“Sounds like a large airplane.”
“It’s a Gulfstream 650.”
“How long is your landing strip?”
“Seven thousand feet. It was an RAF base during World War Two.”
“That should handle just about anything.”
“Have you heard anything more about the Chosen Few?”
“I found out how they’re financing themselves. Dr. Don has written a series of books based on conspiracy theories about government encroachment on individual rights.”
“Why have I not seen them advertised?”
“Because they’re sold only on the Chosen Few website. He gets thirty to forty bucks a book and sells tens of thousands around the country. They make documentary films of the same nature, too, and sell them on DVDs. Dr. Don is bringing in millions a year, and he doesn’t have a lot of overhead. There’s no church, they rent venues for large meetings, and he only has enough staff to count the money. There are rumors that he has a large vault in his house and keeps most of the cash there.”
“Surely the FBI is looking at this guy.”
“Almost certainly, but they’ve never charged him with anything.”
“There must have been an investigation of the magazine writer’s death.”
“By the LAPD, but no charges were ever brought for lack of evidence.”
The Friday-night screening was a huge success. The invited audience gave it a standing ovation, and Peter and Ben took a bow. Stone hustled them to their cars as quickly as he could. He hugged Peter and Ben. “Have a good flight and call me after you’re at the house. The staff will meet you at the airplane and take good care of you. You’ll go through customs and immigration at the property.”
The boys and their girlfriends and the Barnetts were driven away.
Stone’s and Dino’s cars were waiting. “Dino,” Stone said, “you know the director of the FBI, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Why don’t you give him a call and see if you can find out what, if anything, they have on Dr. Don and his Chosen Few?”
“I’ll call him at home this weekend,” Dino said. “I don’t want to make an official inquiry.”
“Okay. You sure you don’t want to go to England next weekend?”
“I’d love to, I really would, but I’m going to have the press on my ass if I keep trying to keep up with you.”
“I’m glad Viv can go.”
“So am I — she can use some time off.”
Stone and Susan continued home. Upstairs, he turned on CNN, having missed the regular evening news.
“A new film opened at twelve hundred theaters across the nation tonight called Hell’s Bells. Audiences at two of them got more than they had bargained for. There were explosions at theaters in Santa Monica, California, and Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, shortly after the film began. Police in both cities said there were no serious casualties, that the explosions had been caused by the stun grenades police use to storm crime scenes. One Idaho woman was taken to a hospital for cuts and bruises and is being kept overnight for observation. Others at both theaters were treated on-site by EMTs and released.”
“Oh, God,” Stone said, “it’s started.” He switched on his iPhone, went to a flight-tracking app, and entered the tail number of the Strategic Services G650. The airplane was halfway to Newfoundland. “I’m glad they’re on their way.”
The phone rang, and Stone picked it up. “Hello?”
“Hi, Dad.”
“Peter? I just checked on your flight — you’re halfway to Newfoundland.”
“Right, I see that on the flight progress screen. This is some airplane.”
“It certainly is.”
“We also get CNN. Have you heard what happened at two of our theaters?”
“I just saw it. That’s terrible news.”
“I’m glad no one was seriously hurt.”
“So am I.”
“Ben thinks the publicity will help us, rather than hurt us.”
“I suppose it could. I’m glad you’re not here to get hounded by the media. You’d be wise to keep your destination quiet and let Centurion’s PR people handle the press response.”
“You don’t think I should issue a statement?”
“No, I don’t. Just enjoy yourself.”
“I’m sure we will. I liked Susan. I hope you’ll see a lot more of her.”
“I think you can count on that.”
“Good night, then.”
“Get some sleep and arrive rested.” Stone hung up.
18
Stone woke to find an outstanding review of Hell’s Bells in the New York Times. He checked his watch: it was midday in England, and Peter hadn’t called yet. He was relieved when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Dad. We made it in good order. Is this too early to call?”
“It’s perfect. Want to hear something nice?”
“Sure.”
Stone read him a few paragraphs of the review. “I’ll fax you the whole thing when I get downstairs.”
“Thanks, it’s too early to hear from L.A., and it’s Saturday. I’ll check with them later. Dad, this house is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and it’s in perfect condition.”
“That’s because it’s just gone through a year-long renovation, top to bottom, all Susan’s work.”
“She’s an incredible designer.”
“Does it work for your idea for a film?”
“It certainly does.”
“Is it a period piece?”
“Between the world wars. The phones and the TVs are all we’d have to change.”
“The TVs are concealed at the press of a button, but you’re right about the phones.”
“Do you think Susan would like to be our production designer?”
“I’ll ask her. By the way, the previous owner, Sir Charles Bourne, is still living on the place, in the largest of the cottages. He’s in Paris on his honeymoon, but he should be back soon. I’ve let him know that you’re there, so when you see him introduce yourselves. Also, there are horses, if you feel like riding. Just tell the butler, Geoffrey, and he’ll speak to the stable hands.”
“I think we’re going to be very happy here.”
“Well, get to it, then, and give me a call if you have any questions, or see Major Bugg, who runs the place from his basement office. I’ve got two cars there, too. Use them.” Stone hung up and Susan brought breakfast from the dumbwaiter.
“I wish I’d thought of a dumbwaiter for Windward Hall,” she said. “It’s such a good idea.”
“Make a note of that for our next renovation, in about forty years. By the way, Peter loves the house. He told me to tell you, and to ask you if you’d consider being the production designer for the film he wants to shoot there.”
Susan laughed. “Tell him I’ll consider it.”
He finished breakfast and went back to the Times. There was a good-sized piece on the entertainment page about the explosions in Santa Monica and Coeur d’Alene, and Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun was interviewed. “I don’t know why anyone would think we would be involved in such a thing,” he said, “even if the movie is a scurrilous piece of trash, full of lies and distortions.”
Stone went downstairs and faxed Peter the Times review. The phone rang.
“Hi, it’s Eggers. It’s Saturday, would you and Susan like to drive up to Connecticut with me? I’ve got all the closing documents, so we can take care of that.”
“Why don’t we meet you there? We can have lunch at the Mayflower Inn.”