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Born and raised in New York City. PhD from New York University. Worked as a historical archaeologist, specializing in cities or, if you will, urban archaeology.”
    “Do you want my autograph?”
    He closed the file and stared at me. “Tell me, why did a highly touted urban archaeologist, once viewed as the second-coming of Hiram Bingham III, leave it all behind to become a treasure hunter?”
    “Mid-life crisis?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “You’ve got my file,” I replied. “Why don’t you tell me?”
    “Three years ago, there was an incident. One week later, you were gone.”
    My expression hardened. “Is that so?”
    “Yes. And since then, you’ve been on the move, traveling from country to country, never staying in one place for more than a few months. You eke out a living by retrieving lost or stolen artifacts. But as far as I can tell, you’re extremely discerning about the jobs you take.”
    “Not discerning enough, apparently.”
    “You’re a treasure hunter,” he continued. “Yet you retain the soul of an archaeologist.”
    I rolled my eyes. “Thanks for the psychoanalysis. Now, it’s my turn. You’re a wealthy executive who doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. People are pawns to you. You think nothing of kidnapping an innocent man and holding him against his will. In short, you’re a powerful man. Yet you retain the soul of a coward.”
    He leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs. “I see that I owe you an explanation. I’m the founder, owner, and CEO of a small security-consulting firm named ShadowFire. We’re headquartered out of Manhattan. I’m also the acting Chairman of the Metropolitan Transportation Authority.”
    I laughed. “The MTA? New York’s MTA? You must be joking.”
    “It’s not a joke. The previous chairman passed away less than a month ago. I’m assuming the reins until a more suitable replacement can be found.”
    “So what do you want from me?”
    “I want to hire you.”
    “Pass.”
    “That’s too bad. Because I think I can help you.”
    “Help me? You must be out of your mind.”
    “You have hefty legal charges pending due to the, ah, incident. I can make that disappear and provide you with a generous stipend to boot. In other words, I can give you a blank slate. How does that sound?”
    “Too good to be true.”
    He smiled, a bit too widely for my liking. “I know what you’re thinking but I can assure you there’s no catch. Upon successful completion of the assignment, my lawyers will negotiate with the necessary parties to clear your legal record. In addition, we will provide you with a substantial dowry. One million dollars to be exact.”
    One million dollars. That was mouth-watering, life-altering money. But I didn’t like the strings attached to it. “Not interested.”
    “Just hear me out.”
    Obviously, he wasn’t going to give up. And anyway, I wasn’t in much of a position to bargain. “Okay,” I replied after a moment. “I’m listening. What’s the assignment?”
    Chase lifted an old color Polaroid from the desk and passed it to me. The faded image depicted a strange-looking fellow, with puffy eyes, a bulbous nose, and misshapen shoulders.
    Sort of like the love child of an ostrich and an ape.
    “His name is Dr. Karl Hartek,” Chase said. “He was a German physicist during the Second World War.”
    “What happened to him?”
    “He emigrated to the United States in 1945, shortly after the surrender of Nazi Germany. He was a part of Operation Paperclip.”
    “Never heard of it.”
    “It was a program designed by the Office of Strategic Services. With the war coming to an end, America was already looking ahead to the Cold War. So, they recruited former Nazi scientists to come to America. After several months of interviews in Cape Canaveral, Hartek was relocated to Manhattan. He vanished a few years later.”
    “So what?”
    “My researchers have linked Hartek to the Organisation der ehemaligen SS-Angehörigen , or