It seems, after a lot of trial and error, trying this that and the other, I’ve discovered that you only get out of social media what you put into it.
And it means that unless you are on it 24 hours a day, every day, spruiking, or whatever it is we writers are supposed to do promoting ourselves and our work, nothing happens.
Don’t get me wrong, there are those who are raging successes, and I am happy for them.
But for us living on the fringe, and there is quite a lot of us, trying valiantly to reach the public eyes, the battle is just that, a battle.
When do you get time to write?
Is it a choice between writing, or trying to garner support and a following?
The authors who are published by the large publishers will tell you that it is the only way to become an author, where all of the marketing is done by the publisher and all they have to do is put in an appearance and pocket the royalties.
I don’t think that’s necessarily true.
But when I find that happy medium between marketing and writing, I’ll let you know.
Until then, I guess there will be more days like today, and that battle going on in your head that is telling you to give up, it’s never going to get any better.
Maybe not.
But give up? Not today, nor tomorrow.
After all, we live in a world where anything is possible.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
A run in with Alex
…
It had been an interesting excursion, with discovery, but not so significant, it meant anything. I went back to Nadia’s hotel room to collect the maps she had in the picnic basket so I could compare them with others because at least two of them had features I’d not seen before.
I was there only for the maps, then left. It had been a long day and she was tired, and I was glad not to be working that night. I also had been thinking about what Boggs was doing, and where, for that matter, he’d been.
I hadn’t seen Boggs for days, and worse, the last time I did see him, we didn’t exactly part on the best of terms. It was a long way to fall from when, what seemed less than a week, we were the best of friends.
It seemed his obsession with the treasure hunt had usurped any possibility of being civil or any understanding that there might be more pressing matters in my life, like having to help support my mother.
Perhaps he didn’t realize the nature of my necessity to actually get a job and bring some money onto a household that was struggling just to exist.
For that matter, I had to wonder just how he and his mother managed to exist now that Rico was behind bars with little chance of escaping a prison sentence. Oddly, I felt sorry for him, but I was beginning to believe that Alex and the Benderby’s were responsible for the archaeologist’s death and had used Rico’s boat to stitch him up.
As for Boggs, there was that lingering doubt in his mind that I had crossed to the dark side, associating myself with Nadia, a sworn enemy, and treasure hunting rival.
It was a thought that crossed my mind too and could be argued that she was just using me as a means of getting to the treasure for her family given that she might assume that I stood a better chance of deducing where it was because Boggs had a head start on everyone else, and was still stumbling around in the dark.
That she was willing to help, by means that could have only been facilitated by her family didn’t go unnoticed, and I was a lot warier now of sharing everything I knew with her. I was not that naive to believe she was interested in me for any other reason.
It didn’t really matter because whether I would share any or all information with her or anyone else was largely irrelevant. I was inclined to believe it didn’t exist, or if it had, it was more likely that someone had found it long ago, and like the Cossatino’s later on, promoted the myth for the purpose of exploiting people’s gullibility.
This was, I guess, one of those between a rock and a hard place moment.
A sudden itch on the back of my neck made me turn around and look back in the direction of her room, and I noticed a flutter where the curtain was. Had she been waiting to see if I had gone?
I hated the idea of being suspicious of people’s motives, but the name conjured up all manner of expectations, and I could only imagine what it was like to live with that. Would she ever live a normal life, or even know what normal was?
Did any of us?
“Smidge.”
A voice that would strike terror into the heart of anyone like me.
Alex. Loitering outside the vicinity of Nadia’s hotel. Was he spying on her?
“Alex.”
Beside him was one of his father’s henchmen and it didn’t look good.
“What are you doing here?”
Had he just arrived on his way to see her, or had he been lurking in the shadows? My money was on the latter. He had been the jealous boyfriend once, and it was hard to see him changing.
Truth or dare? Truth. “I was visiting Nadia. But I wouldn’t start assuming it was for any reason other than for her to be questioning me about Boggs’s progress on his treasure hunt, which, by the way, is zero. My guess is you are having more success.”
“Why would you think that?”
“The flash boat on the water, I suspect you’re trying to find a trail of coins from bay to beach in the hope of establishing where it came ashore. I’m sure you have some fancy metal detection going on from the boat. So, any success?”
“Why would I tell you?”
“Why wouldn’t you? I’m sure telling Boggs is hardly going to make his investigation move along faster than it is. What would help is the captain’s logbook, and that I suspect was the archaeologist’s trump card, and he died before imparting its whereabouts.”
It was pure speculation on my part, but Alex always lacked a poker face, even back in school when he got into trouble. His expression changed just slightly. So, there was a logbook.
“Does your father know what you’re doing?”
“This had nothing to do with my father.”
“Perhaps I should tell him that, including your obsession with Nadia.”
Something I should have realized long ago, and just crystallized in my mind, though I was not sure why was the fact Benderby had become almost a regular visitor at our place. If I thought about it, it explained why my mother had suddenly started taking more care of her appearance, and how it came to pass that I could get a job in a place where very few could.
Benderby had always had an interest in my mother, and suddenly I realized they had been to school together, and the words of my father spoken once in anger made sense. He was not her first choice. She may have been Benderby’s first choice back then, but I doubted his family would have sanctioned it.
I wondered what Alex would have thought of that revelation. Since his mother’s death, Benderby had started seeing more of her, and that had to add to Alex’s dislike of me.
“Not a good idea smidge.”
“Not a good idea to be calling me Smidge, Alex.”
A nod from Alex, the henchman took a step forward and grabbed my shirt, and then rammed into the wall.”
Alex laughed, and then suddenly went quiet.
Another voice joined the conversation. “Tell your goon to let him go or I’ll cut your throat from ear to ear.”
Nadia. Her tone scared me.
“You’re not that stupid,” Alex said in a tone that told me it scared the hell out of him too
“I’m a Cossatino, since when did stupidity rate a mention. We’ve been doing stupid shit forever, and you’re about to join the party.”
“You don’t want to do this.”
“Actually Alex, I do. It’ll get rid of one big problem I have with you, and it’ll get rid of a serial pest. People will thank me.”
I could see her now, behind him, dressed in black, and at first thought, she was a ninja. I could see the knife at his throat, and as she moved it slightly, he jerked drawing blood.
“Let him go,” Alex muttered.
The goon let go of my shirt and stepped back.
“Now go, Alex. Don’t come back. And don’t annoy Smidge again, or you’ll have me to deal with.”
He looked me up and down with a look of distaste. “This isn’t over.”
Nadia gave him a shove and stepped between him and me.
“It is, Alex. I know what you did to that chap you dumped on Rico’s boat. You might not have killed him, but you’re ultimately responsible for his death, and I’m sure the sheriff would like to hear about it. So, go away Alex, and be a good boy and we’ll all keep our little secrets.”
Angry yes, sullen answered resentful, equally so, but reluctantly agreeable. “If you say so.”
A nod to his goon and they left.
There was something else hanging in the air, that statement about keeling little secrets. He’d kept something over her, she had admitted as much to me, but the tables had been turned. But what it was she had over him, it was more than just the archaeologist.
“What was that about?” I had to ask.
“The Benderby’s have lots of secrets Sam, not just Alex. I played a card and it paid off. He won’t bother you again, not seriously anyway.”
“Should I be thanking you, or have I just been dragged down a rabbit hole?”
Perhaps I might have worked it better because she did save me from a certain beating.
“You don’t trust me, do you?”
Stating the obvious, there was no easy way out of that question.
“You said it yourself. You’re a Cossatino. I want to believe you, and strangely, given history, I like you perhaps more than I should.”
“Good boys and bad girls, it’s usually the other way around. I wanted to hurt him, believe me, and I meant it when I said we do stupid shit, but I’m trying to be better than that. I want to be better than that. It’s why I need to get away from this place.”
“Then why do you just go? For that matter, why did you come back?”
“Unfinished business.” She took my hand in hers. “And I like being with you. You have a way of making me feel like I can change.”
“You are different.”
“Am I though? I don’t feel like it right now.”
“Well, I am grateful you came along.”
“Good to be a help for once. What’s our next adventure going to be?”
“A picnic in the hills. I want to look at a few caves.”
“The one where Ormiston reportedly went missing? You seem to be on a very macabre Odyssey. What did the newspaper archives turn up?”
“An interesting coincidence. I’ll let you know when I’m free next.”
“I’ll be waiting.” She leaned over and kissed me lightly on the lips, then leaned back to look me in the eyes.
What I wanted then couldn’t be put into words.
Thank God she blinked.
I kissed her on the cheek, shook my head slightly, and said quietly, ” You will be the death of me.”
“Maybe,” she said softly, ” but you will die a very happy man.”
What happens when your past finally catches up with you?
…
Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.
Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment Will’s life slowly starts to unravel and it’s obvious to him it’s time to move on.
This time, however, there is more at stake.
Will has broken his number one rule, don’t get involved.
With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.
But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved there is going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.
“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.
When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.
From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.
There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.
Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.
Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?
Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?
Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?
My hobby was something that only a select few had, and that was searching rubbish dumps for useful items.
But there was one exception.
I didn’t search the average rubbish dump, only those I knew were used by organisations and companies that dumped old technology,
If I was lucky, it would be a government department, and the stuff deemed no longer useful to anyone. I often found old computers, without memory or storage of course, but otherwise intact, and I had an excellent museum of computers, from almost the very first.
It was amazing what some companies disposed of, and in one instance I picked a complete, working, mainframe computer. It filled a substantial part of the barn.
Then there were a half dozen communication radios, not the sort that had a short range, no, these devices had almost worldwide coverage. They were also long-wave radio receivers, and I was able to pick up AM radio stations all over the word, and, sometimes, CB transmissions. It came with several sets of manuals, very thick books that made it daunting reading, so they remained in a wooden crate until boredom set in.
But the radios, were, for now, my new toys to play with.
Late one night I was switching between frequencies, looking for anything that might be interesting, and just caught the end of a transmission, “This is a code Zanzibar, I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Will call same time tomorrow.”
Code Zanzibar?
It had to be someone out there somewhere in the world playing a prank.
Perhaps there would be more, so I would tune in tomorrow, fifteen minutes earlier to see if there was any more to the message.
Meantime, full of curiosity, I wondered if there would be anything in any of the books that came with the radios.
I didn’t sleep that night, going through each one practically page by page because the indexes were missing. It was one of those unexplainable oddities, that made me wonder if there was anything in them that the owners hadn’t wanted anyone to find. That in itself seemed even more odd because if it was the case, why didn’t they destroy them?
Somewhere around shortly before dawn, tired, and bored from reading, I fell asleep.
After yet another bollocking from my father about letting my foolish hobby get in the way of work, I had to work extra hard to make up for it and was too tired to continue my studies. I meant to read more before the transmission time, but luckily remembered to set the alarm,
When the alarm went off, I woke with a jolt and nearly forgot why I set it. I got to the radio just before the transmission.
Then I heard it.
“This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent.”
I flicked the switch to send a message, and said, “This is station M. This is station M. Can you identify yourself?”
I had discovered in the documentation that the radio set had been set up in what was designated Station M, and that it was one of 26 around the country.
There was no reply, just the same message, “This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent.” For exactly three minutes, then the sign-off, “Will call same time tomorrow.”
Back to the books, I was in the middle of the sixth of seven volumes, at page 1,457, of 2,500 when I saw the heading “Warning Codes”, and then shuffled through 26 pages until I found “Zanzibar”.
When I read the explanation my heart almost stopped.
“Zanzibar – The threat of an alien attack is imminent – designates that actual alien aircraft have been positively identified and heading towards earth”
What the…
When I read some of the other codes, it showed varying descriptions for a number of events involving aliens, and at first, I thought this referred to other countries than our own, but then, on another page I realised that aliens meant aliens from outer space.
And the fact everyone but a few debunked the idea there was other life out there, it made no sense. That transmission could not have come from anywhere on Earth. At least, I didn’t think so, because there had been nothing in the documentation about similar stations in other countries.
Still utterly gobsmacked, I kept reading and found a page where certain information hadn’t been redacted. That was something else. Before the books had been thrown away, a lot of information had been redacted.
Why hadn’t it been destroyed, if it was that sensitive?
This page had a name, Professor Edward Bones. It looked like it had been missed.
Perhaps I could call and ask him what this all meant.
I spend hours trying to match the surname with the locale of where I found the stuff, thinking the original Station M would be nearby. It wasn’t easy because the name wasn’t in the current phone book, so I had to dig a little deeper and find where historical phone records were kept.
That got me the Professor’s address and phone number, and the University he worked at. A search on his name told me he was associated with SETI which had to do with tracking communications, if any, from outer space.
I called the number, but it was decommissioned. No surprise. If I did the math, the Professor would be a hundred and twenty-two if he was still alive, I did the next best thing, I went to the address.
It was a hundred and fifty miles, a long way to go and pin hopes on finding something. The university was on the other side of the country so going there was out of the question. It was hard enough to get my father to let me have the day off for this trip.
It was a gated community just off the main highway, a group of houses set aside on their own, now looking rather worse for wear. There was no longer a gate, but the was a guard house, holes on the roof and broken windows, a divided driveway with what was once lawn and flower beds, all now overgrown leading to a fountain in the middle of a roundabout that led, one way to houses, one way to a shopping centre and the other, sports fields.
It looked to me like this was a purpose-built community, perhaps to look after the radio receivers, waiting for a call that may never come.
And just had.
I drove to the Professor’s house and parked out front. It looked in better condition than those on either side, and when I looked in, saw signs of habitation. Someone was living in it. Not the professor’s ghost I hope.
I waited.
It was nearly dark before a battered Ford pickup stopped in the driveway and what looked to be an old man get out.
He saw me as I got out of my car, and come towards him. He didn’t look surprised, which was worrying.
“Did you know Professor Bones,” I asked? It was unlikely.
“My father, yes. Are you from the government? I have nowhere else to go.”
“No. I’m not. Did you know much about what your father did?”
“Why? Is this going to be another character assassination piece? Are you a reporter?”
“Me? No.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I came to ask someone, anyone, if they knew what Cade Zanzibar really means. It can’t possibly mean there’s an imminent alien invasion.”
His expression changed instantly, and it was clear he did know what it meant.
“How do you know anything about Station M, that was top secret, and no one knows, no one still alive that is, other than a few fools back in Washington.”
“I rescued the radio receivers and documents from a dump. I collect old technology. It was just sitting there. I took it home, connected it up, and listened. For the last two nights, there’s been this transmission, ‘This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent’.
“My God. Where are they now?”
“My place.”
“Where?”
I told him.
“We have to go. Now. Take me. I’ll fill you in on the way.”
It was the stuff of science fiction comics. Transmission had been received, many years back, from what was believed an alien race under attack from another. He hesitated before he said it was believed there was life on Mars, but selling the idea there were Martians didn’t go too well. However, the government decided to piggyback onto the moon landings, and several other missions, one on the Moon, one to Mars, one to Jupiter and another to Saturn.
Not on the planets. But space stations orbiting the planets, sort of early warning stations. That first transmission had the implied threat that the aggressive aliens were heading towards Earth.
Apparently not as fast as was suspected. The stations were built, volunteers were sent on the premise they might never come home, and supplies were sent via a launching pad on the moon. While we were still discussing the possibility of launching missions to the other planets, it had already been done, And no one knew.
Expect the Professor, who lost the plot when the government shut down the program and virtually abandoned these people in the outer space stations.
And that was the purpose of Station M. To maintain communications with the space stations, and the moon base. When they were closed, the stations disappeared. Where I visited the Professor’s son, that was the whole base, kept isolated, and under very tight security.
“All I can think of is that one of the space stations is still in operation, manned by someone who has to be one of the oldest people alive, or they figured out how to automate a message given certain parameters. Anyway, if there’s a transmission tonight, we’ll soon find out.”
All I could think of was that I’d just unearthed the biggest secret of all time. One that it was likely I could never tell anyone about.
Unless there really were aliens coming to attack us.
A minute or so later, the transmission came in, “This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent”.
Bones had already looked over the units and certified they were in full working order and showed me the sequence of switches that turned on two-way communications.
After the message, he switched to transmit, “This is Station M, repeat, this is Station M receiving you. Please advise details.”
He switched back to receive and static burst out of the speaker. This went on for a minute, then a weak voice. “Is that you Freddie?”
“Yes. The Prof’s son. Who are you?”
“Alistair Montgomery. I was last to arrive when I was six. There are two of us left. I think Saturn and Mars have ceased. What happened back there?”
“Funding. Lack of results. Bean-counting accountants thought ramping up for wars at home was more important. We knew it would happen one day.
“Five years, Freddie.”
“Your transmission? Code Zanzibar. Is it relevant, or just to get our attention?”
“It’s real. We saw about 50 large ships go by on the long-range radar. Heading for the earth, not moving very fast. I estimate they would take several days to reach to outer limits of our Thermosphere.”
“They didn’t come to see you?”
“No. Sad, because I was hoping to be the first to meet an alien. That might yet be you.”
“Are you going to be OK up there? I can’t tell you we coming to get you.”
“We knew what we were signing on for. But it would be nice if you could keep in touch/.”
“Do what I can. Over and out.”
He went around the back of the unit, and I heard what sounded like the ejecting of a cassette tape. When he came back, he showed it to me. “This should make the bastards sit up and take notice.”
He grabbed his coat. “We have to go. Take me to the nearest airport.”
We made it outside to the car when three black SUV’s pulled up abruptly and a dozen armed men got out and surrounded us.
Then a man in a suit got out of the lead vehicle and came over.
Bones recognised him.
“I didn’t think it would take you long. Been monitoring for transmissions, have you?”
“We knew your father didn’t follow orders but had no proof. Who are you,” he glared at me.
“I rescued the radios.”
He sighed. “Bloody contractors. Never do as they’re told.” He shook his head. “Cuff them and throw them in the car.”
They might have, had it not been for one minor matter. In the half-light of night, it suddenly went quite dark, except for the car headlights, until suddenly the whole area was lit up like a movie studio. We all looked up and…
I’m working on a novella which may boringly be called “Motive, Means and Opportunity” where I will present a chunk of information from which you if you want to, can become the armchair detective.
This might give some clues to the players, and the events.
…
So, the question is, how did I find myself in such a situation.
It came down to choices, as it always does.
And, from the very moment I met Wendy Mauson, I knew life with her, if it came to pass, would be interesting.
She was a popular girl; one of the cheer squad that made their presence felt at most sports. Her usual boyfriend was Garry Frobish, star quarterback and mainstay of the football team. I played basketball, after a fashion, because I had not had the necessary growth spurt in those vital teen years, I found myself relegated to guard, of which there were many.
How did we meet? By accident. Garry, Wendy, and I were all at the same party, Garry made a mistake, they had a huge fight, and I was there. It was not one of those right time right-place events, she just picked me as the most level-headed of those on offer that night. But, I had no illusions, and whilst it was on again and off again over the next year, her real interest, and love of her life was Garry.
So, how did I finish up with Wendy? Wendy and Garry came together as a couple at the prom, and it looked like it was a perfect match. Until he got her pregnant, she wouldn’t get rid of the baby and he dumped her. Who was next, me. Did I know she was pregnant? No. That I discovered much later, at a hospital in tragic circumstances.
But, blissfully ignorant, and universally loved by her family, we were married. And not long after a son, Dale, was born.
I should have recognised the signs in the few months after the birth, where she was rather self-absorbed for a time. Had I investigated it, I would have discovered that she had been seeing Garry again, but that, too, wasn’t discovered until much later too.
But despite the ups and downs, we managed to get along as a family once she settled into the idea of being a mother until Dale was old enough to go to school. Then she went back to work, in the office of the company that was owned by Garry’s parents.
I thought it a coincidence, but, like I said, she managed to keep it all under a shroud of secrecy for many years.
Until the unlikely happened, as it always does. Secrets are not secrets if more than one person knows about it, and if there are more, well, it doesn’t take long for it to become common knowledge.
One of Dale’s friends told him, under the category of ‘can you keep a secret’, that my wife and Garry were ‘old’ friends, and that it had been going on for years. How this ‘friend’ knew about it was never explained, but it turned out to be true.
I spoke to her about it, and she assured me that, yes, they did meet, but it was not like ‘that’. I gave her the benefit of the doubt but followed her a few times observing them together, and it seemed to be as she said.
Then Dale was killed. It was a senseless accident that in any other situation would have seen him walk away with just a few scratches. He was rushed to the hospital and since he was a rare blood type, they tested me, and his mother. Neither of us was a match, which seemed odd. But even when they found a donor, in actual fact Garry, though I didn’t know it at the time, it was too late. In fact, when I identified the body, there was not a mark on him. He had sustained a slight bump to the head which activated an aneurysm.
A week after, when we had the funeral, and everyone came, commiserated, and left, the doctor remained. An old basketball friend, he gave me a piece of paper and told me to read it later. I did. DNA proved that Dale was Garry and Wendy’s son, not mine.
Even then, I was willing to let it go. Wendy had taken Dale’s death hard and decided the only way she could recover was to go away for a while. And not with me. Not a surprise, because we had been arguing a lot, over money, and the way she spent it like it was water, and I thought she had found someone else, and that was who she was going away with.
But, taking her sister was supposed to throw me off the scent.
I guess if you were going to try and continue hiding a secret relationship, you would take steps to prevent the other from finding out. Perhaps her grief had got in the way and clouded her thinking, or she was just in a hurry to leave.
Three weeks later, a phone bill arrived at home, for a phone I certainly didn’t have, so it had to be hers. On it were calls and texts to two numbers, one was Garry’s, the other to a man who was simply a code name. Whilst she had left me numbers of the places she was staying, and with instructions only to call if someone was dying, I did try once, and a man answered.
I put two and two together.
And kept it to myself. Along with all of the evidence, which consisted of a number of accounts, one from a hotel, several from car rental companies and a rental agreement for a flat, one that cost a considerable amount each month, and, when I checked through the finances, which I left her in charge of, I discovered large discrepancies in what she said we had, and what was there.
And, with all the accounts from her recovery ‘holiday’ put on the ‘no limit’ credit card which had to be paid, it took what was left. I was left with the choice of going bankrupt or selling assets. I did the latter, first the condominium in Bermuda, and then the lakeside holiday shack by the lake up country. We rarely used either, so I took the gamble she wouldn’t find out.
Then she came back, I handed the accounts back to her and said nothing. As far as she was aware, the main accounts had sufficient funds to pay the bills, and any money I’d earned in her absence had been squirrelled away.
Perhaps, by that time, I could see the end was nigh.
As it was when Garry was found murdered and set off the chain of events that saw me being implicated in his murder, by Wendy, but for reasons she thought I didn’t know about.
That was about to change when I was summoned to a meeting at her lawyer’s office. I didn’t know she personally had one. Then, there was a lot about Wendy I knew nothing about.
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.
When the boss says jump, the question is usually ‘how high’.
Not that it’s possible for many of us with a challenging centre of gravity to get much elevation.
High generally means height, how far something rises above ground level, is above our heads.
That plane flies very high in the sky.
Then there’s another meaning, increased intensity, such as a high temperature, a high fever, but my favourite is, a high dudgeon.
I’m still to get a definition on what a dudgeon is.
We have secondary schools here that we call high schools. Make of that what you will
And in the idiomatic world, flying high means we are very happy, and when were left high and dry then not so much. Unless it related to a ship, in which case a lot of people would be unhappy.
We can use high just about everywhere, high hopes, high ceilings, feelings that run high, a high chair for toddlers of course, high speed which may cause s crash and land you in a high security prison.
This is not to be confused with just plain hi which is a universal greeting.
But there is another, hie, which has a more obscure meaning, to hasten or go quickly.
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.
It’s just all the trials and tribulations in between that make it seem like it’s all too much effort with nothing but pain and misery punctuated by a few moments of utter delight.
I’m sure a story where everything works like clockwork might have been easier, but the thought of having some meaty characters standing between them and ultimate happiness was more interesting.
The idea of Emile, or the Turk, being an affable person, was modelled on Sidney Greenstreet, a rather interesting actor in Hollywood in the 1940s and 1950s, and I’d just seen his performance in The Maltese Falcon.
When I first started the story, I wanted Michelle to have a secret, but at the time, it wasn’t for her to be a prostitute, simply a fashion model who fell in with the wrong crowd and got into trouble with drugs and the high life.
But that wasn’t interesting enough. By that time, I was dabbling in the thriller genre, and realised I couldn’t write a Mills and Boon-type book, so it veered into thriller territory.
Who doesn’t like a guy who wants to rescue a fallen angel?
Why not make the fallen angel an avenging angel? Her friends help her escape, and then she decided to help her friends escape to the freedom she fleetingly had, and now, determined, would have again.
But, the idea of freedom and the actual getting of it are two entirely different concepts. 400 pages worth of angst, setbacks, love found, and love lost, the love found again. Henry might be a little too naïve, but he had to be to provide the extreme contrast in backgrounds and notions of what life is like.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 