Ted Bell - Tsar

He told Fancha she was going straight to the top; with her looks and her angel’s voice, nothing could stop her. He said he was just glad he happened to be at the birthday party that night and heard her sing, because he wouldn’t trust her Hollywood career to anyone but Miramar. He, Nick Duntov, would personally focus his full laser-beam attention on her alone, turn over all of his other clients to other producers at the firm.

“Nick, tell me something,” Stoke said when it seemed as if he’d wrapped up the big schmooze. “How did you happen to be at the birthday party that night?”

“What?”

“No big deal, I’m just curious. Wasn’t exactly a Hollywood crowd over there in the Grove, right? Just a bunch of mobbed-up Russians, from what I could tell. Gangsters and Chechen gang bangers.”

“Mr. Levy, I don’t want to be rude. But what the fuck would you know about Hollywood? Sun Coast Artist Management isn’t exactly a player in that league.”

“Did he just use the F word, Shel?” Sharkey said, looking up.

“I believe he did drop an F bomb.” Fancha giggled.

Stoke said, “No, it isn’t. I’m just a naturally curious individual. I’m just looking out for my girl.”

“So am I. Look, we both have Fancha’s best interests at heart, Mr. Levy. So, why don’t we all try to get along, huh? Good idea? I have something here that will make you both happy.”

He pulled an envelope out of his inside pocket, opened it, and slid a yellow check across the table. It was made out to Suncoast, payable to Fancha. It took a sec for the amount to register. It was made out for a quarter of a million dollars.

“What’s this for?” Stoke said, looking at the name of the bank and the payee. It was a Swiss bank, small, private.

“Consider it a demonstration of my total belief in Fancha’s career, Mr. Levy. I have booked a one-night engagement for her. That’s her fee.”

“One night? A quarter of a million dollars?” Stoke said. “Come on.”

“Sheldon Levy, behave yourself,” Fancha said. “Let’s hear what the man has to say.”

“Fancha, thank you. Let me tell you about this one very special and historic night. Are you both with me?”

“Hit it,” Stoke said, leaning back in his chair. He glanced at Sharkey and rolled his eyes.

Nick paused a moment before he spoke, looking for some drama.

“Fancha, you missed this morning’s presentation, but I assume you saw the model of the TSAR company’s new passenger liner in the forward lounge? The Pushkin? ”

“Yes, I did. Beautiful.”

“I’ve been aboard her. Let me tell you, the Pushkin is the most luxurious passenger ship ever to sail the skies. Named in honor of the famed Russian poet. She will make her maiden voyage on December 15. She will sail from Miami on a transatlantic flight, arriving at Stockholm on December 17 in time for the Nobel Prize award ceremony that evening at the Stockholm Stadshuset. It may interest you both to know that the owner of this vessel himself is to be awarded a Nobel Prize for his work in astrophysics.”

“She’s going to sing at the Nobel Prize ceremony?” Stoke asked.

“No. She’s going to sing onboard the Pushkin on her first night. There will be a gala dinner that night honoring the owner and all of the other Nobel laureates and nominees who will be joining us for the inaugural crossing. Many distinguished guests will be aboard, including the presidents of the United States and Russia and the premier of China. Not to mention their royal highnesses the king and queen of Sweden.”

“I’m going to sing for the president?” Fancha said.

“Yes, Fancha, you are. You’re going to sing for the world before we’re done. Does that sound interesting to you?”

Fancha looked at Stokely. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars? Baby, I’d do this gig for free!”

Nick smiled and pulled another envelope out of his pocket.

“What’s next?” Stoke said.

“Yeah, what’s next?” Sharkey echoed, getting into it.

“I have here a letter of intent saying that Fancha agrees to enter contract negotiations to star as the female lead in the upcoming Miramar production Storm Front , directed by Ed Zwick and also starring Denzel Washington and Brad Pitt. Executive produced by yours truly, Nikita Duntov. Accompanying the letter is a certified check from Miramar Pictures for two million dollars.”

“Oh, baby,” Fancha said, grabbing Stoke’s hand. “Is this for real?”

“I don’t know, Boo,” Stoke said, looking hard at Nikita Duntov. “Is it real, Nick?”

“Take it to the bank and find out, Mr. Levy.”

“You want to do this, baby?” Stoke said, looking at Fancha. She looked as if she was about to come out of her shoes.

“Do I want to do this, baby?” she said. “I’ve been wanting to do this since I was five years old!”

She jumped to her feet, grabbed Stoke’s head, and crushed it to her bosom. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

“It’s happening, just like I always imagined it. It’s real, baby, can’t you feel it? It’s real! ”

Stokely gently wiped away her tears, then held up his hand in front of Nikita’s face.

“What’s that wet stuff on my hand, Nick?”

“Teardrops?”

“Correct. Real tears, Nick. Remember the lady’s tears, what they look like. Remember what’s real and what isn’t. Because if you forget, Nick, forget what’s real, something bad is going to happen.”

“Tears dry, Mr. Levy.”

“Not these tears, Nick. Bet on it.”

The midnight-blue Gulfstream IV was cruising at 45,000 feet. She’d slowed a bit for initial descent and was doing 400 kilometers per hour with a good tailwind due to the prevailing westerlies. She was less than an hour from her destination, Bermuda. The cabin lights were dimmed, and the two passengers were sound asleep. The attendant, a pretty young woman named Abigail Cromie, was making tea preparatory to landing, when a yellow light flashed in the forward galley. The captain wanted a word.

“Yes, Captain?” she said, poking her head inside the dark cockpit.

“I’ve got Diana Mars calling for his lordship,” Captain Tanner Rose said, turning to look at her. The young Scotsman’s usual smile was missing. Something was clearly wrong.

“He’s sleeping, I’m afraid. He asked to be awakened a few moments before landing. I’ve just put the tea on.”

“Well, you’d best wake him up, Abby. Lady Mars sounds desperate. She’s calling from a sat phone aboard some sailing vessel. Tell him it’s an urgent call.”

“Right away, Captain.”

Miss Cromie, a woman with ginger-colored hair and a well-tailored pale blue uniform, went aft to where Hawke was sleeping. His seat on the aircraft’s port side was reclined to horizontal, and he was snoring lightly. Forward of him, on the starboard side, Harry Brock was snoring loudly.

“Telephone for you, m’lord,” she whispered into his ear, simultaneously patting him firmly on the shoulder.

“What’s that?” Hawke said, his eyes opening drowsily.

“Lady Diana Mars for you, sir. A sat-phone call from Bermuda. Captain says it’s most urgent, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” Hawke said, coming fully awake and bringing his seat upright. “Yes. All right, then, Abby, I’ll take it.”

There was a mounted telephone right beside Hawke’s seat. Abby pressed the flashing button and handed the receiver to Hawke.

“Alex Hawke,” he said.

“Thank God!” Diana said, her voice quavering.

“Diana, are you all right? What is it?”

“It’s Ambrose, Alex. Ambrose and David have gone missing. I’m afraid something terrible has happened. The two of them went ashore. Fifteen minutes later, I heard gunfire, and then-”