Probably one of the hardest things for a first-time author is not so much the writing but what is needed after the book is written.
You need a good description. Short, sharp, incisive!
There’s a ream of advice out there, and I have read it all.
And, still, I got it wrong.
Then there is the cover.
I wanted simplistic, a short description to give the reader a taste of what’s in store, and let the story speak for itself.
No.
Apparently, a good cover will attract the reader to the book.
When I tendered my books on various sites to advertise them, sites such as Goodreads, and ThirdScribe, all was well with what I had done.
Then I submitted my books to a third site and they rejected the covers as too simplistic and the descriptions mundane, and wouldn’t post them.
Wow.
There’s a huge blow to the ego. And just the sort of advice that would make a writer think twice about even bothering to continue.
But…
Perhaps the person who wrote that critique was being cruel to be kind.
But while I thought my covers were quite good, I made a mock up of them and then put the books n the shelf as they would in a book store, along with a few other books that I have bought, and I could see why they might not have the impact I was looking for.
So, with my graphic designer, both an app, and a person, namely my daughter, we started looking at the plot of the story and of weaving that into the cover, for at least three of my books.
Whilst I am far more impressed with the new covers, I wonder if they’re just too busy. Certainly, after you’ve read the book, you will understand the nuances and layers.
Will it be a case of ‘what a difference a cover makes’?
Does a rainy, cold, miserable sort of day usually reflect your mood?
It could be said the outlook is bleak, but from where I’m sitting, it might be more picturesque.
This photo was taken from the veranda of one of four cottages that have, one one side, a macadamia farm, and on the other, a valley with a small river running through it.
I’m told there is reasonably good fishing in the river.
But, on a good day, with blue skies and sunshine, the outlook is completely different.
This is the sort of place you go to do nothing, perhaps read a book, do a crossword, but nothing substantial.
We come here to wind down, and take several days to do it.
…
But, as for a story…
…
I have in mind a theme of a man on the run, from his past, his demons, and a very dangerous criminal.
Yes, it’s that old story of someone witnessing what they shouldn’t, and paying the price because they did.
Now, hiding out in the country, it’s only a matter of time before they are discovered.
I’d been on the starship for almost three hours when…
…
The captain was coming up from the earth station by transport, not wanting to trust the transporters, and I’d just finished the orientation of the ship by the second officer, and had arrived on the bridge to see various crew members hunched over their consoles.
The captain had told me, before stepping onto the transport, that we would be leaving the dock shortly after he arrived.
Nothing I’d seen so far had led me to believe it would be going anywhere, anytime soon.
Nevertheless, the crew briefing had run smoothly, the second officer assigned to correlate the complaints/problems list, and everyone else had taken their assigned positions.
I was waiting for the captain, standing beside the ‘chair’, ready to hand over. In any other situation, we would be off to an illustrious start.
Until the dulcet tones of the Chief Engineer rang through the bridge, uttering those fateful words, “the warp coil has had a catastrophic failure”.
This was at odds with another statement he had made earlier when I was in Engineering, and given I was told the Chief Engineer was prone to hyperbole; his statement ‘they just don’t make warp coils like they used to’ hadn’t exactly filled me with confidence, but I had been expecting we would be ready to depart.
I had been looking at the screen, an overlay of the window that looked out over space, or at this moment, the space dock, where there was a representation of the planets that were ‘out there’.
I had been curious about M75, but the helmsman, a rather taciturn chap who seemed to resent the fact he was assigned to this ship, just shrugged and said, “it’s something, somewhere, but not of much interest,” then went back to his console.
If this was Star Trek, we’d be ejecting the warp coil by now, but in the space dock, that didn’t seem to me to be a viable option.
“How long before we can get this bucket of bolts moving,” I ask the Chief.
“I’m going as fast as I can.”
Yes, words ripped right out of the script of a Star Trek episode, I thought. A sad case of life imitating art.
A strange whistling sound emanated from the speakers, then the whoosh of the elevator just before the doors opened. OK, new ship, squeaky doors, another item to be put on the ‘look at’ list after the shakedown cruise.
The Captain had arrived.
“Why are dock workers still on the ship, Number One.”
For a moment there, I thought I was talking to John Luc Picard.
“Faulty warp coil. You know how it goes, save a billion by outsourcing to the cheapest supplier.”
The captain didn’t appreciate my sardonic humour, or my apparent disdain in outsourcing what we had once built ourselves.
He gave me a frown, a slight shake of his head, then said, “I’ll be in my quarters. Let me know when we’re about to leave.”
He didn’t wait for acknowledgement and disappeared through another squeaky door. More repairs.
The Chief’s voice then came over the speaker. “I can give you impulse speed, warp speed will take a little longer.”
“Doesn’t that refer to miracles over the impossible,” I ask.
“Perhaps. But in the meantime, I need a specific spanner and the replicators are down. So, now we have to fix them first, before moving on. Might take a while.”
I look around the crew, seeing their expectant faces drop with disappointment.
Outer space was going to have to wait a little longer.
It’s a slow march to the end of the stay for both of them. By unspoken agreement, they partake in picnics, walks, and talk about anything other than parting.
And in the end, she alleviates his concerns for her by telling him about a fictitious job that might be available, if only to keep the truth from him. It’s not fair, but it is better than the alternative. She also tells him he can write to her.
And at the end, she realizes that on one hand, happiness was an option if she let it happen, and on the other, she had stronger feelings towards him than she should, and should not have let it happen. It had, and it would have to be dealt with.
His concern that Mrs Mac might be worried about them is not a concern, she tells him that Mrs Mac had been subtly drawing them together with candle-lit meals, subdued lighting and gentle hints.
The fact he tells her he loves her almost breaks her heart.
They remained together this time in his room that last night, and she had to use every reserve to stop them from making a mistake.
They have to go back to their lives, and maybe one day they could be together again.
…
Henry takes the train back, an early call to return to the ship. At least he will not have time, at home or elsewhere to reflect on what just happened.
…
When Michelle returns home, we learn exactly who she is and why she left him. But, after everything, was there a glimmer of a plan that might be her salvation.
I’m finding it hard to get into the groove. I suspect I have not been in one lately, but I was writing, and the stories were coming together.
My most significant accomplishments seem to come when I write 50,000 words or more for a NANOWRIMO book. It’s interesting that it appears to be the only time I can focus my mind on writing. Last November though, is the first that I didn’t finish it, even though I’d got about 65,000 words done.
I have no idea why on those occasions the creative mind is organised and the ideas and words flowed. I know it was just supposed to be raw writing, but on one occasion I even had time to rewrite the start. As we all know, by the time you get to the end, a lot of stuff at the start needs to be fixed, especially in light of plot changes and continuity.
Unless of course, you’re a planner, which I’m not.
Now, looking at one of the novels on the screen, I have the job of editing and re-writing, after waiting the requisite few months between finishing the rough draft and starting on the polishing.
It seems that April is the month to be doing the first editing, and I may be still on track for that to happen as I’ve continued writing past November, through January, and now have written nearly 140,000 words. It was not supposed to be this long, but it is the story writing itself. There are only a few chapters to go, so it’s looking good to finish this month and give it a rest before April.
In the meantime, and slipping further and further on the schedule is the sequel to What Sets Us Apart, called Strangers We’ve Become, I’ve finally got to editing several times, and it’s nearly done.
But here’s the thing.
It’s all but done and dusted, and I was doing a final read before handing it to the editor for one last check. That was a mistake. I seem to be one of those writers that can’t let it go. I should not have picked it up for a re-read!
I don’t know if anyone else has the same problem, but as soon as I had finished it, I had a feeling (oh no not one of those feelings, I can hear the editor saying) and something was not quite right. Perhaps I’ll put it back down again, and think some more about it.
Perhaps I should just pour another drink and go back to watching ice hockey because the Maple Leafs are doing well at the moment.
OK, I just had an idea for the third book in the series.
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.
The passage heading towards the marina was littered with fallen rocks, timber beams, and roofing material. Much of the damage was in this wing, where the marina had started falling apart.
It was a problem with the foundations. A long and costly investigation had found that the marinas foundations had been inadequately built on a shifting base, made worse by the seasonal water flow.
It was interesting to learn that the event that caused the start of the problems had not occurred in a hundred years, but had been noted in an early newspaper report, and only that it was a phenomenon,
No one at the time had any interest in building there, and it was understood when the navy built its marina, there was no mention of anything untoward happening that would preclude the construction.
And, over the life of the project, nothing had happened. It was why, when the mall was being touted, no one really knew anything about flooding because it hadn’t happened in living memory. That only came later, after the damage was done.
We reached the end of the passageway and found the stairs leading up to the walkway around the marina was closed off. Someone had pulled a board away and we could peer through the crack.
There was daylight beyond, and we could see the large cracks in the staircase, and along the walls either side. There were two sets of stairs up both at the end of a mall passageway, and, in between, there were steps down into the carpark. To one side of that was an elevator lobby, but the elevators would not be working.
But, just out of curiosity, I pressed the button. The light came on, but nothing happened, and, a second later, it went out again.
I looked up, but Boggs had not moved from the top of the stairs.
These steps were not blocked by a barricade, but there would be some difficulty stepping over masonry that had fallen from the roof, which now had a gaping crack and a few pieces of concrete missing. I could see the steel reinforcing and it was rusting.
A few years, all of it would eventually come down.
“You sure this is safe,” I asked.
“Been here a few times. I reckon it hasn’t changed much in years.”
He was looking at the map again, and I peered over his shoulder. The stairs were there but looking down we could only see as far as the landing. There were cracked and broken tiles everywhere, and the handrail had been bent severely out of shape by a boulder now wedged in the rail.
Boggs put the map in his back pocket and said, “Follow me.” He started walking slowly down the stairs, flashing his cell phone light ahead so we could see if there were any hazards.
At the landing, we looked further down the stairs, and these were cleaner. Also, the wall which kept the marina out had a crack in it, and it was damp which meant water was seeping in. The smell was of mold, and I wondered if that could be good for our health.
I followed him down to the first level of the carpark. In the distance, looking back towards the front entrance of the mall, way in the distance was the slatted entrance gates, light seeping in through the cracks.
Between us and those gates were several cars, crushed by a huge concrete beam that had fallen on them. I remembered, then, that there had been a husband and wife in one of the cars at the time and they’d been killed. Their children had been luckier, the youngest had to go to the restroom, and that minute delay had saved them.
Still, it would not be good seeing your parents killed in front of your eyes.
“This place is giving me the creeps,” I said and shuddered.
They said there were ghosts, and I now believed them.
“What are we looking for?: I asked.
“Evidence of the underground river.”
“That would be long gone by now, since they built this lot over it, and some of it falling into it.”
“We shall see.”
He then went down the next flight of steps to the bottom carpark, and I followed. There was less debris on this level, but it was much darker down here, and with only Boggs’ cell phone light, we couldn’t see much else.
“That’s strange,” Boggs said, having taken a dozen or so steps to the right.
“What is?” I wondered what his definition of the word strange was.
“There’s supposed to be an open section here where the wall fell away, pushed by the water flow last time it flooded. The report said that a section here wasn’t anchored properly with formwork, hence the ease in which it was moved.”
I looked at the wall. It seemed to be still intact to me.
Boggs pulled out a pocketknife and tapped it against the surface.
The false concrete chipped and fell away, and a closer inspection showed stippled plaster over plywood, very damp plywood. Boggs extracted a knife and worked on the wall, clearing a foot square, the damp plaster easily peeling away.
A false wall, one that no one would think twice about if they were not looking for it.
Boggs then scraped sideways until the blade hit metal, then he scraped around it until a gate-type bolt was exposed. It didn’t have a lock. It was rusted shut, so Boggs found a rock and hit it a few times, shaking it loose. He opened it, then tugged on it.
Was he expecting a door to open?
“Give us some help here.”
We both pulled on it, and it gave way, showering us in plaster pieces. At least we weren’t smothered in dust.
As it opened, light flooded in, almost blinding me.
I let Boggs open it the rest of the way while my eyes adjusted.
Then I tentatively looked out.
From where we were standing, we could see the two levels of the marina walkway, broken away at this end above the doorway, and a big hole in the side wall of what was the marina pool. We could see, and smell the seawater, and beyond, the ocean.
Looking down, there was a sheer drop of about 30 feet, and under us, there was an opening. At that 30 feet was flowing water, and through the water, I thought I could see clothes.
“Is that a body down there?”
It looked like one.
“No. Don’t think so. Someone probably threw a clothed dummy down there for fun, once when this was open. I’d say it was closed up to make the place safer. Anyway, we’ll soon find out. We’re going down to have a look.”
There was something about this one that resonated with me.
This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.
I’ve been guilty of it myself as I’m sure we all have at one time or another.
For the main characters Harry and Alison there are other issues driving their relationship.
For Alison, it is a loss of self-worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.
For Harry, it is the fact he has a beautiful and desirable wife, and his belief she is the object of other men’s desires, and one in particular, his immediate superior.
Between observation, the less than honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.
When it all comes to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, she realises only the truth will save their marriage.
But is it all the truth?
What would we do in similar circumstances?
Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.
And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, nothing is ever what it seems.
It was a cold, overcast, wet day. Everywhere was wet from the last downpour, which made it difficult to take the shortcut across the grass in the park. More rain was imminent.
I was, as usual, running late for the appointment, having not factored in train cancellations and unseasonal weather.
It was not far from where I entered the park, and I could see the bench was empty, which meant my contact was also running late. Perhaps I might be saved a bollocking today.
For the last forty yards, the direct line of sight to the bench would be lost for a short time, and when I finally got it back in sight, someone was sitting on it, and it definitely was not the person I was meeting. It looked like a young girl, a university student, or a clerk. Definitely not the usual contact. Not any more.
Protocol said that if there was a stranger at the meeting place, we were to walk away and reschedule. I was not one for following the rules.
When on the final few yards, I felt my cell phone vibrate and pulled it out. A message. “Substituted contact with replacement given a very tight timeline. She will brief you, her name is Heather Knowles, and the codeword for authentication is 1 spark. The mission starts at the end of the briefing. Play nice.”
I had no idea the department was recruiting so young, or perhaps I was used to working with many older people.
I sat down at the other end of the bench and could feel rather than see her looking at me. I turned to look at her, a serious expression on her face. No humour today, then.
“Heather?”
“Are you the bright spark?”
“Twenty years ago, maybe, but not today.” She made it sound like an intended, thinly disguised insult.
“Let’s walk.” She stood and inclined her head in the direction we would be going.
I wondered if she had the same thought I did, a man walking in the park with a girl half his age. It was odd that Charmaine, my usual handler, would make a meeting such as this look so out of place. Perhaps she thought it might look like a father-daughter meeting.
“Charmaine told me you were one of her best operatives.”
Start with a compliment, that meant something a whole lot worse than I could imagine was about to happen.
“One of many, I wouldn’t say one of the best. Not after the last operation. Just to warn you, this call-up was unexpected. My last mission went south, and I wasn’t expecting a recall so soon.”
Everything would have been fine if we had not been subject to on-the-spot oversight in the name of transparency, a new initiative by what we used to call ‘the powers that be’. The person I was assigned to protect had been betrayed and had been killed, and I nearly died in the escape. The sole survivor, just, I’d spent a month in the hospital and another three recuperating.
“As you are all too well aware, situations develop quickly, sometimes too quickly. We have been given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, if the intel is correct, and we have no reason to believe it isn’t. You are along for the ride because of your expert knowledge, but just a heads up, you are also being assessed for ongoing participation or retirement.
“You the assessor?”
“Me, no. I’m relatively new, and this will be my first major operation. Charmaine tells me that having you along will teach me very valuable lessons.”
As I assumed, babysitting. Every now and then a senior officer was allotted a new recruit and told not to get him or her killed. I’d managed to dodge that bullet, but not any more. I just hoped it was something easy. I remembered my first operation. No one to guide me, just a jump into the deep end and you either sank or swum. I shrugged. “The message said the operation starts at the end of whatever this is. What is it?”
“Let’s find a Cafe. I could do with a coffee.”
“I read up on your case file notes for the last operation, that one where Jackson got the drop on all of us. Crosschecked with other Intel, it seems that you were deliberately set up to fail. Of course, while the evidence points to one particular person, we have no proof, and, of course, that person can find any number of excuses to dodge responsibility. I’m sure you think you know who it is too.”
“I have one or two candidates in mind.”
She smiled when the waitress came over with the coffee and a small banoffee pie. She’s offered to get me one, but my taste, boring as it was, ran to apple pies which they didn’t have. Then, after she had gone, and Heather had tasted the coffee, she turned her attention back to me.
“The operation has two objectives, to draw out the mole, we’ve decided to call this person a mole, and to surprise Jackson in a place where he thinks he is totally safe. Yes, a bold move on a slippery son-of-a-bitch, but this time, he’s not going to get away.”
Young and naive, I thought. Jackson was always a slippery customer, and always when we just about had him on the hook. Going back into the fray, up against him, the man with a thousand eyes and ears everywhere, so soon, was a little daunting. And he would be expecting us.
“Few have tried, many have failed, myself included. My specialist knowledge will only be how to escape alive when he turns the tables on us, yet again.”
She smiled. “Oh, ye of little faith. I come from a new generation of agents, we’re meaner, sneakier, and for this mission at least, we can shoot first and ask questions later.”
“Oversight?”
“Yes, well, he’s in for a treat, isn’t he when he finds out, well after the clock has struck twelve. We’re going old school, and involving the need-to-know principle, and oversight just doesn’t need to know.”
“He’ll find out. Everyone is a snitch looking for a favour these days. Our service is looking more and more like the Stasi.”
Another of her winning smiles. “All those who need to know, know, now. That’s three. The boss isn’t going to tell anyone, I’m certainly not, and I doubt you share anything with anyone. What does the G, middle name, represent?”
“Need to know, and you don’t. When is this operation taking place?”
“Tonight. You have about 6 hours to fortify the nerves, and then there will be a briefing. There are three others who will be along for the ride also, and I think you will approve. Now, I’m afraid I can’t let you out of my sight until then, so tell me what you’d like to do.”
I had a suggestion, but I kept it to myself. If she didn’t trust me, she should say so, but it didn’t bother me. I had a trusty book of cryptic crosswords and an addiction to coffee. Maybe I might even ask her to tell me more about herself.”
Six hours passed quickly, and when the time came, we were picked up in a plain white van and taken to a disused factory. It seemed an odd place to have a team briefing. But she was right about the support team. They were well-known to me and were the best extraction team the department had.
The fact that we were using an extraction team told me the mission was going to be difficult if not very dangerous. Anything regarding Jackson was.
“The plan is simple, Jake, your team covers the exits. There are three. We’re not stepping on eggshells this time. Just shoot anything that moves. Given the location, there will not be any innocent bystanders to worry about. Ken and I will go in and take the targets. Once secure, we bring them back here for interrogation. We all have a reason to bring Jackson down, but remember, we need him, and the person he’s meeting is alive.”
“Where is this happening?” I asked.
“Patience. N9 one has a cell phone on them if you have to leave it behind. No one is on their own until the op starts. It’s not a lack of trust, it’s keeping it all under wraps until we strike, every other time he’s seen us coming. Not this time. Let’s go. I’m driving.”
I got it. This was so secret, no one was supposed to know before we got there. Charmaine must have thought long and hard about how every other operation had been compromised and brought it a fresh face to run it. What did bother me was the ‘we all have a reason to bring Jackson down…”
I guessed soon find out.
As darkness fell, we drove out of the city and towards the hills that surrounded the city, and it looked like we were heading to the haven of the rich, a community of cabins nestled in the woods, each with privacy, and security guards that kept it so. I had been there once before to pay Jackson a visit and didn’t get past first base. This was going to get interesting.
An hour later, very dark, very quiet, we were half a mile from the gatehouse on the one road in or out. The van was parked, we changed into dark coveralls and black beanies, took two guns and spare ammo, and finally put in the comms devices. Heather then gave the extraction team each a device. “You can now see where the security guards are. These guys are mercenaries, so don’t treat them with kid gloves. We don’t need any of them interrupting the part. Ken, let us know when you out have the gatehouse.”
Seconds later we were alone, the others disappearing into the forest. The darkness was almost complete, any moonlight blocked out by the trees. Heather also had a device and switched it on. Immediately, eight blips came up on the screen, evenly spaced over what looked like a wide area. The guards on patrol.
A crooked line came up also, with a different blip, what I thought must be us, and a path to the cabin where our targets were. She pushed a button, and another blip appeared. “The traitor,” was all she said before she headed into the forest.
Over the next fifteen minutes, Ken reported the gatehouse was secure, and six of the eight blips disappeared from the screen. I didn’t ask what that meant.
Then we came out of the forest into a clearing that had a cabin, with two cars parked out front. “There are two personal guards for Jackson, one inside, one out.”
A quick scan located the outside guard over by the cars having a cigarette. Obviously, they did not think that anyone was going to bother their boss tonight. Wrong. By the time he realised there was going to be trouble, he was down, trussed, and silenced.
“You take the back, I’ll go in the front. Let me know when you’re ready to go in.”
Five minutes. As I was about to step onto the porch, the other guard came out, totally unprepared, and I took him down, quickly and quietly the moment he stepped off the porch, and in the process of lighting a cigarette. Smoking kills was very apt.
I told her I was ready.
“Now.”
We stepped into the cabin at the same time. Jackson had a gun, but Heather shot it out of his hand before he could use it. The other man, the traitor, was exactly who I thought it was.
He glared at me, then switched to Heather, the surprise turning to shock.
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.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on the 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 prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Chasing leads, maybe
—–
“You left a paper trail, a car registration form at the flat in Bromley.”
I saw him shake his head. “I thought I’d removed any evidence.”
“Good thing then, that I found it, and not Severin who was next through the door.”
He nodded towards Jennifer. “What’s she doing here, she was one of your surveillance team.”
“She came with me. The department threw her out, I found her and asked her if she wanted to find out what was going on. Apparently, she did. Everyone can put their guns down now. We are, believe it or not, all friends here.”
Jennifer put her gun back in a pocket I hadn’t seen before.
Adam lowered his, but it was still ready to shoot if either of us made the wrong move. The old woman’s aim hadn’t changed; she was still intent on shooting me if I moved.
“Mother, give it up.”
A few seconds later she lowered the weapon, but it was still ready. To fire if I moved.
“Can we sit,” I asked. Having a gun aimed at you tended to make you feel week in the knees. I was.
There were three chairs in front of the fireplace, this room also having a fire ready but not lit, and one chair by the writing-table. We sat in the three chairs, the old woman over by the table. She put the rifle down on the desktop, within easy reach.
“My first question,” I said, “has to be, how are you still alive?”
“You left when Severin’s crew arrived to clean up. He left at the same time. Luckily. Then two of Dobbin’s agents arrived and cleaned up the cleaners, as it were, and took me to a safe place where it was discovered my injuries were not fatal.”
“You were hit by a sniper, that’s hard to believe he, or she, aimed to miss.”
“They didn’t. I think I moved slightly because of you, so I have you to thank for my life. Something else to remember, Dobbin doesn’t know I’m here, and I think the only link was that registration certificate. No one actually knows me by Adam Quigley, except, of course, my mother.
“And the USB everyone is after?”
A few seconds of silence, then, “It’s missing.”
“Were you the only one who knew where it was?”
“No, but as far as I’m aware, that person is dead, killed by the explosion you witnessed. We were due to meet there, just before the explosion which is why I was heading there.”
“You walked past it, as I recall.”
“Standard procedure. I walk past, check to see if the contact is there, then come back a few minutes later. I was running late, just got past when it went up. We would have both been in there, and dead.”
“And the USB gone with it?”
“Yes. My friend had it with him at the time. I was going there to pick it up.”
“No copies?” It was too much to expect there would be, even if it was worth more than life itself.
“No. That sort of information needs to be in as few places as possible.”
“You knew what it was about?”
“Yes.”
“And…”
“It’s above all our pay grades. But something I can tell you; I know why your Severin and Maury wanted it back.”
“It was theirs?”
“Yes. They originally stole it. I stole it from them and trying to return it to whom it belonged.”
“Nobbin?”
“God, no. I’ve since discovered he’s as crooked as all the rest. But now that it’s gone, it doesn’t matter who the owner of the information is. Just staying one step ahead of the jackals, that’s the job in hand.”
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 