Sleeper Spy by William Safire Read Free Book Online Page A

idea.
    “You should be doing something more substantive,” he advised. “Something you can get your reportorial teeth into.” She had perfect, gleaming teeth, he realized, perhaps not reportorial; no matter. “Perhaps there’s a major subject that you could do in conjunction with a television special.” That would move a book off the shelves; even books on the English language grew legs when given the impetus of a TV series.
    “Matt, do you have a subject in mind?” Viveca sounded disappointed; her heart had undoubtedly been set on a biography of herself that she could control, one that would block any unfriendly biography from the market. Ace knew she was thinking of the blurbs about her talent from has-been colleagues of hers, or from famous clients of his, that would be used in advertising the hardcover, and of the hundreds of thousands of paperback copies that would carry those avidly solicited, smarmy encomia on the cover. He was not certain that blurbs sold any book, but he was sure that the prospect of blurbs sold some celebrities on writing books.
    “I have the germ of an idea,” he said. “It would be perfect for someone with your skills. Hello? Can you hear me?” He cut himself off, ostensibly going through the tunnel. Long association with Irving Fein had taught him a few communications tricks. He had stopped going through tunnels at the first suggestion that they might be targets of terrorists. Ace McFarland could see himself being blown gloriously off a bridge, never buried in a tunnel.

    He stepped off the elevator into his waiting room, assessed his appearance in the darkened glass opposite, and hailed Irving Fein, seated all over the couch. He would not remonstrate with Irving about stealing the books on the coffee table; that’s what the books were there for, to be stolen and replaced at publishers’ expense. He led his client down the long hall to his corner office, chirruping greetings to his associates and their assistants on the way.
    “I want a huge advance for a book,” said Irving, plopping himselfdown in the designer chair with the nubby fabric, then getting up, grabbing a couple of oversized throw cushions that were sticking into his back, and throwing them onto another chair. “I’ll invest it all in the research, which is gonna be a bitch.”
    Ace looked at him in weary fondness. “Presumably you are speaking of a six-figure advance,” he said. “Years ago, I was able to get that for you.”
    “Whatsamatter you can’t anymore? Losing a step?”
    “Times have changed, Irving. Publishers’ budgets have tightened, the number of blockbusters has grown smaller. Your own position has changed because of the smaller sales of your last book—which I personally thought was excellent, despite the reviews, and despite that unfortunate episode on your tour.” Fein had appeared in the Green Room moments before airtime for an interview, had refused to sign the standard release form because of its boilerplate waiver of libel protection, and had been pushed aside for a cookbook author.
    “I never waive my rights. The publicity dame knows that. Years ago, I was sitting in a Green Room with Edward Bennett Williams—we were guests on some show—and the producer’s sweetie comes in with the paper to sign. Williams, the great lawyer, showed me what to do. Where it says ‘hereby agree to hold harmless,’ he made a little caret after the ‘hereby’ and wrote in ‘do not’ and then signed it. The kid only knows from get the thing signed. But my luck, this time in L.A., the producer reads it and kicks me off. Fuck ’im. Besides, the books weren’t even in the stores yet in that town, so the whole thing would have been a waste of time.”
    “We all know,” the agent agreed with only a touch of irony, “how publishers conspire against authors to prevent the sale of their books.”
    “And they never advertise until it’s too late,” Fein added. “And the first printing is always