Severe Clear

37

The group left the music department, Hattie with two DVDs under her arm, and got back into the electric cart to continue their tour. They visited set design and the props warehouse, the motor pool where a collection of vehicles, some of them going back decades, was kept, ready to be used in scenes, and the costume department, where they watched Immi Gotham being fitted for her concert gown.

Finally, they were driven down streets occupied by a mix of small office buildings and cottages, and the cart stopped in front of a traditional California bungalow with a wide front porch and a beautifully tended front garden. Goldman led everyone to the house and opened the front door with a key. “Peter,” he said, “this was your father’s… excuse me, your stepfather’s bungalow for more than fifty years. I’ve left it just as it was the last time he used it. It’s sentimental of me, but in fact, no one on the lot has had the courage to ask me for it.”

They walked through the bungalow, which contained a living room, dining room, and kitchen, plus three other rooms, several utility rooms, and Vance Calder’s office, which opened onto a back porch that offered a good view of the entire lot from a small rise. Nobody said much of anything.

Peter took a chair and waved to the others to gather around a table on the porch. “Leo,” he said, “Hattie, Ben, and I have been on an accelerated program at Yale, going to school the year ’round, and we’re going to graduate next year.”

“What are your plans then, Peter?” Goldman asked. “I know you well enough already to believe that you have some.”

“Our plan is to come to L.A. and make pictures for Centurion.”

Goldman broke into a wide grin. “I’ll tell you the truth, I was hoping you’d say that. Your first film, Autumn Kill, has already grossed more than sixty million dollars, and we’re about to release it in Europe and Asia, where we project it will earn at least that much more. And a lot of people couldn’t understand why I paid so much for it! The quicker we have another film from you, the better.”

“Thank you, Leo. Hattie, Ben, and I want to operate as a unit on the lot, drawing on the studio’s resources as we need them, and, of course, we’ll need a space to work in. Do you think you could keep this bungalow for our use?”

“I’d be delighted to do that, Peter. Of course, you’ll want to bring it up to date, but we’ll have plenty of time to get it ready for you.”

“I think the main things we’ll need are soundproofing, a piano, and recording facilities for Hattie’s studio, and an editing suite for Ben and me, and, of course, wiring for computers and wi-fi.”

“Tell me which rooms you’d like to use, and I’ll get an architect started on some drawings for your approval.”

“Let’s go take a look,” Peter said. They went back into the house, where the three of them discussed their needs in the space and Leo took notes. Half an hour later, they were done. They had a late lunch at the studio commissary, then resumed their tour of the Centurion lot.

Late in the afternoon, after a look around the executive offices, Goldman walked them to the waiting hotel SUV, and they started back to the hotel.

“That was a very exciting day, wasn’t it?” Ben said.

“Nobody’s more excited than me,” Hattie said. “Immi is doing an all-Gershwin program at her concert, and Mr. Greenfield wants me to come back tomorrow and rehearse a number for her with me on piano.”

“Wonderful! It was a very satisfying day for me, too,” Peter said. “I can see a future for all of us. It’s what Dad calls ‘severe clear.’”

“What does that mean?” Hattie asked.

“It’s a pilot’s term, it means a cloudless sky, ceiling and visibility unlimited.”

“Severe clear,” Ben said. “I like it.”

When they arrived back at the hotel the Cayenne was shunted into a parking area again.

“I thought we wouldn’t have to go through this another time,” Peter said, “coming and going in one of the hotel’s cars.”

“Something must have happened,” Ben said.

After the search of the car had been completed, Hans drove them back to their cottage. They arrived simultaneously with Mike Freeman, who was carrying a briefcase.

Inside, Stone was sitting with another man they hadn’t met.

“Hi there, kids,” Stone called out. “I don’t think you’ve met Special Agent Rifkin, of the Secret Service.” Everybody shook hands.

“Dad,” Peter said, “they put us through the big search again at the front gate. Has something happened?”

“No, no,” Stone replied. “The security folks are just a little nervous, what with two presidents here and a lot of celebrities to arrive tomorrow. Will you excuse us, please? We have some things to discuss.”

“Sure,” Peter said. “What about a swim, everybody?”

The others nodded, and they all went to change.

“Let’s go into the study,” Stone said when they had gone. The three men got up and walked into the next room, and Stone closed the door behind them. “All right, Mike, what’s up?” he asked.

Mike sat down. “First of all, Agent Rifkin, I want to apologize to you and the Secret Service.”

“For what?” Rifkin asked.

“Late yesterday I got word from the NSA that they had located the geographical point from which the e-mails were sent by our friend Algernon. It was an apartment house in Palo Alto.”

“Why didn’t you call me at once?” Rifkin asked.

“That’s why I’m apologizing,” Mike said, “for that and my reason for not calling you.”

“Which is?”

“Frankly, I don’t think your people are sufficiently trained and experienced to work a scene as well as… well, some other agencies. Nor as well as our people at Strategic Services.”

Rifkin thought about that, but didn’t contradict him. “Go on, what did you find?”

“Not much,” Mike said. “The place had been cleaned and wiped down-very professionally, I might add. Except for one thing.”

“Come on, Mike,” Stone said, “spit it out.”

Mike set his briefcase on the coffee table and unlatched the locks. “We found these under a table.” He reached into his briefcase and removed a zipped plastic bag containing a pair of heavy gloves.

“I’m sorry,” Stone said, “I don’t get it. Gloves?”

Mike set the bag on the coffee table. “They’re lab gloves,” he said. “There’s good news and bad news about them.”

“Go on, tell us,” Stone said.

“The good news is, they’re not sufficiently protective for handling plutonium.”

“And the bad news?”

“They’re sufficient for handling enriched uranium.”

“Oh, my dear God,” Rifkin said.