Cabal of Improbable Spies

By Michael Goodman

     Written before the events of Jan. 6, 2021, the action in this satirical slant on American politics begins when a small, balding man is mistaken for eccentric cybersecurity genius Jason Oglethorpe.  Both quickly become embroiled in conflicting plots by the Russians and Chinese to conquer the US.  Jason is abducted and imprisoned in Moscow to download cyberdefense secrets from his brain, but he devises an ingenious escape plan carried out with a brilliant, ravishing Russian agent.

     After a traitorous New Jersey dentist misses his Atlantic rendezvous with a Russian nuclear submarine (to transport the bodies of his non-paying patients to a cutting-edge Russian brain research lab), the sub and its nuclear missile are captured by the US Navy.  The Russian warhead is hunkered in a bunker down in Texas and nearly forgotten by the unstable US President who has lost re-election. Then by treasonous tampering, he wins re-re-election and must follow Russian demands to display the deadly warhead at his State of the Union address.

     Jason and his cabal try to derail the monomaniacal President's coup and stop him from seizing power as the King of America for Life.  But thwarting the sinister plans of Russia and China to overthrow America challenges their brilliant minds to the utmost……and brings the story to its unexpected conclusion.   

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Goodman
• Release date: Nov 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223892571

Book preview

Prologue

Hoboken, New Jersey

An inconsequential short, mildly overweight balding man in his early forties walked slowly out of a large cuboid building covered with reflective green glass panels.  Beside the entrance was mounted a modest bronze plaque bearing the letters C.I.T.I..  It was a warm day in late summer and he was dressed conservatively in a dark gray suit with a green paisley tie.  He paused for a moment and peered quizzically at what appeared to be a walking stick, resting unobtrusively against a wall just outside the building entrance.  On closer examination he noticed that it was intricately carved in what appeared to be a Maori motif.  What beautiful work!  He rotated the dark, lustrous wooden staff admiringly in his hands a few times, and then respectfully returned it to its resting place against the wall.  He had taken but a few steps further when he was suddenly and savagely set upon by two unshaven, shabbily dressed men.  They first began to beat him ferociously about the head, and when he fell to the ground, they began kicking his ribs and head with a vengeance.  His head snapped back like a rag doll.  Blood gushed from his mouth.  A few minutes later, however, a shout nearby drew the attackers’ attention from their victim.  They looked up to see two policemen running at them, guns drawn.  Abruptly, the thugs abandoned the small man, jumped into a cherry red F150 idling at the curb, and sped away. 

[Author’s Note:  A List of Characters is provided following Chapter 71]

Chapter 1

Hoboken, New Jersey

Jason Oglethorpe had worked at the Conceptual Institute for Theoretical Ideation for seven and a half years when he was approached one morning by a small, balding man wearing a thick monocle over his right eye.  Jason was just emerging from the small Russian patisserie where he often breakfasted, when the small man asked if he knew of a good patisserie in the neighborhood.  Jason confessed that he did not.  Without another word, the small man caught Jason anxiously by the arm and led him to the park across the street.  Because Jason was wearing his suit wrong side out and his sneakers on the opposite feet, he sat on the small man’s left, carefully resting his walking stick against the end of the bench.  The small man scrutinized him through his thick monocle for a few minutes before speaking.  Jason, in turn, scrutinized the small man, noticing that he hid a black eye under his monocle and had a badly swollen jaw.  After speaking for a few minutes, both men arose, and Jason, as was his custom, picked up his stick and walked briskly to his office 3 miles away.  On this particular day, there was a jauntiness to his gait and a lilting melody upon his lips. 

Tall and slender, Jason Oglethorpe had a subtle tendency to march to his own drummer.  He ate from both the top and the bottom of his plates before washing them.  He invariably  dressed in a gray suit, which he wore right side out and wrong side out before laundering.  His closet was well stocked with identical gray suits.  At first he found his pockets difficult to access when his pants were worn wrong side out, but a simple snip of the scissors rendered them equally accessible from either side.  He wore dark gray sneakers perfectly paired to match his suits when worn right side out; light gray sneakers complemented his suits when worn wrong side out.  Every other week he switched right and left shoes to the opposite feet, so they would wear more evenly; and every other week he walked with a uniquely characteristic gait.

A jungle of curly, sandy brown hair wandered randomly over his head, teasing the tops of his ears.  His mesmerizing, mahogany-brown eyes seemed to pierce disconcertingly through those of the person with whom he was speaking and penetrate deeply into his or her mind.  His colleagues at work considered him a trifle eccentric, but acknowledged him to be the most creative thinker at the Conceptual Institute for Theoretical Ideation. 

Unfortunately, he had his own unique way of dealing with time.  Rather than conforming to the usual norms of daylight savings time in the warmer months and standard time in the winter months, he simply operated on what he called Daylight Time, D.T.  Each day his computer divided the time between sunrise and sunset by 12 and defined each unit as one hour.  During the winter, when the sun rose late and set early, each hour might actually be 40 standard minutes long, but during the summer, an hour might stretch to 80 minutes or longer, depending upon his geographic location. On his wrist a smart watch was synchronized with his computer to keep the precise time of day in Daylight Time.  This system proved to be somewhat inconvenient for his friends, acquaintances and employer, and initially caused considerable consternation when scheduled to attend appointments or meetings.  Nonetheless he was delighted with it - - an element of constancy in an ever-changing world. 

That evening, Jason was to meet the short, balding man at 9:23 PM.  After waiting an additional 4.6 D.T. minutes,  Jason was about to leave when the little man shuffled hurriedly along the walkway.

Oh my goodness, he blurted out.  And I was afraid I would be early.  But I’m so glad you agreed to meet me here this evening - - I certainly do hope you can help me, because the police couldn’t.  With that, the small man looked about, his dark eyes darting this way and that.  Then with a start, he turned abruptly, and left. 

The next morning, as Jason was breakfasting at the patisserie on an unusually stale anchovy croissant, he glanced at the ‘Local’ section of a newspaper carelessly strewn across the adjacent tabletop.  A story from that very morning recounted the incident of a small man with a thick monocle who had been found the previous night floating in a pond in the park across the street.  Jason left his croissant half eaten and paid the tab.  As he opened the door to leave, he noticed a small man lying prone on a park bench across the street.  An occasional droplet of water dripped from his jacket, creating  a tiny ripple in the pool that had accumulated beneath the bench.  Jason, lost in his own thoughts, took it all in visually, but thinking nothing of it, went on to work.  Later that morning he paused in the midst of a complex analysis, thinking that night time would be far from an ideal time to go floating in a pond if you were inclined to do so at all - - midday would be much warmer.  He turned back to his computer and resumed his analysis.

As he was leaving work that evening, he noticed a note that had been taped to the walking stick he often parked at the entrance to C.I.T.I.  Meet me on the bench in the park tonight at 9:23 D.T. time, the note said.  It was signed by the small, balding man.  How in the world could that little fellow have known about D.T. time? Jason wondered.  But when he met him that evening he forgot to ask.

That evening, the small, bemonocled man and Jason arrived at the park bench at precisely the same moment.  "Walk with me, '' the small man said.  They walked to the end of the street, where a pier jutted out into the sea.  Two hundred yards from shore a motor boat whizzed by heading out to sea, towing a plastic raft to which were strapped, side by side, two large, apparently overstuffed trash bags. 

How fast do you think that boat is traveling? asked the small, bemonocled man for no apparent reason. 

Jason peered intently at the boat, tapped the face of his watch several times in quick succession and calculated distance as a function of the length of an hour at this time of year. 

About 14.623 nautical knots, he replied.  More or less.

Ah, came the response.  And what do you suppose he was towing in those overstuffed trash bags?

Have you seen that particular boat tow bags similar to those before?  Jason sometimes tended to answer a question with a question.

Several times, but always at this time of evening, around 7:23.

Daylight Time?

No.

Oh dear, muttered Jason.  Now that complicates things.  Does he ever make more than one trip per evening?

How should I know?  Do you think I have nothing better to do with my time than to watch the boats go by?

I really wouldn’t know, said Jason.  He was beginning to wonder what this small man wanted with him, anyway.

What do you want with me, anyway? he asked.

"I want you to help me with my problem,'' said the small, balding, bemonocled man.

And what problem would that be?

You see, that is my problem - - I don’t know what my problem is, or why they seem so determined to murder me.

Chapter 2

Hoboken, New Jersey

Two weeks passed.  The days were getting progressively shorter, causing Jason’s pace of activity to become increasingly frenetic.  One morning, after finishing his breakfast at the Patisserie, he was having some difficulty slipping back into his all-weather jacket, when his flailing right arm struck a customer just entering the restaurant, knocking the monocle from his left eye.  Jason immediately apologized to the figure sprawled out on the floor, and helping him to his feet, recognized the small, balding man, now without his monocle.  Jason retrieved the monocle from a puddle of grease on the floor, and the small man, after wiping it clean on his tie, popped it back in, beneath his right eyebrow. 

I hardly recognithed you with your jacket over your faithe, said the small man.

"And I hardly recognized you, with my jacket over my face.  Heavens to murgatroyd, your jaw looks even more swollen today than before," Jason exclaimed.

Oh, that.  I think I may be developing a bit of a dental problem, intoned the small man.  I’m conthurned that thothe thugth may have mangled my mandible.  I’m in a great deal of dithtreth.  With an inadvertent shudder he went on to confide that he feared his fate might be sipping soups and consuming consommes for the remainder of his disfigured existence. 

Mmmmm.  You know, you really ought to go see a dentist,  Jason mused.  You look like Demosthenes - - not that I ever actually saw him.

Who?

Demosthenes - - he was an old stoner - - liked to talk with a mouthful of stones, said Jason.  I suppose I might instead have said you look a bit like a Ubangi or Lobi.

I did get rather badly bashed, the small man agreed, unaware of African lip distortion.

All the more reason you ought to go see a dentist.

Asbury Park, New Jersey

Dr. George Asdf-Hjkl, a well-established dentist in Asbury Park, had just finished bandaging his fingers.  The bites appeared to have stopped bleeding.

You’ll not bite me or any other dentist ever again, he said vituperatively to the limp form slumped over his dental chair. 

at’s whachoo think...  The muttered words were barely audible, but nonetheless, Dr. Asdf-Hjkl emptied another syringe containing 4,600 mg/kg of ketamine into the man’s buttocks.

He had just finished tidying up his exam room at the back of the pool hall after finishing with his previous patient, when the dentist saw the rotating red light begin to flash over the doorway, alerting him to the entrance of another patient.  He wiped the blood off his dental chair and hid the bloodied cloth behind his back.  Looking a bit like a python that had just swallowed an agouti, he flashed his best guilty smile at the small, bemonocled man who entered.

Hello sir, he offered.  I’m Dr. George Asdf-Hjkl, DDS.  I know, I know.  It can be a bit tricky to pronounce till you get the hang of it.

I’m in a great deal of pain, doctor, the patient lisped.

Yes, yes.  I can see that.  Won’t you please be seated and my new dental assistant, Vladovna Ivanovna, should be with you in a moment.  He exited to the pool hall via a revolving door, and the room grew silent.  A half hour passed.  Then he heard a car door slam in the alley behind the pool hall, followed by a door at the back of the examining room opening abruptly.  The small man turned toward the sound, and immediately noticed a very attractive young lady, dressed as a dental hygienist, standing in the doorway. 

Hiya,  she said.  I’m Vladovna.  I’ll be right wid ya.

She was tall and slender, with long, thick, lustrous black hair that cascaded over her shoulders, falling nearly to her waist, contrasting markedly with her flawless pale complexion.  Her large, deep blue eyes were the color of sapphires, and her long, luxuriant black lashes made them seem to jump out at him.  Her full, perfectly formed lips still bore a trace of the vivid red lipstick she had applied earlier that morning.  Her hips moved tantalizingly as she crossed the room and began to ready her dental instruments. 

At that moment, Dr. Asdf-Hjkl burst back into the room, seated the patient in the exam chair, and flipped on the blinding overhead light that he skillfully angled directly into his patient’s eyes. 

Now - - what seems to be the problem? he asked.

It hurt-th,  replied his patient.  It-th ekth-cruthiating.  I’m told my faithe lookth ekth-tremely thwollen.

Why yes, so it does, the dentist replied cheerfully.  Your whole face is an incredible disaster zone, he added diplomatically.  Open wide now.

An ear-shattering scream of pain echoed off the walls as Dr. Asdf-Hjkl poked and prodded the inflamed gum tissue beneath his patient’s right lower canine. 

I’m afraid this tooth will have to come out, he said in an expressionless monotone.

Vladovna came over and gave the patient’s hand an empathetic squeeze and smiled at him.  He just melted.

We’ll give you some anesthetic so you won’t feel a thing, she said as Dr. A. plunged a needle deep into his gums, causing him to leap from his seat in excruciating pain, but not before he had been injected with a large amount of lidocaine.  He kangarooed around the room until, bit by bit, the pain subsided and he reluctantly settled himself back into the dental chair. 

Oh my god!  he panted.  Oh my god! 

As he tried to relax, he heard the sound of buckles snapping into place, as the dentist bound him to the dental chair at his ankles, thighs, waist, chest, neck and forehead with fraying leather straps. 

Now don’t move, said Dr. A.  Much better.  Now let’s get that tooth outta there.  As he began to apply the vice grip to his patient’s tooth, the small man began to sweat profusely, causing his monocle to slip and reflect the blinding beam from the overhead lamp into the dentist’s eyes.  As Dr. A. recoiled suddenly from the blinding light, the vice grip slipped ever so slightly in his patient’s mouth, and he inadvertently extracted the patient’s right anterior premolar. 

The small, monocled man bolted from the chair, breaking the cracked leather bonds in the process, and tore through the pool hall out into the middle of the street, blood streaming from his mouth onto the yellow cloth still fastened around his neck.  Vladovna ran out after him, grabbed his hand in both of hers and led him to safety.  He moaned in pain.  She squeezed his hand harder. 

Help me to a tthair, the small man pleaded as his voice failed, and Vladovna took his arm.  Back in the dental office, he collapsed into a chair, and she sat by his side.  As he lapsed into a dreamless slumber, his head drooped and came to rest lightly against her shoulder.

Chapter 3

Newark / Asbury Park, New Jersey

Grigorii Ivanich Mahletov was known as a chilovyek plochoi - - a bad dude.  As he deplaned  from the Aeroflot 747 at Newark International Airport, he scanned his surroundings carefully, pausing halfway down the metal stairway.  Ah - - there he is - - the tall man he was looking for held up a cardboard sign:  Joe Smith.  Mahletov, a tall man with broad shoulders and an intimidating, thick black mustache, fought his way through the crowd of other Joe Smiths, and asked Vwee ishchesh meenyah?  Looking for me?  The tall man took his arm, and pushing the others aside, left the terminal and moved to the curb where his jet black Rolls Royce awaited.  It was easy to spot.  Signs in fluorescent lime and pink, painted on each side panel of the elegant automobile, advertised Human Excrement Recycling, LLC.  His calculation that this would deter any would-be car thieves had proven accurate for several years now.

Grigorii nestled his maximal gluteus into the cold, cracked black leather seat and poured himself a glass of iced vodka.  After equilibrating his intestinal pressure from Moscow with that of the Rolls, he picked up the file resting on the seat next to him and hurriedly leafed through it.  Then he switched on the dome light and leafed through it again.

Hmm.  Zhoost von thees tam. 

He was dropped off at the Hilton Gardens Hotel, paid cash for his room, and slept the sleep of the dead.

The next morning he took a cab to the pool hall, walked around to the alley that ran behind it, and banged on the dentist’s rear entrance.

I’m coming, I’m coming, hold your water. 

Dr. Asdf-Hjkl peered through a crack in the door, and seeing Grigorii, flung it open wide, extending his arms full length, and gave Grigorii, whom he knew only as Joe Smith, a bear hug that in no way matched the crushing embrace he received from the Russian in return.  When his face began to turn blue, Grigorii released him, and they entered the back room of the dental suite arm in arm.

So - - only von veectum dees tam? queried Grigorii after they had each downed a couple glasses of Stoli. 

Only one, I’m afraid confirmed his friend, settling into his own dental chair.  It seems that people have been paying their bills lately.  Sorry, but that’s the deal.  Say - - how is the work progressing?

Not so bad, not so good.  Vehr is our leettle Vladovna?

Oh, she’ll be in later.  She’s having coffee with a patient, trying to convince him not to sue me. 

Yes.  Of course.  Now I have news - important that you know.  Your next trip on ocean you vill not meet usual boat.  Motor is kaput.  Dead.  Finished.

Well then, what’s the plan? 

Russian nuclear submarine scheduled for US surveillance that night.  It can meet you at usual location.

No prob, Joe.

Now - - vehr is the, uhhh - - - cargo?  Let me check." 

In the Revco freezer, just like the others have been. 

And you infused with new protocol?

Yes.  We pumped in 5 liters of polyethylene glycol, just as you instructed.

Bozha Moi  screeched Grigorii.  My God!  You veer inshtructed to use ethylene glycol so tissues vouldn’t freeze at -70 degrees Centigrade.

The dentist slunk down in his chair.  Looking up at Grigorii, he pleaded, Try it this way.  Could it be any worse?

The following evening, Jason decided to go out for a walk on the beach as the sun was sinking low in the sky.  The beach was still crowded with tourists.  Young folks threw frisbees for their dogs to catch.  A middle-aged man bumped into Jason’s shoulder, spilling his beer all over Jason, cursed, and waddled away down the sandy beach.  Jason took off his wet T-shirt, wrung it out, and tossed it high in the air in exasperation.  Just at that moment, a golden lab leapt up, caught the shirt in mid-air, and brought it back to Jason, his tail wagging so vigorously that it collapsed the wheeled walker of an elderly lady who was passing by, and sent her sprawling. 

That’s the dog that knocked her over! exclaimed a rather obese, acne-riddled teenager, pointing to the retriever as he continued to video the scene.  "And it’s his dog!"  He pointed at Jason.

You are wrong, lad, countered Jason.  I’ve never seen this dog before in my life.  But why was this scrawny little old lady walking on the beach with a wheeled walker?  Everyone knows that wheels don’t turn in the sand.  It would take a lot of strength.  She’s a fraud!

Upon hearing this, the little old lady, realizing her ruse had been revealed, hurled her walker at the dog, missed, and scurried into the water.  She doggie paddled rapidly away, toward a 28 foot cruiser that was idling close to shore.  With a final burst of speed, the little old lady reached the boat and grabbed onto its ladder.  She clambered up and into the boat as it idled for a moment longer and then whizzed away.  Jason, observant as ever, noticed that the boat was towing a plastic raft to which were strapped, side by side, two large, overstuffed trash bags.  It was precisely 7:23 PM. 

The next day, Jason’s picture made the front page of the local morning paper.  Walking warrior wields wet washcloth, whacking weird wee wizened woman and weakening world-wide wheeled walker web, read the headline.  The story was shorter than the headline, providing only the briefest account of the actual events of the preceding day.  Strangely, it contained no information about a world wide web, or about anything that was weird or weakened.  In fact, the little old lady’s swim to catch a ride was apparently of little or no consequence to the journalist, to the boat’s driver or to its cargo.

Chapter 4

Hoboken, New Jersey

The small, balding man was terribly excited to be escorting Vladovna for coffee the next morning.  However, the coffee at Nuts to Donuts was lukewarm and the non-dairy creamer was nonexistent.  Disgusted, Vladovna suggested they look for another donut shop.  They came upon one three blocks away.  The coffee was steaming hot and the donuts practically melted in their mouths, which was a good thing considering the state of the small man’s mouth. 

Dr. Asdf-Hjkl wants to get that infected tooth out of your mouth, she explained.  It is very important.  He will do it at no extra charge.  He is concerned that if left as it is, you could develop some minor complications.

Complications?  Like what?

Like septicemia, leading you to become hypotensive, experience severe cardiac hypoperfusion, cardiac arrest and ultimately rigor mortis.  The pitch of her voice grew higher and louder with each postulated minor complication. 

Normally, there ith no way I would conthent to go back.  He raised his eyebrows as if to add weight to his words.  However, if you will have dinner with me nektht Friday, I will agree to make another appointment.

Her face lit up with a smile that could launch a thousand ships.  Oh, he’ll be so pleased! she exclaimed. 

He’ll be so pleased? - -  not quite the words the small man was hoping to hear.

Where would you like to go nektht Friday,'' he asked.  Anywhere you like."

Asbury Park, New Jersey

The Place for Ribs was packed with hungry customers that following Friday evening.  He asked Vladovna to order for them.  They had barely finished their awkward initial pleasantries when the waitress deposited a large platter of baby back ribs on the table with a thud.  The painful tooth in the small man’s mouth practically jumped out of its socket at the mere thought of eating ribs.

I’ll be right back with your corn on the cob, the harried waitress assured them.  This time when she returned, she set the corn in front of Vladovna.  By then the steam from the ribs had condensed on the small man’s monocle, leaving him with vision only from his bad right eye and sparing him the terrifying sight of corn on the cob.  Having noticed her customer’s badly swollen jaw, the waitress thoughtfully set a bowl of strained applesauce and another of mashed potatoes in front of him.  Vladovna eyed the applesauce and cringed, feeling she may have been a tad insensitive, and shifted the focus of conversation to her small, balding companion.

I’d love to hear what it is that you do, she began hesitantly, a bit un​certain ​of the wisdom of encouraging his lisping conversation.

He wiped a bit of applesauce from his tie and took a deep breath before launching into a garbled account of his recent past that tried her patience. He explained that he had previously worked designing microchips in a microchip fabrication facility in Hoboken, owned by a Chinese microchip manufacturer.  However, when the U.S. President started a trade war with China, orders in his plant nose-dived precipitously.  That unfortunate event, together with the deteriorating vision in his good eye, had cost him his job.

How sad, she commiserated.  I’m so sorry to hear that.  Would you like me to pay for dinner?  I have a good job. 

Oh no, he replied.  I’m able to pay.  You thee, my great uncle Rathcalnikov wath a cat-burglar, and after he wath releathed from prithon he moved to England, where he wath caught in the act of trying to purloin the Britith Crown Jewelth from the Tower of London.  He wath theverely beaten by the Beefeater guardth, and later died of a marrow embolithm in the Royal Marthden Hothpital.  He went on to explain that his stepmother twice removed sued the British Royal Family and each individual member of the Beefeater Guards that served them. Just before her death, she collected 23 million pounds sterling.  As he was her only living issue since his stepfather twice removed had been poisoned, he inherited the bulk of her estate.  Tho, ath you can thee, he concluded,  I am perfectly able to pay for dinner mythelf.  But thankth for offering.

My  she said.  You certainly have an interesting family tree.  If you don’t mind me asking, how did you become visually impaired?

Another thtory for another time, he replied.  Now, you don’t happen to have any more of that ketamine with you by any chanthe?  My jaw ith thcreaming at me.

Why yes, she replied.  I always carry several loaded syringes with me.

Good.  Then let’th go to my plathe tho you can help relieve my pain.

That’s an original line, Valdovna thought to herself, giving him high marks for creativity.  And secure in the knowledge that she could take care of herself, she agreed.  Back at the small man’s apartment, with ketamine and a touch of fentanyl coursing through his veins, he quickly lapsed into a state of unconsciousness.  She walked over to his laptop, thought for a few seconds, typed the word monocle in the space for his password, and was in.  By the time she left, she had transferred 22.23 million pounds sterling to her private numbered account in Berne, Switzerland. 

She called an Uber and returned to her waterfront apartment.  Using encrypted Russian email called r-mail, she dashed off a note to the SVR, providing them with an account of Dr. Asdf-Hjkl’s latest activities and his interactions with Grigorii Ivanich Mahletov.  She had mixed feelings about the role she had played in facilitating Dr. Asdf-Hjkl’s collusion with the SVR.  To be fair to him, she had doubled the customary fees the dentist otherwise would have received from the Russian government for services rendered to his patients who were unable to pay his fees (and who were consequently treated to a large, complimentary dose of potassium chloride.  They invariably ended up riding in black garbage bags behind his motor boat, en route to Moscow by sea or air).  But while treating patients like this might be standard procedure in Russia, it just somehow didn’t feel like the right thing to do in America.

That next morning the small man awakened with an intense headache.  He popped his monocle into the socket of his right eye, and swallowed 4 or 5 aspirin tablets.  Today was the day he had decided to transfer the funds necessary to purchase a small yacht he had coveted for several years. 

He logged into his account at the Fourth Interdenominational Bank of the Caymans.  This was strange!  The internet must be having problems today - - his balance read 74 pence.  Or perhaps the bank was updating its software.  He skimmed the news on-line.  The internet seemed to be functioning normally.  He was unfazed by the lead story beneath a picture of a golden lab trotting up to his new acquaintance, the man who had so recently parted him from his monocle in the patisserie.  He read the words without a shred of comprehension, and mindlessly scrolled through several other stories, looking only at the pictures.

He returned to his computer, logged in once again to the Fourth Interdenominational Bank of the Caymans’ website, and with baited breath rechecked his bank balance.  74 pence.  What in the World?!  Now he was worried.  He placed a call to the bank, and asked to speak with his private banker.  After a short wait, he was told about the transfer of virtually all his funds to a numbered account in Berne, Switzerland last night.  Berne???  He was furious.  He felt that HE had been berned.  Vladovna was the only possible perpetrator - - unless it was someone else.

He thought for a few moments, then remembered that she had written her home phone number on the back of her card.  He called her at home, but a standard robotic message said the phone number was no longer in service.  He called Dr. Asdf-Hjkl’s office, but a recording explained that the office was not yet open.  Nonetheless, he caught a Lyft that dropped him off at Dr. Asdf-Hjkl’s office.  He would wait for her in the pool hall.  Half an hour later (EST) he caught sight of her through the doorway - - she had apparently returned to collect her things.  Seeing him, the color drained from her face and she tried to slam the revolving door closed.  With surprising alacrity, he sprang from his chair, bounded across the room and just managed to get his foot in the door.  In his anger, he rotated the door rapidly, knocking her backwards. 

You stole my entire fortune! he screamed at her.

Feigning innocence, she spoke to him in a quiet tone of voice.  Calm down, calm down.  Tell me what you are talking about and what happened.  I have no idea in the least at all.

He recounted the presumed events of the previous evening with surprising accuracy, accusing her of draining his Cayman account in its entirety after she had rendered him unconscious.

She acted offended, proclaimed her innocence and incorruptibility, and suggested he look elsewhere for the culprit, who could be anyone, even some fat guy sitting on his bed in Hoboken, New Jersey.  He didn’t believe her, but he didn’t know what else to say.  After a moment, he remembered the maxim keep your enemies closer, and asked her to coffee the next day ‘to talk things over’. 

After what you just accused me of?  I’d rather have Dr. Asdf-Hjkl do dental work on me!!

He apologized several times in several different ways, but each time she rebuffed him more harshly.  Finally, he had had enough.  He turned on his heel and left, crestfallen but not defeated.  Oh no, far from defeated. 

I’ll prove she stole my fortune and I’ll get it back if it’s the last thing I ever do he vowed.  And I’ll make her sorry that she ever robbed me of my rightful inheritance from my poisoned step-mother twice removed’s settlement from my dear old great uncle Rascalnikov.

When he awakened the next morning, he held his head with both hands - - he still had a severe headache, but it was dwarfed by an excruciating toothache.  He realized that he had been gritting his teeth together ever since he had left the restaurant last night.  He took 4 aspirin tablets, but the pain persisted.  Ten minutes later, he took 8 more.  The pain seemed to be worsening.  He looked in the mirror and could hardly recognize himself.  His ears were ringing so badly he could barely hear.  He had no money to pay a dentist, but he just had to do something!  And he knew only one dentist.

He finally decided to return to Dr. Asdf-Hjkl’s office.  After what they had put him through yesterday, they should treat him for nothing, as Vladnovna had promised - - or at the very least, the dentist should make Vladovna pay for his treatment with the money she had stolen from him. 

When he arrived at the pool hall, he walked straight through to the back and into Dr. Asdf-Hjkl’s dental office.  Vladovna had tendered her resignation, and a temporary hygienist was filling in.  This time, the dentist used nitrous oxide first, and then applied 25 cc of ketamine into each of the small man’s buttocks.  The tooth came out easily enough, but it turned out to be somewhat difficult to quell the bleeding after all the aspirin the small man had consumed.  Six transfusions later,  Dr. Asdf-Hjkl, succeeded in staunching the flow of blood, cauterized the canine socket and then filled it with epoxy.  When the small man awakened the next day, still in the dental chair; he noticed that his jaw was sore, but the excruciating pain was gone.  The temporary hygienist came in, gave him his bill for $23,423, and the jaw pain was dwarfed by a throbbing headache.  Telling Dr. Asdf-Hjkl that he had a special financial arrangement with Vladovna, and that she would pay the bill, he backed out of the office, through the pool hall, and finally saw the light of day.  The dentist came running after him, shouting that he charged 12% interest per month on unpaid balances, but by then the small man had slipped onto a passing bus and vanished.

Chapter 5

Hoboken, New Jersey

Day oozed into night so gradually that one might have thought it would not actually get there.  Back in his rather opulent apartment, the small, balding man sat on his bed moaning softly, holding his head in one hand and an ice bag to his jaw with the other.  He had a few other resources socked away elsewhere, but they were meager.  He had financial obligations.  He just had to get his money back.  He considered blackmail, extortion, torture and murder, but dismissed them out of hand as being too benign.  Besides, he had never committed a crime in his life, and he would probably bungle it and get caught.  After all, he had a family history of getting caught while committing a crime.  He had no wish to spend the rest of his life caged up with other vicious animals.  Moreover, there was no guarantee that any of those approaches would succeed in helping him recover his fortune.  He was at a loss. 

How ever did she figure out my password, he wondered.  He had changed his password just a few days previously.  I can’t believe she hacked my computer.  And although it was evening, a brilliant idea dawned on him. 

By Jiminy, I’m just going to hack right back into the digital records in her computer and find out where my money is! he thought.  I’ll take it right back! 

However, a moment’s reflection dampened his excitement as he realized that he didn’t even know where she lived.  And although he knew a great deal about microchip circuits and fabrication, he didn’t know the first thing about hacking or recovering digital data.  But there had to be a way!

He slept fitfully that night, dreaming that his limbs were being pulled out of their sockets in the most painful way on the rack in a dark, dank, smelly, gruesome and bloody dungeon.  The next morning he awoke feeling refreshed and full of optimism, having deposited all his dark, gruesome and bloody fears in his dream. While reading the news, a story on the front page caught his eye:  Walking warrior wields wet washcloth, wacking weird, wee, wizened woman and weakening world-wide wheeled walker web.

My heaventh! he exclaimed, amazed at the headline.  Why I know that man!  He wath thuppothed to help me with my problem! And now I have two problemth!  He sat lost in thought for a minute or two.  He ith an idea man!  I betcha he can help me with my problemth!!"

He dressed hurriedly, remembering his monocle at the last moment, and rushed to the neighborhood patisserie.  As he lay in wait, he munched on the daily specialty, a stale but smelly anchovy croissant.  After two hours, he realized that Jason probably wasn’t going to show up that day, and promised himself to come the next day and wait again. 

After a week of breakfasting on day-old anchovy croissants, the small man was beginning to tire of them.  His neighbors complained that his apartment smelled like dead fish.  And still he had seen neither hide nor hair of Jason.  But on the seventh day he remembered that Jason didn’t keep time like most people.  In fact, not like anyone else he had ever known.  Why hadn’t he remembered this sooner?  A laborious mental calculation revealed that he was arriving at the patisserie at least an hour too late each morning.  So the next day, he was there when the establishment opened at 7AM, EST.  He decided to change his routine, and was enjoying an onion, peanut butter and gravy croissant when Jason stumbled in the door. 

I’m so glad to see you, chirped the small, balding man, whose jaw had by now nearly reverted to its normal shape, having retreated in terror from a week-long attack by raw onions and anchovies. 

Why yes, of course.  I remember you well.  As I recall, you had requested assistance because someone was trying to kill you - -  or some such problem.  And then the last time I saw you, I was leaving just as you were entering the patisserie.

Yes yes that’s right cried the small, balding man in excitement. 

And you’re still alive?

As far as I know.  If you have a few moments, I’d really like to discuss my situations.

Situations.  I see.  Unfortunately, I have only one moment this morning - - I am running later than usual - - and I’m afraid I must use it to secure my breakfast croissant of squid and raw Brussel sprouts drenched in caramel sauce.

Of course, of course.  Well, could we arrange to meet somewhere else, soon?

The Drunken Sailor Bar was mobbed with inebriated sailors that evening.  The music was loud, the air was thick with clouds of cigarette smoke, and the liquor was flowing freely.  The small, balding man stood out like a skunk in a snowfield.  But somehow the crews on shore leave were oblivious to the presence of a man over twenty years their senior, dressed in a gingham suit with pocket handkerchief and matching paisley tie, wearing a monocle in his left eye.  He himself was unaware of the stark contrast, feeling confident of his inconspicuosity in the overflow crowd of raucous sailors.

Jason arrived a few minutes later, and eventually worked his way through the crowd to the small man’s table.  They tried to converse for a few minutes, but realizing the futility of their efforts, left the bar and strolled along the boardwalk.  The small man struck a very friendly tone, and provided Jason with some benign background information about himself.  Then,

I recall that you work in a Think Tank and are a computer whiz was his opening gambit. 

I suppose you could say that, replied Jason modestly.  I really enjoy my work.

Well, I am presently having some very serious computer problems that I have been unable to resolve myself.  I hope to persuade you to help me remedy my difficulties.  But first - - tell me more about the sort of work you do.

Jason equivocated for a few seconds, and then launched into a discussion of some hypothetical work translating Chinese into Fortran.  The small man understood none of it, and began to press Jason for further explanation. 

Wait the small man interrupted himself.  "You know, this looks like a quiet little tavern.

Let’s stop in for a nip of something." 

After two White Russians, two Black Russians and a whiskey sour, Jason was feeling very well integrated and exceptionally agreeable.  At that point, the small, balding man asked Jason about his work a second time.  Without hesitation, Jason admitted that one aspect of his job actually involved hacking into the computers of some of the leading Russian and Chinese technology operations that had been hacking American technology contractors to purloin critical, top secret US technological advances.  The Conceptual Institute for Theoretical Ideation was actually a unit of the Department of Homeland Security, initially tasked with solving several serious cyber situations: checking Chinese cheating and chicanery, and reining in the ruthless Russians’ reprehensible ruses.  It was Jason’s mission to corrupt their efforts by duplicating the US techies’ cutting edge software and creating the illusion that these were the latest versions after corrupting them with worms, caterpillars, viruses, lice and gnats that were almost impossible to detect.  When saved in the Russian or Chinese servers, they were designed to corrupt their technologies without the victims even knowing it.  He chuckled at his conniving contrivance and rubbed his hands together gleefully as he related a few examples of his successes to the small bemonocled man, who understood none of it. 

But I almost forgot to ask you, Jason said, interrupting his own chain of thought.  What is the nature of the problems for which you need my help?

The small man sighed deeply and launched into his sad tale:

Several weeks ago, I needed some help developing a computerized program to allow automatic transfers of small amounts of money through several shell companies to my bank in the Cayman Islands, he began.  I didn’t know where to turn for help with assurance of complete confidentiality, when a colleague at the microchip factory where I worked at the time said he had heard of the Institute where you work, and that they had the smartest people in the world working there, and that they were absolute computer whizzes."

But we don’t often work for the general public, countered Jason.

"Well, I didn’t know that going in, and coming out of the building after meeting with no success, I noticed a lovely walking stick parked at the