Chapter 1: Chapter 1: The Job Offer
At 27, Edward Lowry was an investigative journalist who had everything. A week after winning his first award as a journalist last July, his boss Stacy Danvers called him up on the phone to inform him that Radar is going to cease publication next month. This news crushed him. He loved his job. To him, nothing compares to being on the field and writing about the great issues of the day. He spent the next couple of months feeling sorry for himself and getting drunk on the little veranda of his New York apartment every single night.
Edward woke up feeling hungover. He rolled up to the right side of the bed and stared at the clock on the bedside table. The clock read: 10:30 AM. He momentarily panicked, thinking that he was late for work and then remembered he had no work to go to. The light through the open windows assaulted his eyes and his hungover addled brain. He felt dehydrated, and so went shambling downstairs on his way to the refrigerator and drank two glasses of water in quick succession.
After a quick breakfast of stale pancakes and instant coffee, Edward went over to his laptop on the mantelpiece in the corner of his apartment and checked his email. His unread messages amounted to 98, the majority of them just an accumulation of spam messages, automated messages from online job sites, and many other odds and ends. He skimmed through all unread messages aimlessly, and stumbled on the words 'Project Black Velvet' as they sped towards the upper part of the screen. He stopped himself, scrolled back down until the title is placed squarely at the center of the screen. The sender read 'Mr. Wednesday.' The juxtaposition of these words rang strange to him, so he clicked on the link and read the message all the way through.
You are an excellent investigative journalist with no current prospects for employment at the moment and no hope of having one any time soon. In this day and age where superficiality is the norm, no one in their right mind would pay you the amount of money you deserve.
I’ve read your work. Rarely have I seen such incisive insight and such astute perception of truth from one so young. You were meant for great things. And now you have nothing.
Let me tell you who I am. My name is Ginsberg Wednesday.I am a very wealthy man, probably the wealthiest in the last two decades. Yet you’ll never find my name everywhere. I prefer to keep it that way. And you’d do well to keep it a secret.
Let me tell you what I do.I deal in
tactical forecasting, potentialities, and in areas where magic, science and geopolitics sometimes overlap. I peddle rare truths.
I am offering you a job as an investigative reporter. I will pay you two hundred thousand dollars upfront. If I you find what I’m looking for, I will pay you the remaining balance of eight hundred thousand dollars.
Meet me at the crash site of the often-rumored UFO crash landing that happened at the Fingerlakes Region back in 1943, You can find the address on the Internet. Meet me there on the twentieth of December, around midnight. You’ll find me sitting under the big Sycamore tree.