CHAPTER 81
IN THE RAIN AND FOG, THE RUINS OF THIS HOUSE recalled for Corky the final scene in du Maurier?s Rebecca: the great mansion known as Manderley ablaze in the night, the inky sky ?shot with crimson, like a splash of blood,? and ashes on the wind.
No fire had touched these ruins high in Bel Air, nor was there currently either a wind or blown ashes, but the scene excited Corky nonetheless. In this rubble, he saw a symbol of greater chaos to come in the years ahead.
Once this had been a fine estate, where grand parties had been thrown for the rich and famous. The house, in the style of a French chateau, had been designed with graceful proportions, executed with elegant details, and had stood as a monument to stability and to the refined taste distilled from centuries of civilization.
These days, among the new princes and princesses of Hollywood, classic French architecture was passé, as in fact was history itself. Because the past was not fashionable, nor even comprehensible, the current owner of this property had decreed that the existing house must come down, to be replaced by a swooping-sprawling-glassy-shining residence more in tune with contemporary sensibilities, more hip.
[515] In this community, after all, the value is in the land, not in what stands on it. Any real-estate professional will confirm this.
The house had first been stripped of all valuable architectural details. The limestone architrave at the front entrance, the carved window pediments, and numerous limestone columns had been salvaged.
Then the wrecking crew had been brought in. Half of their work had been completed. They were artists of destruction.
Minutes before seven o?clock, Corky had arrived on foot at the estate, having parked the four-year-old Acura several blocks away. He had purchased the Acura cheap, under a false identity, for the sole purpose of using it in this operation. Later, he had one more use for it, then would abandon it with the keys in the ignition.
At the entrance drive to the three-acre property, a two-panel construction gate with a steel-pipe frame and chain-link infill barred the way. A chain had been wound between the two panels and secured by a heavy padlock with a virtually indestructible case and a thick, titanium-steel shackle highly resistant to a bolt cutter.
Corky ignored the padlock and cut the chain.
Shortly thereafter, at the open gate, posing as NSA agent Robin Goodfellow, wearing a small backpack that he had taken from the trunk of the Acura, he had greeted Jack Trotter and his two-man prep crew, who arrived in a thirty-eight-foot truck. Corky directed them along the curved driveway, where they parked close to the house.
?This is madness,? Trotter had declared as he climbed out of the truck.
?Not at all,? Corky disagreed. ?The wind has died completely.?
?It?s still raining.?
?Not furiously. And a little rain provides some covering noise, just what we need.?
In full Queeg von Hindenburg mode, Trotter wore pessimism with the grim authority of Nostradamus in his darkest mood. His bloated [516] face sagged like a deflating balloon, and his protuberant eyes were wild with visions of doom. ?We?re screwed in this fog.?
?It?s not that thick yet. Just enough to give us extra cover. It?s perfect. The trip is short, the target easily identifiable even in a medium fog.?
?We?ll be seen before we?re half ready to go.?
?This property?s on a knoll. No houses have a view down on it. We?re surrounded by trees, can?t be seen from the street.?
Trotter insisted on disaster: ?We?re damn sure to be seen by someone between here and there.?
?Maybe,? Corky acknowledged. ?But what will they make of what they?ve seen between palisades of fog??
?Palisades??
?I have an interest in literature, the beauty of the language,? Corky said. ?Anyway, your entire mission time is probably seven or eight minutes. You?ll be back here, out of here, on the road before anyone can figure where your staging area was. Besides, I?ve got agents all over these hills, and they won?t let cops get near you.?
?And when I split from Malibu, I disappear from all government records. Me and all the names I?ve used.?
?That?s the deal. But you?d better get your ass in gear. The clock is ticking.?
Grimacing like a man in an advertisement for a diarrhea remedy, Trotter looked Corky up and down, then said, ?What the hell do you call that getup you?re wearing??
?Weatherproof,? Corky said.
Now, more than an hour later, Trotter and his two-man crew had nearly completed preparations.
During that time, Corky had entertained himself by studying the ruins of the half-demolished chateau from numerous angles.
He had not, of course, worked with Trotter and his men. As Robin Goodfellow, he was a highly trained human weapon, a valued [517] government agent. Robin had signed up to pursue truth, justice, and adventure, but had never agreed to perform menial labor of any kind. James Bond does not dust furniture or do windows.
Without his assistance, however, the blimp had been fully inflated.