If you’re looking for your next book to curl up with in the hammock or need something to take to the beach this summer, then I recommend, “Political Dirty Trick” by my friend, James Callan.
After a successful career in mathematics and computer science, receiving grants from the National Science Foundation and NASA, and being listed in Who’s Who in Computer Science and Two Thousand Notable Americans, James R. Callan turned to his first love—writing. He has had four non-fiction books published. “Political Dirty Trick” is Jim’s twelfth release. He has agreed to share an excerpt with us so here’s a taste of what you’ll be getting with this new book.
She crept into the room, a mere shadow. No sound. No trace of her presence. The small flashlight she pulled from her pocket produced only a slight glow, hardly noticeable from across the room, invisible from outside. But it revealed the major objects in the room: a desk, two chairs. And the Mondrian. She studied the painting for a moment. Why would
anyone pay big bucks for this nonsense? With a canvas, a paint pallet and a bottle of vodka I could produce the same thing in an hour or two. Would anyone pay me three hundred thou for it? Not a chance.
No one was in the house, yet she moved with care to lift the painting off the wall. Lighter than she expected and only about three feet square. She turned and glided out of the room. Except for the missing painting, nothing had been disturbed, not even the dust. She made her way down the short hall and into the kitchen, headed out the way she came in.
A noise, ever so slight, came from the back door. A key slipped into a lock.
The owner, at a campaign rally, shouldn’t be home for another hour. Light flooded the entry room and she heard footsteps coming toward the kitchen, toward her. The room was still dark, but her eyes had become accustomed to the low light. Her mind raced as fast as her heartbeat. She started forward, then stopped. Back toward the study would leave her exposed in the hall.
The only other exit was a door on her left. She opened it. A pantry. She slipped in, and eased it shut just as the kitchen lit up.
The person walked as if familiar with the house, confident of the surroundings. Leather soles. Heavy. Probably a man. He hesitated. She held her breath. What if he opened this door? Her flashlight was too small for a weapon. The muscles in her body tightened like a boa constrictor.
The person moved on, headed down the hall. She waited, mentally counting off the number of seconds she had taken to reach the office. Please let him go into the living room.
She waited ten seconds, eased open the door. Light spilled from the study. She stepped out of the pantry, painting in hand. Before she could close the pantry door, she heard leather shoes pivot on hardwood floors. Now the steps had more purpose, as the man started back. She looked at the lights and the distance to the back door and took the only safe route: back into the pantry. She had just closed the door when the man reentered the kitchen.
The bright lights had destroyed her night vision and now she could see nothing. But she could hear. The man stopped, and began punching numbers into a telephone.