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Paul Mellon and Rachel Lambert's private jet was a Gulfstream.

Inside, it held only six seats—ergonomically designed armchairs with their own small tables, each able to swivel and recline. The cabin wasn't decorated with ostentation; comfort was the priority.

But to carry Audrey Hepburn as a patient, the aircraft was specially refitted. Two rows of chairs were removed and replaced with a hospital bed and space for monitoring equipment.

This wasn't as simple as clearing room in an ordinary chamber. An aircraft takes off, lands, and weathers turbulence. Everything had to be securely fastened.

For Gulfstream's engineers, this was no challenge. As a manufacturer of custom luxury jets, they had seen every type of request. As long as a client specified a need, they could produce a solution.

Henry coordinated with the team at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, and between them they worked out a plan that met Hepburn's medical requirements.

Because the modifications were temporary, without changing the overall layout, and because the Mellons requested priority service, the retrofit was completed in just two weeks. Discover more novels at novęlfire.net

If Henry had been given the materials and blueprint, he could have finished it in a day—but like all manufacturers' warranties, peace of mind required that only the original company perform the work. Unauthorized modifications could void service and insurance, leaving no coverage in case of malfunction or accident.

Fortunately, Miss Hepburn still needed to remain at Cedars-Sinai for post-surgery observation. As long as she made it back to Switzerland before Christmas, there was no need to rush the refit.

During those weeks, Robert Wolders stayed by her side as caregiver. Her younger son, Luca, returned to Europe for school, and her elder son, Sean, went back to his job.

The busiest of all was Givenchy, juggling his own work and Hepburn's affairs. Thankfully, Henry handled most of the errands—delivering documents, contacting people—leaving only the essential meetings for Givenchy himself.

Henry, in short, was the runner.

But such work shouldn't be underestimated. At Creative Artists Agency (CAA), one of Hollywood's top talent agencies, many future super-agents had started in the mailroom. There, one quickly learned which issues to run to whom. Building connections—or failing to—was up to each person.

Henry, though just a runner, was moving in rarefied circles. If he had already met hidden titans like the Mellons, was Givenchy really going to send him to deal with ordinary folk?

Of course, not every errand led to top people. Nor would the elite casually befriend a has-been star's assistant. But each great figure had their staff—assistants and clerks—those Henry could more easily approach.

It wasn't about instant friendships in a meeting or two. It was about knowing, when a problem arose, where to turn.

This was not the age of the internet, when a search engine could solve most questions. In those days, an ordinary person might not even know where to place the incense when praying at a temple.

Whether these contacts would prove useful later was uncertain. But since Henry had to handle Hepburn's matters anyway, keeping such notes cost nothing. Perhaps someday they would come in handy.

At last, the time came to leave Los Angeles.

Three extra weeks at Cedars-Sinai—enough that a younger patient might already be bouncing about after such surgery. But Miss Hepburn was an older woman, her body worn by wartime hardships in youth. Her recovery was less than ideal.

Even so, the doctors did not insist she remain under hospital care. From their experience, at her age, a cheerful spirit was more important than constant medical attention.

Put simply: tending to the elderly was much like tending to children. If she wished to go home to Switzerland, let her go. Keeping her in a ward, frowning day after day, could do more harm than any illness.

So, on the scheduled day, the group prepared to depart.

Henry rented a specially modified van with medical support features. Miss Hepburn could now walk short distances and no longer required a bed or wheelchair at all times. The van ensured she would travel comfortably.

But this was Los Angeles—the city of Hollywood, where reporters were as dense as in Washington, D.C. or New York. Somehow, the press had caught wind of Hepburn's discharge.

Luckily, Cedars-Sinai was a world-class hospital with top-tier security for VIPs. No journalist dared cause trouble on its grounds; otherwise they'd soon be sampling the security-ambulance-hospital trifecta, lawsuits or not. No power-broker would pick a fight with an institution that might one day save their life.

So reporters were kept outside the perimeter.

Henry, ever sly, also called in the Screen Actors Guild through Marion—contacts he hadn't touched in two years—and hired a few bit actors. Renting a van identical to his, he staged a classic decoy escape.

The reporters swarmed the wrong vehicle, chasing it in a frenzy, while Hepburn's real van slipped away untroubled.

He took such pains because there was a patient aboard. The last thing Henry wanted was a street chase with a mob of frenzied journalists.

The young actors, savvy enough, asked no questions. Once they'd drawn off the paparazzi, they were free to improvise. Wrapping early still meant a day's pay—hardly a bad deal.

And so, Hepburn's van made its way smoothly to Santa Monica Airport, the closest field to Cedars-Sinai. There, the Mellons' retrofitted Gulfstream jet awaited, ready to fly.

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