Excerpt from the Book

JOE GALLAGHER STOOD by a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out on the skyscrapers nearby, admiring the lights that spread across Los Angeles and all the way to the Palos Verdes Peninsula, where a reddish moon hung large and unnaturally over the Pacific Ocean. Commercial jets dropped into a queue on their approach to the airport. Cars flowed silently in an endless stream on the freeways below. He liked watching the machinery of the city from such a remote perch, so he didn’t mind waiting. The city looked good from a distance, but if you get far enough away from anything, what doesn’t?

His reflection in the window looked back at him, a ghostlike form seemingly suspended perilously above the street far below. Sad eyes, he thought, but plenty of black hair with a hint of gray. Clean shaven. Okay for fifty-two, he assumed. His belt size had not changed in ten years. He changed his position so that his reflection was less noticeable. Thoughts of being suspended at such a height unsettled him, even if his image was only a ghost.

“Mr. Gallagher?”

A man in his mid-forties with styled brown hair stood in the doorway. He wore a blue shirt and red tie. This was Harold Simms, the man Gallagher had come to see. He was one of the owners of Precision Import/Export. He came across the carpet with his hand extended, apologizing for his delay.

“It’s quite all right,” Gallagher replied.

“I appreciate your quick response to my call.”

“You sounded worried on the message you left. A fast start in a circumstance like this always works best.”

Simms led Gallagher across the hall to a conference room. The company, among many in the building, occupied most of the tenth floor of that aerie. They sat at a long teak table, where Simms lost no time in removing a photograph and some other material from a manila envelope. The message Simms had left for Gallagher revealed his interest in finding his partner, Leonard S. Cole, who had disappeared, and the photo he handed across the table bore the image of the same, a man with red hair and mustache, a whimsical smile, and mischievous eyes. The picture of the somewhat impish gentleman almost made Gallagher smile. “Do you have any clues as to what might have happened to him?”

“Oh, yes,” Simms answered. “I know exactly what happened. He’s out in that big world trying to cook up the deal of a lifetime; that’s what he’s doing.”

“How is that a problem?”

Simms paused, obviously under pressure, and then continued. “Let me explain the situation; then you can ask me all the questions you want.”

He told Gallagher that some months ago a man named Redmond had obtained a small box of Photon Chips, the latest advancement in computer processing for high-speed machines used in research. They were some kind of three-dimensional quantum chip. “Don’t ask me to explain,” Simms said. “I barely understand how my toaster works.” The chips had not hit the market yet, Simms explained, but Redmond had acquired them from a couple of thieves, and he knew that Cole was an exporter with the reputation for being a bit of an adventurer with regard to business tactics. He offered to make a deal with Cole, and Cole agreed.

“Sounds like a job for the police,” Gallagher said.

Simms smiled. “Nothing is simple where Leonard Cole is involved. Cole called Photon Inc., the company that made the chips, and said that he might be able to get the chips back and that he would be willing to give it a try if he could have some of the chips. The company agreed. This was an unusual request, but the chips are worth a lot, and the company was overjoyed that Cole had located their property. Cole contacted the police and met with Redmond while wearing a wire. Redmond was rushed to the slammer faster than he could say megabyte. Now Cole has the chips—at least his share. Then he disappeared.”

“So the chips aren’t hot anymore. What’s the problem?”

“The police have most of them, but Cole has a small box of chips and he wants to export them—to the highest bidder.”

The plan sounded sensible to Gallagher, but Simms’s downcast look suggested trouble.

“Mr. Gallagher,” Simms continued, “there are countries in this world on a government list, and selling certain things to them is prohibited. In this case, the Photon Chip would greatly enhance any country’s ability to develop missile guidance systems and nuclear weapons. That little box of chips we’re talking about is tantamount to the Golden Fleece for some people. Put the right scientists in a room with them, and they would come out with a manual for assembling a weapon from hell. Redmond expected to get millions from Cole because he had talked to Cole about circumventing US Customs laws.”

“How much money are we talking about?”