Note: My Saturday Evening Post arrives early as I will be on the road much of the day.
38.
Having lost their prey, the TZM duo did the next best thing and drove to Hotel Beau Rivage, where they had also taken rooms. Their new plan by default: Sit and wait. They chose the comfy Atrium Bar with its big chairs and soft cushions.
And got lucky.
Natalie Ruvo glimpsed Josh Penner and a ravishing blonde stride through the corridor, outside the Atrium, toward the lobby.
Ruvo jumped up and charged out, Bradley Bish right behind her, video camera in hand.
“Mister Penner!” Ruvo called out from behind.
The movie star froze and, believing his life in danger from Gunderson’s spooky talk, peed himself as he turned to face his celebrity media tormentors. “Not you two!”
Is Sophie your new girlfriend?” called Ruvo.
Gunderson never turned around, but just kept moving briskly, stage left, down the stairs and out the front entrance.
“Oh my God!” said Ruvo, pointing at the wet patch widening upon the crotch of Penner’s khaki trousers.
“Got it,” snickered Bish, his camera aimed directly at the highly embarrassed movie star.
Penner looked down to see urine dripping onto his Ferragamo driving shoe. “Goddammit!” He looked daggers at the TZM duo then swept past them to the elevator bank.
Unfortunately for him, no elevator was available, giving Ruvo and Bish more time to gawk and film. “Where did Sophie go?” pressed Ruvo.
Penner’s eyes darted around, attempting to locate hotel security or management. “Doesn’t anyone no how to keep scumbag reporters out of here!” he hollered at the top of his lungs.
An elevator opened. Penner scooted in. Ruvo and Bish attempted to follow.
“No you don’t.” Penner blocked them with both hands.
“He hit me!” hollered Bish.
“Next time I’ll fucking kill you!” Penner pushed the door close button.
Josh Penner Pisses Himself.
This was TZM’s shock headline, posted on the internet within 20 minutes, complete with photos and video. Within the hour it became a YouTube sensation with more than a million views.
TZM’s piece went on to say that Penner was in Geneva to collaborate with a CIA traitor on a book that would expose secrets and endanger U.S. national security.
Upstairs in his suite, Penner phoned Sophie Gunderson, who did not answer. Then he phoned Tom Richardson, who did. “Sophie liked your material,” he said abruptly. “So we can deal. But I gotta leave Geneva.”
“Where are you going?” asked Richardson.
This stumped Penner. “Dunno.”
“If we don’t have a signed deal by tomorrow, I’m going with the Russian publisher.”
Penner sighed. At this point, he could give a flying crap. “If that’s what you want to do,” he snapped, “do it,” he snapped. “I don’t deal under pressure.”
“But I’d rather deal with you.” Richardson retreated. “If you’re traveling, maybe I’ll join you.”
“Where do you suggest?”
“Zurich, by train.”
“How fast can you get to the station?” asked Penner.
“I’m in a hotel across the street from it.”
Penner took off his trousers, stuffed them into a small bathroom garbage bin and showered. Then he quickly packed his things and tried to call Gunderson— again, no answer—and called the hotel’s front desk. “I need to check out,” he barked. “And don’t even think of charging me for tonight.” He shushed the clerk’s protests. “You’re lucky I don’t sue your ass for allowing the media to ambush me in your lobby! Where the hell is security? Clock me out. Bill whatever the hell you want, I’ll take it up with Amex, and I’ve got a black card, so they always agree with me—get it?!” He paused. “Are those reporters still downstairs?” The clerk assured him that the duo from TZM had been given short shrift. “Then call me a cab, I’ll be right down.”
Tom Richardson had earlier excused himself from Roberto’s where he’d been dining with Igor Kuntevich to take Josh Penner’s call. Now he returned to his seat and faced the Russian, who had just offered him half a million dollars to publish his book. “I’m very interested, but I need to tie down the movie part of this first,” said Richardson, ignoring the cappuccino that had been delivered in his absence.
Kuntevich stiffened. Damn phone call, almost had it clinched. “My offer expires in 24 hours.”
Richardson smiled. These Russians are a piece of work. “Good, that’s all I need.” He paused. “May I assume dinner’s on you?”
Kunty grunted. “Be careful.”
“Excuse me?”
“She’s CIA.”
“Who’s CIA?”
“The pretty woman with your movie star.” Kuntevich said movie star with a sour face and obvious disdain.
“How would you know that?” asked Richardson.
Kuntevich winked. “Friends-connections.”
By the time, 30 minutes later, Richardson alighted from Hotel Cornavin, the Russian was sitting in a café down the street. Kunty watched Richardson stride into the train station. And then followed.
Sophie Gunderson had split for the U.S. Mission to take advice from headquarters.
You’re done, she was told. Spend the night at the Mission and board a flight for Washington in the morning.
Gunderson cursed, presuming she had failed her mission—a first for her.
Inside Cornavin Station, Richardson quickly spotted Josh Penner, waiting by the ticket office.
“The ten o’clock is about to pull out,” said Penner. “Wasn’t sure you’d make it.”
Richardson looked around. “Where’s Sophie?”
Penner winked. “Yeah, I know—a real fox, right? She wouldn’t put out so I dumped her.”
“Damn. You might have given me a shot.”
Penner looked around, concerned that the duo from TZM was lurking in the shadows. “Let’s talk on the train.”
Penner did not notice Jeremy Katz, who had trailed the movie star from Hotel Beau Rivage to the station. Katz eased himself to the ticket clerk, pointed to Track Three. “Where does that train go?”
“Zurich.” The clerk checked his watch. “In two minutes.”
Katz paid cash.
Next in line to purchase a ticket: Igor Kuntevich, with barely 30 seconds to spare.