The Hook.

January of 1993.

Vancouver.

Convincing someone to do something they don't want to do is one of the most basic skills in the arsenal of a spy. Our jobs rely on our ability to sweet talk people. Influence them. Deceive them. We try to make them want what we want, see our logic, and present our ideas as their own. When we set them on the right path – or the wrong path – we can slip into the shadows and watch the consequences unfold. It was like we were never there. No one remembers our names, our faces. And even if they do, they can never convince anyone we were there. Jim who? I never met anyone called Jim. What do you mean this was his idea?

I needed to do that with someone who was very talented at staying under the radar. Naturally cautious, self-taught to be apprehensive.

Yolanda Randolph – Yora.

In preparation for this meeting, I had sucked a little more intel out of a friend of mine back home, carefully keeping the details to myself. If the organization knew I was within striking distance of Yora, they would order me to kill her.

And now I knew why.

It was late October 1983. Yora was a secretary for one of the top authorities in the US Treasury. She was privy to classified information as part of her job. She downloaded files after work one day, intending to split town and sell the information. She wanted to start a new life, apparently. Her boss caught her after coming back to the office to get his coat. Yora killed him. She stabbed him forty-seven times with a letter opener, in an attack that was recorded on the security cameras. Yora split town, leaving her husband, four-year-old daughter, and old life behind.

Only the man she killed was not part of the treasury department. He was a spy, living his late years in a cushy intel job. His death was swept under the rug, a hit silently put out on her life. She resurfaced and got a file, empty except for an ominous 'contact the agency' notice.

Yora was middle-aged, with bobbed black hair, overly-white makeup, and blue eyeshadow. Her eyes were dark and almond-shaped. She was a beautiful woman, dressed up in a tight red dress, like she had somewhere to be other than the back room of a bank – a party, a social event, a red carpet.

I was sitting across from someone who had been on the run for a while. I wondered if she knew she had killed a spy. She had to have noticed that the murder was not publicized. Did she have enough street smarts to suspect something bigger?

"Arthur White," I said to her.

Yora had been quiet since I arrived, listening to me explain myself and talk up my ideas. She trusted Amelia, and so she accepted the meeting. But she was weary. She thought I was a cop. Murderers never stopped looking over their shoulders, never stopped wondering if one day the hammer would fall. There was no statute of limitations.

She cocked an eyebrow, "Who is that?"

"A businessman. A politician." I tried to look at comfortable as possible in my armchair, exuding confidence, letting her feel like she was the smartest person in the room. You have to give the line some slack to make the fish bite.

"Is that your big idea? Just a name?"

"No." I produced an envelope, aware that her security team tensed when I moved. "I have evidence that Arthur White cheated on his wife – repeatedly. He has two young daughters, married for ten years, running on a platform of family values and religion. Some say he may be on track to become the next president of the United States."

She was clearly interested, but she hid it well. "I'm not sure you understand my business. What was your name again?"

"Michael Harris."

"Mr. Harris, I don't think you and I will be working together."

"Are you going to stick with extorting drug addicts and struggling families your whole life? Or are you going to make a real name for yourself?"

I saw a spark of anger in her eyes. Good. Emotion was good.

"Careful. You're in my house."

"I'm just saying, you're better than that. You could move up."

"I think my business model suits me well."

"Does it? Why did you go after Dino's cousin, then? Because that seems a little out of your normal range of operations. It seems like you want to branch out. You have the muscle, the name. And the information." I dropped the envelope on her desk.

She reached out, drawing it to her, and leafed through the photos.

"I appreciate your candor, Mr. Harris, and your… persistence. But our relationship ends here. Stay away from my people or get a bed beside your friend in the hospital."

She flicked her wrist, dismissing me, and her men stepped forward to usher me out.

I walked two blocks to meet up with Sam.

He was eating a bagel in the car. He offered me half, which I turned down.

"You never eat enough," Sam complained. "It's a wonder you're not all bones." He spoke through a big bite, finishing the last half before he went on. "How'd it go? She take the bait?"

"I think so. She kept the pictures."

"Did you play dumb?"

"Dumb enough to give her my whole plan."

"Atta boy."

Sam was quiet for a moment, picking bagel out of his teeth, and then he said, "White has a lot going for him. This will ruin his life."

"Actions have consequences."

Sam glanced over, a sad look entering his eyes.

I hated it when he looked at me like that.

"I feel bad for him, Sam, but we need Yora to put herself out there. We were lucky my buddy had intel on any valuable targets. White was the least harmful." I didn't want to seem heartless in front of Sam. I felt bad about White, but the truth was there. He was having affairs, screwing his family over for a little carnal fun. Would it really be such a bad thing to kick him out of the spotlight? What if he became president and these things came to light afterwards?

Sam sighed. "I guess you're right. Should I set up a meeting with Gagnon?"

"I have his number, remember? I can do it."

Sam frowned. "I'm coming as backup. Gagnon can pout all he wants."