CLOAK & CORKSCREW: 15) ENTER PRIVATE SPIES
My Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy
33.
Brooks Holden, founder and publisher of TZM, was incensed that the Malibu police department had dropped charges against Josh Penner for attacking his videographer, Bradley Bish—the clearest case of assault and battery he had ever seen. Something, clearly, was remiss.
“And I want to know what it is!” Holden slammed his fist on a large table in the center of TZM’s newsroom, where he personally doled out assignments and called the shots. “Anyone who attacks one of our reporters becomes our top priority. I want Penner’s life turned upside down.”
To that end, Holden allocated $20,000 from the editorial budget to hire a Dataveillant.
A Dataveillant is a private investigator that specializes in computer data and, for varying prices, can access telephone records and credit card usage.
Penner’s American Express account showed that he had just checked into the Four Seasons Georgetown, had booked a flight that evening for himself and one Sophie Gunderson, first-class Swissair to Geneva, and had booked two rooms at the Beau Rivage Hotel.
“You and you.” Holden pointed at Natalie Ruva and Bradley Bish. “Pack your bags, you’re going to Switzerland. Get in Penner’s face. If he assaults you in Switzerland, he’s not going to get the free ride he got here.”
“But shouldn’t it be someone he hasn’t seen before,” said Bish, “so that he doesn’t know we’re on him?”
“Already got that covered,” snapped Holden.
Earlier, he had hired Jeremy Katz, a private investigator recommended to him by the Dataveillant. It would be Katz’s job to shadow Penner in Geneva and fathom what this new dalliance with Sophie Gunderson was all about. And also witness any altercation between Penner and Bish, with a view to recording any such fracas with photographic evidence, both for publication and prosecution.
Holden, only 32 years old, had become the most powerful force in the celebrity news business within two years of launching TZM. He had cut his teeth as a trainee reporter at the National Enquirer, a job to which he’d aspired since the age of ten, and they’d cut him loose at the end of his probationary period for reasons never proffered.
Devastated, Holden decided to launch an internet gossip site, which he started on a shoestring loan of $10,000 and a smattering of how-to books.
While sales of the tabloid press dwindled, TZM soon got millions of hits a day, ever growing in popularity, and rendering Holden a very wealthy man. Wooed by Google and Yahoo to sell out at ten figures, he preferred to remain the new feudal lord of celebrity titillation, feared by movie stars everywhere, and now he had droves of tabloid reporters seeking employment with him.
It had all started with a scoop photo of Paris Hilton in a miniskirt with no panties in the backseat of a car. After that, the hits kept coming, until advertisers could not part with their money fast enough to board Holden’s ship.
What started with celebrity snatch evolved into scuffles, exposes of illegal drug use, and the kind of muckraking not seen since the days of Confidential magazine in the 1950s. Only now, in this hi-tech age, could anyone have a photo up within seconds of shooting it. The power of the media had never been so globally pervasive. And Holden relished every second of his 16-hour workdays, surrounded 360 degrees by a symphony orchestra of reporters that he conducted.
Something of a nerd in high school and college, Holden had flourished into a hip media mogul; a lifestyle replete with chauffeured limos and groupies and, ironically, all the trappings favored by the showbiz stars he exposed.
And now, Brooke Holden had a bug up his butt for Josh Penner, who dared to attack one of his videographers—and get away with it.
“If you do this right,” he said to Ruvo and Bish. “A big bonus.” He snickered. “And a boner for that sonofabitch Penner.”
34.
Ex-CIA renegade Tom Richardson awakened to three cell phone messages from Igor Kuntevich, each more desperate than the last. Had Richardson met with the other parties yet? What was the outcome? When would he make a decision? He, Kunty, could not remain in Switzerland forever.
Richardson chuckled. Russians lacked subtlety. But they did have the big bucks these days—and window-shopping in Geneva reinforced Richardson’s belief in big bucks.
It was the fourth message that pleased Richardson: Josh Penner, from Dulles airport, about to board a Switzerland-bound jet. Richardson smiled to himself. He had gone from CIA reject to The World’s Most Sought After Spy.
Derek Priddle of The Woodpecker Press in London had phoned the day before. Richardson informed him that a Russian publisher had put serious money on the table, what did he think about sharing rights?
Priddle, who had some experience with Russian publishers, expressed concern that they did not honor their agreements, would not restrain themselves to simultaneous publication and thus would probably jump the gun, spoiling the exclusive for other publishers.
Richardson had already determined that dealing with a Russian “publisher” was not the best option, but he could nonetheless work it as leverage with others who desired to execute a deal. He also realized that, however the Russians packaged their deal, his ex-employer, the CIA, would see it for what it truly was: A Russian intelligence operation. And then he had this thought: Maybe CIA should create a publishing company and buy all rights, then kill the book. It’s not like he had a burning desire to expose secrets; he simply wanted to settle the score between them, in retaliation for mistreatment at CIA’s hands.
And then he had another thought: What if CIA tried to use an existing entity to ruse him as a means of gaining access to his material and ownership of it?
He thought of Derek Priddle and The Woodpecker Press. He had contacted them.
But what about Josh Penner?
The actor had contacted him, from out of the blue. And then Penner had gone out of his way to get Richardson sprung by the French special services.
Sure, Penner was known to be an activist who commiserated with foreign leaders at odds with the CIA, like Fidel Castro and Hugo Chavez, who despised the USA. But was it possible Penner secretly collaborated with CIA?
Richardson considered running out on Penner, take a train to Zurich and hang with gnomes for a few days, see how Penner reacted to being stood up, on the basis that no Hollywood star would stand for that. However, he reasoned such a strategy would be futile: If Penner got mad and split, proving he wasn’t connected to CIA, Richardson would be shooting himself in the foot, a missed opportunity rendering him a victim of his own paranoia.
At that moment his cell phone rang, and Richardson recognized who was calling. “Are you in Geneva?”
“Yep,” replied Penner. “Just got into a taxi at the airport, headed for a hotel called Beau Rivage.”
They agreed to meet for lunch.
Jeremy Katz, private investigator on retainer to Brooks Holden of TZM, sat in the lobby of Hotel Beau Rivage, awaiting the arrival of Josh Penner and whatever bimbo accompanied him.
Katz’s associate, the Dataveillant, based in Washington DC, had been up all night monitoring every database that might provide new insight into Penner’s whereabouts and activities. And now the Dataveillant stood on call, awaiting Katz’s confirmation, prepared to swiftly react to any new lead.
With Bluetooth attached to his ear, Katz watched as Penner and Sophie Gunderson alighted from a Mercedes taxi and swept up the stairs beneath ornate chandelier and into the hotel lobby. Penner took possession of two metal keys, handed one to Gunderson, and together they followed a bellman with their luggage to the elevator.
Katz hit a single key on his phone and connected to the Dataveillant. “Hotel confirmed,” he whispered.
The PI had spent fifteen years in the FBI, on counterintelligence surveillance duty for the Washington Field Office, and knew every trick of the trade for blending into any situation. He had cultivated the bland looks of a spy and could linger for hours without notice. So practiced was he at making himself invisible, he often had a hard time just ordering a cup of Joe; service staff hardly noticed his presence.
Tired of bureaucracy, Katz had left the Bureau to hang a shingle as a one-man band, was busy ever since with numerous assignments, some marital, some corporate due diligence, all grist for the novels he hoped to pen one day.
Katz wore bland doughy facial features beneath an assumed mane—a toupee, one of several, depending on his need to change appearance. He dressed in khaki trousers and light colored shirts and was never without a simple navy sport-coat, in which he pocketed a tie, as needed. Simple versatility for mixing just about anywhere with anyone, never appearing out-of-place.
The PI often worked as a team with the Dataveillant, who rarely left his home-office, at which his only company were eight high-powered computers that surrounded him, not only presenting data on their screens but also speaking to him audibly.
If you belonged to Von’s shopping club, the Dataveillant could uncover what brand of toilet paper you used; if you belonged to Blockbuster, what DVDs you watched; Amazon, what books you ordered.
In the new age of hi-tech gizmos and shopping habits, the Dataveillant saw all, knew all.
Katz, on the other hand, was the Dataveillant’s foot soldier, doing the kind of old-fashioned gumshoeing even most detectives these days eschewed.
And so, clients like TZM valued them highly, with payment to match.
Jeremy Katz continued to sit, barely noticed, until, less than an hour later, Josh Penner and Sophie Gunderson reappeared briefly in the lobby.
Gunderson consulted the concierge—for directions, Katz presumed—and the pair set off by foot, with Katz in pursuit from a discreet distance behind.
They walked east on Quai de Mont Blanc for several blocks before cutting into majestic Hotel des Bergues.
Katz hurried his pace, arriving in the lobby just in time to see the pair greeted by a male in his late 30s, dressed smart-casual, sporting longish hair and a four-day stubble.
Tom Richardson recognized Josh Penner the moment he ambled into Des Bergues and strode forward to greet him.
Penner introduced the rogue spy to Sophie Gunderson.
Jeremy Katz, eavesdropping while pretending to study a display case of Breguet wristwatches nearby, noted Richardson’s name, and watched the trio enter the hotel restaurant. Once they were seated, Katz engaged the maitre d’ and gave him 50 Swiss francs for a window table nearby. Then he pressed a single key, waited for connection, and whispered a name to the Dataveillant.
Three thousand miles away, the Dataveillant had it figured within seconds: Tom Richardson was the renegade CIA spy about whom Penner had called a media conference a week before. He relayed this to Katz as the private investigator took his seat at a table adjacent to Penner’s and pulled a paperback from his raincoat pocket, which he pretended to read.
Next to arrive: Igor Kuntevich, who had trailed Richardson to Des Bergues, and now watched, discomfited, as his target conversed with one of Hollywood’s biggest stars. The ex-CIA officer had not been bluffing; he really did have a movie deal in the offing. Kunty resisted an urge to enter the dining room.
“Sophie,” said Penner, within hearing distance of Katz, “is my vice president in charge of development. Which is a fancy way of saying she acquires and develops movie projects for our production company to produce or for me to star in.” He paused. “How do you think I’d do playing you?”
Richardson chuckled. “What’s to say you’re not already playing me?”
This puzzled Penner. “Meaning?”
“Just joking.” Richardson noted that Gunderson shot him a look. “I know the spook world, but not much about the movie business. Can you take me through how a movie deal works?”
During the next five minutes, Penner explained how movie options worked. If Sophie liked his material and thought it could be developed into a feature film—and it was Sophie who would read the manuscript and make the decision, he inserted—they would offer him a deal to option his book for two years. If at the end of two years they had not gone into production, all film rights would revert back to Richardson.
“So none of this gets in the way of my publishing a book?” said Richardson.
Penner shook his head. “It enhances your ability to sell a book,” he said. “That’s the benefit to you. A movie option with me will make book publishers pay attention.”
“What if,” Richardson posed, “I were to make a deal with a Russian publisher?”
Penner shrugged. “Makes no difference to me.”
Gunderson’s eyes widened. “Are you in contact with a Russian publisher?”
Richardson grinned coyly.
“The important thing,” said Penner, “is that you don’t sell the publisher, whoever it is, feature film and dramatic rights, which you can sell directly to us.”
“The big question,” said Richardson, “is what will you pay for a two-year option?”
“It will depend on what Sophie thinks of your material, and how much needs to be spent on scriptwriters to bang it into a movie. The big pay-off comes later, on the first day of production.”
“No good.” Richardson folded his arms. “All I care about is advance payment. The U.S. government will freeze any monies after that.”
“Maybe there’s a way around that,” said Penner. “We could deposit funds into an escrow account in Europe. On the first day of production, funds automatically become yours, outside the prying eyes of the United States.”
A few feet away, Jeremy Katz, who appeared to be deeply absorbed in his book, made notes in the margins, as if he were highlighting passages of special interest to himself. Penner colluding/conspiring with CIA traitor to obstruct U.S. legal system.