"Bardini was responsible for that one," Harris was saying across her to Espinoza. "Do yon recognize his special touch? He's an expert at using the zoom lens at exactly the right time."
Was this part of Carol's collection, lent for the occasion? Did they exchange film as well as tapes?
"He's quite a stud," Espinoza drawled. "I wonder how I would measure up? Of course, she's quite a woman, too. I shall have to make her acquaintance!"
Harris's fingers gently pushed aside the silky' material of Anne's blouse, finding her nipple. On the screen, Claudia was giving an off-screen performance, and Yves grunted caustically, "Huh! That was her screen test. She has a natural talent for sex, that bitch!"
"It's hard to tell where the silk leaves off and your skin begins, Anne."
She tried to empty her head of everything but the sound of Harris's voice. She was in bed, and he was undressing her. There was a light on, and it kept getting in her eyes until she closed them.
"Anne-Anne, what do you need that I'm not giving you?" Craig's words from long ago.
"If you can't make it, fake it." That had been Violet.
Kaleidoscope of colors and pictures in her mind. Coldness and heat on her body. Not ecstasy, but, at last, release.
Three men, Espinoza, Pleydel and Rufus Randall, had remained in the screening room after the others had left. Randall, grimacing distastefully, had turned on the exhaust fan to dispel the sweet-acrid odor of the hash; but now the room was filled with his cigar smoke.
Against one wall of the room, what had appeared to be a locked closet door had been slid away, disclosing an elaborate arrangement of screens, pushbuttons and tuner knobs. One of Danny Verrano's interesting "amusements," part of the reason why he had asked so much for this house and the land it stood on. Harris Phelps had been his guest on a few occasions, and Harris hadn't quibbled at Danny's price.
Espinoza, lounging back in his chair with his legs stretched before him, drawled lazily, "A most fascinating and useful little toy, eh? I must confess that this is more than I had hoped for. And you say that there are hookups in every room?" He raised an eyebrow. "That must have cost a great deal of money, besides ingenuity. The cameras are not easily noticeable then, I presume."
Pleydel, busy fiddling with dials, shrugged. "Not at all. Some of them are concealed behind speaker grills, some in elaborate light fixtures, vases-you know? They are all positioned to give maximum coverage. Especially"-he winked-"of the bed. And not all the rooms are so equipped. Some of the chalets, the rooms in the outlying buildings where the technicians and the extras are sleeping, were not worth the effort. Also our friend Phelps installed cutoff switches in the rooms that some of us will be occupying, so that if you desire, you'll have your privacy."
"Don't like the idea of a seeing eye myself," Randall growled, puffing on his cigar.
"But some people seem to find it a turn-on. Taki Petrakis wants a videotape of his farewell performance with Vesper before he leaves."
"She does not know?"
"She does not. Nor does Anne Mallory. Just the few of us who might have to take turns to monitor this thing." Randall jerked his head towards the machinery. "I'm still learning-that's why I'm up so late tonight.' Normally, I'm an early riser."
"Here," Pleydel said. A picture suddenly appeared on one of the monitor screens, and Espinoza leaned forward with interest.
"He gets around, doesn't he?"
Webb Carnahan and Claudia were engaged in a flaming row, and wrinkling his nose expressively, Yves turned the volume up slightly. Sitting naked in the middle of her rumpled bed, Claudia hurled a stream of vituperative Italian at Webb, who continued calmly to get dressed. It was obvious that, having fucked her, he was getting ready to go back to his own room and that she didn't like the idea.
"There are numbered buttons for each room. Of course you might have to adjust the focusing slightly, but otherwise it is just a matter of pushing a button-so!"
Fade out and fade in.
The senator slept with his head pillowed on the shoulder of a young man. One of the extras who would play a Mexican officer.
Randall grunted. "That's interesting." He glanced at Espinoza, adding without expression, "We're keeping videotapes, of course. Phelps has had an underground strongroom built, leading off that garage. And that's where we'll store the more explosive tapes-the ones that might be useful later."
"Also, once we start shooting the sex scenes, some of those as well-those that would otherwise have to end up on the cutting-room floor."
Espinoza chuckled. "I am beginning to understand better. And Markham? Is he going to be told?" There was a slight hesitation as the other men glanced at each other. At last Randall gave a shrug of his bearlike shoulders, stubbing out one cigar before he began to light another. He frowned thoughtfully.
"We're not sure yet. Depends. And Phelps doesn't think Carol Cochran ought to be told, because sometimes she talks too much."
"It's probably better not ..."
Most of the other rooms Yves tried, casually, were dark. "Ah well, it's very late." He shrugged. And then, grinning, "But one more. You'll notice I have given our friend Harris time!"
There was a diffused light in Anne Mallory's room, and she slept on her back, naked, with one arm thrown over her eyes. Her body glistened as if it had been oiled, and her nipples were still erect. She was alone.
"Quite lovely," Espinoza mused, his eyes narrowing. "And I see Harris used some of that special ointment I brought with me. It's quite effective with a woman who has difficulty achieving a climax."
"Really? What's in it?" Pleydel sounded interested. Randall merely grunted.
"Many things. Including yohimbine-it's an extract from a plant that grows in certain African countries. When used with a very small amount of cocaine, it can-well, the effects are quite pleasurable. But the most important thing is to remove the inhibitions first. American women! They are full of these hangups, as you call them!"
Randall stretched, yawning hugely. "Well, I think I've seen enough for one night. I'm about ready to tum in myself."
Espinoza looked at his watch, a smile coming to his face. "Why don't you wait a few minutes longer? You might catch something very interesting."
Christ! After four already! Swearing under his breath, Webb Carnahan heard the door lock behind him. The cloying odor of Claudia and sex seemed to cling to him, and without bothering to turn on the light switch, he began to strip, leaving his clothes wherever he dropped them on the way to the bathroom.
He had been allotted one of the guest chalets-closer to the house than most, and conveniently close to the one Claudia occupied. He had left her, still cursing at him to relish the bite of fresh air on his face, penetrating his body. It had at least driven away the feeling of staleness, the traces of tension and tiredness that had been with him all evening. Fucking Claudia had been like making war. C'est la guerre! What he needed now was a shower and the comfort of sleep. Blanking out thought until much, much later.
The shower was as hot as he could stand it, ending with a very short burst of cold.
The towels were large, and there were plenty of them. Harris Phelps didn't do anything by halves. All the comforts of home, including soft piped-in music that he'd turned on almost automatically.
Or had he? Suddenly he couldn't remember. When he stepped back into the bedroom, his body still damp from the stearn, his mind fitted a name to the music.
"Concerto de Aranjuez"-soft guitars. The kind of mood music he didn't need. He stopped still, all his senses suddenly alert. Something -a breath of perfume, a whisper of movement in the dark-warned him before the light carne on, and he saw her sitting curled up in the chair beside the bed, eyes wide and questioning.
Ria. Wraith out of the blackness of the past. Dream or nightmare? Caught unprepared, he felt frozen, until her voice, soft and hesitant, carne across the distance that separated them.
"Webb? I'm sorry it had to be this way ... but I wanted-I wanted our first meeting to be private, after so long . . ."
His mind clicked back into focus, and now he was able to look at her objectively. Her hair was different-blonder. And she hadn't worn makeup before. But the eyes were the same, and the slight trembling of her mouth. Christ, all the mental preparation hadn't quite made him ready for seeing her again. Sound surprised, the monitor in his brain warned him, even while she stood up, green and brown dress clinging.
"Webb"-voice rising slightly-"please-you will listen to me first? If I can find the words to explain what happened-how it happened ..."
His voice came back, sounding flat. "Hello, Ria. And after all these years, why bother to explain?"
He stayed where he was, noticing how she licked her lips nervously. But if he had had any doubts, her words warned him to be cautious: "I did not know what to expect, but-you knew?"
"Excuse me." He picked up one of the towels he had discarded and knotted it around his waist, still watching her. And then he said politely, "Knew what? How did you expect me to react to something like this? Maybe I'm dreaming it all up. My long-lost wife-missing, presumed dead-turning up to surprise me. To explain-isn't that what you just said? So what the fuck am I supposed to say?"
"I don't know. Anything-how can I expect you to understand? They-the people, your friends who sent me back to Cuba-expected me to die. It was a matter of survival, you see, and I discovered that I wanted to survive. Don't blame me too much. If I could have let you know, I would have, but there was no way. And then, after a while, I was afraid to try. I didn't know if I would ever be allowed to leave, and I didn't know if you-what you .. ."
"Turn the goddamn music off, will you?" "Largo." Lone guitar hesitating in the silence, joined by violins. Great background music for whatever kind of scene she'd planned.
They'd played it on the cheap record player that was all he'd been able to afford then.
Ria's music. Supposed to soften him up for now.
"Webb, please .. ."
"It's just that I like jazz better these days, baby. And a lot of things have changed since way back. Including you." He walked toward the bed, glad that she was on the other side of it. "You have changed, too." Her fingers plucked nervously at her skirt.
"So I have." With a vicious motion, he pulled the covers off the bed. "And I don't know if I'm ready to listen to anything you have to say. The shock hasn't worn off yet."
"Do you think he's telling the truth? He seemed too calm. After all, a shock like that
..."
"But you forget he's an actor, yes? He has had the training."
"All kinds of training. And if he knew she was going to be here, there's only one way he could have found out."
"But we have time." Espinoza's voice was soothing. "We can find out whatever we want to know. And don't underestimate Anna-Maria. She is a well-trained weapon in herself, don't you agree?"
The three men had been joined by Harris Phelps-showered and looking fresh. Now, watching the screen, he smoothed his mustache abstractedly.
"I don't think we need to worry about Webb Carnahan. In fact, he might prove useful to us in the end. And he has useful connections."
Webb and Anna-Maria faced each other across the bed-wary adversaries. "Don't send me away. Please let me stay, and-and talk to you. Listen to me, at least."
"Listen, baby, I'm very tired. And still trying to absorb everything. Talking's the last thing on my mind right now."
"Whatever you want. You don't have to talk. Let me."
"Ah shit! Do you have anything on you? I might need it."
"I don't know what you mean ..."
"I think you do. Didn't you come prepared?"
"Ah-now!"
"You're not jealous?"
"Why should I be? Anna-Maria has always belonged to .herself, just as I belong to myself. And there's no need for concern-she can give as good as she gets, that woman!"
She had amyl nitrate-four capsules stashed away in her tiny mesh purse. Webb snapped one under her nose, and another for himself, hardly waiting to hear her gasping cry. The thin chiffon ripped under his hands, and they fell on the bed together, grappling with each other. More war games.
Randall rubbed wearily at his eyes. "Christ, I can see this going on all morning. When did you say he was supposed to film that sequence with Sarah Vesper?"
"The day after tomorrow." Pleydel's eyes were glued to the screen. "It ought to prove interesting."
"He hasn't asked her if they're still married," Harris said thoughtfully.
"I don't think he's had time to think about that yet."
"Put out the fucking light."
And now there was only sound.
MAKE-BELIEVE WAS HARD to believe in, seen from the other side. Wires trailing everywhere, too-bright lights. And cameras. Now that she wasn't in front of them, Anne noticed more. She was starting to learn the jobs of the men who swarmed everywhere. Director, assistant directors for setting up the scene, director of photography, camera operators-and all, in turn, had their own assistants. Lighting gaffers, sound men, electricians. Too many people crowded into one small space.
Anne was watching Webb and Sarah Vesper. Their first scene together. And she was here to watch, and to learn. While they were setting up the scene, Anne tried not to think. Especially of the time when she had first watched Webb, feeling the force of his personality leap out and almost touch her as he had touched her later irrevocably.
The continuity girl, Meg, brushed past, carrying her clip-board, looking harassed, calling, "Toni-wardrobe ..." What wardrobe? They're hardly wearing anything," came from Jean Benedict, pressed against the wall next to Anne.
Well, forget it. She hadn't seen Webb at all yesterday, and hadn't missed him at all.
Bastard! The word leaped into her mind as she watched him smiling down at Sarah Vesper, who contrived, somehow, to look incredibly young. They weren't using standins, and they spent a lot of time standing around while the set was being adjusted about them-in this case, one of the bigger bedrooms in the old part of the house. Not that they were wasting their time, exactly. They seemed to have plenty to say to each other; engaging in a low-voiced, animated conversation that ignored everyone else.