26.
Tom Richardson arose from bed as dawn cracked, settled his tab with Hotel de Lutece, dropped his cell phone into a hotel garbage bin, and made his way to Gare de Lyon. Without prior reservation, he paid cash for a first-class ticket on the TGV high-speed rail service to Geneva, arriving just past noon at Cornavin train station.
Richardson quickly checked into the dumpy Hotel Cornavin across the street before setting off to purchase a new pay-as-you-go cell phone. Back at his hotel room, Richardson plugged in his Mac and created a new e-mail account with hushmail.com. Voila! Back in biz—with nobody watching.
Richardson first phoned Derek Priddle of The Woodpecker Press. A secretary put him on hold, where he remained for almost five minutes until Priddle’s voice sounded. “Sorry, I was in a meeting but I managed to pull myself out. Are you okay?”
“Yes, fine.”
“You didn’t phone me back,” said Priddle. “Then I read in the newspaper that the gendarmes nicked you.”
“It was the security service. They let me go yesterday.”
“Brilliant, because I’ve got some jolly good news. I’ve been authorized by my editorial committee to offer you a publishing contract.”
“Money?”
“Yes,” said Priddle. “We can offer you a substantial advance for world rights.”
“How much?”
“We are prepared to offer you 50 thousand pounds, which, at the current rate of exchange comes to approximately 75 thousand dollars.”
A long pause ensued. “Not enough,” said Richardson softly.
“We can offer a immediate flow-through on rights,” said Priddle.
“Which means what?”
“As we place subsidiary rights—foreign, newspaper and magazine serialization, motion picture—you will receive funds the moment they reach us, instead of waiting for bi-annual royalty statements.” Priddle paused. “Oh, and we would like to follow up on the film query you had.”
“As I mentioned when we had lunch,” said Richardson, “I only ever expect to see whatever you pay me in advance.”
“The current publishing climate makes it difficult to pay an advance higher than I’ve offered.” Priddle offered silence for Richardson to occupy, but it went unfilled. “If I may make a suggestion,” he continued. “Make a motion picture deal with that actor who phoned you, Josh Penner. Get the big money from him. It’s win-win because you get the money you need up front, and we can use soon to be a major motion picture as part of our sales kit.”
“That might work,” said Richardson. “”By the way, disregard my contact details.” He recited his new number and email address.
“A Swiss number?”
“I’ve moved to Switzerland. The French threw me out.”
“Where in Switzerland?”
Richardson disconnected Priddle and checked the time, just past 1:30, which meant 4:30 a.m. in California. He keyed Penner’s cell number.
After three rings a gravelly voice sounded. “Huh, what the….?”
“Sorry, Josh, I didn’t mean to wake you. It’s Tom Richardson. I thought your phone would be off and I’d leave a message.”
“Ever heard of texting?”
Ever heard of switching your phone off when you go to sleep?
“Sorry. I’ll call you back in a few hours…”
“No, hold on, I’m awake now,” said Penner. “Are you still under arrest?”
“No, the French ordered me out the country. I’m in Switzerland.”
“Where in Switzerland?” Penner knew by now details like that would be of huge interest to his CIA case officer, Charles Mulberry.
Richardson hesitated a moment. “Geneva. I’ve been offered a publishing deal…”
“From who?”
Inquisitive bastard. Richardson ignored the question. “If you’re still interested, now’s the time to offer me a deal, before I sign over movie rights.”
“I haven’t even seen your material,” said Penner.
“You are welcome to read it as soon as you want.”
“Can you zap it by…”
“No. You have to read it in front of me.”
Penner swallowed this. “In Geneva?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know.”
“Your call.”
“What’s your number?” asked Penner.
Richardson had withheld the number from Caller ID. He still had a question or two about how Penner knew he had been in French custody and why he had come to his rescue. “I’ll call you back. How much time should I give you?”
“Call me… hmmm… midnight your time?”
As Richardson disconnected Penner, his hotel phone rang. Odd. Nobody knows I’m here. He picked up the phone gingerly. “Yes? Who? Okay, I’ll come down.”
27.
Josh Penner had an urgent call into Charles Mulberry. But it was Jenny Jones of the FBI who phoned him, at one minute past nine in the morning, with an urgent matter of her own. Could they meet for lunch?
For Penner, it meant re-jigging a prior lunch date with his agent, who only wanted to reprimand him for stomping out of his media conference a few days before along with getting arrested for assaulting a TMZ team. So to hell with the agent, Jenny Jones was prettier.
And, indeed, the FBI special agent was dressed to kill when Penner arrived for lunch at the Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel. Sure beats Hot Dog on A Stick. To hell with the CIA.
At that moment Penner’s cell jingled. Expecting Mulberry’s call back, he almost did not answer. But, hey, it was already nine at night in Geneva and he needed instruction on how to handle Richardson.
“I got news on that guy writing the book,” said Penner cryptically as soon as he heard Mulberry’s mid-western twang.
Any news was top priority to Mulberry. “How soon can we meet?”
“After lunch.”
“Location B.” The Vagabond Inn, Oxnard.
“No fucking way,” said Penner.
“We need a secure rendezvous.”
“If you want to meet me after lunch, the best I can do is Location C.”
Mulberry considered this. “Three o’clock?” Code for two o’clock, one hour before.
It meant a short lunch, but Penner remained mindful that Richardson would phone at midnight his time.
Jenny Jones had a table for two by the pool. She was not as concerned about being seen publicly with Penner as Mulberry; in her mind, such tactics caused more possible suspicion than just being out there, where observers had no reason to suspect Penner of collaborating with the U.S. Government. If pressed, he could be researching a role. Or just plain attracted to a pretty FBI agent.
Penner eyed Jones from head to foot and back again when she stood to greet him. “You look amazing today.”
Jones cooed. “Oh, thank you, Josh.”
Others around them stirred, whispering about the arrival of the A-List movie star.
Jones looked adoringly into Penner’s eyes. “I have an extremely important mission for you.”
Penner shook his head. Where was this all going to end? In bed, he hoped. Damn Mulberry for having to meet after lunch. “Go on.”
“That Venezuelan you met, Jose Hernandez?”
“Uh-huh?”
“We’d like you to meet with him as soon as possible.”
“So you said, last time we met. But you didn’t tell me what do you want from Hernandez.”
“We want you to pitch him.”
“Pitch him?”
“We want to turn him. Get him to work for us.”
Penner stared at the FBI agent in disbelief for a few seconds. “How am I supposed to get him to work for you?”
Jones sipped from a glass of ice water. “By getting him to work for you.”
Penner scratched his head “How am I supposed to do that?”
“We don’t think a direct approach would work with him. So we’d like to try an indirect approach.”
“And that makes me an Indirector?”
“Correct. We’re thinking you could make him an offer that plays on his ego, maybe suggest you could make a movie based on a true-life spy story, if only he’d be willing to tell you. Draw him out. We can give you hints about where to lead him. Our hope is, that, for a big payout under the table, he’ll fictionalize a situation in which he is actually involved. Once you take him there, you tell him you have another adviser on the project you’d like him to meet.” Jones smiled sweetly. “Me.”
“And you take it from there?”
“You catch on quick.”
“Yeah, well I already have experience doing this kind of thing.”
Jones was surprised by his candor, if concerned by such chattiness. “Really?”
Penner caught himself, already sorry for his boastfulness. “Researching roles, I mean. I was in a spy movie.”
“I remember!”
By lunch’s end, the movie star had agreed to contact Hernandez with a view to traveling to Washington to see him, and perhaps feel him out. It was a no-brainer for Penner, as he had to follow up with the Venezuelan anyway on CIA business.
“What about a drink tonight?” Penner winked.
“Let’s save that for Washington.” Jones winked back.
“You’ll be there, too?”
“Of course. This is my operation. Which means we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. If you’re game.”
Penner offered to sign the tab, but Jones insisted that Uncle Sam pay for lunch.
The actor chuckled. Now I have two Uncle Sams. Speaking of which, he checked his TAG Heuer, “I gotta scram.”
Location C: A public car park on South Robertson in West Hollywood, amidst the trendy boutiques and but a block away from The Ivy.
Penner drove his Ferrari in and ascended the ramp three tiers until reaching the open-air top floor. Penner parked a few spaces away, got out and climbed into Charles Mulberry’s front passenger seat.
“My bigwigs send their gratitude,” said Mulberry. “Your action had the desired effect. Thank you. Now, what’s your news?”
“The French booted him.”
“We know that.”
“But do you know where he is?” Penner smirked.
“No. Do you?”
“Yes. Geneva, Switzerland.”
The CIA officer’s eyes grew a size. “Are you sure?”
“That’s what he told me. He wants to make a movie deal, but he says he won’t send me material, I have to read it in front of him.”
“He said he’d let you read it?” Mulberry’s eyes grew another two sizes.
“That’s what he said. And I promised him an answer”—Penner checked his watch—“by midnight tonight his time. Forty-five minutes from now.”
Mulberry frowned. Without a cryptographic phone in his car, this meant having to sign off on a major development without consultation with superiors at headquarters. Which would mean obsessive thoughts about losing his job and numerous teeth-counting. “It can’t wait?”
“No. He’s got some other kind of deal being offered.”
This alarmed Mulberry. “What other deal?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Okay.” Mulberry breathed deeply, exhaled. “Let’s buy time. Tell him you’re coming to Geneva, so he should hold off dealing with anyone else, but tell him you need to wrap up a few commitments so that you won’t be able to get there till next week.” The CIA officer considered his position. “Can you make it to Washington? I think my bigwigs are going to want to meet you, brief you themselves, before Geneva.”
Penner grinned, and thought of Jennifer Jones’s long legs. Washington, D.C. Clearly, this was meant to be. Though where he wanted to be was between those legs.