Excerpt of Saint Charles Place by M. Saylor Billings

With his mouth agape, Michael shook his head, "You just look mentally ill."

"You look like a wife beater," said the older man. "And you're on the wrong boat."

Michael stood up and looked over to the sign with the numbers 20-30 and counted down the row. "No I'm not."

"Evens are on that side. Odds are on this side. You're on slip number 26. You're so off base I had to come and get you."

Michael was infuriated but followed the man to the correct boat slip and boarded an older looking cruiser.

"You like boats?" He asked Michael.

"No."

He handed Michael what looked like two thin arm sweatbands and growled, "Put them on with the plastic on the inside. Like this." He showed Michael his own wrists.

They clamored down the hatch of the sloop.

The old man removed his disguise revealing a bald head and a medium build under the fake potbelly.

"So it's easier to dress older than younger." Michael said trying to impress the older field agent with his keen observation skills.

"For me. But for you? With that bone structure you could go as a woman." The vocal growl was gone and the old man spoke clearly for the first time.

Michael was disgusted. It was so easy for these old white guys to just start off by emasculating an Asian.

"I'm not emasculating you, son." The old man caught Michael's eye. "You don't think I'd dress up as a woman if I could get away with it? Grow up."

Michael said nothing but looked around the boat cabin as the old man closed the door to the hatch.

"You hungry?" He asked Michael.

"No, I had breakfast," Michael said but added, "But I could use a coffee or something."

"Good, me too. Fix us something." The old man busied himself with removing a small panel from the wall. "This area is turning into a lawless hotbed and it's going to get a lot worse. We've got a lot to go over."

"I'm glad to hear it. Nobody has told me anything, just that bunch of files and memos from the fraud division you gave me this morning." Michael said as he opened cabinets in the galley.

The old man unlatched a portal and aimed a remote at the boat next to his. Michael heard the muted music from the other boat turn on and looked up, the old man nodded at the other boat and grinned, "Always know your exits, son."

"So," Michael measured out the coffee grounds as he spoke, "what do you do here?"

"My job is to make sure information sold to the government stays inside the government." The old man sat down at the galley booth and spread out folders on the table in front of him as Michael finished filling the small coffee maker and turned it on. Michael grabbed a couple of bottles of water, placed them on the table, and scooted into the opposite side of the rounded booth.

"The reason nobody has told you anything is because there are only four people who know what's going on and we're two of those people. You're fairly new to this business - you don't have much field background, no ties to other agents, no financial difficulties, and you're a digital forensics expert - so you're the perfect candidate. Who did your field training?"

"Agent Cousineau."

"Ah, Big Cousin."

"You know him?"

"Sure. He's one of the best trainers we have. Hands down." The old man smiled. "He's still teaching Moscow Rules?"

Michael laughed. "Yeah."

"Look, I'm going to tell you straight off, there are a lot of ways to make some extra cash with this operation. Don't do it, ever. You will get burned." The old man opened his bottle of water. "You are going to be the whole of this operation. You're going to have to make your own contacts, informants, your own drops, everything."

Michael was not happy with this news. "Wait a minute, hang on, I'm being transferred out of IT? I didn't put in for a transfer."

"No, this a promotion. It's a career builder."

"To what, the fraud division?" Michael had worked very hard to place himself exactly where he wanted to be and that wasn't in the lower echelons of the fraud division of the FBI.

"You'll be a GS-12 but Elliot will keep you comfortable. He's got other accounts to pay you."

"What about you? What are you doing here? I mean why not just meet me in the city, at headquarters? Why am I not meeting Elliot?"

"Pfft," the old man snorted, "that gossip mill? It leaks like a sieve. No, if you want a secret known, tell one of your coworkers; if you want to keep a secret, tell no one. The files I gave you this morning are for your cover operation for the agency. It's your red herring, see? That cover operation pays for everything we do here."

Michael nodded his head, but he had no idea what the old man was talking about.

The old man drummed his fingers on a folder, "This is the real deal. But now with all this new technology, I'm falling behind." He shrugged, "I can't keep up. I'm from the analogue age." The old man shook his head in frustration, "And I've been thwarting these assholes for 15 years. But it's a whole new ballgame, new players with new toys. "

"Fifteen years? And you haven't caught them? No arrests?"

The old man looked at Michael in astonishment, but then grinned and nodded his head. He looked down at the papers, cleared his throat and said quietly, "There are no arrests, Michael. This is not a thing, a tort, that goes into a court of law."

Michael watched the old man get up and patiently pour them cups of coffee, "Let me explain from the beginning."