The Spy Devils by Joe Goldberg (top rated books of all time .TXT) 📕

the primary caregiver for his father, who was suffering from Alzheimer’s. As the only child, Peter had to stay and care for his father.

The CIA understood that he needed the stability of a “job on the outside,” as the personal officer told him. Luckily, for his father’s entire thirty-year career, he was a well-respected engineer at Kirkwood International Industries. It took a few calls, but he found an opening at Kirkwood as the new Director, Corporate Intelligence and Insights. He sold his life-long dream of a career in intelligence for stability, a pretty good corporate salary, healthcare, and the promise of a pension.

Sitting at his desk, he wrote on a large yellow legal pad his ideas on where he might fulfill the task of finding the briefcase.

He knew he couldn’t involve his staff after signing Jessup’s NDA.

Kirkwood employees' brains contained eighty to ninety percent of the information he needed. The salesforce was always probing potential customers for competitive tidbits. But no one could help him this time.

In violation of Kirkwood Investor Relations policy, he called a select list of Wall Street financial analysts and third-party industry experts. No one had anything useful on Bondar. They mostly wanted to ask about MacLean’s death and who might take over.

His only success was with Sandy Boyd, MacLean’s admin assistant. Sandy was smart and tough. Peter had always gotten along with her rebel attitude toward authority. After Peter talked around his predicament, “a special project related to George,” she agreed to send him materials. He asked for any memos, travel itineraries, or meeting notes that mentioned Bondar or Ukraine. Peter also said not to tell anyone.

“If it helps to find out who killed George, count me in, and I can keep a secret,” she said.

That was something, at least.

Looking over the list, Peter came to one conclusion: he was in deep shit. He did not have any more ideas on how to move forward. A feeling of panic set into his stomach.

“Hello, Peter. Working hard I see.”

Peter looked up from his note pad. His leg immediately started to shake. Standing in the doorway was Danforth Chapel.

“Mr. Chapel, come in,” Peter said, standing. Simultaneously, he started to clear the clutter off his desk.

“Don’t worry about that. It shows you are a hard-working man.” Chapel smiled a consultant’s smile. Teeth and sincerity—real or pretend.

Embarrassed, Peter stood with a six-inch pile of magazines and mail in his arms. He looked around and dropped them on the credenza behind him. A few slid off and fell to the floor with an embarrassing fl-plop.

“I thought I would come down, pay a visit, and chat—if you have the time.”

“Of course, I am here to help. Please sit,” Peter said, motioning to the Kirkwood black steel and cloth guest chair. As Chapel sat, Peter saw two refrigerator-sized men in gray suits standing outside his door.

“Peter, I am hoping we can help each other out. You have quite a positive reputation in and out of Kirkwood,” Chapel said, his voice warm and friendly.

“I doubt The Danforth Chapel Company needs my help,” Peter said.

“Not at all. I know people and have done my research, Peter. You are well-respected for your skills.” Peter’s heart started to race.

“I do my best.”

“Good.” Chapel’s eyes twinkled brightly under the lights. “We all need help, Peter. Tell me what you have so far.”

Peter’s internal alarms were going off. He knew all about Chapel and his company. He gave Chapel a quick rundown of the situation, leaving out his conversation with Sandy Boyd. After two minutes of summary, Peter figured Kirkwood had just spent a thousand dollars toward Chapel's retainer fee.

Chapel never gave his time away for free or wasted it.

“Well, keep at it. I am sure you will find a way to make this happen,” Chapel said as he stood. He did not hold out his hand for a handshake. Instead, he handed Peter a thick business card.

Holding it between his fingers, the look and feel of the card sent one message—power. Centered on the card, embossed in gold, was Danforth Chapel, Founder, The Danforth Chapel Company, and a phone number.

“That is my direct line. Call me at any time, and I hope I can do the same for you.”

“Yes, thank you. Of course, here.” Peter took his flimsy card from the holder on his desk and handed it to Chapel, who put it in his pocket without a glance.

“Well, then. We will speak soon.” Chapel turned and walked to the door of the office. His security detail took their front and rear positions and escorted him away.

Peter collapsed in his chair. It was hard to comprehend that Danforth Chapel, one of the most powerful men in the business world, had come to him and sat in his office and offered his help. He needed to go home, throw the baseball with his eight-year-old son, James, then drink a bottle of red wine and have sex with Janelle.

He put his laptop into his backpack and slung the bag over his shoulder. His phone started to ring. Panic set in. He dropped his backpack to the floor and looked at the caller ID. He let out a deep breath. It read “Private.” Usually, he would ignore a private call as spam, but he hoped it was someone responding to his many emails and calls.

“Hel-lo?” he answered cautiously.

“Peter Schaeffer?” It was a female voice. Strong. Not a young voice. Mature. New England accent.

“Yes?”

“Hello. Peter. I am aware you need help in retrieving a case lost in Ukraine. Please, don’t ask how I know. I do,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“How do you know about that?”

He heard a sigh on the other end of the call.

“Please don’t ask questions. I am fully aware of the details. If you would like help, then listen to what I have to say.”

Peter sat— immediately, his leg started to shake.

“I am listening.”

“An excellent start. On Thursday, someone will contact you. Answer his call. He is your only hope. Repeat that, back.”

“Thursday…a call…answer it…my only