Excerpt from The Mind of a Genius
by David Snowdon

Chapter One

The phone began to ring and freelance MI4 agent, Jason Clay reluctantly disengaged himself from the girl he was kissing and reached for the phone.

“Hello,” he said, grabbing the receiver.

“Is that Clay?” said the voice at the other end.

It was a posh, home county voice and Clay thought it sounded vaguely familiar. But at that very moment, he couldn’t place it.

“It is,” he said frowning. “You sound familiar, who’s that?” Clay spoke with a mildly posh London accent.

“You’ve got a poor memory. It’s Colin Shooter.” Clay smiled.

Shooter was the assistant head of the MI4 and he knew that Shooter never called him just to say hello. Whenever Shooter called, there was always a reason, and a very good reason at that.

“Hello you,” said Clay cheerfully.

He was grinning now, and the girl sitting beside him on the sofa, a tall, slim blonde with lovely blue eyes, and who was about 24-years of age, was staring at him, a curious expression in her eyes.

“Long time, no see.”

“Listen, Clay,” said Shooter, “I’ve got something that might wet your appetite. “You haven’t got anything on, have you?”

“Only the shirt on me back,” said Clay smiling. “And that’s coming off very soon.” The girl chuckled.

Just like the girl sitting beside him on the sofa, Clay was tall, slim and Handsome with blonde hair, and lovely blue eyes. He was 34-years-old and had a smile that made the girls go wild. All he had to do was smile and within minutes, they’d be telling him the story of their life.

Tonight, he was wearing a white silk shirt and a pair of white cotton trousers.

“I’ve got something that’s right up your alley,” said Shooter. “This one’s irresistible. You’ll love it.”

“Will I?” said Clay jokingly, wondering what it was, and what was in it for him.

“I know you will,” said Shooter, at the other end of the line.

“You know my terms, don’t you?” said Clay, smiling. “I won’t even contemplate getting out of bed for anything less than ten thousand a day.”

“You’d be lucky to get half of that for this one,” said Shooter. “But come and see me tomorrow morning in my office at ten, and we’ll talk business, okay?”

Clay continued to smile. “Ten thousand a day plus expenses or no deal.”

“I’ll see you in my office at ten sharp tomorrow,” said Shooter. “And don’t be late.” And the line went dead.

“That guy,” said Clay, dropping the receiver, shaking his head and turning sideways to stare at the girl sitting beside him. “He drives a hard bargain, but he’s all right.” The girl smiled invitingly, but didn’t say anything.

“Now where were we?” said Clay smiling, as they started to kiss passionately, again.

The time was now 20.47 and they were sitting on a beige leather sofa in Clay’s spacious, luxurious living-room. The TV was on, but the volume had been turned down low. As they continued to kiss, they could hear it raining hard outside, and there was the occasional rumble of thunder. But that didn’t bother them, as they were now in paradise.

At 10.00am the following day, Colin Shooter sat in a conference room, at a conference table, in the MI4 head office in Vauxhall, overlooking the River Thames and worked on his laptop.

At 56, Shooter was tall, well-built, and had light brown hair. He was an ex-banker.

Today, he wore a brown suit, a yellow shirt and a brown tie.

Also in the room, sitting around the conference table was Special Agent, Paul Hudson and Special Agent, Janet Bond.

Hudson was 38, tall, dark and lean with handsome features and dark brown curly hair.

He wore a well-cut, navy blue Italian Suit, a white shirt and a black and blue stripped tie. He was an ex-solicitor, and a very good one, and it was his track record more than anything else that had impressed the M14 into employing him.

Janet Bond was 32, 5-foot-7, slim with a nice curvy figure, and blonde with blue eyes, and Scandinavian features.

She was a beauty, but she was also very intelligent. And it was the combination of beauty and brains that had attracted Shooter to her.

The phone started to ring, and Shooter snatched the receiver.

“Colin Shooter,” he said, speaking into the receiver.

“Mr Shooter, I have Mr Jason Clay here to see you.” The receptionist’s voice came clearly through the receiver.

“Give him a cup of tea,” said Shooter. “I’ll let you know when we’re ready to see him.”

“No worries,” said the receptionist.

And Shooter put the phone down. As he put the phone down, he continued to work on his laptop, and both Hudson and Bond sat in silence, with a blank expressions on their faces. They knew that whatever Shooter was doing on his laptop had to be vital, as Shooter was always very punctual.

Ten minutes later, Shooter finished working on his laptop and reached for the receiver.

“Send him in,” he said, when he got through to the receptionist. And he put the receiver down.

Three minutes later, there came a knock on the door.

“Come in,” said Shooter.

The door slid open and Clay wandered into the room. He wore a beige coloured suit, a beige coloured shirt and a red tie. He was looking very smart and there was a cheeky smile on his face, as he wandered into the room, and walked towards the conference table.

“Morning, all,” he said, aware that everyone was watching him.

The others returned his greeting.

“Take a seat,” said Shooter, waving him to a chair.

Clay moved towards the chair and sat on it.

“Thanks for coming,” said Shooter. “This one’s a beauty and you’re gonna love it.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Clay, smiling at him. “Let’s have the details and we’ll take it from there.”

Shooter stared at Clay.

He didn’t like Clay’s cocky attitude. Come to think of it, he wasn’t too fond of Clay. But Clay had his uses.

“Malcolm Prince, the scientist, remember him?”

Clay thought for a moment, then he remembered.

“He died a few months ago, didn’t he?”

Shooter nodded. “And that’s why you’re here.”

“Come off it,” said Clay, his smile turning into a grin as he looked from Shooter to Hudson, from Hudson to Bond and from Bond back to Shooter.

“I didn’t kill him. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” said Shooter, smiling at Clay. “You’d do anything for money, wouldn’t you? But if you’ve got your facts right, you’ll know that Prince died of a heart attack.”

“I could have told you that,” said Clay, smiling at him.

Shooter continued to talk. “Malcolm Prince was one of the finest scientist in the world. And at the time of his death, he had just completed a major project; a project that could change the world; a project that could benefit the world.” There was a pause, then Shooter continued to talk.

“We don’t know what the project was about. It was a well-kept secret, but we do know that the project was completed shortly before he died. Shortly before he died, he was on the verge of revealing the project to the world. But now he’s dead, and nobody really knows what that project was based on.”

“That’s sad,” said Clay.

Shooter continued to talk. “We’d like you to try and find out what that project was about.”

“And how do you expect me to do that?” said Clay, changing his position on his chair. Shooter smiled at him.

“Prince has a very lovely wife, and rumour has it that he was very fond of her. We have a feeling that she might have some vital information. Your task is to seduce her and to find out what that project was about.”

Clay gaped at him. “I thought you said I was gonna to love it.”

“You’re a very impatient man,” said Shooter, smiling at Clay.

He was thoroughly enjoying himself. “Patience is a virtue, Clay. Agent Bond has a present for you.”

Special Agent, Janet Bond produce an envelope and slid it across the table towards Clay. Clay opened the envelope, removed a glossy photograph and stared at it.

A beautiful, middle-aged, blonde woman with blue, friendly eyes, wearing a navy blue shirt stared at him.

Clay studied the woman in the picture and a wave of excitement swept through him.

The woman in the photograph looked classy, exciting and sexy. A combination that Clay considered to be irresistible. Shooter was right. He had a feeling that he was going to love this assignment. Here was an opportunity to have a good time, and at the same time, to make some decent money.

Clay smiled as he studied the photograph. It was a passport photo that had been enlarged into a 6 x 4 photograph.

Shooter and the others watched him, as he studied the photograph, and Shooter had a feeling that Clay was hooked.

“Nice girl,” said Clay, dropping the photograph on the table in front of him and smiling at Shooter.

“Laura Prince,” said Janet Bond. “45-years-old, 36-26-36 and an ex-secretary. She has a penchant for handsome toy boys. Had a few lovers when Prince was alive, but isn’t seeing anyone at present.”

“Very nice,” said Clay smiling and looking around the table.

“I told you,” said Shooter. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“But what makes you think she gonna fall for me?” said Clay.

“You fit the bill perfectly,” said Hudson, in his posh accent “You have a way with women. You can charm the birds out a tree. We’re sure you can swing it.”

“I can try,” said Clay. “But I can’t guarantee success.”

“That’s good enough for me,” said Shooter. “We don’t know for sure if she knows anything. She may be none the wiser, but all we can do is try.”

“That’s fine,” said Clay. “Ten thousand a day plus expenses, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“I don’t think so,” said Shooter, shaking his head. There was a crafty, little smile on his face. “Five thousand a day plus expenses, and you can take it or leave.”

Clay smiled at him.

“I’ve got a feeling we’re wasting each others time. Ten thousand a day plus expenses, or you can get someone else to do it.”

Shooter stared at him.

There were other agents that he could use, and who would work out a lot cheaper than Clay. But he realized that if anyone could pull this one off, it was Clay. And this assignment was far too vital to be bungled.

“Seven thousand a day plus expenses. Not a penny more, not a penny less. And that’s my final offer.”

“Done,” said Clay.

“Money, that’s all you ever think about, isn’t it?” said Shooter.

“What else is there to think about?” said Clay, smiling at him. “Money makes the world go round. And where would we be without it.”

“Sometimes I wonder why we pay you so much money,” said Shooter resentfully. We’re wasting hard-earned taxpayers money on you.”

“I’m value for money and you know it,” said Clay with his cheeky smile.

“I can get three good agents for what I’m paying you,” said Shooter.

“That’s three for the price of one. But you’re one of my best guys, and I’ve got a soft spot for you.”

“Come off it,” said Clay jokingly. “You haven’t got a soft spot for your own mother, let alone a guy like me.”

Shooter smiled at him, but this time the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Watch what you say, Clay. You shouldn’t speak about anyone’s mother like that.”

They regarded each other for a moment, then Shooter continued to talk.

“An advance payment of £70,000 will be paid into you’re account. Spend it wisely. Agent Bond will give you all the necessary details.”

“Cool,” said Clay, grinning at Shooter.

Money was very essential to him and he never got tired of talking about it. The more money he could lay his hands on, the better.

“Has Prince got any other relatives that you know of?”

“He’s got a grown up daughter and a grown up son from a previous marriage,” said Hudson.

“I hope so,” said Clay, looking down at Laura Prince’s photograph. “He was old enough to be this chick’s father.”

“She was his second wife,” said Hudson.

Clay regarded Hudson.

He had been so busy concentrating on Shooter that there had been times when he had forgotten that Hudson was also in the room.

“Can’t Pretty boy, Hudson handle this job?”

“I haven’t got your knack with women,” said Hudson, smiling at Clay.

“You’re tailor-made for the job.”

Agent Janet Bond smiled.

“And why is Agent Bond smiling?” said Clay teasingly.

Janet Bond lost her smile and stared at him. There was something about Clay that she didn’t like.

“I wasn’t smiling at you.”

What a chick, thought Clay giving her his dazzling smile. She reminded him of the girl that he had spent the night with. They both had blonde hair and blue eyes, but Bond was undoubtedly the better looking of the two.

“One of these days, we’ll go for a curry.”

“I don’t like curries and I don’t like you,” said Janet Bond.

“One of these days, you’re gonna love me,” said Clay teasingly.

Bond’s eyes flashed angriliy.

“One of these days, Clay, I’m gonna…”

She suddenly stopped without finishing her sentence, aware that Shooter was watching her with interest. She would have loved to have given Clay a piece of her mind. She would have loved to have told him exactly what she thought of him. But she didn’t want to lose her composure in front of her boss.

“Enough of that,” said Shooter, sensing it was time that he intervened.

“Now Agent Bond will give you the details.”

Special Agent, Janet Bond regained her composure and started to talk in her posh accent.

About Author David Snowdon:

Brirtish thriller writer, David Snowdon was born in London, and currently lives in London. His first book, Too Young To Die, was published in August 2006, while his second book, The Mind of a Genius, was published in November 2007. Snowdon started writing in 1983, and wrote his first book, which hasn’t been published.

Author Website - http://www.the-mind-of-a-genius.com

Order details - http://www.the-mind-of-a-genius.com/order.html

The Illumination Excerpt

The Illumination
A Novel
By Jill Gregory and Karen Tintori

Excerpt

Prologue

Iraq National Museum

Baghdad

April 12, 2003

Ibrahim Baaj picked his way through the darkness.

All around him, irreplaceable history lay shattered. As U.S. troops advanced along the dusty streets of Baghdad, chaos and pandemonium ruled. And so did greed.

Ibrahim understood greed. He was driven by it. It was greed that called him here tonight as common looters stormed the great museum. Little did this rabble know that his greed surpassed even theirs. As did his daring.

He was betraying men so powerful, so far-reaching, that he himself marveled at the brazenness of his own audacity.

Ibrahim smiled to himself through the sweat dripping from beneath his mustache. This steamy stone building was home to 170,000 of Mesopotamia’s oldest cultural treasures—some dating back to the cradle of civilization. Yet the crazed throng coursed through the galleries, shooting, grabbing, smashing, and plundering as if they were in a junk shop.

Very few were professionals as he was, searching with purpose and discrimination, carefully selecting the booty they would spirit away. Yet he suspected that amid this greedy throng there must be one or two agents who’d been sent by the United States or Israel, for both nations knew that this museum hid the greatest treasure of them all. The treasure he’d come for and intended to claim before the night was over.

Ibrahim gasped for air as he descended alone into the windowless, blackened bowels of the building and the oxygen-deprived chamber closed in around him. He paused to listen, blinking as beads of sweat stung his eyes. Despite the clamor above, he could discern no sounds down here besides his own ragged breaths. Trying to ignore the stale stench, he edged forward, prowling through the tomblike underworld of the museum’s five basement storerooms. The narrow beam of his flashlight was nearly useless, barely illuminating the floor directly beneath his feet.

No matter. He’d had twelve years while Saddam’s Republican Guard patrolled the compound—fearing another American strike—to memorize the crudely sketched layout that Aslam Hameed had given him. Twelve years to rehearse in his mind’s eye, waiting for a night like this one, with Saddam in hiding, the Americans on the march, and the museum’s courtyard gates smashed open. Now the moment was upon him.

He must seize it.

Nejeeb Zayadi knew the fifth storeroom as well as he knew his own wife’s body. Lovingly, he’d cared for the treasure secreted within it, just as his family had for generations. They were a family of caretakers.

Only a few outside of his brood knew what lay nestled here within the lockers. The slim storage bins looked innocuous enough—like the metal lockers outside any school gymnasium. But these compartments that he tended, checking daily to make certain they were secure, held wealth beyond measure. Coins, gold, silver—and the Eye.

Even the director of the museum knew nothing of the Eye’s presence. She didn’t even possess keys for all of the locks in this vast museum. It was he, Nejeeb, who had slipped the treasure deep inside the back set of lockers in 1966, transferring it from the old museum alongside the Tigris, where his father had preceded him in watching over it.

Nejeeb’s father had been a child when the vigil began. He’d told Nejeeb many times about how he was awakened by the voice of the stranger who had come to his father in the dead of night.

“Guard this until I return. I will make it well worth your trouble,” the stranger had said in a voice that sounded to the sleepy boy like the wind howling across the sand.

As Nejeeb’s father had peeked through the crack in the door, he’d watched his father shivering in his nightshirt, staring down at something in his palm, looking stunned.

“What is this?” Nejeeb’s grandfather had asked.

“Something dangerous in the wrong hands. I am entrusting you with it because your family name is an honored one, recorded among those who served in the court of King Nebuchadnezzar. Your table will always have bread and your sons will always have honor if you keep this safe.”

Nejeeb’s grandfather was dead now. Nejeeb’s father was dead, too, and Nejeeb himself was an old man. Soon his eldest son would step into the role of caretaker. For how long? Nejeeb wondered. Year after year, the money still came, but the strange man had never returned.

Nejeeb hoped that in his lifetime he would learn the truth about that which he guarded. If he could keep it safe through tonight?.?.?.?

A sudden sound in the darkness made Nejeeb jump. Footsteps. The creak of a drawer opening. One of the looters has made his way to the treasure rooms. Someone who knows to search for the keys.

Nejeeb’s gnarled hand tightened momentarily on the key he kept pinned inside his shirt, then fell to his side as he groped for his gun. But what good was a gun in the dark? Swearing under his breath, his fingers latched onto his pushbroom—it would sweep in a wider arc.

Fear congealed in his bowels as he heard the footsteps coming closer. More drawers opening, closing. A quick gleam of light, a shadow—all he needed to pinpoint the intruder. The old man lunged, lashing out fiercely with his broom, but it sliced through dead air. He swung it again and this time it connected—but he found himself suddenly dragged with it, pitching forward, down. Hitting the ground, he choked on dust and fumbled in panic for the gun—but it was too late.

He felt the blade nick at his throat an instant before it slashed his Adam’s apple in two.

Blood spurted across Ibrahim Baaj’s beard as he dispassionately searched the old caretaker’s body in the dark, hunting for a key ring. Nothing had jangled when he’d fallen.

Ibrahim’s search was quick but thorough. His fingers froze on the single key pinned inside the old man’s shirt.

One key. Interesting. It could be the one.

He switched on the flashlight for an instant, and located the lockers. Then, careful not to slip on the blood pooled around the old man’s body, he moved toward the lockers, praying for a perfect fit.

There wasn’t much time. He was surprised he hadn’t already been forced to dispatch a competitor tonight, one armed with inside information as accurate as his own. But the air held only the smell of must and blood and death, no hint of the adrenaline sweat of another human.

Noiselessly, he slid the key into a dozen locks before a tumbler finally clicked home. His heart thrummed with excitement as he pried open the door.

His fingers found a worn leather pouch tucked behind boxes of metal coins, clay cylinders, and small pottery figurines, all of which he ignored. He tore at the drawstring. There was no time to study it now, but he beamed the light inside just long enough to glimpse the dull gleam of ancient gold and the gem-emblazoned eyes staring back at him, one from each side. He had it: The prize countless men around the world had been seeking for centuries was in his palm.

Through pitch darkness, Ibrahim retraced his steps. Barely breathing, he slipped through the mob of thieves like an eel through deep water, smuggling the treasure through the chaos and rubble, easily concealing it within the pocket of his coat.

Then he was racing through the shouts and the gunfire of the streets. Panting, he sank into his car and sped north until he came to a field far from the city, far from the gun battles raging through Baghdad.

Ignoring the thick curtain of unrelenting heat, Ibrahim hacked at the dirt until he’d dug three feet down. He paused only for a moment to wipe the sweat stinging his eyes and to gaze upon the treasure again before he buried it.

It was just as it had been described in the crumbling manuscript he’d been shown: the timeworn leather drawstring pouch, painted on each side with a black-rimmed eye of bright blue.

A shiver ran through him as he untied the pouch adorned with the ancient protective symbol, thinking of the riches its contents would bring him. Carefully, he found the golden chain nestled within, and he drew the egg-shaped pendant out.

The Eye. It was magnificent, like no other—a pendant of hammered gold inlaid on both sides with jewels depicting an eye. He turned it over to make sure—smiling as he saw the identical orb staring at him from the opposite side.

Greedily his fingers traced over the red and yellow gemstones forming the center of the Eye and around the borders of lapis lazuli lined thick as Cleopatra’s kohl.

But Ibrahim dared not break apart the pendant to gaze upon the treasure locked inside.

His hands shaking slightly with urgency, he shoved it back inside the pouch and buried it, as war raged throughout his homeland. The treasure and its innate power had lain hidden for centuries here in Babylon. It would remain hidden a bit longer, until his price was met.

Ibrahim Baaj snuck back into the city by the same route he’d left it. Tomorrow, while the world learned how horribly its cultural history had been plundered, he would betray those who had hired him to seize it and would launch the bidding war for his prize.

But there was no tomorrow for Ibrahim. As he listened to the sounds of war exploding through his city, war came to him. A rapid burst of gunfire ripped through the windshield and blew his left eye through the back of his head.



Chapter 1

Five years later

Baghdad

The sand was everywhere—in her throat, in her eyelashes, embedded beneath the screw-on cap of her Gatorade bottle. Dana Landau had always loved the beach, but after three months in Iraq she’d be more than happy to never again feel the grit of sand between her toes.

“A few more minutes and I’ll have the rest of the footage,” her cameraman, Rusty Sutherland, called out.

“Make it fast.” Dana glanced warily around as he panned the wreckage yet again. She’d seen enough. And every minute they were out here, away from the fragile security of the Green Zone, they were in the devil’s hands.

If you liked this excerpt, read the full book by purchasing it at http://us.macmillan.com/BookCustomPage.aspx?isbn=9780312375973#Excerpt

Blog Tours Coming

Next week is going to be a busy week for me on this blog. I will be hosting two author blog tours right here on Sue's Snippets. I am so excited!

On Monday, January 26th, Jill Gregory and Karen Tintori, authors of The Illumination, will be sharing their book with us. There will be a book give-away. So make sure you stop by and comment on Monday, January 26th. It is an all day event online.

Wednesday, January 28th, Phyllis Schrieber, author of Sinner's Guide to Confession, will be right here on Sue's Snippets. Make sure you stop by on Wednesday, January 28th and make a comment to have a chance in Phyllis' book give-away. This is another online all day event.

I am looking forward to all comments and questions for these two blog tours.

Til Next Time!