Month: April 2022

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 51

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…

Once out of the elevator I could see another security desk halfway up the corridor.  There were no doors before the desk, only after, so my destination was past the desk.

I pulled out my card in readiness, and as I approached, a woman came out of a door behind the desk and joined the security guard.

She spoke to the guard, then looked at me.  “My name is Joanne, I have been assigned to help you, and in accordance with security measures in place on the floor, I will be accompanying you.  One of the conditions of access is to not be anywhere on your own.”

“Except in the restroom, I hope.”

A momentary frown, “Common sense applies, you know.”

OK, try not to be flippant.

She handed me a form, I read it, ticked several boxes, and signed it.  I gave the guard my card and he scanned it.  Logging my movements, was not unexpected.  Having a shadow was.

But, there was nothing I was going to look at, that I didn’t want anyone not to know about.

“Good,”: she said when I handed the form back.  She in turn passed it to the guard, then said, “Follow me.”

A gate opened to let me through, then jolted shit behind me.  Either the mechanism was broken, or the thud was just to remind people going through it, it was not a toy.

We went three doors up the corridor where she stopped, opened the door, and ushered me in.

It was a reasonable-sized room with a desk, a computer with three screens, and two chairs, one I guess for me, and one for her.

We sat.

I thought I’d ask a couple of questions first.  “Do you always look after incoming researchers?”

“Yes.”

“And when there is none?”

“I work in with the research team, creating or updating breeding papers for agents in the field.”

“Do agents normally come in to look stuff up?”

“No.  Generally, they request it through secure channels.”

“Secure channels?”

“Usually, one of our consulates or embassies scattered all over the world.”

Good to remember.

“You’re just going to sit there?”

“Yes.”

I shrugged.  So be it.

I logged in and typed in Severin’s original name David Westcott.

The search engine brought back over a million hits, the first dozen relating to a violinist who seemed to be having a relationship and drug problems.

To narrow that search down, I added ‘Military service” in the hope that he may have been in the military before joining the intelligence services.

He was.  I did the same for Bernie Salvin and found the two of them had served roughly at the same time, in the same places, and were among the last people out in 2014.

When I added “Intelligence” to the search, the computer sent me on a side mission, bringing up documents relating to both men’s service in various branches of the intelligence services, for 5 years, after which it seemed they had just up and left, their service sheet marked ‘retired’, which could have meant anything, but I think it was a euphemism for ‘dead’.

I thought about asking my shadow, but that would lead to too many other questions that I didn’t want to answer.  As it was, I could see she was very interested in the two names I’d just searched on.

It explained how both men were so knowledgeable about the operations and facilities.  A quick search on the training facility we had used showed it had been closed, and abandoned, 6 years before.  I’d always thought it had that abandoned feel about it, and we were using it for the atmosphere value.

Then came searches on Severin and Maury and Arche Laboratories, and that too brought up the Security profiles of both men, but their prior history had been manufactured, though no doubt based on their real experience, being in the military in Afghanistan, and in a branch of the intelligence services, though not mentioning the specifics.

There was information on several security breaches and the computer systems being hacked reportedly by a foreign country, but nothing had been taken, a story perhaps to allay the fears of people who might think dangerous material might have fallen into the wrong hands.

At the very least, it was reported the facility would be shut down, due to its age and everyone being reassigned to a new more secure facility.  The fact Severin and Maury didn’t transfer told me they had either been caught, or they ad jumped before the fingers of accusation were pointed at them.  Either way, both had disappeared off the face of the earth.

Until I and others have become their unwitting recruits.

Everything O’Connell said was true, and it was all there, so Dobbin was as well versed on the pair as I now was.  And, now I had some background before I met Severin later in the day.

When Joanne finally plucked up the courage to ask me about my searches, I told her I had been reading up on a lot of old laboratories that used to contract government research and had narrowed the place where the information came from to several candidates and struck it luck the first search.  Arche Laboratories.

Previously I had got a list of the security staff from half a dozen labs that had closed unexpectedly, looking for possible matches to Severin and Maury, because I thought they would have a military and intelligence background, but the two I’d used, didn’t seem to fir the profile.  Their photographs, those that were posted for Arche Laboratories looked nothing like the Severin and Maury today, but I’d expected that.

She didn’t need to know that and looked satisfied with my answers.

Now it was time to look at some CCTV feeds.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

An excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – Coming Soon

I wandered back to my villa.

It was in darkness.  I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.

I looked up and saw the globe was broken.

Instant alert.

I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there.  I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either.  Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.

Who?

There were four hiding spots and all were empty.  Someone had removed the weapons.  That could only mean one possibility.

I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.

But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.

Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.

There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch.  One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage.  It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief.  It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.

It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely.  It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.

The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground.  I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side.  After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks.  It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that.  I’d left torches at either end so I could see.

I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch.  I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end.  I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door.  It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.

I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.

I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.

Silence, an eerie silence.

I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting.  There wasn’t.  It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.

I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was.  Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.

That raised the question of who told them where I was.

If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan.  The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental.  But I was not that man.

Or was I?

I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness.  My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void.  Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly.  A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.

Still nothing.

I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job.  I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.

Coming in the front door.  If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in.  One shot would be all that was required.

Contract complete.

I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door.  There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting.  It was an ideal spot to wait.

Crunch.

I stepped on some nutshells.

Not my nutshells.

I felt it before I heard it.  The bullet with my name on it.

And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea.  I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.

I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.

Two assassins.

I’d not expected that.

The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part.  The second was still breathing.

I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives.  Armed to the teeth!

I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian.  I was expecting a Russian.

I slapped his face, waking him up.  Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down.  The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally.  He was not long for this earth.

“Who employed you?”

He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile.  “Not today my friend.  You have made a very bad enemy.”  He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth.  “There will be more …”

Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.

I would have to leave.  Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess.  I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.

Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally.  I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.

 

A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved.  Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.

Until I heard a knock on my front door.

Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?

I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm.  I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.

If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation.  Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.

No police, just Maria.  I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.

“You left your phone behind on the table.  I thought you might be looking for it.”  She held it out in front of her.

When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”

I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”

I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.

“You need to go away now.”

Should I tell her the truth?  It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.

She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity.  “What happened?”

I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible.  I went with the truth.  “My past caught up with me.”

“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss.  It doesn’t look good.”

“I can fix it.  You need to leave.  It is not safe to be here with me.”

The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened.  She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.

I opened the door and let her in.  It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences.  Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge.  She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.

I expected her to scream.  She didn’t.

She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous.  Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about.  She would have to go to the police.

“What happened here?”

“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me.  I used to work for the Government, but no longer.  I suspect these men were here to repay a debt.  I was lucky.”

“Not so much, looking at your arm.”

She came closer and inspected it.

“Sit down.”

She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.

“Do you have medical supplies?”

I nodded.  “Upstairs.”  I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs.  Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.

She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back.  I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.

She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound.  Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet.  It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.

When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”

No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.

“Alisha?”

“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you.  She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”

“That was wrong of her to do that.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.  Will you call her?”

“Yes.  I can’t stay here now.  You should go now.  Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”

She smiled.  “As you say, I was never here.”

 

© Charles Heath 2018-2020

Searching for locations: Eating In, Peninsula Hotel, Hong Kong

Hotel dining can be a very expensive experience, but if you are there as one of those bucket list fulfillments like we were, then it’s not unusual to go the whole nine yards.

Since the stay coincided with my birthday, the first day was set aside to have dinner at the Chinese restaurant upstairs and was one of those sublime experiences.  Of course, it had to be Peking Duck, expensive champagne, and several cocktails.

Oddly enough, breakfast wasn’t included in the room rate, but that seems to be normal for a lot of hotels.  It can be if you want to pay upfront, but we don’t always have breakfast, particularly if we have dinner the night before.

Or can be bothered getting out of bed the next morning because quite often the breakfast hours do go with staying in bed.

During this stay, we decided to have breakfast one morning, cereal, bacon and eggs, coffee, toast, you know, the usual stuff.

No paper placemats here and the silverware was just that, silverware.  This was going to be full on old world charm.

Coffee served from a silver coffee pot, fine bone china from Staffordshire, not Thailand, tea service for milk and sugar, condiments all in a row.
The only disappointment, I don’t think the eggs were free-range.

And, when the conversation dries up, there’s always a steady stream of people coming and going through the front door, and the doorman is always at the ready to open the door.

WE went once for lunch, and yes, we had to go to the famous Afternoon Tea, for which you had to book or stand in a very long line.  We booked and discovered preference was given to those who were staying at the hotel.

Out came the silver tea service, and one could imagine that this was the same as what it had been a hundred years ago.  I had tea, after all, it was afternoon tea!

The cakes were interesting, there were quarter sandwiches rather than finger sandwiches, and though I’m not a fan of fruit scones, I’m always up for something different.
After it, it’s probably not a good idea to go out for dinner too.

Overall, the experience was worth it.

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

Read an extract tomorrow.

NaNoWriMo – April 2022 – Day 17

First Dig Two Graves, the second Zoe thriller.

…

Yesterday there was a moment where I went back over the plot, and whilst that exercise was a success in a way, it also got me thinking, and like always, I couldn’t sleep, thinking about how the timeline was working, but the narrative wasn’t.

Yes, I made the fatal mistake of considering editing in the middle of a writing marathon.

What brought this self-destructive mood on? A movie. No relevance at all to my story, but it was a study in interactions between disparate people, which is what I have going on between John and Zoe.

It works in the first story because they are thrown together and everything is new and crazy.

In the second, the premise is that the novelty of the thing they had is wearing off.

Zoe needs to keep occupied and doing something other than all she’s ever known is not exactly on her to-do list.

Of course, that’s all put on hold because she is now a target because of the death of Alistair, and it’s a problem she has to take care of. Alone.

I realize now there needs to be some discussion around this, and the way the story starts does not set the scene.

Similarly, there should be more definition of the relationship as it stands, or not as the case may be, and reasons why John decides to go after her, if only to get the truth because he believes she is using the people seeking revenge as an excuse to keep him at arm’s length.

And, from her perspective, it’s not so much she doesn’t want to be with him, it’s because she doesn’t want him ending up dead, given the sort of people she was up against. Not being able to articulate her feelings, as it’s not something she really knew how to, there’s bound to be some confusion.

Inevitably he is going to find her, and when they d, the reasons why they are together are clear, but there’s still many reasons why he shouldn’t be there. Her life is not the sort of life he would want, by choice, and it’s not going to improve, so where is this thing going to take them?

I haven’t thought it though, so I’m going to take some time out to sort it out. I’m 47,000 odd words into the narrative, so I have a day, two at the most to review, and perhaps rewrite to get the missing perspective I’m looking for

…

Today’s writing, a part of the assessment of their relationship underway, 560 words, for a total of 47,626.

An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress

Investigation of crimes don’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.

That was particularly true in my case.  The murderer was very careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rules out whether it was a male or a  female.

At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me.  I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.

The officer in charge was Detective Inspector Gabrielle Walters.  She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.

Routine was the word she used.

Her Sargeant was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible.  I could sense the raging violence within him.  Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.

After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.

But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.

For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.

They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts.  Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.

No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.

She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be a very bad boy.  Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution.  Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.

It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down.  I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess.  Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.

What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again.  It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.

And it had.

Since then we saw each about once a month in a cafe.   I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.

We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee.  It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.

She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.

I wondered if this text message was in that category.  I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.

I reached for the phone then put it back down again.  I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.

© Charles Heath 2018-2020

A photograph from the Inspirational bin – 28

Just what everyone needs in their backyard:  A Gazebo, or a small bandstand!

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Often when we go to different places, it gives us ideas, sometimes ideas beyond what is possible.

I have always wanted a gazebo, perhaps not on the same grand scale as the one above, but one where we can put a BBQ and a few seats, and relax on a sunny afternoon.

Shade, a cool breeze, a cold glass of wine or beer, and the aroma of meat cooking on an open flame.

But…

Reality sets in.  The backyard isn’t big enough, so my dream will stay just that.

But as an idea for a story, I suspect this might be the place where you first met the love of your life in circumstances that become the stuff of legends.

It can definitely be a meeting place, whether to carry on illegal activities, whether it’s after sneaking away to be with someone whom others will not approve, or whether it is many, many years later to reminisce, or to reconnect.

As usual, the possibilities are endless.

 

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

newechocover5rs

 

In a word: Rabbit

Have you ever heard of someone rabbiting on, you know, endlessly rattling on about nothing?

That’s just one use of the word rabbit.

The most obvious is the animal, a rabbit.  You know, that burrowing, plant-eating, long-eared, short-tailed animal that goes by the name of Bugs Bunny, maybe.

Nearly every child has a stuffed, cuddly one.

Of course, it’s of some significance at the moment because its Easter, and that there are countless chocolate versions of the so-called Easter bunny.

Then there is that 6-foot high invisible rabbit called Harvey, or not necessarily a rabbit, but a pookah.

We use the expression rabbit ears to describe those old interior television antennas.

There’s rabbit stew, rabbit pie, and white rabbit beer.

But my favourite is when the magician pulls the proverbial rabbit out of a hat.  It’s an expression we also use for someone who pulls off an impossible task.

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 37

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

 

An hour later we were stopped by the side of the road, at a point where another road, or, rather, a track headed to the left into the forest.

A short distance before that I noticed a sign, battered and faded, advertising an airport, a sign I thought had been put there as a joke.

Of course, when I remembered the conversation I had with Monroe back on the plane and the fact we had a specialist pilot in our group, it all began to make sense.

Our exit strategy.

I only wished I had internet coverage so I could check the presence of an airport in what looked to be the middle of nowhere.

Only Davies seemed unperturbed.

I had to ask.  “Did you know there was an airport here?”

“Of one, used by fly-ins for the Garamba National Park.  Not much of an airstrip though, and we don’t exactly have up to the minute details on its surface, but as recently as a week ago a small plane had landed there.”

“Thanks for telling me.”

“All you had to do was ask the right question.”

It seems I didn’t know what the right questions were, what might be called an occupational hazard on a job like this.

Everyone had got out of their cars to stretch their legs and prepare for the next phase of the operation, which was to meet with the kidnappers.  I expected Jacobi would be on the sat phone talking to their leader, advising we had arrived.

I went back to Mobley, standing with the Ugandan soldier that had been assigned as his driver, smoking a cigarette.  I was surprised he hadn’t joined the others who had gathered ahead of the lead vehicle.

“Nice shooting back there,” I said.  It was for a man under pressure to make the shots, and give the rest of us a chance to take care of the others.  That no one else got shot was a miracle.

“Just another day at the office.”

“Well, it hasn’t ended yet.  I want you to go to the airstrip and get it under surveillance.  There is supposed to be an aircraft there, whether for our use or just there so we can steal it I’m not quite sure.  But if there’s a plane there, I want you to make sure it doesn’t leave, but as quietly as possible.  We should be along later with the packages.  I’m going up to tell the Colonel he’ll be joining you.  He might not want to, but he’s done enough for us.  I don’t want him to make enemies unnecessarily.”

“As you wish.  I’ll be along shortly.”

“Good.  Make sure your radio is working and on.  I need to know if anything goes sideways.”

“It won’t.”

I wish I had his confidence.

A minute later I reached the front of the convoy and saw why there seemed little animation among the group.  Monroe had Jacobi on his knees and a gun on the back of his neck.

“This is an interesting development Lieutenant.  Is there a problem I should know about?”

“I reckon the weasel sold us out back there.  Maybe even called them in to shake us down for one reason or another.  Didn’t try too hard to negotiate with the commander.”

No, he hadn’t.  And the thought had crossed my mind too.  A bit of cash on the side, split with the commander.  There didn’t seem to be any intent of the commander’s part to shoot us, so it was a pity we had to kill them all.  If they were part of the kidnapper’s operations, things might get a little dangerous.

“Before you kill him,” I said, “Did he tell you how the call to the kidnappers went?”

“Didn’t ask.”

“Perhaps you should.”

Mobley picked that moment to drive up alongside Jacobi and the Lieutenant.

“Problem?” he asked through the window.

“No.  We’re practicing our run at the kidnappers.”

He shrugged.  I looked over at the Colonel.  “Time for you to be moving on.  You don’t need to be in on the next part, for plausible deniability.  I suspect if the leader of this group sees you, and makes any connection back to the Ugandans, it could cause trouble.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Better if you didn’t have to.  My man needs help at the airstrip and a man of your authority might just smooth over problems if he needs it.”

“You’re having a plane sent in?”

“I’d like to think so, might even get you home in time for a late supper.”  I glared at Jacobi.  “How does he get to the airstrip?”

“Normally, through the town, but there’s a track about 200 yards up the road.  Go left, follow the road, then turn right at the first fork.”

He stood staring at the ground for a minute, hopefully considering doing as I asked.  I was not sure what I was going to do if he didn’t.  It was preferable he didn’t come with us.

“OK.  You have a point.  No need stirring up my Congo friends any more than I already have.”

He went over to Mobley’s car and got in, replacing the Ugandan soldier as a driver.

“See you when we see you,” Mobley said, and the Colonel drove off after a wave.

Back to my other problem.

“You’ve had time to think about your answer, Jacobi, so tell us.”

“An eight-mile drive along the next track, then instead of taking the fork to the airstrip, go left, and drive to you reach the checkpoint.”

“The meeting is on.”

“They’re waiting for us.”

“In more ways than one, I’d say,” Monroe muttered.  “He’s outlived his usefulness in my book.”

Ordinarily, I would agree with her, but we still needed him.  There might have been an initial negotiation, but it was far from what the end deal would be, and he had to be there to complete it.  And if he was leading us into a trap, well, we’d just have to wait and see.

“We still need him, so ease up on the aggression.  If he has double-crossed us, you can shoot him.  Until then, play nice.  But, just as a precaution, you and Stark can bring up the rear, stop about a mile short, and do some recon between there and the checkpoint.  If anyone is thinking of sneaking up behind us, I want to know about it.”

Monroe shook her head, then eased the gun away from him.  A nod to me.

“He can go with you in the lead car.  Davies can come with me and keep driving the car.  They’ll be expecting four vehicles.”

“Fair enough.”  I turned to Baines, the first time I’d addressed him since getting on the plane at the black site.  “You wouldn’t happen to know if there’s a portable rocket launcher among that film equipment, would you?”

“And half a dozen shells.  Don’t know how they managed it, but it’s there.”

“Easy to get at?”

“If need be.”

“Good.”  I looked around at the rest of the team.  “Everyone had time to calm their nerves.”

I’d watched Jacobi drag himself to his feet and try to brush the dust of his clothes.  It didn’t help restore what was once quite clean and crisp linen.  No one helped him, in fact, if I gave the order to shoot, all of them would.  Monroe’s accusation struck a chord with the others.

“We’d better get going,” she said, heading for the last vehicle after being joined by Davies.  Out of earshot, she said something to her, and I heard them laughing.

I was not sure what it was about, but as long as it eased the tension in her.  She had discovered which car was carrying the diamonds, co-incidentally the car I’d been driving, so we needed a situation so that we could remove the diamonds from the equation when we arrived at the checkpoint.  There was no way the kidnappers were going to let us retrieve the package once we got there, and I had no doubt we would be separated from the cars, and the equipment, so that, if possible, the kidnappers could gain the upper hand.

Or that was how I suspected it would go down.  It was only a matter of time before I was proved right or wrong.

Everyone else got back into the cars, and with Jacobi sitting in the front with me, I started moving forward.

I wasn’t prepared, not mentally anyway.  I never was when going into battle.

 

© Charles Heath 2019-2020