Susan Johnson - Hot Streak

C eci had contacted his team by phone and passed on his orders in a cryptic code impenetrable to listeners. With the specialized surveillance equipment throughout the world, no one relayed sensitive information in open language. Everyone was listening to everyone else, the modern-day Maginot Line of self-defense encumbered by its own informational bulk, just as its predecessor was by its static concrete.

All the men collected from various points on the Mediterranean were to be in Paris in a week. There they would meet in a safe house near Orly and confirm the required procedures for kidnapping Count Fersten's daughter. Ceci was flying up with all the necessary bank account numbers to finance the venture. The men expected half-payment up front deposited in their Swiss accounts prior to the beginning of the mission.

Deraille had only to travel from Marseilles, so he had arrived first, followed by Reha from Athens. They were still waiting for Timur Makal, but he was always the last to arrive, loathe to leave his gambling and women. Since the deadline for their meeting was noon on Thursday, Kemal “Ceci” Kiray expected Timur to arrive just under the wire, as usual.

His entrance was as expected. At 11:45 there was a small flurry of flying gravel in the curved drive, and a black Porsche Targa came to an abrupt halt. A minute later, he stood in the drawing room doorway. “I drove all night from Vienna,” he said, and his eyes were dilated from the amphetamines in his blood. But he always appeared with a beaming smile, like an uncontrite young boy.

“Was she pleasant company?” he asked, indicating the peony pink lipstick stain on the coarse silk weave of Timur's putty-colored jacket.

“They're all pleasant company,” Timur replied with a negligent glance at the pastel souvenir of his beautiful companion. “If she hadn't been so pleasant, I wouldn't have been so late.”

“You're an irresponsible boy.”

“But a lot happier than you, eh, Ceci? And ready to fly you wherever you're off to.” He moved toward the liquor table to pour himself a drink, undeterred by Ceci's mild censure.

Both Deraille and Reha were familiar with Timur's nonchalance, though they were as different from him as day and night. Deraille was a small, dark Corsican who'd spent most of his life in Marseilles and was the very best in his line of work. He was a specialist in surveillance, and could reconnoiter the movements of an intelligence chief within the confines of his own safehouse. Rifat had first heard of him when the Cypriot Prelate had been assassinated in his isolated monastery cell. Bernard Deraille had found the way in. That job had taken him a methodical three months to reconnoiter… his longest ever. But the political ramifications of the murder were still being felt in Cypriot politics.

“Hey Deraille… killed any priests lately?” Timur inquired with another of his charming smiles, holding up a glass of the pear liquor he favored.

“I'm saving myself for the Pope, now that the Bulgarians botched the job,” he replied, his teeth flashing white against his swarthy skin.

“In that case, I won't bet a sou on the Pope's life. You're the best, Bernie.” And he drained the glass in one long swallow.

“I know,” the wiry Corsican replied matter-of-factly. He'd been the best for many years; false modesty did not figure prominently in his psyche.

“And Reha,” Timur went on lazily, setting his glass aside with precision. His finely tuned nervous system was singing. “I hear a prominent Athens shipping magnate died in his Mercedes outside a small taverna. Are the arms transfers out of Sofia finally cleared up?” Timur's smile was angelic.

Reha only grunted. He lacked a sense of humor and had never appreciated Timur's whimsy. A former Turkish olympic heavyweight wrestler, he'd been cashiered out of the army after breaking one too many heads, then saved from prison by Rifat. A brute of a man with no neck or remorse, he was Rifat's most dependable bodyguard and assassin.

Dropping into a tapestry armchair, Timur lounged, all dark-haired, dark-eyed, lean elegance. Contemplating Ceci over the hands propped idly under his chin, he said, “I suppose we gear up at the crack of dawn tomorrow.”

“You're restricted to the flat tonight,” Ceci replied. “Departure is 0500.”

Timur groaned. “You're a sadist, Ceci. Why can't we lift off at a respectable hour?”

“Because my dear Makal, there are fewer people around at 4:30 in the morning to see us load the necessary supplies on board.”

Timur sighed, his dark eyes half-lidded. “Where are we going?”

“Minneapolis.”

His eyes widened in inquiry. “Where?”

“A city in the center of the U.S.” And then Ceci laid out the details of the kidnapping.

D uring the following days Carey often flew down late at night, but he arrived and left as discreetly as possible. He had warned off as many of the photographers as his clout allowed; those on location understood-if they wanted to stay through the filming-that his private life was private. So it wasn't until well into the next week that Molly was faced with the sudden appearance of two photographers as she and Carrie walked through her garden gate, about to spend the afternoon at the beach.

Retreating hastily, she slammed the gate in their faces, locked it, hurried Carrie upstairs, said, “Wait one minute. Mom has to make a phone call,” and dialed Carey's number.

“Could I speak to Carey, please?”

A male voice replied, “Sorry, Mr. Fersten's not taking any calls.”

Her temper flared. The photographers were a disagreeable surprise, but she'd mostly wanted to seek advice from Carey, or ask if he knew who they were, or if he could dislodge them. She had a gut level problem about living her life on the photo section of some gossip newssheet. But coming up against the Hollywood celebrity he-doesn't-take-calls wall brought all the abrasive elements of Carey's life strongly to the fore. “Would you,” she carefully enunciated, controlling her urge to let the temper in her voice show, “leave him a message.”

“Sure, honey, but it won't do you any good. He doesn't return messages. Look,” the voice was clipped and business-like, “if he told you he'd do you a favor, he will. The man's word is good. And if you don't know him, I'm sorry, babe, there's just too many of you calling.”

Images rolled in accelerated fast-forward motion through her mind, and all the women in Carey's life appeared in blurred technicolor. “Tell him,” she said, icicles hanging from each word, “Molly Darian called.”

“Oops. Put you right through. Sorry, but I usually run interference for Carey. No hard feelings…”

And she heard the ringing of the extension.

“Golden Bear Productions.”

“How many people does he have running interference?” Molly asked.

“Could I help you?” Allen said. If Joey had put the call through, it was someone worth being polite to, regardless of the sarcasm.

“This is Molly Darian. I'd like to talk to Carey, if he has time for one of the many women calling him,” she crisply replied.

“I'm sorry, Molly, he's out in the middle of the lake on a barge filming. Could I have him get back to you?”

The man's voice was too smooth, too soothing, as though he'd run through this number endless times. “Tell him I've two photographers camped outside my door. It's extremely annoying, and if they're not gone very soon, I'm never talking to him again.” Her statement was partly rhetorical, but a real anger colored her words when all the old jealousies resurfaced at the thought of Carey being bombarded with female callers. In all the idyllic happiness of their reunion, somehow she'd lost sight of the fact Carey lived another life outside her world. A life where he was sought after, panted after, seen as an enviable prize by beautiful women everywhere.

I value my life, Allen thought. Let her tell him herself. “He'll call you as soon as he's off the lake.”

“Do me a favor.” She couldn't keep the snappishness out of her voice, wondering how many times other women had been put off by that calm tone telling them Carey would call them back.

“Sure, Molly, anything.”

“Tell your boss, if these photographers aren't away from my front door and out of my life-” She paused, realizing how shrill she sounded. “Sorry,” she said, “I'm not used to this-”

“Carey will take care of it,” Allen said in the reasonable voice he reserved for distrait wives, carping producers, and IRS officials. “Trust me. Just as soon as he's back on shore.”

“God I hate this.” Molly's voice had begun to rise again. “He's notorious, you know. Not only famous, but notorious, dammit.”

God in heaven. She just discovered that? In his position, however, Allen knew how to dodge a confrontation. His pacifying retort came automatically. “I'm sure Carey will straighten everything out. I'll have him call you.” But Allen also knew better than anyone that Carey Fersten was indeed notorious. Notorious for having a new woman on every location and in every city.

But this Molly Darian was different. That was obvious to him, to the crew, the cast, to anyone who'd seen Carey since she'd walked into his life. He was adjusting his life for her; he was forcing a relentless pace on the film, pushing the shooting schedule up so that he could fly off and spend a few hours with her. And this movie was his personal pet, the movie he'd waited all his life to make. Changing his life for a woman? No one would believe it. Not anyone who knew Carey before. You had to be here. Yeah, Molly Darian was different, all right.

She was the only woman Allen had ever seen who cost Carey Fersten a cool half million bucks. That was what the shut-downs had cost so far, and the accountants were screaming at him daily over the phone.

An hour later when Carey returned to the trailor, he received Molly's message along with a newly arrived tabloid emblazoned with headlines in twelve-point type screaming: CAREY FERSTEN'S LOVE CHILD over a series of photos showing Carrie walking home from school.

“Fucking Cerelli.”

“None other.”

“Shit.”

“Molly called to tell you she wants the photographers making a home on her doorstep removed a little sooner than immediately.”

Carey frowned. “She was mad?”

“I detected a twinge of annoyance,” Allen said.

“And she hasn't seen this yet.”

“She didn't mention it.” And Allen thought of her final comment-that Carey was notorious. Soon she'd be in that same category herself. It went with the territory. “I'd ease into the subject if I were you.”

“Diplomacy is required, then.”

“Along with a running start.”

Carey laughed. “Oh, hell, so what else is new.” But it was new. For the first time in his life he didn't walk away from an angry woman pressuring him. A novel experience.

Molly wasn't like all the other women. Those headlines and Carrie's pictures would be public property by noon tomorrow. Molly would have to marry him now… very soon. A press conference was in order to announce the date and acknowledge Carrie. “We'll have to call a press conference.”

“For-?” Allen tactfully inquired.

“Carrie's my daughter. I want to acknowledge her, and if I can talk some sense into her mother, we'll announce a wedding date.”

“The lady's reluctant?” After eight years of watching women try to entice Carey to the altar, Allen tried to disguise his astonishment.

“Not reluctant, but she wants time for Carrie and me to get to know each other.”

“The Star Inquirer moved that scenario into fast forward.”

Carey shrugged and smiled. “I'm not complaining.” He picked up the phone. “Wish me luck,” he said, “she's going to be pissed.”

“Luck, boss, although you've had plenty of practice with irate females.” And Allen knew if Carey set his mind to it, he could get most people to do what he wanted. Especially women.

“This is the only one who matters.” Carey crossed his fingers and then waved Allen out.

After making her call to the film site. Molly had explained to Carrie that some of Carey Fersten's prominence had spilled over on them. She promised to take her daughter to the beach later, after the photographers were gone. Then she waited, restlessly and disturbed, wondering if her call would be returned.

She picked up the receiver before the first shrill ring had completely died away.

“Are you all right?” Carey asked, and she could feel the warmth of his concern.

“I'm fine,” she replied, determined to remain composed. “But you heard… there're some photographers outside the gate. Can you get rid of them? Is that too much to ask?” Her initial anger had subsided in the interval between her call and his.