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In a word: Incline

When you first think of this word, it is with a slippery slope in mind.

I’ve been on a few of those in my time.

And while we’re on the subject, those inclines measured in degrees are very important if you want a train to get up and down the side of a mountain.

For the train, that’s an incline plane, the point where traction alone won’t get the iron horse up the hill.

Did I say ‘Iron Horse’?  Sorry, regressed there, back to the mid-1800s in the American West for a moment.

It’s not that important when it comes to trucks and cars, and less so if you like four-wheel driving; getting up near-vertical mountainsides often present a welcome challenge to the true enthusiast

But for the rest of us, not so much if you find yourself sliding in reverse uncontrollably into the bay.  I’m sure it’s happened more than once.

Then…

Are you inclined to go?

A very different sort of incline, ie to be disposed towards an attitude or desire.

An inclination, maybe, not to go four-wheel driving?

There is another, probably more obscure use of the word incline, and that relates to an elevated geological formation.  Not the sort of reference that crops up in everyday conversation at the coffee shop.

But, you never know.  Try it next time you have coffee and see what happens.

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Writing about writing a book – Day 2

Hang about.  Didn’t I read somewhere you need to plan your novel, create an outline setting the plot points, and flesh out the characters?

I’m sure it didn’t say, sit down and start writing!

Time to find a writing pad, and put my thinking cap on.

I make a list, what’s the story going to be about? Who’s going to be in it, at least at the start?

Like a newspaper story, I need a who, what, when, where, and how.

Right now.

 

I pick up the pen.

 

Character number one:

Computer nerd, ok, that’s a little close to the bone, a computer manager who is trying to be everything at once, and failing.  Still me, but with a twist.  Now, add a little mystery to him, and give him a secret, one that will only be revealed after a specific set of circumstance.  Yes, I like that.

We’ll call him Bill, ex-regular army, a badly injured and repatriated soldier who was sent to fight a war in Vietnam, the result of which had made him, at times, unfit to live with.

He had a wife, which brings us to,

Character number two:

Ellen, Bill’s ex-wife, an army brat and a General’s daughter, and the result of one of those romances that met disapproval for so many reasons.  It worked until Bill came back from the war, and from there it slowly disintegrated.  There are two daughters, both by the time the novel begins, old enough to understand the ramifications of a divorce.

Character number three:

The man who is Bill’s immediate superior, the Services Department manager, a rather officious man who blindly follows orders, a man who takes pleasure in making others feel small and insignificant, and worst of all, takes the credit where none is due.

Oops, too much, that is my old boss.  He’ll know immediately I’m parodying him.  Tone it down, just a little, but more or less that’s him.  Last name Benton.  He will play a small role in the story.

Character number four:

Jennifer, the IT Department’s assistant manager, a woman who arrives in a shroud of mystery, and then, in time, to provide Bill with a shoulder to cry on when he and Ellen finally split, and perhaps something else later on.

More on her later as the story unfolds.

So far so good.

What’s the plot?

Huge corporation plotting to take over the world using computers?  No, that’s been done to death.

Huge corporation, OK, let’s stop blaming the corporate world for everything wrong in the world.  Corporations are not bad people, people are the bad people.  That’s a rip off cliché, from guns don’t kill people, people kill people!  There will be guns, and there will be dead people.

There will be people hiding behind a huge corporation, using a part of their computer network to move billions of illegally gained money around.  That’s better.

Now, having got that, our ‘hero’ has to ‘discover’ this network, and the people behind it.

All we need now is to set the ball rolling, a single event that ‘throws a cat among the pigeons’.

Yes, Bill is on holidays, a welcome relief from the problems of work.  He dreams of what he’s going to do for the next two weeks.  The phone rings.  Benton calling, the world is coming to an end, the network is down.  He’s needed.  A few terse words, but he relents.

Pen in hand I begin to write.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

A to Z – April – 2026 – O

O is for – Outcast

…

I hated reunions.  My family insisted on one every five years, and the only excuse for missing one was if you were dead.

I tried to pretend that I didn’t get the invitation, but my older sister Elaine flew to the middle of nowhere, as she called it, to take me back.  She even paid for the ticket.

She was so rich I was surprised she hadn’t come down in the family jet.  Yes, they had one, and yes, she could fly it.

I hated her.

I was the black sheep.  I was the one who was always in trouble, married the wrong girl, invested in scams, and ended up in a shack with no one and nothing to show for my life.  Oh yes, and a nothing job as a security guard.  I just had to turn up and go home.

It didn’t matter how many times I mentioned this, Elaine said that it didn’t matter. Family was everything.  I would have accepted that, except for her tone.  It was the same one she used when admonishing me when my marriage fell apart.

It’s not your fault, but who else is there to blame?

Elaine lived in New York, Merilyn lived in San Francisco, Roger lived in Albuquerque, and Sam, the family hero, lived in Washington.  Every one of my brothers and sisters was a high achiever.

My father, joking, he would say, would sometimes ask whether or not my mother had had an affair, and I was the result of it.  She didn’t quite see the joke in it, but I could.  He was happy I was out of sight and out of mind.

Elaine swept into a room, followed by adulation.

I stayed at the door and barely got a glance. 

Until my father saw me.  “James.  I’m so glad you could make it.”  He didn’t move from his seat.

What he meant to say, as he had in the past, was ‘look what the cat dragged in’   It was a surprise he hadn’t.

My mother looked over, and I could see just that momentary sigh, as if it wouldn’t be a bad thing if I’d just stayed away.

Then smiled and said, “James, you made it.  I thought you had something you couldn’t get away from?”

True.  I was using a non-existent conference as an excuse.  “This was more important,” I said

Her look told me it wasn’t. 

Roger and Marilyn had already arrived.  The Star Act, Sam, would make the grand entrance, outdoing Elaine.  It was a competition, and he had no chance, even if he was elected president.

Roger came over.  “You know this isn’t going to end well.  You look well.”  No handshake, no hug, nothing.  It was like we were not related.

“Nice to see you too, bro.”

He winced.  Yes, I can read his mind, ‘don’t call me bro, you asshole, and we’re definitely not related’.

Merilyn was a little better. She gave me a two-second hug.  She was the second-lowest high achiever, one rung above me, and not married yet.

Mother’s looks covered her sentiment, “You’re getting older, and it’s harder when you have children at that age”.

She couldn’t tell her mother she hated the idea of having children, much less bringing them into this horrible world.  Maybe I would.

Now, if I went up to my old room, left as it was the day I stormed out, maybe no one would notice me.

“Jimbo.  You came?”

Alex, Elaine’s husband, had been hiding out back.

“Your wife dragged me here under threat of death.  I had no choice.”  And wait for it…

“Everyone has a choice, Jimbo.”

Jimbo.  The cretin couldn’t even get my name right, or it was his way of treating me like I was nothing.  I’d corrected him for a few months and then given up.  His contempt for me knew no bounds.

He was riding on her coattails, and that was a marriage that was heading for the rocks.  He was a ‘player’.  Snobby pretentious twit.

Elaine was still doing the rounds and had the limelight.  Alex would wait a minute and then attempt to take it away.

My cue to leave.  Before I ran into Angelique, Rogers long-time partner with no wedding date in sight, a pretentious girl with a phony French accent. 

No one knew she had been a Playboy model and a porn actress before she met Roger.

We had a pact.  I wouldn’t tell anyone, and she wouldn’t treat me condescendingly, but that was two years ago.  She’d have to think the secret was safe.

If Sam made the move and started down the presidential path, the skeletons were not going to stay in the closet very long.

“James.”  She had a nice voice and was alarmingly beautiful.

“Angelique.”

“Back for round three?  I saw you arrive with Elaine, so perhaps not willingly?”

“Elaine made a special trip.”

“Then you can bet there’s trouble in paradise.”  She smiled.  “Try not to listen through keyholes.”

In other words, get the gossip; something is going on.  Or not, I could never quite tell what she meant.

The noise level dropped, and everyone was grabbing a seat.  Like musical chairs, the last man standing was the last man standing.

Mother saw me by the door.  “Just grab a chair in the dining room, dear.”

“No need.  I’m going up to my room to sulk.  You lot feel free to talk about me.  My situation hadn’t changed since the last time I was here, so I have nothing to add.”

“Don’t be like that.  You are as much a part of the family as all of us.”

It sounded earnest and welcoming, but mothers all practised that line.  What she was really saying was ‘please go so I can talk to Elaine’.

Dad was thinking, ‘son of the bloody milkman’, and Alex, ‘please leave and don’t come back’.  Of course, without the ‘please’.

I shrugged.  “I’ll be down for dinner.  It’ll give you time to think up some insightful questions.”

Then I left, closing the sliding doors that felt like I was stepping from one world into another.

And bumped into Sam.

Who immediately motioned me to be quiet and follow him into the study up the passage.  Inside, he closed the door.

“What the hell, Sam?”

“I don’t want them to know I’m here yet.”

“Why.  You’re the golden boy, just one step removed from Elaine.  But if you…”

“I’m not.”

“What?”

“Running for office.”

“Why?  Because you have a low-life brother.  I’m sure no one cares.”

“No one does.  No, there are bigger secrets than that that would come out, secrets I’m sure no one really knows about, or if they did, they would have told me.”

“What secrets?”  I hardly thought an ex-porn actress would cause problems because nearly all of the current era presidents were known to dabble.

“That’s what I’m here to find out.  And you are the only one no one cares about. I need your help.”

“I’m a useless security guard.”

“You are the only one who hadn’t got an axe to grind out of that lot in that room.  I’m sure if I asked you to give me a one-sentence description of each of them, it would be caustic but true.”

“I can’t help you.  Haven’t you got staff who do that sort of thing?”

“I can’t trust any of them.  There’s no loyalty, just a paycheck.  But tomorrow, they’d sell me out for twenty pieces of gold.  It’s politics at its finest.  So, are you in?”

“Just you and me?”

“Just you and me.  Shake on it.  Your word is your bond.”

“And you being a politician…”

“I get it.  I do.  But yes.  I give you my word.”

I shook his hand

This had all the hallmarks of a gag they had all thought up before I got here, and it was going to explode in my face.  Sam was the last person I could trust and would.

“Now what?”

“We go in and work the room.”

Why did I feel like this was a setup of the worst order?  They could have just found an old girlfriend to humiliate me, but no, Sam and Elaine were always trying to outdo each other at my expense.

At least when it was over, I could leave.  And this time, I would go where neither of them could find me.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 17

One of the hazards of writing can be being continually critical of your own work. I’m guilty as charged.

But in writing to a plan and in only 30 days, having to edit 50,000 words, there is no time to be critical.

Except…

So far down the track, I should be writing, not being critical.

But the thing is, I’m finding that I have to go back three chapters and read them through to pick up the thread. It’s not because it’s changed in any way from the plan; it’s just that I’m finding it hard to edit to a plan when usually I fly by the seat of my pants.

The trouble with doing that, it gives rise to considering changes, and right now there’s no time for change.

I have 13 days to hold it together.

And 13 is an unlucky number, isn’t it?

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 90

Day 90 – Writing Exercise – The case of the missing passport

…

There is nothing worse than being in a foreign country and not having your passport.

Or lose it and not know where you lost it.

Or you hid it in what you thought was a safe place, and when you went back, it was not there.

And worse again, know that someone had been in your room, someone you did not want to think would take it.

Those were the choices.

And sitting in a small room in a very large building with a reputation for those going in not necessarily ever coming out again, all of that was cycling through the army head.

There were bigger issues in play, and it was going to be interesting to see how this played out, because in the final wash-up, no matter what happened to me, someone else was in for a very nasty surprise.

…

My arrival was not without incident, and going through immigration, where I should have been treated as just another member of the consular staff, I had been detained at the airport.

First time ever.

And, of course, not unexpected.

At the briefing before I got on the plane, three people were sitting at the table.  It was unusual because these meetings were usually in a back-alley Cafe where no one cared who you were or what you were.

It bothered me because it had been done in haste, and in my experience, urgency led to mistakes and mistakes led to disaster.

One of our embassies had a traitor.

It couldn’t be handled internally because the notification from an anonymous source said they couldn’t trust anyone, from the head of station down.  That, in itself, sent shockwaves through the man who was obviously in charge of the investigation.

“This matter is urgent.  The PM is going there to sign a historic trade deal and a security deal that is not being advertised.  This allegation makes it a security nightmare.  You will have a week to find out if this is true, and if it is, who.”

“How are you going to explain my sudden arrival?”

I’d seen the activity log for the past year, a rather odd document to add to a briefing package, but it highlighted one simple thing: staff rotations were minimal.  The government also required a full biography of incoming staff and their function.

“Additional help to finalise the draft trade deal document, a specialist in such matters.”

“Which I am not.”

Another of those sitting around the table leaned forward.  “That’s my job, to bring you up to speed.”

Less and less I was liking this.  A knee-jerk reaction, at best.

Proper operations took weeks to put in place.  I wasn’t going to ask about the pedigree of this one.

“You will be a high-level trade negotiator.  You just need to know the basics and get the team over the line.”

“And no one will know anything else?”

“We will be asking the head of station to provide a full background on staff involved in the development of the deal, and their counterparts in the government.  He will not know who you really are.”

But will, if he has even half a brain, know something is afoot.

“And that’s not going to raise suspicions.  If the note is legitimate, then one person will know.  And by implication, if this is a false flag, then…”

I didn’t finish because we all suddenly knew what the stakes were.  We would be handing them a spy.

That briefing didn’t end well.

…

I was not a spy.

Far from it, I was a fix-it specialist who sometimes got thrown in at the very deep end.

Ostensibly, I was a lowly consular clerk from one of the West Indies islands, sent there several months ago to de-stress from a previous mission in Europe that had gone terribly wrong.

I had anonymity, was not on any radars, and was very adept at blending in.  No one in my previous station knew I existed.

It’s why, when I arrived at the airport, I only got as far as the immigration desk before alarm bells were going off.

It should have been a rubber stamp in the passport of one Alexander Blaine.

It was not.

They knew I was here to join the consular staff, and they knew my life history better than I knew my own.

But, for simplicity’s sake, it mirrored my real-life history.

There, after being taken aside by a man with a scar, and a very severe expression and two soldiers who looked like they wouldn’t need much of an excuse to shoot me, I was brought to an interrogation room.

At least there was no table covered in interrogation tools

I didn’t have to wait long before an immaculately dressed officer who was not police came in, quietly closing the door behind him.

The affable interrogator, the one who wants you to be his friend, the one who asked endless oblique questions, then slips in the doozy.

“Mr Blaine, I presume?”

“I am.”

He moved from the door to the other seat, then stood behind it.  Looking down, establishing a position of power.

“You did not ask or protest about being detained.”

“Why would I?  I expect you have a reason for why I’m here.”

“You are a new embassy official.”

That wasn’t the reason, but from this point on, I was looking for tells, a sign of a reaction to a question or answer he was not expecting.

“Temporary.  They sent me to help work on the trade agreement details.”

“You are an expert?”

“That’s a much overused and maligned word.  Expert, no, experienced, yes, but in getting deals over the line more than anything else.  Fresh eyes, you know, often see what others can’t.”

“The same could be said for spies?”

There it is.  A bit more direct than most, but he was relaxed, the manner and atmosphere friendly, the delivery almost conversational.

“I guess if you read John Le’carre or Charles Cumming perhaps. I am an avid reader of spy novels. Or Sherlock Holmes.  He picked up those small things.  Me, not so good.  Is there something wrong?  If there is, my quick study of your content was wrong.”

“Another oddity, wouldn’t you say?”

“In my case, no.  The government handout on your country was at least six years out of date, so I dug deeper.  The mark of a half-decent diplomat is to at least know the customs and history of the country you are going to work in. And of course, the power of observation.  Would you not do so if you came to my country?”

Not an answer he wanted.  His expression changed very quickly before the benign one came back.

He asked for an example.

I gave him six with historical and historical context.

“Where were you last?”

“England.

“Before that?”

I was going to say Scotland, but something told me he knew a lot more than I thought he did.

“West Indies.”

“By and large, a place you would not want to leave.”

“No.  But I go where I’m told to go.  Until I get to be 40 years old.  Our government doesn’t always do things that make sense.”

“What government does?”

He walked over to the door and opened it.  “Behave, Mr Blaine, and we will not see each other again.”

“I fully intend to, Sir.”

…

If my arrival at the arrivals gate to the country raised suspicion, my arrival in the foyer of the embassy made that event look more like my first day at a new kindergarten.

I did not believe that the receptionist didn’t know that I was coming.  My imminent arrival had been signalled three days before I landed, and yet here I was, waiting like an asylum seeker in the waiting room.

Had the ambassador simply forgotten?

I had read up on and memorised the names and faces of the thirteen permanent staff, and the seven temporary members of the trade talks negotiating team.

There were no immediate red flags, but there were questions on several.  Gaps that needed explanation.

Fifteen minutes after I sat down, the head of station, or the Embassy Security chief, David Forster, came out.

“I am sorry, Mr Blaine, but we all got our wires crossed, and the dates mixed up.  The Ambassador is not here at the moment and forgot to pass on the information about your impending early arrival.  The day in the calendar was for tomorrow.  I had to call London to get confirmation.”

Not the ambassador himself?  It was more likely he was sending a photograph to a colleague and asking for more serious information about me.  Security chiefs were usually old spies who worked in, or with, the clandestine world, or could still be in the employ of MI5.

With any luck, he might not get very much.  I had been assured that my file was one that matched my new identity, but I’d had such assurances before.

“Would you like to follow me?’

I didn’t, but that was just me after a long day of travelling.

“Of course.”

We walked through the employees-only door into the rather interesting, at least to me, world of the British Diplomatic Service.

From the entrance to the security chief’s office wasn’t far, but it afforded me glimpses of 8 staff members and their locations.  There were very discreet glances, and no sign of the trade team.  I suspect they were on a different floor.

He followed me into the office and shut the door.  I got the impression it wasn’t shut often because it had got larger than the frame and was stuck before it could fully close.

We sat.  “Any trouble getting through the airport?”

I suspect there may have been a call to the embassy before the officer came to see me.

“Yes, actually.  I was pulled out of the line and taken to an interview room.  Some military type in an immaculately uniform asked me a few questions.”

“Sounds like it was Inspector Mecat, the head of the MI5 equivalent in this country.  There are also secret police, and you don’t want to tango with them.  Very nasty.  Very, very nasty.”

Then I won’t, I said to myself.

“Do we work with the police and Mecat’s people?”

“Mecat?  If we need to, otherwise we stay the hell away from them.  And the secret police.  You’ll see them around, part of the new government.”

“And if either arrests me?”

“Then you are on your own.  Your specific instructions, which I’m sure you were given in the memo, are that you’re here to do your job and nothing else.  That you have chosen to live away from the sanctuary of the embassy wasn’t the wisest thing to do, but others have and have not got into trouble.”

Good to know, but the warning was there.  I also got the feeling he was not across my real purpose there, and was making a guess, and that remark, ” You’re on your own, told me that he believed I was not just for the trade agreement.

“I’m just following instructions from above.  Is there something going on here that they don’t know about?”

“Nothing more than working in a country with a quasi-dictatorial government.  It’s no different to some of the embassies in Africa.  I see you’re from Jamaica station.  What were you doing there?”

As if he didn’t know.  I could see the MI5 training, sneaking out from under the forced affability, and if he was not a spook, or of recent vintage, then I would be very surprised.

“Sorting out people who think they can travel to another country and behave inappropriately.  I was working on a trade deal there, but that sort of went badly.  It turned out to be almost a holiday.  I asked for something better, and here I am.”

“Your qualifications are noted as negotiator, and that you started in commerce and trade.  Odd, you were not part of the original team.”

So he had delved into the cover file.

“I’m told I have many talents by my friends, but I always think they’re having a lark.  We all do whatever we can these days.  No diplomatic job has a single focus.  But I’m sure you have better things to do with your time.”

He gave me a long, hard look, the sort you give to an adversary just before the boom is lowered.

“As you say.  The place doesn’t run itself, and when the ambassador is out, well, you know the drill.”

I did and stood.  “Just point me in the direction of the team.”

….

There were several floors.  The ground, the main entrance, guarded and ready for invasions, big or small, the first, the main embassy offices, the second, conference rooms and offices, the third, the ballroom, cafeteria and amenities, fourth and fifth, accommodation.

We went up one floor and to the conference room where the segment members of the team were sitting.  They were in the middle of a discussion when we appeared in the doorway.

He introduced me and left.

Mark Ryder was the leader.  He had been informed I was coming and had sent a strongly worded reply saying I wasn’t needed.  He was going to be a hostile

Next to him, a middle-aged woman, the sort who was dedicated to the job, Professor Annie Jenkins, Oxford-trained and prone to speaking plainly, sometimes too plainly.

Next to her, Bonnie Carson, early twenties, severe expression, personal assistant to the Professor, but an Economics graduate with an M.B.A, and some others like Art History.

On the other side, James Williams, a lawyer, worked on major cases that involved political legal matters and constitutional law.  A man who takes matters very seriously.

Next to him, Jamie Lawson, also a lawyer, one who didn’t take himself seriously, has a current relationship with a local woman, one he hadn’t told anyone else about.

And last, Jane Porter.  She was an enigma.  I read her resume, and it was just that fraction too good.  Yes, she had been at the places she said she had, but I don’t think the qualifications attained were accurate.

She was a last-minute addition, replacing a girl who got sick the day before the team was to leave, and it remained unexplained what caused her illness.

Jane Porter was at the top of my list of suspects.

“So,” Ryder said, after leaving just the right amount of squirm time before addressing me, “just what are the lords and masters in the ivory tower up to?”

Did I say he was noted for his disparagement of the management of government departments being run by the privileged few, men he believed were only there by title and not experience or know-how?

He was right, of course, but it was suicide to say it out loud.

I shrugged.  “That you will have to ask those back in the ivory tower.  I got a memo saying get on a plane and get here, and that you would fill me in.  So,” I said as I dragged a chair out from under the table, noisily, and dropped my laptop on the desk with a bang, “you tell me what kind of shit-fest you’ve got going here that I get dragged halfway around the world to sort it out?”

…

Note in file: does not handle confrontation well.

It was true.  I knew the sort and had to deal with them since I left university, even in university if it came to that.

The two hours it took to get up to speed were illuminating.  The problems were not the deal; the problem was with the government’s attitude to matters relating to human rights.

That was the reason I was given back in London, and not the Ryder nebulous excuse that their negotiators didn’t like several clauses relating to the mining and export of rare earth minerals.

No one wanted to tackle it head-on.  We could not in all conscience accept a product that was mined by children who were basically slave labour working in horrendous conditions.

The government had countered with a tour of the mine sites, and the accompanying media teams got a completely different view of the operation.  The reality, photos smuggled out of the real working conditions, showed a different side.

But it was the same in quite a few third-world countries, countries we dealt with, for the sake of helping their people.  Here, we had done the same, but it seemed the ruling elite got richer and the rest remained poor, living in squalor.

Ryder had the evidence, the toss wanted him to take it up with the negotiators, but he was reluctant.  I suspect he had broached the subject, and they came back aggressively.

I had no authority to assume any responsibility, but I did deliver an envelope to his superior in London, and the relevant minister after the meeting ended.

He knew who they were from.

“Not the sort of words that would ever be sent by any other means than a hapless courier,” I said, once they’d passed from my hand to his.

“Seriously?”

“They don’t trust electronic messaging or mail services.”

“Who are you, really?”

“Diplomatic staff.  Here to help in any way I can.”

“This is about the rare earth minerals, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know precisely.  You just need to add a clause that says that the company in charge of the mining must adhere to international laws regarding the employment of minors.”

“I spoke to their head negotiator on the issue, and he assured me they complied with all the international protocols, but for the sake of good order, said things would go smoother if we just took them at their word.”

“Then I suspect you will be between a rock and a hard place.  I’ll be here until the minister comes or not.”

He was not pleased.

…

I’d been there for three days and covered everyone in the embassy, including a gathering on the third floor to introduce me to everyone.

The Ambassador was back from a neighbouring country and greeted me like I was an old friend he hadn’t seen in years.  He was the perfect man for the job, with a disarming manner and cheerful attitude.  Bombs would be falling around him, and that smile would be there, telling everyone it was just a minor inconvenience.

What was clear, he and Ryder did not like each other at all, and he and the professor did not like each other at all.

Forster introduced me to each of the staff, and only one gave me a bad vibe, if it could be called that, Allison Dupre.  She had a French accent, somewhat forced, late twenties, perhaps older, and my impression; she was trying to look like something she was not.

When we shook hands, which surprised me, I felt a sudden darkness coming over me.  I thought she seemed familiar, but I didn’t recognise her as anyone I had met before.

She just didn’t recognise me at all.

The following night, as I was leaving, I saw Allison and Jane Porter in the middle of a heated discussion.  I didn’t give it much thought.  Such discussions were not rare, though usually an embassy’s staff were a tightly knit unit, especially in countries such as this.

Then, as luck would have it, Porter was going out, and I was a safe distance behind her.  It was a breach of protocol to go out alone, especially in the circumstances.  She was either very brave or very stupid.

I would check the next day if she had told anyone.

Meantime, I followed her to, of all places, the hotel where I was staying for the week, not one of the five stars, but a three and a half star special, picked randomly from one of those cheapest rate websites.

I considered not going in, but when I saw her go to the reception, have a short conversation, a shake of the head from the clerk, she went over to the lounge seats and picked one.

I shrugged and ambled in.  She saw me at the same time I saw her and got up out of the seat.

Had Jane come to see me?

“Thomas.”

“Jane.  But please call me Tom.  It doesn’t sound as pompous.”

“Tom, then.”

“You shouldn’t be out alone; you do know that?”

“I wanted to see you away from the embassy and the prying eyes.”

“How do you know Ryder hasn’t got you under surveillance.  I’ve seen at least two MI5 types trying to make themselves invisible.  And I’m sure there are rules against fraternisation.”

“Is that what you think this is?”

“No, but it’s more about what others might construe it to be.  That’s just the world we live in.”

Where was this going?

“You’re the one they sent out to find the traitor.”

Which meant she was either the instigator or the target.  If she were the latter, then I was just exposed. Perhaps I was dealing with someone very clever.  We moved to a quiet corner where I could see everyone else.

“What traitor?”  I put on my much-practised benign expression and looked appropriately surprised.

“I put in coded messages, and days later, here you are “

“Coincidence, I assure you.  I was yanked out of Jamaica to help get this trade deal over the line.  I am not happy about it.  And if there is this traitor, and I’m assuming it’s in the embassy, and one of the staff, the person to take it to is Forster, head of security.”

“I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could kick him.  Tried it on the first day after I arrived.  God’s gift to women, he said.  Allison thinks he’s a legend and just told me he was hers.”

It was wrong on so many levels

“His problem, not yours.  Ours.  She’s also meeting up with one of those secret police types.  Even in civvies, you can tell.  She’d been here before, on an archaeological dig.”

OK, that wasn’t in the briefing papers.

“How do you know that?”

“She told me.  Then, I figured that the reason why the government always seemed to know what we were planning before we told them was from a leak, and she’s it.”

“I think Foster’s would know if that was the case.  Logically speaking, if he was responsible for knowing everything about the people in his purview.”

Then, something that really bothered me.  Allison was walking from the life lobby to the front door, almost disguised, and had another guest not dropped his briefcase, I would have missed her.

Moments after Allison passed through the main entrance, Jane’s phone buzzed.  She looked at and stood, almost too quickly.

“Sorry.  Just forget I said anything.  It’s clear you’re not who I thought you were.”

And then left, almost running.

If I was not mistaken, if I were to go up to my room, I would find that it had been searched.  I’m not sure what that meant, but I had to guess. Forster had just used two staff members in a clever operation, one to distract, the other to search.

They would find nothing.

It meant that Forster was resourceful.  He knew where I was staying, and I hadn’t told anyone exactly where I was.

This was the decoy room, the one I did tell them about.  It looked like I was staying in the room, but I was not.

Just the same, I went up and checked.  The seals were broken.  Everything looked the same, but the photos I’d taken of where everything was placed were slightly askew.  Hurried.

My list of one became a list of three.

…

©  Charles Heath 2026

Searching for locations: Queenstown Gardens, Queenstown, New Zealand

Queenstown Gardens are not far from the center of Queenstown.  They are just down the hill from where we usually stay at Queenstown Mews.

More often than not, we approach the Gardens from the lakeside during our morning walk from the apartment to the coffee shop.  You can walk alongside the lake, or walk through the Gardens, which, whether in summer or winter, is a very picturesque walk.

There’s a bowling club, and I’m afraid I will never be that sort of person to take it up (not enough patience) and an Ice Arena, where, in winter, I have heard players practising ice hockey.

I’m sure, at times, ice skating can also be done.

There is a stone bridge to walk across, and in Autumn/Winter, the trees can add a splash of colour.

There is a large water feature with a fountain, and plenty of seating around the edge of the lake, to sit and absorb the tranquillity, or to have a picnic.

There are ducks in the pond

and out of the pond

and plenty of grassed areas with flower beds, which are more colourful in summer.  I have also seen the lawns covered in snow, and the fir trees that line the lakeside of the gardens hang heavy with icicles.

“Follow that cab…” – A short story

Nothing ever good comes from eavesdropping.

Or, so my mother said, once, with such feeling that I suspect she had some experience of having done so. It might explain the enmity between her and her older sister, the aunt we never saw.

Except all that changed when I received an odd email from a woman who claimed to be that very aunt.

We had all been warned about scams that came from dubious sources online, and this initially struck me as one. I would need more information before I answered.

That meant poking the bear, that is, asking my mother about her sister.

And coming right out with the words she hoped she’d never heard.

“Aunt Guenivere sent me an email, asking if we could meet. It seems she wants to meet the nephew she hasn’t seen since I was born. What happened to you two?”

It brought a look of total hatred in return.

“You would be wise not to respond. That woman is just plain evil.”

“You do realise that a statement like that makes it even more imperative that I should meet her. If you’re not going to tell me what happened, I’m sure she will.”

“Then if you must, you must.”

It wasn’t resignation but suppressed rage. Whatever had happened, it was something she believed no one would believe her, or understand, least of all me.

With that, she stood and walked out of the room, leaving me with the ominous feeling that it would be the last time I saw her.

After verifying that my so-called aunt was Aunt Guenivere, I arranged a meeting in a public place, a tea room in Queens. And it wasn’t going to be hard to recognise her, she would just be an older version of my mother.

I knew this because I had found a photograph of my mother and her two sisters, all of whom looked very much alike. I’d known about the younger sister, who had died in an accidental car crash many years before, and what my mother regarded as a wasted life.

I saw her about the same time she saw me.

And she just made it to the table when her cell phone rang. She smiled, put a hand up and asked for a moment, and then went back outside. I watched her walk up and down, slowly at first, but I could see the conversation was getting heated.

After a few minutes, I went outside to see if I could be of any assistance.

Apparently not. One look was enough, and I knew what it meant. At least her sister and my mother shared the same facial expressions when angry.

Then the conversation ended. I thought, for a moment, she was going to throw the phone on the ground, and only just managed to stop herself.

Instead, she came over and said. “I’m sorry, but something has come up and I have to go. I’ll call you.”

With that, she waved down a taxi, one stopped, and she jumped in.

Another pulled in behind her taxi and, on the spur of the moment, said with a flourish, “Follow that cab.”

The driver turned to look at me and then said, “You’re kidding.”

I held up a hundred-dollar note and said, seriously, “This is yours if you don’t lose it.”

Incentive enough.

It was a lot easier to follow that taxi than I thought. We caught up and the first set of lights and then proceeded to miss every second intersection as if the universe knew I needed to keep her in sight.

All the way to the Upper West Side and a very expensive apartment block. I paid the cabbie and jumped out, just in time to see a very familiar figure join my aunt.

My father.

And they didn’t look like people who didn’t know each other, or who were at war.

They remained outside the apartment block, and I could see my father had arrived by cab, and it was waiting for him.

I got as close as I could, hidden effectively behind the bushes that lined the building entrance. They were speaking loudly, which surprised me

“What the hell were you thinking?” he said, not angrily, but I could tell he was agitated.

“I was thinking it was time someone told him the truth.”

What truth?

“You know what Evelyn thinks of that, and I do too. You made an agreement.”

“I’ve changed my mind. After all, he is my son, not hers.”

—–

© Charles Heath 2020-2025

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life.  Again.

A to Z – April – 2026 – O

O is for – Outcast

…

I hated reunions.  My family insisted on one every five years, and the only excuse for missing one was if you were dead.

I tried to pretend that I didn’t get the invitation, but my older sister Elaine flew to the middle of nowhere, as she called it, to take me back.  She even paid for the ticket.

She was so rich I was surprised she hadn’t come down in the family jet.  Yes, they had one, and yes, she could fly it.

I hated her.

I was the black sheep.  I was the one who was always in trouble, married the wrong girl, invested in scams, and ended up in a shack with no one and nothing to show for my life.  Oh yes, and a nothing job as a security guard.  I just had to turn up and go home.

It didn’t matter how many times I mentioned this, Elaine said that it didn’t matter. Family was everything.  I would have accepted that, except for her tone.  It was the same one she used when admonishing me when my marriage fell apart.

It’s not your fault, but who else is there to blame?

Elaine lived in New York, Merilyn lived in San Francisco, Roger lived in Albuquerque, and Sam, the family hero, lived in Washington.  Every one of my brothers and sisters was a high achiever.

My father, joking, he would say, would sometimes ask whether or not my mother had had an affair, and I was the result of it.  She didn’t quite see the joke in it, but I could.  He was happy I was out of sight and out of mind.

Elaine swept into a room, followed by adulation.

I stayed at the door and barely got a glance. 

Until my father saw me.  “James.  I’m so glad you could make it.”  He didn’t move from his seat.

What he meant to say, as he had in the past, was ‘look what the cat dragged in’   It was a surprise he hadn’t.

My mother looked over, and I could see just that momentary sigh, as if it wouldn’t be a bad thing if I’d just stayed away.

Then smiled and said, “James, you made it.  I thought you had something you couldn’t get away from?”

True.  I was using a non-existent conference as an excuse.  “This was more important,” I said

Her look told me it wasn’t. 

Roger and Marilyn had already arrived.  The Star Act, Sam, would make the grand entrance, outdoing Elaine.  It was a competition, and he had no chance, even if he was elected president.

Roger came over.  “You know this isn’t going to end well.  You look well.”  No handshake, no hug, nothing.  It was like we were not related.

“Nice to see you too, bro.”

He winced.  Yes, I can read his mind, ‘don’t call me bro, you asshole, and we’re definitely not related’.

Merilyn was a little better. She gave me a two-second hug.  She was the second-lowest high achiever, one rung above me, and not married yet.

Mother’s looks covered her sentiment, “You’re getting older, and it’s harder when you have children at that age”.

She couldn’t tell her mother she hated the idea of having children, much less bringing them into this horrible world.  Maybe I would.

Now, if I went up to my old room, left as it was the day I stormed out, maybe no one would notice me.

“Jimbo.  You came?”

Alex, Elaine’s husband, had been hiding out back.

“Your wife dragged me here under threat of death.  I had no choice.”  And wait for it…

“Everyone has a choice, Jimbo.”

Jimbo.  The cretin couldn’t even get my name right, or it was his way of treating me like I was nothing.  I’d corrected him for a few months and then given up.  His contempt for me knew no bounds.

He was riding on her coattails, and that was a marriage that was heading for the rocks.  He was a ‘player’.  Snobby pretentious twit.

Elaine was still doing the rounds and had the limelight.  Alex would wait a minute and then attempt to take it away.

My cue to leave.  Before I ran into Angelique, Rogers long-time partner with no wedding date in sight, a pretentious girl with a phony French accent. 

No one knew she had been a Playboy model and a porn actress before she met Roger.

We had a pact.  I wouldn’t tell anyone, and she wouldn’t treat me condescendingly, but that was two years ago.  She’d have to think the secret was safe.

If Sam made the move and started down the presidential path, the skeletons were not going to stay in the closet very long.

“James.”  She had a nice voice and was alarmingly beautiful.

“Angelique.”

“Back for round three?  I saw you arrive with Elaine, so perhaps not willingly?”

“Elaine made a special trip.”

“Then you can bet there’s trouble in paradise.”  She smiled.  “Try not to listen through keyholes.”

In other words, get the gossip; something is going on.  Or not, I could never quite tell what she meant.

The noise level dropped, and everyone was grabbing a seat.  Like musical chairs, the last man standing was the last man standing.

Mother saw me by the door.  “Just grab a chair in the dining room, dear.”

“No need.  I’m going up to my room to sulk.  You lot feel free to talk about me.  My situation hadn’t changed since the last time I was here, so I have nothing to add.”

“Don’t be like that.  You are as much a part of the family as all of us.”

It sounded earnest and welcoming, but mothers all practised that line.  What she was really saying was ‘please go so I can talk to Elaine’.

Dad was thinking, ‘son of the bloody milkman’, and Alex, ‘please leave and don’t come back’.  Of course, without the ‘please’.

I shrugged.  “I’ll be down for dinner.  It’ll give you time to think up some insightful questions.”

Then I left, closing the sliding doors that felt like I was stepping from one world into another.

And bumped into Sam.

Who immediately motioned me to be quiet and follow him into the study up the passage.  Inside, he closed the door.

“What the hell, Sam?”

“I don’t want them to know I’m here yet.”

“Why.  You’re the golden boy, just one step removed from Elaine.  But if you…”

“I’m not.”

“What?”

“Running for office.”

“Why?  Because you have a low-life brother.  I’m sure no one cares.”

“No one does.  No, there are bigger secrets than that that would come out, secrets I’m sure no one really knows about, or if they did, they would have told me.”

“What secrets?”  I hardly thought an ex-porn actress would cause problems because nearly all of the current era presidents were known to dabble.

“That’s what I’m here to find out.  And you are the only one no one cares about. I need your help.”

“I’m a useless security guard.”

“You are the only one who hadn’t got an axe to grind out of that lot in that room.  I’m sure if I asked you to give me a one-sentence description of each of them, it would be caustic but true.”

“I can’t help you.  Haven’t you got staff who do that sort of thing?”

“I can’t trust any of them.  There’s no loyalty, just a paycheck.  But tomorrow, they’d sell me out for twenty pieces of gold.  It’s politics at its finest.  So, are you in?”

“Just you and me?”

“Just you and me.  Shake on it.  Your word is your bond.”

“And you being a politician…”

“I get it.  I do.  But yes.  I give you my word.”

I shook his hand

This had all the hallmarks of a gag they had all thought up before I got here, and it was going to explode in my face.  Sam was the last person I could trust and would.

“Now what?”

“We go in and work the room.”

Why did I feel like this was a setup of the worst order?  They could have just found an old girlfriend to humiliate me, but no, Sam and Elaine were always trying to outdo each other at my expense.

At least when it was over, I could leave.  And this time, I would go where neither of them could find me.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated at what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first.  I have come, basically to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us with an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that.  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”

“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 90

Day 90 – Writing Exercise – The case of the missing passport

…

There is nothing worse than being in a foreign country and not having your passport.

Or lose it and not know where you lost it.

Or you hid it in what you thought was a safe place, and when you went back, it was not there.

And worse again, know that someone had been in your room, someone you did not want to think would take it.

Those were the choices.

And sitting in a small room in a very large building with a reputation for those going in not necessarily ever coming out again, all of that was cycling through the army head.

There were bigger issues in play, and it was going to be interesting to see how this played out, because in the final wash-up, no matter what happened to me, someone else was in for a very nasty surprise.

…

My arrival was not without incident, and going through immigration, where I should have been treated as just another member of the consular staff, I had been detained at the airport.

First time ever.

And, of course, not unexpected.

At the briefing before I got on the plane, three people were sitting at the table.  It was unusual because these meetings were usually in a back-alley Cafe where no one cared who you were or what you were.

It bothered me because it had been done in haste, and in my experience, urgency led to mistakes and mistakes led to disaster.

One of our embassies had a traitor.

It couldn’t be handled internally because the notification from an anonymous source said they couldn’t trust anyone, from the head of station down.  That, in itself, sent shockwaves through the man who was obviously in charge of the investigation.

“This matter is urgent.  The PM is going there to sign a historic trade deal and a security deal that is not being advertised.  This allegation makes it a security nightmare.  You will have a week to find out if this is true, and if it is, who.”

“How are you going to explain my sudden arrival?”

I’d seen the activity log for the past year, a rather odd document to add to a briefing package, but it highlighted one simple thing: staff rotations were minimal.  The government also required a full biography of incoming staff and their function.

“Additional help to finalise the draft trade deal document, a specialist in such matters.”

“Which I am not.”

Another of those sitting around the table leaned forward.  “That’s my job, to bring you up to speed.”

Less and less I was liking this.  A knee-jerk reaction, at best.

Proper operations took weeks to put in place.  I wasn’t going to ask about the pedigree of this one.

“You will be a high-level trade negotiator.  You just need to know the basics and get the team over the line.”

“And no one will know anything else?”

“We will be asking the head of station to provide a full background on staff involved in the development of the deal, and their counterparts in the government.  He will not know who you really are.”

But will, if he has even half a brain, know something is afoot.

“And that’s not going to raise suspicions.  If the note is legitimate, then one person will know.  And by implication, if this is a false flag, then…”

I didn’t finish because we all suddenly knew what the stakes were.  We would be handing them a spy.

That briefing didn’t end well.

…

I was not a spy.

Far from it, I was a fix-it specialist who sometimes got thrown in at the very deep end.

Ostensibly, I was a lowly consular clerk from one of the West Indies islands, sent there several months ago to de-stress from a previous mission in Europe that had gone terribly wrong.

I had anonymity, was not on any radars, and was very adept at blending in.  No one in my previous station knew I existed.

It’s why, when I arrived at the airport, I only got as far as the immigration desk before alarm bells were going off.

It should have been a rubber stamp in the passport of one Alexander Blaine.

It was not.

They knew I was here to join the consular staff, and they knew my life history better than I knew my own.

But, for simplicity’s sake, it mirrored my real-life history.

There, after being taken aside by a man with a scar, and a very severe expression and two soldiers who looked like they wouldn’t need much of an excuse to shoot me, I was brought to an interrogation room.

At least there was no table covered in interrogation tools

I didn’t have to wait long before an immaculately dressed officer who was not police came in, quietly closing the door behind him.

The affable interrogator, the one who wants you to be his friend, the one who asked endless oblique questions, then slips in the doozy.

“Mr Blaine, I presume?”

“I am.”

He moved from the door to the other seat, then stood behind it.  Looking down, establishing a position of power.

“You did not ask or protest about being detained.”

“Why would I?  I expect you have a reason for why I’m here.”

“You are a new embassy official.”

That wasn’t the reason, but from this point on, I was looking for tells, a sign of a reaction to a question or answer he was not expecting.

“Temporary.  They sent me to help work on the trade agreement details.”

“You are an expert?”

“That’s a much overused and maligned word.  Expert, no, experienced, yes, but in getting deals over the line more than anything else.  Fresh eyes, you know, often see what others can’t.”

“The same could be said for spies?”

There it is.  A bit more direct than most, but he was relaxed, the manner and atmosphere friendly, the delivery almost conversational.

“I guess if you read John Le’carre or Charles Cumming perhaps. I am an avid reader of spy novels. Or Sherlock Holmes.  He picked up those small things.  Me, not so good.  Is there something wrong?  If there is, my quick study of your content was wrong.”

“Another oddity, wouldn’t you say?”

“In my case, no.  The government handout on your country was at least six years out of date, so I dug deeper.  The mark of a half-decent diplomat is to at least know the customs and history of the country you are going to work in. And of course, the power of observation.  Would you not do so if you came to my country?”

Not an answer he wanted.  His expression changed very quickly before the benign one came back.

He asked for an example.

I gave him six with historical and historical context.

“Where were you last?”

“England.

“Before that?”

I was going to say Scotland, but something told me he knew a lot more than I thought he did.

“West Indies.”

“By and large, a place you would not want to leave.”

“No.  But I go where I’m told to go.  Until I get to be 40 years old.  Our government doesn’t always do things that make sense.”

“What government does?”

He walked over to the door and opened it.  “Behave, Mr Blaine, and we will not see each other again.”

“I fully intend to, Sir.”

…

If my arrival at the arrivals gate to the country raised suspicion, my arrival in the foyer of the embassy made that event look more like my first day at a new kindergarten.

I did not believe that the receptionist didn’t know that I was coming.  My imminent arrival had been signalled three days before I landed, and yet here I was, waiting like an asylum seeker in the waiting room.

Had the ambassador simply forgotten?

I had read up on and memorised the names and faces of the thirteen permanent staff, and the seven temporary members of the trade talks negotiating team.

There were no immediate red flags, but there were questions on several.  Gaps that needed explanation.

Fifteen minutes after I sat down, the head of station, or the Embassy Security chief, David Forster, came out.

“I am sorry, Mr Blaine, but we all got our wires crossed, and the dates mixed up.  The Ambassador is not here at the moment and forgot to pass on the information about your impending early arrival.  The day in the calendar was for tomorrow.  I had to call London to get confirmation.”

Not the ambassador himself?  It was more likely he was sending a photograph to a colleague and asking for more serious information about me.  Security chiefs were usually old spies who worked in, or with, the clandestine world, or could still be in the employ of MI5.

With any luck, he might not get very much.  I had been assured that my file was one that matched my new identity, but I’d had such assurances before.

“Would you like to follow me?’

I didn’t, but that was just me after a long day of travelling.

“Of course.”

We walked through the employees-only door into the rather interesting, at least to me, world of the British Diplomatic Service.

From the entrance to the security chief’s office wasn’t far, but it afforded me glimpses of 8 staff members and their locations.  There were very discreet glances, and no sign of the trade team.  I suspect they were on a different floor.

He followed me into the office and shut the door.  I got the impression it wasn’t shut often because it had got larger than the frame and was stuck before it could fully close.

We sat.  “Any trouble getting through the airport?”

I suspect there may have been a call to the embassy before the officer came to see me.

“Yes, actually.  I was pulled out of the line and taken to an interview room.  Some military type in an immaculately uniform asked me a few questions.”

“Sounds like it was Inspector Mecat, the head of the MI5 equivalent in this country.  There are also secret police, and you don’t want to tango with them.  Very nasty.  Very, very nasty.”

Then I won’t, I said to myself.

“Do we work with the police and Mecat’s people?”

“Mecat?  If we need to, otherwise we stay the hell away from them.  And the secret police.  You’ll see them around, part of the new government.”

“And if either arrests me?”

“Then you are on your own.  Your specific instructions, which I’m sure you were given in the memo, are that you’re here to do your job and nothing else.  That you have chosen to live away from the sanctuary of the embassy wasn’t the wisest thing to do, but others have and have not got into trouble.”

Good to know, but the warning was there.  I also got the feeling he was not across my real purpose there, and was making a guess, and that remark, ” You’re on your own, told me that he believed I was not just for the trade agreement.

“I’m just following instructions from above.  Is there something going on here that they don’t know about?”

“Nothing more than working in a country with a quasi-dictatorial government.  It’s no different to some of the embassies in Africa.  I see you’re from Jamaica station.  What were you doing there?”

As if he didn’t know.  I could see the MI5 training, sneaking out from under the forced affability, and if he was not a spook, or of recent vintage, then I would be very surprised.

“Sorting out people who think they can travel to another country and behave inappropriately.  I was working on a trade deal there, but that sort of went badly.  It turned out to be almost a holiday.  I asked for something better, and here I am.”

“Your qualifications are noted as negotiator, and that you started in commerce and trade.  Odd, you were not part of the original team.”

So he had delved into the cover file.

“I’m told I have many talents by my friends, but I always think they’re having a lark.  We all do whatever we can these days.  No diplomatic job has a single focus.  But I’m sure you have better things to do with your time.”

He gave me a long, hard look, the sort you give to an adversary just before the boom is lowered.

“As you say.  The place doesn’t run itself, and when the ambassador is out, well, you know the drill.”

I did and stood.  “Just point me in the direction of the team.”

….

There were several floors.  The ground, the main entrance, guarded and ready for invasions, big or small, the first, the main embassy offices, the second, conference rooms and offices, the third, the ballroom, cafeteria and amenities, fourth and fifth, accommodation.

We went up one floor and to the conference room where the segment members of the team were sitting.  They were in the middle of a discussion when we appeared in the doorway.

He introduced me and left.

Mark Ryder was the leader.  He had been informed I was coming and had sent a strongly worded reply saying I wasn’t needed.  He was going to be a hostile

Next to him, a middle-aged woman, the sort who was dedicated to the job, Professor Annie Jenkins, Oxford-trained and prone to speaking plainly, sometimes too plainly.

Next to her, Bonnie Carson, early twenties, severe expression, personal assistant to the Professor, but an Economics graduate with an M.B.A, and some others like Art History.

On the other side, James Williams, a lawyer, worked on major cases that involved political legal matters and constitutional law.  A man who takes matters very seriously.

Next to him, Jamie Lawson, also a lawyer, one who didn’t take himself seriously, has a current relationship with a local woman, one he hadn’t told anyone else about.

And last, Jane Porter.  She was an enigma.  I read her resume, and it was just that fraction too good.  Yes, she had been at the places she said she had, but I don’t think the qualifications attained were accurate.

She was a last-minute addition, replacing a girl who got sick the day before the team was to leave, and it remained unexplained what caused her illness.

Jane Porter was at the top of my list of suspects.

“So,” Ryder said, after leaving just the right amount of squirm time before addressing me, “just what are the lords and masters in the ivory tower up to?”

Did I say he was noted for his disparagement of the management of government departments being run by the privileged few, men he believed were only there by title and not experience or know-how?

He was right, of course, but it was suicide to say it out loud.

I shrugged.  “That you will have to ask those back in the ivory tower.  I got a memo saying get on a plane and get here, and that you would fill me in.  So,” I said as I dragged a chair out from under the table, noisily, and dropped my laptop on the desk with a bang, “you tell me what kind of shit-fest you’ve got going here that I get dragged halfway around the world to sort it out?”

…

Note in file: does not handle confrontation well.

It was true.  I knew the sort and had to deal with them since I left university, even in university if it came to that.

The two hours it took to get up to speed were illuminating.  The problems were not the deal; the problem was with the government’s attitude to matters relating to human rights.

That was the reason I was given back in London, and not the Ryder nebulous excuse that their negotiators didn’t like several clauses relating to the mining and export of rare earth minerals.

No one wanted to tackle it head-on.  We could not in all conscience accept a product that was mined by children who were basically slave labour working in horrendous conditions.

The government had countered with a tour of the mine sites, and the accompanying media teams got a completely different view of the operation.  The reality, photos smuggled out of the real working conditions, showed a different side.

But it was the same in quite a few third-world countries, countries we dealt with, for the sake of helping their people.  Here, we had done the same, but it seemed the ruling elite got richer and the rest remained poor, living in squalor.

Ryder had the evidence, the toss wanted him to take it up with the negotiators, but he was reluctant.  I suspect he had broached the subject, and they came back aggressively.

I had no authority to assume any responsibility, but I did deliver an envelope to his superior in London, and the relevant minister after the meeting ended.

He knew who they were from.

“Not the sort of words that would ever be sent by any other means than a hapless courier,” I said, once they’d passed from my hand to his.

“Seriously?”

“They don’t trust electronic messaging or mail services.”

“Who are you, really?”

“Diplomatic staff.  Here to help in any way I can.”

“This is about the rare earth minerals, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know precisely.  You just need to add a clause that says that the company in charge of the mining must adhere to international laws regarding the employment of minors.”

“I spoke to their head negotiator on the issue, and he assured me they complied with all the international protocols, but for the sake of good order, said things would go smoother if we just took them at their word.”

“Then I suspect you will be between a rock and a hard place.  I’ll be here until the minister comes or not.”

He was not pleased.

…

I’d been there for three days and covered everyone in the embassy, including a gathering on the third floor to introduce me to everyone.

The Ambassador was back from a neighbouring country and greeted me like I was an old friend he hadn’t seen in years.  He was the perfect man for the job, with a disarming manner and cheerful attitude.  Bombs would be falling around him, and that smile would be there, telling everyone it was just a minor inconvenience.

What was clear, he and Ryder did not like each other at all, and he and the professor did not like each other at all.

Forster introduced me to each of the staff, and only one gave me a bad vibe, if it could be called that, Allison Dupre.  She had a French accent, somewhat forced, late twenties, perhaps older, and my impression; she was trying to look like something she was not.

When we shook hands, which surprised me, I felt a sudden darkness coming over me.  I thought she seemed familiar, but I didn’t recognise her as anyone I had met before.

She just didn’t recognise me at all.

The following night, as I was leaving, I saw Allison and Jane Porter in the middle of a heated discussion.  I didn’t give it much thought.  Such discussions were not rare, though usually an embassy’s staff were a tightly knit unit, especially in countries such as this.

Then, as luck would have it, Porter was going out, and I was a safe distance behind her.  It was a breach of protocol to go out alone, especially in the circumstances.  She was either very brave or very stupid.

I would check the next day if she had told anyone.

Meantime, I followed her to, of all places, the hotel where I was staying for the week, not one of the five stars, but a three and a half star special, picked randomly from one of those cheapest rate websites.

I considered not going in, but when I saw her go to the reception, have a short conversation, a shake of the head from the clerk, she went over to the lounge seats and picked one.

I shrugged and ambled in.  She saw me at the same time I saw her and got up out of the seat.

Had Jane come to see me?

“Thomas.”

“Jane.  But please call me Tom.  It doesn’t sound as pompous.”

“Tom, then.”

“You shouldn’t be out alone; you do know that?”

“I wanted to see you away from the embassy and the prying eyes.”

“How do you know Ryder hasn’t got you under surveillance.  I’ve seen at least two MI5 types trying to make themselves invisible.  And I’m sure there are rules against fraternisation.”

“Is that what you think this is?”

“No, but it’s more about what others might construe it to be.  That’s just the world we live in.”

Where was this going?

“You’re the one they sent out to find the traitor.”

Which meant she was either the instigator or the target.  If she were the latter, then I was just exposed. Perhaps I was dealing with someone very clever.  We moved to a quiet corner where I could see everyone else.

“What traitor?”  I put on my much-practised benign expression and looked appropriately surprised.

“I put in coded messages, and days later, here you are “

“Coincidence, I assure you.  I was yanked out of Jamaica to help get this trade deal over the line.  I am not happy about it.  And if there is this traitor, and I’m assuming it’s in the embassy, and one of the staff, the person to take it to is Forster, head of security.”

“I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could kick him.  Tried it on the first day after I arrived.  God’s gift to women, he said.  Allison thinks he’s a legend and just told me he was hers.”

It was wrong on so many levels

“His problem, not yours.  Ours.  She’s also meeting up with one of those secret police types.  Even in civvies, you can tell.  She’d been here before, on an archaeological dig.”

OK, that wasn’t in the briefing papers.

“How do you know that?”

“She told me.  Then, I figured that the reason why the government always seemed to know what we were planning before we told them was from a leak, and she’s it.”

“I think Foster’s would know if that was the case.  Logically speaking, if he was responsible for knowing everything about the people in his purview.”

Then, something that really bothered me.  Allison was walking from the life lobby to the front door, almost disguised, and had another guest not dropped his briefcase, I would have missed her.

Moments after Allison passed through the main entrance, Jane’s phone buzzed.  She looked at and stood, almost too quickly.

“Sorry.  Just forget I said anything.  It’s clear you’re not who I thought you were.”

And then left, almost running.

If I was not mistaken, if I were to go up to my room, I would find that it had been searched.  I’m not sure what that meant, but I had to guess. Forster had just used two staff members in a clever operation, one to distract, the other to search.

They would find nothing.

It meant that Forster was resourceful.  He knew where I was staying, and I hadn’t told anyone exactly where I was.

This was the decoy room, the one I did tell them about.  It looked like I was staying in the room, but I was not.

Just the same, I went up and checked.  The seals were broken.  Everything looked the same, but the photos I’d taken of where everything was placed were slightly askew.  Hurried.

My list of one became a list of three.

…

©  Charles Heath 2026

Coming soon – “Strangers We’ve Become”, the sequel to “What Sets Us Apart”

Stranger’s We’ve Become, a sequel to What Sets Us Apart.

The blurb:

Is she or isn’t she, that is the question!

Susan has returned to David, but he is having difficulty dealing with the changes. Her time in captivity has changed her markedly, so much so that David decides to give her some time and space to re-adjust back into normal life.

But doubts about whether he chose the real Susan remain.

In the meantime, David has to deal with Susan’s new security chief, the discovery of her rebuilding a palace in Russia, evidence of an affair, and several attempts on his life. And, once again, David is drawn into another of Predergast’s games, one that could ultimately prove fatal.

From being reunited with the enigmatic Alisha, a strange visit to Susan’s country estate, to Russia and back, to a rescue mission in Nigeria, David soon discovers those whom he thought he could trust each has their own agenda, one that apparently doesn’t include him.

The Cover:

strangerscover9

Coming soon