James Wrote The Wrong Book

James sat down at his desk, glimpsed at the darkening sky out his window, booted up his computer and his usual programs. The primary program being his word processor. He took his flash drive on a chain form around his neck plugged it into a port to access his newest work in progress. He swapped to check his email before he started working.

Charlie, his pet Pit Bull came trotting into his office from eating and he petted her. “Lay down girl, I’m working. I’ll let you out in a bit.”

She moved over to her big fluffy bed and obeyed him.

“Hello Elaina.” He picked the email of his favorite fan. “What praises and criticism have you for me tonight deary?”

He opened the email and read eagerly. Her words confused him. She accused him of being mean and not releasing his book as he had promised. He had released the book for publication just yesterday after he got his usual sample copies. He opened his primary publisher’s web site and logged in. He checked his published novel list, and his latest book was not there. He opened more dealer’s websites and found the same thing. Or rather, the lack of his novel. He even checked his sales records. It was not listed.

He checked the clock. “Damn, the curse of working night owl shift. All businesses are closed.”

He swapped back to his email to see if any fans had gotten his book. Several fans complained about its absence.

His yard lights, activated by motion sensor lit up his back yard. Charlie rose in her bed and growled. She had spotted something.

“Steady girl.” She didn’t look at him but stared at her target.

He turned his head and looked about for a racoon or opossum. To his surprise he saw what had her attention. He reached under his desk and grasped his Citadel M1911, forty-five caliber pistol. It was designed identical to the Colt he had carried in the Army but with a shorter barrel. He still liked the weight and balance of it in his hand. He rose and stepped over to the patio door.

Charlie joined him. He put a hand on her collar and gave it a slight tug backwards. “Stay, Charlie, stay.” He watched her as he eased the door open with his left hand.

She obeyed.

He grasped her collar again and took one step outside. She stayed at his side. “Who’s there?” He spoke in a slightly raised but calm, authoritative voice, his pistol held pointed down at the ground.

No response.

“You are at the edge of the light but I can see you from the knees down, fella. Explain why you are in my fence back yard.” He held the weapon out a bit and exposed it sideways.

“You have hidden yourself quite well, but not quite good enough.” The response shocked him. He almost raised his pistol.

“I can still shoot you center mass for here. Step into the light. I am not hiding. I’m a reclusive person. What do you mean not good enough?”

The man stepped forward to expose himself. He was a touch taller than James with sandy brown hair and dressed in a decent three-piece charcoal colored suit. His hands were down by his side, twisted to show him his empty palms. “You use a phony nonexistent publishing company. Two pin names. Your google account has very little personal information in it.”

“I have to be a publishing company to get my own ISBN numbers. It saves me money. I do have a web site for it.”

“Yes, no address, email address, nor a phone number. Just marketing your books and an announcement you are not taking submissions. I’d like to step in and have a chat, please.”

“Why?”

“I need to talk to you about your latest book.”

“Hair On Fire? What do you want to know?”

“Not that one. The one you published and cannot find on any of your distributor’s web sites.”

“How do you know? Ok, who do you work for, FBI, Homeland Security, NSA, or CIA?”

“Call me a fan.”

“No. Your presence tells me your agency killed my novel. Which I happened to discover just tonight. Have you bugged my house yet?

Silence

“How about my computer?”

Silence

“Did my browser history entertain you? I have it auto wipe nightly.”

“It’s not as good as you think.”

“If you have gone through all that trouble, you know more about me than my mother does.”

“With you getting a divorce after barely a year, I’d say the DWI was predictable.

“You definitely researched me. Did my military record bore you?”

“No. All your efficiency reports were top notch. You made an interesting first reenlistment option, change from grunt to mechanic. Yet you stayed in combat units.”

“While I felt I was overqualified to be a communist pop target. I didn’t think I could make it in Delta Force.”

“Not many do.”

“Come on in. I’ll let my dog out. Or are you not alone?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Are they in the yard?”

“No.”

“It is her domain. She defends it viciously.”

“They will stay out of it.”

He stepped aside and the man strolled calmly up and stopped short, looking at Charlie as she growled.

“Steady, Charlie. He’s a friend.” She looked up at her master and back at the stranger. “Let her smell you hand and step inside.”

He complied with slow movements and James stepped sideways into the doorway. He petted Charlie's head and waved his hand. “Good girl. Go play.” He closed the door.

She stood watch for a minute.

“Nice dog. Well behaved.”

“I took time to train her. Raise them with love and they will love you. What can I do for my country, FBI man?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“When I processed out of the Army, no one in my chain of command informed me I was relieved of my oath.”

“What oath?”

James knew the statement puzzled the man. “Where I swore to support and defend the constitution of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic.”

The man laughed.

“You didn’t come here to talk about my personal life. How many men are with you?

It’s so I know how many glasses of tea to make.”

“I have enough. They are good.”

“You think so? You have no idea how well I know the five hundred thousand acres of woods around this place. All I have to do is get out of my house. One hit at an ATM and I will can be a ghost for months.”

“Thirty yards isn’t very far.”

“So, your team has a parameter established. Damn, I never thought I’d be considered that much of a threat to national security. You do know I have more weapons in here?”

“Yes, two rifles and two pistols registered in your name. Which pistol do you prefer?”

“I like the weight of the forty-five better than the nine mill. But one must appreciate the feel of a seven-millimeter magnum. I have the twenty-two for small game. I don’t like shotguns.”

“Why don’t we cut the bull shit and get down to brass tacks. Care for a glass of tea?” He stepped over and set the pistol on the corner of the desk and walked into his kitchen.

“If you don’t like iced tea, I have sodas. I don’t have coffee in the house. Also, I use sugar sparingly in my tea.”

“That’s a betrayal of your southern roots.”

James turned around to smile at the agent. “No. I don’t want diabetes. Are your buddies coming in?”

“Parameter security.”

“Am I a danger?” He held up the glass of tea.

“I’m here to determine that.” He took the glass.

“This is where I ask for an ID.”

The man pulled out a leather wallet and flashed a gold badge and ID at him. “I’m Special Agent Morrison.”

“You expected me to read more than the bold FBI letters that fast?”

“That’s all you get.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Who is your source of information. How did you come by the name Operation Zungartal.”

He smiled. “I am my source. I did do some hard ass research for it.”

“Do you have any recorded documentation on it? We didn’t find it in your search history. I’d like to know how you found it.”

“I don’t usually track my research steps. Just the end results. It’s all in my book. I do still have the rough outline where I started. Does your office have bunches of people you pay to read books for you looking to find top secret information or codes?”

He smiled. “Could I see your research material?”

“Such as?”

“Well, how you came up with the name?”

“Sure, step into my office and I’ll show you.”

The agent followed James.

“Sorry, I don’t have a better chair to offer you other than the couch. I don’t get much company. He said stepping around behind his desk.

The man stood stopped beside his desk.

James dropped in the chair and faced the bookcases behind it with his hands in the air. He pointed with his fingers and jerked them about. The shelves were packed with books and cluttered with non-book items.

“Let’s see where I put it. Ah, here we are.” He grabbed a white box four inches wide by inch and a half deep, and seven long. It was the box a cell phone came in. He spun the chair around and offered it to the agent.

“Everything I have on the origin of the name is in there.”

The man took it and looked at it with raised eyebrows.

“Don’t worry it will not explode. I’m no secrete spy agent or a threat.”

The agent set his tea glass down to crudely block access to the weapon, and lifted the lid off the box and looked inside. “What is this?” he asked with a bit of sarcasm in his voice. He shook the box and rattled the contents.

“That is how I came up with the name. I took fifteen of those Scrabble game letters and created it. The letter Z just seemed to belong as the first letter.”

“You are serious?”

“Yup. I took a jumble of letters and came up with the name. After I wrote the rough draft of the book, I searched for it on the web. It’s an old habit. I try not to step on any toes over it. That is probably how you got on my scent. Isn’t it?”

“Why science fiction?” he asked, avoiding the question.

“Sci-Fi, suspense, and fantasy are my favorite genres.”

“The ship you described is identical to a supper missile submarine.”

“It was my reference. A general layout of the plans of it are available on the web. I did add a few modifications to make it a space vessel. You know; air locks, shuttle bay and such. Not showing a picture of it gives plenty room for ambiguity. In principle the protection against a vacuum isn’t much different that deep water, except for the pressure.”

“But the main character’s name and mission details are too close.”

“Concocted espionage by a vivid imagination. I get tid-bits from the news and movies I watch. Scraps of overheard conversations in the mall. I play with it in my head, build an outline and start writing. One time, I encountered a five-line entry in the newspaper about a railroad track bombing in a South American country. I did research on the country and wrote a seventy-thousand-word novel from it.”

“Tequila Sundown.” The agent named the book.

James nodded. “I’m impressed. My father once said, ‘The tree died.’ He was referring to an oak in his back yard. I wrote a fantasy novel out of that. Hell, you have no idea what I can do with your visit tonight.”

“I have little doubt what you will write and do with it. What do you do about city names and addresses?”

“The web. I throw a mental dart at the world map for a country or city and go from there. The city maps are easily available on the web. I also look at satellite and Google Maps and zoom down for scene descriptions of the area. Besides, I play around with the street names and places sometimes.”

“No way can you hit so many similarities by coincidence like that.”

“Tell me, cannot two computers run random number generators with different programs and not have a section that match?”

“Not to the count of twenty-seven in such a short span.”

“Seventy-five thousand words are short? I do not want to know the truth of whatever the mission is or was, nor true details it involved. I just create and write fiction. Terrorists are always trying to get their hands on nuclear bombs or some kind of a WMD. Why the interest in that book?”

“But you referenced enough real details.”

“I fabricated details that match by coincidence. Twenty-seven times? Wow. I do occasionally use some real city and street names. I like foreign languages for names. It gives the feel of authenticity to the story. It helps me not to have to use that box of letters so much. What are you going to report to your superiors? Better yet, I’ll give you a hard copy of the book. Someone can mark the details with a red pen or highlighter, and I’ll change them.” James turned around and grabbed a paperback copy from the box. Your agency owes me the seven hundred dollars I’m out, so I can republish it.”

“I’ll take it to my supervisor.”

“I’m serious about the money, I prefer a cash deposit to my account. I'm rather sure you already have the number. I’ll give you a week before I start to hunt you down.”

The man looked at him with a raise eyebrow and smiled. “I need all the hard copies you have, please. You are saying, all of the story is random generation by a creative mind?”

“Yup, I usually buy ten copies first off, for personal use of searching for mistakes and gifts. Then a couple hundred for signings. Your boss owes me twelve dollars a copy. You timed your visit well. I just got these in the mail today.” He nodded at the books.

“I insist on keeping one hard copy.” He snatched it from the box.

“What about the copy on your flash drive?”

“You will need a warrant for it. I spent a year creating and writing that novel. It will cost your boss sixty-five thousand dollars for me to rewrite it from scratch. Plus, republishing fees for it.”

“I think I’ll read a book or two you wrote just for the entertainment.”

“That’s why I write them to begin with.” James spun around and grabbed different named book from another box. He snatched up a pen and wrote inside the front cover. He offered it to Morrison. “My treat. Drop by with any of my books and I’ll autograph them for you. Do call a day or two ahead though. Sometimes I take a night off and go out.” He set the box on the desk.

Morrison read his signing. ‘To my “Special Friend”, M. Thanks.’ I like how you put, it in quotes. I’ll read it. Thank you for your cooperation, sir. I’ll call you before the week is out.” He collected the box.

James escorted him to the door and saw two black SUVs sitting in his driveway. Several men were standing beside them. He returned to his desk, opened a blank page in his word processor, and started writing.

Secret Agent M sat in the antique, English oak, armchair wearing a charcoal, three pieced, Armani suit, tailored to his muscular build. He raked back his sandy brown hair and raised his green eyes from his briefing folder to look at his boss. “Scandinavia, again? Sir, it is the dead of winter over there.”

The man stared back at him with a bland expression, raised his hands and flopped them out open and shrugged.