A visit first to Agatha’s parents was not the nightmare he was expecting, considering the last one, being treated like something the cat dragged in, handed a large envelope with money in it, and the signature on a piece of paper saying he would never return, or come back into her life.
He was not proud of his actions that day, and it haunted him for a long time after, but it was for the so-called best. Their mixed marriage was never going to work, no matter how much she wanted to piss her father off, and he knew it.
It didn’t take long to realise the parents didn’t want anything to do with the children, that their opinion of their grandchildren was less than stellar, and that he would have to do something about them.
Agatha’s own description was hardly a recommendation, but she had dropped the ball once that parenting thing had got too hard, and chose the easiest option, sending them away to an institution that was supposed to turn them into individuals others could use as an example.
Of course, that went horribly wrong, as any normal person would expect. Children needed both hands-on parenting and discipline. Instead, they were left to find their own way, and it was the wrong way, the result of too much money and too little commonsense.
From observing Agatha, Michael knew the children were never going to get the parenting they needed from their grandparents, who conveniently advised they could not be tapped to take over their care, so his mission just got a lot longer and far more difficult.
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 solace after disappointment, turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.
He suddenly realizes 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.
On an early morning walk, I discovered the Brooklyn Diner, a small restaurant tucked away in a street not far from Columbus Circle, perhaps a piece of history from the American past.
After all, if you’re going to take in the sights, sounds, and food of a country what better way to do it than visiting what was once a tradition.
This one was called the Brooklyn Diner. It had a combination of booths and counter sit down, though the latter was not a very big space, so we opted for a booth.
The object of going to a Diner is the fact they serve traditional American food, which when you get past the hot dogs and hamburgers and fries, takes the form of turkey and chicken pot pies among a variety of other choices.
Still looking for a perfectly cooked turkey, something I’ve never been able to do myself, I opted for the Teadition Turkey Lunch, which the menu invitingly said was cooked especially at the diner and was succulent. I couldn’t wait.
We also ordered a hamburger, yes, yet another, and a chicken pot pie, on the basis the last one I had in Toronto was absolutely delicious (and cooked the same way since the mid-1930s)
While waiting we got to look at a slice of history belonging to another great American tradition, Baseball, a painting on the wall of the Brooklyn Dodgers at Ebbets field, long since gone from their home.
The Turnkey lunch looked like this
which didn’t seem to be much, and had this odd pasta slice on the plate, but the turkey was amazing and lived up to the menu description.
The Chicken Pot Pie looked like this
And looked a lot larger in reality than the photo shows.
But, sadly while it was not bad, it was a little dry, and could possibly do with using the more succulent thigh part of the chicken.
All of this was washed down by Long Island Ice Teas and Brooklyn Lager.
AS for the Diner experience, it’s definitely a 10 out of 10 for me.
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.
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.
…
Today I’m dealing with the art of elusiveness, and trying to emulate what it would be like to hide the truth from someone. It would require a great deal of elusiveness and guile to carry it off as though whatever you’ve been lying about for so long doesn’t come back to bite you.
Of course, if I tried it in practice I’d fail miserably, because I don’t have a poke face, and worse, I can’t keep a secret.
So, best not to ask me if I can keep a secret because I will say yes very earnestly, and then give it up when the pressure is on.
I’d never make a good spy either.
But it does make me wonder about all those people out there that constantly tell lies about everything, their past, whether or not they’re having an affair, where they’ve been, and what happened to the money.
Some people are very good at it, especially those who change their names, or have a half dozen different passports.
But, here, in this story, Jack’s mother probably just wanted to believe her twin sister had perished a long time ago, and the longer it became since she last heard from her, the more it was likely she was gone.
Pity. She’s about to come back from the dead.
And, of course, she does know about the doppelganger Jacob, because he had already visited her.
But as to why Jacob has come out of the woodwork, well that has something to do with the past, and an old flame Jack’s mother had a long time ago.
He too has come out of the past for different reasons, none of them good for her health.
How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.
In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.
I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.
Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.
There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.
Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.
It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.
For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.
It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!
This wasn’t the 1920s or 1930s in Egypt where the Howard Carters of this world were making famous discoveries. It might have felt like that as we sat in the hotel room and she introduced me to the real world of archaeology, that one where time and effort often brought discouraging results and lack of progress, and then how she came to conclude that this unknown pirate that everyone and no one knew about, actually existed.
She was the only one to believe she actually existed and proceeded to explain why she thought differently to all the rest. The pirate, of course, was female, by the name of Charlotte de Barry. Born in 1624, she was of an age just as the golden age of pirates began. Reputed to have taken up with a pirate, she followed him back to his ship, disguised as a man, and learned the trade until her aspirations of captaining her own ship were realised. Pity then it was via a later Captain who had kidnapped and forced her to marry him, that harbouring a deep down hate for what he had done to her, she bided her time, and working with the crew finally killed him and took over his ship.
Was it a female crew? It was a question I wasn’t going to ask, but I suspect it was not. All the references were circumstantial, but there was a journal, not belonging to the captain, but the mate, chronicling their adventures, but the captain referred to in that journal was Captain Rodolph. Certainly, the story matched that of Charlotte.
Then there was an account of her in ‘A History of Pirates’, and again, it could be construed it was Charlotte. I wanted to believe it was true for her sake. The journal had one particular entry, rather long that detailed the burial of treasure to be collected later, in Jamaica, not far from Port Antonio in a place named, now, Frenchman’s Cove.
The thing is, as a work of fiction, it was entirely believable. I could write it, and it would be, as she said, a best seller because everyone wants to believe there’s treasure out there, somewhere.
When I asked her about the journal, she said it was a handwritten translation from a number of writing books that dated back to the late 1800s. She had considered the entries might be the work of a fertile imagination, but there were too many entries that had a ring of authenticity to them, that the writer had to be aboard a pirate ship.
Others had dismissed them as just that, fictional entries, but she had cross-referenced the dates with other known documents. A lot depended on their authenticity, and it begged the question of why someone else hadn’t taken the information. The person she’d bought them off had found them in an old chest up in the attic of her grandparent’s house in England, thought them to be just a work of fiction and put them out for sale in a garage sale. A lucky find, perhaps.
That didn’t mean I didn’t believe she made a tangible discovery. All it needed was some artifacts, and it would take on a whole new life, and that was where time and money played a huge factor. Like Howard Carter, those two items were running out.
This, by her own admission, was going to be her final attempt, and I was hoping it would be successful.
After making arrangements to be away for a few weeks and channelling the funds into an account accessible to both of us, we hopped on a plane and headed for Kingston, Jamaica, on the first leg of the trip.
We were planning to head off to the site near Port Antonio, a small Cove where they had to stop and make repairs after a battle at sea with a British frigate, and where the decision was made to offload the treasure into five chests and bury it.
The precise location was not exactly described in the journal, but there were references to landmarks that bore similarities. It was enough to go ahead and get the government documents required to explore. She had deliberately made it obscure by outlining a thousand more acres than was necessary.
Imagine then our surprise to find the Jamiesons, father and son, at the check-in counter having arrived the same time as us. It was the best hotel in Kingston, so perhaps not so much a surprise.
Jackson noticed us first. “Elizabeth, fancy meeting you here. Or not. This is your stomping ground. Found any pirate treasure yet. What’s it been, seven years? Did you break a mirror?”
I could see the expression on her face and the anger about to boil over. I stepped between them.
“I think that was a bit uncalled for, Jackson.”
“Why am I not surprised to see her with a trashy novelist. Couldn’t be an archaeologist, so you just invent stuff. I’m not surprised her university funds were cancelled. It’s going to real archaeology.”
It wasn’t hard to read between the lines. “Why are you here?”
“Haven’t you been reading the papers? We’ve found the location of the treasure. It took a week. Not seven years. I guess you’re as big a failure as your boyfriend here.”
She was going to remonstrate, but it wasn’t the place or the time. We needed facts if he had stolen her dig. I turned to her and said, “There’s no point discussing this while you’re angry, and we don’t know what’s happened, or if it’s the same dig. We’ll check in and then find out what’s going on.” I certainly didn’t want to argue with him here, now.
I could see the anger blazing in her eyes, and if I let her, I was sure that the police would end up being called. Instead, I hustled her away to a safe distance. Right then, I didn’t think her opinion of me went anywhere but down.
I saw Jackson say something to the father, and he looked over at us with an odd expression. Whether or not he had heard his son belittling us, he definitely looked uncomfortable, which to me was odd.
“Why did you do that. You know what this is about. He is not content to create his own miracle find. Now he’s trying to steal mine.”
“You don’t know that for sure. He might have found something else entirely. This place has more than one dig right now, and Pirates are in the news. Let’s check-in, go to the room, and then I’ll make a call. When my first book was published, I got a call from an editor of the paper here. I’ll call him and see what he has to say. Jackson said that it was in the news.”
I could see she was still angry but saving her from making a scene in the hotel lobby was better than the alternative and might play into their hands. I had to sigh in relief when she did as I asked.
“Do you have someone local you can call and see what’s happening at your site? I assume you shut it down before coming back?”
“Yes. I left Jimmie there. He lives nearby. Oddly, he hadn’t called to tell me anything.”
“Then perhaps it’s not your site Jackson was referring to. They could be somewhere else.”
I was hoping it was.
A half-hour later, a local newspaper in hand, and seeing a small story about the famous Egypt archaeologist who was in Kingston to make an announcement about his next exciting project, I arrived back in my room. I could see she was trying to phone her local assistant, just as I tracked down the editor.
He was delighted to hear I was in Kingston and asked if it was for a book signing.
“No. I’m not sure why my agent doesn’t schedule signings all over the world, it would certainly make a difference to the dark attic I seem to be continually stuck in, writing.”
“Really?” He seemed to believe me.
“No, not really, but some days I feel like it. Actually, I’m here because a friend of mine has been working on a dig of her own, investigating one of the few female pirates one Charlotte de Berry, and the myth of buried treasure.”
“A story no doubt you will be writing about.”
“Something like that. There is another archaeologist in town, we just ran into the Jamiesons downstairs, and I read in the paper there’s going to be a big announcement. Do you know what it is?”
“As it happens it’s about the same pirate. But no one believes it’s possible. One of our experts and believe me she knows everything about Pirates and Jamaica, says that whatever he turns up, it will have nothing to do with Charlotte de Barry, or anyone else. Any treasure buried or otherwise will not be found. “
“You say that with a lot of scepticism”.
“I read your story on the Jamieson Egypt dig and it dripped with scepticism. My impression is that you have proof, you just never played that card. They tried to stop the publication of your first book. Not the wisest of moves because it turned it into a best seller. It might have just disappeared into the ether had he not.”
A blunt but true assessment. I had thought it would not get any interest and end up on the remainder tables. Then came the lawsuit, and the reluctant publisher that had delayed the release, suddenly published and glad they did.
So was I with the three-book deal that followed.
“They simply saw that there was no merit to their case. But still, it could as you say disappear into the ether. When is the press conference?”
“Three days. They’re going to the site, do a preliminary investigation, and then tell the world. I fear this may be a gigantic hoax and it’s not what we want or need.”
“Then I shall put on my investigative journalist hat and see what it’s about. And you can have the story whichever way it turns out.”
“Thank you. We shall speak again.”
I disconnected the call and looked over at Elizabeth. She did not look happy. “What did you find out?”
“Jimmie has gone missing. I spoke to Fred, another chap I was working with, and he said that a large team of people arrived a week ago and set up about a mile away from my site, closer to the Cove. He says that the man in charge is Jackson Jamieson. I sent him a photo and he ID’ed him. I think Jimmie has sold me out. I told him I would be back with his money but apparently, he called the Jamiesons and said if the price was right, he’d tell them everything.”
“Including the place where you think the treasure is?”
“No. Only I know where that is. But if he rips up the site, then might just bulldoze over the top of it.”
“Can they do that?”
“How much money can they throw at it?”
A lot.
“Then we need to get there and see what’s happening for ourselves. They’ll probably go by helicopter. We’re going to have to drive there.”
“If we go tonight?”
“We could do that.”
“I’m sorry but this is just too much. I should have guessed something like this would happen. It’s all become a very cut-throat business, and I’m just not up for that end of it.”
“Well let’s wait and see. It all might be a storm in a teacup.”
An hour later, while Elizabeth was showering and changing her clothes, I said I was going down to tell the front desk we would be away for a few days. In reality, I told her a small lie.
There was one stop along the way. The presidential suite, where I knew the intrepid father and son archaeologists were staying. I didn’t have to ask the front desk.
Standing outside, I rang the doorbell, and a minute later, a man came to the door, what looked to me like a butler.
I’ve come to see Aristotle Jamieson. I don’t have an appointment but tell him it’s Leo Brightman, and it’s in his best interests to see me.”
“Very good. Please wait.” Then he shut the door again, leaving me out in the passage.
Five minutes passed before he returned. “Mr Jamieson will see you now. Follow me.”
It was like some of the very large apartments I had seen in New York when I was contemplating living there. A large living area, a passage to two bedrooms, and a study or meeting room that would double as a dining room.
He was sitting at one end of the table in the meeting room, documents, folders, a computer, and a phone set out neatly in front of him. The son was not in the room, thankfully. The butler closed the door behind me, and we were alone.
“If you’ve come to plead her case to withdraw, it won’t work. Her claim expired two weeks ago, and she should have renewed it.”
“That’s part of the reason I’m here, but not the only. To be clear, I was, and still am in fact, an investigative journalist. You will know this because a lot of my first book was based on my investigation into your Egyptian find. You tried to stop publication and force a few changes, but ultimately, I have you to thank for making me far wealthier than I would have been digging around looking for stuff that’s increasingly rare to find. So thank you.”
“And yet, I sense a but.”
“The but is a man named Antoine Gascon.”
I could see the flicker of recognition and the attempt to hide that tell.
“He died five years ago. A grubby little man who forged Egyptian trinkets to sell on the black market for extortionate sums to gullible fools.”
“He was murdered, you know. I investigated his death because I didn’t believe he had died accidentally. Turns out the toxicology report the police received wasn’t the real report.”
“Not my concern.”
“Not right now, but it will be. Six years ago, a week before his untimely death, he and I sat down and had an extensive interview. He showed me his workshop and the trial-and-error artifacts he created for you. Just so you know, there are numerous copies of this interview in the hands of various people who will make that information public under certain circumstances.”
“No one would believe it, because, as I said, he has been proved to be a liar and a cheat.”
“That may be, but when he told you he destroyed all the prototypes and moulds, and I know you or your son, he didn’t specifically say, was there when he did, the fact is he kept two, both of which you generously donated to the museum. When he made those, he made two identical artifacts, which experts will discover when they do a thorough examination. The location of them is in the recorded interview. Now you can keep up the charade, or we can do a deal. I’m not interested in making a mockery out of archaeology, but I do want something that will be very easy for you to grant. If that happens, then you won’t be reading about a certain scurrilous archaeologist.”
I could see he was wrestling with the idea of just bluffing me and sticking to his original story so that no one would believe Antoine. Had he not shown me the two artifacts, I would have done the same in his place. I would have liked to be able to read his mind.
After a small sign, whether of defeat, or pragmatism, he said, “And what guarantee do I get in return.”
“If you leave Elizabeth and her dig alone, the interview never sees the light of day. I don’t care what you do, just don’t destroy her one chance. You can join her, but it is her dig and her glory. You have yours and you can keep it. As I said, it’s in the best interests of everyone that the status quo remains. It’s up to you. We’re leaving for her dig site in a few hours. If she chooses to go where you set up your circus, they should be informed that it is her project and that they are working for her. Your collaboration will be appreciated. Your son, just keep him under control, he wasn’t particularly nice earlier.” I stood.
“Is that all? I assume you will not be destroying those tapes?”
“No. Just in case you change your mind in the future, or, if anything happens to you, your son decides to go off the reservation. What I’m asking for is no skin off your nose. We don’t have to be friends, but it would help if you simply played nice.”
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester.
Not everything is fine in la-la-land, as he now calls it.
Not happy that I didn’t tell him about the second week of child invasion.
He should consider himself lucky that the school week started on Tuesday, and only one was staying home to do schoolwork.
The other has been able to return to the classroom.
One less tormentor, I heard him mutter as he slinked past the room where the homeschooler was working.
But a more sinister problem had arisen.
He’s stopped eating his food. I first thought this was part of a two-week standoff, where he cuts his nose off to spite his face.
This is not the first time we’ve been through this.
So, just to see if it is a fit of pique, I get him his absolute favorite food. Fresh Atlantic Salmon cut into small pieces just the way he likes it.
Yes, the aroma reaches him in his hiding spot, along with the call-out that I’d bought him salmon, but when he goes to the bowl, he takes a sniff, or two, then wanders away.
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 haven’t been truthful with me, have you?”
That was Dobbin’s opening shot once we were in the car and out in traffic. It was as if he was worried someone would be listening in on our conversation.
“Says the spider to the fly. Isn’t it the nature of this business not to play all your cards at once?”
“You’ve been in this business all of five minutes. You don’t get the right to play cards.”
“I’m still alive, no thanks to anyone but my own skill.”
I could see the disdain in his expression, and the annoyance in his eyes. Perhaps he was a man used to getting his own way. I was expecting a retort, but he said nothing.
“How many different organizations do you work for, or is it none, and you just have fake IDs to get you in the door?”
“Need to know. Have you found O’Connell yet?”
“He’s dead. I saw him killed in an alley. I’m sure Maury and Severin had him shot, no coincidence they turned up just after he hit the ground. I searched the body, there was nothing on it. Before he was shot, he told me to speak to you. I did. Anything else I’m doing is for my own protection. Assigning Jan to befriend me, then play me would have been a good plan if I hadn’t found out. I know she found O’Connell’s other residence, but I’m willing to bet she found as much as I did nothing. Your people do that to Maury?”
“In a manner of speaking. He wasn’t going to talk, and we couldn’t let him back on the street.”
“And knowing that I would go back to the hotel, what were you hoping for, that I would get arrested for his murder?”
“We were hoping you would glean information from her handler, or the police. Seems both are either tight-lipped, or they know nothing. Her handler is an incompetent fool.”
“Where is she?”
“Waiting for you at her apartment. I want the pair of you to find O’Connell. He either has the information, or he knows where it is. They found the charred remains of a body in the cafe where the explosion was, a freelance reporter, who, according to his editor, had the story of the century. No other details, though.”
“That either means military or industrial secrets. Why would the reporter want to meet with O’Connell?”
“That’s not your concern.”
“Well, you’re wrong if you think O’Connell had the USB. He didn’t get inside the cafe before it blew up, I know, I was there, and witness the whole event. You know the drill, he goes past, checking to see if the target is in place, then makes sure the location is clear, then goes back and facilitates the handover. He only just got past the front when the bomb went off. I’m sure you’ve seen the CCTV footage.”
Yes, his expression told me he had.
“So how do you come to the conclusion he still has it?”
Never cite logical arguments to a man who lives in a fantasy world.
“Law of averages tells me there is a copy, and O’Connell would have made sure there was a backup plan, and location.”
It then struck me, after having talked to O’Connell, and knowing Dobbin knew O’Connell was still alive because he had rescued him from the alley and Severin’s cleaners. It was not just a matter of getting him to admit it, and the fact O’Connell had done a runner on him.
“You seem convinced O’Connell is still alive.”
He glared at me. Truth or dare?
“Because he is. The trouble is, he’s gone to ground and I can’t raise him. He was supposed to wait a few days in a safe place while we hunted down Severin and Maury. We had one, but not the other. I doubt he’ll surface before he gets word that Severin has been neutralized. Every hour that information is still out there, is the chance it will fall into the wrong hands, so we need him and the information found.”
“You think he’s gone rogue.”
“I don’t think anything.
The car stopped outside O’Connell’s apartment block.
“Place nice with Jan, and find him and the information.
I got out of the car and watched it rejoin the traffic.
Before heading to the front entrance, my phone rang. Odd, because only two people knew my number, and it was neither of those two.
Curiosity overcame reluctance to answer. “Yes.”
“I’m texting a meeting point. Be there at six.” The line went dead before I could say anything. Four hours.
No doubting the voice. Severin. And he sounded scared.
I wondered if he knew what had happened to his partner in crime.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 