Furniture Sliders by Alexander Bentley

A Max Calder Spy-Fi Mystery

The Bureau Archives Trilogy Book 1

New York, Vienna, Prague, Montevideo 1947. The war sputtered to an uneasy close, but in the alleys and underground bunkers of a city still cloaked in smoke, another kind of conflict is just beginning—one that plays out in shadows, half-truths, and false identities. The Cold War has begun.

Max Calder, former intelligence operative turned washed-up fixer, wants out. Out of the Bureau, out of the lies, out of the war that keeps rewinding like a scratched gramophone. But when a ghost from his past—the elusive agent known only as Artemis—resurfaces with a whispered warning and a briefcase full of half-truths, Calder is pulled back in.

The Bureau is chasing a secret called The Mirror—a project so classified that even its architects have vanished or been silenced. It’s said to control time, memory, even identity itself. Calder’s ordered to destroy it. But as he tracks the Mirror’s echoes across smoke-filled jazz clubs, half-empty safehouses, and wartime graveyards, the lines between hunter and hunted begin to blur.

Artemis may be an ally. Or she may be a weapon.
The Bureau may be protecting the world. Or rewriting it.
And Calder? He may not even be who he thinks he is.

As bodies pile up and truths unravel, Calder must navigate a world where nothing stays still—where every room slides just a few inches sideways when you’re not looking. In the end, he’ll face one impossible choice:

Burn the truth… or become it.

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Excerpt from Furniture Sliders © Copyright 2025 Alexander Bentley

CHAPTER 1
MISSING MEMORIES

The Mirror doesn’t reflect – it remembers. And when it remembers you, it never forgets. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was about to find out.

The cloudy, overcast sky hung drearily over New York City like a smothering veil, daring anyone to head out without an umbrella. It hadn’t rained in days – unless you counted the nearly endless, incessant drizzle that accompanied the fog most mornings and evenings. I nursed my second whiskey at The Old Crow, a hangover from the old speakeasy days and an ideal bar for me tucked behind a shop on 10th Avenue. Dim, smoky, and filled with jazz on the weekends. I watched the regulars, as I did most days. Hell’s Kitchen was a melting pot of various types. The cigarette smoke lingered in the air from one particularly rowdy table. The men here were equal parts tough and typically respectful, being largely retired officers, navy men, or prizefighters. But when the beer and bourbon flowed, they would eventually become more animated.

That was how they spoke now, swinging their mugs here and there, demanding refills, and generally being an annoying bunch. The biggest of the men sat near the window, his arm resting against the sill and his overgrown beard bouncing in a jolly fashion as he laughed. He was recounting how he used to be the most prized fighter of the lot down on the corner of 34th – a story no doubt embellished slightly by the liquor but still grounded in an element of truth.

I stared out the window once more as best I could from my bar seat, glancing up and down the empty street. It was nearing dusk, and the drizzle would soon begin – impaling itself upon the world in that unwanted fashion like a drunkard upon his wife. I handled mine well, but some of these men did not – just like now.

I watched as she entered the bar, the door swinging shut behind her with a rusty squeak. As she walked in, every man’s head at the table turned toward her, the big burly man turning slightly redder in the chin than he had been already. I couldn’t dismiss their sentiment, either. This woman was stunning.

She held a cig in one hand, her dark clothes blending seamlessly into the musky environment of the bar. Her chin was sharp, but her lips were gentle, red, and alluring. She had the face of a woman who knew who she was – confident and unafraid of the men around her.

I grinned to myself as I took a sip of my drink. I liked to make bets with myself, and more often than not, I cashed in on them. Her auburn hair was a distraction for the drunken crew at the table, but not for me.

I could tell from her demeanor that she was accustomed to environments like this – though the red scarf around her neck was of a quality and cleanliness that suggested she was no lady of the night. Rather, her long trench coat hinted at a woman in a particular profession, like the one I had been in many years ago. Or so I thought… I wasn’t quite sure yet. My memories had become fuzzy recently, and I squinted as I watched her. Was she a federal agent? Or simply a local detective? No, she couldn’t have been local – her face didn’t scream New York, nor did her polite accent as she slid onto a barstool several seats away from mine and ordered a drink.

“Gin and tonic.” Her voice was clear and direct.