Severe Clear

50

Stone and Dino had breakfast on the patio beside the pool. “I don’t know what to do with myself today,” Stone said. “It’s the first time since we arrived that my mind hasn’t been full of what I have to do today.”

“That sounds like a complaint,” Dino said.

“No, just an observation. I don’t really want to leave the house today. All the guests are checking in, and it’s going to be chaos out there.”

“Why chaos? People check into hotels all the time.”

“Yes, but not all on the same day and with as much security.”

“You have a point.”

“The concert tonight will be great,” Stone said.

“Viv and I are looking forward to it.”

Peter and Ben appeared and joined them.

“Where’s Hattie?” Stone asked.

“I couldn’t get her up. I think she’s nervous about her performance tonight, and sleep postpones having to think about it.”

“Hasn’t she done a lot of performing?”

“Sure, but this is her first appearance in a professional setting. Before, it was all student stuff.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“Dad, Dino, Ben and I have some good news.”

“Good news I can always use,” Dino said. “Pardon the rhyme.”

“You’re pardoned, Pop,” Ben said.

“So what’s the news?” Stone asked.

“The three of us are going to have a production deal at Centurion,” Peter said.

Stone looked alarmed. “When?”

“Don’t worry, Dad, it’s for after we all graduate.”

Stone relaxed a little. “What’s the deal?”

“We haven’t worked that out yet,” Peter said, “so I’ll want your help on structuring the contract.”

“You’re going to need showbiz help,” Stone said. “Let me talk to Bill Eggers about somebody in the L.A. office who does entertainment law. Leo Goldman is a nice guy, but he’s going to be a tough negotiator.”

“See? That’s just the kind of advice we need.”

“So, Ben,” Dino said, “you’re going to produce?”

“Executive-produce,” Ben replied.

“What’s the difference?”

“There are often several producers on films, even several executive producers, but that’s mostly a billing argument. We’re going to run a leaner operation, but I’ll still want an experienced line producer to do the day-to-day production work.”

“Sounds good.”

“And, Peter,” Stone said, “you’ll write or direct?”

“Both,” the boy replied, “though I can see just directing, if somebody comes to us with a good script already written.”

“Sounds good.”

“What’s really good is, Leo showed us Vance’s old bungalow, which has been empty since his death, and he’s going to redo it for us, to our specifications.”

“That sounds wonderful!”

“Yeah, but I don’t have any experience with that kind of space planning.”

“Why don’t you talk to James Rutledge? He was trained as an architect, then he was with Architectural Digest, and now he does just the sort of thing you need. You were at the High Cotton Ideas party-did you like that place?”

“Oh, wow, did I!”

“Well, Jim was the designer on that. Get Leo to send you the plans, then send them to Jim for a look.”

“He’s sending them over today, so I’ll call Jim as soon as we’re back.”

“Can’t hurt to start early.”

Hattie wandered onto the patio, looking sleepy, and sat down.

“Good morning,” Stone said.

“Is it?” Hattie asked, looking at the sky and squinting. “I can’t tell.”

Stone laughed. “Trust me, it is. Are you all ready for your performance tonight?”

Hattie looked alarmed. “I forgot about that. Don’t remind me.”

“Relax, you’ll do fine.”

A waiter appeared and took everybody’s breakfast order.

Steve Rifkin had not slept well. He had doubled his crew for the overnight search of The Arrington’s theater, where the two presidents would hold their joint signing and press conference at ten A.M., and now he was up early and walking around The Arrington’s theater, having a final look for himself.

His search detail leader approached. “Don’t worry, boss,” he said, “this place is clean.”

“We’re missing two bombs,” Rifkin said.

“I understand that, but I don’t think the other two even made it onto the property.”

Rifkin looked around. “All right, seal this place-nobody in here that isn’t essential to the press conference. There’s a list-stick to it.”

“Right, boss.” The man went away to do his work.

Hamish McCallister arrived at the theater, along with at least a hundred other reporters, each with his credentials hung around his neck. He found a seat in the fourth row of the theater, which was a structure half-embedded in the landscape on the north side of the hotel’s grounds. He stood in front of his seat and looked around the big room as his colleagues, many of them recognizable from television, filed into the theater. This, he reflected, would have made a wonderful target for one of his three small bombs, killing the two presidents and most of the media representatives present.

But that was not a worry for Hamish. He didn’t need the other two bombs now, and the Secret Service had the other one. The device in the Vuitton steamer trunk would do the work of a thousand of the smaller bombs.

Secret Service agents, a dozen of them with sniffer dogs, wandered the room, making a final check. The dogs hadn’t helped find the missing bombs because one was concealed in a place no one would ever look, and the other was in a vehicle that had already been searched several times.

Half the reporters in the room were on their cell phones; the other half were scribbling in their notebooks. Hamish watched them, feeling relaxed and content. His plans were made, and they would be carried out. He took out his throwaway cell phone and sent messages to Wynken and Blynken. He had already made his travel arrangements. He would not need the Cessna Caravan; it was now his backup escape plan. He sent a text to the pilot, instructing him to be ready for takeoff at three P.M.

Then a hush fell over the room as the president of the United States, accompanied by the president of Mexico, entered the theater from stage right and took their seats at a table at the center of the stage.