Page 24 of The Lie Maker

She continued. “I don’t know how long it will take you to craft these backstories, but we’re okay with you working at your own speed. We would want this to be done right.” She smiled. “We have the money, and a number of profiles that we would need you to work on. Couple months’ work, minimum. Could turn into a permanent arrangement if we like what you do.”

Math wasn’t my best subject in school, but I was able to do the calculation quickly enough. Based on a five-day work week, that would be a cool forty thousand for eight weeks.

“There are conditions,” Gwen said. “Not a word to anyone. You wouldn’t even be able to tell your wife.”

“I’m not married,” I said.

“Girlfriend, then. Or boyfriend?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Girlfriend,” I said. So they’d checked me out professionally, but hadn’t delved into my love life.

“And you’d deal with me exclusively. I’d be your point person. You’d keep that phone we gave you. You’d use it only to talk to me. And you can work on a computer, but it has to be offline. No internet connection. And you don’t email any of your work. You print it out and deliver it, or I’ll have an associate pick it up.”

She paused, took a breath. “And you absolutely, positively, cannot ever, in the future, write about the people you create backstories for. Anything you might learn about the Witness Security Program cannot be fodder for some novel in the future. Certainly not any of the specifics. If you did decide to write something that was merely inspired by this experience, we’d still have to read it. Clear it.”

Okay. So there were some loopholes. I might be able to turn this experience into something sellable one day if I changed all the pertinent details. If it was good enough for the late John le Carré, it was good enough for me.

Gwen was waiting for me to say something. “Understood?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I’ve got something you could work on right away. A witness who’s testifying against a criminal enterprise. Setting him up on his own, away from his family.”

I nodded. “Why does it say Pandora Importing on the door?”

“You think we should have a big neon sign on the street that this is where we look after relocated witnesses whose lives are at risk? Christ, Jack, maybe this isn’t for you.”

“Just asking.”

“And in case you’re wondering, we’re a small satellite office. Things work out, you’ll see the Washington office one day.”

I felt, for the first time, a tingle of excitement. The world of law enforcement. Adventure. Bad guys. Intrigue.

I cracked a smile. “Would I get a gun?”

Gwen stared at me, stone faced, and said nothing.

“That looks like a no,” I said.

“Interested or not? I’ve got three other writers to talk to today.”

I swallowed. “Yes. I’m interested.”

Thirteen

Way back before the Big Dig, before the city went through sixteen miserable years of chaos as underground roadways were installed through the downtown, and before there was a connecting tunnel from the city out to Logan, Dick Struthers always opted for the water taxi.

Not only was it a hell of a lot faster than going around the bay in a regular taxi, it was fun. You felt the wind in your hair, got a whiff of sea breeze up your nostrils. Going to the airport, or coming home, it was often the part of the trip he liked most. Coming home was better. He liked standing by the railing, watching the skyline grow larger as he got closer.

And now, even years after the dig was done and you could get to the airport in minutes by taking the tunnel that went under the bay, Dick still took the water taxi. Oh, if it was raining, or Boston was in the grip of some terrible snowstorm, he’d reconsider and take a ride with wheels, but today he was on the boat.

He exchanged a few pleasantries with the captain, then, wheeling his carry-on bag behind him, moved toward the bow to take in the city view.

Right away, something caught his eye. Off to the port side, a glimpse of white and black atop the water, rolling with the waves.

“Hey!” Dick called to the captain. “Hey!”

The captain looked his way, shouted back to be heard over the motor and the churning water, “What?”

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