This sample is chapter 1. It is a preliminary draft

 

 Boston, 1970. It was a fall day in Boston; a relatively rare event since Boston has only two seasons, winter and summer, with only a couple of days each year for the transitions. It was cloudy, cool, and breezy. The cloud cover was typical, averaging 40% annually due to the proximity of the nearby Gulf Stream bringing warm moist air from the tropics to collide with cooler Canadian air over the city. Joe Braxton thought, Tough country for swimming pools, as he gazed out his office window morosely. As he watched a girl hold her skirt down against a swirling gust, a random fact flitted through his mind: Boston has the highest average wind speed of any major city in the continental US — four miles per hour faster than Chicago, misnamed the Windy City. She’s either a tourist or an exhibitionist; nobody wears full skirts in the downtown canyons of Boston.

His office was on the third floor of the Naylor Building, an appellation known only to the few passersby who actually read the concrete script over the main entrance that enshrined the fame of its builder a century before. The building was a nineteenth century anachronism, largely surrounded by the modern steel-and-glass skyscrapers of the downtown business district. It hung on primarily due to the zeal of historical preservationists. Braxton had little use for the historical value of the drafty old hulk. He paid premium rates for floor space because the place had not been gutted yet, so his people could have individual offices rather than the efficient desolation of cubicles. It helped that there was a parking garage two doors down where the company could rent parking spaces in a city notoriously short on parking.

His office also had a nice view of Post Office Square, where he could watch people scurrying about and wonder what important business drove them. How many were real movers and shakers? Which ones were screwing over others to get up the corporate ladder? How many were having illicit affairs? Who were the crooks ripping off the system and who were the politicians on a foray from nearby Government Center? In Boston, was there a difference? Most times he looked out that window Braxton had a fleeting mental image of an ant farm.

And sometimes he would recall the time when the City of Boston reorganized the cow-path streets of the downtown area to reduce traffic congestion by making most of them one-way. Unfortunately they made all eight streets approaching the square one-way leading into it. That caused an epic gridlock because Post Office Square is the center point dividing Government Center and the North End to the North, the Financial District to the East, Beacon Hill and Back Bay to the West, and Southy to the South. It was one of Braxton’s favorite examples of human folly and visitors to his office would sometimes find him mysteriously humming the refrain …poor old Charlie couldn’t get off that train… from the Kingston Trio hit of the previous decade.

Today’s reveries were broken when his phone rang. It was his secretary, Claire, calling to announce a visitor. “His name is Ian Fleming.”

Usually Claire did a good job screening visitors, using the same zeal as that of a Fortune 500 CEO’s Executive Secretary. “The author? Is James Bond with him?”

“I’m afraid not. Neither is Pussy Galore.” All the world loves a straight man! “He says its important.”

“Oh, come on. What’s he selling?”

“He won’t tell me. But he says he has a business proposition and will pay you five thousand in cash for just ten minutes of your time.”

“You’re pulling my chain, right?”

“I’m afraid not. He handed me the money and says I can hold it for the meeting.”

“I assume he would want the money back if you told him I was unavailable.”

“I think you have a keen grasp of the situation.”

“Well, I guess I can’t turn down $30,000/hr.”

“Probably not.”

“OK, send him in. But if he stays over ten minutes or you hear shooting in here, call some of the guys. And have Larry check if the money is counterfeit.”

“How is it that no mysterious strangers offer me five grand for ten minutes of my time?”

“I’m sure you are worth it, but if you look at the fine print of your employment contract you will find that liaisons with mysterious strangers are prohibited for Braxton Security’s secretaries.”

“I’m an Executive Assistant,” she sniffed. Oops.

“And a damn fine one, too,” he exclaimed into the click as she hung up.

A few seconds later Claire opened the door and ushered Ian Fleming into the office. He was about six feet tall and lean without being skinny. Thirty-ish. He had dark hair in a Cary Grant style. He wasn’t quite as good looking but he had the same cosmopolitan aura. I’ll bet its good to be his buddy in pick-up joints. He had a good tan and a few extra wrinkles. An outdoors type. He wore a dark, faintly pin-striped suit that fit him well. Probably tailored. His shirt was very faintly pink with a maroon tie, the handkerchief in his top pocket matched the tie, and there was a stickpin tie clasp with a small diamond. He had a small black leather attaché case. Must subscribe to GQ. The shoes were plain and black but had a high shine and showed no crinkle mark over the toes when he was flat-footed. Patent leather? The overall impression was well-groomed, good looking, stylish, and rich. He’s probably not selling encyclopedias.

Fleming strode to the desk and stuck his hand out, introducing himself. English accent. Maybe he is the writer. Braxton stood and they shook hands. Classic firm, dry, one-pulse shake. Braxton indicated a chair and sat back down, saying, “What can I do for you, Mr. Fleming.” When Fleming sat, he seemed to flow into the chair. Good coordination; a jock.

Fleming looked at Braxton intently with eyes so deeply blue they were almost black. “I won’t take much of your time. I have an unusual request. My client would like to meet with you. He has a business proposition for you that potentially has a great deal of benefit for you. He is willing to pay for your time and expenses whether you accept his proposition or not. He will pay you $100,000 to meet with him for a few hours to hear his proposal. Just a day of your time, total. If you accept his proposition you will need to spend another month of your time at a later date but the rewards will be far greater.”

“So what kind of proposition is it?”

“I can’t tell you that; only my client can talk to you about it. I can only assure you that it will be more intriguing than any other deal you have been involved with.”

“So you do know what the proposition is. Why can’t you make the proposal?”

“You will have to trust me that there are very good reasons why the meeting must be directly with my client.”

“So who is this mysterious client?”

“Sorry, but I can’t tell you that now. You will have to meet him yourself.”

“If I accept the proposition, what will I get out of it?”

“Sorry, but I can’t tell you that either. I assure you that you will get out a great deal.”

Braxton was mystified by both the deal and with Fleming himself. Fleming was urbane and precise in forming his answers. Yet when Braxton looked into those penetrating eyes he had the odd feeling that there wasn’t anybody home. It was like Fleming was playing a role to sell the deal but when the sales character was peeled away, he would somewhere else, probably fishing. “Let me see if I understand this. You have a secret client who wants to make me a secret offer to do something secret for a secret payoff. Yet I am supposed to drop everything to talk about it? I’ve got to tell you that this is the worst sales pitch I’ve ever heard.”

“I understand. That’s why we are offering you $100,000 for a day of your time. It goes a long way towards compensating for the quality of he sales pitch.”

“’We’? If you are so closely involved in this, why can’t you tell me more about it?”

“I am intimately involved with the… mechanical side of things. But I am just a factotum. You have to deal with my client.” Factotum; not too many people can work that into a routine conversation.

“And when would you want me to do this?”

“As soon as possible. Perhaps this Friday?” Three days to clear my schedule.

“You’re pretty sure of yourself. Braxton Security isn’t a Fortune 500 but it is nicely profitable and I pull a good living from it. So I don’t need the 100K.”

“But the money certainly wouldn’t hurt,” he smiled slyly. “Also, this has nothing to do with security concerns and no one else from your company should be involved. It is a project for which you are personally uniquely suited for other reasons. But my client is adamant about wanting you so I will pay you another $100,000 if you refuse the proposition after hearing it.”

“You will pay me?”

“It’s my client’s money, but I have great latitude in getting you to meet with him.”

“As I said, I don’t care that much about the money. This whole thing is right out of Alice in Wonderland. My gut is telling me I should be running away from this with all due diligence.”

Fleming sat forward in his chair. Somebody is in there and he’s worried I won’t accept. “OK, let me try a different tack. Note that I am careful enough with my client’s money that I specified that you only get the extra 100,000 if you refuse the project. In fact, I never expect to have to pay it. I can state categorically and unequivocally that this project will be the most interesting thing you have ever been connected with or ever will be connected with in the rest of your lifetime. If you are not interested in the money, surely you would be interested in knowing what the project is.” He’s right; that’s a hell of a hook — if true. And 100K is a lot of incentive to find out.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I was offered the same deal and I couldn’t refuse.”

“So why doesn’t your client just get you to do whatever you did again? Let me guess, it involved organ donation and you are fresh out.”

Fleming cracked a faint smile. “Not organ donation. In fact I didn’t do anything. At the last minute, after I had accepted, my client discovered that I was unsuitable for the task. So the task has not been done. But my client is quite honorable and, since the contract had been offered and accepted, he gave me my rewards even though I was lacking. And I can testify that the rewards were far greater than money.”

“So the rewards for accepting the client’s proposition are non-monetary?”

“Yes. But I’m not going to play Twenty Questions with you. I’m sorry I am cryptic about this, but you are going to have to decide now based on just what I’ve told you. My ten minutes are up.”

“Is there anything illegal about this?”

“No,” with another faint smile. “Sorry to be more enigmatic about this but there is no US law that could possibly be violated by my client’s project.”

“So the project is outside the US.”

“I didn’t say that, but I was imprecise. What I meant was that no law anywhere on Earth would be broken.”

“Terrific. I won’t bother asking what that means. OK, how would I get paid?”

“If you agree, I will have 100,000 plus some per diem expense money placed in your bank account within a couple of hours of my leaving here. Any additional expenses I will reimburse you for.”

“So you’ll trust me to actually go after you transfer the money into my account?”

“Trustworthiness was one of the criteria for selecting you.”

“At the risk of looking a gift horse in the mouth, just how would you know that?”

“You were a Boy Scout. Trustworthy, loyal, helpful, and all that. In addition, I have spent the entire last month researching you.”

“You know I was a boy scout?”

“Quite so. Eighteen merit badges in two years.”

“Let me guess. If I decide to accept I won’t need to give you my bank account number.”

“Right,” he smiled broadly. When he researches someone, he’s good at it and wants me to know that.

Braxton leaned back in his chair and stared at Fleming for several seconds. Fleming also sat back and calmly returned the look in silence. The bastard knows he’s got me. Just then the phone rang.

Braxton excused himself and picked it up. “Joe, it’s Larry. Where the hell did that 5K come from?”

“Why?”

“It’s the best counterfeit I’ve ever seen! It passes every visual and tactile test; watermarks, plates, colored threads, everything! I’m going to run chemical and other tests, but I’m guessing the ink and paper are legit. Anybody that good will get hold of the right stuff.”

“So what’s the problem?” Fleming had a slight smile as he ignored the conversation. He knows what I am talking about. He expected it!

“I was checking the Fed’s Hot List for stolen currency. It has an appendix with criteria for recognizing counterfeit currency that I use as a checklist. That appendix has ranges of serial numbers for each change in the currency so you know what features are relevant. The serial numbers on your bills haven’t been issued. The only way those bills could be real and have those numbers is if they are from a defective run that was supposed to be destroyed or someone at the mint is moonlighting. And I don’t see anything defective about them.”

“Curiouser and curiouser.”

“You want me to contact the Feds?”

Braxton said, “No. I’ll take care of it. Why don’t you finish up and then we’ll talk,” and hung up.

Braxton looked a Fleming and then announced, “The deal is off. You lied to me.”

Fleming tensed, looked at Braxton coldly, and said tightly, “I did not lie to you.” He’s not upset about the deal breaking; he is taking being called a liar personally and doesn’t like it enough to do something about it.

“You told me that there was nothing illegal about this but you paid me $5,000 in counterfeit bills.”

Fleming visibly relaxed. We’re back to the deal; it was just a misunderstanding that he can set straight. “First, I didn’t lie. There is nothing illegal about the proposal my client will make to you and the money I gave your secretary was never mentioned in our conversation. Second, whether that money is counterfeit depends on how you define ‘counterfeit’. I gather those tests you mentioned on the phone are UV, spectroscopy, and whatnot to look at the bills at the molecular level. I’ll save your colleague the trouble. Nobody at the Treasury would be able to find anything wrong with them. By any physical criteria those bills are indistinguishable from any other currency coming out of your US mint.”

“Claire is an Executive Assistant. Trust me, you don’t want to make that mistake to her. You gave that money to her as payment for ten minutes of my time and that transaction has an implication that the currency was legal US tender. And you are not denying that there is something bogus about the money.”

“My apologies to your Executive Assistant. As I said, there is no way to distinguish that money from legal US tender. My compliments to your colleague, by the way. He is very good to have noticed the problem with the serial numbers.”

“Well, we could play pedantic games all day about what ‘counterfeit’ and ‘payment’ mean. The fact is, it is bogus. So where did it come from?”

“I can’t tell you that now. I needed the cash in a hurry for our meeting and cheated a bit.” Cheated a bit?!? In a hurry? Counterfeits that good requires major organization. So he must have a pile of it handy. “However, if you meet with my client you will understand why the problem exists. Moreover, I am quite confident that you will agree it was necessary and won’t have any qualms about it.” Very clever; just adding to the hook. “Your 100,000, by the way, will be a wire transfer that is perfectly legal by any criteria you apply. I only used the cash because it is much more impressive in getting past Executive Secretaries.”

“Which you do a lot?”

“My client has made this proposal only three times; you and I are two of them.”

“And this third person was also found unsuitable at the last moment?”

“Right. But I’m not going into the details about why I think the research is much more reliable in your case. If it will get us past this, I’ll take back the 5,000 and add it to the wire transfer. I assure you there is nothing at all illegal about the project itself. You can always turn it down if there is.”

“No offense, but your credibility has taken a hit here. If I were you I would be concerned that the Secret Service is on the way over right now.”

“I don’t think you called the cops. You would not have told me you knew and would have tried to delay me with more questions. I suspect the ‘No. I’ll take care of it’ on the phone with your colleague answered that same question. All this has done is add more fuel to your curiosity and the answers are all with my client. So will you meet with my client?” Good read. Even more interesting, you didn’t deny it; you knew instantly that somebody had checked the serial numbers because that was the only possible way anyone could even suspect it was counterfeit. No grass growing under your feet. Guys who dress, talk, and think like you don’t come cheap. Toss in the best bogus money ever seen, a whole lot of secrecy, and six figure payoffs and there is something very weird going on here.

“This smells like some sort of Manahattan Project.”

“I can tell you that neither the US government nor any other government is involved in any way with my client or the project. Nor is there some sort of ‘plausible deniability’ indirection involved.”

The silence stretched into thirty long seconds before Braxton answered, “OK. The trip is on.” A dull day had turned interesting but Joe Braxton had no idea how interesting.