The Crown Project

By Robert Howerter

The Crown Project propels through an exciting opening chapter where emotions run high, as a French terrorist organization plots to kidnap a boy prince, heir to the British throne. In this suspense thriller, Ben Carter, an American attorney, is forced to determine who the Royal is that is being kidnapped. Carter is ultimately trapped in a deadly game of blame in Paris, and he almost spins out of control as he tries to prove his innocence in a web of intrigue. Angelique, an undercover CIA agent, becomes his lover with her own agenda. Even though she supports his plan, unbeknownst to Carter, she can't help him recover the prince until her own project is completed, one that is aligned with the real kidnapper. The prince becomes a pawn to destroy the relationship between Britain and the United States, and the Royal is shuffled from person to person in Paris, most of them unaware of the real kidnapper's scheme. Will the prince die in the tragic schemes of the terrorist, or will Carter be caught by the police or the real kidnappers before he saves the child? Stephanie, Carter's former CIA boss, goes to Paris to find him, and is torn between killing him and proving his innocence. Her personal objective is to bed him for her own, destroying the relationship between Carter and Angelique. She is desperate in her emotions, allowing her to make life's mistakes. Carter, the unwilling spy, is the hunter as well as the hunted. The book is a suspenseful romp through the streets of Paris until it's riveting end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Howerter
• Release date: Nov 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311742230

Robert Howerter

After being a combat photographer during the Belgium Congo revolution and the Algerian war with France in the US military, Robert Howerter graduated from Kent State University in 1968 with a degree in English. However, he spent almost his entire life working in computer software design and implementation, and in executive management of several large companies. He often spoke to technology leaders by giving speeches in numerous countries, travelling to 45 of them. Upon retirement as a Director, Price Waterhouse World Firm, he decided to put his writing skills to work, penning numerous newspaper articles on gardening. He has written four novels in a series, Grayfield, The Normandy Appointment, The Marquis' Inheritance, and Emily's Mark, as well as his newest, The Crown Project,. Much of what he learned about France was in Normandy where he lived, and in Paris, the city he loves. Currently, he resides with his wife in the Tampa Bay area.

Book preview

The Crown Project

by Robert Howerter

Published by Robert Howerter

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not claim responsibility for author or third-part websites or their content.

Copyright 2013 Robert Howerter

Smashwords Edition

License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

I dedicate this book, as well as my previous three books, to my life partner and editor, Jan, who without her, this novel would not have been possible. Contains sexually explicit content and language.

Chapter 1

Seeds of Conspiracy

Someone would die tonight. No one could feel the evil in the air, but it was there. The unspoken mischief permeated the night, but not everyone could sense it. It was understandable. Spring saturated the season with the arrival of new light green leaves married to the trees; the flowers with their brilliant colors and shades sent their delicious fragrance through the air. After the dull rainy winter of Paris, Parisians were exuberant and hopeful seeing the new blooms, and with the anticipation of warmer weather. Their minds couldn't fathom the depravity close by, nor would they want to.

Inside the café, it was a different feeling. A group of three black haired, darkly dressed men huddled at a table in the back. A low watt bulb was hidden inside a small, dirty shade as it hung above, looking down on the two Iranians and a third person who was French, but communicated poorly in their language. They sipped small coffees with their heads down. No one spoke, but they all knew why they were there.

One looked up, and surveyed the darkened café. The walls were ocher red, but mottled with the stains of tobacco accumulated through a few centuries of rancid smoke. The café held only half a dozen patrons, but soon an additional person came through the door, looked around, and settled at a place three tables away from the Iranians. It wasn't on purpose; he wanted to disappear from the humdrum of his job. It was after hours, and he was on his own time.

It had been a long day, and Malik Cartier, a CIA agent assigned to Paris, needed some downtime. This was his favorite spot, one that was unknown to tourists. The bar spoke to the spirit of the French and the few foreigners that occasionally invaded the space.

Malik ordered a beer, and stretched his legs under the table, feeling his muscles tense, but then relax. He sipped his drink, and then heard the faint familiar accent of Farsi, his native language. The clanging of bar glasses being washed made it difficult to hear the words the men were speaking, so Malik reached into his pocket and withdrew a small round silver device. Quickly, he slipped it in one ear, and listened. The voices several tables away could now be distinctly heard.

It would be difficult. He would surely be guarded by any number of people, and only members of the family and his nannies would have access, the first Iranian suggested.

The table was quiet as if they were thinking about a solution to the problem.

Find an insider who would help us, the second Iranian proposed.

Members of the palace are mostly dedicated to the Crown. It may take some time to identify the right person, the Frenchman offered.

We don't have time. The Butcher wants him kidnapped in the next few weeks. He wants the royal family to feel the pain, the first Iranian, who was called Talon, angrily barked.

Malik didn't expect to hear the words, but immediately knew that the men were not out for just a beer. A conspiracy was underway. He pushed the metal sound sensor deeper into his ear, and listened.

Is he to be killed? The Frenchman asked.

Not immediately. The Butcher wants to set up a scenario where the Americans are blamed, Talon revealed.

Malik wasn't watching his table, and as he reached for his beer, his hand knocked the glass to the floor, shattering the near quiet of the room. Immediately, the three conspirators looked at Malik, and he looked over at them.

Did he hear us? Talon asked.

He could have. We can't take the chance, Iranian two, who was known as Shad, replied.

Malik saw that the men were pushing their chairs back, and were preparing to stand.

It’s time to move.

Malik took long strides toward the front of the bar, almost in a run, and didn't look back until he was outside. The three men had reached the door, and saw Malik sprint down the street and into the darkness of the night.

Malik's mind was racing as he searched for a safe place. He knew that it was a certainty that the three men were looking for him, and if he were found, the advantage was theirs.

He was breathing hard as he saw a weathered wood fence with a portal that led to a courtyard behind a house. As he depressed the lever of the latch, he pushed the door open, the rusty hinges speaking to him with their squeaky voices. Malik hoped that he was the only one to hear the sounds.

Stepping through the opening, he saw no one in the space, so he moved to a place near the building. After a short time of leaning against the wall to rest his body, Malik pulled a cell phone from his pocket, and pressed the ‘three’ key for the speed dial to the CIA station chief.

Yes, the voice responded, but didn't say more.

Malik here. We need to talk. Tonight, I overheard a conspiracy to kidnap a royal.

The target?

Not sure. It's a male, and the only name mentioned was the Butcher, but he's not the target.

There are a number of royals here in Europe. Could be one of many. Do you think it's an adult or child?

Malik turned as he heard the squeak of the gate.

I'm being followed. I'll get back to you later, Malik softly breathed as he disconnected the call.

Through the darkness, but faintly illuminated by the quarter moon, Malik could see the three figures slowly move into the space. He had to think quickly. The courtyard was completely fenced, so the only exit was through the gate or over the wooden wall. Malik decided to go over the barricade.

He chose his course and plan. The agent would knock down one or more of the men as he departed, slowing their chase. With the speed of a sprinter leaving his mark, Malik sped across the quadrangle, barreling into two of the men, knocking them to the ground. He continued on, and threw himself over the fence, hitting the terrain so hard on the other side that it almost knocked him out. He regained his breath, and hurried off into the night. In his mind, he surmised it would take some time for the men to regain their composure, and they would most likely go back through the gate rather than over the fence. This would give him additional time to escape. Malik took nothing for granted, so he continued his long strides down the avenues, making right and left turns to confuse his trackers.

Only when he felt that he was far away did he stop and get his bearings. He found himself in a residential area, and since it was late evening, no one could be seen on the street. Malik finally felt safe, so he slowly walked down a dark alley knowing he had to re-call his station chief to fill in some details.

Malik pulled his cell, but before he could use the phone, he saw one of the men in the alley slowly moving toward him. Malik was standing in the shadows, so he was sure the Iranian hadn’t seen him. A pistol of some sort was being held by the tracker as he looked from side to side. It was now obvious that they planned to kill him.

Malik pressed himself tighter to the side of the building until the Iranian was within reach. Only a meter between them, Malik jumped out and made a quick chop to the Iranian’s arm, forcing the gun to drop away to the ground. He then knocked the conspirator down, standing over him holding a knife.

In Farsi, Malik spoke.

You thought you would catch and kill me before I revealed your royal plot. I am ashamed that you are one of my countrymen. Who is the royal you will kidnap?

Shad slightly sat up, and spit at Malik. The kick from Malik was quick and landed solidly to the Iranians face, blood rapidly flowing from his nose.

Now, the answer to my question. Who is the royal?

There was no answer, so Malik grabbed the Iranian’s shirt, pulled him up, and placed the blade of the knife to his throat, drawing a sliver of blood.

You have ten seconds to answer, Malik promised.

John, Shad mumbled.

Prince John of Britain, the baby?

Yes. However you will never relay that information.

I think so, Malik responded, his last words.

Malik felt an arm go around him, and at the same time he felt the cold of the steel slice through his throat, and the feeling that he was fading into darkness.

The Frenchman stood over the body, blood pooling on the ground, as he cleaned the blade on Malik's clothes. The CIA agent was searched until identification was found, a French driver's license with the name, Malik Cartier. As with all CIA operatives, Cartier carried no credentials that could connect him to the agency.

He may be a nobody, but we couldn't take the chance.

The two conspirators slowly walked back down the alley, and into obscurity, not knowing that their evening target was CIA. In any event, they knew that the Butcher would not be happy with the incident, as both of the men were acutely aware. The two men were acutely aware that it was an ominous way to start their evil project.

####

Andre had been known to Interpol, the international criminal police organization, for years, but without a clear description. There had been numerous murders, bombings, and kidnappings throughout Europe, and many of them had similar characteristics, and were thought to be the work of one person, Andre. This unknown man had briefly been seen at some of the crimes, but the descriptions of his identity had been various, so a reliable, composite could not be developed.

Due to the heinous nature of the events, he was dubbed the Butcher by Interpol, and the news media quickly adopted the moniker whenever he was mentioned: Andre, the Butcher. Through various sources, it was determined that even Andre liked the name, since he often left at the murder sites notes signed with his nick-name. It was determined that Andre could never be found living in any one spot, and would move from place to place throughout Europe. Interpol considered him an international terrorist, as he had planned and executed his attacks not only in Europe, but in Israel and Great Britain.

What had made a reliable description difficult was that few people had seen him, and when they did, he wore a disguise. Not even Andre's henchmen, when they had been arrested, agreed on his portrait. The details would vary dramatically. There was so little known of him that some in Interpol decided it was possible that he had another name other than Andre. A few even entertained the idea that the person was a female.

Talon received a delivered note that Andre wanted to see him and Shad. They were directed to a lumber yard in the north of Paris for the meeting, the type of location that was common for Andre’s gatherings. The note said 10 PM, and the two Iranians knew that they had better not be late. Even though earlier they had at least four such rendezvous’ discussing the Crown project, neither of them had seen his face. It was if the Iranians had met four different people, the appearances were so varied.

The black Peugeot darted through the streets of Paris until it reached Blvd. Peripherique, the ring road around Paris, where access to the north of the city was easy and quick.

I assume the meeting is about the Crown. Do you think Andre knows about the man we killed? Shad suddenly asked after most of the drive had been made in silence.

Does it matter? The man was a nobody.

I guess not. However, the last meeting had ended with the statement that Andre didn't want to see us until we had a firm plan, Shad retorted.

The car was silent except for the hum of the engine as they thought about the statement.

It has to be the man, but who told him? Shad continued.

Shut the fuck up, and let me think. You are making me nervous with your babble, Talon chided.

Shad was always the nervous type, and the more agitated his mind became, the more his mouth spouted his thoughts.

Andre is dangerous. I don't like this.

Do you want out?

There was a pause.

No.

Smart decision. Andre would have killed you, and if not, Allah would have told me to do it, Talon growled.

For the remainder of the trip, only the engine was speaking, but Shad was frustrated and didn't listen to the hum. He knew that the meeting was unusual, and that meant something was amiss.

The Peugeot reached the lumber yard, and Talon cut the lights and the engine. The air was quiet except for the traffic noise emanating from several blocks away. The time: 9:50 PM.

Exactly at 10 PM, the back door opened, and a darkly dressed figure entered. He wore black clothes, sunglasses, even though it was night, and a black beret.

Both Iranians started to turn their faces to the backseat, but Andre spoke behind them.

Keep your eyes to the front. Only my words are important. Do you understand?

Both men mumbled a yes. Andre spoke.

Tell me about your plan. How will you take the Crown?

There was a nervous cough from Talon before the words came out.

The plan is still in progress. There are still details to work out.

You have little time. I have decided the event will take place in eight days. Tell me what you have so far, Andre questioned.

Another cough was heard from the front.

We will engage a member of the palace staff to help us. That person will give us information about the goings of the prince and his mother. A distraction will be established in order to complete the mission.

Who is this staff member? Andre asked.

We have not yet identified that person, Shad offered.

You have had this project for over a month. My frustration level is growing, Andre said in a low growl.

I'm sorry. There have been complications, Shad bantered in a somewhat condescending manner.

After a short time, Andre spoke.

Is the man you killed two nights ago one of them?

How did you know? Talon mouthed surprise.

It doesn't matter. I have my sources.

He was no one, but we thought he might have overheard our plan, Shad offered.

Do you know his name?

I remember it was a Malik Cartier, Shad replied.

And that's all?

He was a nothing, of no danger to us, Shad further offered.

He was CIA, and before you cut his throat, he could have made any number of calls, Andre barked, his voice rising in anger.

We didn't know, Talon softly revealed.

It is unfortunate. I don't like mistakes. They get people killed, Andre muttered.

There was a pause before Andre spoke again.

I do not follow the Koran. I am an atheist. However, I know that your Allah always rewards those who do well, but sometimes punishment is warranted.

Andre quickly took the razor sharp knife, and drew the blade across Shad's throat. There was a slight gurgle, and the man fell forward.

Allah be praised. Dispose of the body and the car. The easy way is to set it ablaze. Prior to that, wipe down the car so that no prints can be taken. Do you understand? Andre directed.

Talon was so shocked with the event that he had difficulty forming the words leaving his throat.

Yes, I do.

You will see that the project stays on track and on time. Go to England and arrange the final details. I have already done part of that for you. There will be a yacht berthed on the Thames so that an easy exit can be had. We will leave for France as soon as you arrive.

Where will the boat be?

I will let you know the day before. No more failures. Do I make myself clear?

Yes, perfectly clear. When will we meet again? Talon asked.

No answer was heard, and when the Iranian turned toward the rear of the auto, it was empty.

Chapter 2

An Unwanted Assignment

Ben was comfortable in his job: a lawyer at a consulting company, decent pay, not much pressure, and the freedom to come and go as he pleased as long as he completed the work assigned. His boss was competent, they had a good business relationship, and she left him alone except for the occasional drop-by to his office. The unofficial meetings were random and for no explicit reason to be there. There would be chitchat, frequent smiles, and then she would leave. The office rumors were laced with Stephanie Dubois wanting to get into Ben's pants. He had heard the chatter, but she was his supervisor, and that event wasn't in his plans.

Benjamin B. Carter joined International Solutions (IS) after he was graduated from the University of Virginia. It wasn't his first choice, but it was a starting point for his career. His clients and business associates thought he had been with IS forever since his head was crowned with full waves of prematurely gray hair. His six foot one-inch frame often towered over others, giving him a superior stature to his audience, admirers, and his enemies. It was an advantage, since others far older would defer to his counsel. Carter never revealed that he was only thirty-four; it was his ace in the hole.

After several weeks of relaxed meetings, Wednesday came in like a bomb. His secretary revealed his calendar appointments after he had taken his morning coffee. The day was crammed until 6 PM with little time between meetings, and he thought about the weekend. Carter planned to spend Saturday and Sunday in Charlottesville catching up with close friends from university, and he now felt it couldn't come soon enough.

Ben picked up a folder for his first meeting when his secretary, Ann, buzzed his intercom.

Sir, there is a call for you which I think you should take.

Tell them I'll get back to them tomorrow.

I told him that, but he claimed it was extremely important.

Who's the impatient bastard?

Stanford Penwell, the secretary answered in an unpleasant tone, not liking his choice of language.

The CIA man?

Yes.

Okay. Put him through.

Carter threw the folder onto his desk as the phone rang.

Yes, Carter here. What's up?

We need to talk, Penwell started.

We are talking. It's your nickel, Carter replied with a lack of humility.

It's private. Can you meet me this afternoon?

Hell no. My plate is so full, the gravy is flowing out and staining my shorts, Carter replied.

Smartass, Penwell shouted through the phone.

Carter slammed the phone down so hard that it bounced out of the cradle.

That son-of-a-bitch. Who the hell does he think he is?

The secretary heard the noise, and came running into the office.

Is everything okay?

Yeah. We’ll wait about one minute, and Penwell will ring the phone. If it's not important, he won’t call back; if it is, he'll soon swallow his ego.

By the time Carter finished his sentence, the phone rang.

I'll take it.

Carter picked up the phone, and spoke first.

I don't like you, so if you have something to say, spit it out.

A pause on the line ensued, followed by Penwell's words.

It is important, and I need to discuss it face-to-face. Time is imperative.

Just a minute, Carter told him. Ann, can you cancel one of my meetings this afternoon?

The 3 PM is probably the least important.

Do it.

Penwell. 3:15 in your office, Carter told him, not asking if that was convenient.

See you then, Penwell replied.

By 2:30, Carter was mentally exhausted by the argumentative banter in his meetings, and he would have liked to have called it a day. However, he always kept his promises, even to Stanford Penwell, the assistant CIA director, who he knew in past years when he was looking for a job. Carter never forgot, and since then, he carried an ongoing dislike.

Carter immediately left for Langley, since it was at least a forty minute drive during the good part of the day, and who knows how long at the worst. He pointed his car to the Roosevelt Memorial Bridge, and crossed, then headed northwest to the CIA headquarters.

The traffic was moderate, so the forty minute time schedule was probably good, he decided.

Arriving, and after processing security, he was escorted to Penwell's office. He had only been in the building once when he applied for a CIA position a few years ago, and recalled that the building was imposing, even if it appeared to be cold and lacking of humanity.

Come in, Ben, Penwell greeted him by his first name, even though they were not friends.

Carter cringed at the use of the familiarity, but said nothing. He entered the large paneled office, and took his seat at a small table as directed.

What's so important that you took me away from a busy day? Carter blurted.

Would you like a coffee? Penwell offered.

Sure, but I hope this meeting is short.

Since I know you have a top-secret clearance, I can tell you what I have to say.

It's a secret clearance that I have.

As of today, it's been upgraded.

Carter now knew that what Penwell had to say was more important than he had realized, so he decided to shelve his animosity for the moment.

Penwell shuffled a few papers before he spoke.

We are aware of a conspiracy in Europe to kidnap a royal. It is believed that the project will be carried out within the next week, but it is not guaranteed.

What does this have to do with me? Carter contested.

I'm coming to that, but I wanted to describe the complete problem first.

Carter sat back in his chair, picked up his coffee, and took a sip.

One of our agents came across the plot by accident, and before he could report the details to the Paris office, he was killed. Due to that, we don't know the target, but a man called Andre the Butcher is involved. We need to identify the royal in order to counter the attack, or at best capture the conspirators before they act.

Again, I'm a lawyer, so what does that have to do with me?

Penwell leaned back in his chair, and looked towards the ceiling as if composing his next thoughts.

A few years back, you interviewed with me for an agent position. Unfortunately, I didn't have an opening, and I was also arrogant and dismissive of you. Please accept my apology.

Resentment takes a while to get over. As a professional, I accept your apology, but any feelings of friendship, either business or in a social setting will be based on our dealings over the course of time, if there ever will be a remote future.

Fair enough, Penwell concurred.

You still haven't told me why I'm here, and why you're wasting my time.

Ben, I want you to go to work for us. Before you answer, let me tell you why. You are more experienced in our field than you think. Let me read your profile.

Benjamin B. Carter.

Mother: Nicole Chatel, born in France.

Father: former CIA, killed in action.

Education: Georgetown, BS international studies; University of Virginia, law degree.

Military: U.S. Army first Lieut. -- five years as an intelligence officer.

Languages -- fluent: English, French.

Unmarried.

As you are aware, you need little training, and you would fit in well in your new role in Paris. We would like you to become one of us. Your father would be proud."

Go to hell. You insult me by bringing my father into this. It is because of the CIA that he's dead, Carter yelled, now standing and becoming more irritated.

Ben. Please, let's discuss this.

There's nothing to discuss. I'm a lawyer trying to develop a career, and I hope someday in the future to open a law practice. I don't need you. My father didn't either. I'm not interested. Find someone else.

But...

Stan, go to hell, Carter vented, using the familiar to the name that he was insulted by earlier.

Ben Carter proved that he was his own man by walking briskly out of the office, and to the outside. He reached the parking lot, and before entering his car, he called Ann, his secretary.

Ann, the meeting’s going longer than expected. Please cancel and reschedule today’s other appointments. Thanks.

He placed his cell in his pocket, and felt relieved. His anger had diminished, and he re-thought about what Penwell had told him.

Kidnapping a royal. I don't ever remember that being done, at least not in my lifetime. Why? Who would go to such trouble, and for what reason? Some unfortunate CIA bloke’s going to get himself killed if they mess with that project. I don't need that.

The hum of the engine came alive, and Carter headed for his apartment in Falls Church. It had been a long frustrating day, and he knew the perfect tonic to cure that ailment was a scotch with a splash of water, maybe two.

####

Penwell was pissed when Carter left his office in a huff without being able to further discuss and convince him that he had to take the job. He wasn't used to be being spoken to in the manner that Carter directed to him, since his CIA employees always gave him the respect that he thought he deserved. He didn't like defeat, and it never settled easily when ‘no’ was placed in his way.

The man knew all along that he was not an easy person to work for, but he didn't get the position he held without being tough, even though he thought he was fair. Many people would disagree as to the fairness issue.

Stanford Penwell worked his way to the top after many years of being an agent in the field. He didn't like some of his bosses, but he was smart enough to give them their due, as he now expected from his employees. However, he knew that society had changed over the years, and young people learned a new way to look at a job and the leaders over them. In any case, he didn't like it, and those new agents who didn't adhere to his Victorian philosophy were criticized, and often drummed out of the service. He felt that the new individualism was overemphasized, and he harkened back to the full team ideal.

Penwell was in his late forties, and still hoped at some point in time to be promoted to full director of the CIA. However, he realized that it was the president who appointed the director, even though the recommendation of the existing director was important. As part of that career plan, he maintained a good relationship with the current CIA director.

Penwell reviewed the meeting with Carter in his mind before he picked up the telephone.

Stephanie. This is Stanford. Carter met with me today, and refused my offer of a position. I have no other qualified agents to replace the dead one in Paris. I would like you to reassign Carter from his lawyer duties to a role that would replace my agent.

I assume you are speaking of Malik, who reported the conspiracy to kidnap a royal, Stephanie interjected.

Exactly. I knew you had been briefed on the situation, and figured that this might happen.

Carter may not be happy with the change of events.

I assume he will not be, but since you are an arm of the CIA, he won't have a choice, unless he wants to lose his job.

I don't want that to happen; he's a good lawyer and I need him here.

You can have him back when he completes his mission.

That's a lousy position for him, Stephanie suggested.

Life is tough. That's the business we're in, so get used to it.

I know the story of your disagreements with each other, and I’m sure he would refuse to work for you.

Not a problem. He would still work for you, and you supervise his activities. I don't want any more to do with him.

Are you sure you want it that way?

Yes, quite sure.

Fine. With that out of the way, all contacts with him will go through me. You will not reach out to him unless he chooses to contact you. Is that agreed to?

There are circumstances where that might be necessary.

If you want this to work, you'll do it my way.

God. It sounds like I'm speaking to the Iron Lady.

You are. Now let me get on with my job. Tomorrow morning, I'll have the discussion with him.

Fine. Let me know his decision.

By tomorrow afternoon.

The phone made such a loud noise as Stanwell disconnected the call that Stephanie was certain that the man slammed the receiver into the cradle in anger. She was not surprised, but his actions always irritated her.

I'm going to have to carefully rehearse the words that I speak to Carter, so as to not completely lose him. That would be unfortunate, not only as a valued employee, but the fact that my plan to capture his manhood is still at the top of the list for me. He's a dish, and I want him.

####

In the morning, Carter bounded into the office as if all the cares of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. As soon as he had retrieved a morning cup of coffee, Ann informed him that Stephanie wanted to see him in her office as soon as possible.

What's the subject?

She didn't say.

Carter decided that whatever it was, it could wait until he finished his brew. He decided that with two cups, one could go into the world as a David, but without coffee, a body would just be a weakling Goliath. However, he knew that scientific evidence probably would not support his hypothesis.

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