The Accidental Joe, page 21
“What’s up? Are you breathalyzing today, Officer? It’s a little early for me.” Unibrow gave me an impassive look and moved to the far van. “I hope there’s no strip search. Every fifth day I go none-derwear.” I stage-winked at Cammie. “Pro travel tip.”
“Nice to see you’re not nervous or anything.” She looked past me. “I can’t see through Hoss’s van, but it seems their detail is going full rummage on Latrell’s.” Nova didn’t act rattled. Instead, she craned high in her seat to survey the grounds. My heart leaped up against my Adam’s apple at a sudden oversight.
My .357. It was still in the door pocket. If they found that snub-nose, it could burn the whole mission: busting me, busting Nova, busting everything we’ve set up. Not to mention what might happen to us—and my innocent crew—as a result. I worked to appear nonchalant. “Spy Cam? Do you think they’re going to toss everything? We’ll be here all day.”
“Their clock. Their call.”
“Getting hot.” I took off my ball cap, folded it in half, then pressed it down inside the door pocket on top of the snubbie. I wondered, Should I tell her about it? I decided I’d test her degree of anxiety. “Are you concerned about anything they might find? Meaning, I assume you are, you know…packing.”
She smirked and arched the brow I was getting used to seeing. How could Cammie be so blasé? I let my eyes drop down and to my right. The gun was completely hidden by my hat. Safe—as long as their search wasn’t too thorough. Knuckles rapped my window. I powered down the glass.
“Please step out, both of you, and stand over there.”
Nova signaled me to comply and got out. I opened my door but couldn’t get up. “Ha, duh.” I tugged at my locked seat belt strap. All I got back was the flat stare of the FSO agent. I unbuckled and moved away to lean against the front grille with Cammie, trying for casual. Then came a cold blast of dread.
Our Russian disappeared, squatting beside my open door for a look-see in the pocket.
thirty-three
“Arrêtez. You stop this right now.” Everyone did stop. Ilona Tábori charged down the driveway from the upper. Napsugár, spitting fire, gold lamé sandals slapping blacktop. “Cease. What is this insult you are doing to my guest?” The FSO man rose up from my open door in response to the oligarch’s angry wife. “Chef Pike, I am mortified for this trouble.” Both agents looked to their leader, Unibrow, for guidance. Ilona Tábori filled in the blanks. “You. Yes, you. Tell your men to stop this and let these people up. Immédiatement.” Then in Russian, “Pryamo seychas!” The lady even clapped twice. “Now. Or would you rather I involve my husband—or your man from the Kremlin?”
Unibrow processed the situation. He didn’t look pleased but signaled his team to stand down.
“Chef, I am mortified by this. Please accept my apologies.”
“No harm done, Napsugár.”
“Oh, listen to you. And the accent, it is perfect.” She leaned in to offer European air kisses, beaming until her gaze landed on Nova. “Who is this.” Not a question. Nor a veiled reaction. Napsugár put it all out there, especially when she sniffed a rival to her fantasy narrative.
“Hi, I’m Cammie.” Nova read the moment and went submissive. “Chef Pike’s told me all about you.”
“Cameron—Ms. Nova—is my producer. She’s here to make everything go like cream today.”
“Anything you need, let me know, Asszony Tábori.”
“Hmm. This one. Her accent is not so good as yours.” The oligarch’s wife addressed Nova like house staff. “You will find the kitchen through the garage. Go up now and you will see. Be careful not to scratch anything with your equipment. All is new.” She crooked an arm for me to take and guided us up the rise, leaving Nova and the others to drive.
As we ascended the incline, the belle époque mansion revealed itself top to bottom as ships do approaching over the horizon. First the upper floor of three, the lid of an elegant box with blush-pink walls accented by white cornices. Then the middle story, carrying the same color scheme, but studded by white plaster balconies spilling cascades of painstakingly trimmed bougainvillea in vibrant magenta. The full reveal came at the crest of the drive where palms and cypresses framed the ground floor, replete with curved white awnings and turn-of-the-century lampposts with opaque globes.
“Nice curb appeal.”
“But Chef, this is the rear of the house.”
I took the lay of the land, but not because I was impressed by the grandeur. My appraisal was about escape routes. My eyes tracked across the concrete to a strip of Belgian block paving stones on my right, the start of the lane I’d seen on the aerial photo. According to the drone shot, the drive flanked the main house, running between a ribbon of grass and the steep rock cliffs that transformed a mere mansion into a fort. At the other end of that passage, on the west side, would be one of the swimming pools and guest quarters. To my immediate left was the attached garage. Our crew vehicles made semicircles around me and Ilona Tábori before they backed in, side by side, presenting rear doors for unloading and loading.
And, knowing SSO Nova, poised for rapid exit.
Behind me the three Range Rovers we video tracked from the Cap-d’Ail marina reflected midday sun. Against the detached garage sat an Opel service van from Connexion Côte, a new arrival since the morning flyover. Nearby, a man in blue coveralls and paper booties crouched at a cable junction box, unimpressed by the doings. “I apologize to have a workman present. We lost our Wi-Fi and cable this morning.”
“With Hangry Globe on tonight?” I called to the cable guy. “Plus vite, monsieur.” The man barely looked, a very French dismissal. “Always nice to meet a fan.” Midway to the garage, some little nothing prodded me to take a second look, but the repair guy was head deep in his van’s cargo bay.
Hoss knew the gig and made sure to be inside first to unroll vinyl mats to protect the terracotta flooring in the kitchen. Our hostess was pleased. “When do we cook together?”
“I think we should do Napsugár’s segment first. What do you say, Cammie?”
“Before the interview, sure…” Nova made a show of flipping through her rundown, but she had already worked this out with me. “I suppose we could do that. You and Asszony Tábori have your fun here in the kitchen, then we will shoot lunch and the interview with Úr Tábori…. But where?”
I played my part. “Dining room?”
“But I’ll bet this house has many other beautiful settings. Asszony Tábori?”
“Ilona, please.”
“Ilona, while the crew sets up the kitchen would you excuse us to go do some looking?”
When Ilona hesitated, I said, “Standard location scouting while you go get camera-ready.” She was cajoled enough to agree.
The dining room would have been perfect. I didn’t care where we shot, but Nova and I looky-loo’d the ground floor, starting with the living room and its commanding view of the Golfe de Saint-Hospice. We stepped through the French doors onto the balcony, not to see if the tip of Cap-Ferrat would make a nice background but to eyeball the parking area near the guesthouse. We leaned over the balustrade and found what we wanted. The silver DS 7 and the white SUV that brought Arkady Glinka and his minders from the airport were still there.
Nova looked relieved. “Now the study.”
“This way, madame.” Both of us had memorized the architectural drawing Kurt Harrison secured, and soon we arrived in the front hallway. She held up a forefinger to signal slowing down as we approached a corner. We stopped to listen. Nova pointed a forefinger ahead, and we rounded the turn coming face-to-face with an imposing pair of Russian security agents. The nearer one put up both palms. “Stoy.” He had receding sandy hair combed forward in bangs that didn’t reach his forehead. His companion stood taller. He was bulkier and more weathered thanks to deep facial creases and a chinstrap beard. Maybe Chechen, if they were allowed in Russian security. That one, Beard, held both hands at the lapels of his suit coat in the classic ready pose for a quick draw. “Vozvrashchat’sya.”
“Speak English?” Her question was pure stall; their message didn’t require translation.
“He say to go back. You go now,” said Bangs. Beard’s hands stayed against his chest, but his right inched slightly inside the coat. Even more than the others at the gate, these two breathed paramilitary lethality.
Muffled voices came through the closed door they were guarding. I recognized Ignaz Tábori’s from meeting him the day before plus the YouTube videos of him I had watched for research. His companion laughed, then rattled off a flurry of Russian. Glinka. The mole who brought us there. I had no idea how he looked. What could his voice tell me? Baritone, measured and carrying gravity, kind of like a nature documentary narrator. I shifted forward an inch for a better listen. Immediately Bangs shoved me. Five fingertips that hurt like pokes from five ski poles. By reflex, I raised forearms to protect myself. In a lightning flash the agent seized my wrist with one hand and my elbow with the other and leveraged me to the carpet. “Da. Going back now,” I said into the deep pile.
When Cammie and I were alone in the dining room, I flexed my sore wrist. “You can check the box for assessing the level of security.”
“They’re probably ex-Spetsnaz, Russian Special Forces. The elite of the elite get the highest-level protection assignments, meaning Putin’s pal. Anyway, we got our confirmation the package is on-site.”
“And I got a timely warning to reconsider using my interview to hand the minister of agriculture his ass.”
“Don’t you dare pull back.” Nova looked freaked. She tensed and bored her eyes into mine. “I can’t believe you’d let that pair intimidate you.”
“Maybe because you’re not the one who got manhandled. This place is crawling with Russian killing machines.”
“They’re no match for you. Stay tough. Use your words.” She lowered her voice to an urgent hush. “You told me you would give Tábori a ‘blistering fucking hotfoot.’ Don’t let the thug entourage cow you. Do it. I not only need you to do it, I am relying on it.” Hoss rolled a cart of electronics in from the kitchen so she spoke in subtext. “Am I clear? Relying.”
Her whispered message couldn’t be louder. My interview was part of her plan. “Got it.”
“Be an asshole.”
“In other words, be myself.”
I checked progress in the kitchen. The escalating tension of setting up for a cooking segment usually buoyed me. Not that day. I wanted this done, and soon. All the motion, all the micro-crises, and all the brain tugs—like my director of photography quizzing me about options for pick-up shots—only tested my patience. Or anxiety, to be honest about it. I couldn’t fault my little cadre of pros. They were only doing their jobs, unsuspecting of my ulterior mission. Chill, I thought, and forced an unfelt smile. Tough when What-the-Chuck Ludik only made things more tense. The Food Sarge had left our contingency doubles for the main course, pissaladière, back in Nice at le Vide, a bonehead move. “Show me what you did bring, Ludikrous, before I serve your severed head on a bed of lettuce.”
“You don’t have to be an asshole.”
“No, but you make it feel so damn good.” Ludik led me over to the lone pissaladière that did make it. “Lucky for you, flatbread travels. Listen carefully. Eyes, please? Before I shoot the dessert segment with Mrs. Tábori, slide this in the oven at low temp—one hundred four—just to warm it. When it comes out, give it a tiny spritz of olive oil. Only a whisper, so it catches the light on camera. Got that?”
“I’m not an idiot.” Chuck backed away, nearly colliding with Hoss, who was gingerly rolling in a utility cart bearing the four-foot-tall pyramid of stacked choux pastry for the dessert demo. Nova jumped between him and the croquembouche, averting a Three Stooges moment.
Ilona Tábori breezed through the dining room doorway. She had freshened her makeup and changed into a crisp white blouse with a yellow sweater draped over her shoulders and knotted. The Hungarian Martha Stewart. “Ignaz says he will be finished his meeting and ready for you in the dining room at two thirty.”
Nova approached her. “If I may, Ilona.”
“Is there a problem?”
“No, a modification. I would prefer to shoot your husband’s segment on the veranda instead of in the dining room.”
I swung over from the island where I was rearranging my utensils. “But the dining room is more spacious. Plus, we can control the light. And it’s close by the kitchen to facilitate…” I trailed off, finally getting Nova’s wide-eyed signal to back off. “On the other hand, the veranda is picturesque. Eye candy. I bow to my producer.”
“Smart.”
“Very well, but don’t scrape my French doors with your equipment.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” said Nova. “If you’re set, Ilona, we should do your segment now.”
Mrs. T. hesitated. “Chef Pike? A moment in private?”
The pantry was as big as most kitchens. I stepped in behind the oligarch’s wife, and she closed the door. “I confess I am a wreck. I have entertained heads of state, captains of industry…once, even Mr. Josh Groban. I cook as a hobby and have dreamed of being with you on your show, but now. Now, I have stage fright. Look at my hand.” She grabbed one of mine and folded it in both of hers. This skin sandwich was a bit more than a look, but indeed they were trembling.
I tried to slip free, but she clung tight. “You’re going to do fine, Napsugár. We have this all worked out. You saw the croquembouche, right? I’ve got the pastry tower nearly complete already. All we need to do is a demonstration of how I make choux pastry that I will walk you through live, on camera. We set the batter aside, we take a couple of the pâte à choux that I’ve prebaked, and use them to finish off the tower. Done.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“Because it is. All you have to do is follow my lead.”
“That is it. That is what I want. Lead me.” She tipped forward to kiss my cheek but at the last second put her lips on mine.
I eased back before any tongue came into play. “Ah-ah, Napsugár, no dessert before dessert.”
Nova studied us on our return. I signaled no prob and took my mark at the center island. Cammie joined me. “Hold still, what’s this here?” She thumbed my lower lip. “Huh. Almost looks like lipstick.”
Turned out, anxiety during the demo belonged to me. Knowing that my segment with the oligarch and his handler Arkady Glinka came next turned my usually adroit fingers into crane claws at the arcade. While helping my amateur sous chef add flour to the boiling water, butter, and sugar mixture, I lost my grip. Ilona Tábori cackled as the air filled with a white cloud. “Here’s where we hop in our time machine, Napsugár. Oh, look, our pastry’s already been baked to a golden brown.” I reached below the counter and came up with a tray of finished specimens. Latrell panned the camera with us as we walked over to the nearly completed choux tower. “I cheated and started this croquembouche ahead, but I left a space for you to stack these and finish off the pyramid of goodness.”
“I erected one of these once, but it drooped over.”
I leaned into the lens. “That happens. No shame there. You relax, take a break, put on some Beyoncé or Prince, and try again.” Napsugár, hardly subtle, pushed her pastry too hard and caved in the tower on one side. “No worries, Ilona. We can edit that out. Because looky here.” I beckoned to the B-camera. Marisol followed me across the kitchen with her handheld to a premade, three-foot triangle of pastry to replace that side of the pyramid. “Through the magic of television, behold the most delicious Lego piece ever.”
Nova tapped her watch. I called, “And cut. Moving on.” I congratulated my guest baker, then chugged a bottle of Evian while the crew reset to the main event on the veranda.
“We’re five away. You good?” I flashed Nova my best no-sweat smile. She saw through it and whispered, “Remember. I’m relying on you for the hotfoot. I’ll do what I do.”
“Are you still here?” Ilona Tábori’s voice cut across our crew chatter out on the veranda. She was confronting the Connexion Côte service guy as he passed the open doors from the dining room.
The man turned away, shy or rude, I couldn’t see enough of his face to tell. A loop of coaxial cable attached to his tool belt wagged against his coveralls. In heavily accented English, he said, “I need to check all your boxes before I go.”
“Certainly there are none out here. Try the kitchen and the maid’s quarters. And you’re tracking dirt.”
He went on his way. After checking to make sure one of his agents remained to cover this venue, Unibrow went off to tail him.
Cammie noticed me staring at the service tech as he strode off in his soiled booties. “What?”
Something about that guy… “Wondering who wears booties outside, is all.” Latrell broke my ponder with a question.
“Are you wanting handheld or sticks?”
The enclosed patio was smaller than I’d envisioned. “We’re going to have more folks crammed in here than the oligarch and me. He’s going to squeeze a security entourage, off cam, plus a visitor from Moscow. Plus Mrs. T.”
Latrell gave a conspiratorial grin. “You mean Lap Sugar?”
“She wishes.” I gave the area another assessment. “Four at the table, two more crowding around… Not that I don’t love your company, but you and Marisol lock off your cams on tripods and clear the set so we can breathe.”
“Done, Chef. Lap Sugar. Like that?”
“Later, I will. Maybe.”
Chuck Ludik came onto the veranda with four Niçoise salads balanced on his stubby forearm like he was serving chow at the Waffle House. He plunked them down and left. I pulled a paper towel from the utility cart and dabbed the slops of olive oil he’d left on the rim of the fine china. Food effing Sarge, indeed.
