Here are a few pages you might like to read.
Prologue
Something caught David’s eye. He glanced quickly through the window to his left. Everything was dead, or so it appeared.
It was early winter, and the forecast called for a rare snowfall with a one to two inch accumulation. Clouds the color of pewter covered the sky, looking like they would drop their trillions of fluffy white flakes at any moment. This time of year depressed most people, but it energized David. He smiled at the prospect of a white Christmas.
He turned his gaze back to the screen of his laptop and began punching keys. He had completed two paragraphs and was deep in thought, considering what he'd type next, when his cell phone began to vibrate. He picked it up and answered.
“David, it’s Irma. I have that information you wanted.”
“You do? That’s great ... send it over.”
“No, it’s in print. Meet me, and I’ll give it to you.”
“Irma,” David said, irritated, “I’m in the middle of a chapter.”
“If I know you ... and I do ... you’ve been writing for hours now. You need a break. Meet me at The Cotton Exchange for a late lunch, and I’ll give you what I found.”
David looked at his watch. Two o’clock. He thought about it. He really could use a break. “Okay, Irma, how about if we meet there at 3:00?”
“Sounds good; see you at 3:00, and don’t get tied up ... or lost.”
David disconnected and laid the phone on the desk. He stood up and stretched his six-foot frame then walked into the bathroom where he splashed some water on his face and looked in the mirror. He ran his hand through his dark hair and thought, “Not too bad for a man of 40.” He had ruggedly-handsome features – most people thought he patterned the main characters in his novels after himself – but he would always reply, “Do I seem that vain to you?” Then he’d give them a devious smile.
He threw on a dark-brown leather jacket over his sweater and headed for The Exchange. The temperature wasn’t bad, so he decided to walk the short distance from his apartment in the Historic District to the restaurant. That turned out to be a questionable decision when he got about halfway and snow began to fall. He shrugged and kept walking. The Cotton Exchange used to be a series of cotton warehouses, built along the river during the 19th century. Now the long line of red brick buildings housed mostly restaurants and shops, catering to tourists who strolled along River Street in the historic city of Savannah, Georgia.
The snowflakes were becoming larger now, strange indeed since it was unusual for any snow to fall in this part of Georgia.
He reached The Exchange and found Irma seated in a booth by a window overlooking River Street. She was a very attractive redhead about David’s age, although in the 15 years he’d known her, she’d never confessed her true age. Irma was a Research Historian Emeritus who had proven to be an invaluable asset to David since most of his novels were historic fiction in nature. He took a seat across from her and no sooner had he sat down than a waiter walked over to the table, took their drink orders and left two menus.
“Okay, Irma, what do you have?” asked David.
She pulled a nine by twelve inch manila envelope from her carry-all and laid it on the table. “You’re not going to believe this,” Irma said with a conspiratorial grin. She opened the envelope and laid the documents in front of David. Just as he reached for them, she placed her hand on top of the papers. “It goes much deeper than you thought.”
“You mean there were more than four members of Parliament involved?” “No, only four, but there were also five members of Congress ... two in the House and three in the Senate!”
“No, no … that’s impossible,” David said incredulously.
“No, it’s not. It’s all right here,” Irma said, tapping her forefinger in the stack of paper.
David picked up the documents and began to read. The waiter brought their drinks – bourbon for him and a martini for Irma. David kept reading. “Would you care to order now?” the waiter asked. David glanced up at him. “I’ll have whatever the lady is having,” he said and went back to reading.
After the waiter left, David looked up at Irma with a disappointed look on his face. “This doesn’t name names.”
“You don’t need names, David. You’re writing fiction. Make up names.”
“Yes, of course, but I would like to know who they were.”
“I’ll tell you who they were,” Irma replied. “They were traitors, all nine of them!”
David said, “Apparently, by 1943, both governments knew who they were and began feeding them false information to take back to ‘Der Fuhrer’. But how much damage had they caused prior to 1943?”
“Keep reading; it’s all in there,” Irma said, nodding to the documents David was holding.
The snow was beginning to accumulate, and residents and tourists alike were playing in the fine, white powder that was slowly covering the ground.
After they finished supper, Irma drove David home. As he walked to the stairs leading to his second floor apartment, he felt something slam into his back. He turned just in time to see Irma forming another snowball. He reached down, grabbed a handful of snow, pressed it into a ball and tossed it, catching her in the head and causing her to fall flat on her butt.
David walked over and offered his hand. “You’re soaked!” he said as he pulled her to her feet. “Come on, let’s get you dry.” He led the way to his apartment.
The next morning he awoke to the sound and smell of bacon frying and the warm aroma of coffee. “Good morning,” Irma said cheerfully as David walked into the kitchen.
“You’re dressed,” David noted.
“I have a meeting across town, but I did take time to fix you this wonderful breakfast.” She motioned to a plate containing three strips of bacon, a very hard-looking egg and a piece of almost-burnt toast. She looked at it for a long moment. “Well, maybe wonderful is a bit optimistic,” she said with a frown.
David kissed Irma goodbye, ate most of his breakfast and settled down in front of his laptop, clad in nothing more than his boxers, and began to write.
He had been writing for a little more than an hour when he suddenly became quite sleepy. He started to nod off, his head slowly falling forward, and he sat up with a jerk. He did that three times, but on the fourth, he became wide-awake when he realized he was no longer in his apartment. He looked down at himself and took stock. He was now dressed in a very old-style, dark gray suit. He looked up to see a man seated at a desk, concentrating on the stacks of paperwork that covered most of the desktop.
“Pardon me,” David said, with some hesitation.
The man looked up with a start. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my office?”
“I’m David Gardener, and I don’t know what I’m doing here … or how I got here. Who are you?”
The man reached to the front of his desk and lifted a plaque that read “William J. Donovan, General”. David sensed the blood draining from his face and felt as though he might pass out. The major must have noticed, too, for he rushed around his desk and grabbed David by the shoulder just before he tumbled to the floor. He sat him back in the chair and said, “Mister, you have a lot of explaining to do.”
Prologue
Something caught David’s eye. He glanced quickly through the window to his left. Everything was dead, or so it appeared.
It was early winter, and the forecast called for a rare snowfall with a one to two inch accumulation. Clouds the color of pewter covered the sky, looking like they would drop their trillions of fluffy white flakes at any moment. This time of year depressed most people, but it energized David. He smiled at the prospect of a white Christmas.
He turned his gaze back to the screen of his laptop and began punching keys. He had completed two paragraphs and was deep in thought, considering what he'd type next, when his cell phone began to vibrate. He picked it up and answered.
“David, it’s Irma. I have that information you wanted.”
“You do? That’s great ... send it over.”
“No, it’s in print. Meet me, and I’ll give it to you.”
“Irma,” David said, irritated, “I’m in the middle of a chapter.”
“If I know you ... and I do ... you’ve been writing for hours now. You need a break. Meet me at The Cotton Exchange for a late lunch, and I’ll give you what I found.”
David looked at his watch. Two o’clock. He thought about it. He really could use a break. “Okay, Irma, how about if we meet there at 3:00?”
“Sounds good; see you at 3:00, and don’t get tied up ... or lost.”
David disconnected and laid the phone on the desk. He stood up and stretched his six-foot frame then walked into the bathroom where he splashed some water on his face and looked in the mirror. He ran his hand through his dark hair and thought, “Not too bad for a man of 40.” He had ruggedly-handsome features – most people thought he patterned the main characters in his novels after himself – but he would always reply, “Do I seem that vain to you?” Then he’d give them a devious smile.
He threw on a dark-brown leather jacket over his sweater and headed for The Exchange. The temperature wasn’t bad, so he decided to walk the short distance from his apartment in the Historic District to the restaurant. That turned out to be a questionable decision when he got about halfway and snow began to fall. He shrugged and kept walking. The Cotton Exchange used to be a series of cotton warehouses, built along the river during the 19th century. Now the long line of red brick buildings housed mostly restaurants and shops, catering to tourists who strolled along River Street in the historic city of Savannah, Georgia.
The snowflakes were becoming larger now, strange indeed since it was unusual for any snow to fall in this part of Georgia.
He reached The Exchange and found Irma seated in a booth by a window overlooking River Street. She was a very attractive redhead about David’s age, although in the 15 years he’d known her, she’d never confessed her true age. Irma was a Research Historian Emeritus who had proven to be an invaluable asset to David since most of his novels were historic fiction in nature. He took a seat across from her and no sooner had he sat down than a waiter walked over to the table, took their drink orders and left two menus.
“Okay, Irma, what do you have?” asked David.
She pulled a nine by twelve inch manila envelope from her carry-all and laid it on the table. “You’re not going to believe this,” Irma said with a conspiratorial grin. She opened the envelope and laid the documents in front of David. Just as he reached for them, she placed her hand on top of the papers. “It goes much deeper than you thought.”
“You mean there were more than four members of Parliament involved?” “No, only four, but there were also five members of Congress ... two in the House and three in the Senate!”
“No, no … that’s impossible,” David said incredulously.
“No, it’s not. It’s all right here,” Irma said, tapping her forefinger in the stack of paper.
David picked up the documents and began to read. The waiter brought their drinks – bourbon for him and a martini for Irma. David kept reading. “Would you care to order now?” the waiter asked. David glanced up at him. “I’ll have whatever the lady is having,” he said and went back to reading.
After the waiter left, David looked up at Irma with a disappointed look on his face. “This doesn’t name names.”
“You don’t need names, David. You’re writing fiction. Make up names.”
“Yes, of course, but I would like to know who they were.”
“I’ll tell you who they were,” Irma replied. “They were traitors, all nine of them!”
David said, “Apparently, by 1943, both governments knew who they were and began feeding them false information to take back to ‘Der Fuhrer’. But how much damage had they caused prior to 1943?”
“Keep reading; it’s all in there,” Irma said, nodding to the documents David was holding.
The snow was beginning to accumulate, and residents and tourists alike were playing in the fine, white powder that was slowly covering the ground.
After they finished supper, Irma drove David home. As he walked to the stairs leading to his second floor apartment, he felt something slam into his back. He turned just in time to see Irma forming another snowball. He reached down, grabbed a handful of snow, pressed it into a ball and tossed it, catching her in the head and causing her to fall flat on her butt.
David walked over and offered his hand. “You’re soaked!” he said as he pulled her to her feet. “Come on, let’s get you dry.” He led the way to his apartment.
The next morning he awoke to the sound and smell of bacon frying and the warm aroma of coffee. “Good morning,” Irma said cheerfully as David walked into the kitchen.
“You’re dressed,” David noted.
“I have a meeting across town, but I did take time to fix you this wonderful breakfast.” She motioned to a plate containing three strips of bacon, a very hard-looking egg and a piece of almost-burnt toast. She looked at it for a long moment. “Well, maybe wonderful is a bit optimistic,” she said with a frown.
David kissed Irma goodbye, ate most of his breakfast and settled down in front of his laptop, clad in nothing more than his boxers, and began to write.
He had been writing for a little more than an hour when he suddenly became quite sleepy. He started to nod off, his head slowly falling forward, and he sat up with a jerk. He did that three times, but on the fourth, he became wide-awake when he realized he was no longer in his apartment. He looked down at himself and took stock. He was now dressed in a very old-style, dark gray suit. He looked up to see a man seated at a desk, concentrating on the stacks of paperwork that covered most of the desktop.
“Pardon me,” David said, with some hesitation.
The man looked up with a start. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my office?”
“I’m David Gardener, and I don’t know what I’m doing here … or how I got here. Who are you?”
The man reached to the front of his desk and lifted a plaque that read “William J. Donovan, General”. David sensed the blood draining from his face and felt as though he might pass out. The major must have noticed, too, for he rushed around his desk and grabbed David by the shoulder just before he tumbled to the floor. He sat him back in the chair and said, “Mister, you have a lot of explaining to do.”