Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

The Ormiston’s from the papers

…

It was a question of what was I looking for.  It would be easy to say I wanted a piece of paper that definitively said where the treasure was or finding a map that led straight to it.

Instead, there was, in one box, a dozen journals filled with the ramblings of a madman.

Searching for treasure had sent Ormiston senior mad.  For an hour, perhaps longer, I tried to decipher the spidery writing, and then gave up when it switched to German.

I assembled the journals in order of his expeditions and found the first easy to follow because it was a time of excitement and expectation, that he would find the treasure.  There were pages on exactly what he thought the treasure was worth, the sort of pieces they would find, and what he would do with the proceeds.

There were drawings of items off the map and his interpretation of what they represented.  It was a rather good description of the coastline and its anomalies as they related to map landmarks.  They were, almost all, the same as the Boggs interpretations.

When the discovery didn’t happen, when the first euphoria wore off and the search became bogged down in acrimony and arguments, and the realization the map they were using was not as clear as first believed, that was where it all began to fall apart.

Reading the words, feeling the disappointment seeping off the page, it must have been quite a blow.

The second expedition didn’t start off with the same fanfare, but almost as if they were expected to fail.  Too little time had been spent analyzing what went wrong and reidentifying the coastal landmarks.

And, when it did fail, the last comment in the diary was fairly succinct.  “What if there is no treasure?”

In another, scrawled heavily on several pages at the back, “look for the big A” was repeated several times, and much underlined.

There were five other boxes with papers, charts, notebooks, and books that belonged on a shelf but instead were neatly stacked.  They’d been in the boxes for some time, and had that aroma books got when left in the damp too long, and, in fact, when I tried to open some, the pages had stuck together.

A lot of the books were about pirates, reference texts, and fiction.  Part of one box was set aside for our particular pirate, and, reading through what could be read, a lot of the information was contradictory.  One book postulated that the said pirate wasn’t a pirate at all, casting doubt on whether he ever existed at all.

The maps were a different story, and, yes, they were all similar except for small details an observation I had made before.  None had what I would have called ‘new’ features, just a rehash of all the others.  Some were old, but most had the appearance of being made to look old.

Then, at the bottom of a box of books, were copies of newspaper articles, aged, stained, and some in various stages of disintegration.  The Bahama Argus, The Barbadian, The Antigua Herald and Gazette, The Bermuda Colonist, and the Dominica Chronicle.  All had references to Captain Johannsson, and his vessel, the Sea Serpent.

There was such a Captain, and there was such a ship, and there were reports of a vessel roving the seas, looking for prey.  And those reports covered a great deal of plunder, definitely the sort that would find its way into a number of sea chests.

But, was this the treasure that Ormiston believed was hidden somewhere in The Grove?

Something caught my attention on the first diary, the way it sat and the light reflected off it, and picking it up and looking at it showed no anomaly in the surface, not until it sat on a certain angle and in the sunlight.

A slight ripple down one edge of the spine, and with careful probing, there was a split in the material of the cover pasted back down, but in the time since it had been glued back, the glue had dissolved and the simple act of picking the book up and parted the split.

Lifting it gently, I could see a piece of paper tucked in and gently coaxed it out.

It was very thin and fragile, but the writing was clear.  Entries from what might have been a logbook.  I knew this only because I had been out of a sailing boat once when at school, and had seen the boat’s logbook, noting where the boat had been.

This page had only a few entries, the location of its departure, in latitude and longitude, a number of the daily distances traveled, and conditions, and the last, another latitude and longitude.

When I put the first coordinates into my GPS, it was near the island of Antigua, and then the destination, just up the coast near the old mall.  The name of the vessel, in almost illegible writing, the Sea Serpent.

So, there was a logbook, although it might not exist now, it did at some point in the past, and Ormiston had either found it or seen it.  The writing on the piece of paper was his. It proved, if it was authentic, there was a ship, and it did come to this coast.

I carefully folded it and hid it in my wallet, then replaced everything where I found it.  Enough research for today.  I tried not to look guilty when I left.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

——

The Standartenfuhrer checked his gun and settled his nerves for an onslaught.  If they were going to die, then he was going to kill as many of them as he could.

He threw his hand pistol to Mayer.  “Shoot anything that comes in the door.”

Mayer fumbled the weapon, dropping it on the floor, then finding it hard, with cold hands, to pick it up.  Perhaps his life wasn’t sufficiently in danger to be more proactive.

The Standartenfuhrer shook his head.  Boffins were all the same.  The slightest threat and they went weak at the knees. And Mayer was no exception.

Mayer managed to get the gun into his hand.

“Don’t forget to turn off the safety.”

Mayer looked at the gun, and found the switch.

At the same time, another burst of gunfire ricocheted off the walls of the hut.  It was followed by a harsh order to stop firing, and save the ammunition for the enemy.  There was also a mutter about alerting the enemy, but that ship had sailed.

The soldiers seemed content to shoot randomly at the cabin, rather than check to see if anyone was inside, and soon the sounds of men, guns, and dogs were gone.  The dogs had not picked up their scent, and the Standartenfuhrer had managed to cover their tracks sufficiently to keep them at bay.

Relief, but not enough to rest.  The Standartenfuhrer knew they had to keep moving.

In the background, both could hear a stream locomotive at slow speed passing.  In the circuitous route they’d taken to escape, they must have circled back towards the railway line which must be on the other side of the forest.

That proximity of the railway line would work in their favor because the next phase of the journey was going to be on a train.

Just not one full of soldiers, if possible.

After a half-hour, just to ensure the soldiers didn’t return, the Standartenfuhrer dragged himself up off the ground.

“We’d better move.  They’re likely to come back, or had a second sweep when they don’t find us.”

“Surely we can have a rest.”

“If you want to get caught.  I don’t have to tell you what they’ll do to you if they capture you.”

“Probably send me back to that hell hole.”

“Hitler is not that forgiving.  The odds are you’ll be handed over to the SS and I’m sure you’ve seen what those people are capable of.”

He had, especially with the forced labor from the Jewish camps and POW camps.  At times it beggared belief.

Mayer dragged himself up off the floor.

The Standartenfuhrer checked his weapon, then looked out through the crack in the door.  It was dark and snowing, not too heavy, but enough to hide their movement.  It was a shame their coats were dark, they would stand out against the white background, but it couldn’t be helped.  That was a problem for daylight, still some hours away.

“Keep your weapon handy.  You may need it.”

Mayer was worried his hands would be too cold and stiff, and instead of having it in his hand, slipped it into his pocket.  He didn’t think too many people would be about at this hour.

“Once outside, head straight for the trees, as fast as you can.”

The Standartenfuhrer was in the doorway one second, gone the next, and Mayer followed.  He could just see the dark figure in front of him, then almost ran into him when he stopped just past the first line of trees.

He could see lights intermittently through the trees, a train or houses along the railway line perhaps.

It was much darker in the forest, and they had to go slower, picking their way through the trees, running into low branches, and getting a face full of wet snow, often trickling down the back of their necks.

It was cold, wet, and very uncomfortable.

The Standartenfuhrer stopped.  The trees had thinned and the lights became more pronounced.  They could now definitely hear a locomotive close by, and a train well lit up stopped.  The windows were fogged from condensation on the inside, but it was clear enough to see heads.

It was a passenger train, waiting.

A piercing whistle shattered the relative quiet, and another train coming in the other direction at speed flashed passed very loudly, the wheels of the carriages clanking on the track joints.  An empty freight train with many flat cars, going back to Germany.

Then suddenly shouting, a whistle, and gunfire.

A man was running towards them,, and several soldiers were in pursuit, randomly shooting in his direction, and into the forest.  A shot hit the running person and they fell.

Mayer heard a thud and a groan, then realized that the Standartenfuhrer had been hit.  By the time he turned the Standartenfuhrer over, he was dead.

Mayer ducked out of sight just before torchlight shone on the spot he was crouching.

There was another shout, and the soldiers started heading towards him.

——-

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

I wandered back to my villa.

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.”

She smiled.  “As you say, I was never here.”

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2022