were meeting Lazarus in the lounge of the Ritz Hotel. For tea. Good God, for tea! When he had questioned Victor about this somewhat weird location, Victor had laughed dryly and remarked: ‘Wasn’t it Napoleon who said that when he was about to do battle with the enemy, he liked to select the location and the time for his preference? He believed it gave him the advantage. So do I.’
Nick had nodded, constantly amazed at Victor’s esoteric knowledge, and said, ‘Yes, it was Napoleon. But why a public place, kid?’ Another dry chuckle from Victor, who had gone on to explain, ‘When we reach an impasse, as we undoubtedly will, I don’t want to have to kick him out of my hotel suite, or have him eject me from his offices. Also, on neutral territory, such as the Ritz, he’ll have to curb his temper. He’s hardly likely to throw one of his famous tantrums in the middle of the hotel.’ Nicholas had nodded and said nothing, but he had thought: Well, you’re wrong there, because he just might. Lazarus is unpredictable, according to what I’ve heard.
So here they were, the three of them, at four o’clock in the afternoon, sitting in a secluded corner of the Ritz, amidst gilded period furniture, potted palms and elegant, behatted ladies. All very genteel and civilized, Nick commented to himself, and swallowed a laugh of wry amusement. There was nothing very genteel or civilized about Mike Lazarus, despite his impeccable linen and well-tailored suit and his façade of genial containment. Nick had never met Lazarus before, but he knew of him by reputation. It was common knowledge that he would go for the jugular at the least provocation, if it suited his purposes to do so. He was cold and ruthless.
As Nick observed them both, his best friend and his best friend’s adversary, he had to admit there was something unusual about Lazarus. For a moment he was not quite sure what this was. He was stocky and muscular, had angular features and dark hair slightly tinged with grey. Nondescript was perhaps the best word to describe him. As he studied Mike Lazarus Nick suddenly reversed this opinion. Lazarus was not really nondescript at all, he just seemed curiously diminished in comparison to Victor. But then what man isn’t, Nick said to himself. Victor’s immense presence was as potent off the screen as on it, probably even more so.
Nick moved his head slightly, and his cool blue eyes swept over Victor, regarded him objectively, took in the dark grey pin-striped suit, the stark white shirt, the silver grey silk de. Elegant. Immaculate. Conservative. In contrast, the handsome face and dark arresting looks and raw masculinity acquired a greater vibrancy, stunned with their startling impact. And there was a very special aura surrounding Victor, one that set him apart from other men. Success, fame, wealth, Nick thought. Yet it was more elemental than that. Is it his sexuality? Nick wondered. Partially, he answered himself. It’s also his adventurous spirit. Soldier of fortune. Buccaneer. Riverboat gambler, he characterized, and then smiled inwardly and said to himself: Maybe I’ve seen too many of his movies.
Nick’s eyes rested briefly on Mike Lazarus now, and he was conscious yet again of a quality in the other man. It was something not immediately definable, or initially apparent, yet it grew on one, slowly and most forcefully. Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning striking, Nick knew what it was. Mike Lazarus had the effluvium of power. Enormous power. He exuded it, reeked of it, and it was distinguishable in the way he held himself in the chair, his body tautly controlled like a panther ready to spring, and in his very pale blue eyes, as cold as a dead fish’s, yet strangely magnetic and compelling. They seemed to penetrate with their keen intelligence, and Nick unexpectedly had the unpleasant feeling that those eyes were like lasers, beaming into his brain to pierce his thoughts. He looked away quickly, and reached for a cigarette, filled with discomfort.
From all the things he had read and heard about Lazarus, he knew the man had an austere discipline, an abrasive energy and a restless ambition. Nick, who on his Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford University had read history, was addicted to the sixteenth-century period. He thought: If Lazarus had lived at the time of Catherine de Medici he would undoubtedly have been a Prince of the Blood, one of those dark and sinister figures stalking across the complex and elaborate tapestry that was France in the 1500s. A Bourbon Prince, such as a Condé, perhaps. Or possibly a due from the notorious House of Guise. Yes, the latter most assuredly, for there was something decidedly Guisardian about Lazarus, with his scheming Machiavellian mind, his stealth, his penchant for plotting, his unquestionable aptitude for dissimulation, his avarice, and his absolute fearlessness. But he wasn’t French. Nick had read somewhere that Lazarus was of German-Jewish extraction, like himself. Or had his family been Russian-Jewish émigrés? Now he was not sure. Notwithstanding, the man was brilliant. He had to be, to have created a multinational conglomerate of the magnitude of Global-Centurion, whose claws were embedded in the surface of the entire world. More or less. And he was only forty-five or thereabouts. Funny, Nick mused, despite the millions of words written about him, I’ve never read much about his personal life, or his early beginnings. They are shrouded in mystery. He wondered, absently, how much Hélène Vernaud knew about Lazarus’s past. He must ask her some time.
The two men facing each other across the small tea table had not begun to skirmish yet, but were skirting each other warily, and with great adeptness, using verbal thrusts and parries, testing each other. He smelled the tension between them. It hung in the air like a curtain of gauze. He knew that Victor detested Lazarus. But it was difficult to ascertain Lazarus’s feelings for Victor. The man had adopted a posture of geniality. A constant benign smile played around his mouth. But the eyes were alert and watchful and chilling in their deadliness.
The two men droned on about the stock market, and Nick turned away, stifling a yawn.
Lazarus made a remark about trouble brewing in the Middle East, and spoke for a few minutes about oil, and the attitude of the Arab states eventually changing; and then unexpectedly, and abruptly, he switched from this topic.
Suddenly, Lazarus said, ‘Well, Victor, you’ve procrastinated for days about this meeting, presumably because you were having the contract dissected by your battery of lawyers. Since you’re sitting here, I assume all is in order. And I trust you brought the contract with you. Signed. I can’t delay my return to New York any longer. I’m leaving tomorrow, and I want to wind things up with you before doing so.’
‘Yes, I’ve brought it,’ Victor responded in a pleasant, easy tone. He moved in his chair, crossed his long and elegant legs, and leaned back, on the surface relaxed. Observing him quietly, Nick knew he was as taut as Lazarus.
‘Ah. Good,’ Lazarus said. ‘Seemingly we are making progress at last. I’d like to give you my ideas, and my conditions, now that we’re partners. Or at least about to be, after I’ve signed the contract. First of all, I cannot sanction the budget of this movie. It’s excessive. Three million dollars is, in my estimation, exactly one million dollars too much.’
‘Agreed,’ Victor said with a small cool smile.
If Lazarus was surprised at this ready acquiescence, he did not display it. Not an eyelash flickered. ‘How do you propose to cut production costs, might I ask?’ There was a sarcastic edge to his voice but he was seething inside. Victor Mason wasn’t very much different from the rest, in spite of his reputation for honesty. They were all trying to steal from him, in one way or another, when they came with their elaborate schemes and questionable deals. But none of them were a match for him. Inevitably he outsmarted them all.
‘There are ways and means to do it,’ Victor replied, sounding and looking enigmatic.
‘I see.’ Lazarus remained motionless in the chair, holding his annoyance in check. Mason was such a fool, being evasive, and wasting his valuable time. The man would have to reveal his plans eventually. But Lazarus decided not to press. Instead, he drawled softly, ‘How much can you save?’
‘About a million dollars.’
Lazarus regarded Victor closely, with those keen and assessing eyes. A cynical smile touched his mouth fleetingly. ‘Then I feel justified in my assumption that the budget was padded. That’s the trouble with the motion picture industry. Too much waste, too much fat. An inefficient business in my opinion.’
‘You’re wrong. About the budget. It wasn’t padded, merely erroneous,’ Victor shot back sharply, sheathing his irritation. ‘An