Chapter 1

Near nine o'clock, one evening in the month of November, a gentleman past fifty exited from the back of a limo in the courtyard of a small exclusive, walled hotel in the Northwest area of River City. He ascended the steps leading to the entrance where he was met by several Hotel personnel who awaited him. One of them showed him into the study of an elegant suite on the first floor, which connected with two handsome bedrooms.

While others brought in the luggage the valet arranged the fire in the fireplace, raised the lighting in all the rooms, informed the gentleman that the things from his garment bags had been hung in one of the closets and asked if he would like the things from his cases put away. Upon being told that it was not necessary the valet was about to retire, when the guest inquired.

"Have any in my party arrived?"

"Only Mr. Kruger, I believe he is in the hotel bar."

"Would you have someone inform Mr. Kruger that I have arrived, and would like to see him?"

"Of course Mr. Willingham, Jon will do it right away. Will you require anything else?"

"I think not, thank you." The valet having been dismissed left to inform the runner, Jon, of the guest's request that he locate Mr. Kruger and to inform him of Mr. Willingham's arrival.

Karl Kruger was seated alone at the bar having Cheviots Regal on the rocks. He was 45 years old, 6' tall and weighed 195 pounds. He had sandy blond hair and cornflower blue eyes. He had matinee idol good looks, was always well dressed and had impeccable manners. He was an electrical engineer from MIT. He had tried the corporate world but it was not for him so he started his own consulting business. It was far more satisfying intellectually but not financially until he had met Hubbell Willingham fifteen years ago. They had worked together several times and always with good result.

Finally alone, Hubbell J. Willingham, his friends said the J. stood for Jesus, crossed the room to the bar where he poured himself a Remy Martin and extracted a Cuban cigar from the deerskin case in his inside coat pocket. He snipped the end off and lit the cigar with the lighter from the desk. He held the cigar horizontal to the flame as he rotated it to assure an even burn. Only then did he take a puff and taste the rich tobacco flavor as he took the smoke into his mouth.

He was a tall man and while he engaged in no regimented exercise and ate all the wrong foods and drank far too much he was in exceptional physical condition weighing only 180 pounds. He had deep blue eyes and a full head of mostly gray hair. He was ruggedly handsome in a John Wayne sort of way. He was always well dressed no matter the occasion, being one of those fortunate people upon whom clothes always looked as if they had been designed for them for the requirements of that moment.

Hubbell had been born Weldon Willis on a farm in Southside Virginia fifty-three years ago. When he was a boy the farm was without electricity or running water. The pay as you go philosophy of Harry Byrd was still strong in the state. There was never much money but Hubbell did what all farm children did. They found ways to make money. Some raised their own chickens and sold the eggs, some raised a garden and sold the harvest in town or on the roadside, Hubbell, raised rabbits and sold them in town every Saturday. Rabbit was a popular food in the country and it was easier to buy them from Hubbell than to hunt or trap them. Rabbit taste like chicken only juicier and sweeter. It was excellent fried or stewed. Hubbell found it odd that these days you could only find rabbit, a poor man's food, on the menus in Europe and in greatly overpriced restaurants in the US.

By age sixteen Hubbell had had enough of farming. He bought himself a cheap suitcase and packed his few things and caught the bus for a trip that eventually ended in New York City. Being used to hard work on the farm and already being full grown Hubbell had no difficulty finding work. He discovered that he was good with details and planning but that he needed an education to take advantage of his skills. He spent time in the library and attending anything free where he could learn to speak properly and soak up what he considered culture.

At one time or another he attended classes at Columbia, NYU and City College even though he was never enrolled at any of them. There were so many students he figured one more would not be noticed. For the most part he was correct. He never engaged in the class discussions or in any way drew attention to himself that might reveal his status. The one time he was discovered was in an Art Appreciation class taught by Ms. Esther Finkelstein at Columbia. She was a plain woman in her forties. She had nondescript hair that had the beginnings of grey highlights and which she always wore in a bun. She had pretty hazel eyes hidden by unbecoming horn rimmed glasses. She wore unstylish loose fitting mid calf length off the rack dresses that she rotated every four days and ugly but comfortable shoes. Her only adornment for these outfits was a Star of David necklace and a lapel watch that she was forever checking during her lectures.

Hubbell was twenty-three by then and had already taken on his new name. He was known by some of the students at sight but did not engage many of them for fear of his lack of education showing. His good looks always drew sideways glances and some outright stares from the coeds. He was exceedingly bright but lacked the polish that would later be his hallmark. At the end of the second week of class Ms. Finkelstein pointed to Hubbell and said, "Young man, in the back row on the isle, please stay after class for a moment, I need to talk with you."

While the other students left Ms. Finkelstein gathered up her papers and books and told Hubbell to come with her to her office. The office was on the third floor of the Arts Building away from heavy foot traffic and like most faculty offices it was lined and stacked with books. Straight ahead as they entered was a desk and matching chair beneath a window overlooking the West Quad. To the right was a large red leather couch with several throw pillows scattered in no particular order.

"Please be seated there on the couch," she said as she put her things on the desk and took a seat in the desk chair. Opening a grading book she asked, "What is your name young man?"

Knowing he was caught he replied softly, "Hubbell Willingham, ma'am."

"I don't seem to have you in my book as being registered for this class."

He thought of telling her that he must have gotten in the wrong section of Art Appreciation or gotten the wrong class but he instinctively knew that it was not going to work with Ms. Finkelstein. She seemed way too sharp for that to get him by. He decided to do what he rarely did. Tell the truth.

"Ms. Finkelstein I'm not a student at Columbia."