Private Sector Intelligence with Clair George
Early summer 1995
The countess requested photographs of the Buddhist flags at Lara’s house.
I assigned this task to Eliza.
Posing as a reporter for the Albuquerque Journal, Eliza visited Circle Drive, snapped a roll of film and sent me eight large prints.
Satisfied with Eliza's performance, I commissioned her to research, investigate and draft a report on Tibetan Buddhists in Santa Fe.
Meantime, I searched the whereabouts of Baron von Biggleswurm and connected with him for the first time in four months.
He was in
Germany, had just buried his mother.
"It was a big hassle," he said of his mother's death. "We had to suffer. She loved me very much," he added, before jumping into the really big news: an impending concert at Biggleswurm Castle.
The baron had sold
another chunk of his family's grounds to pay for the Moscow Philharmonic to travel to Biggleswurm so he could wave his baton at them.
"The
foreign minister of Russia is coming, and the foreign minister of
Germany," he babbled, "and also the Queen of Spain." He paused to take a breath. "It will be good for my book, yaa?"
I traveled to Europe on a family vacation—twelve days in Monaco, six days in London—so I dropped by our client’s villa to present my collection of reports and photographs.
The countess appeared in her courtyard, filled with color and perfume.
"You've out-done yourself," I said, looking around at the landscaped grounds. "Your garden is more beautiful than ever."
"You think?" She smiled, led me into her villa and sat beside me her on the sofa overlooking the garden.
"So," she said. "Tell me."
I opened a manila file folder.
"First, your grandson. He is
a happy, very healthy, well balanced fellow," I read the neatly typed
page. "He is said to be, and I
quote, 'A joy to have around.' No obvious
trouble spots."
If this was what the countess wanted to hear, she did not let on. Indeed, I already suspected it would displease her.
How could the boy be happy and healthy in Santa Fe, New Mexico, without
his grandmother around to direct the program?
I moved on to the next point.
"This
year your grandson has become interested in drama..."
The
countess gasped. "Drama? Why drama?”
I continued on. "He is good
at drama, one source reports, and makes everyone laugh."
"Ha!" This was sarcasm. "He makes everyone laugh? This is a disaster."
I prattled on, but the countess was no longer attuned.
She'd gotten stuck on drama.
Next,
I showed the countess photographs of Buddhist prayer flags on her daughter's
property.
"Ah, so you see, it's true," she said.
"Santa Fe has become a hub for Tibetan-Buddhist activity," I said. "It hosts a growing native Tibetan community. In 1991 there were 12 native Tibetans in Santa Fe. Today there are over a hundred. You see here," I presented a copy of Lara’s telephone bill. "Your daughter is in contact with one of the main organizers."
"Oh my God."
"Let me put this into perspective," I said. "Free Tibet is one of the most fashionable causes in the United States today. It attracts national attention through some of Hollywood's biggest movie stars and most popular musical groups."
The countess wasn't listening, didn't care.
"Of course," I added, "we want to find out more about the Tibetan Buddhist ringleaders in Santa Fe, see if they are reputable. And we thought we'd do a financial check to determine if your daughter is giving them money, and if so, how much. Also, we have indications that your daughter may return to live in Santa Fe after the summer."
The countess froze in disbelief. Lara had been telling her mother that she and her son would return to live in Switzerland in September—and the countess was basing her whole existence on this development.
"But I've given
her my apartment in Geneva," she said.
"And everything in it, including the Breugels.”
"According
to our sources," I said, "Lara has re-enrolled her son for another
year at his private school."
"This
is a disaster," said the countess.
At one o'clock sharp, a starched servant announced lunch. We reconvened on the patio.
A white-gloved servant appeared with
scrumptious pasta followed by grilled dourade, a local fish, garnished with
small potatoes, succulent vegetables, and a green salad with avocado and lightly
seasoned olive oil.
In keeping with our client’s custom, we recommenced serious talk over strong coffee, by which time she could percolate from a caffeine infusion.
"Does my daughter pay tax in
America?" she asked, affecting nonchalance.
This
was purely rhetorical, for we both already knew that a) her daughter was a U.S.
citizen from birth and b) that her daughter declared only a tiny fraction of
her unearned income on the federal income tax return she filed.
"Uh, probably not as much as she's supposed to," I said.
"And
why is that?" snapped the countess.
"Because
The Gray Fiduciary probably wires her living expenses to the United States and
hides the rest."
"Aha! But she must pay her taxes," said the countess. "If she chooses to live in America, she must pay her tax, no?"
"Uh, you're not thinking of getting the IRS after her?" I said.
"She
thinks she can get away with anything," the countess snarled. "She must be taught a lesson."
"No,
no, no, no, no," I said. "If
you tip off the IRS, you have no control over what happens next. Because of your daughter's wealthy status,
the IRS could decide to make it a criminal investigation. They do that with high-profile cases to spook
everyone else into paying their taxes.
Your daughter could even end up going to jail. You don't want that."
The countess did not answer immediately.
"Maybe," she finally said, "my daughter should go
to jail."
I could almost hear our client’s brain cells synapsing.
If her daughter went to jail, custody of her grandson would be up for grabs.
One
thing was certain if that happened: The boy would not be majoring in drama.
"We
must think about this," she said.
"Are you here long?"
"Another
week."
"So
we can meet again?"
"Of
course. Let me take you out to the
restaurant of your choice."
"I
prefer here," said the countess.
"It is more private. We'll
have a nice risotto."
Five thousand miles away, in the middle of Nowheresville, Wyoming, Lara and her son began a summer vacation at their favorite dude ranch.
Several hours after their arrival, Eliza, my
free-spirited insertion agent arrived at the ranch. Her assignment was to monitor the situation
and, if possible, befriend Lara.
I reached Eliza minutes after she returned home at one o’clock in the morning.
"I got out of the car at the ranch and there she was, right behind me," said Eliza, "asking if I needed any help with my bags."
"And you became friends?"
"Absolutely. She's a wonderful, beautiful person, and so
is her son. You can tell her mother she
should be very proud of them."
Yeah, right. Eliza did not know the countess.
"You must be tired," I said. We agreed to speak 12 hours hence, after Eliza had a chance to sleep and organize her notes.
“Uh…” said Eliza.
"Yes?"
"I really like her." She paused. "Is that a problem?"
Clearly, Eliza was struggling with her duplicity.
"Not at all," I said. "It's great that you genuinely like her. Remember, we only want the best for Lara and her son."
I meant this. Because in my mind, the original mission had never changed (the contessa's plot twist notwithstanding): to ensure that my client's daughter and grandson were protected from their nutcase ex-husband/father.
"Did you get a sense that she has many friends?" I enquired.
"I
get a sense that she doesn't."
"Do
you think that if you cultivate this relationship you could become her new best
friend?"
"I
already am."
It was almost spooky how quickly the normally aloof Lara had taken to Eliza.
I had mixed my chemicals well. The formula behind this chemistry was simple:
Eliza was everything Lara wished to
be—adventurous, high-spirited, an extrovert.
And the diffident, lonely, introverted Lara was everything Eliza wished
to be: incredibly rich.
My eight pages from debriefing Eliza was the crux of my second lunch with the countess.
We sat, once again, facing her garden.
"We
have made amazing progress," I said.
"Tell
me." The countess rubbed her hands
in anticipation.
"Not only did our operative monitor your
daughter and grandson, she has become their close friend. She had long talks with Lara during shopping
expeditions into town. I'm going to read
directly from my notes on what the operative told me."
"Please."
"Lara
is very private, but very conversational..."
"She
talks to new people," she sniffed, "but won't talk to her mother."
"Lara
said that Santa Fe is 'never dull.'"
"What
about the winter?"
"Lara
complains that she's had a hard time with servants. She says drivers are worse in Santa Fe than
in Iran. Next day, they went into town
to shop..."
"She
has time to shop, but no time to call me," said the countess. "Egotist!"
"Lara
likes western shops and bright colors.
She bought hot pink jeans. Her
son bought a fleece jacket."
"Clothes
for the closet," snapped the countess.
"Lara
needed to have a crown recapped so she visited a local dentist."
"What
a place to fix teeth!" the countess wailed.
"Lara
told our operative that her son has a difficult relationship with his
father..."
"It's
a lie!" The countess
detonated. "He has a wonderful
relationship with his father. How dare
she talk against him to a stranger!"
Remember, this
was the same lunatic baron who's relationship with his son she had hired us to disrupt.
"Lara
said that after visits with his father, her son climbs into bed with her."
"You
see what she does?" The countess
frowned. "He is not a man."
"Lara
reads everything," I continued.
"But she doesn't even read the newspapers.”
"These are my operative's observations," I said. "Lara has an inquisitive mind, she likes to learn and explore new things..."
"The
wrong things."
"She's
astute at sizing things up."
"Ha!"
"Lara
told my operative, and I quote, 'Money is not a substitute for family
fulfillment.'"
The
countess jumped up. "Say that
again, I’ll write it down." She
whipped around the large room like a tornado, found a pen and notepad, and whirled back.
"Money
is not a substitute for family fulfillment," I repeated.
The
countess put ink to paper. "I
see. So why doesn't she give her money
to the poor and go to work?"
In the interest of diplomacy, I skipped a passage on what Lara had told Eliza about her parents:
She loved her father but her mother was "very programmed" and "not a good role model" and "superficial." She told Eliza that her mother was jealous of her husband's love for their daughter and so had contrived to stick her daughter with a governess while she and the count hobnobbed around Europe with aristocratic jet-setters.
"Our operative reports that your daughter has a good sense of humor," I said.
"She
has no sense of humor," the countess spat. "She never had a sense of
humor."
"She
likes Monty Python," I added.
"That
is not humor," said the Countess. "It is... different."
"Now
your grandson," I said, scouring my notes.
"Yes. Tell me."
"He's
an expert on movies."
"I
must shoot my daughter!" she hissed, teary-eyed. "She is ruining the count's heir!"
"A very polite, well-spoken boy," I read from my notes. "He wanted to try chewing tobacco. Lara let him, teach him a lesson. He turned green and ran off to be sick."
"This is a mother?"
"Toward
the end of our operative's stay," I said, "some people from
Connecticut arrived at the ranch. Your
daughter told made our operative that they might be 'spies disguised as a
family.' They laughed about it, but Lara
said, 'I've had worse—they’re always watching me.'"
This astounded the countess. "My
daughter thinks I'm spying on
her? How can she think such a thing
about me? Does she think her life is so
interesting?"
There was no way to answer this.
"Our operative is given to understand that Lara
and her son will remain in Santa Fe beyond August.”
We moved to the open-air terrace for lunch.
Our first course made me gag:
cold soft-boiled eggs in jelly.
Clearly, much was askew.
"My
late husband, may he rest in peace, told me he married me because I'm so
sincere," the countess finally spoke.
"Can you believe I gave birth to such a thing?"
I
did not reply, but jiggled soft-boiled egg in jelly with my fork.
"I
will change everything," the countess hissed. "She will wait and wait and
wait." The countess paused. "She should spend time in jail. Have you thought about this?”
I
wanted no part putting the IRS onto Lara.
"I don't think..." I began.
"The
maestro," she said. "We
must know what the maestro thinks. He will know the answer. Will he come?"
"Where's
your phone?"
I phoned Clair George, returned to the table. "He's making travel arrangements."
The countess smiled for the first time since the briefing began. "Ah, this is good news."
Two days later, Clair left a phone message saying he would not be coming.
I found him seven hours later and he sounded awful.
"This is very
embarrassing," he said. "I was
bitten by my cat. I've got an infection
or an allergic reaction or something. I
can't walk. I haven't slept all
night. I'm on antibiotics."
"What
should I tell the countess?"
"Tell
her I've had a family emergency. I’ve
got to go, I feel awful. Call me
later."
First the countess was disappointed. Then she turned cold and abrupt—and after that, dismissive.
"I think we should close the curtains on
this play,” she said. “Finito bon
soir."
"The
maestro can visit next week," I said.
"Next
week I have visitors."
"The
week after?"
"Thank
you, goodbye."
I phoned Clair to fill him in. He sounded unwell.
“Anything else?" he asked.
"Yeah.
She wants to unleash the IRS on Lara.”
"Why?"
"She
thinks it would be good for Lara’s character to spend time in prison. And it would free up the boy to be in
father’s custody."
"She
wants that?"
"She
wants anything that will punish her daughter."
"This
really has taken a strange turn," said Clair.
"Sure
has."
"The
IRS you say?"
"Yep."
"Her
own daughter?"
"Uh-huh."
"Well,
f--- her."
"My
sentiments precisely."
This story should have ended there.
I wanted
it to end there.
But, breaking through his fever, Clair phoned the countess to explain his cat bite.
"Well,
thank God you're sick," she told him.
"I thought you found something else to do."
And then she renewed our theatrical production/situation comedy/soap opera for another season.