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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.

The Cinema of My Dreams – It ended in Sorrento – Episode 46

Rodby Explains, at last

…

I was about to leave when my phone rang. “Just a minute, I’d better check.”

I looked at the screen, and it was a private number. Normally, I would ignore the call, but this time, I had a bad feeling.

“Yes.”

“Don’t hang up. This is a recorded message. It’s the only way I can tell you what’s happening.”

Rodby, with a tremor. This was entirely unexpected.

“Have you got a private space where I can listen to this? It’s a message from my employer and may be relevant to the countess.”

“Of course.” He got up and went to a door on the side and opened it. “A conference room. Take as long as you need.”

I walked into the room, and he closed the door behind me.

Another message came in, and I looked at it. A response from Anthony on the identity of the girl outside after I surreptitiously took her photo and sent it back.

The document had the name age all that personal stuff, where she lived, all her relatives, where she worked, indeed a pi company, and the fact she was an art historian working in the stolen paintings department. It confirmed her real name was Francesca and not that she had given me earlier. It was useful for later if she was still in the office.

Meanwhile, I replayed the message.

“As you may have guessed, you did not get the whole story. Circumstances made it impossible for me to give the proper instructions to Anthony, so I had to work around the facts and add sufficient fiction to make it seem plausible, to Anthony anyway. I know you can see the holes.

But, an explanation for all of this subterfuge…

Firstly, you are doing this job because you are not on the radar. Nor is Cecelia, and I’ve kept it so that no one knows you are doing anything for us. I fear not everyone in the office is rowing in the same direction.

Secondly, I’m under strict instructions at the peril of Martha’s life to do as I am told. Both Martha and Heidi were kidnapped two weeks ago and were replaced by the two women you met at the opera. They are very good impersonators and look almost exactly like them. But they are short on essential details, and I believe you will discover this fact soon enough, if not already.

I don’t know where they are or who has taken them. I cannot say for certain if Juliet or Vittoria or both are involved in their kidnapping and/or working in concert with the fake countess and whoever she is working for. I suspect that it’s not the Burkehardt’s, and knowing you, you will have gone to the solicitor’s office and elicited a few facts that no one other than me, him, and three others knows about them. I was in fact hoping that was going to be your next course of action.

Thirdly, I was asked to put my best person in ensuring the fake countess made it to the solicitor’s office for the sealing of the inheritance documents. I used you because, out of everyone I knew, because you would be intrigued by the notion that Mrs Rodby would want to set up a date with you and Heidi, especially when you were not looking for one. Ordinarily, Martha would not do such a thing, but I had to weave the tale so that the fake would agree to use you as her guardian angel.

I believe that by now, you will know that Martha and Heidi are sisters. Heidi had come to London about a month ago just after the count died, terrified. An attempt had been made on her life, and she had no idea who or why. She didn’t think it was the Burkhardt’s, but Alessandro was making ugly noises.

Two weeks later, no further advanced in our inquiries, they were taken, so I didn’t have much to work with.

Two important outcomes for this mission are, firstly, you must try and find the women. It is imperative we get to them before the date of the meeting with the Burkehardt’s. Secondly, the fake countess must not get to that solicitor’s office. How you do that is up to you.”

There might have been more, but that’s where the message cut out.

It explained why I thought the woman at Trafalgar Square was different from what I remembered, and Rodby’s very strange behaviour.

I guess I’d be a little off my game if someone had kidnapped Violetta. What I couldn’t understand was how he let it happen. His personal security was very tight, and that extended to family members.

It also explained why the solicitor in the other room had not heard from his client, the woman pretending to be her was not her, and didn’t know about the coded communications.

I went back into the lawyer’s office where he was reading through a brief. I had thought he might see the girl who came in with me.

He looked up. “Any news.”

For a second, I was going to tell him, but a sixth sense told me not to trust anyone, no matter how sincere they sounded. With the kind of money being thrown around as the value of this inheritance, strong-minded people could be turned.

It would not serve the real countess if they, whoever they were, knew we knew their secret. That was the tangled web of lies and deceit this mission was descending into.

“Nothing definitive. To be honest, this is not my area of expertise, and they’re sending out someone with more experience. I told them to just leave well alone, but someone in London has a bee in their bonnet about the countess.”

He shrugged. “She is English, it is understandable. What are you going to do next?”

“Have a chat with the girl outside. It won’t hurt to find out why she’s so interested in me. If I wasn’t such a suspicious bugger, I’d be flattered. Thank you for your time.”

The 2am Rant: It’s still raining

It suits my mood and is bound to affect my writing.

There are days when you write like you feel.

Wet and miserable.

But as a major contradiction, I actually like the rain. The pattering of raindrops on the roof and on the leaves of the foliage outside the window, the droplets running down the glass of the windows.

It has a calming effect

Then there is the wind.

It can have the un-nerving effect, sort of like the wailing of a banshee.

Or a sort of humming sound as it blows through the electricity lines.

Or has the effect, of a cold day, of cutting through your clothes and chilling you to the bone, more so if you are soaking wet.

Or when the wind blows the rain sideways, and you can feel it on your skin like a shower of frozen icicles.

It’s the sort of weather for staying inside, rugged up by the fire with a large cup or mug of hot tea and cookies, reflecting on when the good weather will return.

It reminds me of a set of allegories I read about a long time ago,

Winter – sad

Spring – hope

Summer – happy

Autumn – reflective

Perhaps it is a little early for me to be reflective, because where I live, Autumn is just around the corner.

Oh well, it’s time to get back to work!

What I learned about writing – Is writing a solitary experience?

I can see how it is that a writer’s life can be a lonely one. That’s why, I guess, so many writers have an animal as a pet, someone to talk to, or just feel as though they are not alone in this quest.

I’m often sitting in front of the computer screen, or in a large lounge chair with my trusty tablet computer, writing the words, or staring into space!

Sometimes the words don’t make any sense, sometimes the thoughts leading to those words don’t make any sense.

Sometimes the most sensible person in the room is the cat.

I’m sure his thoughts are not vague or scrambled, or wrestling with the ploys of several stories on the go, getting locations right, getting characters to think and do their thing with a fair degree of continuity.

The cat’s world is one of which chair to lie on, where is that elusive mouse, be it real or otherwise, and is this fool going to feed me, and please, please, don’t let it be the lasagna. I am not that cat!

Unlike other professions, there is no 9 to 5, no overtime, no point where you can switch off and move into leisure time. Not while you are writing that next masterpiece. It’s a steady, sometimes frustrating slog where you can’t just walk away, have a great time, and come back and pick up where you left off.

Then there are those moments when you are staring off into space, contemplating the loneliness of it all.

Except you’re not.

There are what I call the sounds of silence, which, for some reason, are much easier to hear than during the daylight hours.

The bark of a dog.

The rustle of leaves in the trees.

The soft pattering of rain on the roof.

The sound of a train or truck horn from a long way away.

The sound of a truck using its brakes on the highway is also a long way away.

The sound of people talking in the street.

The thing is, you are never quite as alone as you might think or try to be.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 132

Day 132 – Writing exercise

He had no reason to trust her

…

The message said “Tropea Cafe, Russell Square, 10am, 4th”.

It just arrived on my cell phone, announced by a short vibration. Usually, my phone was in silent mode, which would have been the case if I had decided to remain truculent.

I was not happy about having to work with another agent, but I couldn’t argue with Harrigan, my handler, after the last mission went sideways.

His bosses were not pleased, so he wasn’t pleased. Harrigan hadn’t quite thrown me under the bus, but the difference between had and had not needed to be measured by a hair’s breadth.

The bollocking, he said, was necessary, ‘for appearances’ sake’, and that I had to ‘play the game’. He had never ‘played the game’, not as long as I’d known him.

Our successes had been measured by our unorthodox, sometimes maverick attitude in finding solutions to unsolvable problems. Before the last mission, he had said there was a new buzzword filtering through the corridors like a shockwave.

Transparency.

Politicians were getting nervous. They had started with ‘accountability’ and had struck ‘plausible deniability’ off their list of excuses.

Times were changing, and he agreed on behalf of both of us that for this mission, I would work with another agent. Without actually saying it, he said I was going to be monitored, and if my performance was in any way outside the ‘new’ operation parameters…well, he didn’t finish that sentence.

That was where he left me to draw my own conclusion. That holiday shack on Jamaica I had purchased five years ago, after my first major disaster, was looking like it was going to be my forever home sooner than I expected.

…

Sitting on a park bench in Russell Square park with the Cafe in view, reading the Times and considering doing the cryptic crossword, I was caught up in nostalgia about why I was doing this job.

I was thinking about catching bad guys and fulfilling my promise to Annabelle, my sister, after she had been viciously assaulted.

It felt good to beat the living daylights out of each and every one of them and leave them in far worse shape than they left her. She recovered. They didn’t.

Then I enlisted. At a loose end, it was a choice between becoming a vigilante or something more worthwhile. Which is when, several years into my tour, Harrigan appeared and offered me a job.

Special training, special places, very nasty people, much worse than those I’d sorted for my sister. How he knew I didn’t ask.

That was how it began, and that was where I was now. Nearly twenty years, twice almost invalided out, lucky my retirement wasn’t like others, dying alone and all but forgotten.

Another message popped up on the screen. Dark blue dress and a red rose. How I would recognise her today. At the briefing, I had a photograph to memorise, but everything was different from mission to mission, so it was never that easy.

Like adversaries. Disguised. Like me. A chameleon.

She was late.

I should have got coffee in a takeaway cup.

…

“I got the train, and of course, signal failures.”

Gemma, the name in the file, a code name maybe as well as a first name, landed in the seat after I watched her approach me, rather than the other way around. She was supposed to go to the Cafe.

She came bearing gifts, a croissant and takeaway coffee. Black, no sugar. My preference.

This had Harrigan’s version of play nice written all over it.

“A man or woman dangling on the end of a rope about to die doesn’t want to know about signal failures when you’re late.”

That was my version of playing nice. I could see Harrigan in my mind’s eye saying I should have tried harder.

The file said she had been in the firm for three years, but she looked like she was just out of university, all brighter-eyed and full of paper knowledge.

Being in the field and ‘being in the field’ were two separate, mutually exclusive states. All would be revealed in the first shoot-out.

Her sideways glance was annoyance bordering on anger. But anger helped no one, and she left it on the shelf. “You’re right, I should have left earlier. I’m assuming you’ve been known to turn up late?”

“And cost a good soldier his life. You don’t forget the ones you lose.”

“I’ve yet to experience that.”

“You hope you don’t have to…” Lecture over.

There was a minute or so eating a croissant and sipping the coffee, this morning as bitter as I felt before a conversation realignment.

“Now, the rabbit hole we’re jumping into. Walk with me.”

She recognised the walls had ears, or in this case, the bushes. I might get to like her yet..

…

There was a difference between briefings in rooms and briefings in a park. One had a ton of backup paper files with those little things like details.

Parks relied on the imparter’s memories. Another thing I learned about memories is that they were selective, and the human brain may have the capacity to remember everything, but by its nature, it was selective.

Harrigan’s was very selective.

So was mine when it needed to be.

Gemma’s memory may have been excellent because there were details of the sort Harrigan rarely parted with until I needed to know.

The mission to begin with was simple, Gemma and I would be going to a Charity ball in three days, I as the CEO of an international Import/Export/Shipping organisation, one looking to help in shifting Goods and People around the world. Gemma was my Principal Private Secretary/Bodyguard. She promised she would scrub up well.

Then it was two solid days in research to get the back story right. Names, places, dates. The history of Bandellan, the 18th-century pirate turned merchant, turned shipping magnate, until today, couriers of everything on anything that moves.

Someone had called about a proposition.

That someone was going to be at the ball. They would find us.

It surprised me to learn I had been the descendant of a pirate for quite some time. And despite all the ‘nice’ things being said by Harrigan, my involvement in the project had pre-dated all of it.

It was when Gemma concluded her spiel that she said, “The world works in mysterious ways, but not in our world. You never know what’s going to happen next.”

I’m sure for her, in the three years in the field, it might feel like that, but for me, quite inexplicably, I knew exactly what to expect.

New boom, new transparency, old excuses swept away: nothing will change.

By the time the next stuff up reaches the top echelons of government, a dozen horrific deaths and the starting of a war will be ‘an unpredictable event saw a minor skirmish involving [name of country] government soldiers and civilians when testing weapons supplied in a five-point plan to provide unilateral aid. Her Majesty’s Government has been requested by the local authority to investigate the matter as a Commonwealth initiative.’

I’d met far too many Government Department Permanent Heads to know that nothing ever changes other than Ministerial rhetoric and the Minister.

Gemma was naive. She believed that there was going to be a new world order. What she didn’t realise was that it wouldn’t protect her when it came to apportioning blame, a blame is something that lands on our doorstep when things go wrong.

It was a simple mission. What could ho wrong

…

A limousine had been arranged. I had the gilt-edged invitations in my suit pocket, and Gemma had fussed over the dressing and all those things ladies talked about when you stepped into the room

“Are we having an affair?”

“With an employee. What sort of a shit-show organisation are you running?”

Not this one, imaginary or otherwise. Good to know, because like it on not, everyone there will be judging. The answer would be no, but people liked to think otherwise.

I’d seen her dress. The Limo comes to me, then we collect her. I said she could change at my place, she said she had seen pictures of my place.

It, to me, was perfect and functional.

She didn’t say I could come to her place, and to me that was a red flag.

I simply dressed and went over to her place. I was going to wait downstairs outside the car for her to come down.

She asked me to come up.

The concierge, yes, you heard right, took me to the elevator, selected the floor, and saved his magic card. It whisked me silently and quickly to the 20th Floor of the Canary Wharf building. I stepped out and immediately had a view of the Thames, and that once with the infamous docklands.

He escorted me to her front door, a brightly lit foyer with realist sculptures, the walls very realistic forgeries of the masters. The tiles were expensive as you’d expect.

The door itself was a work of art, and each in the floor had a different colour.

If this was hers, she was way above my tax bracket. If it were a relative or parent, then why had nothing turned up in an identity check? No, I don’t trust anything I’m given about work colleagues.

With targets, I took the research and did my own. It was amazing what I found; they didn’t

A girl in a maid’s uniform opened the door, greeted the concierge, sent him back to the ground floor, ushered me in and went towards the back of the apartment.

A voice yelled out from somewhere,” I’m nearly done. Take in the view, while I take care of the tiara.”

The tiara? We were not going to a princess’s wedding, instead?

“Too much?” I asked.

“They asked me to have an identifying item. It’s nothing to write home about.”

“Except the hostess might…”

“Get upset? Doubtful. She’ll be wearing a diamond necklace that the Royal Family rejected. It’s as priceless as the crown jewels.”

“There’ll be security all over, even in the cracks of the wood.”

“Of course.” She came out, and just looking at her was enough, and trying not to notice would be impossible. She would outshine most of those who will be attending. And attract unwanted attention.

Maybe.

The maid helped her with a pristine white, I hope, fake fur coat and escorted her down to the car. She waved to the security desk, and they all complimented her.

“You live here?” I asked as we glided across the foyer.

“No.”

“Then…?”

“My father’s apartment for his mistress. She died, so it just sits here. It’s closer to the ball than the place. And there’s a host of dresses and stuff I could otherwise never afford.”

A thought. Was the mistress and the daughter the same size, and dare I think it, the same age.

The concierge opened the door, and we crossed out into the cold night air. It was crisp enough to shock. I hadn’t worn an overcoat; I didn’t think I’d need one.

We arrived at the venue, the Grosvenor Hotel in Park Lane. I’d never seen it, but I had heard of it. I thought about staying there, but a one-bedroom suite was slightly out of my price bracket.

It amused me that I was so much as walking inside any part of the Grosvenor. She did not have the same expression of awe.

We were greeted by the organising committee of the Charity, welcomed into the fold as first-time donors. Harrigan had put up a hundred thousand for the tickets, and later there was bidding on ‘items’. He suggested it was National secrets, stolen artefacts and art, and novelty items.

He would. It was more likely attic gems from the old houses of the older rich.

We mingled.

Small talk in between, making educated guesses as to who our contact was.

And, I had to ask, “Is your family wealthy?”

At least one of them was.

She treated that question with the disdain it deserved.

I was also watching out for people I used to work with. Harrigan would not want to take the risk of running a mission in the echelons of power, people who could personally phone the Prime Minister, or the Queen directly.

Given the guest list, I had thought she might turn up, but it was too soon after Prince Phillip’s death..

Because Gemma took a lot of sunshine from the collective female ensemble, she got the stares, appreciative and otherwise, I got the questions.

Most of the guests would not have heard of us; the head office was in Monaco with offices in Geneva, New York, London, Naples, Marseilles and Port Said. Coincidentally, the offices were located for our division.

Dusty and unapproachable, until you get past the big steel door. If you were not expected, or didn’t match a photo, you were shot dead in the doorway.

It was the first question I was asked. Where had I been hiding? Simple. Europe.

Where were we now? Staying in Florence, on a tour of Italian church’s after having out curiosity fed by the Sistine Chapel and the Vatican. The aesthetic not the religion per see.

For publicity of the sort that would interest any prospective suitors, we dropped about a million Euros the first night of won back slightly more the following. It didn’t make the papers, but the ears for which it was intended.

I had a short list of prospects, and while we mingled I check where they were, who they were with and where they fitted in the Industrial, Commercial, or Financial landscape.

Or perhaps Philanthropy, though you needed the backing of one of the others. There was a few of them here as well

I might have been dressed for the occasion, but I felt I didn’t fit, Gemma said it showed. All the better for our cover, if I was viewed as shy, or quiet, the wealth would come across as inherited and not earned and therefore a target to be exploited.

I did not expect to be approached by a woman. She had been watching and waiting until I was alone, in a small group, Gemma had her attention diverted by a familiar face to both of us.

“Rupert Bandellan?”

She came up behind me, but not out of nowhere. She stood out because she didn’t stand out. Gemma had noticed her first, because women understand women’s motivations.

I had seen the woman’s companion shortly after Gwmma picked her out. And looked both devilishly handsome and thoroughly evil at the same time. I didn’t doubt she could take him if she had to.

“I am he.”

My mother had a touch of Italian in her, and my father was Russian. It gave me the gift of two other languages and English, which could be accented either way if needed.

“You fascinate me. Descendant of a buccaneer, silently moving in the highest echelons of power and wealth, and yet relatively unknown. Not many here know of you or your organisation.”

“The people who matter do.”

“Pleased to hear it. Do you have a name?”

“Elizabeth.”

“Like the Queen, without a surname.” I smiled, charming but an irritation, I wasn’t going to make it easy for her. “What can I do for you?”

“Not talk business, I’m afraid. We are curious about your personal secretary. We think, that is to say, I think she must be more than that, a mistress perhaps?”

“If I were married, perhaps she would be, but I am not. What is the fascination with Arabella?”

“I have seen her before somewhere.,

“She is English. You are English. She lived here for 32 years before coming to work with me in Geneva.
It’s not that large a city that you have not run into each other once or twice over the years.”

“And yet not you.”

‘I don’t believe I’m English, just that I speak it well enough and went to Oxford because my father thought I should.”

“Are you in a relationship?”

“A good question. I have several women friends, but I don’t believe any one in particular would regard me as their boyfriend. But, given the nature of my business, I don’t believe I have the time to devote to anyone in the manner they would like. As my father used to say, a business does not run itself.”

And then I got it. Elizabeth was a journalist. The questions were of interest to the ladies her publication catered to. High-end, no doubt. I know that research has planted a few rather dubious stories about me in the lower end of the magazine scale, the ones where rich people mess up and find photos of themselves they don’t want published.

When I read them, even I thought I was a scoundrel.
.
“I would like to do a formal interview with you, on the ‘Margaitte’ if possible. I think you have a story to tell, with the pirate thing. I hear you have your annual bash coming up in Cannes.”

“Invitation only.”

“Then I shall look forward to receiving mine.”

Perhaps I might, if Harrigan let us, but I rather think he would not. This was already out of hand on the expenditure scale.

Gemma circled around with the man who had hijacked her from the dance floor. And i would out my money on him as the contact? Though not necessarily the guy we were looking for.

“This is Jake.”

She introduced the man in a five-thousand-dollar suit and a slippery smile that went nowhere.

The middle man. I didn’t think it would be that easy to meet up with the contact in circumstances such as those. Shady people rarely conducted their business in such an environment.

Gemma handed me a card.

There was a name and a cell number.

The name was Brian Mongonery Clarke.

The middleman gave me an untraceable cell phone with one number in it, the same as that on the card.

I rang the number.

A man with an old voice said, “Am I speaking to Rupert Bandellan?”

“You are. People are using my name a lot. Have I become popular and someone forgot to tell me?”

“I’m sure you try damnably hard not to become popular, Rupert,”

“I’m sure you’re right. To whom am I speaking?”

“The name on the card.”

“Hmm. I’m going to hang up now, and don’t call me back until you find out what your real name is.”

“I deal in secrecy.”

“I deal in transparency, particularly with my clients. Take it or leave it.”

A few seconds of silence, then, “It is Walter Sandstrom.”

“So, Walter Sandstrom, what can I do for you?”

“9am, Monday, in the American Airlines first class lounge at JFK. I have a proposition you will like.”

“Then I shall see you at the airport. After we do our due diligence.”

“As you wish.”

He hung up. I gave the man in the suit his phone and the card and he disappeared.

It left Gemma and me looking at each other.

“That was easy,” she said.

Too easy, I thought.

Then the lights went out.

…

Searching for locations: The Bund, Shanghai, China

The Bund

The architecture along the Bund or Waitan is a living museum of the colonial history of the 1800s. The area centers on a section of Zhongshan Road within the former Shanghai International Settlement.

The word bund means an embankment or an embanked quay. It was initially a British settlement; later the British and American settlements were combined in the International Settlement.

The Bund is a mile-long stretch of waterfront promenade along the Huangpu River. There are 52 buildings of various architectural styles, including Gothic, baroque, and neoclassical styles. The area is often referred to as “the museum of buildings”.

Building styles include Romanesque Revival, Gothic Revival, Renaissance Revival, Baroque Revival, Neo-Classical or Beaux-Arts, as well as a number in Art Deco style.

Having seen these buildings initially the night before, mostly lit up, our viewing this morning was from the land side, and particularly interesting in that the colonial architecture was really fascinating considering their location, but not surprising given Shanghai’s history. A lot of these buildings would be more at home in London, that out in the far east.

The Bund waterfront is about two kilometers long and impossible to cover in the time allowed for this part of the tour.

There was just enough time to get photos of the waterfront and the old buildings.

Some of these buildings had odd shapes, like one on the far right that looks like a bottle opener.

And, for some odd reason, a bull.

On the other side of the water, the sights that had been quite colorful the night before, were equally impressive though somewhat diminished by the haze.

In a word: Cell

For those who break the law, they will be very familiar with the meaning of the word cell. It’s a room a jail, not very big, with an uncomfortable bed, and no sharp edges.

And I’m sure the prisoners are not supplied with knives so they can dig through the mortar and remove bricks on their way to the great escape. That, I’m sure only happens at the movies.

A cell can also be a building block in the creation of humans, animals, fish, and plants. No doubt there are a million other things that require cells.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect of this cellular activity is whether or not there is life, and therefore cells, on Mars. I’m guessing we’ll have to wait a little longer to find out.

We can have a cell phone, which in some parts of the world is also the name of a mobile phone.

Don’t get me started on what I think of cell phones, or how intrusive they are on our everyday lives, the number of people who seem to be continually glued to the screen, or how many near misses there are in the street and crossing the road.

On the other hand cell phones in the hands of a writer are very useful because when we get flashes of story or plotlines in one of those once awkward moments, we can now jot it down on a cell phone scribbling pad.

A cell can also be used to describe a smaller unit within a larger organisation, or, if you are a thriller writer who dabbles in espionage, you will be very familiar with the concept of a sleeper cell.

Who knows, in reality, there might be some living next door to us and we would never know. Oops, been watching too much television again.

Digging deeper into the more obscure definitions of the word cell, we come up with a single transparent sheet that has a single drawing on it, one of many that make up an animated film, or film. If a film runs at 32 frames per second, that means there are 32 cells.

There are fuel cells

There are dry cell batteries

And as a general warning, don’t go too near cell towers or you will be a victim of radiation that might be extremely harmful to your health.

An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See the excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

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McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

Searching for locations: Shanghai, China, by night.

When we arrive at the embarkation site we find at least 100 buses all lined up and parked, and literally thousands of Chinese and other Asians streaming through the turnstiles to get on another boat leaving earlier than ours.

Buses were just literally arriving one after the other stopping near where we were standing with a dozen or so other groups waiting patiently, and with people were everywhere it could only be described as organized chaos.

Someone obviously knew where everyone was supposed to go, and when it was our turn, we joined the queue. There were a lot of people in front of us, and a lot more behind, so I had to wonder just how big the boat was.

We soon found out.

And it was amusing to watch people running, yes, they were actually running, to get to the third level, or found available seating. Being around the first to board, we had no trouble finding a seat on the second level.

I was not quite sure what the name of the boat was, but it had 3 decks and VIP rooms and it was huge, with marble staircases, the sort you could make a grand entrance on. The last such ornate marble staircase we had seen was in a hotel in Hong Kong, and that was some staircase.

But who has marble staircases in a boat?

We’re going out across the water as far as the Bund and then turn around and come back about 30 to 40 minutes. By the time everyone was on board, there was no room left on the third level, no seats on the second level nor standing room at the end of the second level where the stairs up to the third level were.

No one wanted to pay the extra to go into the VIP lounge.

We were sitting by very large windows where it was warm enough watching the steady procession of the colored lights of other vessels, and outside the buildings.

It was quite spectacular, as were some of the other boats going out on the harbor.

All the buildings of the Bund were lit up

And along that part of the Bund was a number of old English style buildings made from sandstone, and very impressive to say the least.

On the other side of the harbour were the more modern buildings, including the communications tower, a rather impressive structure.

I had to go to the rear of the vessel to get a photo, a very difficult proposition given here was no space on the railing, not even on the stairs going up or down. It was just luck I managed to get some photos between passengers heads.

And, another view of that communications tower:

There was no doubt this was one of the most colourful night-time boat tours I’ve ever been on. Certainly, when we saw the same buildings the following day, they were not half as spectacular in daylight.

I never did get up to the third level to see what the view was like.

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself. Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived. He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines. She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied. Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity. And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain. Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one. Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner. Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He purposely didn’t look back. In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six. Out of a thousand!

“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….” She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so. Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.” Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over. Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you. You are most kind.” The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.” It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be. There was something about him.

His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying. There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No. That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?” Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal. All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up. “Rest. And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note. No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel. Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown. And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame. They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed. In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr Henshaw?”

He looked up. “Henshaw is too formal. Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks. Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere. It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself. Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle. “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone. Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses. After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation. “How did you arrive? I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident. I ran up the back of another car. Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.” His attempt at humour failed. “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came. Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling. She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser. I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well. Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work. I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you. I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

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