Documents and Danger: The truth can destroy
This is an except from a new work...


A constant buzzing finally pulled Darby out of a deep sleep.
Groggy and disoriented, he shook his head to help clear it, but realized that was a mistake. Any rapid movement aggravated a painful hangover. Regaining consciousness, blurry memories of the previous evening floated by in a surreal sequence.

He recalled giving a speech on document theory, followed by too many congratulatory drinks afterwards. He vaguely remembered Champagne toasts followed by an excessive amount of Scotch. The rest was a blur. There was a glass of water on the wide bedside table that he greedily gulped down, rinsing his thick tongue and furry mouth.

Somewhat conscious, his brain connected the buzzing to the telephone. Picking up the receiver, he noticed the bedside clock read 5:00. He fell back on the pillow and croaked out a brief hello.
“Monsieur Darby, this is the Hotel’s concierge calling. I’m sorry to disturb you Sir, but there is a rather insistent gentleman here that is demanding to speak to
you.”
“Have you tried to get his phone number so I can call him later?” hoped Darby.
“Oui Monsieur,” the concierge responded, “but he was rather insistent, and not the sort of gentleman that is easy to refuse.”
Why someone would call him so early mystified him, hoping it wasn’t some crackpot that found out where he was staying. Then again, his reputation often produced important calls at all hours.

“Alright, put him on,” agreed Darby.
A deep baritone voice boomed through the phone, causing Darby move it away from his ear. Loud voices seemed to echo in his befuddled brain.
“Sir Edmund Darby?” inquired the man, rather unnecessarily thought Darby, “I am very sorry for disturbing you, but my business is of the utmost importance. Your secretary helped me find you by telling me at which Hotel I could find you, and I left for Paris in my private plane at once.”
Darby had an image of strangling his secretary's throat, but politely asked him who he was and the nature of his business with him.
The impeccable and slightly musical voice of the man continued.

“My name Sir, is Falcon Roundtree, and I have just arrived in Paris two hours ago, with a very important package from my solicitor for your eyes only. I have read several of your books, and have the utmost trust in your discretion and judgment. I read the accompanying letter, and recognized the delicate nature of the historical treasure in my possession. I don’t mean to impose upon your time, but if I could deliver this to you at your earliest convenience, it would take a great load off my mind. When you recognize the nature of my gift, I’m sure you will understand my haste.”

“Well thank you for your confidence in my abilities,” replied Darby, thinking there was something familiar with the man's voice, “why don’t we meet for brunch in the Hotel’s dining room at, let’s say, 11:00”
“I will look forward to meeting you,” the deep voice resounded, “I’m well aware of your appearance, so I will find you. Until then.” The phone disconnected, and Darby left a 9:30 wake-up call with the concierge. After that, he immediately fell back for some much needed sleep.

Darby was in the middle of pleasant dream when the jarring buzz of the telephone shattered the dream. Just to be sure, he checked the time; sure enough, it was 9:30. He sat up, rubbed his eyes and answered the phone. The extra sleep helped, but he still had fireworks exploding in his head. Thanking the clerk for the wake-up call, he asked for some aspirin, a coffee, orange juice, and the London Times.

Reluctant to leave the comfortable bed, he slowly organized his thoughts. Deciding a shower would help, he dragged himself out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Passing his suitcase, he remembered a prescription painkiller he had for an old skiing accident. Deciding the bongo player on his brain qualified as acute pain, he rummaged around until he found them. The bottle’s label said two every four hours; accordingly, his pounding headache made four every two hours sound medically acceptable. Forgetting that one could be quite potent, he quickly swallowed four tablets, his throbbing head making decisions a more reasonable mind would make.

Adjusting the shower from scalding to hot, he jumped in and immediately felt the forceful jets renew his abused body. Letting the magical spray soothe his aching muscles, he had just rinsed up when he heard a loud knock at the door. Turning off the shower, he quickly dried himself and donned a thick terrycloth robe, provided by the hotel.

Feeling human again, he answered the door, accepted the tray and had the bellhop wait while he scooped a sizable tip. The aroma of fresh coffee after the shower made him feel human again. As he settled on the couch to check the news and enjoy his coffee, his headache was replaced with a warm, fuzzy feeling. Attacking the orange juice to slake his thirst, he felt good. The painkillers must be kicking in. When it was time to get dressed for his appointment, he felt lightheaded and giddy. Getting dressed became an enjoyable chore. If he had enough time to reach page six in the Times, his good mood would have turned to worry and trepidation. Once dressed, he took a quick look in the mirror, approved of what he saw, pocketed the room’s key card and left for his mysterious meeting.


Darby was ten minutes early. The restaurant was sparsely occupied by sleepy-eyed guests, and had that relaxed, early morning ambiance. Darby headed to the buffet, grabbed his tray and utensils, and moved down the line to see what was on the menu.

The pills seemed to encourage his appetite. He settled on eggs benedict, sausages, a buttered croissant, tomato juice and coffee. Spotting a quiet table with a window view, he slowly maneuvered his way over, careful not to spill anything. He arranged his dishes neatly, and gave the empty tray to a passing waitress. The food looked delicious and he started with the eggs benedict, enjoying the famous Parisian cooking.

Sipping his coffee after the dishes had been cleared away, he was about to check his watch when a large, well-fed black man joined him with a pleasant good morning. Judging from the man’s impeccable dress, manner, and cultured English accent, Darby thought he was from one of the English colonies. There was something about the man that triggered a memory in Darby, but he couldn't quite place it. After a bit of innocent chitchat, he found out the man owned two resorts: one on the Cote D’azure, the other, Burmuda. He was also a document collector, and that was when Darby remembered who he was.

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