Month: March 2023

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 45

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…

——

A second report from Blinky’s surveillance of the castle had Leonardo on the move, and a second shadowy person following them.

It had to be Jackerby, Atherton thought.  Jackerby would be the only one who didn’t trust anyone, or, perhaps, he had more murderous intentions.  Maybe he had worked out that Leonardo was rapidly becoming a liability.

Or he had some other agenda.

“How many of resistance are waiting at the barn?” Atherton asked the soldier.

“Four.  The fifth went to find them.”

“OK.  Carlo, take some of the soldiers and stop them.”

He grinned.  At last.

“I’ll deal with the other man.” I whistled and Jack came over.  “We have a job to do, Jack.”  He had no idea what I was saying, but his enthusiasm was obvious.

“Taking any prisoners,” Blinky asked.

“If the situation warrants it, but if the fire on us, we fire back.”

“And, once that’s done?”

“We retake the castle.”

“Sounds a bit like a story out of a Boys Own annual.”

“It does.  It’ll certainly make a good story to tell your grandchildren one day.”

“If we make it back.”

“We will.  If we’re careful and don’t take unnecessary risks.  I won’t be bringing a prisoner back.  If it’s Jackerby, I have a score to settle with him.”

“Don’t let revenge cloud your judgment.”

“I won’t.  See you soon.”

When we reached the woods, on the opposite side of the castle, I planned to come at Jackaby from an angle he would not be expecting anyone.

From the moment we entered the woods, Jack went into what I would call stealth mode as if he was hunting.  In a sense he was, and perhaps he knew instinctively what we were looking for.

It took about a half-hour of carefully moving through the woods to get to a point where I could just see Jackerby, sitting beside a tree, watching the barn.  I moved a little closer, and the change of angle brought Leonardo and two other men of the resistance, sitting behind the barn, and one of sentry duty, waiting for the fifth to return.

I turned back to see where Jack was, but he had gone off.  A rabbit perhaps, or something else.

I moved closer; Jackerby’s attention was fully on the resistance members, so he would not hear me coming.

What was he doing?  He was taking an enormous risk coming out of the castle alone or did he think that if I was clever enough to have the castle under surveillance, he could assume I might be stupid enough to follow him.

It was an interesting thought, broken by the sudden rustling through the undergrowth, and then a yelp, as Jack launched himself at Jackerby, taking him completely by surprise, then, when Jackeby tried to get a gun in hand, Jack attacked that hand.

Long enough for me to get there, gun in hand.  “Stop resisting, or I’m sure Jack will do some serious damage to that hand.”

It looked serious enough to me.

“So, this is where you’re hiding?”

“Enough, Jack.”

Curiously, the dog stopped, but remained menacingly close, growling.

“I should have shot that dog when I had the chance.”

Jack moved forward and growled in his face, baring his teeth, and Jackerby shrank back.

“Don’t upset him.  He obviously doesn’t like you.”

Our attention was interrupted by gunfire, and a glance over to the barn saw two men with their hands up against the wall, and the two on the ground, including Leonardo.   Carlo was in the process of ‘interrogating’ the other two.

“Carlo is not a happy man, Jackerby.  And I promised him five minutes alone with you.”

Another glance over at the barn, Carlo was kicking one of the men who had fallen on the ground, with enthusiasm.  I didn’t rate the man’s chances of surviving.  “You really shouldn’t have let Leonardo mistreat Chiara or Martina, wherever you’ve got her.”

“She is still alive.  We can do a deal here, Atherton.”

“The trouble I have with anything you say is that I can’t believe you.  I’m sure you’d say or do anything to stay alive and renege the moment you got back to the castle.”

“I give you my word as an officer.  We are, like you, men of honor.”

I shook my head.  “You’re Gestapo, or worse, Jackerby.  And they, as far as I’m concerned, are the lowest of the low, little more than murderous thugs.  No.”

I aimed the gun and pulled the trigger.

The only way Jackerby was leaving the woods was as dead weight.

——-

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

Writing about writing a book – Day 24

Time to put the team back together, well, sort of.

We’ve been given the introduction to who Barry McDougall is, or the man otherwise known as ‘Brainless’, and after three days of trying to get it straight, this is the first rough draft of his start in the story.

…

Barry, whose daring selfless deeds earned him the nickname Brainless because that was the only way to describe the motivation behind them, was one of the regular soldiers, and, for a long time, had been my only true friend.  His was a reputation both friends and foes alike considered awesome.  He’d been in Vietnam, and later just turned up at Davenport’s camp, reporting for duty.

Davenport was more surprised than I was at his arrival, but obviously, after checking his credentials, was impressed because he let him stay.  And it would be true to say, if he had not, I would not be here now.

So Barry was just the sort of person I needed to help me.

That was the good news.

The bad news was Barry, at the best of times, either on one of his ‘benders’ using drugs or alcohol, whatever was easier to get at the time, lost to everyone, or locked up in a mental institution, having admitted himself.  He had no interest in participating in life, hadn’t worked in years, and often said, in moments when he was at his lowest, that he did not care if he lived or died.  It had not always been that way, but his demons had all but taken him over, and despite the help, I tried to give him, nothing could shake him out of this lethargy.  He said once he envied me that I could not remember the dark days, and, now those memories had returned, I knew what he meant.

For a long time, I could not understand why he didn’t try harder to help himself, and I guess he humored me by accepting the jobs I’d found him, and the help I offered.  I owed him a great deal, but that was probably the one honorable thing about him, he never expected, nor wanted, anything in return.

He tried to make a go of being a police officer and lasted several years before he resigned over an incident that didn’t reach the papers.  There was, he said, no place for heroics in modern society.  I hadn’t got to the bottom of it, but I heard he shot some thieves at a time when the police were trying to promote a pacifist image.

He tried a few other occupations with an equal lack of success, so now he survived on whatever money I gave him.  He lived on the street, and when he was not there, I knew he could be found in a bar, in one of the more seedier parts of the city, a ubiquitous underground bar called Jackson’s, named after a man who had a salubrious reputation that hovered between load shark and saint, and who was reputed to be buried under the storeroom floor.  The present owner, or what I assumed to be the owner, was a large, gruff, ex-prizefighter, who had the proverbial heart of gold, most of the time, and who took my money and looked after Barry without making it look like he was.

I’d called the bartender in advance, and he said he was in his usual spot, and that it was at the start of the next cycle, having just discharged himself from the hospital after a bout of pneumonia.  It was, he said, getting worse, and taking longer to recover.

It was probably only a matter of time before it took him, so perhaps this time I would have to try harder to convince him to give up his nomadic lifestyle.

When I walked in, the aroma of spilled beer, stale sweat, and vomit, mingled with the industrial-strength carbolic cleaner almost took my breath away.  In the corner, two construction workers were sitting, quietly smoking and drinking large glasses of beer.  In the other, Barry was being held up by the table, an untouched double scotch sitting in front of him.  Sitting at the bar was a woman of indeterminate age, badly made up, and thin to the point of emaciation.  I was not sure what she was drinking, or what it was she was smoking, but I could smell it from the front doorway.

The bartender, Ogilvy, no first name given, was pretending to polish glasses, standing at the end of the bar, looking at the television, playing some daytime soap.  He didn’t look over when I came in, but I knew he didn’t miss anything.  I saw him flick a glance at Barry, and then shake his head.  I think he cared as much about Barry as I did, but could recognize the sadness within him.  As much as Ogilvy said, which wasn’t much, he too had seen service in Vietnam, and it had affected him too.

I ordered an orange juice, caught the glances from the construction workers, and a steely look from the woman then went over to Barry’s table and sat down.  Despite the loud scraping noise when I moved the chair, or the creaking as I sat in it, Barry didn’t move.

Whilst the bar had that seedy aroma, Barry was showing the signs of having spent the time on the street.  It was one of the disadvantages of having no permanent residence and though there was a shower at the bar which Ogilvy let Barry use from time to time, he obviously hadn’t for a few days.

A groan emanated from the table, and Barry moved his head slightly.

I shifted the drink in front of him, and then a hand went out and moved it back.  He lifted his head to look at me, and then lowered it again.

“I thought it was you.”

© Charles Heath 2016-2021

What do these mean?

I’ve been reading the latest headlines and picked out a few:

The seems to be a currency war,

Oil prices are set to rise in line with a cut in production,

Some tankers will not be plying the Hormuz strait,

There was a massive power outage in the UK,

Gold prices are rising,

North Korea is shooting missiles into the sea

The USA needs more missiles,

There are Chinese survey vessels in the South China Sea,

In Russia there is an explosion on a secret base with nuclear implications, and,

There might be a global recession coming.

What do all these events mean?  Nothing really when taken individually, but when you start combining them, then the thriller writer in me starts to see all sorts of conspiracies and plotlines for stories.

For instance

Take that explosion in Russia, and the fact the word nuclear is attached to it, and then look at the massive power outage in the UK.  What if that site was a laboratory, working on small,  powerful bombs that can easily be carried, installed, in or around vital infrastructure, and in that quest for smaller and more powerful something goes wrong.

After all, isn’t that what testing is for?

And the fact there’s been one major event involving vital infrastructure, should we be looking for more?  Then there are a few problems with bombs being attached to tankers in the Hormuz Strait.  Does anyone see the potential for an apocalyptic event coming on?

Then the North Koreans are firing test missiles, and the US calling for more missiles to add to their arsenal.  Are they using North Korea as an excuse?  Or is there something more sinister going on with Chinese survey vessels in the South China Sea?  What if they’re not survey vessels?

Then there’s a small matter of rising oil prices.  Whilst the same report might say that the rise is due to OPEC cutting output, there could be other reasons, such as the currency war that’s about to erupt, and will this pre-emp a global recession.  A good indicator of impending disaster, wars, and other maladies is the rising price of gold.

The gold market goes into overdrive when currency starts to lose value, recessions are coming or have arrived, or there is about to be a war, or there is one.  The US and China are facing off, the US and half the middle east are a disaster waiting to happen, and, hang on, North Korea is being provocative, and in a late development, India and Pakistan are facing off over Kashmir.

Are we surprised people are turning to gold?

Maybe I should go back to doing the crossword, and ignoring the news.

No stone unturned… – A short story

Mondays were usually a slow day to start the week, a brief few hours after the storm the was every Friday. Some chose to come in late, others gathered on arrival to have a team debriefing.

Our department chose to have a debriefing, and it was my job to analyze all the data and turn it into a graphical representation that basically said the business was heading in the right direction – up.

But, this Monday morning, the circumstances were slightly different.

The head of the company had personally sent both an email and a memo to every employee, an event that had never happened before.

In fact, for most of us, it was an eye-opening discovery, one where had the company not become engulfed in a scandal of international proportions, his identity might have remained a secret.

Not that it mattered to the 15,000 odd people who worked for the company, because the bottom line was that it would not affect us, or our employment.  Well, that was the message the email and the memo was primarily about.

Was it too little too late?

The problem was that the morning’s paper’s headlines screamed scandal in large letters and then went on to describe how the company was basically a front for laundering money associated with various criminal activities. It stopped short of accusing the company’s upper management of being criminals, but it was clear, reading between the lines, they had to know something was wrong.

I walked into the meeting room where all of the Department’s staff were seated, talking among themselves, that dying down the moment I closed the door behind me. On the desk in front of each was one of the three morning papers, all with basically the same story.

I didn’t bring a paper in with me, nor a copy of the email, or the memo. I was hoping the meeting was not going to be about the scandal.

I was wrong.

It was one of those companies where everyone knew everyone. I knew everyone in the room, and regarded most as friends as well as workmates. The company promoted from within and on merit, and with this, I had the respect of everyone who worked under me.

I could see by the mood, and looks of expectation, that trust was going to be tested.

“I suspect that everyone has seen the news, and hopefully read both missives from management regarding the situation the company finds itself.”

That was met with a murmur of agreement.

“It was also, for some, a surprise.”

For others, it was not. Our department was basically in place to ensure that all transactions were conducted properly and that clients’ accounts were managed within the guidelines set by the company, and the various government institutions responsible for financial affairs.

Several of the senior officers had come to me with what they regarded as anomalies, and I have given them the authority to investigate. It was also within my remit to advise the relevant government authority. Most of the anomalies had simply been oversights by the account manager, except for one, which as far as I was aware, had been cleared.

Or not.

“Can we safely assume that Wally Anderson’s somewhat abrupt was not as described?”

Wally Anderson’s abrupt departure had been described to me in a one-line email, ‘taking some personal time to work through some family issues’. In the week leading up to his departure he had become increasingly agitated, and one call one of the others had taken in his absence was from a reporter.

It was one of his accounts that remained doubtful, until shortly after he left when an external investigator was brought in.

But I had a difficult line to walk, trying to placate both sides of the spectrum and management, and as a leader. Respect could be won or lost in a matter of words.

“That might or might not be the case, but the odds are, given what we’re reading, that there may be room for doubt. However, despite what we may conclude, or deduce, it is better for all of us to keep an open mind. I suspect, at some point, again based on what I read, we might be approached by the police or representatives of a number of regulatory organizations for information.”

It was as far as I got.

The side door swung open, and my superior, the Chief Accountant, strode in, along with the mystery man who was, the papers said, the Owner, followed by the harried personal assistant.

“Mr. Nelson…”

The Chief Accountant stood front and center to the group. I thought it wise to stand off to one side, the opposite, in fact, the Owner, now standing just inside the door, next to his PA who was quietly talking into her cell phone.

“I’ll take over from here, Max.”

He switched his attention back to the group and took a few seconds to run his eye over all over them, almost as if he was looking for someone or something.

“I have spent the last 48 hours in rather tedious discussions with the regulators who insist that they received information about the Ridley investigation. Unfortunately, without consulting the company, he took part of the results of the investigation to them. Was anyone here aware of his actions?”

Another eye cast over the group, and, in the end, a glance at me.

I felt responsible to answer for the group.

“Investigations are conducted by individuals, and as far as I was concerned, the Ridley investigation was his. As equally that after he departed, that investigation was completed and cleared. Are you intimating that it wasn’t?”

I knew as much about it as the others.

“It was, until someone else reopened it, and reported it. We believe it was someone in this room.”

“That’s not possible,” I said. “I have oversight of all the officers in this room, and the ability to monitor everything they do and everything they look at. You know the security protocols in place in the software itself.”

“An investigation into the software has been implemented, and it shows that certain log files were altered so that the user log wouldn’t show who looked at the records. Someone with database experience.”

“We’re basically auditors not database managers.”

“Well, someone apparently is. Everyone is on notice. We will find out who it was, and believe me when I say we will leave no stone unturned in the process.”

An almost imperceptible not from the Owner, the harried PA was still on the cell phone, the Chief Accountant gave the group another steely look, then glared at me, said, “My office, one hour,” then left pulling the other two along in his wake.

I cast an eye over the group, picking out those whom I suspected were capable of performing such a search and destroy operation. Three.

“My door is open for anyone who might have any information, with the promise of anonymity.”

I left them with that and also left.

What should have been a quiet morning’s discussion just became a witch hunt where someone would be burnt at the stake. Whether they were guilty or not.

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

Searching for locations: Siena, Italy

The Piazza del Campo is one of the greatest medieval squares in Europe.

It is shaped like a shell.

This is where the Palazzo Publico and the Torre del Mangia are.

At 102 meters (334 feet), the bell tower is the city’s second tallest structure.

When it was built in 1848 it was the exact same height of the Duomo to show that the state and church had equal amounts of power.

Around the edges of the Piazza are a lot of restaurants, where you can sit in the shade, have a plate of pasta and sip on a cold limonata.

The devil features prominently in a lot of sayings

For instance, I’ve heard someone mutter, “the devil you say…”

Or another, who was telling his friend, who, at the time was in a spot of bother, ‘You’re between the devil and the deep blue sea.”

Wrong.  We all know the sea is green, not blue.

But whatever the circumstances, the devil seems to pop up a lot.

For instance,

Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.

It seems I’ve heard that somewhere before, or at least a part of it.  Hmmm.

Maybe you’ve “gone to the devil”.  Can that be paired with “going downhill at a rapid rate of knots”?

OK, it’s impossible to go downhill using the speed measure of knots, that only applies to boats, so who came up with that saying, a landlubber sailor?

Hang on, isn’t there a team called the New Jersey Devils?  Funny, I didn’t see if the players had horns or not, and they were using hockey sticks not tridents.

Maybe I misheard.

Neutral men are the devil’s allies, therefore there must be a lot of devils in Switzerland

The devil finds work for idle hands, oh yes, my grandmother used this often on me whenever she caught me doing nothing, or digging around in her magazine room … which was a lot

But my favorite,

When in hell, only the devil can show you the way out.

I’m still trying to find him!

An excerpt from “Betrayal” – a work in progress

It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t.  It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…

She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room.  It was quite large and expensively furnished.  It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.

Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917.  At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.

There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.

She was here to meet with Vladimir.

She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.

All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring.  Not that she had blurted that out the first they met, or even the second.

That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.

It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years.  She had been there once, and still hadn’t met all the staff.

They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.

It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this was a fencing match.

They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity.  She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.

The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined.  After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.

Then, it went quiet for a month.  There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited.  She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.

A pleasant afternoon ensued.

And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.

By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends.  She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy.  Normally for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.

She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful.  In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.

After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit.  She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.

It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine.  She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.

A Russian friend.  That’s what she would call him.

And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue.  It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.

Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour.  It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.

So, it began.

It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country.  It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms.  When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.

Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report.  After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.

But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report.  She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.

It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen.  Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.

And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.

She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room.  She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.

Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.

There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit.  She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.

Later perhaps, after…

She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.

A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival.  It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality.  A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.

The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.

She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir.  It was her worst nightmare.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 6

My mind will not rest.

Down here, it is summer, and the last few days have been rather hot, well, it is summer after all, but tonight it is particularly hot.

So, as I can’t sleep, I’m lying on the couch staring at the ceiling, otherwise known as the cinema of my dreams.

Where am I?

Well, the location is in keeping with the weather, hot, humid, and cold drinks are mandatory.

I’m going to get another one now!

There is such a thing as being in the right place at the right time, as much as there is being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I think I got a dose of both that morning.

I ignored the call from Boggs reluctantly, but I still had the world-weary look on my mother’s face fresh in my memory.  As much as I didn’t want to, I headed towards the warehouse and the office where old man Benderby would be, in his Italian suit and cigar, the signs of his prosperity.

Everyone hated him.

In the employee car park, opposite the front gate, I could see Rico and one of Benderby’s sons in earnest conversation.  The sons were as bad as the father, and because we went to school with them, and they were bullies then, not much had changed.

I was curious and tried to get closer, without being seen.

Benderby Junior was yelling, “You’re as useless as that brother in law of yours.  He thought he was smarter than us too, and look what happened to him.  You still owe us ten grand Rico, and my father is getting impatient.”

“Look, I have a special project, it’ll take a few weeks, then you’ll get your money.”

“It better not be some treasure hunt I hear you’re on.  There is no treasure.  That was what your brother in law tried to float, said he had a real map but never showed it to anyone.  It doesn’t exist.  He offered to sell it to me.  Do I look like a fool?”

“No.  But, it’s real.  I’ve seen it.”

Benderby just shook his head.  “Tell you what.  Bring it to me, and if I think it’s real, then we’ll talk.”

With that, Benderby Junior walked off.

Rico didn’t look happy.  Not surprising, because if Benderby thought it was real, then Rico just lost the rights to the treasure.  Or, most likely, any part of it.

Telling Benderby was the last thing he should have done.

 

I went it to the office where I was greeted by the girl on reception.  I;d been to school with her, and she had been friends with Alex Benderby.  It was how she got the job.  It was not what you knew, it was who you knew.

I also knew Alex Benderby, but it was not the same.  He didn’t like people who were smarter than he was, we were, he once told me, threats.  To what, I had no idea.

“Sam.  How are you, haven’t seen you for a while.”

We had been friends of a sort at school, but now working for Benderby, she moved in different social circles.

“Fine, Jenny, as well as can be expected.”  Not one for small talk, I cut to the chase.  “I came to see if there was a job.  My mother keeps at me to do something with my life other than hanging out at home waiting for a ship to come in.”

“I thought you were going to university?”

“Needs money we haven’t got.

At that moment Alex walked in and saw me.  His face was all hostility.

“What are you doing here?”

“The same as every other unemployed person is, looking for work.”

“I thought you university types were too good to work in the warehouse?”  No mistaking the sneer in his tone, or the superiority.

“Alex.”  A bark from behind made both Alex and Jenny jump.  “Get the hell back to work.”  Then he saw me.  “You’re Grace’s kid, Sam?”

“Yes, sir.”  I may hate him but I still knew how to be polite.

“Grace told me you were coming down.”  He looked at Jenny.  “Tell Williams I’m sending over his new paperwork guy.  Tell him I said to treat him properly or he’ll answer to me.”  Then back at me.  “Say hello to your mother from e when you see her.  And that she still owed me dinner.”

Then he was gone.

“Congratulations,” Jenny said.  “Right place, right time.”

It seemed so.

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

Inspiration, maybe – Volume 1

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like.  For instance:

lookingdownfromcoronetpeak

And the story:

It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.

The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.

He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.

The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent.  We were following the car he was in, from a discrete distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.

There was nowhere for him to go.

The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road were now on.  Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.

Where was he going?

“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter.  He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.

“What?”

“I think he’s made us.”

“How?”

“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing.  Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain.  He’s just sped up.”

“How far away?”

“A half-mile.  We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”

It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”

“Step on it.  Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”

Easy to say, not so easy to do.  The road was treacherous, and in places just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three thousand footfall down the mountainside.

Good thing then I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.

Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster.  We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.

Or so we thought.

Coming quickly around another corner we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.

“What the hell…” Aland muttered.

I was out of the car, and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility.  The car was empty, and no indication where he went.

Certainly not up the road.  It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit.  Up the mountainside from here, or down.

I looked up.  Nothing.

Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”

Then where did he go?

Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.

“Sorry,” he said quite calmly.  “Had to go if you know what I mean.”

I’d lost him.

It was as simple as that.

I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.

I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.

It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.

“Maybe next time,” Alan said.

“We’ll get him.  It’s just a matter of time.”

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

Find this and other stories in “Inspiration, maybe”  available soon.

InspirationMaybe1v1

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 9

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

An interrogation and a revelation.

I think I just about reached that same conclusion just seconds before she uttered it.  But, I didn’t think this was the time to air my own thoughts on the matter.

The question I did ask was, “It appears our service has been compromised.”

She glanced at me almost condescendingly.  “It appears so.  Have you got your cell phone?”

I had it with me and gave it to her.  I had it ready because I knew they would ask for it.  It had a record of orders given, and phone conversations made, before, during, and after the operation.

For a review, or in this case, a search for the guilty.

I watched her put in the passcode, and go to the messages, and bring up the one sent to me, to attend the briefing.  It was all in order, no different to the previous five, with all the right designations and protocols.

“There was no reason to suspect it was anything but a real callout.”

Another glance at the screen, she put it on the desk next to the file.  “No, it looks real enough.”

Thought best kept to myself; how the hell did someone outside our organisation, know so well our inner workings?  I wanted to ask the question but refrained from doing so.

It also explained, now that I thought about it, the reason why the target had said he was one of us.  We had been hunting him so someone else, and enemy organisation perhaps, so they could kill him.  The question was, why?  Had he made a discovery, the evidence he was referring to that a certain Alfred Nobbin might have.

Perhaps a good idea, for the time being, to keep that snippet of information to myself.  After all, this new person in front of me could be one of Severin’s people.

Where I was sitting was not a familiar place to me, though I had been to the building before, which is why I knew where to go for this interview.  AS for the people, everyone I’d met so far, other than the other team members, bar one, I’d known from training.

So, now another expected question from me, or at least, if I was on the other side of the table, it’s one I’d expect to be asked.  “Just who was I working for, if it was not for us?”

Assuming she was one of us.

“That’s what we intend to find out.  Who was the target?”

I gave her the description we’d been given, and a copy of his photograph that had been circulated at the briefing.  I’d kept one of them, and luckily no one noticed it missing.  It was fortuitous that’s I’d copied the photo before I had to give it to her, which was right then.

There was not a flicker of recognition in her eyes.

“So, not one of us?” I asked.

For an interrogation, she wasn’t asking many relevant questions.

She looked up.  “Why would you say that, if your mission was to keep him under surveillance?”

“Which we now know was not sanctioned, so we have to assume that we had been persuaded to find and track one of our own agents.  You look as though you didn’t recognise him?”

“I don’t try to remember every agent we have in the field, here and overseas.  There a few too many for that.  But I’ve got a request out for his identity.  He didn’t say who he was?”

“No.”

“Anything at all that might be useful?”

“That he was one of us, who’d made a mistake, and feared we’d set the dogs on him.”

“Yes.  Someone definitely did that.”

© Charles Heath 2019