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.
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.
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And, the story:
Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply fly away?
Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, I came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.
But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.
She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level that she, the youngest of the group, would get the position.
It was something that had been weighing her down for the last three months, and if she noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one; no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.
And then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact that she had to entertain more, and frankly, I felt like an embarrassment to her.
So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.
It was then that she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.
Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it was something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.
I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.
What surprised her was my reaction. None.
I simply asked who, where, and when.
A world-class newspaper in New York, and she had to be there in a week.
A week.
It was all the time I had left with her.
I remember just shrugging and asking if the planned weekend away was off.
She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.
Is that all you want to know?
I did, yes, but we had lost the intimacy we used to have, where she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker, but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.
There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.
Her immediate superior was instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position, he had not taken advantage of the situation like some might. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.
One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.
So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.
Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.
Yes, our relationship had a use-by date, and it was in the next few days.
I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me; you can make cabinets anywhere.
I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.
Then the only question left was, what do we do now?
Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.
Getting on the roller coaster is easy. At the beginning, it’s a slow, easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships; they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, followed by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.
What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.
Our roller coaster had just come out of the final turn, and we were braking so that it would stop at the station.
There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in the new job, the last thing she’d want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends, new life.
We packed her bags, threw out everything she didn’t want, a free trip to the op shop with stuff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.
Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming; that moment, the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.
So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.
Already that morning, there had been 6 different types of planes departing, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.
People coming, people going.
Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just to see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.
As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.
The One Place That Will Make It Unforgettable – Ciudad Vieja (the Old Town)
You’ve just stepped off an international flight, the scent of the Río de la Plata wafts through the airport, and you have exactly 24 hours to soak up Uruguay’s capital. It’s tempting to scatter your time across beaches, museums, and cafés, but if you want to leave Montevideo with a story you’ll actually retell, focus on one place that compresses the city’s soul into a handful of streets: Ciudad Vieja, the historic Old Town.
Why Ciudad Vieja Wins the One‑Place Challenge
What you get
How it fits a 24‑hour lay‑over
Architecture that narrates 200 years of history – from the neoclassical Palacio Salvo to colonial stone houses.
A compact, walkable district (≈ 15 min of strolling) that lets you see it all without a frantic schedule.
Cultural highlights in one block – Plaza Independencia, Solís Theatre, the Museo Torres García, and the iconic Gateway of the Constitution.
Each landmark is a quick photo‑op or a 10‑minute peek, yet together they paint a vivid portrait of Uruguay’s past and present.
Food that defines Montevideo – the bustling Mercado del Puerto, legendary parrilla (steak) spots, and artisanal coffee cafés.
You can grab a world‑class lunch, a quick snack, or a late‑night bite without leaving the area.
Vibrant street life – tango dancers, street artists, and the ever‑present hum of locals in the plazas.
Perfect for those “I’m just wandering” moments that turn strangers into friends.
Easy access – a 10‑minute taxi or 20‑minute walk from Carrasco International Airport.
No time wasted on long transfers; you’re in the heart of the city almost instantly.
In short, Ciudad Vieja is Montevideo’s living museum, culinary hub, and social lounge all rolled into one – exactly what a short‑stop traveller needs.
A 6‑Hour “Perfect Day” Itinerary in Ciudad Vieja
Tip: Buy a “Montevideo Card” (USD 5) at the airport. It gives you free entry to several museums and a 30‑minute hop‑on hop‑off bus if you feel like hopping back to the airport later.
Time
Activity
Why it matters
08:30 – Arrival
Taxi/ride‑share from the airport to Plaza Independencia (the gateway to the Old Town).
The iconic square introduces you to Montevideo’s blend of modernity and tradition.
09:00 – Palacio Salvo
Snap a photo of the city’s most recognizable skyline and, if you’re quick, climb the modest observation deck (≈ 5 min).
Built in 1928, it’s Montevideo’s answer to the Eiffel Tower – a symbol of ambition.
09:30 – Solís Theatre
Walk inside or simply admire the neoclassical façade; catch a brief guided tour if time allows.
One of Latin America’s most prestigious theatres; its interior is a golden‑age gem.
10:00 – Museo Torres García
A 20‑minute dive into the work of Uruguay’s avant‑garde master, Joaquín Torres García.
The museum is a hidden treasure that showcases the artistic heartbeat of the nation.
10:45 – Coffee Break @ Café Brasil
Order a “café con leche” and a medialuna (croissant‑like pastry).
Montevideans take their coffee seriously; this is a perfect pause to people‑watch.
**11:30 – Walk the Calle Sarandí & Calle A
Browse boutique shops, vintage stores, and street‑art murals.
The streets themselves are an open‑air gallery, reflecting the city’s contemporary vibe.
12:30 – Mercado del Puerto
Lunch: Parrillada (mixed grilled meats) + a glass of Tannat or fresh “mate” from a nearby stall.
This historic market is the culinary crown jewel of Ciudad Vieja – think of it as Montevideo’s answer to Buenos Aires’ “steakhouse”.
14:00 – Plaza Matriz & Cathedral
Quick photo stop at the square and the stunning Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception.
The square is where festivals happen; the cathedral dates back to 1740.
14:30 – Souvenir Hunt
Pick up a jar of “dulce de leche”, a handmade leather wallet, or a small “candombe” drum.
Take a piece of Montevideo home; everything here is made locally.
15:00 – Return to Airport
Taxi/ride‑share back to Carrasco (traffic is usually light during midday).
You’ll be back with plenty of time for your next flight, and a head full of stories.
Total Time: ~ 6 hours of immersive experiences, plus travel time. You still have a few hours left for a quick beach walk on the Rambla if you feel adventurous, but you’ll leave Montevideo already feeling like you’ve lived a whole week.
Insider Details That Turn a Quick Visit into a Memory
The “Puerta de la Ciudadela” (Gate of the Citadel) – The original entrance to the old fortified settlement. It’s a perfect photo backdrop, especially at golden hour when the light hits the stone arches just right.
Candombe Rhythms on Sundays – If your layover lands on a Sunday, head to Plaza de la Constitución near the gate. Local “candombe” drummers (Afro‑Uruguayan percussion) perform spontaneous shows that echo the city’s African heritage.
Hidden Courtyard at the Palacio Taranco – Even if you don’t have time for the full museum, pop in for a quick look at the courtyard garden; it’s a serene oasis amid the bustling streets.
The “Feria de Tristán Narvaja” – This flea market runs every Saturday. If your stopover includes a Saturday morning, wander the stalls for vintage books, antiques, and quirky souvenirs. It’s less than a 10‑minute walk from Plaza Independencia.
“Mate” Etiquette – When offered a mate (a traditional infused tea) by a local, accept it! It’s a sign of hospitality. You’ll get a quick lesson in the ritual – sip, pass, repeat.
Practical Tips for the One‑Day Explorer
Concern
Solution
Getting there from the airport
Pre‑book a reputable ride‑share (Uber, Cabify) or use the official Taxi del Aeropuerto service – they have flat rates for the city center (USD 15‑20).
Currency
Uruguay uses the Uruguayan peso (UYU), but most places in Ciudad Vieja also accept USD and credit cards. Have a few pesos for market stalls.
Language
Spanish is official; however, most restaurant staff and shop owners speak basic English. A simple “Hola, ¿puedo…?” goes a long way.
Safety
Ciudad Vieja is safe during daylight. Keep an eye on belongings in crowded spots like the Mercado del Puerto.
Luggage
Most hotels/hostels near the airport offer luggage storage for a few dollars. Free yourself to stroll unburdened.
Time zone
Montevideo is UTC‑3 (no daylight‑saving). Adjust your watch accordingly to avoid missing your connecting flight.
The Bottom Line: One Place, Endless Stories
When you have just a day in a city, the temptation is to chase everything. But the most memorable travel moments happen when you immerse yourself in a single, richly layered neighbourhood. In Montevideo, that neighbourhood is Ciudad Vieja – a compact tapestry of history, art, gastronomy, and music that lets you feel the pulse of Uruguay without racing against the clock.
So the next time your itinerary lists a “one‑day stopover in Montevideo,” skip the checklist and head straight to the Old Town. Walk its cobblestones, taste its smoky grills, listen to its drums, and you’ll leave with a story that fits in a paragraph—but feels like a novel.
Bon voyage, and enjoy the heartbeat of Montevideo!
It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you?
John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.
So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?
That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.
What should have been solace after disappointment turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.
He suddenly realises his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.
The story paints the characters, cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times, taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice, where, in those back streets, I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.
All in all, a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.
Then he checked behind him in case he was being followed. He was not. He ducked under an awning as another gust of wind shook it, avoiding a gush of water that fell like a waterfall, then moved on.
Was it Clara Higgins, an informant and a club singer? He had interviewed her for a case, and they hit it off. She worked at the ‘Blue Note’. Her voice was pure velvet and smoke, a sultry husky drawl that had bought and sold a dozen cops and PI’s before him.
She was leaning against his car six weeks ago, smelling of gin and expensive perfume, whispering about a crime that desperate men were about to commit.
It could be her. She lived in the shadows, but she usually called him Jackie. The caller didn’t.
Was it Lydia Vance, now Rawlings, his sister, a woman variously in and out of trouble, with a no-good husband he had offered to sort out?
She had a voice that had grown raspy over time from a heavy bourbon habit she said was the only thing keeping her sane.
Their last conversation was a tense, midnight phone call eight months ago, her voice thick and gravelly as she begged for money to clear a gambling debt.
No, she didn’t have the stomach for whatever dangerous game this was.
He shook his head, and the water dripped from his hat brim. Another glance up and down the road before turning the next corner. Three suspects, but they were heading in a different direction.
He turned the corner, the lane narrowing, this time not stopping to look up at the rain. It was falling harder, and he could hear the sound of the drops hitting the ground.
It was the sort of rain that made a familiar sound.
It bounced off the walls of the lane, as did other sounds, though he could not say where they came from. An arguing voice came from above, distorted by the rain and the surrounding walls.
The theatre alleyway was looming ahead, a dark chasm where anyone or anything could be waiting. Jack slowed his pace as his heart rate increased, and he could feel the sweat from walking fast in anticipation.
Was it Sarah Kelly, the missing journalist? She was the nosy type who pushed buttons and limits, but good at her job. He had been quietly helping her. Her voice was naturally husky, especially when tired and working a lead.
She was sitting on his office desk just three weeks before, her voice dropping to an intense, quiet rasp as she showed him some evidence and city hall shenanigans. Two days later she vanished.
The cadence matched perfectly. Was she alive? Was she trying to get a message to him, or was it a trap?
Could be, but…
Was it May Lin, the ex-detective he had just taken on? She had a cold, raspy cough for the last week from a flu that she refused to take time off to get better.
Just yesterday, at their early morning meet-up at the diner, her voice was a rough, gravelly whisper, warning him that she heard on the grapevine that Internal Affairs was investigating his old cases when he was a cop.
If it was her, why the disguise?
He stopped just short of the turn into the alley. A sixth sense sent a shiver down his spine. The rain eased. His mind settled on two candidates: a desperate Sarah Kelly trying to surface from the dead, and a compromised May Lin playing a double game.
He turned into the narrow, dark alleyway, the neon lights from the main road reflecting in the pools of water that covered the cobblestones at the entrance.
He cursed, just remembering the cracks in the sole of the left shoe as the water seeped in, cold and uncompromising.
He pulled his hat down low, covering his face in case CCTV cameras had recently been installed. Then he looked up and saw a blinking red light mounted near the entrance.
He scurried past, close to the wall.
He travelled the full length of the alleyway, checking doorways and hiding spots for assailants, his hand on the gun in his pocket, just in case.
It was eerily silent, except for the occasional sound of running water. He saw the telephone booth, now disused and grimy, and walked past it, barely able to make out where any evidence might be, before continuing.
On one side, a single lamp cast a dim glow over the telephone itself, but it was not strong enough to reach the ground.
If he was being observed, it would not do to let them know the telephone booth was his destination. Not yet.
He slowly returned as the rain eased, as if on cue. Above him, several high windows were lit, casting a pale yellowish light into the night. They did not illuminate the alley.
He was here. Now. As there was no evidence, he would wait. Perhaps the husky-voiced woman would come, thrust an envelope into his hands and then disappear. Dressed in black, she could easily fade into the gloom.
The only sounds now were his breathing and raindrops hitting metal. Leaning against the telephone booth, he was right under a steady drip onto his hat, so regular, so mesmerising, he closed his eyes for a moment and tried to massage away the tiredness.
The steady drip onto his hat nearly caused him to miss the beam of light from above. It shone directly on a plain, stained and creased envelope sitting atop the pile of rubbish that had accumulated against the booth.
Just as he leaned down to pick it up, the light snapped off, plunging the area into darkness. The sudden change left him temporarily blind.
“Go to the diner and wait.”
The same husky voice. He swivelled around, but all he could see was darkness, punctuated by a rim of light from the bulb above, and a sloshing sound.
The woman escaping?
It took two minutes for his sight to return. He had the envelope, but no clue as to the identity of the woman.
He took his torch out of the other coat pocket and opened the envelope. It contained a photograph.
It was a photograph of him and Jackson Pike, taken a year ago when Vance was a cop investigating a break-in at City Hall. Pike was alleged to have staged the break-in to obtain evidence of a rigged election. The photograph showed Pike handing Vance an envelope.
Evidence of what? Was Vance part of a cover-up? There had been evidence, but it was not Vance who was the guilty party. It had been his partner, Elroy Baggins. Two weeks before, Elroy had been killed in a shootout.
Baggins had died and had taken the truth with him, leaving Vance to explain the unexplainable: that the dead officer was corrupt. That maybe he was guilty by association or tarred with the same brush. It was why he quit. He had been very close to finding the proof, and then the boss called him into the office and gave him a choice: resign or be destroyed.
In the end, he had no choice.
Now, Vance figured, if they couldn’t get Baggins, they would come after him.
May Lin had tried to warn him, but his money was now on Sarah. She had somehow got hold of the internal affairs evidence and had got the message to Jack via May.
Another look around the alley showed nothing. She had gone.
There was nothing for it, except to go to the diner and wait.
It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t. It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…
She sighed, came away from the window and looked around the room. It was quite large and expensively furnished. It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.
Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917. At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.
There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.
She was here to meet with Vladimir.
She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.
All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring. Not that she had blurted that out the first time they met, or even the second.
That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.
It was a celebration honouring one of the Embassy officials’ service in Moscow, soon to be returning home after 10 years. She had been there one and still hadn’t met all the staff.
They had talked; Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and, of course, what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.
It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this were a fencing match.
They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity. She knew the signs of a man interested in her, and Vladimir was.
The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined. After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.
Then, it went quiet for a month. There was a party at the American embassy, and along with several other staff members, she was invited. She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.
A pleasant afternoon ensued.
And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.
By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends. She had broached the subject of being involved in a platonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy. Normally, for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance, it was.
She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something useful. In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.
After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit. She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.
It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine. She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.
A Russian friend. That’s what she would call him.
And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue. It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.
Even so, she had made him promise that he would remain on his best behaviour. It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.
So, it began.
It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one she had expected to be reprimanded.
She wasn’t.
It wasn’t until six weeks had passed that he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country. It would involve staying in a hotel, as always, in separate rooms. When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution: keep her wits about her.
Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report. After all, her reports on the places, the people, and the conversations she overheard were no doubt entertaining reading for some.
But on this visit, the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report. She had realised at some point before the weekend away that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.
It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen. Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, just happened.
And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.
She took off her coat and placed it carefully on the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room. She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.
Then, after a minute or two, she went to the minibar and took out the bottle of champagne left there for them, a treat Vladimir arranged for each encounter.
There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit. She picked up the apple and thought about how Eve must have felt in the Garden of Eden, and the temptation.
Later perhaps, after…
She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.
A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival. It was, if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality. A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.
The doorbell rang, right on the appointed time.
She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.
This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.
The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Things are about to get complicated…
I had no idea how long I had before Monica or someone else turned up to take charge, so it was time for questions.
To Anna, “Were you having an affair with Severin back at the lab, before you hatched this plan, or was it Severin’s idea?”
“Are we playing truth or dare now?” She was trying to be detached, but the pain must be excruciating by now.
“We’re playing how to save your life. You can live or you can die, it’s your choice, but my patience is very thing at the moment.”
“I liked Severin. At the time I thought he was just a security guard. And yes, after a few months, he did suggest, in a kidding sort of way, that money could be made by stealing the formulas. A lot of money.”
To Dobbin, “Either you or someone else had sent Severin and Maury to the lab after a mock discharge from the service and given them glowing resumes to get jobs there. It was an odd choice given Severin had a rather interesting career, particularly in his handling of women operatives. Was that you?”
“I don’t have to answer your questions.”
“I don’t have to shoot you in various painful places when you test my patience, but I will if I have to.”
“Do you know who you’re talking to?”
“Yes. An inveterate liar who had been leading me down the garden path for far too long. I will ask once more, was that you. Don’t make me count to three.”
He glared at me, the sort of glare that mean there was going to be hell to pay eventually.
“No. I did not. But I was interested in the fact they were sent to Arche Laboratories. It wasn’t until the data came up for sale on the dark web did I put two and two together.”
“That’s when you got O’Connell to handle the purchase and delivery of the data?”
“Yes.”
“Why the six-month delay between negotiation and delivery?”
“Anna’s husband in his infinite wisdom must have guessed he was going to be double-crossed and put a security protocol in place. We made arrangements to keep her safe until the exchange. At the appropriate time when the six months had lapsed, O’Connell was tasked to go to a specified meeting place, pay the money and collect the USB.”
“In the meantime, you arranged for Severin and Maury to put a surveillance team together. I assume Severin came clean about what had happened, and you gave him a chance to redeem himself.”
“Yes.”
“At what point did you realize the operation was compromised? My guess, is when O’Connell was running late, and the bomb went off on time, but before the exchange could take place. Surely you knew O’Connell couldn’t have the USB.”
“True, so we arranged for an extraction and led him to the alley where you cornered him. Total unexpected. As was the sniper, who I believe had tapped into our communications with O’Connell. I’m not sure why Severin and Maury were there, but once they saw O’Connell get shot they left. They, for some reason, believed O’Connell had the USB and passed it to you before they got there, hence the visit you had from Severin. Their usefulness ended at the alley.”
“Who was the sniper working for?”
“No idea. Another interested party perhaps, that Anna forgot to tell us about. It would be no surprise to know she had other buyers waiting.”
“I didn’t. O’Connell was the only one as per our agreement. You don’t think I was going to screw up a five-million-pound payday.” Anna sounded indignant.
To Anna, “When did you and O’Connell get together, after the explosion. Or did you think he set you up?”
“I waited a few days then called him and asked what we should do. He said he got the impression he’d been set up, that we were both in danger and to individually go into hiding until he could find out who was after us. He said he couldn’t trust his boss after what had happened, both at the café and then in the alley. He mentioned that I should find you and insinuate myself into your investigation because he knew you’d find out eventually. He was right, by the way,:” she said to no one in particular.
Back to Dobbin, “Why did O’Connell suddenly no longer trust you and for all intents and purposes disappear?”
“He didn’t say, but I suspect nearly getting killed may have pushed him in that direction. I did not sanction that bomb, by the way.”
“What was the purpose of the surveillance team?”
“To find out where the exchange point was because it was always agreed that they should be the only two to preserve their safety. He was not supposed to find out about the surveillance. It’s the reason why we were not responsible for the bomb in the café because we didn’t know where the exchange was taking place.”
“If he didn’t know, and then discovered people following him, I’m not surprised he killed most of them. That’s on you, Dobbin.”
“It was a calculated risk, but the stakes were very high, and the operation was justified. It also afforded us the opportunity to discover a new and very accomplished agent, namely you.”
“Flattery will not stop me from shooting you if I have to.”
His look of disdain went to utter disdain.
“I’ve answered your questions, now what?”
“Anna will now give me the USBs, the real USBs with the data on them. I will destroy them, and then we can all go about our business.”
“You…”
“If you say anything other than, Sam, here they are, you will die. They are in this room, and I will find them, whether you are dead or alive. Personally, if I were you I’d want to live, but then, you might have a death wish you want fulfilled. I’ll be happy to count to three if you like?”
She thought about it, but not for too long. She reached into a pocket and pulled out another plastic bag.
I went over and took it from her.
Two more USBs.
“I’ll take those, thank you.” Jennifer. “Don’t make me do something I don’t want to.”
This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 72 this year.
Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.
Why, you might ask.
Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne
At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.
I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.
Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them
Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.
I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.
Damn!
So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years
I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.
It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey. Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.
Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.
So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.
Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.
It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there. She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.
And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions. Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.
Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.
But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.
As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life
If only I’d come from such a background!
And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.
I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.
One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.
Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.
It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife. Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.
“They’re hailing us,” the communications officer said, then turned expecting an order to open a channel.
“What’s the speakers tone?”
I got a blank look in return.
“Does he sound agitated, angry, arrogant…?
“Like a person of authority.”
Not much help in gauging their mood.
“OK, put him on the viewer.” I had one of the crew bring up the data we had on the vessel class.
It was once a personnel transport, one of a dozen that had been taken to the edge of space and dumped, if that was a word that could be used to describe what happened. They should have been destroyed, but another contractor took the cheap option, and abandoned them off Neptune.
The spokesman was dressed in the same suit as those I’d seen before, on the cargo ship, and in the Captains day room. Clearly he didn’t want to be identified.
“What can I do for you,” I asked, after waiting a minute or so after realising he was waiting for me to speak.
“Surrender your ship.”
Of course. They had three ships, we had one. A junior officer came over and gave me a sheet of paper. The names of the ship’s, how many life signs on each, and scans indicating possible weaponry.
Weapons needed power, and if they were anything like ours, they would need auxiliary power sources. No indication yet they intended to use any.
Life signs was interesting, six on each of the smaller ships, roughly half the crew when the ships were commercially used, and 34 for the larger vessel, including the nuclear scientist.
“Why would I do that?”
Number one’s expression was one of surprise, the Lt Colonel not so much.
“We have superior fire power, and will disable the ship if you don’t. That means taking out the life support. You can save your crew an ignominious death.”
No alien would use the word ‘ignominious’.
The two smaller ships were the closest, acting as guards for the bigger ship. I suspect they had the weapons, being smaller and more manoeuvrable.
I’d spoken to the Lt Colonel and the gunnery sergeant when he arrived on the bridge, and we agreed that the best action would be to target the bridges of the enemy vessels. After we retrieved the scientist.
“You do realise you’re targeting a research vessel, not a man of war.”
“Is that what they told you?”
“Define ‘they’.”
“Space command, that bunch on nincompoops who think the rest of the planets believes their lies.”
Well, that was the statement that proved they were not aliens, but working for one of the other countries no so happy with the deal that had been struck over space exploration. The Admiral could work out which one in his own time.
For the operation of removing our crew member, I had a direct line to the cargo bay where ? was setting up the parameters for the transport. All I had to do was keep the ship as steady as possible.
“Ready when you are,” his voice was in my ear.
“Now.”
Ten seconds later, “she’s aboard, safe.”
From the side, “There’s activity…”
“Gunnery sergeant, now,” I said.
The viewer cleared of my counterpart, and showed two explosions, where I would have said were the command centres of the two ships, and then the sudden movement of the larger ship, moving away, and at speed, to a point where it disappeared.
“Can we track that escaping ship?”
“We have sufficient information about it to send it back to HQ and let them deal with it. We achieved what we set out to do.”
The Lt Colonel was right, but it would be good to know where our enemy was.
A crew member said, “we can track it if you like, but it just jumped to high speed and out of scanner range.”
“Life signs?” I asked, looking at the two ships adrift, if that was possible. I didn’t like the idea of using force, and it was going to create a mountain of paperwork, and an investigation, but they were going to attack
“Eleven remaining on board, all deceased “
“Eleven?”
“One transported to the larger ship just before we attacked.”
Number one appeared beside me. “Do you think we should go over to the other ships and verify that the dead crew were the escaped prisoners.”
“For your report? Yes. Take a medical team, and the military.” The Lt Colonel looked over at the mention of the military. “You can arrange a squad,” I asked him.
“Yes sir.”
The third officer, Jacobs, like myself, crossing over from captaining cargo vessels, recently promoted to Second had been at his station for the duration, instead of resting, a man who wanted more experience. And spent as much time as he could on the bridge.
“Jacobs?”
“Sir.” He jumped up out of his seat, whether from fright or enthusiasm I wasn’t sure.
“You have the bridge. Try not to run into those ships out there.”
Whilst we might be looking at the tree with the broken branch, there’s something else far more imaginative on offer.
A portal.
Yes, it looks very much like an ordinary archways leading from a walkway out onto the grass.
…
As the story goes…
…
Archie scoffed at the idea that there were alternate universes. It was the stuff of SciFi TV shows, and he’d seen quite a few. But whilst the notion that alternate universes were a possibility, in a skilled and fertile mind of a science fiction writer, no one had seen one, or been through one.
Or if they said they had, they were now hunkered down in the back room of an asylum.
Jerry had always been a believer, as much as he believed we were not alone in the universe, and that aliens visited the earth – how else could there be so many sightings of UFO’s?
But this latest assertion, that he had ‘accidentally’ found a portal, had even me questioning his sanity.
I had to ask, “What was it like on the other side?”
“Exactly the same. Except the people were different, dressed different, and there was no carpark.”
Impossible.
“Look, I know you think I’m making this up so we should go there.”
“Now?” It was almost night, the light failing fast.
“No. The same time tomorrow.”
“But if it’s a portal, it will be the same any time.”
“No, and that’s the thing. It isn’t. I’ve been through that archway a hundred times, but only once did everything on the other side change.”
“Even when you looked back?”
“”That’s not going to change. You have to have a way back.”
It made sense, in an odd sort of way, more questions that he couldn’t answer on the tip of my tongue, but one stood out. If the portal was only there at certain times of the day, if you lingered too long on the other side, was it possible you couldn’t return?
“Look, come with me tomorrow, see for yourself.”
It was an easy decision. He fervently believed what he was telling me, but I knew there had to be another more logical explanation, and I owed it to him to prove he wasn’t seeing what he thought he was seeing. Being dressed differently wasn’t a stretch because people often came in period clothes to have the photo taken in a rustic setting. As for the carpark, I was sure there was a logical explanation for that too.
Long after you have been on a holiday and forgotten about it, basically, those places you visited are just a distant memory.
Let’s face it, unless something calamitous happens to remind you, and generally not in a good way, those places just disappear as distant memories.
And, let’s face it, in this current hectic world we live in, those places have literally gone the day after you get back.
And then, the only reminder that you actually had a holiday is the last of the washing.
What you need are a few reminders that you actually went. This might take the form of postcards or fridge magnets, but these tend to get lost among the everyday collections of bills and children’s paintings, drawings, or certificates.
And there’s only so much you can stick on the fridge door.
But there is another way.
If you stay in hotels, as most of us do, they always, or nearly always, provide you with several very important items that can give you a little reminder of where we have been and the associated memories, whether good or bad, but hopefully good.
The first is a writing pad and pen. You don’t get a lot of paper on that pad, so it’s only good for writing down plot points, if you’re a writer like me, particularly if you’re in an overseas location.
The second is the toiletries, like hair shampoo and conditioner, along with other items, like soap and bath gel. These invariably have the hotel name and sometimes location on them, but often the hotel name is all that is needed.
Of course, some hotels are different, like the Hilton, because every Hilton has the same pen and the same toiletries, so with these hotels, you’re going to have to have a good memory, or as I do, take the pad. It has the hotel’s address.
With other hotels, like the Bruneschelli in Florence, or the Savoir in Venice, they have their name on both.
Some people will use the toiletries and therefore will not have a keepsake reminder, or they may not see the use in taking the pen or the pad that comes with the room, but I suggest you do.
Then, when you least expect it, there will be that little reminder of where you have been, and hopefully, it will bring back good memories, and that, for me, is in the shower.
