Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(47)

So I followed the signs. They took me to an entry road guarded by a barrier and a ticket booth.

This was not what I’d expected. I might have called Eddie again, but I already looked enough of an idiot, so I drove up to the ticket booth.

Entry was $37.

“I have an appointment.”

Entry was $37.

Plus tax.

“I’m here to see Eddie Ballington. Eddie-boy,” I added, like we were old friends.

The man in the booth reached out and tapped the sign beside the window.

$37.

“I see how these guys make their money,” I said, and paid it. Or at least, the Registry did.

I left the car in the car park. I could feel the heat, just radiating off the other vehicles. I showed my ticket at a turnstile where a woman in what seemed to be an air stewardess uniform reminded me, “No personal food or drink, including water. Food and drink can be purchased from the vendors in the grounds. Photographs are permissible within the gardens and those parts of the House open to the public unless otherwise advised. Photographs must be for personal use only. The Ballington Estate will take legal action if advised of unauthorized commercial use.” She managed an astonishingly sweet smile throughout this list of threats and prohibitions. It was very captivating. “Damage to artifacts, including plants and statuary, will result in legal action and highest penalties will be sought. Should you require medical assistance, the on-site doctor will be contacted at your expense. Children should be supervised at all times, and—”

“Do I look like I’ve got children here?”

“These are the regulations, sir. It’s my job to keep you informed.”

“I’m here to see Eddie Ballington. Main door, south wing?”

She frowned at that, but handed me a tourist map and pointed out the south wing. It was a little off the beaten trail, and labeled “no public entry.”

The map cost three dollars.

I was allowed to pass. And I walked on.

Into Oz. Into El Dorado.

Into Paradise . . .





Chapter 41

The Great House




I had seen pictures on the website.

None of them compared.

Even the air was different, within the walls—richer and more complex, thick with the scent of wild herbs, and the tang of new-mown grass. Huge red sequoias towered over me, and birds would race among their branches with the suddenness of gunshots. Butterflies went dancing in a pool of sunlight. It was magical. Yet even this was just the antechamber, as it were—the prelude to the main event.

Soon, I came out on a vast lawn, flat as a chessboard. Visitors strolled by in little groups, or sat on blankets with their special vendor-bought provisions. The vendors, anyway, were easy to pick out. They wore uniforms in red and yellow and towed coolers built like moon buggies, with tires massively inflated to protect the grass.

Over all this, the house appeared to float upon the summer haze, floor after floor of tall, slim windows, flashing in the sun, to steep-pitched roofs and pillared chimneys, rising to a pure blue sky. The look was European, but the scale was magnificent: the Old World reimagined, rebuilt as a dream.

I checked my map. The south wing was easy enough to find. There were private signs before I got there, and a low fence, and a chain slung waist-high across the path, so I ducked under that.

People were working near the house. A man was trimming hedges with a nasty-sounding chain saw. A truck drove by, stinking of fertilizer.

A moment later, and I spotted Eddie.

Nice, I thought. Appropriate.

He had a cowboy hat tipped back upon his head, his stubble razored carefully to emphasize his cheekbones.

“Chris.” His handshake, just a bit too firm. Grin, a bit too wide. “Welcome to the farm.”

“Like no farm I’ve seen.”

“Say that again.” He raised his arm, swept it back and forth: the trees, the park, the level upon level of the house itself. “This French guy started it, oh, ’way back. Wanted it bigger than Versailles. So we got extra floors, maybe twenty, thirty extra rooms. This guy—well, he put everything in there. Finest marble—everything. Then he went bust. Debts up to here, y’know?”

“Lovely.”

“Well. In walks Dad-o’s grampaw. He’s got cash in hand, buys the place for, oh, like, fifty bucks or something, just to keep the old guy out of jail. Been in the family ever since.”

“Nice.”

“See, Chris—this is what we do. We take the best from everywhere. England, Europe, anywhere you like. We take the best and let it . . . flourish. We build it up. That’s why we’re strong.”

“That, and the forty bucks it cost me to get in here.”

He looked hurt at that.

“Don’t think it’s worth it?”

“Oh, I’m sure. Just seems a funny way of doing business, that’s all. Invite me over, charge me to get in.”

“Chris, Chris!” He slapped me on the back; old pals. “You’re on expenses, man! Relax, enjoy!”

“I’ll do my best.”

“There’s one way in, one way out. For everyone. OK? We are totally egalitarian here. Egalité, fraternité, whatever! Got that?”

We had now come to a door, pointed like a church door, large but not especially ostentatious. Here, I was introduced to Captain Max Ghirelli, Head of Security.