TWO SUDDEN!: A Pair of Cole Sudden C.I.A. Thrillers Read online

  And from political correctness, Sudden knew. The club’s battle with New York City authority had outlasted the Civil War. Members were free to enjoy cigarettes and cigars in one of its smoking rooms, despite the best efforts of the newfound puritan instincts of the city’s billionaire mayor, a reformed smoker. Had they been so inclined, Union League members could swig 16-ounce sodas while mainlining lard and the Mayor wouldn’t touch them.

  The rest of the pamphlet was devoted to the club’s more recent history, and a calendar of annual events. Sudden made a mental note to drop Gibbons a line and congratulate him on his fine job.

  He put on gym clothes and headed to the club’s fitness center, where he temporarily suppressed his appetite with an hour on the Nautilus circuit and a steam. The only others in the gym were two stockbroker types who, from their look and grunts, had done a little too much partying the night before. After finishing, Sudden went back to his room to shower and shave. Except for the rumbling in his empty stomach that might have passed for a Civil War cannonade, he felt wonderful. He put on a pair of khaki slacks and a navy blue LL Bean travel blazer and headed to breakfast.

  CHAPTER 8 – LITERARY BREEZE

  “Good morning, Mr. Sudden. How are you today? Did you sleep well?”

  Maurice, the concierge at the Union League Club, knew every member by name, as well as visitors and guests he saw more than once or twice. And he made it a point to keep track of members who used the club’s hotel-type rooms overnight. The rooms are comfortable, if a bit Spartan, and are used, even today, by everyone from former American Presidents on down.

  Despite his modest literary credentials, Sudden knew he was one of the “downs,” but that doesn’t prevent Maurice from treating him like royalty. He’d walked right over to greet Sudden when he stepped out of the elevator.

  “Like a rock, Mo,” Sudden said. “And now I could eat a blue whale.”

  “I’ll send a waiter right over to your table.” Maurice smiled. “With a harpoon.”

  Sudden entered the lounge where the club serves breakfast, pausing to pick up The New York Times from a rack table by the entrance. It was not yet 8 AM., and there were only a few tables in use. At one of them sat Nelson DeMille, whose books outsold Sudden’s by a factor of a thousand to one but who was always generous with his ideas and had provided Sudden with some wonderful marketing blurbs for his covers. DeMille spotted him.

  “You alone, Cole? Why don’t you join me?”

  “I’m meeting Cristina Parker for breakfast.”

  “Nice gal. Good agent. One of the best. At least have a cup of coffee until she gets here.”

  Sudden sat. The waiter came over and he ordered coffee, telling the man to hold a table for two by a window overlooking Park Avenue.

  “So, Cole, what have you been up to?’

  Sudden spent an enjoyable quarter hour shooting the literary breeze with the author of The Gold Coast and other mega-sellers. He told DeMille about the Miami Book Fair and the thriller roundtable.

  “I know a couple of those writers,” DeMille said. “Some of them are pretty damn good. But you can write rings around them, Cole. Your book is better than anything out there. Present company excepted, of course.”

  “That’s very kind of you to say, Nelson.”

  “Why do you use a pseudonym? ‘Swift’ for ‘Sudden.’ I get the joke, but your real name is a winner.”

  You should see some of the names on my many passports, Sudden thought.

  “No particular reason, other than I value my privacy.”

  Possibly the understatement of the year, Sudden mused.

  “Well, it won’t matter if you keep turning out great books. You have a knack for murder, gore and chicanery. And a weird imagination. Nobody can kill people off like you do, even me. That reminds me, I thought of a way to kill someone using nerve gas on toilet paper.”

  DeMille explained the technique.

  “What do you think? Would it work? Or is it too outrageous.”

  Sudden knew it wasn’t outrageous at all, since the Romanian secret police during the brutal Ceausescu era had used it successfully in Paris, but only after a series of failures that cost the lives of unwitting political prisoners during tests back home. In fact, he’d written a once-classified white paper on the technique.

  “I can’t figure out how to keep the poison on the toilet paper viable,” DeMille said. “It would dry out. I mean, it makes no sense to have someone with an eye dropper full of Sarin or Tabun standing around waiting for someone to take a crap.”

  Sudden paused, as if considering the problem, which, of course, the Romanians had solved..

  “If the nerve agent crystallized when it dried, I suppose it could be activated by, ah, bodily fluids,” he said. “That might do the trick. The paper might remain potent for days.”

  DeMille slapped his hand on the table.

  “Cole, that’s pure genius. Bodily fluids. I love it. You’re the best. I wonder if the nerve stuff can actually be crystallized.”

  “I think I read something, someplace, that it could be,” Sudden said, smiling. His paper had since been declassified. “It’s certainly worth checking out. Hell, we’re fiction writers. Just wing it. I just wish I had thought it up first.”

  “Listen, you can use it if you want. You solved the problem.”

  Sudden laughed.

  “Steal an idea from the great Nelson DeMille? Not likley. I’d be afraid to wipe my ass for the rest of my life.”

  Both men roared, turning heads in the normally sedate room.

  A young woman approached their table. It was Cristina Parker, Sudden’s literary agent. Both men stood.

  “What are you two laughing about?”

  “Potty talk,” DeMille said, still laughing.

  “Men,” Parker said, shaking her head.

  She pecked DeMille on the cheek and told him what a great writer he was.

  “You have one in your stable, too, Cristina,” DeMille said, winking at Sudden. “He deserves a bigger audience.”

  “I’m working on it, Nelson,” she said, leaning over to also kiss Sudden on the cheek. “But he can be quite demanding. He’s not a pussycat like I hear you are.”

  “Don’t spread that around, honey,” DeMille laughed. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

  ***

  When they got to their table, Sudden said, “It must kill you to have me as a client and not DeMille,”

  “You’ve got that right,” Parker replied as he held her chair for her.

  That’s what Sudden liked about Cristina. She was brutally honest. It was a terrible time to be an agent in New York, but she’d stuck with him and he owed much of his limited success to her efforts.

  The publishing industry was running scared, its margins sundered by Amazon and other e-publishers. It seems everyone had a Kindle or iPad and half the adult population was self-publishing. The press was full of stories about little old church ladies in the hinterlands writing semi-pornographic novels that sold thousands of e-books short on grammar and plot but long on heaving breasts and engorged phalluses. Not to mention bodily fluids.

  Faced by this avalanche of competition, the industry had circled the wagons and it was becoming virtually impossible for a first-time author to find a traditional publisher and build a following. Established superstar authors such as DeMille, Grisham and Evanovich were money in the bank to the mainstream publishers, safe harbors in an electronic storm. James Patterson could write on the back of a napkin (or have somebody else do it and put his name on it) and have an instant best-seller.

  It was no wonder the John Lockes and Amanda Hockings of the world decided to churn out low-priced novels on their own. They could self-publish a book and price it at $2.99 and realize a $2 royalty, about what they would get from a book costing $24.99 at a “respectable” publishing house that wouldn’t give them the time of day when they started out.

  Of course, that same publisher, salivating over their sales in the hundreds
of thousands and looking to cash in on a built-in market the authors had developed on their own was now beating a path to their door.

  CHAPTER 9 – BIG WORDS

  Their waiter came. Black coffee and a croissant for Cristina. Whole wheat toast and a mushroom omelet for Sudden. He’d spied some cheese Danishes on the buffet table and knew at least one of them was in his future as well. He was blessed with a terrific metabolism, probably due to the high-octane aspects of his lifestyle. But Cristina was obviously worried about her weight and he knew she probably wouldn’t even finish her croissant. Not yet 30, she was pretty enough to arouse occasional libidinous thoughts from Sudden. Dark hair cut short, blue eyes and legs that made up for smallish breasts. He wasn’t sure of the protocol involved in screwing your agent. It was traditionally something that happened the other way around.

  “How do you manage to look so lovely this early in the morning,” Sudden said.

  It was true. She looked fresh-scrubbed, and unlike many in her age group and profession she knew how to dress. Today it was a double-breasted merino wool jacket and pleated skirt and a string of pearls.

  “I think I can set up an auction for Tunnel Vision,” Cristina said, ignoring his compliment and cutting to the chase. It was why he chose her as an agent. Young and hungry. “Although no one is crazy about the title.”

  “The hell with the title,” he said. “I can change it. You said the magic word, ‘auction’. Who’s interested?”

  “Sterling, Penguin, Ace, Hard Core Crime, maybe one or two others.”

  “How high do you think they will go?”

  “Low six figures. But only if you commit to a series. Can you turn out another three books, say, over the next two years? You’re not the most prolific writer, you know.”

  Sudden wanted to tell her that he often had other responsibilities, in the real world. Instead, he said, “I’d have to think about that.”

  “It could be a deal breaker if you can’t do it.”

  “I don’t need the money, honey. If they get too obnoxious tell them I’m thinking about self-publishing.”

  Parker looked horrified.

  “Oh, Jesus, don’t even fuck around. Look, I’m sure I can work something out. I can probably get them to go for a book a year, with the same recurring character. They really like Jake.”

  “Jake Harms” was the hero of the thriller Sudden published a year earlier, a freelance soldier of fortune who worked for the Government and travelled around the globe rescuing maidens, whom he invariably beds, and killing bad guys in droves. Given his own background and activities, Sudden could write sequels in his sleep. But, strange as it may seem, he had no intention of becoming a hack. He knew he had talent. The men Sudden hunted in real life had compromised their principles to the detriment of hundreds of their victims and he didn’t intend to emulate them.

  “I like him, too. But, and I know I sound like a Hemingway wannabe, I don’t want to be pigeonholed. I’d like to try something more….”

  “God, please don’t say ‘literary.’ I may throw up.”

  “Serious, then.”

  “That’s fine. But let’s get you a reputation first. You have a great story to sell. Military hero, Talented writer.”

  “Aw. Shucks.”

  “I mean it. We’re talking big bucks. You could be as big as Michael Connolly. And you’re not hard to look at. Hunk authors sell. Look at Sebastian Junger.”

  “Hunk authors?”

  “You know what I mean. Sexy, tough-looking, a bit weather-beaten. I wish you’d let them use your photo on the book jackets and in publicity.”

  Sudden smiled inwardly at the thought.

  “Maybe later.”

  The agent sighed. It was a battle she’d lost before.

  “Suit yourself. You’re a stubborn bastard. But we’re missing the boat. Your books are pure Hollywood. You make the outrageous seem possible. I don’t know how you do it. You’re nuts not to go for the brass ring.”

  “I’m sure we can work something out.”

  “Depending on which house makes the best bid, you may have to tone down the sex and violence a bit. Is that a problem?”

  Sudden almost laughed. If she only knew how much he’d already toned down the sex and violence!

  “We’ll see. Let’s move on, Cristina.”

  “There is one more thing” She paused, looking somewhat embarrassed. “Now don’t blow up. You know I don’t agree with them, but a couple of the editors I spoke to said the same thing.”

  “Jesus, Cristina, spit it out.”

  “Well, it would make them happier if you, ah, well, didn’t use such big words.”

  Sudden stared at her until he realized from the look on her face that he was probably using the stare he used with the people he dealt with in his other world. The one that told them they had just crossed a line that few people were able to re-cross. Sudden knew he’d have to work on his people skills. She was a just a kid, and a nice one to boot. He kept his voice even.

  “Such as?”

  “Oh, there weren’t many.”

  “They probably mentioned a couple.”

  “Well, one was ‘verisimilitude.’ I remember that because I had to explain it to one editor.”

  “Yes, I can understand how editors might be upset by that. I suspect that even the idea of it gives them hives, let alone to see it in print.”

  “Please don’t be angry. I told them I’d pass it along, that’s all.”

  “I’m not angry. It’s not your fault that publishers want to dumb down their books to reach a wider audience. Why don’t you tell them that I’ll leave the big words in but will certainly be willing to sit down with one of their editors, if they still use them. I’m sure we can come to a reasonable compromise.”

  Yes, Sudden thought, he would look forward to that. Probably offer to use more three-letter words, like dog and cat. Or maybe, as was more likely, he’d bring out his killer stare and show the editor what verisimilitude really meant. He smiled at the prospect and saw relief on Cristina’s face.

  “I’m glad you’re taking it so well. They can be such jerks.”

  Sudden reached across and patted her hand.

  “You’ve put visions of sugarplums and yachts in his head. Get the best deal you can at the auction. I have faith in you, kid. And let’s think about doing the Miami Book Fair next year.”

  “Oh, yes. How did your trip go? Tell me all about it.”

  ***

  After Cristina left, Sudden lingered over his coffee and his Danish, chatting with some of the other power breakfasters who were now filling the room. Nelson DeMille had already left and he was now the resident author so they all stopped to say hello and tell him how much they liked his books. A Deputy Mayor. The city’s Chief of Detectives. The Cardinal, who was particularly effusive. He said he was looking forward to a sequel to the Jake Harms thriller. Sudden wondered what the Cardinal liked more, the brutal murders or the explicit sex. Then he remembered the man had been a military chaplain. Probably saw or heard it all.

  After a final cup of coffee, Sudden went up to his room and gathered his things. He then walked to Grand Central Terminal and caught the 11:07 to Fairfield, on the Connecticut coast.

  Once on the Metro North train, Sudden opened his iPad and made some notes regarding his last assignment. He naturally used euphemisms and personal catchphrases that would be innocuous to the casual reader. But he didn’t have to disguise too much, other than dates and times. He was, after all, a thriller writer and his notes and jottings would normally be expected to be bloody and exaggerated.

  In addition to providing important hints about what went right or wrong about a job, the “Pest Control Book,” as he mentally called his digital journal (actually named “Plot Ideas”), always provided grist for future novels.

  CHAPTER 10 – FATS BOUDREAU

  The Tucci chore had been relatively painless. The ex-mobster had lived alone, which made things a lot easier. Some of Sudden’s tar
gets, even those in witness protection, had families, held steady if boring jobs, were active in their churches and coached soccer. They could pass for upstanding citizens and would probably vote Tea Party if they were able to. So even though Sudden knew they were often borderline, or maybe full-blown, psychopaths, he felt a twinge – of something – when he killed them. Usually, it was the families. Collateral damage, although only emotionally, since wives and kids were never targeted. The man of the house might deserve it; they didn’t.

  Of course, some clients want the families eliminated too, all the way down to Rover and the tropical fish. Such as Beauregard “Fats” Boudreau, a vindictive Cajun ugly as his name, who wanted to set an example of the man he blamed for sending his old man, Lorillard, to the Louisiana State Penitentiary in Angola, where he died.

  Sudden told Fats, who now headed the family, that a massacre wasn’t an option. Besides, there would be too much blowback. Publicity was not his friend. (That was for Boudreau’s benefit; Sudden wasn’t going to do it for any reason.) Fats didn’t listen. He wanted Sudden to kill everyone even slightly related to Tucci. A sister he hadn’t spoken to in years. Two nieces, one in grade school. A couple of cousins in San Francisco. Boudreau wanted to dig up Tucci’s long-dead relatives and shoot them. Sudden said no. Boudreau could only buy the man he thought betrayed him. Fats doubled the price. Then, tripled it. No one turns down that kind of money, he figured. When Sudden still said no, the obese mobster went ballistic, and threatened to drop Sudden in the Mississippi. Then, he’d find someone else.

  “Guys like you are a dime a dozen,” he said, smiling the cliché to appreciative titters from his equally fat bodyguards.

  “Actually, no,” Sudden had replied. “I’m sui generis.”