The Marriage Buster

By Peter P. Sellers

The President of the United States has slapped an embargo on a rogue Iran. He has asked his intelligence service for a call to action. He wants some questions answered. Getting those answers requires thinking outside the box. And, someone has come up with a wild idea: bring in Kimberly Powers, the Marriage Buster, to break up a marriage.
Lucas Bowman gets a mysterious call from the Bureau of Intelligence and Research. Days later he is recruited to join Kimberly Powers in an off-the-books government operation to break up the marriage of a United Arab Emirates’ Prince married to an Iranian woman from an influential Iranian family.
The operation’s objective: break up the marriage to preserve the Prince’s allegiance to America in the politically explosive Persian Gulf region.
The Plan: The Prince has a weakness...an obsession with odalisques, mythical sex slaves of past Sultans’ harems. His art collection of odalisque paintings is the finest in the world. What will be his reaction when he discovers odalisque paintings of Kimberly Powers, then meets her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter P. Sellers
• Release date: Sep 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9780999017265

Peter P. Sellers

PETER P. SELLERS Brevity here is key. But, brevity is often a subjective thing. I want my biography to read like I was telling a story to a stranger on a long train ride. To begin such a self-serving exercise there has to have been a reason why my listener showed an interest in such an aggrandizing exercise. In my fantasy about the character motivations and biographical references I might mention to my stranger-on-the-train, the listener has read one of my books and enjoyed it; and he, or she, wants to know a little more about the characters, the why, the how, and, some stuff about me. That’s exactly what I’d want to know if I ever got the chance to share an overnight commuter with Walter Farley, Len Deighton, Phillip Kerr, Ian Rankin, Raymond Chandler, or John D. MacDonald...you get my point. Any author’s bio ought to enlighten a reader to his or her family life, schooling, living environment, education, relationships, and how they affected the choice of genres, settings, characters, themes, and point of view in their writing. Every author who endures includes or alludes to some of their roots in every story they tell. If you came from poverty, were born to wealth, had teachers for parents, or was a working member of a police department, those impressions and memories can’t help but surface. That’s the case with me. Why hide it? Embrace it. It’s all about moving a reader with your own “bio” and your own characters. I had four siblings. We grew up in rural Western New York. We rode a school bus to a central school. I was unruly and disruptive, regularly punished for being overzealous. I was routinely disciplined with “detention” in the school library. The librarian was an elderly lady (probably early forty’s) who was put in charge of our small group of repeat misfits. As we would gather to serve our “sentences” she would point to stacks of un-filed books and with a slight wave gesture start the process of us returning books to the shelves in compliance with the Dewey Decimal System. I liked holding hardback books. Mrs. Cummings liked me. She made me an offer one day during my freshman year of high school: “start reading books while your here, write me book reports, and I’ll let you out early.” I vividly remember the first book she suggested...Walter Farley’s Black Stallion. Nothing before or after (except girls) had the effect on me that that book did. I became obsessed with the dreamy perception of horses. But most importantly, I became a reader. For Xmas of my eleventh year (I turned twelve two weeks later) my parents, against all common sense, got me a horse. We converted a small shed behind our house into a stable, put up some fencing, bought a Sears and Roebuck western saddle and bridle, and immediately handed the daily responsibility for Rawhide’s well being and manure removal to me. Brevity here......... For the next five years my brothers and I experienced the full reality of a horse owner’s life. We bought and sold, bred, raised and trained horses. We were regulars on the 4-H circuit. But, that pretty much came to an end for me at the conclusion of my junior year of high school. The principal of my high school told my parents I was not going to be allowed back in school for my senior year. I had become to “disruptive” to the rest of the students. I was sent to military school for my final year of high school. Now this next stuff is important for context. The military school was near Syracuse, New York. That’s gonna be important. My year in military school was basically harsher and darker than my public school tenure. I was rebellious, disrespectful, a voracious reader, and punished on a daily basis. I hated the regimentation, the rules, the suffocation of free spirit, and total lack of privacy. I did, however, sense the importance of keeping an open, independent mind. Now it was on my last day at military school when life threw me another Walter Farley...... On graduation day my parents joined me (their first visit). I had not been home for the entire term. I was confined to the school serving disciplinary punishment for my behavior. As we walked to the parking lot for what I believed would be the trip home. I was told I was not going back home...I was going to be dropped at the harness racing track in Vernon, New York, twenty miles away, where I should find a summer job. My parents assumed my horse background would qualify me for a job. My father gave me fifty bucks and said they’d see me in the fall on my way to college. That summer’s experience at Vernon Downs is the basis of VERNON FIX: Book 1 of the Michael Butler Saga. The entire Michael Butler Saga (four books) is set in the world of harness horse racing. More brevity.... In my early twenties I became interested in film, photography, editing, and story telling. I mastered the basics of film making with some bare-bones home movie equipment. I went on to have a fascinating, successful, eye-opening forty-year career in film and television production. There was a long period when all I focused on was honing my craft and advancing my career. But in the early eighties I discovered Len Deighton and his Bernard Samson series. Deighton turned a light on. He wrote with total authenticity and his hero, Bernard Samson, reflected every behavioral trait I had admired in men my whole life. In the back of my mind I wanted to be a writer and tell stories like Deighton did. During the latter part of the eighties life settled down for me and, among other things, I got back into horses...polo, to be specific. And, I bought and raced a few harness horses...I was the owner, not the driver/trainer. Michael Butler, the lead character in the Michael Butler Saga, was at times a groom, a trainer, a driver, and eventually, an owner. The Michael Butler Saga follows his career and marriage over a twenty-year span. The hero of The Lucas Bowman Trilogy is a polo player. I gave Lucas Bowman some other interesting proclivities...fast draw competitor, reporter, government operative, womanizer. I have a vivid memory of the day I started writing my first novel (Vernon Fix). I was spending weekends in Florida playing polo at a small polo club east of Tampa. I was living in a dilapidated mobile home on the backside of the polo club (Lucas Bowman lives in such a place only much more romanticized). One Saturday afternoon I opened a Word document and started writing. I KNEW NOTHING about grammar and punctuation. Any writing experience I’d had were short sentences for documentary scripts where the words basically supported the picture. However, it was so exhilarating to try and tell a story on paper, like I might in a barroom conversation. It mattered not if what I was writing might or might not be any good. It was the satisfaction of doing it. I read a thousand “how to” books. I worried about description, character motivation, being factually correct, could I swear?, too long, not long enough. I didn’t know anything about “action verbs”. But, I plugged away at story and character and, when in doubt, I went back to memory and personal experience. I was so comfortable recalling an actual situation. I couldn’t believe I had such a vivid memory. So often I’d use the basis of my memory and my unchecked imagination to be interesting or fit the time frame, setting, or storyline. Let’s wind my story back a little more. I have had no formal training for novel writing. But I’ve had an amazing life and times. Novel writing has afforded me the opportunity to take any number of experiences I’ve had and rewrite, embellish, totally make up, distort facts, or change to suit a story as long as I entertain the reader. I’m writing fiction, remember? What I hope makes that fiction entertaining is what so many of the greats I mentioned did...they lift a concept from a newspaper article or their imagination, adapt that story to fit a certain theme or philosophy, mix in personal anecdotes with historical periods for settings, and compile characters based on every second they’ve been alive observing. I have a fairly clear sense of my characters’ code of conduct based on my own life’s experiences. I have a rule-of-thumb building characters: each major character is morally ambiguous when push comes to shove. Everyone makes their own moral decisions to fit a sticky situation. In certain genres fictional heroes are excused for their decisions and actions if the story’s outcome satisfies the reader’s imagination.... That’s the stuff I read and write. I hope you’ll enjoy the books I’ve written.

Book preview

THE MARRIAGE BUSTER

Written by

PETER P. SELLERS

Smashword Edition

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PREFACE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

PREFACE

The ODALISQUE

In a movie, every shot of her looked like a painting, especially the close ups.

Blinking nervously, her eyes seek the soul of the subject of her focus — a picture in a book, a place, a dream, a man approaching….

Then those searching eyes, the epicenter of her tremulous anticipation and alabaster complexion, contract.

A pursing and pouting of her ruby red lips is the start of the reaction that often ends with a sorrowful

expression projecting despair, uncertainty, or discouragement .

Next, an unexpected vitalization makes her forehead rise as she begins a series of completely different reactions in a five second silent close up. Her lips twitch in three or four places before she can finally utter a word.

Speaking with her mouth askance and affecting a breathless uncertainty, struggling to pronounce every word’ perfectly, never attempting the sultry voice of a

Seductress, always the vibrant enthusiasm of a showgirl finding the key light,

she gushes her lines in one long exhale.

Reacting to a joke or the suggestion of something fun,carefully written into the script, her giddy enthusiasm includes throwing her head back and lifting her shoulders;

invariably resulting in a slight jiggle of her breasts.

In a scene’s master shot, lying in bed, affecting languor, taking slow deep breaths as if dreaming of something passionate or enthralling that might be about to happen, her voluptuous figure is never more erogenous than when on its’ side, a silky white sheet covering just above her hips.

Her walk—-hips thrust forward, shoulders back…chin up, her strides long and

purposeful remains a signature of her on- screen persona.

But what is remembered most is her face, alone in a close up of soft filtered light, emoting silently, projecting a sadness that screams angst,

vulnerability, and confusion,; the legendary portrait of a misunderstood woman incapable of complete composure.

"The picture was full of texture…the sand, the driftwood, and me

Marilyn Monroe….The Seven Year Itch

Marilyn Monroe…..an odalisque for every man’s fantasy

CHAPTER ONE

Below ground at the State Department

Washington, DC

August 5, 1996

Benjamin Chandler told the person he was speaking to on the phone he would call him right back. The abrupt end to the conversation was instigated by the entrance of his boss from the floor above into Chandler’s office. The lack of advance warning was not unusual.

Charles Vandercook was a large man who didn’t wear his age well. Too much rich food, Scotch, and as Vandercook often said, too much fucking stress. Chandler’s first thought when seeing his boss on a bad day was hope that the physical wear and tear on the older man wouldn’t happen to him. Chandler leaned back in his chair and smiled, hoping whatever the reason for the visit might be something positive.

Oh shit, Chandler said, glancing at his watch and snapping his fingers, you’re going to invite me to lunch in the VIP dining room.

Why? Vandercook said as he flopped into the chair opposite Chandler’s desk, I’m not mad at you.

The two shared a chuckle. Vandercook pulled his tie loose from his jowly neck.

The Secretary of State wants ideas, Vandercook said. Chandler waited, assuming there was another shoe to drop. Give me some, Vandercook added.

Iran? Chandler asked, knowing the answer.

Oh, yeah. Everything now is about the President’s embargo of Iran and Libya. He signed the act this morning. It goes into effect immediately. He wants feedback. Has he stuck his foot in his mouth? Are they enforceable? Will our allies cooperate? Will shutting down their trade and commerce contain these fuckers and will it stop this terrorism shit? Vandercook said lifting a closed fist in the air and extending his fingers as he ticked off the President’s concerns. The new fucking buzzword everywhere up on the hill is terrorism".

He’s gonna run for re-election and Oklahoma City is too fresh in everyone’s mind, Chandler said.

Yup, Vanderccok said with a nod.

What are the spooks saying? Chandler said using his favorite behind-closed-door term for the CIA.

They say there will be leaks, Vandercook said. The southern Gulf is wide open.

Bahrain, Qatar, Oman? Chandler said.

You forgot the biggest.

Chandler rubbed his chin. Of course, Dubai.

Vandercook shook his head. Actually, Ras al Khaimah.

The name didn’t register immediately with Chandler. He lifted his hands as if confused. where have I heard that name recently?

The Eastern most Emirate of the United Arab Emirates.

Chandler turned and pulled a hard-bound world atlas from the shelf behind his desk and started rifling through pages. Within seconds he flopped the map of the United Arab Emirates across his desk. He rose from his chair and started studying the map.

Something about the small islands there between Iran and the UAE.

Vandercook nodded. They’re arguing over them.

Okay, I remember…sovereignty.

Vandercook nodded. And a lot of shit is being smuggled to Iran from this Emirate.

Vandercook was silent for a moment as Chandler studied the map.

Ideas…I need ideas, he said as he got up and gave Chandler an exit wave but he never made it all the way out the office door. Turning back he pointed at Chandler and said, …and they need to be outside the box. New people, smart people…no files on them, no histories. I just read a book about the guys that developed the atomic bomb. They holed up in New Mexico under the radar…that’s who we need…people under the radar. He pointed at his temple and jabbed his finger into his head a couple of times. New ideas and new people, he said.

August 8, 1996

Reading below ground level with no window in her office at the Bureau of Intelligence and Research was unpleasant. It reminded Sylvia Bancroft of her childhood bedroom that she’d shared with two sisters. It was downstairs from the house’s main floor, under the kitchen, beds along three walls, a half-hearted parental remodel of the barebones basement. Sylvia leaned forward, elbows on her desk, eyeglasses resting on the crest of her nose. She tilted the single spaced pages to pick up the glare from her small desk lamp as she made mental images of the places she was reading about, her imagination transporting her there—-that was the best part of her job—- and she was dying for a cigarette.

She looked at her watch, eleven forty-five….lunch soon. She pulled back the top drawer of her steel grey military-issue desk and lifted out the paperback book she’d brought to work. Sitting it beside her she returned to the research documents, then stopped and absentmindedly turned the paperback over to stare at the picture of the book’s author on the back cover. She grinned to herself and reflected—-she loved the chapter about the Butlers, Michael and Sophia. It was the one marriage that the author hadn’t been able to break up. She knew her friend, Rachel, who she was meeting for their weekly lunch date, was going to love the book.

She shook her head, cursed Iran…they were the new rogue country, first Iraq, now Iran…constantly stirring up trouble. Her assignment was an explanation of a long standing dispute between Iran and its’ neighbor across the Persian Gulf—the United Arab Emirates. The argument was sovereignty over three small islands in the center of the Gulf, almost equidistance from the two countries; in the very heart of the shipping lanes through the Strait of Hormuz.

Sylvia turned to the notes beside her, reviewed them for a few moments, then swiveled her chair to face her computer, and started to enter data.

Try to keep it brief was the directive from her boss, Benjamin Chandler. He just wanted to be brought up to speed.

Iran initially seized (landing troops) islands in the Gulf in November of 1971 despite a shared claim by the UAE and Iran. The UAE didn’t have the wherewithal to confront Iran militarily. International politics did little to dissuade Iran’s occupation.

The islands are of utmost strategic importance because of the depths of the sea. All oil tankers and large ships must use the shipping lane that runs between Abu Musa and the Tunb Islands. Whoever controls the islands theoretically controls sea traffic in the Gulf.

The Crown Price of Ras al Khaimah, Khalid bin Saqr Al Qasimi, maintains his outspoken opposition to Iran with respect to its unauthorized occupation of the Tunb Islands. Ras al Khaimah has no oil producing operation to speak of and he has been under increasing pressure to regain access to the islands’ vast oil resources on, under, and around the islands.

U.S. intentions are three fold…we want access to those islands for potential oil and natural gas exploration and drilling, as well as, we want to align with the UAE’s claim of sovereignty, resulting in a lessening of Iranian presence. In a perfect world, U.S. intelligence would have a listening presence on one or more of the islands with U.S. oil companies getting access to the oil and gas under and around, and, of equal importance, sea traffic would continue to remain unthreatened.

See attached in depth explanation of dispute.

Sylvia put the consolidated research in a three ring binder and sent it to her boss— one floor up. He’ll never read the whole thing she thought. She contemplated whether or not to add an explanation of the importance of tribal allegiances in the Middle East. She knew it was key to understand their significance when trying to grasp such nuances of the Muslim culture. She didn’t think her boss quite got all that stuff. Late for her lunch date, she grabbed the paperback and headed out, the jolt from the fresh air and sunshine gave a bounce to her stride.

***

Lunch

As the two old friends talked, each cracked a hot roll, they so loved, and spread butter across its’ warm soft center.

We’ve got to stop eating so much bread, Rachel said to Sylvia.

Sylvia nodded in agreement as she took her first bite.

Rachel looked down at the book sitting beside her friend.

Is this the book you told me about? she asked.

"Yes, The Marriage Buster, it’s great, you’ve got to read it."

Sylvia paused to finish her roll, washing it down with a long drink of water. Rachel reached across the table, picked the book up and started leafing through the first few pages.

What’s it about? I think you said it’s about a women who got paid to break up marriages.

"Yes. That’s what this woman did for a few years. She’d get hired by whoever had an interest in a marriage being, you know, broken up, you know, like she was always the other woman. The married couples were very rich or high profile people. The wife would find out her husband was screwing the author, Kim Powers, and that would break the marriage up. Like the family of this widow who had a lot of money and she’d married some gigolo type, or this rock star that married a really rich women for her money.

The best part is this couple, they race horses somewhere in New York and her family, the Tanzinis, were Chicago mobsters. Well, the Tanzinis hired this women, Kim Powers, to break up their niece’s marriage because they wanted her to come back to Chicago and race her horses there without her husband. But, she couldn’t break them up, they were too much in love…it’s a good story…a good book," Sylvia insisted, stopping to catch her breath and give the waiter her order.

She continued after the waiter left, She gets real specific about what she had to do to break up these marriages. It was a best seller.

Rachel grinned conspiratorially, turning the book over to stare at the black and white picture of the author on the book’s back cover.

She kinda looks like Marilyn Monroe, Rachel observed.

Yeah, that’s one of her things, Sylvia agreed.

CHAPTER TWO

August 15, 1996

After consuming the warm rolls and ordering lunch (same restaurant, and seated at the same table), the conversation about the book resumed.

It was great, really good, Rachel said, I loved it.

Sylvia giggled, I knew you would. She’s got another one out now. It’s more about the Butlers…the husband helped her write it. They eventually had a thing, I think.

Rachel wanted more gossip. Are the Butlers still married?

Sylvia answered, not sure she knew what she was talking about. Yeah, I think so.

Rachel couldn’tcontrol her anticipation. Do you have the new book?

Yes, you’ll get it next week. Can you wait? Sylvia asked.

No, I can’t, and the two friends convulsed with laughter.

A not unusual work-related conversation ensued as the two women began their leisurely lunch of white fish and salad oblivious to the clatter and conversation around them.

Iran, Rachel declared, they’ve shifted me off Iraq. All I’m hearing about now is…Iran, Iran, Iran.

Sylvia nodded in didgust. Me, too.

What’s the stuff you’re working on? Rachel asked, Iran, I’m sure.

Oh yeah. One of the Emirates of the United Arab Emirates is arguing with Iran over some islands in the Persian Gulf. They both claim rights to these islands but Iran has put a few troops on the them and this Emirate, Ras al Khaimah, can’t go head to head with Iran over it by itself. We’re siding with the UAE, of course, because we want to get our oil people in there, as well as, intelligence. These islands are right in the Persian Gulf shipping lanes of the big oil tankers.

The table was silent for a moment as the two women seemed to contemplate the issue.

The stuff I’m getting fed, and trying to collate, is basically the same thing, Sylvia said. Iran’s saber rattling… what should our reaction be, what should we do about it? Right now I’m doing background on the actual guy in Ras al Khaimah, The Crown Prince, Sheik Khalid. He’s the guy really making the stink over the islands. He says Ras al Khaimah has claim to the islands. He says his tribe controlled them before the British took them over way back. We’re supporting him, of course.

Rachel put her fork down to sip her water. What’s his deal?

Sylvia wagged an open hand toward her friend and smiled. It’s a movie, she said, Listen to this. Sheik Khalid, he’s the Crown Prince of Ras al Khaimah…his father is the Emir…the big dog…but the Sheik is the one really arguing the claim. It’s their tribe, Al Qasimi, who used to control the islands. Ras al Khaimah is now part of the UAE. We want to do anything we can to help the Sheik get access to those islands, and get Iran out of there. Ras al Khaimah has no oil…This is their chance.

And we’re friends with them?

Yeah, with the whole UAE country and those islands are starting to be very important, but listen. This Sheik Khalid has two wives, his first wife, Fatima, is from Iran, she’s from the Lashire tribe. All her people are in Iran, right across the Gulf….wealthy and influential. She and the Sheik’s marriage was arranged, of course, a long time ago. Anyway, the stuff I’m reading says she’s been observed recently meeting in Iran with members of the Lashire tribe, her people….all women mind you, but you can bet they’re putting pressure on Fatima to get her husband to change his tune, you know, drop his claim.

Rachel’s laugh rose above the din of the dining room. Oh, no, she said, and we’re afraid he’ll change his position to keep peace in the family, forget the whole Middle East?

My boss keeps talking about ideas. That’s all he ever says…we need new ideas. So listen to my idea, Sylvia said, you’ll get a kick out of this.

Busboys were stripping the surrounding tables by the time the women completed their conversation with an agreement to meet over the weekend and put their idea to paper, then submit it. They were calling their suggested proposal; Operation Marriage Bust.

CHAPTER THREE

August 19, 1996

Orlando, Florida: The Southeastern Regional Fast Draw Championships

The incessant popping could be heard for a quarter mile radius; short bursts of two and three pops at a time, every few seconds. A couple hundred vehicles, pickup trucks, mostly, customized with decals, and many with campers mounted in the back, filled the vacant field next to the large white circus-style tent that contained the event and blocked the broiling sun from the competitors.

The nearest sign of civilization, a gas quick stop at a four-way where two highways crisscrossed, was several miles to the west, back toward Orlando.

For most of the year the surrounding area was grassland for a beef cattle operation. But, for three days, same time each year, the pasture was the site of a fast draw competition; men and women drawing .45 single action revolvers and firing blanks twenty-one feet away at a twenty-four inch diameter circular steel target with electronic sensors attached that stopped the clock upon impact… to the one thousandth of a second… and eventually determine the fastest gun in town.

I was slumped in the front seat of my Jeep Wrangler with the windows up and the motor idling; I’d pulled off my Western boots, they were a little tight. The AC was cooling me while I listened to George Strait and cleaned my nickel-plated forty-five Colt single action revolver. I was also checking my watch every few minutes. I didn’t want to miss my upcoming round. It wasn’t my first fast draw competition, but I’d never gotten so far in a competition before. I’d won four shoot-offs (head to head, side by side, competition, best-of- five fastest times moves on). Two more wins I’d make the finals.

I was introduced to the sport a few years ago when I was asked to cover a fast draw event for the Pompano, Florida newspaper where I wrote weekend feature stories and a society column (kind of a gossipy thing like PAGE SIX in the New York Post). I guessed at the time someone, somehow, equated fast draw to my polo playing (my other passion). Horses and guns, ….the cowboy life style, they figured it was probably up my alley. I assumed at the time it was the stereotypical rationale of an ill-informed editor. But my article was well received and my interest in the sport lingered, then I looked into participating. Within a year I had a shooting shed built on the lot of my double wide trailer located behind the back fields of the Boca Raton Polo Club. I started off slowly and methodically, practicing the required technique of drawing and cocking the hammer of the revolver simultaneously, before firing from the hip at the target; gradually my times got faster and faster. I was surprised how quickly I became a very good shot. Within eighteen months of seeing my first event I started competing.

I had no particular obsession with guns, or shooting them for that matter, I just loved the precision, pressure, and instant gratification of the sport. Drawing and firing a Colt .45 in under half a second and hitting a small target in the distance with a wax bullet was a challenging sport requiring remarkable skills. In truth, I often acknowledged to myself one of the reasons I loved the sport was the fact that I could practice it alone…on my own schedule, in my own environment. It’s a loner’s thing.

Cutting the AC back a bit, I was admiring my gleaming Colt .45, turning it over in my hands, spinning the chamber, testing the smoothness of the hammer cock. I’d laid my head back on the seat’s headrest for a second and was forming mental images of my pre-draw stance (knees bent slightly, my left shoulder rolled in toward the target, my fingers lightly touching the pistol’s handle, my eyes glued on the small light in the center of the target), practicing some relaxed breathing, imagining keeping my hand relaxed while lightly gripping the butt of the revolver and visualizing my reaction to the flashing light activating the timer, then, drawing and firing. I was about to repeat the exercise when I heard a rap on the driver’s side window. My immediate reaction was irritation at being interrupted.

Staring at me through the glass was a pair of Ray Ban sunglasses inches from my face. Then a set of sparkling teeth emerged from pursed lips and quickly turned into a smile. Before I could react, a large shiny badge was pressed against the window and held long enough for me to read—F.B.I. I hit the window button and held it as the glass slowly retreated into the door.

Mr. Lucas Bowman? the man asked. He remained bent at the waist with his eyes on me as he folded his badge back and slipped it into his sport coat pocket.

Yes, I said.

I’m Agent Mark Edwards of the FBI. I’d like a word with you. The man spoke quietly with a tone of friendliness.

He pointed at my Colt. Do you mind lowering the revolver, please?

I grinned. Oh, sorry about that, I said, putting the forty-five in my lap.

If you would, please, put it on the floor. Then he said, do you mind if I get in your car?

I waved my hand to the passenger seat.

The agent walked around the front of the Jeep and opened the passenger side door. I picked up the black Stetson hat that I wore during shoot offs and the thick leather belt and holster and flipped them in the back as he settled into the front passenger seat. He offered me his hand to shake.

Sorry to surprise you like that. I’ve been enjoying this event, never seen anything like it before. You seem to be doing well. You’re pretty good with that thing, he said, pointing at the forty-five revolver on the floor board in front of me.

Yeah, thanks. What can I do for you? I asked. I wasn’t unnerved by an F.B.I. badge anymore. I’d had some dealings with them recently and my attitude was more of respect than intimidation.

A mutual friend told me I might find you here….Sergeant Lipscomb of Pompano PD, Edwards said.

Yeah, I told him I was coming up here, I said, starting to relax. Lipscomb had helped with a case a few months prior, kinda saved my ass in a way. I was in over my head dealing with some bad guys.

Edwards turned down the CD while telling me he liked George Strait and said, I’m a messenger today. I’m going to ask you to do something and I’m asking that you not mention it to another soul. Can I count on your word?

I guess, depends on what you’re gonna ask me, I said, glancing at my watch, then back at him. He was young, maybe thirty, clean shaven, short hair. I couldn’t see his eyes.

He reached into his sport coat pocket and withdrew a small piece of paper that he handed to me. There was a neatly typed address on the paper with a date and time…Monday, 5:00 PM.

That’s the address of a pay phone near your place in Boca. As you can see, you’re going to be called on that phone Monday at five o’clock. Please make yourself available for the call. It’s government business.

What kind of business?

He shrugged his shoulders. Don’t know, Mr. Bowman…just doing my job.

I don’t understand.

You will, I would imagine, after the call. One last thing. I’ve been told to tell you, clear your schedule for the week after Monday.

I glanced at my watch. I gotta go, can I be excused for a few minutes?

We’re done here, Edwards said as he opened the passenger side door. Please take the call and good luck, Mr. Bowman.

I won the first three lights of my next round and moved on to the semi finals. My times were all under .350 of a second. I noticed Edwards watching me from a small grandstand section behind the shooting range. I returned to my Jeep to wait out the next round. I needed to stay focused.

CHAPTER FOUR

August 21, 1996

Kimberley Powers

It was late morning in Springfield, Illinois. Outside, a constant warm wind was blowing steadily from the west, across hundreds of miles of parched cornfields and sloppy feed lots.

The Borders’ bookstore was a popular spot in Springfield when they were having a book signing. Book signings were a social event, especially the ones that started around 11:00 AM. Inside, the air conditioning made the bookstore a comfortable place to browse, read, and maybe socialize a little. It was the best place to get an iced, caffeinated drink. Lattes and cappuccinos were very popular in the store’s cafe. The crowd numbers at a book signing varied of course; the best attended were for the romance novelists.

At the most popular signings people were often asked to wait outside inline, and were not allowed to enter until moments before the author appeared. Shopping was encouraged after the author’s presentation. The occupancy rate in the bookstore’s author room for a signing was two hundred. A few well-known mystery writers could attract a full crowd. First time writers seldom drew well, but a best selling author on a return visit of any kind could be assured of a good turn out.

Kimberly Powers, her legs crossed with the top foot bobbing as she waited in one of the bookstore’s private offices, sipped a latte. It was her second visit to Springfield. A life size head shot of her, made into a poster, hung from the ceiling behind the raised podium and lectern in the author’s room (the picture of Powers looked like a Marilyn Monroe head shot from The Seven Year Itch). Around the store several stacks of her books piled high would make grabbing a copy or two of the thick hardback an easy decision.

***

Lucas Bowman

As I stood in line to get in to the bookstore (no shade, blistering direct sun) wearing a sport coat, dress shirt, khaki slacks, loafers, I checked myself out in the bookstore’s front window. What was I getting myself into? I asked myself. The mysterious phone call had been so vague. It was damn hot in Springfield, Illinois; the kind of heat I wasn’t used to.

I engaged a few of the women around me, introducing myself (using my real name, Lucas Bowman), something I’d learned to do early on as a reporter …it relaxed people right away, let them talk easier. I always removed my sunglasses when I was speaking to someone (eliminating any sense of intimidation). The mood on the sidewalk was high anticipation and a sense that something titillating was going to happen. I asked some obvious questions, playing it, maybe not dumb, but inadequately informed:

Q: What’s so great about Kimberly Powers?

A: (woman, thirtyish) She’s writes about stuff you can only dream about doing…and she’s done it.

Q: What actually has she done?

A:(same woman) You haven’t read her book, The Marriage Buster? You need to read it, you’ll understand.

Q: What’s her new book about?

A (a woman fifty-ish, maybe that first woman’s mother): The man she wrote this book with was one of the couples whose marriage she tried to break up in her first book. He was a horse racer and was involved with a lot of crime stuff. Her new book is about his life and some stuff she was involved in with this guy.

Q: She seems pretty hot. I mean, really great looking.

A: Yeah, I’ve never seen her but they say she looks a lot like Marilyn Monroe.

I hadn’t seen her either…that’s why I was in Springfield, Illinois. It was just after eleven when I was admitted to the store. I stood at the back of the room and waited (thankful for the air conditioning). I watched Kimberly Powers enter the room through a door behind the podium to a round of enthusiastic applause. She stood off to the side as she was being introduced. She was stunning…movie star stuff. I guessed she was about five foot five, maybe 120 lbs, epic tits, perfect ass…catch me, fuck me, tussled platinum hair…..poised, but something about her seemed child-like as she held a smile and gazed out at the room. She was a dead ringer for Marilyn Monroe. She looked exactly like Monroe did in those old black and white newsreels I’d seen of the iconic star, especially the one’s where she was on stage in front of the troops with Bob Hope (the classic packaging of sexual attraction cloaked in an air of child-like innocence).

As she began to speak (a halting breathiness much like Monroe), I scanned the crowd watching reactions, sensing the connection she was making with everyone in the room. I had to laugh and smile right along with the audience when she did a quick Monroe impression to answer some of the questions. She was very smooth, I had to admit. When she said, there aren’t too many gals around like me even I laughed, fighting the urge to join the applause (it didn’t seem professional I thought). I was going to leave the bookstore as soon as she was finished speaking, not wanting to take a chance that she might see and remember me. I definitely was looking forward to dinner with her.

CHAPTER FIVE

Kim Powers had very carefully prepared and memorized her presentation … expensive coaching had taught her how to sound and look casual, witty, and gracious (affecting the Monroe persona every minute and a half). She’d perfected the speech pattern and inflection of the screen icon over the past several weeks of signings. She knew what all those eyeballs and ears wanted…spicy details about the people she had written about. They wanted the men who had abused, vilified, and the women who suffered, exonerated.

She always told the faces staring at her that she knew there were those who perceived her as something slightly above a hooker, a woman who used sex to accomplish her goals. But, she had learned a lot from her first book tour and knew she would be forgiven for whatever she owned up to if she told a story that the reader, and the women listening and watching, could relate to: a story about uncaring, unfeeling, ungrateful, inconsiderate, unattractive, insensitive men who get their just desserts.

Her new book was about a subject most of them dreamed of: a tale about a loving, considerate, sensitive, hard working, generous, handsome, tough guy who wanted to save his marriage, not break it up. The loutish and lecherous had been the subjects of her first book, the second was about a good man’s life and times and her actual involvement in part of that life.

Her first book had been a monster hit. That book had been an anomalous tale, a tell-all by a confessor who refused to plead ignorance or innocence as an excuse for the events she’d been a part of. She’d been a professional marriage buster. She broke up marriages for hire…a paladin, uniquely wired and proficient, but noble and altruistic, utilizing the most basic of female behavior to fulfill her contracts: giving up her body. She’d adopted a code that guided her during that time: before accepting the contract, she must truly believe the man, the husband of the marriage she had agreed to focus on, deserved to loose his wife.

She continued, speaking with energy and confidence. Book two (she held up a copy) was a very different story she insisted. It was also a true story but with different character types and motivations. The reviews had been positive. The chapter of her kidnapping by a hapless trio of thugs (she’d been tied to a bed for twelve hours before she was released) had been getting special interest at the signings. But, of course, the most interest was of her relationship with her co-author, Michael Butler.

She tried to limit her remarks to ten minutes. The bookstore wanted to get on to the signing and selling.

She used her remaining minutes to explain the premise of her new book, making sure she hinted at the same type of revelations as the first: despicable human behavior punished, while emphasizing her own personal involvement with the outcome. If the audience seemed engaged she usually ended her talk by opening up the floor for a few questions knowing exactly what to expect.

Q: I’m dying to ask…no more marriage busting?

A: (In Monroesque) Oh, no, doll, now I’m trying to put one together…. for me!" (laughter)

Q: Do you ever speak to Sophia Butler anymore?

A: Not very often..just notes and cards on special occasions. She’s a very busy woman…got a kid now.

Q: How about Michael Butler?

A: We speak on the phone every few weeks. We’re good friends.

Q: Can you tell us how you wrote this book with Michael Butler, and what did his wife think about it?

A: (in Monroesque) Well, ma’am, we weren’t allowed to touch. (Huge laughter), (as Kim) Michael would tell me a story about his life and I would ask him questions about what he told me, try to develop the story a little more, and then I would write up my understanding of it. He’d react to my version and then I’d rewrite.

Q: I read this book and it’s a really good story. Will it ever be a movie?

A: It’d be a good one, wouldn’t it?

Q: Who would be you?

A:(in Monroesque) Oh, I’m not really sure, honey,….there aren’t too many gals around like me, you know. (Applause)

Q: Some stuff in this book and the first one, was dangerous, does it bother you that a few of those people are still around?

A: (in Monroesque) Oh, hey, can’t a girl be a little scared once in a while? I been around the block a few times, honey…I got a license to carry, honey. And you can see what I’m carrying. (Always nervous laughter, then usually applause as Kim would rotate her perfect butt toward the crowd).

The hardest part of her appearances was also the most mundane, but, for her also the most unnerving.…the actual signing of the books.

She determinedly made eye contact with just the women, she just couldn’t in good conscious meet the leering eyes of a man…she was working on that but it wasn’t going well. She just couldn’t get beyond the psychotic fear she had been fighting for the last few years that every man she faced at a book signing might be her past… looking for revenge.

Her right hand was already cramping from signing and the chemical smell from the wet ink marker she was using to scrawl her name, more of a large K, a squiggly line, a large P, and a series of loops, was making her nauseous. As was her unconscious habit, she had dropped the Hi, how are you today? by the hundredth person in line and, for the remainder of the signing, was just asking who would you like this made out to?

***

She’d sold two hundred and fifty books. Her right wrist and hand were too cramped from signing to hold a drink. Thank God for her left hand she thought.

Each time the door to her hotel’s cocktail lounge opened the foul odor of death from the city’s infamous slaughterhouse, three blocks away, seeped in. Slithering around the lounge and along the bar it inextricably found Kim. Its’ pungent odor, faint but recognizable, reminded her of her childhood, and she saddened. She stared at the TV above the back bar tuned to CNN. Watching it allowed her to avoid eye contact with the five or six business types seated about the circular bar just praying for an opportunity to engage her.

On the TV screen, pictures of ships at sea, naval vessels and large tankers, were being interspersed with a map showing the Middle East. The camera zoomed in on the map, stopping on the Persian Gulf. The country of Iran was identified by name, then the camera cut in closer and three small outlined islands were highlighted. Kim couldn’t quite hear the sound…and didn’t really want to.

The smell of the slaughterhouse brought back memories of her father, and the Wisconsin farm she’d grown up on. Her father had raised animals: calves, pigs, a goat or two, chickens, a lamb a couple of years, to help feed the family. Kim had never been able to remove herself from a close attachment to those animals, naming many, loving them. The smell of the slaughterhouse reminded her of the pain of loss when her father would slaughter her beloved childhood companions.

***

The cordless phone in my hotel room was a nice feature. I could wander about, readjust the air conditioning, ripple channels on the TV, and talk on the phone at the same time. I was speaking to my groom, Martin (Mar teen’), who was at the stable in Boca Raton getting ready to feed my horses. I’d left Florida so abruptly I wasn’t able to speak to Martin, barely making my flight from Ft Lauderdale to Chicago, then Springfield. We spoke Spanish over the phone. Martin’s English was pretty good but I was trying to improve my Spanish.

The Florida winter polo season was several months away, one of the reasons I’d agreed to travel to Illinois. I wasn’t sure I had this job, or even what it was; it seemed like there was a lot to be decided. But the phone call from Washington had been too intriguing not to give it a try. I told Martin I didn’t know when I was coming back but he should keep the horses exercised and in reasonable playing condition. I reassured Martin he would be paid every week and he should charge feed, blacksmith, and any vet bills to the credit card I‘d left him.

I sat down at the room’s small desk and started drafting a series of questions to use as the basis my upcoming interview with Kimberly Powers. The phone rang. I knew who it would be, only one person knew where I was. I glanced at my watch, five twenty, as I picked up the cordless receiver.

The voice that responded to my hello was deep and impatient.

What do you think? The voice asked.

I’ll have a better answer after she and I have dinner tonight, I said.

What about the looks?

Better than you described, she’s death defying.

She looks like Monroe?

Dead ringer

Is she smart?

Seems to be very smart. I’ll have a better read after tonight.

Did you get the cheat sheet OK?

Yeah.

Study it, if she’s smart she’ll catch a lie.

Try me, I said.

Your editor’s name at the paper?

Thomas McCall.

Good.

What do I do after the interview?

Get out of there in the morning. Go to Omaha and check in

And she’s going there?

Yeah, she’s got a book signing day after tomorrow.

Who’s gonna write this supposed article for the Omaha paper?

You, for Chris sake, you’re a newspaper man aren’t you? Go to the paper tomorrow, ask for McCall, he’ll set you up.

Okay, I said, a little bewildered.

Make the article sound like that fluffy gossip column you write for the Pompano paper in the winter. Get the facts straight. This is important. I told McCall you were good.

Okay, I said, not knowing what else to say.

Let’s talk in the morning before you leave. I’ll call you at eight your time. And don’t make a pass at her, for Christ’s sake.

The line went dead. I slumped back in my chair and glanced at myself in the mirror on the wall behind the desk. Then I picked up the copy of Power’s book I’d bought at the bookstore and started reading.

***

Kim had tossed the three pink phone message slips (agent, publisher, and the reporter about their interview location) on the bed of her hotel room and pulled her blouse from her skirt, then, kicked off her medium heeled shoes and used the bathroom. The phone messages could wait, but she decided a shower couldn’t.

Fifteen minutes later, wrapped in the room’s terrycloth robe, she opened the complimentary bottle of wine and poured herself a glass, then gazed at the TV. With the remote, she turned up the sound. The news reader was talking about Iran. Kim took a moment to listen.

Defense Secretary William Perry on Tuesday labeled Iran a growing threat to stability in the Gulf region.

Kim poured herself another glass of wine and reached for the phone, then paused and looked back at the TV.

Pentagon sources say Iran is building military strength around the mouth of the Gulf, thereby increasing it capability of shutting off one fifth of the world’s oil supply. Last week Perry hinted that Iran may have been behind the June 25 attack on US military housing in Saudi Arabia that killed 19 American airmen.

She watched footage of oil tankers, presumably in the Persian Gulf, then finally lowered the sound, a sense of empathy and patriotic concern setting in. She hadn’t spoken to her mother for a few days and decided to call. She took a big gulp of wine and steeled herself, fearful it was going to be more bad news about her mother’s health.

Hi, Kim said, trying to sound as positive as possible.

Hey, her mom responded, clearing her throat, "where are you?

Springfield, Illinois, at a Holiday Inn.

How’d it go?

Sold two hundred and fifty books, Kim said, then sipped from her wine glass.

Good for you, Kimmer, Her mom said.

Powers hated to be called Kimmer

Did you have a doctor’s appointment today? Kim asked.

Yeah, I did, this afternoon.

And?

The same, the red cell numbers are going down, the whites are increasing. They’re going to try a new medicine…see if that will help.

How do you feel?

Tired.

What else did the doctor say? Kim asked, she knew from her mother’s tone there was more.

Said I might need a transplant.

"When?

Pretty quick, I guess, if the medicine doesn’t work, her mother said in a near whisper.

Powers knew her mother was fighting to control her composure. The word, transplant, sent a chill through her. She felt instant sorrow and a deep sympathy for her mother. The word Lymphoma was never used when they spoke but Kim had done enough research to know how severe her mother’s condition was.

He said those kind of cell transplants are very hard to get. There’s a long wait list, her mother said, her voice cracking.

Those damn cigarettes Powers thought.

But you had a good day, sweetie? her mother asked, followed by a sniffle.

Yes, mom, pretty good. I could smell a slaughter house nearby every time the door opened in the cocktail lounge. You know what that always does to me?

I know, dear. I wish you could get passed those feelings. Has your psychologist helped you with that at all?

Not really.

There was a pause…which her mother interrupted.

What are you going to write about next, dear, have you thought about it?

Kim sipped her wine and glanced at the muted TV.

Art, maybe something to do with art.

Ah, that might be fun, dear, you spent so much time studying it at college and working in those galleries in Chicago.

Yeah, Kim sighed, I’m taking a class in New York at NYU. Its got me really thinking about art again.

Are you seeing anyone?

Not really, no?

Have you been going to church at all?

It irritated Kim that her mother always asked about church. They had discussed it a million times. My faith is all that keeps me going, dear. Her mother said in a calm steady voice.

I know, mother, I’m happy you have it.

Anxious to end the call, Kim noticed more pictures of oil tankers on the TV screen.

Mother, what’s happening in the news about Iran? she asked. She knew her mother would be glued to the screen every moment she was home.

Iran is putting more troops on one of those tiny islands in the Strait of Hormuz in the Persian Gulf.

Has war started again there?

Not yet, her mother sighed.

Her mother’s tone changed and she seemed to want to talk about something else.

What do people ask you most about at your signings?

They want to know about my relationship with Michael Butler and his wife. Same as always.

"Have you talked to him lately?

Yeah a few days ago.

I really think you should let that go, dear. It’s not doing you any good to keep up contact with him.

Kim looked at her watch. The conversation was coming back around to the same old things; her deeply felt unrequited love for her friend Michael Butler and that he would never leave his wife. Kim didn’t want to listen to the stern advice her mother constantly gave her even though she knew how right she was.

Mom, I gotta run. I’ve got a dinner thing with a reporter. I gotta get moving.

Alright, dear, I’ll let you go. Have fun.

Did you get the check I sent? Km asked.

Yes, dear, thank you so much. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

Kim repeated another I love you even after she heard her mother hang up. A transplant she thought…it seems she has so little time left.

***

Kimberly Powers had called me back while I was on the phone and left a message to confirm our dinner meeting.

The steakhouse, where we’d agreed to meet, was two blocks from the hotel. As I walked toward the red neon sign above the restaurant’s main entrance I could smell the stockyards a few blocks away. What a place to live and have to breath that smell all day I thought as I walked along.

I’d reread the directive I’d received in the Chicago airport from a man who introduced himself as, Manny; no conversation, just handed me a manilla envelope and told me to, have a nice day. The documents in the envelope were: a biographical sketch of Kimberly Powers, a background briefing of my cover story as a reporter for the Omaha newspaper, and my itinerary for the next three days. The only hard information I’d been given was that the matter was national security. I was told I would be filled in on a need to know basis.

I’d taken the call just as the F.B.I. Agent had requested at the pay phone near my home. The caller had introduced himself as Benjamin Chandler, an assistant director of field operations at the State Department, some department called Intelligence and Research. After apologizing for the cloak and dagger stuff of a pay phone Chandler had asked if I would help my country. It was a question that I would never have said no too. He didn’t give many details, just told me to make a flight to Chicago and meet Manny.

I was early for our dinner, the restaurant was quiet, I settled at the bar to wait for Powers. I thought about what the directive had described as my goal for the dinner meeting: accumulate enough information to write a believable story for the Omaha paper about Ms Powers and her books to establish my credibility with her, ascertain whether or not you could function in a professional manner as Ms Powers’ associate on an assignment for the State Department, and give an opinion if Ms Powers had the acumen to perform the roll of a clandestine operator.

After reading the material on the short flight between Chicago and Springfield, my first reaction was that the whole thing was a joke, a plot for some reality television show. From the Springfield airport I called the Pompano Beach police department. My friend, Lipscomb, had told me to follow the instructions and take it all seriously, there was little more he would say than, They want something done that can’t be traced to the government. I told them you were the man for the job.

I thought about the last thing Lipscomb had said when I told him they didn’t know anything about me.

Oh, they know all about you, he said.

Looking through the windows from my barstool, I saw Kim Powers approaching the restaurant. I subconsciously reached for my beer and took a long pull. It was hard to take my eyes off her. She was in jeans, sneakers, a white blouse, dark glasses, with her near-white hair brushed back. It struck me as very unusual that instead of carrying her purse slung over her shoulder she held the shoulder strap in her hand, letting the bag swing along, almost touching the ground. The effect, whether planned or unconscious, was of a carefree young woman walking to school with her books, unconcerned with her surroundings. Her head was back and she was looking up like her mind was somewhere far away.

She could be described in a lot of ways but a clandestine operator would