This book has finally come back from the Editor, so this month it is going to get a second revision, a second draft for the editor, and beta readers.
…
In a day of going over old ground and making it new again, I have revisited Zoe’s residence in Paris at the time John called, and found it empty, except for some kid who was all ‘get lost or suffer the consequences.’
Who is he? We flesh that story out, and how it relates to Zoe and those early days in the story.
Similarly, I’m not happy still with how Worthington discovers Zoe, and this is going to need some more work, and definitely a rewrite.
In fact, I might have to revisit his whole appearance in the story and make it a little less bombastic and a little more subdued seething anger.
The whole Marseilles episode is good, it’s just the end and this discovery of who is behind Zoe’s abduction that needs a little work. This is where we sow the enigmatic sees of Romanov and his purpose for wanting Zoe if it is not revenge like it is assumed.
Similarly, that whole thing with the Russian Minister and Anton needs a lot more work because there appears to be a connection between him and Romanov, but there’s not. This is just Olga leaning on her connections to get a result.
Then Zoe takes off to find Romanov, or is it those seeking revenge, it’s not quite clear, and leaves John to contemplate his future. Perhaps a piece here between them that sets the tone for the relationship over the coming months would be good, and the trigger that sets John off on a quest to find her.
His excuses at the moment are wishy-washy at best.
Phew!!! Never knew self-criticism could be so harsh!
…
Today’s writing, with Zoe languishing in a dungeon waiting for a white knight, 0 words, for a total of 8,871.
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.
Which, unfortunately, I do not have a lot of in my step.
At last, we have reached the end of the alphabet because I’m running out of zip to write these blogs.
So…
Zip is the sing, the energy, the spring we have in our step, that usually gets us from a to b quickly. Without this zest, we would need to take a bus, train, or cab.
Then comes the variations like …
Zip code, we all have one of these, though in some countries it is called a postcode.
Zip it up, meaning do not speak, especially if you’re about to spill a secret.
A zip, which is a part of some types of clothing, usually in trousers, jeans, and skirts to name a few. Some dresses have long zips, some short, all seem to get tangled at one time or another, or, in the most embarrassing of situations, split.
Then there is a colloquial use of the word zip, meaning nothing, zilch, zero, in other words, a basis for of z words.
And that’s about as much zeal I’m going to show for writing this blog, and I’m going to close the book on it.
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.
Like many who endured their school years with one endgame in mind, to get as far away as possible from those and the people in it, as soon as I completed high school, I was going to be on the first bus out.
Unlike others, there was nothing to keep in there, my father had died in the last year and my mother had moved on to a new family, and it was evident in not so many words that I was not welcome to stay.
Nor were there very many employment opportunities because like many other rural towns and cities, unless you were from an agricultural background, a tradesman, or simply wanted a dead-end job, there was little reason to stay.
Of course, there was always one minor hiccup in what could have been a perfect getaway.
Mine was called Francine Macallister.
We became friends in elementary school, not by choice but from being thrown together by circumstances. Her parents had died in a car crash when she was twelve, and my mother, being a close friend of the family, took her in rather than let her be taken into foster care.
As an only child, I hated the fact that I had to share my parents’ affection, and then when it seemed she was given more consideration. When we argued or fought, it was always my fault. It seemed to me that after a while, they liked her more than me.
It was like having a real sister, and I hated her. She was popular with the boys and often found ways to make my life difficult, and on several occasions found myself in a fight which I preferred not to be involved. All it did was reinforce my resolve to get on that bus.
That decision to leave was not made in haste, nor was I making a leap into the unknown.
For several years, I had worked several jobs to save every cent I could because I knew I was going to need a stake in case I could not immediately find work. I had a room lined up where I was going to stay until something better came up.
I told no one of my intentions because I didn’t want to explain why I was going, which I thought was obvious, or where I was going. But there were people I had to deal with, and this was a small enough town for everyone to know everyone else’s business if they were that curious.
I didn’t think anyone would care
Then, finally, school was over. I woke up that Monday morning, knowing that within hours, I would be out of this house forever. All I had to do was contain my excitement.
I had already packed my travel bag and left it at the bus depot several days before. When I left, it would be as if I was going down to the library to study up on work opportunities in the area, a routine I had maintained over several weeks, mostly to get out of the house, and to keep away from Francine and her friends.
At the end of the school year, everyone was home and in the dining room. Only recently, my mother had begun a relationship with another man, a widower with three children under 10 of his own, which she seemed to end up caring for. They were as snarky as Francine, and it forced me to move up my plans to leave.
With any luck, it was going to be the last time I saw any of them again.
Francine was dressed, ready to go out, and was eating some vegan cereal, having decided not to eat meat, and looked up as I came into the room. I saw the others and stopped.
“You’re up late,” she said.
I wanted to be fully rested for what lay ahead. “No need to get up until I get a job.”
“Not considering going to college?”
I’d been told there was no money for me to go to college a year or so ago and decided that I’d probably never be in a position to go. “No. Grades weren’t good enough. Probably should have studied harder.”
My mother glared at me. “That’s because you’re as useless as your father. The quicker you get a job and can pay your way, the better.”
Thanks for the compliment, Mom.
“Exactly my thoughts. I’m working on it.”
Francine took her plate to the sink and then came back. “I can see you’re off to the library. Mind if I come with you?”
It was the last thing I wanted. She’d never bothered before, and it set off alarm bells. And that expression on her face, she was up to something.
“Why?” It came out blunter than I intended.
“Why not?”
“You’re not interested in getting a job. Didn’t you say you were going to college?”
She was only going because her current boyfriend, Bradley Scott, the eldest son of the town’s hardware and agricultural machinery dealership owner, the richest family in town, was going, and she was joining him. There was only one problem, funding.
“I might. Bradley’s going, and he wanted me to go too.”
“Then perhaps you should be looking into college life rather than pestering me.”
“But I like pestering you.”
“Take your sister with you, Sam, and stop being an ass.”
“I hate to break it to you Mom, she’s not my sister. Never was, and never will be. And as much as you don’t care, she’s done nothing but make my life miserable.”
I saw the expression on Francine’s face, and oddly, I thought it was one of hurt. It was hardly possible given the way she had treated me recently.
“That’s a terrible thing to say, Sam.” My mother stopped what she was doing and looked at me.
“What, you think it’s been all wine and roses since she moved in? Wow. What planet have you been on? You know what. I don’t want to deal with this anymore. You think what you like. I’ll find a job and get out of your hair.”
That said, I walked quickly to the front door, opened it, stepped out onto the patio, and closed it behind me. I was going to wait for the bus into town, but instead, I was so very angry. I decided to walk off my temper.
By the time I reached the next intersection, about fifty years from home I heard someone coming up behind me.
I turned to see Francine.
She was probably the only person who could derail my plans.
It would create an unnecessary problem if I ignored her, so I waited until she caught up.
“What are you doing,” I asked. “You have never been interested in anything to do with me unless it involved Bradley and his idiot friends beating me up.”
“You hate me that much?”
“Would it matter if I did or didn’t? You’ve detested me ever since the day my mother took you in. Whatever life I had before that was gone and replaced with what could be described as hell on earth. Hate isn’t a strong enough word.”
“Is that why you’re leaving town?”
I glared at her. There was no way she could know what I was doing.
“You’re as delusional as my mother. Go home and figure new ways to make me miserable.”
I walked off, hoping she’d get the message.
Of course, she didn’t.
“Angie’s mother works at the bus depot. She said you got a ticket to New York. Didn’t say when you were going, but I’m guessing it’s soon.”
I shook my head. Of course, Francine would know someone with a mother who pried into other people’s business. They probably had a meeting of busybodies every Wednesday at city hall.
“Where would I get the notion I could do anything that smart or have the money. You heard my mother, I’m a good for nothing. You’ve even said so yourself. If anyone was leaving this dump, it would be Bradley and you. Prom Queen and King. You were ordained as the couple who were most likely to succeed.”
It came as no surprise that she and Bradley were given the money his father donated to the school.
She grabbed my shoulder and stopped me.
“You know, I’ve always had a notion that you liked me, Sam. I could never work out why you always simply ignored me. Just now, I can see why. If nothing had happened to my parents, we might have become more than friends over time. What you said back home, that the day I moved in it was the day your life ended. You meant your life with me, didn’t you?”
I had worked so hard to suppress any feelings I had for her. It would have seemed utterly wrong to suggest that I had. In a sense, she was right. Until the day she moved in, our lives together had been perfect. Now, it was reduced to just watching her make a fool of herself with others.
“It doesn’t matter what you think I think or thought or cared about. You have a life. I have a version of purgatory. I can’t live in that house, and my mother has made it perfectly clear. I’m not wanted with that new gaggle she’s invited in. Sleeping rough in the park is infinitely more preferable.”
“I treated you badly because I didn’t think you liked me anymore. I just suffered the loss of my parents, and then I lost my best friend in the world. Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“You know why.”
“We’re not related like you said. I was never your sister, and I never will be.”
“It’s not how the busybodies of this place will see it. You should be concentrating on landing the town’s biggest fish. He had rough edges, but I’m sure time and a big stick will sort them out. Now, whatever you think this was, it wasn’t. Go home, be happy. Forget I ever existed. My mother has.”
“You’re wrong. About a lot of things. But whatever. I won’t tell anyone. I don’t want to part ways with you thinking I’m the worst thing that ever happened to you.”
With that, she turned and headed back home.
At least she had one to go to.
I nearly changed my mind a dozen times during the day.
I spent a lot of time going over the words of that last conversation and realised that, at the time, I had been so wrapped up in my own self-pity that I hadn’t really listened.
Then, in a moment of clarity, I realised she said she believed I liked her? But was that at the beginning, during, or at the end? Certainly, I had been very much in love with her by the time she arrived at our house and at a time when I had been hoping it might go further.
The thing is, I had always liked her, but I never dared to tell her how I felt. That I was planning to do, and that’s when timing became my enemy. It was just before her parents had died.
It was that first brash moment of our teens when feelings ran high and every little nuance of a relationship could cause instant joy or utter despair. I had the feeling she felt the same as I did and was going to tell her.
Then, it all fell apart.
When she moved in, my instant joy quite literally turned to utter despair. There was no possible way I could ever contemplate a romantic relationship with the girl that everyone labelled my sister.
Society’s expectations did not include a romantic relationship between a brother and sister even if we were quite clearly not.
So, we became another of society’s expectations between a brother and sister. We began to fight like cats and dogs.
At first, I thought she was surprised, but my recollection of that time was scant because I was battling a broken heart and another of those teenage angst, getting through teens and being bullied at school.
Whatever happened, I did what I had to to keep the thoughts of her out of my head. I tried being the brother I thought she would expect to want and instead found her finding ways to make my life miserable. What was the saying? No good deed goes unpunished.
It didn’t matter in the end, whether I liked her or not or whether she liked me, which I seriously doubted. I couldn’t wait to get on that bus and leave town. Forever.
That walk from the library to the bus depot was the longest of my life. Still, the thoughts were swirling about the effect it would have on my mother and perhaps Francine. I was still telling myself neither cared what happened to me.
But what was worse, with everything that had happened in the last 24 hours, she was once again in my thoughts in a way she shouldn’t be. I had to get my head in the right space. Otherwise, I was going to be just as miserable. Only the view out the window would be different.
I picked a night when there would be more activity at the bus depot because being the only person I would stand out.
I was planning to leave unnoticed, and so far, half a dozen other passengers were sitting along the seats. One thing I’d noticed every time I’d come to check it out, no one came to see anyone off and rarely was anyone there to greet arrivals.
Perhaps no one cared if you left and perhaps arrivals didn’t want people to know they’ve returned. Whatever the reasons, it suited my stealthy departure.
My thoughts were interrupted by an announcement that the bus was running ten minutes late, then by another passenger who was leaving, sitting two seats up from me.
I turned to glance in her direction and recognised her immediately. Francine.
“What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“I’m leaving this town. There’s nothing here for me anymore.”
“You have a family, a home, and people who care about you.”
I gave her my best, incredulous look. “What planet are you from, and what have you done with the real Francine?”
“Why are you really leaving?”
“It doesn’t matter. Go home and forget about me.”
It was her turn to look incredulously at me. “That would be difficult, Sam. Had you asked me this morning how I felt about you, we might not be here.”
“It would not. No matter what I feel or what you feel, it can’t be.”
“Because we’re brother and sister. Even though this morning, I was never your sister. I wondered about that statement and initially thought it meant that I’d never acted like one, even though I know you tried to be a brother. Then I realised, later, what you meant. We had been friends before I moved in. I had hopes that we might be special friends, I liked you that much, and perhaps at that time, it was the first pangs of love. I thought you felt the same.
“I was disappointed that events turned out the way they did, but it was better than going into the foster system. It ruined any chance we had of taking our relationship further. Bradley used to say that you were in love with me. I think you came to the conclusion, that our new situation would never allow our feelings for each other, long before that, simply because we were, in his and everyone else’s eyes, brother and sister.
“You were right, of course. We’re not. It was the reason why I stayed within the foster system and kept my name. I refused to be adopted or change my name to yours. I had this silly notion that eventually you’d get out of your funk, and we could run away together. I wanted to leave too, but like you, I couldn’t until I was eighteen.
“Well, this morning I told your mother I was leaving. I thanked her for the five years she put up with me. She asked if you were going with me? It was a curious question, and I said no. She simply shrugged and handed me an envelope with a bus ticket and an address where I could find a friend of hers. The ticket is for this bus. Your bus. And I suspect the friend’s address is yours. Your mother is no fool, Sam. She’s known the anguish you’ve suffered. Once I realised how much you loved me, the last five years made complete sense.
“You could have told me at any time. You might have saved yourself a lot of anguish. But men are all the same, trying to be the strong, uncomplaining silent type.” She shook her head. “You’d better be a lot more communicative from now on.”
She stood and held out her hand. The bus was pulling into the bay. Three others getting on were moving towards the gate.
I took it in mine, and all the grief of the last five years melted away. She smiled that beautiful smile that could light up a room and a smile that had been missing for so long. A tear ran down her left cheek.
“And don’t ever make me give another of those speeches ever again. Ever, you hear.”
“I promise. Hey, what about Bradley. You two seemed very cosy together.”
“That. That was just to make you mad. It seemed it worked almost too well.”
“Then don’t do it again.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
The ticket collector was waiting impatiently by the door waiting for us. We crossed to the door, gave him the tickets which he punched, and then got on the bus.
There were two seats side by side about the middle. She sat in the window seat, not that there would be much to see. I got comfortable and then took her hand in mine. She smiled when I looked at her.
“Ready?”
“I am.”
She squeezed my hand, the door closed, and the bus moved away from the bay. For better or worse, we were on our way. A last glance back, I momentarily wondered if either of us would ever come back.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some years 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. He’s having a hard to trying to understand the notion of a day happening only once every four years.
I try to explain to him that it’s the fault of the Romans getting the calendar wrong.
He tosses that aside and mutters, Time is irrelevant.
How so? OK, I have to bite, because I’m sure I’m about to get a catlike pearl of wisdom.
It comes and it goes, and if it wasn’t for the fact there was night and day, you’d have absolutely no idea what time it is.
About to dismiss it as crazy, I stop to think about it.
And, damn him, he’s right.
Of course, one could argue semantics, and say if I was outside, I could approximate the time by the sun, or at night by the stars, but that’s a little beyond the cat’s imagination.
So, in a sense, you might be right, but I can usually guess what the time is.
Chester shakes his head.
You’re retired, time is irrelevant for you too. You can sleep all day and work at night if you want to. Or not do anything at all.
Like you?
Another shake of the head.
What is the point in having a serious discussion with you? But just one question before I go?
That’ll be interesting.
Was I born on the 29th of February?”
No. Not that lucky, I’m afraid. Why?
If I was I would have no reason to feel every one of those 18 human years I’ve had to put up with your nonsense. It would only be 4 and a half.
He jumps off the seat and heads out the door.
Where are you going now?
To bed. It’s been a long morning.
You’ve only been here 10 minutes.
In your time. In cat time, it feels like hours. Only call me if you see a mouse.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at 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
She gave me a minute to think about the situation, and then said what I was thinking, “So he could be anywhere?”
“He was dead. I felt for a pulse. There wasn’t one.”
I could interpret that expression on her face, ‘you’re not a doctor’.
She turned another page, read a few lines, then made a note at the bottom.
It read, if my deciphering was up to scratch, ‘doesn’t know if subject dead or not’.
She looked up again. “It appears these documents are out there,” she waved her hand in the air, “somewhere. Fortunately, they have not turned up, not has someone tried to sell them back or to the newspapers, so we’re lucky. So far. That isn’t going to last for much longer. Every extra day out there is another chance for the government to be embarrassed.”
“You know what the contents are?”
“Don’t be silly. That’s above my pay grade, and besides, you and I are better off not knowing. So, what you need to do is find O’Connell and/or find the documents on this USB drive.”
She slid a card across the table. It had a name and a telephone number. Monica Sherive. A mobile number, a burner no doubt that couldn’t be traced back to her.
“You find either, you tell me first.”
“Nobbin?”
“Second, and when I tell you.”
“So you don’t trust him either?”
“At the moment, for both you and I have to be careful who we trust.”
I added her to the list of people I couldn’t trust, not that she had told me I could trust her. Yet.
“And if I get contacted by Severin again?”
“Have you?”
I had thought about not telling her about that brief meeting where he told me about the USB drive, but it couldn’t do any harm. At least she hadn’t asked me if I knew about the USB, which was something, I suppose.
“Yes. Once. Told me to keep my head down. And asked me if O’Connell had time to talk to me. It was the same answer I gave him back in the alley. No. I’d just managed to corner him when he was shot.”
“By Severin, or this other fellow,” she shuffled back several pages, then said, “Maury?”
“No. That was what was odd about it. The shot came from somewhere else. A sniper I would have thought.”
And, my brain suddenly moving into overdrive, piecing together what might be a coincidence, but in our business, they were rarely coincidences. A sniper shot him., say Nobbin or one of his people, he looks dead, waits for a call to the cleaners, intercepts it, and collects the so-called dead O’Connell. It was a good conspiracy theory.
And as far-fetched as one.
Severin had to have the body somewhere, trying to figure out how to bring O’Connell back to life so he could torture the USB location out of him.
Hell, that was as twisted as the conspiracy theory.
Time to change the subject. “Do you have any idea who Severin and Maury are?”
She went to the back of the file and pulled out some photographs, mug shots perhaps of staff members. She put five faces in front of me and asked me if the two were there.
They were. The first, with the name of David Westcott, and the fourth with the name of Bernie Salvin.
“Who are they?”
“They used to work in the training department for ten or so years ago. Westcott was also a handler for several years. They both requested a transfer to operations, and we give a mission. Six agents were assigned, and all six were killed, an investigation after the fact found that their identities had been leaked to the enemy before they reached the target.”
“They gave them up?”
“Nobody knows for sure. There were others in that group, but in the end, the department retired them all. All their years in training served them well. We found the place where you were trained.”
Another photograph of the main building. I nodded.
“It was an old training facility closed down five years ago. It was just sitting there waiting for an enterprising crew. It won’t happen again. Needless to say, we haven’t been able to find either of them, only the people they employed, who believed it was in good faith. A mess in other words. Now, go. Find me answers.”
Ever had an itch you can’t scratch; that’s a part of what you’ve written, you have reservations, and you’re not sure what to write in its place.
For a few days now the start, or maybe the end, has been swirling around in my head. To be honest, I don’t like the start, and I can’t get a feel for it. I have about five different starting points, but none of them feels right.
I’ve been thinking of writing it from John’s perspective, but there are so many peripheral characters that need to be drawn in, people he doesn’t really know much about, or some who have a vested interest in his current girlfriend if she could be called that.
So I thought I’d throw a few words down and see how they sit:
…
You would not know by looking at MaryAnne that she was probably one of the best assassins in the world. You would be more inclined to consider she was just another spoilt American brat on the loose on holiday.
She was certainly one of the most beautiful women I’d ever met.
And she was certainly one of the most deadly. I could personally attest to that having seen her in action.
I could also attest to the fact that somewhere under that hard, conscienceless exterior, there was a heart, and sometimes it was visible. After all, I was a target, her target, once, and I’m still alive thanks to her.
It was a small detail I omitted when I introduced her to my parents, but that was one little step on a long road that I thought was going somewhere.
Perhaps, after all this time, I’d misinterpreted the signs, and I was wrong.
We were sitting on the balcony of our hotel room on the 45th floor of the hotel we were staying in downtown Surfer’s Paradise, a mecca for holidaymakers from the rest of Australia, and overseas.
It was perfect for tourists.
The champagne was cold, and although it was a hot 35 degrees Celsius out in the sunlight, the mood on the balcony was as decidedly cool as the champagne.
Today was the six-month anniversary of the first day we had spent together as, well, I was not sure, now, what we were.
She turned to look at me. She was nothing like the Zoe of old, and I had finally gotten used to Mary Anne. It was an amazing transformation, but with it, I had thought she had finally shrugged off the Zoe persona.
She hadn’t. That hardened expression that I had hoped would be gone forever, had returned.
“It’s time to go back home, John.”
It was also that tone, the one when she spoke, that sent shivers down my spine, not the good shivers, but the one that told me trouble was ahead. Deadly trouble.
“I need to do something. Don’t get me wrong, this had been a delightful rest, and I could not ask for a better companion, but it is time. We both knew this was going to happen.”
I noticed her features had softened a little when she mentioned my name, but the message was the same. We had talked about this moment at the outset. There was always going to be a use-by date on this adventure, for me at least.
It was also the time when she would, she said, decide where I would fit, if I fitted, in her future. When we originally spoke about it, she was still unsure of her feelings towards me. Over time, I had also hoped that they would be the same as mine for her.
Perhaps I had been expecting too much.
“When did you decide?”
“About thirty seconds ago. That’s when I realized it doesn’t matter where we are in the world, I still want to be with you. So, how do you like the idea of going into the assassination business?”
…
I’m not sure what John might think of this development, but I think you will agree with me, so long as he is with Zoe, he’s happy.
Huka Falls is located in the Wairakei Tourist Park about five minutes north of Taupo on the north island of New Zealand.
The Waikato River heading towards the gorge
The water heading down the gorge, gathering pace
until it crashes over the top of the waterfall at the rate of about 220,000 liters per second. It also makes a very loud noise, so that when you are close to it, hearing anything but the falls is impossible.
Well, when they too have the rug pulled out from under them, how much can they do?
Her best friend and fellow founding member of the charity, recently but no longer CEO, due to the new Chairman who had taken over during our main character’s incapacity, had been visiting her friend in hospital and relating the day-to-day events that had turned the running of their organisation into what she calls a circus
I’m going to give her a daughter who is a tenacious reporter and set her on the trail of a conspiracy, that of the so-called benevolent charities and the shady characters that manage to attach themselves to what she will call the charitable gravy train.
She also is the product of that echelon of people who are upper-class nobility, having resented from a young age being called Lady So and So, going to the privileged schools and being treated differently.
She is the rebel against her birthright, her parents, and everything they stand for.
And yet, as she gets older and sees the worth of those connections, those she had so willingly trashed for the sake of getting an editor to take her seriously, it’s going to be a tricky line she will have to walk if she is going to help her mother.
Perhaps her parents were not the monsters she believed they were.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 