The CBC Broadcast Centre in the heart of Toronto felt like the center of the universe—a maze of cables, blinking patch bays, and nervous energy. Liana, used to the comforting silence of the geology lab, looked physically pained by the sheer noise. Percy, however, felt energized. He was a natural in the booth, his baritone voice already deeper than the sound engineer's.
Ivan Reitman—all enthusiastic booms and quick smiles—led the session. "Give us the computer voice, kid. Calm. Deadpan. But with global texture."
Percy took the script and read the line for Johnny Chase: A Secret Agent in Space: "Access Granted. Mission Parameters Secured." The sound engineer played it back. The voice was perfect: entirely synthetic, yet uniquely human.
The job was immediately secured—$7,000 a month for a few hours of work. As Liana signed the mountain of CBC paperwork, Percy was pulled aside by the Production Assistant, Terry, a young man who claimed to have delivered props to John Candy during his SCTV days. Terry leaned in, his eyes darting toward Liana.
"The stuff, kid? The California Gold? The writers are burning out. We need a small line for the new episode tonight. Discreet delivery. $800 cash. I'll leave the drop point for you by the CITY-TV building later. Znaimer's office."
Percy returned Terry's handshake with a firm, practiced grip. "Mission Parameters Secured," he murmured, slipping the small, folded paper from Terry's palm. The cash engine was humming.
Lunch was a frantic, freezing taxi ride to Bay Street. Liana thought they were meeting a "financial advisor" recommended by the U of T Dean. Percy knew he was meeting the lawyer who represented his future.
The office was ridiculously plush, located down the hall from the firm representing the aggressively rising financier Conrad Black. Liana introduced Percy as her nephew from out of town, a talented math prodigy. The lawyer, Mr. Harding, a man in a waistcoat that looked too warm for the room, raised a skeptical eyebrow.
Percy didn't waste time with small talk. He leaned forward and, adopting the voice of a confident, seasoned investor, laid out his fictional 'Inheritance' from an 'eccentric, overseas uncle.' He then slid the envelope containing the $25,000 cash across the polished mahogany desk.
"This is the initial fund," Percy explained, his gaze unwavering. "I need the Perseus Star Trust established immediately in the Cayman Islands. Absolute confidentiality. It will handle the proceeds from a resource investment that requires non-traceable, high-volume liquidity."
Mr. Harding stared at the cash, then at the boy in the fine sweater. His professionalism warred with his shock. When Liana excused herself to take a call regarding a grant proposal, Harding made his decision. "The fee is considerable," he warned. Percy just tapped the envelope. "The returns will be historic, Mr. Harding. You'll be managing billions."
The Bay Street meeting had eaten up Liana's afternoon, forcing her to dedicate two frantic hours to reviewing a complex geological grant proposal she needed to submit to the U of T Dean by the next morning. She was completely buried under academic stress, perfectly distracted.
Percy used the window. He grabbed the small "Californian Gold" package from his dictionary, found the bus, hit the CITY-TV building on Queen Street West, and located the inconspicuous drop-off point Terry had marked. He was in and out in six minutes flat.
Back in the apartment, Liana was still glued to her desk, surrounded by geological reports. Percy, sitting on the rug, carefully counted the $800 cash Terry had left in the drop spot.
Initial Investment: $25,000 (Secured).
First Day's Profit: $800 (Clean).
Cover Job Secured: $7,000/month (Bulletproof).
Percy felt a pure surge of triumph. The financial gears of the Golden Caper were spinning, and the secret mastermind was a three-year-old boy who had just finished his first day in the Canadian black market. He put the money away and started coloring a picture of a rocket ship, waiting for his mother to come up for air.