True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(17)
“If you were from the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes, and you’d come to give me my million-dollar check, you’d have a camera crew,” Ian said. “So I’m going to guess that aliens from another planet have landed and they’ve picked me as their intermediary to communicate with mankind.”
“I’m a senior official at the Central Intelligence Agency. I flew here today from Washington, DC, to see you.”
“That was my second guess,” Ian said, a smile on his face. “So, why are you really here?”
“I wasn’t joking,” the man said. “I am with the CIA and we need your help.”
At first, Ian thought the man was still joking but something about the steady way he held his gaze conveyed that he was serious. “What interest could the CIA possibly have in me?”
“That’s what I’m here to explain. May I come in?”
“Yes, of course,” Ian said, stepping aside. “I didn’t get your name.”
“You can call me Bob.”
Bob came in but the bodyguard remained outside. Ian closed the door and led Bob into the living room, where two matching couches faced each other.
“Can I get you anything, Bob?” Ian resisted the urge to mime air quotes with his fingers when he said the mystery man’s name.
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
Bob sat on one couch and Ian sat on the other, a wooden coffee table between them. Ian’s couch faced the window so he could see past Bob to the CIA agent who was standing outside the SUV and staring at him. The agent was probably thinking of all the ways that he could kill Ian if necessary. Would the agent use his gun? His knife? Or his bare hands? Or perhaps the garrote sewn into the lining of his jacket? It was clear to Ian now that the best way to jump-start his imagination was to have a spy knock at his door. He’d have no trouble writing after this.
“I’ll get right to the point, Mr. Ludlow. The CIA’s job is to protect our nation, and further its objectives, by gathering intelligence and engaging in a wide range of covert actions. This responsibility includes anticipating potential threats and preventing enemy actions before they happen. That’s where we need your experience and advice.”
It was the craziest thing Ian had ever heard. He had no experience at all in espionage. Everything he knew about spying he got from watching James Bond movies and reading John le Carré novels. The only thing he was qualified to give advice on was writing, and even that was something he felt uncomfortable doing.
“I write thrillers, Bob. You live them. I don’t see what I can tell you that would be remotely useful. I make stuff up. I don’t actually know anything.”
“The CIA is a vast organization of bureaucrats, analysts, and field operatives. We have the experience, the technical resources, and the special skills necessary to acquire vital information and act on it. What we lack is imagination.”
Ian had lacked it, too, until Bob and his spies showed up. “Imagination is overrated, Bob. Trust me, you don’t need a writer, certainly not this one.”
“You’re selling yourself short. You’re a New York Times bestselling author and a writer for several top-rated TV shows. That makes you a member of an elite group with a singular talent. We want you and a few others to come and give us the benefit of your creativity,” Bob said. “Successful writers like you have proven, time and time again, that you can create new, terrifying plots that connect emotionally with audiences worldwide. That’s exactly what terrorists are striving to achieve.”
“But what we come up with doesn’t have to work in the real world,” Ian said. “It just has to be entertaining.”
“It doesn’t matter. Your inventive plots will give us a fresh perspective, expose security loopholes we didn’t know existed, and help us predict attacks that we couldn’t possibly have imagined ourselves.”
“You’re saying that you need me, a man with a unique skill set, to save America.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Bob said.
It was ridiculous but Ian really liked the sound of it. He would be Liam Neeson in Taken, only shorter and carrying a pen instead of a gun.
“I’d be a covert operative whose top-secret mission is to make stuff up.”
“That’s a better way of putting it,” Bob said.
The CIA wanted him to serve his country by hanging out with real-life spies and coming up with outrageous plots worthy of Bond villains. It was an amazing offer. The only downside was that this whole supercool experience would be a secret.
“I am so in,” Ian said.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Seattle, Washington. July 18. 12:35 p.m. Pacific Standard Time.
“Two days later Bob flew me on a private jet to a cabin in Maine where I spent a weekend brainstorming catastrophe with three other writers,” Ian said. “We had some fun, ate some great food, drank some terrific scotch, and I came home. I didn’t hear from Bob or anybody else at the CIA again. I figured I did my patriotic duty and that was that.”
He and Margo were walking through a neighborhood of large, expensive homes that overlooked Lake Washington. She’d been quiet while he’d told his story and now he waited for her reaction. She cleared her throat before she spoke.
“Let me get this straight. You believe the CIA carried out your terrorist plot and now they want to kill you to cover up their involvement.”