Dan Fesperman: The Double Game

The originals of these documents are presumably still in the possession of the Central Intelligence Agency, unless of course no one ever checked the post office box in Herndon, Virginia.

Someone at the Agency must have gotten wind of my plans, because recently one of their employees phoned me. I wasn’t surprised that they knew, since I’d told Marty Ealing what I was doing the day I gave notice, and he’s a terrible gossip.

The caller sounded young and inexperienced, but he wasted no time in sternly reminding me of the nondisclosure agreement, and the possible consequences of violating it.

“It’s a novel,” I said. “Completely made up. Ed Lemaster’s name won’t even be mentioned.”

“So this isn’t for Vanity Fair?”

“No. There won’t be a single fact involved.”

“Okay. But you also should be aware that former employees must also submit novels before publication.”

“But I was never an Agency employee, as you know. And the agreement I signed covers only the facts.” He wasn’t quite sure how to respond. I felt a little sorry for him.

“Well, just be careful, then.”

“Oh, I will. Very careful.”

He apologized for bothering me. Then he wished me luck.

Sometimes even the idle wishes of a nameless CIA man come true, and this morning a reputable publishing house in New York telephoned to offer me a contract based on my cover letter, an outline, and fifty sample pages.

Tonight, David and I will celebrate with our usual fare at Martin’s Tavern. I doubt we will see a woman wearing a red carnation, but you never know. He and I have already made plans to meet my father this December. In Berlin, of course. What better place, now that each of us in his own way has played at being a spy.

I figure my book will take about a year to finish, but I’ve already roughed out the plot, sketched the characters, and have an ending in mind. I’ve also decided that the opening words will not appear in the first chapter, or even in the prologue. They will be printed on the epigraph page, right up front, so that no reader can possibly miss them.

They go like this:

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.