near as dammit to crashing into the sea when Ambrose himself had jammed down the left rudder pedal and put the plane into a left-handed nose dive that stabilized the aircraft.
“Quite remarkable, Chief,” Sutherland said, “Considering your complete lack of flying experience.”
“How did Holmes himself put it?” Ambrose asked, puffing away. “ ‘I am the most incurably lazy devil who ever stood in shoe leather, but when the fit is on me, I can be spry enough at times.’ ” The man was clearly still flying high, even after his near-disastrous flying lesson. Alex smiled at this, but his mind was elsewhere.
His plane had been moored at the end of the Slades’ dock in Dark Harbor all night. It had never occurred to Alex to post a guard, so somebody had all the time in the world to hack away at the aileron cable. And there was something else nagging at his memory. He remembered what Chief Ellen Ainslie had said about the murderous babysitter: “Father’s a mechanic…over to the airport.”
Texas Patterson needed to know that at least one member of the Adjelis family had stuck around Dark Harbor long enough to sabotage Hawke’s airplane. Patterson was catching a ride on a Coast Guard chopper and was scheduled to arrive shortly for a meeting aboard Blackhawke. His boss, Secretary of State de los Reyes, had already asked for Alex’s help. Now, Tex was coming down to seal the deal.
As always, Alex had told Conch on the phone that morning, he’d do whatever he could. He’d just have to postpone recharging his batteries until the thing was over. Hell, he said, as the old American expression had it, you can sleep when you’re dead.
Congreve was quietly bringing Sutherland and Stokely up to speed on the recent events in Maine when Pelham wafted in with the tea service. He set the silver salver down on a velvet ottoman next to Alex. Alex noticed a small black velvet box on the tray beside his china cup.
“This is a bit sudden, isn’t it, old boy?” Hawke said to Pelham, picking up the velvet box. “I mean, we hardly know each other.”
Pelham smiled, said nothing, and withdrew.
“What on earth’s wrong with him?” Alex asked, as Pelham pulled the door closed after him.
“Embarrassed is all. Something the boy meant to give you long time ago, Boss,” Stoke said. “Better open it.”
“Really?” Alex said, “How odd.”
He opened the box and saw the gold medallion and chain. He lifted it out and dangled it before his eyes. “Unbelievable,” Hawke said. “My St. George’s medal. Stoke, you remember. That night in Cuba. That guard who —”
“Stuck his knife in your neck and cut the chain. Yeah, I remember that.”
“How did Pelham come by it after all these years?”
“Some Spanish-sounding guy apparently showed up with it on your doorstep late one night and told Pelham to give it to you. Boy stuck it somewhere and plain forgot all about it. He feels bad ’cause then you’d have had a heads up. About somebody being on your case.”
“Most unfortunate,” Hawke said, examining the medal. “His memory is less than…”
“He’ll be all right,” Stoke said, seeing Hawke’s wan expression.
“My mother gave me this,” Hawke said, slipping it over his head, “the day before she died.” He cut his eyes away, pretending to study a picture on the wall, a small marine painting by James Buttersworth.
