Grumpy Old Spy

Chapter 1

New York City, Columbia University,

Center for the Study of Mediterranean Culture

The thief dressed all in black looks around, checking for passersby that might spot him. Odd little things like someone making a wrong turn can get a guy busted. He's not worried about the alarm systems or cameras, he knows this supposedly secure building actually isn't, not to a professional. He's studied the prints, the alarm system, the kind of safe they use. Sure, this lame security would keep out your ordinary smash-n-grab thief, but for me it's practically a cakewalk. I've dealt with much tighter security many times in the past. Hell, most quick stop stores have better security. What the hell were they thinking here?

The silly fools left the junction box to the alarm system on the outside of the building, in the rear. That makes it too easy. Obviously, the system was only recently added to the old building.

The simple lock on the box offers no resistance to his picks. A couple of jumper wires affixed to contacts by alligator clips disable the alarms. Now all he has to do is find the video feed. Oh, the dummies, there it is. This too is on the outside of the building. The video junction box is next to the alarm box, only vaguely disguised as an electrical box. A few tries with his small handheld device are all it takes to find the right feed. He clips it in, makes a short digital video loop, starts it playing then disconnects the actual camera feed.

All it takes now is a hardened steel slim-jim to open a basement window. He tosses in his gear, he crawls in after it. He shuts the window, in case someone might see it open, though that's highly unlikely. The lone guard sits at his desk all night, casually eyeing the monitors now and then, but primarily reads his Zane Grey books to pass the time.

The high-end electronic lock on the vault door poses little problem. A common thief would be stymied, but he isn't. A special tool removes the cover, then another couple of wires with alligator clips opens the lock. Electronic locks are actually easier then mechanical ones, if you have the right tools and a little knowledge.

His high-tech night vision glasses can't see anything inside the vault, there has to be at least a little light for them to amplify. He turns on a special infrared flashlight, this makes things visible to him through the glasses, but the light isn't visible to the naked eye. Right here on the shelf is what he's been sent after, still in it's protective case. To be sure he doesn't miss anything, he checks out the rest of the vault. A bunch of old junk, so far as he is concerned, is all there is here. There's no cash, no jewels in this vault. There is no need for the vault, all this junk could be out on the shelves, nobody would care. Had I not been hired for this job, there's no way I would think about hitting this place, there isn't anything really worth stealing. There are a couple of paintings, but they're too hard to fence, they might not be high dollar art, the artist's signatures are too hard to read. The hired thief grabs the case he was sent after.

As he backtracks, he puts everything back the way it was before he entered. His gloved hands will leave no prints, so if everything is back the way it was, they won't know who, how, or when the thing was stolen. He manages to slim-jim the basement window locked again. He removes his wires and puts things back the way they were in the alarm and video boxes. He calmly slips out to the street. His car is where he left it, not always a sure thing these days. Leaving it looking rather old and beat up on the outside helps with that, though under the hood it's got a newer, souped up engine.

He drives to the designated spot, out of New York City a ways, the man who hired him isn't here yet. He waits, as he was instructed to do, since he was told he'd receive an extra ten grand for waiting. His employer doesn't show until after five a.m. The thief was about to give up on him. His employer asks, Did you get the item?

Of course, did you bring my money?

"Of course. The two exchange cases, then each sets their case on the hood of their car to check the case's contents. Yes, his money is all here, plus twenty grand over and above the extra ten grand for waiting. He's not going to complain. His employer seems satisfied too. They get back into their cars with the cases to drive away in opposite directions.

Chapter 2

A rural area, twenty miles from Parker, Arizona.

The incessant ringing of the phone wakes Miles Stanborn from his mid-morning slumber. He mumbles aloud to himself, To hell with it, if they really want to talk to me they can call back when I'm ready to deal with the world. Miles used to have an answering machine, but he got tired of that nonsense so he disposed of it by giving it to the Salvation Army. Now people catch him when he's ready to answer the phone or they don't, it's no skin off his ass, he doesn't need to worry about it.

Miles doesn't have to worry about much of anything these days, he socked enough cash away from his former occupation as an agent for a super secret branch of the government, from funds he happened to find in the course of his missions. He also has his pension, for what that's worth, besides what he's tucked away from what he's earned on his few, but hefty, paydays from the insurance companies so far. Some might say he's rich, he considers himself comfortable, not anywhere near rich, he's seen wealthy, he certainly isn't that. To someone that has little, he probably seems quite well heeled. This all means that he's never forced to take a case for the money, he accepts them only if he finds the case intriguing. This happens rarely, but from time to time a case comes along he can't resist.

His work these days, however infrequent, is as a freelance investigator, usually for insurance companies that couldn't find a bowling ball in a bowling alley. Their so-called investigators are usually too stupid to solve a case of any magnitude, if they were very bright, they wouldn't be working on salary for the insurance companies when there's much more to be earned freelancing.

Miles' reputation for solving the unsolvable still garners him lots of calls, most of them he turns down or simply doesn't answer. Demanding twenty-five percent of the recovery didn't slow down the calls very much. He's thinking of upping it to thirty, maybe forty percent. That would slow them down considerably, the insurance companies are famous for being tightwads.

He spends most of his time online these days, when he isn't researching, he plays online poker, for fun. There's no way he'll play for real money, not on some unknown site in some far away country. He still has his weekly game with his old cronies, it's more about getting together, reminiscing, and bullshitting each other than playing cards. Maybe, if one of the cases he's offered will take him to Vegas someday, he'll try his hand at some real money games then.

The phone keeps ringing every few minutes. Miles was up late, as usual, not going to bed until dawn, so he resents the intrusion more than most people would.

These days all intrusions into his world are resented to some degree. His cronies and his ex-wife say he's turned in to a crusty old curmudgeon. Someday he'll get around to looking up that word, maybe he is one, but like all the other things they call him, it's probably another dirty name.

The tenth or twelfth time the phone starts ringing again, he contemplates unplugging the phone. Whoever it is sure is persistent. Grudgingly, he picks up the receiver. Who the hell is this and what the hell do you want at this hour of the day?

A melodic female voice asks, Mr. Miles Stanborn please.

Well who the hell else do you think would be answering my phone? Spit it out, I don't have all day.

I'm Melanie Bradford, of Middle American Fidelity Insurance Association. We're the underwriter for First Unified Insurance Company. We need your assistance finding a priceless treasure.

M.A.F.I.A. the underwriters for F.U. Insurance company? What the hell kind of crummy joke is this? Did Tommy or George put you up to this? I've got news for you, I'm not falling for it. Good day! Miles slams the receiver down, then unplugs the phone. Of all the nerve, all that bother, waking me up, for a poorly thought out joke. I'm going back to sleep, to hell with them.

Miles sleeps for three hours, his usual amount in one stretch. Rarely does he ever sleep more than that at one go, usually he will have two or three such naps a day.

Chapter 3

When he wakes, Miles grumbles and stumbles to the bathroom. He's not all that old, chronologically. Fifty one shouldn't be this bad, but many injuries over the years have plagued him, more so in the last few years, giving him all the aches and pains of people much older, and some they probably never get. Anyone that might see his uncovered body, would be able to tell most of the story from the scars. Not that he has anyone that sees his body on a regular basis, contrary to the movies, grumpy old men don't always have hot widows living next door to share their beds.

A long, hot shower helps ease some of the pains away. If anyone knew the truth about him, it's these pains that have made him the grumpy old fart that he is these days. That and rarely sleeping well, kind of makes him mad at the world. He used to take pills for the pain, but those only left him unable to use his mind to any major degree. The pills didn't really stop the pain, only messed with his head until he didn't give a damn about the pains or anything else.

Miles steps out of the shower, he doesn't bother to towel off. When he's not in a hurry, he prefers to air dry. He's not one to dirty a towel that he'll have to wash, if he doesn't have to. How towels get dirty when he's clean when he uses them, he's never figured out.

Miles hears someone pounding on his front door, ringing the bell, then pounding again. It's not a polite knock this is heavy pounding. He takes his Colt Commander out of the nightstand drawer, cocks it, then checks the monitor for the mini-cam security system. A sexy broad is at the front door. There's no way this redheaded, amply endowed, pouty-lipped babe is here for any good reason. His battered and scarred six foot six inch body, with his thinning head of dishwater blond hair mixed with gray doesn't attract luscious babes like this. It can only mean trouble. He marches to the front door, still wet and nude.

Miles' old training kicks in, rather than open the heavy wood-covered steel door with him standing square in the middle of it, like most people would, he puts his back to the wall on the knob side, unlocks the locks, then throws the door open with his left hand. He pokes the tip of the barrel around the doorframe, not enough so that someone could grab it. Freeze where you are. So much as twitch, what little brains you have will be making a damn mess on my porch that I'll have to clean up. I hate that.

Miles peeks around the doorframe. The very pretty, buxom, redheaded woman is standing there frozen in her tracks with that pouty look on her face. How much of her looks are natural and how much are cosmetics or surgery is anyone's guess at this point. Who the hell are you, and what the hell do you want?

I'm Melanie Bradford, I tried to talk to you on the phone earlier, but you didn't believe me.

I still don't. Take four steps inside, then stand stock still in your tracks. I hate bloody messes inside more than outside, so please don't make me shoot you. The woman does as he commanded, a smart move when somebody has a forty-five pointed at her. He frisks her thoroughly, enjoying it a bit. Her tight top and short skirt leaves little to check, but he doesn't mind at all. He finds a Glock nine millimeter in the small of her back. He removes it deftly.

You have some good ID on you? It best be legit, I can check. The woman starts to open her purse, but Miles snatches it away quickly. I must be getting old, I forgot to check it. That's exactly the reason to send a sexy broad to off a hetero man, they make you forget things.

He sorts through the purse, when he's satisfied there isn't a weapon in it, he hands it back to her. She produces a company ID, and her driver's license. Stay right where you are, I'll check these out then I'll be right back. Miles saunters away. Melanie snickers a bit as he turns his bare butt to her.

Miles checks her out online, yeah, unless they are real good about putting things in databases that most people couldn't access, she's legit. While he's here, he writes down the serial number of her weapon to check later. He saunters back into the living room, handing her back her ID, to Melanie, seated on the couch. Miles decocks his weapon, but holds on to hers. What the hell do you mean, bothering me like this, young lady?

She snickers then replies, Wouldn't you like to put some clothes on before we continue?

Miles sits down in his favorite easy chair, "This is my home, not yours, if you don't like it, get the hell out."

Melanie smiles, I can stand it if you can. We want you to find a stolen book. A very rare, one of a kind book.

Miles gets a more ticked off look on his face, What do I look like, a friggin' librarian to you? Go ask at the library. I have better things to do than waste my time looking for books for your reading pleasure.

Melanie shakes her pretty head, It's not my taste in reading material, it's a very rare piece. We believe it was written by a man using the name Don Disederio Arsi, the name of Antonio Stradivari's brother, as he was known after he laid claim to his title.

Miles raises his eyebrows, We believe? Hadn't it been authenticated before it was insured?

Melanie leans forward a bit, having to cross her legs the other way to lean toward Miles, it's sexy, but Miles isn't buying it, enjoying, but not buying it. Oh, the authenticators were as certain as they could be, however, being the only known handwritten copy in existence, they didn't have much to compare it to. The linen it's written on, the ink, the cover, they all check out to the time period. Somewhere between 1660 and 1720 is the best they could do. Some small samples of Don Disederio's handwriting exist. Those few samples were so small that the authenticators, a team of twelve, can't be one hundred percent certain.

Miles leans back in his chair, a little curious now, How certain are they?

Melanie shrugs a bit, Seventy to eighty percent certain was the highest they would go.

Miles asks, "Why is a book by the brother of somebody famous worth so much yet today?"

Melanie answers quickly, a bit too quickly for Miles taste, It's believed that within that book are all of Antonio Stradivari's secrets to making his instruments so special.

Huh?

The book is about Antonio, written by his brother, supposedly, over the time period that Stradivari was doing his best work.

Miles isn't all that interested yet, but decides to play it out, the company of a luscious young lady is worth the bit of time spent discussing it. Why do you couch everything with supposedly or such?

Melanie leans back a bit, giving Miles a better view of her ample chest, There is a school of thought that it's Antonio's work, they think Antonio wrote out the secrets, not his brother. Some people believe his brother came into possession of it after Antonio's death, and put his name on it. Some think Antonio put his brother's name on it from the start, his brother being somewhat of a politician of the day, nobody would want to read his book, Antonio's they would.

Miles is still rather incredulous, wondering what the real scam is. Yet they give it up to eighty percent approval?

Melanie nods, They can certify without a doubt that at one time it was in the Don's possession. Only who actually authored it is in question, there's little doubt it was one of the two.

Miles still isn't ready to buy into this game, whatever it's real intent might be, Isn't that same book available online? Seems to me I ran across it once.

Melanie smiles a bit, Not the original, there were many differences in this version and what was produced later. Some think the really key items are either hidden in code within the manuscript, or hidden away somewhere inside the book itself.

Miles keeps playing along, Okay, let's see, what value could it possibly be to anyone?

Melanie states, Collectors, that don't care how they get it, would pay a fortune for it. Whoever stole it could be going to make fake instruments, so they need the info to make ones that will pass to trained ears.

Miles puts the footrest of his easy chair up as he asks, How many times could they do that, for how much?

Melanie has another pat answer, If they were able to duplicate some of the ones already known to exist that were stolen, they could keep selling copies on the underground market for who knows how long. Nobody's sure how big that market might be. They could probably get around a million or more for each one.

Miles leans back, putting both his pistol and hers on the end table beside his chair, Is there any way that the thief could profit from the book itself, without making violins?

Melanie has a quick pat answer again, Certainly, the information alone could be sold for a lot, and each one it was sold to would try to keep it quiet, then pretend he came up with some undiscovered secret on his own. That's not likely, though.

Miles nods, Yeah, if some maker starts coming out with violins that sound like Strads, he would immediately be suspect. What else is there … maybe something else hidden in the book?

Again, Melanie's answer is too quick, too pat, That too is possible, though without the book, we won't know that.

Miles asks, Was the book photographed?

Melanie shakes her head, Not extensively. That was due to be done the next day, it was stolen before it could be done.

Miles holds up his hand in a stop motion as he uses his other hand to lower the footrest, Okay, hold on a minute, I'm dry now, I'll go put on something, then we can discuss this in a more civilized manner. Maybe then you can quit gawking at me.

Melanie replies, I'm checking out all the scars.

Miles grins slightly, most people wouldn't notice, Yeah, sure, that's what they all say. He knows this is probably the truth these days, he's not the fine specimen of manhood he used to be. Still he's got to give his ego a little room to pretend. Miles picks up both pistols, then heads to his bedroom. He pulls on some old sweatpants and a T-shirt, his usual manner of dress around the house. While he's in here, he removes the magazine from her Glock, then removes the cartridges, including the one in the chamber. He puts the rounds in a small, clear plastic bag, along with the weapon. He steps lightly back to the living room.

Handing Melanie the bagged weapon, he states, Leave that bagged until you're out of here, please. In the future, if you come to my home, leave it locked in the car. I'll still search you, but I'd prefer not to find it.

Melanie frowns a bit, Yeah, right. You'll keep feeling for it though. I'm on to that.

Miles nods, grinning a bit more than before, the smile can be seen now, Yeah, a good looking broad like you, I'll take every opportunity to feel you up I can get. I don't often get that chance these days. What kind of man would I be if I didn't take the opportunity, and enjoy it? I'm not some fairy boy. Still, I'd much prefer you use only your bountiful natural weapons in my home.

Still frowning, Melanie replies, "Okay, whatever. So,