CHAPTER ONE
The man’s fingers hovered over the keyboard of the laptop, his mind desperately searching for words to put on the page. He was two years into the current book project, and it seemed like he’d hit some kind of mental wall. Some would call it writer’s block - but whatever the psychology - it had never happened before and was driving him crazy!
Donald Sullivan was sitting on the veranda of his bungalow in the early dawn; the birds were chirping and he could hear the distant roar of the surf. These were the very conditions which usually spurred his creativity. He sipped a Scotch whisky, hoping that it might fuel some inspiration. His agent in Toronto had called again yesterday, urging him to hurry along with the manuscript. He had complained, “The publisher is becoming impatient because we’re well past the agreed upon completion date.” The writer had responded by dissembling and making feeble excuses, feeling somewhat insulated by distance and circumstance.
For years he had been coming to Costa Rica just before Christmas, and staying for the entire winter. He had found the perfect location in Nosara, on the Pacific coast, where he rented a small bungalow in a very exclusive, gated community which provided both the luxury and privacy he desired. The bungalow was located about 200 meters from the beach, which was accessed by following a narrow pathway through the trees. Sullivan walked down to the beach each day, as he was an avid surfer. Often he returned in the evening to watch the sun sink into the Pacific. Now, as he sat in the early dawn sipping his drink, the door to the bungalow opened and a beautiful young woman emerged. He had met her recently out on the water, and now scantily clad in an enticing thong, she urged, “C’mon Donny, let’s go back to bed.” Given the absence of any other inspiration, he smiled and said, “I’ll be right along, darling.”
He had told the young woman – her name was Julia – that he was unattached. That was technically true, although he liked to quip that he was committed to a job, a secretary, his mother, two ex-wives and several bartenders that relied upon him. He could have mentioned to her that these were lines spoken by Cary Grant in the movie North by Northwest, but at 25 years of age he doubted that she had even heard of the actor. Donald had turned 60 a few months ago, and it was a tribute to his good looks, superb fitness and engaging personality that he could still easily attract members of the opposite sex. He knew that at 60 he was exceptionally robust and strong for his age, perhaps having lost just a step or two. In 20 years though, he would be 80 years old and it would be a totally different ball game! Don’s attitude was to live each day to the fullest while time was still on his side.
His usual routine was to rise at five o’clock in the morning and take a mug of coffee out to the veranda. After booting up his computer, he would spend the next hour or so editing the previous day’s work… attempting to make it sing. Around seven he would light a Monte Christo cigar and pour a double shot of Scotch whisky. He would then slowly sip his drink over the next several hours while tapping out 600 new words on the computer. Just before lunch, he would pick up his long board and walk down to the beach for a surf. In the afternoon he would usually go for a workout and cold plunge at a local gym. At dinnertime, Don would drive his golf cart to one of the many local restaurants and meet up with friends or some promising new female he had met. Later, depending on how the evening progressed, there might be drinks back at the bungalow.
Sullivan was a disciplined writer, and seldom let social activities interfere with his productivity. It was one of the reasons why he had experienced such success over the years. He hadn’t started writing until his mid-thirties; prior to that he had been a portfolio manager with Merrill Lynch. Then, after making a huge killing during the tech bubble, he had pocketed the profits and changed careers. Since then, he has won numerous awards and his 16 bestselling novels were published worldwide, with over fifty million copies in print. Financially well-off to begin with, he was now super wealthy and had slowed his pace of writing to produce a new book every two years. Millions of loyal readers waited in anticipation of the next addition in the series. Mindful of his celebrity and always a bear for privacy, Don wrote under a pseudonym and none of the folks that he met in Costa Rica had any clue of what he did for a living.
Sullivan’s approach to creative writing was much along the same lines as Ernest Hemingway’s. He utilized the KISS principle… Keep It Simple Stupid. He used short snappy sentences and unadorned prose, avoiding $10 dollar words; or anything that would puzzle the reader and require a dictionary. His chapters were short and fast paced, and as much as possible he subscribed to the ICEBURG THEORY…”The general idea being that a writer should focus on a minimalist style without explicitly stating the underlying issues or themes.” In the past, Don had penned a bestselling series of intriguing international thrillers. His disciplined approach to writing had worked well, until finally it didn’t. Recently he pulled a blank every time he sat in front of the computer. He didn’t understand what was happening, and had no idea of what to do about it.
CHAPTER TWO
Able Zuckerman gazed through the window of his 37th floor office at the Ernst & Young Tower in downtown Toronto. He wasn’t focusing on the stunning view of the city; his mind was totally absorbed elsewhere. One of Zuckerman’s physical features was his rather pointy nose. He called it his ‘bullshit detector, ’and right now there was a definite smell in the air. He had just gotten off a Zoom call with Don Sullivan who had given him more lame excuses for the delay in delivering his manuscript. They were six weeks behind schedule, and HarperCollins was starting to lean on him pretty hard. As Sullivan’s literary agent, the ‘Zuck’ was the lightning rod for their ire. The Publisher had put up a hefty advance for the author’s next book – a good bet based on previous performance – but, so far all they had received was delay and excuses.
Zuckerman represented dozens of men and women in his stable of talented writers. They ranged from novice first timers to well-established veterans like Don Sullivan. Most of them were quirky, emotional and had inflated expectations of their work. He often thought, managing them was like trying to herd a bunch of cats. It was almost impossible. But, that’s why he was paid the big bucks. The Zuck would preach to them, “Writing may not be music, but there is a commonality between writing a good story and constructing enjoyable music. It’s all about the rhythm.” He didn’t know what was going on with Ken Sullivan, but worried that he may have lost his rhythm. Ken was his top income producer, and Zuckerman was at a loss about what to do. But, he had to figure out something. And do it quickly!
Don Sullivan had been one of Zuckerman’s first clients, dating back almost 25 years. Don had been referred to him by a friend-of-a-friend at a time when the Zuck was just starting out. Sullivan had just self-published 50 copies of his first book, and had spared no expense by employing the highest quality paper and binding, complete with art design and a glossy dust jacket. He had sent copies to a number of publishing houses, but frustratingly had received no response. The Zuck explained that without the representation of a literary agent, the publishers wouldn’t even give his book a look. He said, “Let me read it, and I’ll give you my honest opinion.” That night he read Sullivan’s book entitled – Strike Force – and he found the story so gripping that he couldn’t put it down. The novel was an absolute tour de force. The next day he signed Sullivan to an exclusive contract, and it launched both of their careers.
Somehow Zuckerman had managed to cut a deal with the prestigious publisher HarperCollins, who offered an advance of ten thousand dollars. This was paid in three segments; one-third when the contract was signed, one-third when Sullivan provided a revised manuscript and the remainder when the book hit the shelves. The Zuck’s share of this revenue, as literary agent, was 15 percent. HarperCollins did little to promote this first book, so there were no publicity events or media coverage. This enabled Sullivan to fly beneath the radar and maintain his privacy. Still, right from the get-go he adopted the pseudonym of Jackson Abernathy, and used an obscure silhouette style photo inside the dustjacket. Amazingly, within a few short weeks - Strike Force - appeared on the New York Times bestseller list. The book quickly earned out its advance, and then substantial royalty cheques started flowing.
With the huge success of - Strike Force - dozens of aspiring writers came knocking on Zuckerman’s door. He soon developed a reputation as a go-to literary agent, and his future in the business was assured. None of these clients were in the category of a Stephen King or R.K. Rowling, but some were quite successful and the volume of royalties continued to build. Donald Sullivan had immediately begun working on a second novel, and then wrote a whole series built around a Bond-like character named Harry Palmer. All of the books were bestsellers and sold millions of copies. From the beginning, Sullivan insisted on operating outside the bounds of the traditional writer/publisher relationship. He was very secretive, and refused to offer up any of his draft pages until the entire manuscript was complete.
CHAPTER THREE
Zuckerman’s Secretary had booked him on the morning flight to Liberia International Airport in Costa Rica. From there he would fly for half an hour in a private Cessna to Nosara on the West Coast. The Zuck hated flying, especially in the smaller ‘puddle jumpers’ like the single engine Cessna. But the situation called for determined action. He figured that Sullivan would be totally pissed when he showed up at his sanctuary unannounced. The man loved his privacy. In this case though, it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission. He knew that the author would never have agreed to the visit. The Zuck would have to use all of his powers of persuasion to smooth things over once he arrived. Then he had to find out what the hell was going on.
The small plane landed at the Nosara airstrip and Zuckerman engaged a cab for the short drive to the author’s residence. The afternoon temperature was about 28 degrees Celsius, and the air felt moist and clingy. There was no air-conditioning in the cab, and he quickly realized that he was overdressed for the climate. Still, it was a pleasant change from the wintery conditions back in Toronto. They drove through the small village with its distinctive ‘surf-town’ vibe, a laid back mellow place with people strolling around in casual clothes; it appeared that flip-flops were the footwear of choice. He got out of the cab at his destination and found himself in front of a solid-teak gate. The inviting outer perimeter of the walled enclave was planted with a profusion of palm trees, palmettos and colourful flowers. The Zuck pulled the cord on a brass ship’s bell to announce his arrival.
The groundskeeper opened the gate and politely said, “Buenos tardes, senor.” Zuckerman returned the courtesy and explained that he was here to see Mr. Sullivan. He slipped the man a ten-spot, and asked for directions to Don’s bungalow. The man pointed the way, and the Zuck followed a shady pathway through a magnificent garden. A few minutes later he came upon a rustic bungalow with a sign out front. It read Ocean Bliss. He stepped up to the verandah and rapped on the door. Nothing. Next he shouted out, and still there was no response. He figured that his best bet was to just sit down in one of the comfortable wicker chairs and wait. He was astonished a few minutes later when a procession of raccoon-like creatures passed by. Then he heard weird noises in the trees above. It was two Howler Monkeys calling out to each other. He thought, what a fucking zoo!
A little while later Christian Bale emerged from the beach pathway and gave a wave. Really? He was followed by Donald Sullivan who was carrying a surfboard under his arm. He turned towards the bungalow, and when he saw his literary agent he halted with a stunned look on his face. Then he smiled and rushed forward to embrace his friend with a warm hug. He said, “Abe, how wonderful to see you!” This wasn’t the greeting Zuckerman had expected and he was immensely relieved. He responded, “I hope this isn’t too much of a surprise.” Sullivan fetched some ice, and fixed them drinks. Then the two men sat on the veranda and exchanged news. Eventually the subject of the book came up, and the writer tried to explain his frustrating dilemma. The Zuck just listened, resisting the urge to offer any immediate suggestions.
Just before sunset they walked down to the beach and joined a throng of people who had gathered to watch the blazing orb sink into the ocean. On the way back to the bungalow, Don invited the Zuck to join him and his new friend Julia for dinner at The Gilded Iguana. He said that he wouldn’t be returning that evening, but would send Zuckerman back in a cab. The Zuck begged off, saying that the combination of an early morning, two flights and the time change had left him exhausted. He thought he might just nibble on a power bar and hit the sack early. Then he asked curiously, “So tell me about Julia.” Sullivan smiled and replied, “She’s the most wonderful woman that I’ve met in years. I think I may be falling in love.” Zuckerman wondered, does this have anything to do with his writer's block? Sullivan asked him to turn off the outdoor lights when he retired. As he explained, the lights drew clouds of insects when left on all night.
CHAPTER FOUR
Julia Endicott was a 25 year old college student who hailed from Trenton, New Jersey. Until recently she had been enrolled in the Brown College Doctoral Program in Providence, Rhode Island. An extremely bright young woman, she was a Mensa member and had scored 138 on the Stanford-Binet intelligence scale. Her studies were in English and Literary Arts, and her dissertation explored the comparative styles of distinguished nineteenth century British authors. It was during the defence of her dissertation that fortune turned against her. When challenged on some of her conclusions, the verbal responses she offered were sufficiently vague that the Committee of Faculty Members began to question the source of the scholarship. Deeper analysis revealed anomalies in the content, structure and origin of her written prose… suggesting either plagiarism or computer assisted construction.
Forced to leave Brown College under a cloud, Julia returned home to Trenton. With trepidation she explained to her parents that her years of study had ended; just one bad decision away from obtaining a coveted Doctorate. There was no way that she could sugar coat what had happened, and although her parents continued to support her, she found that her prospects for employment were limited. Julia decided to take time out to do some travelling. During her college years she had accumulated a fairly substantial nest egg. Although her parents had paid for her education and covered all of her living expenses, the entrepreneurial Julia had engaged in a couple of profitable side hustles. Using her stunning good looks to advantage, she had worked part time at a gentlemen's strip club. She also connected with well healed married men through the internet; those who were prepared to be generous in exchange for the pleasure of her company.
Julia had met Owen Whitlock at a hostel in Chamonix, France while hiking the Tour du Mont Blanc. Owen was physically attractive enough, but what caught Julia’s attention was his apparent intellect. She picked up on this when overhearing him speaking with fellow travellers. Like most men he was eventually drawn to her like a bee to honey. After sharing each of their carefully edited biographies, they found they had much in common; both were purposeful, determined and had a contorted sense of moral expediency. Owen, in spite of his smarts, had dropped out of college to become a ghostwriter. He produced brilliant essays for less gifted students and was paid handsomely for his efforts. His academic product was virtually undetectable by Turnitin or any other AI anti-plagiarism system.
Owen had been pursuing a degree in Computer Science, but had become bored when he discovered that his knowledge of the subject far exceeded that of the professors. He dropped out and began to work on an artificial intelligence system that he thought would revolutionize the software industry. He combined algorithms from existing AI programs including ChatGPT, Quillbot, Jasper, Claude, Sparks, Perplexity, Domo and GPT-40. When these were interwoven with the complex new code that he had written, the final product – actually a work perpetually in progress – was a huge advance in the practical application of AI. He could program the works of any author, and produce new material that was indistinguishable from that which was penned by the writer’s own hand. He had funded his project by helping lazy students misrepresent their abilities. But, now he was looking for a way to really cash in on his creation.
Julia and Owen eventually found their way to Nosara, Costa Rica and took a room in a hostel populated by transient surfers and other young gadabouts. They spent their days at sun drenched beaches; usually enjoying a siesta in the afternoon and drinking tequila until late in the evening. They were enjoying the good life, but they were running short of money. They knew that they would have to leave soon. Then one day Julia connected with an older man while floating on her surfboard waiting for a wave. He was an excellent surfer, and gave her some instruction on technique. Later they had lunch together and in the days that followed began an intense affair. Julia, sensing a possible opportunity, made every effort to win her new friend’s affection. Sexually, she rocked his world and clearly the man was besotted with her.
Julia soon found out that he was the famous author Jackson Abernathy, although his real name was Donald Sullivan. He was considerably older than she was, but his confidence and good looks made him extremely attractive. Besides, he had lots of money to throw around. Owen, of course, was insanely jealous. She explained to him that the relationship with Sullivan was just a means of setting-the-hook for a possible con. She said, “Owen, it’s strictly business… get over it!” She didn’t tell Owen that she was really hot for the new guy, and had mixed feelings about where the relationship might lead. Meanwhile, she did double duty placating Owen sexually, while spending most of her time with Donald Sullivan. Eventually the author shared with her his unique approach to writing. He claimed that the current book-in-progress would be his masterpiece.
When Julia encouraged him to tell her more, Sullivan explained his methodology for writing. For each book he would prepare a comprehensive 80 page outline which included the beginning, middle and ending. It would be broken down into a progression of chapters, and include detailed information on every person, place or thing that he would write about. Each character would be fully developed with a physical description and extensive biography; including their personal philosophy, various preferences and common usage of word and phrase. All of this information would be at his fingertips as he began to write his customary 600 words per day. He kept the master outline and all of the completed pages in a locked fireproof box in his liquor cabinet. Ultimately he would provide the completed manuscript to his literary agent for final review, prior to sending it to the publisher.
CHAPTER FIVE
An idea slowly began to take shape in Julia’s mind. She knew that each of Sullivan’s books sold millions of copies. He had said the current book-in-progress was more than ninety-percent complete, and it was by far his best effort to date. If she could acquire the manuscript and have Owen massage it with his AI software, the result could be a potential bestselling novel worth a fortune. When she talked to Owen about it, he thought the idea was brilliant. He said that he could easily make changes to disguise the authorship of the work. For example, the protagonist would no longer be named Harry Palmer; that and other minor adjustments in writing style and structure would further obscure the writer’s identity. They could present the revised manuscript to a publisher as the first novel, written by a gifted new talent. The question was, how to get their hands on Sullivan’s manuscript? Julia thought she had a plan.
Julia told Sullivan that she had moved from the hostel and taken a room at the Gilded Iguana. She explained that this would be her last night in Nosara, and she wanted to do it up in style. When Sullivan arrived, they sat at the bar for drinks and chatted with some fellow surfers who passed by. Later they moved to a table on the outdoor patio. Sullivan had ordered champagne and proposed a toast by candlelight. Holding her hand, he professed his love and urged her not to leave. She was truly conflicted and didn’t know what to say. Later in the room they made love, and when they finished, Sullivan rolled over on his back to catch his breath. He gasped, “It was so great that you booked this room tonight! My literary agent Abe Zuckerman arrived unexpectedly today, and is staying at my place.” Julia sat up abruptly and asked, “He’s staying at your place?”
~ ~ ~
Owen Whitlock was dressed in a dark hoodie as he walked the unlit streets leading to the author’s enclave. It was two o’clock in the morning and the town was dead quiet. He had decided to make his entry on the beach side, as there was no way he could discreetly scale the wall out front. Earlier, Owen had scouted out the place and pinpointed where Sullivan’s bungalow was located. Julia had assured him that there was no security at night, no patrolling dog, and very little likelihood of encountering anyone. He entered a public access to the beach, several hundred meters from his objective. Then he walked stealthily along the treeline until coming to the enclave’s private pathway. It was quite dark, and he stumbled over a few tree roots, but couldn’t risk using his flashlight. There was a grilled gate half-way up from the beach that was locked, but wasn’t a serious obstacle.
He vaulted over the gate, and then continued on towards Sullivan’s bungalow. When he got there he was surprised to find the outside light was turned off. He checked the sign which read … Ocean Bliss … to be doubly sure he was in the right place. Then Owen crept silently up to the veranda and removed a small pry bar from his pack-pack. He was prepared to jimmy the lock, but found the door to be unlocked. He entered and cast around the beam of his flashlight to find the liquor cabinet. Seeing it at once, he approached and went to work on the lock. There was a loud crack as the cabinet door burst open; inside he could see a metal box which he reached for and removed. Suddenly, a nearby door opened and a voice said, “Is that you Donald?” Owen’s heart almost stopped!
Startled, he swung around and spontaneously lashed out with the metal box. There was a solid impact, followed by a groan as someone collapsed onto the floor. Owen didn’t stop to see who he had struck. He cut the light on his flashlight and rushed towards the front door. Leaping from the veranda, he ran towards the beach pathway and left by the same route he had arrived on. Owen retraced his steps all the way back to the hostel, the metal box contained in his backpack. He wondered, what the hell had gone wrong? Who was the person he had struck down? Was it Donald Sullivan? If so, was Julia there too? Why hadn’t she warned him? Owen didn’t know what to do. So he just sat there ‘shitting bricks,’ waiting for Julia to arrive the next morning as planned. He had purchased bus tickets for them to travel up the coast to Tamarindo. From there they would take another bus to Liberia, and then fly back to the States.
CHAPTER SIX
Don and Julia parted company early the next morning; she promised to join him later in the day. He hopped into his golf cart for the short drive back to the bungalow. His spirits were high as Julia had agreed to move in with him on a temporary basis and delay her departure. He parked outside the wall of the enclave, and punched the key code for entry. A few minutes later he walked up to his front door and called out to Zuckerman. When he entered, the first thing he noticed was the damaged liquor cabinet which had been pried open. Then he saw the Zuck’s body lying in a bloody heap on the floor. He rushed over and tried to rouse his friend, but to no avail. He lifted a cold hand and checked the wrist for a pulse. Nothing. Able Zuckerman was dead! Stunned, he just knelt there for a moment. Then he pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911.
A policeman arrived about half an hour later, just a few minutes before the paramedics. The officer quickly assessed the scene and put a call out to the OIJ, the Judicial Investigation Police. Two men from the OIJ soon arrived, along with the Coroner. Sullivan watched as the doctor examined the body, and then announced that the victim had been dead for several hours. Apparently he had been killed by a blow to the head with a blunt object. The police immediately cast their eyes upon Donald Sullivan. The lead detective asked him where he had been at the approximate time of death. Sullivan explained that he had been staying with a friend at the Gilded Iguana Surf Hotel. Then he pointed to the splintered door to his liquor cabinet, and told the officer that a metal box containing a valuable manuscript was missing. He tried to reach Julia in her cell, but she didn’t pick up.
The man from the OIJ asked Sullivan to accompany them to the police station to make a statement. He said the bungalow was a crime scene and would be taped off until they had completed their investigation. Sullivan’s head was spinning. He still couldn’t believe what had happened. He thought glumly of the call he would have to make to Abel Zuckerman’s wife. The officer asked Sullivan again who could corroborate his whereabouts the night before. He explained that he had been with a friend named Julia, and tried once again to reach her on her cell. She didn’t pick up. Strange. He called the Gilded Iguana and asked to be put through to her room. The desk clerk said the guest had already checked out. Sullivan was starting to get a sinking feeling in his stomach. Then he remembered how strangely she had reacted when he mentioned that his friend was staying at the bungalow.
Over the next few days the police investigation made little progress. There were no fingerprints in Sullivan’s bungalow other than his own, Zuckerman’s, and those of the maid. The assumption was that the intruder must have worn gloves. But, lacking any evidence of another person actually being at the murder scene, the police continued to consider Sullivan as a possible suspect. The young woman he claimed to be with had disappeared, and was unable to back up his alibi. However, CCTV coverage from the Gilded Iguana did show Sullivan dining with a female guest. Forensics later confirmed that he had been in the women's room on the night of the murder. The room had been reserved by one Julia Endicott. Later, Endicott’s picture was identified by the manager of a local hostel, who confirmed that until recently she had shared a room there with a man named Owen Whitlock. CCTV coverage at the bus station showed them boarding a bus to Tamarindo.
In the absence of any evidence implicating Endicott and Whitlock, the police didn’t make much of an effort to track them down. One enterprising officer did confirm that they had purchased tickets on a Southwest Airlines flight from Liberia to Dallas. It was clear to Donald Sullivan that the purpose of the break-in had been to steal his manuscript. Julia and this Whitlock fellow were obviously in league together. He was sick about the fact that he had told the deceitful Julia where he kept his manuscript; an ill-considered disclosure that had led through happenstance to his best friend’s death. Sullivan could now see the folly of having stored his manuscript in an unsecure location. He thought, what an idiot I am! Two years of work down the drain! He hadn’t even made copies, or backed it up on his hard drive.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sullivan was on a flight to Toronto to attend Able Zuckerman’s funeral. He had been prohibited from returning to his bungalow by the police, as it was still a crime scene under investigation. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go back there anyway. He was still in a daze over the murder and the loss of his manuscript. His publisher HarperCollins would be apoplectic when they heard the news. They had put up a million dollar advance in good faith, and now would have nothing to show for it. Sullivan really wasn’t sure what his next move would be. First he would attend the funeral. Then he’d decide whether or not to return to Costa Rica and continue with his writing. He had an almost photographic memory. He knew that he could reconstitute the work that had been stolen. It would just take time to put it on paper. Meantime, his anger was building towards Julia and her friend Whitfield. He thought, there’s no way they’re getting away with this!
After the funeral Sullivan returned to his townhouse in the Beaches neighborhood of Toronto. The place had sat empty while he was wintering in Costa Rica. After he arrived in an Uber, he immediately checked to see that his BMW was still parked in the garage. Inside, he turned up the heat and made sure that everything was in good working order. He’d have to call the supermarket to arrange for the delivery of some food basics. Sullivan poured a stiff scotch and sat down to consider his options. He had already decided to continue his association with the Zuck’s agency. His deceased friend’s associate was very capable, and could seamlessly take over as Sullivan’s literary agent. Her first chore would be to contact HarperCollins and appraise them of the theft of the manuscript. The writer was prepared to return the publisher’s advance, if that’s what they wanted. He sipped his drink and considered other steps he might take. Sullivan wondered, what would Harry Palmer do?
Other than his idiosyncratic method of storing manuscripts, Sullivan had another unusual character trait. He often assumed the persona of Harry Palmer, the bond-like protagonist in his novels. When he sat in front of his keyboard, he would see the world through Harry’s eyes. He had special clothing, weapons and ID that he would occasionally use. This even extended to colouring his hair to a copper blonde and applying a fake mustache. Years ago when he created the character, he arranged for a complete set of identity documents, including a valid passport. On paper, Harry Palmer actually existed. In Don Sullivan’s mind he lived and breathed. And now this alter-ego was exerting dominance and influencing his thoughts. Harry was very angry over the death of Able Zuckerman. He was also upset that his next adventure within the pages of Sullivan’s manuscript had been hijacked by thieves.
~ ~ ~
When Julia returned to the hostel in the morning after Zuckerman’s murder, she had no idea of the chaos that had been unleashed. She found Owen in a state of extreme anxiety, as he described the encounter with some person in the writer’s darkened bungalow. He admitted to striking out at the shadow, but had no idea of what injury he might have inflicted. As Julia absorbed this news, her cell phone rang. It was Donald Sullivan. She didn’t pick up and the call went to voicemail. As she played back the message, they looked at one another in shock! Sullivan said he desperately needed to speak with her. His friend had been murdered by an intruder, and the police wanted her to confirm his whereabouts for the previous night. He urged, “Please call me back as soon as you get this!” Twenty minutes later he called again. By then Owen and Julia were rushing to the bus station.
Earlier while waiting for Julia, Owen had forced the lock on the metal box and extracted the manuscript. He looked over the author’s detailed outline and typed pages, and could see that it would be easy to apply his software program to revise and complete the book. He stuffed the papers into a plastic bag, and put them in his suitcase. Later, on the walk to the bus station, he dropped the metal box into a dumpster behind a restaurant. As reality finally set in, both of them were appalled by the consequences of what they had done. Overwhelmed with fear, Julia tore into Owen for screwing things up so badly. Owen told her to save the recriminations for later. He said, “Right now we have to get the hell out of here, before the cops connect us to the break-in.” They both sighed with relief when the bus pulled from the station.
Two hours later they arrived in Tamarindo, where they boarded another bus to Liberia. From there flew to New York City via Dallas and Atlanta. When they arrived in The Big Apple, Julia announced that she was going her own way. She knew that she was no saint and had done questionable things in the past, but the betrayal of Donald Sinclair and the death of an innocent man was more than she could bear. She had participated in the scam willingly, but now wanted no part in capitalizing on the crime. Julia still had unresolved feelings for Sinclair and sincerely regretted what she had done. Owen tried to talk her out of it. He was in love with Julia and begged her to stay with him. But nothing he could say would change her mind. When they parted Owen was heartbroken, but he still possessed his other great love… his brilliant AI soft-ware program. And now it was time to fully realize its potential.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Owen Whitlock returned to Cambridge, Massachusetts and moved in temporarily with an old friend. He was short of funds and had to resume ghostwriting for well-healed students to support himself, while he worked on Sinclair’s manuscript. He had read through the completed chapters and thought the story was fantastic! The ending for the book was spelled out in the author’s detailed summary, now it was just a matter of scanning in the completed pages and tweaking his software to finish the job. In the process, he would change the name of the protagonist, Harry Palmer, and several other ubiquitous details. A further revision of commonly used words and sentence structure would totally disguise the authorship of the work. He thought the final result might even be better than Sinclair’s original.
Meanwhile, in the guise of Harry Palmer, Sinclair paid a visit to Julia’s parents in Trenton, New Jersey. When the suave Palmer presented FBI credentials, he was invited into their home without hesitation. He explained that he was attempting to locate Owen Whitlock, who was the prime suspect in a murder investigation. He added that Julia was a known associate of the man, and they had been living together recently in Costa Rica. The Endicott’s were appalled by these unwelcome revelations and claimed that they had never heard of the man. They said that Julia had moved back to Providence and was attempting to get reinstated at Brown. She had a new cell number, which they shared with Palmer. He told them he would drive up to see her, but warned them not to let Julia know he was coming. He said that if they tipped her off and she bolted, a warrant would be issued for her arrest. He added soothingly that she was only peripherally involved in the case, but was an important witness.
When Harry approached the door to Julia’s apartment he thought, this is a pretty fancy address for a college student. He rang the buzzer. Seconds later a bedraggled Julia opened the door a crack and peered out. Harry held up his FBI credentials and asked, “Are you Julia Endicott?” Julia mumbled that she was, but this wasn’t a good time. Harry pushed open the door and informed her that she was under arrest as an accessory in the murder of Able Zuckerman. “You have the right…” Just then a naked man opened the bathroom door. Harry quickly assessed the situation and said to the man, “Get dressed and get the hell out of here before I charge you with patronizing a prostitute.” As the man scurried to comply, Julia screamed, “How dare you?” Harry backhanded her viciously, then cuffed her hands behind her back. When the man had left, he grabbed her by the hair and pressed a pistol to her forehead. He whispered harshly, “Tell me where to find Owen, and you’ll live!” Choking back her tears she cried, “I don’t know where he is.” Harry demanded, “I’ll ask you one last time!
In the weeks that followed, the symbiotic relationship between Harry Palmer and Donald Sinclair reversed itself once again. Palmer became Sinclair… Mr. Hyde became Dr. Jekyll. Palmer had run into a dead end in his efforts to locate Owen Whitlock, and Sinclair decided to adopt the long game in his quest for vengeance. His new literary agent sent a letter to all members of the Society of Literary Agents, and also the Association of Canadian and American Book Publishers. In the letter she explained about the theft of Jackson Abernathy’s (Sinclair’s pseudonym) manuscript and gave a brief description of the new book’s outline. She asked members to be on the lookout for any new submission with a matching storyline, particularly one from a previously unknown author. Two months later there was a call from Simon and Schuster in New York.
CHAPTER NINE
Owen Whitlock responded to a firm knock on his apartment door. When he opened it, he faced a well-dressed gentleman holding a wicked looking pistol. The man said, “My name is Harry Palmer.” Owen just looked at him with his mouth agape. Then as recognition set in, he whispered, “But I…” The silenced pistol spat twice.
By Michael Barlett