Month: May 2022

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

See 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.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

Searching for locations: Somewhere in Tuscany, Italy, a hilltop town

It’s a town we visited in Italy when on a private tour.  Of course, I wrote it down on a notepad app on my phone at the time, and, yes, not long after that, an accidental reset lost all the data.

Now, I have no idea with the name of the town is, just that it was a picturesque stopover in the middle of a delightful private tour of Tuscany.

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There are narrow laneways that I suspect no one 300 hundred years ago planned for cars

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Narrower walkways that lead to very dark places

 

Walkways on the side of the hills that look down on the picturesque valleys

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And rather interesting hillsides, some of which provided inspiration for Leonardo da Vinci

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Or maybe it was this landscape, though it is difficult to see what could be found as inspiration in such a bland hillside

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A lot of houses, some of them quite large, nestled in amongst the trees

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Gardens, of sorts, balcony’s, not so big, and hidden doorways

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Even not so secret passageways between houses.

All in all, it was an interesting visit, and it made me wonder what it would be like to live here, all crowded together, rather than living on our relatively isolated quarter-acre blocks.

“The Devil You Don’t” – A beta readers view

It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you.

John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.

What should have been a high turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point every thing goes to hell in a handbasket.

He suddenly realises his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.

The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.

All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.

…

Available on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

A story inspired by Castello di Briolio – Episode 43

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

——

Mayer fought the urge to panic, and then consider giving himself up.  He remembered what the Standartenfuhrer said, and knew that it was not an option.

He slid back into the forest, then far enough back, stood, and ran, the thick snow not only hampering his speed but also covering the sound of his flight. 

He stopped and listened for the sound of the following soldiers, but all he could hear was the sound of a locomotive and his breathing.  His heart was pounding, not used to such exercise or fear.

The soldiers must have stopped where the running person had fallen, and then on the verge of the tree line when the Standartenfuhrer had been shot.

He kneeled down and struggled to catch his breath.  He had the bad the Standartenfuhrer had thrust upon him as they got out of the car, and hoped it had a map, but it was too dark to look now.

From earlier, he remembered the other side of the railway tracks had trees too, and the road that led to the border, the village, if there was one, and the railway station.  There would also be a small shunting area, freight sheds, or something else to hide in, maybe even a signal tower.

Somewhere warm, and with some light, so he could plan his next move.  He was not sure what the Standartenfuhrer Had planned, but it certainly could not be by car the whole way, and they would not make the rendezvous by walking.

The plan had to include going by train.

Brenner pass was along the main track from Austria to the south of Italy, and from an earlier look at a map, the train would go through F, Verona, Bologna, to Florence where he would find the next guide.

Details of that guide hopefully were in the bag, a bag that he would have to hide or lose if he was captured because it would give away the escape route and resistance members who helped those fleeing Germany.

If he had the time or could think straight.  The cold was making that very difficult.  And there was the shock of losing the Standartenfuhrer.

It took five minutes to regain a certain amount of calm and be able to think. 

First, he had to get back to the tree line and see where he was, in proximity to the village, and the railway tracks.

That took about ten minutes carefully picking his way through the trees.  There was no path, it was dark, and he kept hitting low branches and getting covered in snow. There was enough down the back of his neck to make him very uncomfortable.

When he reached the tree line he looked back from where he had been, about a kilometer, and he could see the torches of the soldiers milling around where he and the Standartenfuhrer had been.  The train was still there, the locomotive’s light blazing in front, lighting a short distance of the track in front of it, almost blindingly bright. 

He was not sure why it was waiting on the track.

Looking the other way, there were two sets of tracks, a wide clear area, then another track with several flat cars and a guards van sitting in darkness, all of which were covered in snow.  They were not being used, so the van might provide some shelter.

He just had to get over there, about 100 meters distant.  The problem was there were lights, not very bright, at regular distances, but short enough that a man might present a shadowy outline if anyone was looking.

If he stayed low and run fast, it might just work.

A train whistle in the distance, coming from Italy caused him to shrink back into the cover of the trees.  Another train was coming.  It was oddly busy at a very late hour.

The locomotive also had a bright light that lit up the edge of the tree line, so he had to go further back to get away from it, and wait until the train passed.  It had a lot of flat cars with tanks and troop carriers on it, going back to Germany.  There were no soldiers so perhaps the equipment was needed elsewhere, maybe that final push to England he kept hearing about.

Once that train passed, the one that had been waiting finally restarted its journey south and slowly rumbled past him.  It was almost like a passenger train with no priority had had to wait until essential war trains passed.

When that train had gone, the surrounding area descended into a quiet, also silent field.  The snow had begun to fall heavier, which would be advantageous, and after several long looks in both directions, he ran, crossing the tracks, the empty space, and then to the guard van where he hid between it and the freight car until he caught his breath.

And see if anyone had seen him, expecting whistles and shouting coming from up the track.

Another look showed that only two torches remained back where there had been frenetic activity.  He hoped they considered they had caught the people they were looking for.

He went down the side of the guard’s van to the door, climbed the ladder, and tried the door.  It was unlocked.  There was no reason why it would be locked.

He went in and shut the door, and immediately it was warmer, and certainly dryer.  IT was impossibly dark inside, so he felt around in the bag and found a torch.  Someone had been clever enough to add a torch, some first aid equipment.  The papers included a map.

He checked the cabin for windows and found the shutters were closed, so he didn’t have to stifle the torches light.  A further check showed a bed at the end of the cabin, with a blanket, musty but dry.

There was a stove, a kettle with water, and a tin of tea leaves.  He wasn’t going to start a fire, so no tea.  There was no food, so the hunger would have to remain for a while longer.  The water tasted alright, but he could melt some snow if he needed more.

A place to stay, at least until daybreak when it would be wise to get into the forest on the roadside, and head towards the village, or perhaps wait for a train and see if he could hide on it for the trip south.

First, he needed some rest.

——-

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

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

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

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

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

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

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

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

This conference was about countering that trend.

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

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

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

Then came the shot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was the good news.

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

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

I think death would have been preferable.

…

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

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

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

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

“What happens now?”

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good man.”

…

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

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

That was a relief.

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

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

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

I nodded. “Yes.”

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I was annoyed.

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

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

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

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

“Well, it was overkill.”

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

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

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

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

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

I could see their dilemma.

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

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

“Not that I’m aware of.”

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

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

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

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

“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”

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

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

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

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

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

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

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

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

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

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

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

That word: Line – in sayings

There’s more to that word ‘line’, a lot more, making it more confusing, especially for those learning English as a second language.

I keep thinking how I could explain some of the sayings, but the fact is, it’s only my interpretation, which could possibly have nothing to do with its real meaning if it has one.

Such as,

Hook, line, and sinker

We would like to think that this is only used in a fishing depot, but while it is generally, there are other meanings, one of which is, a con artist has taken in a victim completely, or as the saying goes, hook, line, and sinker.

At the end of the line

Exactly what it t says though the connotations of this expression vary.

For me, the most common use is when you’re waiting, like for a table in a restaurant with a time-specific reservation, and you see people who arrive after you, getting a table before you, it’s like being continually sent to the end of the line.

Line ball decision

This is a little more obscure, but for me, it means the result could go either way, and it’s a matter of making a call. The problem is both decisions are right, and unfortunately, you’re the poor sod who has to decide.

It of course partners very well with you can’t please everyone all of the time.

These are the most difficult because one side is going to be aggrieved at the decision especially when it is supposed to be impartial and sometimes isn’t.

Get it over the line

This, of course, has many connotations in sport, particularly rugby when the aim is to get the ball over the try line.

But another more vicarious meaning might be from a senior salesman to a junior, get [the sale] over the line, i.e. get it signed sealed and delivered by any means possible by close of business.

Line of credit

A more straight forward use of the word, meaning the bank will extend credit up to a certain limit, but it’s generally quite large and can feel like its neverending.

Until you have to pay it back.

There’s more, but it can wait till another day.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 14

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination in what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

 

When I woke it was almost dark, and cold.

Was it night?  I was in a room, on the floor, and the only light came from a light bulb.

I tried to sit up, but any sort of movement made my headache.  Then my memory returned.  In the forest, a man, then a woman, then nothing.

Then I heard a noise from the other corner and looked over.  Jack.  He’d been lying on the floor, possibly waiting for me to wake up.  He came over and lay down next to me.

Had they tranquilized him too?  It would have been interesting to see what he had done in the forest when they tried to take me away.  I was surprised he had not run away, and waiting for me to return like he had the last time.

Were we back in the castle?  Around me smelt musty, so it was possible I was back in the castle in one of the more remote dungeons’.  But, there was no iron door, or wooden door to the room, just a passage outside, equally badly lit.

So, I was not exactly a prisoner.

A let another half hour or so pass before I tried to get up again.  This time, my head hurt less, but the effects of the tranquilizer still made me a little unsteady, and it was necessary to remain near the wall for support.

After I’d taken several tentative steps, Jack joined me.

At the doorway, I stopped and looked out.  A passage, with several other rooms off it, and leading to a larger one where there was a table, chairs, and several cupboards.  A storage area, or a barn?

I walked slowly, if a little unsteady, down the passage and into the room.  At one end of the table was the woman “I’d seen in the forest, the one that had shot me.  Behind her, with a mug of coffee, or something else in his hands, was the man.

The watched me as I crossed to a chair at the end of the table, and sat.  Jack sat next to me.

The woman spoke first.  “Giuseppe tells me your name is Sam Atherton?  Your rank?”

I was hoping for an apology.  “Captain.”

“The name of the officer who sent you?”

“The one working with the men in the castle, or the man who sent me?”

“The one who sent you.”

I took a moment to consider what might happen if I did.  I guess it wouldn’t make much of a difference if the Germans found out who he was if they didn’t know already.  There was not a lot they could do.  And he already knew and had doubtless dealt with the traitor.

“Colonel Forster.”

I could see, now, the man had his hand on a gun beside him, and was ready to use it.  My answer, obviously the correct one, had eased the possibility of getting shot.

“You passed step one, Mr Atherton.  But, if you are not who you say you are, you will be summarily shot.  I suggest you don’t make any sudden movements.”

“I’m fine with that, but I have a question for you.”

“How do you know we are not working with the Germans?”  She leaned back in her chair and I could see she, also, had a gun, under her hands.

Exactly.  But, in order to make contact with the right people, the Colonel had sent their leader a phrase, one to use to prove their identity.  Since my pursuers were following me to find the remaining resistance members, I had to assume these two were part of that group.

“A phrase was sent two days ago.”  I think it was two days ago.  “Maybe three.”

“The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog, I believe is that phrase.”

It was.  Only the Colonel and I, as well as the resistance leader,  knew it.

“And you?”

“Around the rugged rocks, the ragged rascal ran.”  I don’t know who came up with them, but I hoped I hadn’t mixed up rugged and ragged.

She smiled.  Giuseppe looked a lot more at ease.

“Welcome to our nightmare.”

 

© Charles Heath 2019

Sayings: Going on a wild goose chase

Who hasn’t been on one of these, particularly if you have an older brother or sister, and they have nothing better to do than give you a hard time.

You know what I mean, going on a mission to find or do something, knowing full well that you won’t find it, or complete it because it was a lost cause to start with.

Yes, it goes very well with another saying, a dog chasing its tail.

We’ve seen that, too, watching the poor dog go round and round without ever achieving anything.

Sounds like my day today.

And it doesn’t stop there, the pointless search could also be described as ‘searching for a needle in a haystack’.

That is, to my mind the very definition of a living nightmare.

The origin of the idiom, well that’s a little more complicated because there isn’t just one definition.

The first:

Coined by William Shakespeare, but not necessarily in the sort of language we can read easily – it’s a bit like my ability to translate Spanish to English. It does, however, refer to a ‘wild goose chase’.

The second:

Refers to, of all things 16th Century horseracing, and because I don’t have a time machine I can’t go back to fact-check. However, it refers to the other riders following the leader around the course, in much the same formation as geese flying through the air.

…

My little story to go with it:

…

If you are good at your job, and that is beginning to be noticed, your boss will find one of these ‘wild goose chases’ just for you, in an effort to make you look bad.

It happened to me once: my task was to search the basement, where old records were stored, for a folder that a former employee had thought they had filed it in the wrong storage box, a supposition supported by the fact the folder was now needed to clear up a clerical error and the file wasn’t in the specifically marked storage box.

My job was to search every one of the other 765 boxes stored haphazardly in the basement until I found it.

It was, I was told later, sitting on his desk the whole time, and when I couldn’t find it, was going to swoop in and say he’d found it.

Of course, it went missing before he could, so he got a bollicking for not storing the files properly, and I got the job to clean up the basement. I’m not sure who got the worst punishment.

NaNoWriMo – April 2022 – Day 11

First Dig Two Graves, the second Zoe thriller.

…

We are now up to the part where we introduce Isobel properly and find out why such a talented person is drifting in the doldrums of Rupert’s private detective agency.

Aside from being a once high-flying legal eagle, she is also a computer hacker, or perhaps that’s what she evolved into in a devil finds work for idle hands type person.

This hacking is going to be useful, but it’s also going to bring problems, especially when she starts tracking down Zoe.

And, it seemed she had struck up a dark online relationship with another hacker with the handle Tzar.  What are the odds he is Russian?

She’s digging for information, and Tzar helps, and, suddenly it appears, briefly, then is gone, with a warning.  Stop digging.

And if she doesn’t.

People were coming for her.

Meanwhile, in the basement, Zoe has had enough time to devise a mask that might stave of the effects of the gas long enough to affect an escape.

And, it almost works, the mask that is.

She manages to get past all of the guards, but Romanov is waiting.

He doesn’t kill her, but he does give her some information, then leaves.  He knows how dangerous she can be, especially when wounded.

…

Today’s writing, with Isobel trawling the dark web, 2,583 words, for a total of 8,871.

The A to Z Challenge – I is for – “If you had but one wish”

It was one of those moments.

Across a crowded dance floor, your eyes meet, and then that tingling sensation down your spine.

A girl who could be a princess, who might be a princess in any other lifetime, and a girl who might just outshine Annabel.

And then the moment is gone, and I could not be sure if it really happened.

“You seem preoccupied.”  The almost whispered voice beside me belonged to Annabel, who had mysteriously disappeared and as mysteriously reappeared by my side.

“Just checking who are the pretenders and who are the aspirants.”

Annabel and her parents had a thing about people, who had money, who didn’t, who aspired to be part of society, and those who thought they were.  It was a complication I didn’t need.

“Does it matter?”

Interesting observation, who was this girl, and what have you done with Annabel?  I turned slightly to observe what some might call my girlfriend, but I was never quite sure what I was to her.  Perfect in almost everything, I noticed one slight flaw, no two, a smudge in her make and hastily applied lipstick.

Did it have something to do with her mysterious disappearance?

“Perhaps not.  We can be gracious no matter what the circumstances.”  A moment, closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, as if preparing for a death-defying leap into an abyss.  Then, with an enthusiasm I certainly didn’t feel myself, she said, “Let’s mingle.”

Being with Annabel could be an experience in itself, the way she carried herself, the way she radiated warmth and humility, and then sometimes when in high dudgeon, you wanted to be anywhere else.  Today, she shone.  I could see the write-up in the social pages of tomorrow’s newspaper, exactly where she wanted to be.  Relevant.

I knew the drill, as consort, to be one pace back and one to the side, being aloof but not aloof, on hand to provide the comment that complimented Annabel’s narrative.

I had suggested that we might take to the dance floor, once around the floor to make an impression, but Annabel, being 3 inches shorter than me in heels, was reluctant.  Not because she couldn’t dance, well, that’s not exactly true, it wasn’t one of her strong points, but there were more pressing things to do.  She didn’t say what they were.

To her equals she was all smiles and politeness, to the aspirants she was gracious, to the pretenders, short but sweet.  In political parlance, we would be pressing the flesh.  In any political arena, I suspect, she would excel.

Then, suddenly, we chanced upon Mr. And Mrs. Upton, and their son Roderick.  I’d seen them once before, at Annabel’s parent’s house when I had been invited to dinner and had noticed, in front of him she was quite animated.  This time her expression changed, and it was one I’d seen before, one I thought was exclusively for me.

I was wrong.

Although that look disappeared as quickly as it came, and she had reverted to the usual greeting, she did take Roderick’s hand when she was re-introduced, and while to all others it seemed like the second time she had met him, I could see it was not.

He looked uncomfortable, and, as he made a slight movement, I could see a smudge of makeup on his lower jaw, and lipstick on his collar, in a place that would not normally be seen.  It was simply a quirk of fate.

By the time I’d processed what I’d seen, we were meeting the next person.

The princess.

“Miss Annabel McCallister, I presume?”

Annabel, suddenly, seemed flustered.  She usually knew everyone at these affairs, to the extent I thought she had a bio specially researched for her, but the princess apparently was not on the list.

“You have me at a disadvantage.  Whom might you be?”  The tone was slightly brittle, the cheeks slightly reddened, and she was annoyed and embarrassed.  Someone’s head will roll for this.

“Frances Williams, or the Boston Williams.”  An offered hand, taken and then released.  When Frances saw her puzzled look, she added, “I belong to the distant branch who live across the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.  Crumbling castles, and once upon a time, tea plantations.”

And then I committed the ultimate crime, I spoke.  “Surely you do not live in a crumbling castle?”

Annabel scowled, Frances laughed, “Oh, no.  Daddy’s spending a few million to fill the cracks so it isn’t as draughty.”

Interview killed stone dead.  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Frances.  Perhaps our paths might cross again.”  In which I read, I hope they do not.

Frances was a girl who could play Annabel at her own game, and quite likely she would win.

We did the obligatory waltz, her strongest dance, and it was one of fluid motion and great concentration, in order to shrug off the Frances factor.  After that, she said she needed a few moments to get some air, and it was probably perverse of me to think that finally, someone had bested her.

I had no interest in further mingling and found a quiet corner in which to view the proceedings and contemplate where the princess had disappeared to.

Apparently not as far away as I thought.  “You saw it, didn’t you?”

I guess I could feign ignorance, but the princess was all-knowing and all-seeing, and now beside me, close enough for another tingling sensation in my spine from the timbre of her voice.

“A tryst with Roderick, I suspect.”

“Handsome lad, cheeky grin, just enough nervousness that someone would suspect they’d been shagging.”

I turned to look at the amused expression.  “Who are you, really.  You’re definitely not one of the Boston Williams.”

“No.  They’re too stuffy for me.  My real name is Cherie, not French, but I can speak it if you like?”

“Probably not.  Mine is schoolboy at best.  How did you get in here?”

“A rather enterprising waiter, and a hundred dollar note.  Most of these twits wouldn’t know the real thing even if they fell over it.”

“An attention-seeking journalist then?”  She would not be the first, to try to see how the so-called other half lives.

“Perish the thought.  I just love these affairs, the people, the atmosphere, the food, and the drink.  And meeting people like you, a contradiction in every sense.  You don’t want to be here, and yet here you are.  You don’t want to be with her, and yet you are.  Duty?  Obligation?”

“All of the above.”

“And now you know she’s having a dalliance.”

“What rich and famous couple are monogamous?  You read the papers, its musical beds.  It comes down to how much pride you want to swallow for the sake of family, business, and appearances.”

She shook her head.  “That’s not you.  Humor me, come to the Cafe Delacrat tomorrow, 10:00 am.  We’ll chat.”

I took Annabel home, and it was like nothing had happened, and she was not seeing anyone else.  The girl, if nothing else, was a consummate actress, and had I not seen the evidence, I would still think I was the only person for her.  But she was inordinately happy, and I had not been able to do that for her for a long time. 

Perhaps it was time to move on.

I nearly decided to stay in bed and not go to the Cafe Delacrat, but the thought of seeing the princess once more was the compelling argument to go. 

When I got there, a few minutes before the hour, she was not there, and I thought to myself, I had been tricked.  That thought magnified when it came to a few minutes after when the waiter brought out the latte.  The coffee aroma was good, so it would not be a wasted visit.

And, like the princess she was, she arrived late.  Dressed in a yellow summery dress with flowers, red shoes and handbag, and the obligatory scarf and sunglasses, she looked movie star stunning.  She sat down, and the waiter was there before she finished squirming into the seat.

“I’ll have what he’s having.”

“Latte.”  He probably knew, but I wasn’t leaving anything to chance.

“I didn’t see you arrive, otherwise…”

“Very few people do.”

“By the way, you look amazing.”

“What?  This old thing.  It’s been sitting in the back of the closet since I last visited San Gimignano.  Have you traveled?”

“Yes.”

“Man of few words.  Compliments women.  Apologetic.  That girl is not for you.”

“And you might be?”  I was wondering what her motives were.

“Me?  No.  Too old, a bit of a lush, certainly not monogamous, and frankly, you could do a lot better.  In fact, you deserve better.”

“Then…”

She was watching the other side of the road, the front entrance to a rather pricy hotel in fact, as a taxi stopped and two passengers got out.  When it drove off, I could see a man and a woman, and when I looked closer, I saw it was Annabel and Roderick, holding hands and looking very much in love, as they literally bounced into the hotel.  No baggage, 10:00 am, no prizes for guessing why they were there.

“How did you know?”

She shrugged.  “I know she is not the one for you.  So, if you had but one wish, who would you wish for?  I’m sure, over time, there has been a girl who stole your heart.  We all have one, in my case, probably two, or three.”

Who was this woman, my fairy godmother?”

Yes, she inspired me to think, and closed my eyes to go back to a time in university when I ran into this amazing girl who spent far too much time helping others than to worry about herself.  We spent a lot of time together, and yet we were not together in that sense, as much as I wanted to be.  I sense though it was not the time or the place for her, and, after two years, she simply disappeared.

“Miranda Moore.”

I hadn’t realized I’d said her name out loud.

“Yes?”

I opened my eyes and looked up to see the very girl, a few years older but no less attractive than she was then, apparently a waitress at that cafe.

“Peter?”

“Miranda?  Wow.  I’ve been looking for you, high and low.  What happened?”

“My mother died and I had to go home.  It’s been a few years of hell, but, like you say, wow.  Looking for me, you say?”

“High and low.”

“And now you’ve found me?”

“I’m not letting you disappear on me again.  Can we…”

“I finish at noon.  Come back then, and I’m yours.  God, it’s so nice to see you again.”

© Charles Heath 2022