City Of Spies. Nina Berry
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Buenos Aires tropical?” Pagan frowned.
Mercedes snorted. “Don’t you know? All dark-skinned people live in jungles.”
“I wouldn’t count on his skin being all that dark. They’ve cast a Broadway actor named Tony Perry as Juan, the seductive Latin man who—” Pagan grabbed the script from Mercedes “‘—tangos with the dangerous stealth of an enormous black panther.’”
Mercedes let out a scornful laugh. “And plays the guitar while riding a horse.”
“Excuse me, but don’t you mean—” Pagan read from the script again “‘—caresses the neck of his smooth wooden instrument with the consummate skill of a virtuoso’?”
Mercedes shook her head. “His instrument’s wood? Don’t let him get anywhere near you with that.”
Pagan gasped with mock horror. “Dirty jokes before breakfast! I better make us some eggs.”
After breakfast, Mercedes went back to studying for her exams, nose in her astronomy textbook, while Pagan called her agent, Jerry Allenberg. “Tell them I’ll do this Two to Tango movie,” she told him.
“I’m sorry, what?” Jerry said, speaking as if to an idiot or small child. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Maybe, but I’m doing it, Jerry. I’ll need to brush up on my tango before it starts shooting in January.”
“And dance your way right out of a career? No way, Pagan. I’m not letting you do it.”
Pagan took a deep breath. Jerry’s concern over her career went straight past paternal to pathological now that she was on the wagon and doing better. “You don’t get to decide what I do, Jerry,” she said.
“But you’re in the middle of a comeback!” Something in the background thumped, as if he’d dropped his feet off the desk to stand up and yell at her. “I never thought I’d say this after your disasters last year, but Bennie Wexler thinks you’re gold and Tony Richardson loved working with you so much on Daughter of Silence he’s talking awards at Cannes. Not for the movie, but for you. Did you hear me? You could be nominated for Best Actress at Cannes, Pagan! Somehow you’re moving away from movies like Beach Bound Beverly into A-list material with the best writers and directors. It’s a miracle! Don’t do this turd of a script and mess it all up. I’m begging you.”
“Most people don’t yell when they beg,” Pagan said. What he said made her uneasy. “You really think one mediocre movie could cancel out the good ones?”
“This could cost you the award at Cannes,” he said. “And, I didn’t want to say anything, but they’re talking about a possible Oscar campaign, too.”
Once upon a time, getting an Oscar had been Pagan’s biggest dream. But now, when she weighed that against the chance to find out more about her mother, to help her country, to catch a Nazi who probably escaped from justice? The awards seemed like Tinkertoys.
Time for the trump card. “Do you remember our friend Devin Black?”
Silence. Then a thump and a squeak of chair springs as Jerry sat back down. Jerry had caved in to Devin before, when he’d negotiated Pagan’s contract for Neither Here Nor There in Berlin in August. Pagan had never learned exactly what hold Devin had over Jerry, but it seemed to involve blackmail. Jerry probably didn’t know who Devin worked for, but he was no fool. “Devin Black’s involved in this tango turd?”
“He asked me to do it. And I want to do it,” Pagan said. And waited.
Another silence. “Okay. So. You’re doing it,” Jerry finally said. “But if at any point you or Mr. Black wish to extricate yourself from this awful picture, you let me know. It’ll be worth the penalties to your contract.”
“Thanks, Jerry,” Pagan said.
“Yeah, yeah.” He paused. “The studio’s going to owe you big for this one. Anything special you want during the shoot I can demand? Caviar every day, maybe? A personal masseuse?”
Pagan glanced over at Mercedes, who was underlining something in her book. “I want to bring my best friend along with me for a week. They could pay for a nice hotel suite for the two of us, and her airfare as well as mine. If you think you can manage that.”
“Best friend, airfare, hotel suite,” he pronounced, as if writing it down. Sharply, he added, “Is Devin Black okay with her being there?”
Pagan hadn’t thought of that. The CIA might not want her to have someone living in her suite with her, for secrecy’s sake. Well, that was too bad. “If anyone kicks back over her being there, you tell them she comes or I’m out.”
“If we’re lucky, they’ll kick back,” Jerry muttered. “When producers ask me about this horrible movie later, can I tell them you were back on the bottle when you agreed to do it?”
“Jerry!” Pagan scolded.
“Yeah, yeah, that would be even worse for your rep. I know.” He sighed heavily. “You really okay with this, kid?”
Which was as close as Jerry Allenberg would ever come to making sure Devin Black wasn’t blackmailing her into doing this movie.
“I’m great, Jerry. Really. If we’re lucky maybe the movie will be so bad they won’t release it.”
“Your lips to God’s ears,” he said.
“Have the studio’s dancing instructor call me so I can brush up on the tango, okay?”
“Sure, sure.” And he hung up.
“Jerry doesn’t think it’s a good idea,” Pagan said, setting the handset back in the cradle of the phone on the kitchen wall.
Mercedes didn’t look up from her astronomy book. “Too late. You’ve crossed the event horizon.”
“Is that a tango step?” Pagan grinned.
“It’s a boundary that surrounds a black hole.” Mercedes looked up from the book. “Do you know what a black hole is?”
“What Jerry Allenberg has instead of a soul?” Pagan shrugged off Mercedes’s look, “Oh, come on, you know I was either drunk or distracted between the ages of thirteen and sixteen. My high school diploma’s strictly ceremonial, thanks to Universal Pictures and all those lovely tutors fudging my scores.”
“A black hole is this area in space with gravity so strong it sucks everything, even time, into itself. Nothing, even light, can escape.” Mercedes wasn’t reading from her book as she spoke, and her eyes lit up as she went on. “This physicist, Finkelstein, discovered the event horizon, which is like a boundary around the black hole. Once you cross the event horizon, you can’t go back. You’re trapped forever.”
“So you’re saying I’ve been sucked into a one-way pit of darkness?” Pagan nodded. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Mercedes went back to reading. “The constellations are different in the southern hemisphere,” she said. “Maybe I can find a telescope while we’re there so I can see them.”
Burbank, California
January 2, 1962
PATADA
A kick between the legs, usually executed by the follower.
The Warner Bros. studio lot lay shrouded in morning fog at the foot of the January-green Hollywood Hills. Pagan rolled down the window of the limousine as the guard waved them through the gate to inhale the crisp air and get a better view of the famous water tower perched like a long-legged heron over the blank-faced soundstages and trees still leafy for the California winter.
Pagan had always