Counterfeit Yabit Excerpt

The evil General Lucian Ess and his diminutive little chief of staff, Tiny, are at it again in a small community where Tiny has enlisted an unlikely pair of elderly siblings in his age old vendetta against Yabit.  The ever du-plicitous little demon has used a cunningly crafted stunningly creative package of old lies and half-truths to convince the two to abandon an unfinished palace assignment, and the siblings are now unwittingly working for him.

Spearheading a rescue operation code named Silent Shadow, Yabit has been dispatched from the palace to do something about it, but her arrival does not go unnoticed by the enemy troops.  She will have to navigate her way through a dark labyrinth of intertwining plots and counterplots as the rebellious exiled general harnesses the media and public opinion to make her work ever more difficult by casting her as everything from an impotent stuffed toy, to an internationally conceived electronic robot spy, to a recently arrived alien being from an unidentified solar system.

Join Yabit as she finds herself in a life and death struggle battling pride, ignorance and a dangerous, often clueless obstinacy in the very people she has been sent to help.  

What the readers are saying

I’m not a reader but I couldn’t put this book down until I finished it.  TMR, Washington

The suspense in Counterfeit Yabit is outstanding.  I had to finish it to find out how it all worked out.  TP, New Mexico

I don’t have much time to read but I stayed up late because I kept reading just one more chapter.  PreMed university student, Washington

Chapter Twenty-One, The Call

“You wrote him a what?”

The cell phone’s reception was as clear as Gillian’s surprise.  “How come you didn’t ask for his bank routing number and simply transfer the funds?  That’s what you usually do.”

“On my way up I went over all your research.  It seemed to me it would require a little old fashioned drama to jar him out of his rut.”

“So you arrived unannounced in a shiny new Benz.  Did you meet the sister?”

“Your report made it quite clear that he is the key, that she is just there to help.”

“But you did not meet her.”

“No, I don’t think she was there.”

“So it’s not a done deal yet and you are waiting for the check to do its work.”  Her voice was gently critical.

“It won’t take long,” Jack said.  “Next stop I’ll get out my laptop and bring my day planner up to date.  In the meantime get them tickets to San Diego and make whatever arrangements you see fit to ensure they will enjoy their stay.”

“Will you want them at the house or at the house or at the Coronado Hotel?”

“The hotel.  I don’t see us developing any kind of relationship beyond providing an outlet for any other toys he comes up with.”

“You sound very sure.”

“I am,” Jack said.  “Is that doubt I hear in your voice?”

“You may have misread my report.”

“You wrote that she was his helper.”

“I did.  How would you describe Gillian MacKenzie’s position relative to Cavendish Kubichek International and Joaquin Alphonse Cavendish Kubicheck.”

“It’s too late to go back and meet her,” Jack said.  “It would spoil the effect.”

“I have no doubt of that, but if it’s all the same to you I will wait to check schedules and that sort of thing until the check is cashed.  Anything else?”

“The sun,” Jack said, “will not go down before his signature is on the back of that check,” but there was doubt in his mind as he closed the little phone.

He was about to start the car when his cell phone made its preprogrammed little sound.  He took out the instrument again, checked the caller ID and smiled.  The sun was still well above the horizon.  “This is Jack,” he said into the mouthpiece.

“Mr. Kubicheck, this is Francis Delaney.” 

The voice was clearly the same voice he had heard while he was there but in the subtle alteration of electronic transmission, it had somehow acquired a confident timbre Jack had not noticed during his short visit and along with Gillian’s doubt, it was eerily unsettling.  Perhaps it was better that he did go back and meet the sister.  How to gracefully do that eluded him; nothing for it but to be direct.  “I can come back,” he offered, “if you would prefer to discuss this in person.  I am not far away.”

“That will not be necessary, Mr. Kubichek.” There was something faintly insulting in the man’s refusal to accept his earlier invitation to call him Jack.  While the unsettling "Mr. Kubichek" ate its way into private parts of his mind, the voice continued.  “We have already made our decision.”

There was that ambiguous “we” again.  In the same usually private part of his mind that was trying to find the proper way to respond to the coolly formal “Mr. Kubichek,” he wondered if the “we” was in fact the neglected sisterly helper.

“You and Yabit,” he said wanting to hear again that the “we” had nothing to do with the sister and was simply an expression of the man’s slightly delusional affection and attachment to his admittedly inspired toy. 

“Yabit was very helpful, yes,” said the voice, “so I thought to include her, but in fact I thought to make the decision on my own.”

“Well good,” Jack said.  “I am glad to hear you are a man of decision.”  The tone of his voice was so palpably patronizing he could feel his face flush.  If Gillian’s report had made anything clear, it was that the toy designer was anything but decisive, yet the voice on the phone was clearly that.  It had to be the check doing its intended work.  The commanding confidence was from visions of new tools, a new shop that did not flood.  “Let me say again that the check is only a down payment,” Jack said.  “If it is all right with you, I shall make arrangements for you to come to San Diego where we can work out all the rights and royalty details with the appropriate staff I employ for that sort of thing.  Be assured my terms are always negotiable and invariably generous.”

“First,” answered the voice, “before we go any further there are three point you need to understand.”

Jack went rigid.  It was like hearing himself.  Was the man paranoid?  Did he secretly record everyone?  Before he could come up with any kind of response, it was too late.  The voice was once again the inventor’s instead of a frighteningly accurate simulation of his own.  “One,” it said, “Yabit is not for sale.  Two,” went the relentless recitation, “Francis Wofford Delaney is not for sale either.  Three, we are neither in need of soliciting or hoping for any offers.  We are doing very well just as we are.”

“You are?”  Jack could not remember ever hearing the sound of his own voice seem so horribly inadequate. 

“Of course,” said the perfectly controlled and modulated voice in exactly the same way Jack wanted his to sound. “Your offer and check are a manifest confirmation of how well we are doing.”  The pause was too brief to interrupt.  “Thank you for the encouragement. It is very much appreciated.  If you have any concern over the disposition of your very generous deposit in the amount of four hundred thousand dollars, we have taken the liberty of destroying the check.”

Remembering the decrepit barn and the pathetic tools, Jack felt a sudden flush of irrational anger.  “You are not doing well.  You need money.  You need tools.  You need marketing and you need managing.  I am offering all of these. I would sincerely advise you to reconsider,” Jack grated.  “I did not walk into your decrepit shop unprepared.  I ran a rigorous background check on you and let me put it this way as painful as it may sound.  Francis Wofford Delaney has been a loser long enough.  I am in the fortunate position to make winners of both you and your Yabit.”  Gaining steam, he paused, “Furthermore…”  But as he finished his lecture he realized he was talking to no one.  He held out his cell phone at arm’s length and wondering how it could have all turned sour so quickly, glared at the instrument as though it was the one at fault.