Spy Who Jumped Off the Screen : A Novel (9781101565766) by Thomas Caplan Page B

nature had not separated peoples—indeed, as if they had not separated themselves.”
    â€œTell Mr. Hunter your theory,” Isabella said. “You might as well. You’re this far along.”
    Ian looked puzzled.
    â€œAbout the film you plan to make one day,” she prodded.
    â€œâ€˜Once hoped to make’ might be more accurate. No doubt now it will never happen.”
    â€œOh, really,” Isabella said. “When is the last time something you wanted to happen didn’t happen?”
    Santal demurred. “What Isabella is talking about is a story I wrote for her when she was still a young girl, just coming into her own,” he explained. “It took place among a group of cavorting, hedonistic characters in ancient Alexandria, am I right?”
    Isabella nodded. “The Society of Inimitable Livers, they were called. Antony and Cleopatra were members. They were a club dedicated to debauchery and excess.”
    â€œYou came to understand that later. Back then I intentionally kept those facts hidden. Anyway, they were having a high old time when out of nowhere—literally—someone arrived from somewhere else. Not just one someone either, but an entire colony of them from another planet or universe, who knows? So this elite society and the people it disdained had to make common cause all of a sudden, because they had no other choice. People in that part of the world weren’t very good at doing such a thing. They weren’t then. They aren’t now. The idea’s mad, of course, but I love it—for that reason. I won’t live to see it; I’m sad about that. But if you asked me whether there’s one more thing I’d like to see before I croak, that would be it: aliens here or on the way. Entirely benign ones, mind you! Because I would like to see my fellow human beings get their act together and do it quickly. I would like to see a world in which it was not so plainly necessary for people to hold each other off.”
    Isabella fixed her eyes on Ty’s. “There! What do you think of that?” she asked.
    â€œIt’s quite a pitch, a lot to digest.”
    Santal glanced at the De Bethune DB15
Complication watch on his wrist. “Give Mr. Hunter the tour, will you, before our guests swarm in and you can’t? I’ll join you in a bit.”
    â€œWe’ll see you later, then. Oh, and please call me Ty.”
    Santal nodded. “It’s Ian,” he said.
    Isabella led Ty away from the owner’s quarters, beyond a whirlpool, to a teak staircase that led to the bridge deck directly below. From there, past a canopied outdoor dining area whose elliptical table was set for twenty-two, they entered a Georgian dining room whose long, polished-mahogany table was set with white place mats and sterling flatware for a similar number. The center of the table was dressed with elaborate candelabra flanking a spectacular silver epergne. On the far wall were mounted a magnificent pair of George II rococo girandoles.
    â€œIt’s beautiful, but it doesn’t seem, if you’ll pardon me, particularly Mediterranean,” Ty said.
    Isabella laughed. “This room’s the exception that proves the rule. I think it reminds Ian of England, particularly Cambridge. But the prints on the walls are Italian. Look: Tintoretto, Burrini, Rosa, Leonardo.”
    Farther forward was a Moorish saloon whose walls were covered with Islamic art and upon whose floors lay Persian carpets. Its ceiling, leafed with gold, rose in the shallowest of Byzantine domes.
    â€œSometimes,” Isabella said, “when one’s been aboard for a while, it’s difficult to know what port you’re in, to remember where you’ve been or where you’re going.”
    â€œRight now we’re on the Riviera,” Ty said. “At least I think that’s where we are.”
    â€œAh, the Riviera,” Isabella repeated. “Once upon a time,