Potboiler

“I’ve known Bill since I was eleven.”

“And therefore.”

“He wasn’t a spy.”

“Since you seem intent on picking nits, fine: he wasn’t a spy. He was a courier.”

“He was a writer,” Pfefferkorn said. “He wrote thrillers.”

“The man never published a single thing of his own invention,” Savory said. “We gave it all to him. William de Vallée was a perfect fraud, and by that I mean in creating his cover, we all did a perfect job, including Bill. He was a major asset, the result of thousands of man-hours and millions of dollars. You can’t imagine how disappointed we were to lose him.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Pfefferkorn said.

“Every Dick Stapp novel has contained encrypted directives for operatives embedded in hostile territories where standard means of transmission have proven too difficult.”

“I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Code,” Savory said.

“Code?”

“Code.”

“Bill wrote in code.”

“I told you, he didn’t write anything. The Boys did.”

“What boys.”

“The Boys. Capital B.”

“Who’re they.”

“That’s not important.”

“They’re not important but they get a capital B?”

“All information will be given on a need-to-know basis.”

“And I don’t need to know.”

“Bingo.”

There was a silence. Pfefferkorn looked up at the ceiling.

“What,” Savory said.

“Where are the cameras.”

“There aren’t any.”

Pfefferkorn stood. “When does the TV crew jump out?”

“Sit down.”

Pfefferkorn walked around the room. “Ha ha,” he said to the walls. “Very funny.”

“We have a lot to discuss, Artie. Sit down. Or don’t, I don’t care. But time’s a-wasting.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Savory shrugged.

“I don’t believe any of it,” Pfefferkorn said. “How can that make sense? Delivering secret messages out in the open. It’s preposterous.”

“That makes it all the more difficult to detect. Try sending an e-mail to North Korea and see how far you get. But a top-notch thriller penetrates like nobody’s business. He wasn’t the only one, mind you. Most blockbuster American novelists are on our payroll. Anything with embossed foil letters, that’s us.”

“But . . .” Frustrated, Pfefferkorn aimed to score a hit. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to use the movies?”

Savory sighed in a way that suggested Pfefferkorn was terribly slow.

“Jesus,” Pfefferkorn said. “Them too?”

“If you think things are bad now, just imagine what might’ve happened if we’d allowed you to sign a film deal. We’ve been playing catch-up as it is.”

“I’m not following you at all.”

“What do you know about Zlabia?” Savory said.

43.

Pfefferkorn told him what he knew.

“That’s not much,” Savory said.

“Sue me.”

“Let me ask you this: when did your first novel come out?”

“Nineteen eighty-three.”

“Not that first novel. Your other first novel.”

“About a year ago.”

“Can you think of anything in recent Zlabian history that happened around then?”

Pfefferkorn thought. “They tried to kill whatsisface.”

Savory cackled. “Gold star for you. For the record, whatsisface’s name is East Zlabian Lord High President Kliment Thithyich, and he’s a very rich, violent, and unstable man, the sort of fellow who doesn’t take kindly to being shot in the ass.”

“What does my book have to do with any of this?”

“Let’s start by reminding ourselves of one key fact. It wasn’t your book. Was it.”

Pfefferkorn said nothing.

“‘In one fluid motion,’” Savory said.

“What?”

“‘In one fluid motion.’ That was the flag. The manuscript you stole wasn’t even finished, and then you had to go ahead and have your way with it.”

“It needed trimming,” Pfefferkorn said.

“Not the kind you gave it. Do you know how many ‘in one fluid motions’ you deleted?”

“It’s cliché,” Pfefferkorn said. “It’s meaningless.”

“Seriously, take a guess. How many.”

Pfefferkorn said nothing.