That meant we had to make the journey from New York to New Jersey, by train. It involved the underground, or as New Yorkers call it, the subway, from Columbus Circle which by any other name was really, 80th street, to 34th street which apparently was the New Jersey jump-off point for us to get overground, well a lot of it was overground. So, were we going uptown or downtown?
Apparently, it was downtown, and to 34th Street on the A train.
You would not think this to be a difficult task, but for people not used to the subway, and where they were going other than some internet derived instructions, but without the help of a man at the station, just getting tickets may have stopped us dead in our tracks. With his help, we determined the return fare for three of us and then get through the turnstile onto the platform.
We get on the A train, but soon discover it was not stopping at all stations. There was for a few minutes, a little apprehension we might just simply bypass our station. Luckily we did not.
Now, finding your way to the New Jersey transit part of Penn station might appear to be easy, on paper, but once there, on the ground, and mingling with the other passengers which all seemed to be purpose going somewhere, it took a few moments to realize we had to follow the New Jersey transit signs.
This led to a booking hall where luckily we realized we needed to buy more tickets, then find the appropriate platform, and then get on the right train, all of which, in the end, was not difficult at all.
Maybe on the return trip, it might be.
At Newark Penn station it was momentarily confusing because the exit was not readily in sight, so it was a case of following the majority of other passengers who’d got off the train.
This led us to exit onto the street under the train tracks. Luckily, having been before to Prudential Stadium to buy the tickets, we knew what the stadium looked like and roughly where it was, so it was a simple task to walk towards it.
We were early, so it was a case of finding a restaurant to get dinner before the game. So was a great many others, and we passed about 6 different restaurants that looked full to overflowing before we stopped at one called Novelty Burger and Bar.
It looked inviting, and it was not crowded.
It was yet another excuse to have a hamburger and beer, both of which seemed to be a specialty in American. I could not fault either.
And soon after we arrived, this restaurant too was full to overflowing. Thankfully there were other Maple Leaf fans there because being in a room full of opposition teams supports can be quite harrowing.
That was yet to come when we finally got to the stadium. I was not expecting a lot of Maple Leaf fans.
We went to this game with high hopes. New Jersey Devils were not exactly at the top of the leader board, and coming off the loss in Toronto, this was make or break for whether we would ever go to another game.
It’s remarkable in that all the Ice Hockey stadiums are the same. Everyone has an excellent view of the game, the sound systems are loud, and the fans passionate. Here it seems to be a thing to ride on the Zambonis.
At the front door they were handing out figurines of a Devil’s past player, and it seems a thing that you get a handout of some sort at each game. At Toronto we got towels. And, finally, we were in luck
The Maple Leafs won.
And it was an odd feeling to know that even though their team lost, there did not seem to be any rancor amount the fans and that any expectation of being assaulted by losing fans was totally unfounded, unlike some sporting events I’ve been to.
Perhaps soccer should take a leaf out of the ice hockey playbook.
That also went for taking public transport late at night. I did not have any fears about doing so, which is more than I can say about traveling at night on our own transport system back home.
Oh, and by the way, there are train conductors who still come to every passenger to collect or stamp their tickets. No trusting the passenger has paid for his trip here. And, if you don’t have a ticket, I have it on good authority they throw you off the train and into the swamp. Good thing then, we had tickets.
With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction. He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from eye socket to mouth, and who was also wearing a black shirt with a red tie.
That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.
He apologized as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.
I kept my eyes down. He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognize later in a lineup. I stepped to the other side and so did he. It was one of those situations. Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.
Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic. I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone. I shrugged and looked at my watch. It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.
Wait, or walk? I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station. What the hell, I needed the exercise.
At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’. I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light. As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tires.
A yellow car stopped inches from me.
It was a high powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini. I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.
Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car. It was that sort of car. I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him. I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on. The moment had passed and everyone went back to their business.
My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter. Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.
At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure. I was no longer in a hurry.
At the next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring. I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road. I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.
At the next intersection, I realized I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar. It was somewhere on 6th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.
I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did. There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me. It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.
Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me. As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger; a large man with a red tie.
Now my imagination was playing tricks.
It could not be the same man. He was going in a different direction.
In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long cold winter. I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.
I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in. I would have a few drinks and then leave by the back door if it had one.
This book has finally reached the Final Editor’s draft, so this month it is going to get the last revision, and a reread for the beta readers.
…
There’s nothing like having a travel agent on hand when you need to make some urgent bookings because your travel arrangements have gone up in smoke.
Anyone else would have had the devil’s own job sorting out their travel arrangements.
And, yes, Maryanne is coming along for the ride. Is she feeling obligated to look after him, or is there some other reason? As yet, it’s not clear.
But it’s a day of planes, trains and automobiles, attempts to locate his mother so he can find out more about what’s going on, and then get home where it may, or may not be, safe.
So much for having a holiday.
So much for going to his first conference. There’s going to be some explaining to the head agent.
It seems that this novel, going on the amount of writing so far, is going to be bigger than 50,000 words, at the halfway mark, or near enough, I’m at 35,000 words, give or take, which indicates a story of 70,000 words.
We will have to wait and see what happens. I have more planning to do.
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:
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.
Is that a video game on the computer, or I’d that a board game with friends?
In reality, I didn’t play games with friends because I’m a poor loser. Especially monopoly.
But to play a game often means you take on a persona or a role, as one, or one of many.
Personally, I like role-playing games like dungeons and dragons.
I’m going to a play
This is a stage production of a scripted story with various people in roles.
A play can have a star, a lead actor in a pivotal role to draw in the viewers
I’ve been to good plays and bad ones with great actors and some not-so-great ones.
A play can be hard to understand, it can be a musical with singing and dancing, or it can be rollicking good fun where the audience dances in their seats.
The worst play I ever saw was Dr Zhivago, it never seemed to end.
The best play, The Pyjama Game, with John Inman from Are You Being Served, a British comedy TV show.
I’m going to play the game
There’s a slight difference between this and the first example because it means instead of doing something your own way, you’re going to do eat everyone else does, prompting the analogy, you’re going to fight fire with fire.
Yep, even the explanations can be confusing. You have to love the English language for being that.
I’m going to play a role
So many connotations to this one. For instance, I’m going to be someone I’m not. If I’m a kind person, then I’m going to pretend I’m mean.
I’m going to join a group of like-minded people and help further their cause, that is to say, together we changed the course of history, and I had a role in that.
Let’s hope it was for the betterment of mankind and not a leap towards infamy.
And of course, if you play a part in a play, it means you are pretending to be someone else. I like the idea of playing God, but that’s usually the lead actor, I’m usually the janitor, servant, or just plain dogsbody.
It was in darkness. I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.
I looked up and saw the globe was broken.
Instant alert.
I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there. I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either. Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.
Who?
There were four hiding spots and all were empty. Someone had removed the weapons. That could only mean one possibility.
I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.
But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.
Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.
There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch. One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage. It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief. It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.
It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely. It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.
The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground. I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side. After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks. It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that. I’d left torches at either end so I could see.
I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch. I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end. I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door. It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.
I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.
I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.
Silence, an eerie silence.
I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting. There wasn’t. It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.
I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was. Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.
That raised the question of who told them where I was.
If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan. The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental. But I was not that man.
Or was I?
I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness. My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void. Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly. A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.
Still nothing.
I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job. I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.
Coming in the front door. If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in. One shot would be all that was required.
Contract complete.
I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door. There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting. It was an ideal spot to wait.
Crunch.
I stepped on some nutshells.
Not my nutshells.
I felt it before I heard it. The bullet with my name on it.
And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea. I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.
I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.
Two assassins.
I’d not expected that.
The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part. The second was still breathing.
I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives. Armed to the teeth!
I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian. I was expecting a Russian.
I slapped his face, waking him up. Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down. The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally. He was not long for this earth.
“Who employed you?”
He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile. “Not today my friend. You have made a very bad enemy.” He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth. “There will be more …”
Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.
I would have to leave. Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess. I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.
Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally. I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.
A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.
Until I heard a knock on my front door.
Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?
I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm. I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.
If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation. Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.
No police, just Maria. I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.
“You left your phone behind on the table. I thought you might be looking for it.” She held it out in front of her.
When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”
I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”
I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.
“You need to go away now.”
Should I tell her the truth? It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.
She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity. “What happened?”
I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible. I went with the truth. “My past caught up with me.”
“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss. It doesn’t look good.”
“I can fix it. You need to leave. It is not safe to be here with me.”
The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened. She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.
I opened the door and let her in. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences. Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge. She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.
I expected her to scream. She didn’t.
She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous. Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about. She would have to go to the police.
“What happened here?”
“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me. I used to work for the Government, but no longer. I suspect these men were here to repay a debt. I was lucky.”
“Not so much, looking at your arm.”
She came closer and inspected it.
“Sit down.”
She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.
“Do you have medical supplies?”
I nodded. “Upstairs.” I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs. Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.
She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back. I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.
She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound. Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet. It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.
When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”
No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.
“Alisha?”
“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you. She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”
“That was wrong of her to do that.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Will you call her?”
“Yes. I can’t stay here now. You should go now. Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”
What happened should not have happened, but it did. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and met the wrong people.
It earned me a beating simply because the arresting officer was a belligerent fool, and of course, I had to stir him up. I wanted to see what I was up against, and what I learned, I rather wished I hadn’t.
And it meant, if I got to walk away from this, I had a lot of explaining to do, and not just to my captors.
I sighed. It could be worse.
The bench in the cell was hard and uncomfortable, but it was meant to be like that for a reason. The occupant was not meant to be comfortable. It was cold, then hot, then cold again. I’d expected a few buckets of ice-cold water thrown at me, but they were holding off on that treat.
Big ugly looking guards with guns came to the front of my cell and banged on the iron bars with those guns, making what they thought was a statement. In the end, they were just big ugly men with guns banging on the iron bars to keep me awake.
Do that for a few hours. Alternate light and dark. Disorientate.
Deliver water, and make it look like you’re not the bad guys here. Lace that water with something terrible, yes, been there, and had that treatment. Stomach pains, dehydration, deprivation.
It was all part of the softening-up process.
Number six visitor was different from the rest. He came and went, staying only for a minute, two at the most. He was dressed impeccably and had a well-groomed manner about him.
The rest, the guards, perhaps the jail chief, all looked like they slept in their clothes, hadn’t had a shave or a wash forever, and looked perpetually angry.
He was the master interrogator.
He let the theatrics continue for another 14 hours, making sure I got little sleep and no relaxation. He sent in a few soldiers to give me mini beatings, just in case I forgot I was the trespasser, not them.
Then he had me half dragged, half escorted to a lower room, one that had nothing in it but two chairs. No tools of trade, just a bare room, with, I noticed, blood stairs around the drain, under the chair. A predecessor may not have had a good time in this room.
The guards secured me to the chair and then waited outside, facing away from me. They’d obviously been instructed not to engage in conversation or answer any questions. When I thought about it, they probably didn’t speak English.
An hour later he sauntered in as though he had all the time in the world. He did. He stood outside the cell for a few minutes, looking at me, perhaps daring me to speak. Later maybe.
Then he dismissed the guards.
Unsurprisingly, the door wasn’t locked. I’d guessed as much, so perhaps it was a test to see if I could escape. It was a bit difficult, even for me, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.
“So, Mr Tomlinson, what have you got to say for yourself?”
Good start, give me a chance to incriminate myself.
I thought briefly about the circumstances, about having an invitation to a party, using this as cover to case the residence, and, if it was possible, making my way upstairs to the owner’s study and looking for evidence of his participation in various illegal activities.
It was a long shot at best, my contribution to the briefing before I embarked on this folly, was that no so-called legitimate businessman would keep that particular type of evidence at home.
I was told I would be surprised just how many people in a similar position thought they were above the law.
Anyway, I was caught out before I started looking and only managed a cursory examination, which in my mind justified my belief there would be nothing there.
“Wrong place, wrong time. I took the wrong door. As corny as it sounds, I was looking for a restroom.”
“When everywhere from the ground floor up it was very clearly labelled no trespassing?”
“The need for a restroom sometimes outweighs the risk of breaking house rules. There was an unusually high demand on the lower floor aside from the fact the main restroom was out of commission.”
“Come now, Mr Tomlinson, we both know that’s not quite true.”
“Then why, firstly, was the upstairs room not marked out of bounds, and secondly, why was the door unlocked.”
“It was not.”
“At the risk of starting a childish to and fro, it was unlocked.” It hadn’t been locked, that was true because we did have a little inside help, but that was not for me to explain.
I could see a reddish tinge starting to build up at the top of his cheeks, a sure sign of impatience, and the fact he was not going to let me verbally spar with him for much longer.
“You were caught where you were not supposed to be. What were you looking for?” There was an edge to his tone, impatience showing through. He was a man of quick temper, which may or may not be an advantage to exploit.
A little nudge perhaps, “This is going to become tiresome for one of us. Do you have a name. It seems only fair you tell me since you know mine.”
“My name is irrelevant.”
“And yet I will find out eventually. You do realise I am, among many things, a journalist, and that I am here to cover that party, and the announcement both Lady Pelham and Mr Davies were going to make.”
“Then you should not have been poking around in places you have no right to be.”
“A judgement call made by a man who too readily jumped to the wrong conclusion. My understanding was that the deal could not be sealed if the three organisations didn’t sign the letter of intent, which, I was informed, was going to be at the celebration, after, of course, the usual dull speeches. I have a feeling at least one of the organisations didn’t sign. Not yet anyway. You might want to check that small detail before we continue.”
He shook his head. “You think I’m a fool.”
“Not yet, but it may still come true if you make a hasty decision.”
I’ll be honest, round about then I was praying for a miracle because his patience was at an end. I was stalling, but it couldn’t last much longer.
Just as he stood and was about to leave the room, we both heard the resounding thump on a door and accompanying shout, which if I was not mistaken was, “Open this door, you fool.”
No prizes either for guessing who it was. Davies.
The door was opened and Davies and several other men, representatives of the government, including the Interior Minister, the man we all believed was also the head of their so-called secret service, and no doubt boss of my interrogator, all came in.
A look passed between the minister and the interrogator, which told me he had been on borrowed time to get to the truth. It also told me the minister had known where I was all the time.
“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” The interrogator met the men before they could get much further into the room. If he was hoping to stop them from seeing me, it failed.
Both Davies and the minister both saw me tied up, at the same time. Davies was shocked to see me, the minister not so much, but trying hard to look surprised.
“What is he doing here?” Davies demanded. Then he swung around to look at the minister, “Did you know he was here? You told me you had no idea where he was.”
“I did not. Fontaine?” He then turned to his interrogator. “Explain this situation.”
“We caught him in Mr Davies’s study, a room strictly out of bounds.”
Davies glare went from my interrogator to me.
“Looking for a restroom, the one downstairs was suffering a malfunction, I believe,” I said.
Davies took a moment, then said, “Yes, it was. Someone had stuffed a lot of paper down the drain. It’s a bit difficult to mistake a study for a restroom.”
“The door was open, just one of many I tried to see if it was a restroom. It was in darkness so I’ had to step inside to find a light switch. Apparently, this man,” I nodded to the interrogator, “thought I was up to something else. I guess, when you’re a journalist, most other people consider us as bad as, if not, a spy. I apologise for not making it to our interview, but as you can see, I was tied up.” It was a joke in poor taste. “Out of curiosity sir, am I to assume the agreement was signed, sealed and delivered.”
“It was not, and I believe we now know the reason why.” He glared at the interrogator. “Free this man right now, he’s coming with me.”
“And the charges of trespass,” the interrogator asked.
Davies glared at the minister. “We can continue with this charade and lose several billion dollars of investment, or we can label this a very bad mistake, and end it now. I’m sure Tomlinson here will be glad to forgive and forget this matter.”
For a minute it didn’t look to me like the Minister was going to give in, but then he simply sighed and relented. “A mistake which will have consequences, Mr Tomlinson, I assure you. Whatever we can do to make up for this, please let me know.”
With a wave of the hand, the misunderstanding was over. I’m not sure what the Minister could give to make up for the 14 hours plus of bad treatment, but I was sure, judging by his expression, that he wanted nothing more than to have me executed by firing squad, but had to sacrifice that satisfaction by taking a large share of the billions on offer.
The thought that the country would benefit from this deal was an idealistic notion that some people thought possible, but everyone else knew it was just a payment to the current government to keep their allegiance and the supply of certain minerals that were otherwise quite scarce.
No doubt once I reached safety I would be advised not to write about my experience. Nothing would come from embarrassing our new ‘friends’.
Davies took me back to the hotel, and directly to Alexandra Pental’s suite. Davies apologised profusely for the overzealous guards at his house, and my incarceration which, to explain the cuts and bruises, equally overzealous prison guards who would be punished severely.
She smiled and nodded, said all the right words, and then dismissed him with the promise she would be attending the signing in one hour. It was her preference for a more low-key event. After that, we would be taking our leave, and requested the private jet at the airport be refuelled and cleared to leave the moment we were aboard.
It was clear in her manner that she was less than impressed and had given serious consideration to cancelling the deal. I had no doubt the Embassy officials had several heart attacks for various reasons when the signing was postponed.
The door had barely closed when she glared at me across the room, then, after a minute, which was worse than the 14 hours in that cell waiting for the interrogation, she shook her head. “Drysdale told me that he had demanded to know what they’d done with you, and all he could get was denials.”
“The minister knew all along, I don’t think Davies did. He was too shocked when they burst into the cell block.”
“What the hell were you doing in a cell block?”
“Preparing for the interrogation.”
“Not like that we see on TV?”
“That would be far more acceptable than what I was probably going to get. Except the interrogator was holding back. Perhaps he knew U wasn’t going to talk, or he was hoping the minister would bail him out of trouble. The minister, by the way, doesn’t want this deal.”
“Why?”
“I suspect he made a promise to the Chinese. There’s an unofficial report there was a Chinese delegation here last week, wrapping up the details of another offer, one that gets the Minister a bigger share of the proceeds, and a lot more say over internal affairs. Your deal just gives him money. I believe he wants to run this country as a dictatorship.”
“But that is going to happen?”
“Not today at any rate.”
There was a knock on the door and the butler went to answer it. She was in the presidential suite and had brought several of her personal staff. Including security. The minister wanted to install two of his men, but they were pushed outside the front door.
A moment after the butler came in from the anteroom. “It’s Sir Hugh Drysdale from the British Foreign Office, Miss Pental.”
Read one of the secret service representatives who had been at the briefing in London, and for the local briefing in this very room 72 hours before this fiasco unfolded.
“Show him in.”
He was alone, which surprised me. He nodded towards her and gave me a curious look. “Nearly a day in the infamous dungeons, Hugh, and they let you walk out.”
“They had a choice between the deal or nothing. I was part of the deal, apparently.”
Alexandra shrugged. “I’ll ask the difficult questions, then. What went wrong?”
“They knew I was coming. Someone told them, though I don’t think it was the person who unlocked the door. If they knew, then they would not want the person who told them known which is why they didn’t press me for answers or go straight into a full-blown interrogation. If they did, they must have thought I’d guess who it was.”
“Can you?”
“An educated guess, maybe, but it is a person who they can talk to at will, and here, so it’s someone in the Embassy. Get a list of those who knew about what we were going to do and narrow it down. As for the mission, I just got in the door when they pounced so my reason for being there was quite legitimate. I was surprised, once you postponed the signing, they didn’t come sooner.”
“The Minister confessed he was shocked that you had disappeared from the Davies residence. No one had seen you leave, and they traced your movements up to the passage where Davies study is, but there was no other coverage. You simply stepped into a dead spot and disappeared.”
“Or the surveillance footage was wiped.”
“Anything is possible,” Drysdale said, “It was your opinion that we would not succeed. Care to explain how you came to that conclusion?”
Did I blow my own mission? No. “I have a source here, one close to Davies, who knows quite a bit of what’s going on with him and his involvement with the government, and with the government itself, and sometimes shares information that can be traced back, so there are caveats. Davies has three houses, one here, one in a resort by the Black Sea, and a Dascha not far from Moscow. No one but Davies goes to the Dascha.”
“You could have shared that precious piece of information earlier.”
I could, perhaps, if I had it earlier but it was not forthcoming until I received a coded message under my door the day we arrived. To anyone else, it was suggested tourist destinations. But more importantly, it said that Davies was aware I was a journalist looking for a story, and they would be watching me. The problem was I had to let myself be caught or there would be a witch hunt for my source if I didn’t.”
“I suppose it’s not possible to get a name.”
“This place is worse the East Germany and the Stasi. Some secrets will go with me to the grave. That is one of them.”
“You know where exactly this Dascha is then?”
“That’s for your people to find out. My guess is that what you seek will be there.” I glanced at Alexandra who looked impatient. “Once I get that interview, we’re gone. I don’t like this place.”
“Some of us don’t get a choice.” Drysdale was trying to sound philosophical and failing. “Pity this country is landlocked. I used to like the idea of British gunboat diplomacy. Things have changed and not for the better.”
“It’s a brave new world,” Alexandra said. “A year ago, I would not be allowed in the country if I wanted to do business.”
Drysdale handed me a folder which he had taken out of his satchel “The interview questions, pre-vetted by the Minister. No deviations. I know what you’d like to ask, but those are questions we don’t need answers to. Now right now. Let’s get this done and call it a win.”
I used to like writing short stories, somewhere between two and five thousand words, but, in the end, it was too much hard work.
No chance of getting into stride with a location description, no real chance of giving a background to a character, it was simply a case of diving straight in.
But …
I’ve been thinking about writing a short story, starting it with a short succinct sentence that will set the tone.
Something like: “Jack was staring down the barrel of a gun”
What then?
Should he start analyzing what sort of gun it was, did it have a light trigger, was the person holding it shaking, a man or a woman, or a child?
Location, in a house, a disused factory, a shop, a petrol station, the side of the road.
So, where was Jack?
Something like: “He had gone down to the corner shop to get a pack of cigarettes.”
For himself or someone else? Is it day, is it night, or somewhere in between?
Something like: “He had to hustle because he knew the shopkeeper, Alphonse, liked to close at 11:00 pm sharp, and came through the door, the sound of the bell ringing loudly and the door bashed into it.”
So, Jack’s state of mind, he is in a hurry, careless coming through the door, not expecting anything out of the ordinary.
How would you react when you saw a gun, pointed at Alphonse until the sound of the door warning bell attracted the gunman’s attention?
Is it a gunman?
Something like: “It took a second, perhaps three, to sum up the situation. Young girl, about 16 or 17, scared, looking sideways at a man on the ground, Alphonse, and then Jack. A Luger, German, a relic of WW2, perhaps her father’s souvenir, now pointing at him.”
The punch line: Cigarettes can kill in more ways than one.
The revelation: The corner store also supplied the local drug addicts.
The revised start is now:
Jack was staring down the barrel of a gun.
He had gone down to the corner shop to get a pack of cigarettes.
He had to hustle because he knew the shopkeeper, Alphonse, liked to close at 11:00 pm sharp. His momentum propelled him through the door, causing the customer warning bell to ring loudly as the door bashed into it, and before the sound had died away, he knew he was in trouble.
It took a second, perhaps three, to sum up the situation.
Young girl, about 16 or 17, scared, looking sideways at a man on the ground, then Alphonse, and then Jack. He recognized the gun, a Luger, German, relic of WW2, perhaps her father’s souvenir, now pointing at him then Alphonse, then back to him.
Jack to another second or two to consider if he could disarm her. No, the distance was too great. He put his hands out where she could see them. No sudden movements, try to remain calm, his heart rate up to the point of cardiac arrest.
Pointing with the gun, she said, “Come in, close the door, and move towards the counter.”
Everything but her hand steady as a rock. The only telltale sign of stress, the bead of perspiration on her brow. It was 40 degrees Fahrenheit in the shop.
Jack shivered and then did as he was told. She was in an unpredictable category.
“What’s wrong with your friend?” Jack tried the friendly approach, as he took several slow steps sideways towards the counter.
The shopkeeper, Alphonse, seemed calmer than usual, or the exact opposite spoke instead, “I suspect he’s an addict, looking for a score. At the end of his tether, my guess, and came to the wrong place.”
Wrong time, wrong place, in more ways than one Jack thought, now realizing he had walked into a very dangerous situation. She didn’t look like a user. The boy on the ground, he did, and he looked like he was going through the beginnings of withdrawal.
“Simmo said you sell shit. You wanna live, ante up.” She was glaring at Alphonse.
The language was not her own, she had been to a better class of school, a good girl going through a bad boy phase.
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
Just because you have a security card with your name on it doesn’t mean you are cleared. Yesterday, maybe, but today? Anything can happen in 24 hours, much like the political landscape.
When I walked in the front entrance and up to the scanning gate, I was just another employee coming into work. I ran my card through the scanning device, and the light turned red.
It failed.
In the time it took for me to scan it a second time, a security guard had arrived from the front desk, and a soldier, armed and ready was standing behind me.
I didn’t doubt for one minute he would shoot me if I tried to run.
“What seems to be the problem?” The security guard was polite but firm.
“My card that scanned the last time and worked, doesn’t seem to work now.”
I could read his expression, ‘you just got fired, and are trying to get back in.”
“Let me try.”
I gave him the card, he looked at it, no doubt to see if there was any damage, then tried it.”
“Have you any other means of identification?”
Now, here’s the thing. This was the office full of spies and support staff all of whom could be using assumed names, different guises, or just plain secretive with their private information. Luckily I had a driver’s license with the name on the card, but not much else.
I thought about telling him about the place he was guarding, but I doubted he would listen.
He looked at both, then handed back the license.
“Come with me over to the counter and we’ll see if we can sort this out.”
It was not a request, nor was I unaccompanied. I now had a soldier permanently attached to me.
When we all arrived at the desk, he joined another guard behind.
“Who is your immediate superior?”
It was a toss-up between Dobbin and Monica. Since Dobbin spent a lot of time in his car or appeared to, I said it was Monica.
I watched him search slowly through the phone list until he found her number, then called her.
He had his back to me when they spoke, but it wasn’t for long; after a minute, perhaps two, he replaced the receiver and turned back.
“Ms. Shrive will be down in about five minutes.” He pointed to a row of chairs against the wall, remnants from the last world war. “If you would like to wait over there, sir.”
He didn’t hand back my card.
The wait was more like a half-hour, but I had become engrossed in an old copy of Country Life, and an article that made me consider retiring to the country in an old thatch cottage beside a babbling brook somewhere in the Cotswolds.
Until I read the price.
The arrival of Monica came at a fortuitous moment. Coming to the desk.
“Nnn, I was hoping you would drop by sooner rather than later.”
“My card doesn’t work.”
“Oh, that’s because we revoked it.” She held out another in her hand. “We’ve replaced it with one with better access, or as we say jokingly, you’ve moved up in the pay grade scale.”
I took the card and went to put it in my pocket.
“You need to register your presence, so I’m afraid you’ll have to go out and come back in again.”
I did as she asked, this time greeted by the friendly green light. The soldier seemed disappointed that I was not free of his attention. The security guard on the desk had alt=ready forgotten I existed.
“Come.”
I followed Monica to the antiquated elevator, we stepped in, closed the door and she pressed a button for the third and fourth floors. It seemed creakier than usual this time.
“I’m assuming you have come in to use the computer resources?”
“Yes.”
“Good thing then we upgraded your access level.”
“And is there someone who manages access to CCTV footage?”
“Yes. Same floor, four. Her name is Amelia Enders. Tell her what you need, and she’ll find it. I assume it will have something to do with the surveillance exercise of yours.”
How could she guess, or had she been already investigating?”
“Come and see me when you’re finished. I live on the third floor. Literally.”
The elevator stopped on the third floor with a creak and a thump.
A smile and she headed off down the passage.
If I wasn’t mistaken, she had that cat who ate the canary look, and it worried me.
This book has finally reached the Final Editor’s draft, so this month it is going to get the last revision, and a reread for the beta readers.
…
Well, we knew something was going to happen when Jack walked in the front door of his modest residence.
It’s been trashed.
We have the clues; we know what they are looking for – that item his mother fortuitously dropped off at the travel agency.
No one knows what it is yet, but it is going to be an important part of the puzzle moving forward.
And now Rosalie has it, it means that she is in danger.
Of course, this is the time to contrast his relationship with Maryanne, and that with Rosalie. Back, before he left, he realised he had a thing for her (though is ‘thing’ the right word to use?) and had said he would meet with her when he got back.
So, a meeting is set. Without Maryanne tagging along.
In the meantime, there is that disaster called his residence to deal with, and, of course, he calls the police to report the break-in.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 