Author: aloysius5

Over the years, I have traveled extensively and kept journals, with the idea that one day all of those places would become locations in books. Notebooks filled with odd characters, people and incidents observed, and whole tracts of stories written when the on the spot inspiration has been a driving force. All of this is the basis of the first three novels, Sunday In New York, set, of course, in New York, probably my favorite city in the world, “Echoes From The Past’ equally set in New York, Brooklyn Heights and Philadelphia. The third, The Devil You Don’t, travels through Europe, starting in Geneva, moving to Rome, then Sorrento, and then to Venice. Now, my passion to write is fuelled by travel and fine dining. When I take a break from these, I get to torment my three wonderful grandchildren whom I actively encourage to read as much as they can, and more recently to also write. As for almost every other writer, I would not be able to do any of this without my wife who has put up with my moodiness, the times when I'm locked away in a room trying to push out another 2,000 words, and yet despite everything still puts up with me. I wish I could say the same for our cat. Alas, I am still trying to work out how to be his friend!

In a word: Flower

It’s what we expect to see when we walk past the front of some houses but instead sometimes see lawn, rocks, or a disaster.

They are what makes the difference between a delightful street and an ugly one, and by that I mean flowers.

By definition though, it means the state or period in which the plant’s flowers have developed and opened/

Just beware the man who turns up with a bunch of flowers that look vaguely familiar to those that grow in your neighbour’s gardens.

They are also in abundance in horticultural gardens, and in florist shops.

My favourites are roses.

And just a word of warning, look out for triffids.  If you read John Wyndham’s science fiction you’ll know what I mean.

Another meaning for the word is to reach the optimum stage of development, though the word bloom could also be used to describe the same thing.

There is another similar-sounding word, flour, but this is the stuff used to make bread, scones, and puddings.

By definition, it is the result of grinding wheat or other grains to a powder.

If something is said to be floury, then it means it is bland.

An excerpt from “Betrayal” – a work in progress

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.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir.  It was her worst nightmare.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

The cinema of my dreams – It continued in London – Episode 23

What’s the Opera got to do with it?

…

I had hoped never to see Rodby again, and yet here I was in that oppressively warm wood polish-smelling office of his, sitting uncomfortably opposite him, a very large and clear desk between us.

In all the time I’d known him, and those visits to his office, there had never been anything on it.  Not even a phone.

The last time I was in this position, to inform him of my retirement, I’d been reluctant to put the resignation envelope on the pristine surface.

Significantly, it was a month to the day after I left Larry’s mother’s house in Sorrento.

The day after I went with Cecilia to her audition, and she smashed it, getting the role from a rather astonished casting director, and director.  He was calling it a possible break-out performance, in a whole different language that I didn’t understand.

That same night I found Juliet dining alone in the hotel restaurant and told her the good news, but her brother had already called her.  We had dinner, and it could have been more, but there was that Cecilia thing in the back of her mind so we parted as friends.

And at a loose end, Venice no longer hold any significance for me, I moved back to London.

I should have gone to Paris.  There, it would have been harder for Alfie to find me.

He had been giving me the ‘come back’ look, one that I had taken a long time to learn how to ignore.

Seeing he wasn’t making any impact, he said, “They found Larry.”

An enigmatic statement.  Who found Larry?

“The Italian police recovered the body, in a little-used area of Lake Como.  No signs of physical damage, not shot or stabbed, but apparently, he died of natural causes.  We’re still waiting for a definitive coroner’s report.  You never really elaborated on what happened at his mother’s house.”

My report was short and lacked detail, more notable for what I didn’t say rather than what I did.

“Nothing to tell.  Brenda just told him his days of running the organization were over, she and Jaime Meyers had collaboratively taken over, and things would be different.  I notice several other hard-line criminals have been taken off the streets since, so Inspector Crowley’s arrangement with her is working.  A win-win situation.  And you don’t have to deal with Larry anymore.”

“That’s the problem.  If something is too good to be true, it generally is. I have to wonder what has replaced him.”

“I’m retired sir.  No longer interested.  Why am I here?”

I could see he had more, possibly to pique my interest, but just shrugged.

“Nothing of any importance.  I thought you might want to know what happened to Larry.  And Martha wants me to go to the opera tonight and she specifically asked me to ask you, and as you know she does not take no for an answer.”

I shrugged.  He was right about his wife, a force of nature to be reckoned with.  I had met her several times, and she had been intrigued with Violetta and had been devastated when she learned of her death.

“Then I guess I’d better dust off the monkey suit.”

“Good.  I’ll text you where and when and send a driver to pick you up.”

© Charles Heath 2022

Writing a novel in 365 days – 24

Day 24

Today we’re talking about do’s and don’ts.

We’re not supposed to use cliches.

Well, long ago someone told me that, but I don’t think the message stuck because every now and then a cliche will appear.

Of course, the reason we don’t use them is that people generally will not know what they mean, and I dread to think what the translators must do when translating English to another language.

I mean, who doesn’t know what a wild goose chase is?

For those who don’t: “a foolish and hopeless search for or pursuit of something unattainable”.

Some might use it to describe their efforts to be published. I know, at times, that almost became my mantra until I discovered self-publishing.

Where it came from: In 1593, when discussing horsemanship, ‘a type of 16th-century horse race where everyone had to try to follow the erratic course of the lead horse like wild geese have to follow their leader in formation’.

I would have liked to have been there to see it.

By and large, they should not be used, and I only use them because they fit the character who is using them.

And, just the other day I was writing a short story which, it turns out, uses a number of metaphors or cliches for dramatic effect, and which are also explained

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 25

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

 

Jan hailed a taxi and had it drop us off a block from her building.  It was agreed that we would not just arrive out the front and trust to luck that everything would be fine.

I had a feeling that Nobbin would have come to the same conclusion I had, that it was possible the USB might be in the neighbor’s flat.  I’m sure Josephine hadn’t thought of that possibility.  Severin had, but I suspect he might not know of the cat.

Nor would Nobbin.

We did a circuit of the building before going in.  There were no suspicious cars, nr anyone lurking in the shadows.  If we had surveillance, it was really good, or there was none.  I preferred to think the latter option was right.  After all, neither Nobbin nor Severin knew exactly where I was.

Jan unlicked the front door and we went into the brightly lit foyer.

During the day there was a concierge sitting at the desk.  At night, it was empty.  The building manager couldn’t afford 24-hour security, beyond the bright lights, and camera in each quadrant recording the comings and goings of residents.  I’m not sure how Josephine got in, but I would have like to have the time to go through the old footage to check on O’Connell in the past, and Josephine, if she came through the front door, recently.

I glanced at the monitor, at present on screen saver mode, then followed Jan to the elevator lobby.

She pressed the button to go up, and the doors to the left-hand elevator opened.  We stepped in, she pressed the floor button, the doors closed, and we slowly went up.

It hesitated at the floor, jerked up about an inch or two, then a click signified it was level and the doors opened.

I could see her door from the elevator.  As we got closer, I could see it was open, ajar by about half an inch.  There was no tell-tale strip of light behind the opening so it could mean someone was in her flat searching by torchlight, or there was no one there.

After a minute waiting to see if there was a moving light somewhere in the flat, it remained dark.

Standing behind me, I could see she had pulled a gun out of her handbag and had it in one hand ready to use.  She could have used it any time since we first met, but she hadn’t.  

I pushed the door open slowly, and thankfully it didn’t make a creaking sound.  Wide enough to walk in, I took a few tentative steps into the first room.  There was little light, and my eyes took a while to adjust to the darkness.  

I could feel her going past me, further into the room, and with the gun raised and in two hands to steady the shot.  She took more steps, slowly towards the passage leading to her bedroom, I assumed, as it was a reverse copy of that next door, O’Connell’s.

There was no one in this part of the flat, and she had disappeared up the corridor and into her room.  Nothing there either.

“Clear,” she called out.

I stepped back to close and lock the door.  At the same time, she switched on the main room light and for a second it was almost blinding.

When my sight cleared, I could see the signs of a search, furniture tipped over, books dragged from the shelves, other items tossed on the floor, one of which was a vase, now broken into a number of pieces.

“Looks like they were in a hurry,” she said.

“Or frustrated.”  I could see clear marks of an item that had been thrown against the wall and dented the plasterwork.  The broken shards of the ornament were on the ground beneath the indentation.

I heard her sigh when she saw the broken pieces.

“Not the best way to treat a genuine Wedgewood antique.”

She disappeared into the bedroom again, and I could hear her calling the cat, Tibbles.  Interesting name for a cat.

I didn’t hear it answer back.  It was probably traumatized after the breaking and the smashing of crockery.

I had a quick look in places I thought the cat might hide, but it was not in any of them.  And, oddly enough, no traces of cat hair.  Usually, cats left fur wherever they lay down.  At least one cat I knew did that.  

She came back empty-handed. 

“I think it’s done a runner,” she said.  “He’s not in the usual place he hides, nor under the bed, or under the covers, as he sometimes does, usually when I’m trying to sleep.”

“Well, it was a good idea.  We might have to search outside.  The cat was allowed to go outside?”

“He’d escape, yes, but no.  O’Connell thought if he got out, he’d get run over.  It’s a reasonably busy road outside.”

“Better out there than in here, though.  Open windows?”

She did a quick check, but none were open.

“Did O’Connell ever come in here?”

“Once or twice, but he only dropped in if he was going away to ask if I would look after the cat, or when he came back.  Never further than the front door.”

“Knowing who is was, now, do you think he might have come in and hidden the USB in here?”

“He might, but there isn’t anywhere I could think he could put it.”

“But that doesn’t mean he didn’t.”

Both of us heard the scratching sound at the front door, not the sort made by a cat trying to get in, but by someone using a tool to unlock the door.

Someone was trying to break in.

© Charles Heath 2019-2020

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 20

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Suburbia, yes, reddish sky at night, yes, but what else might it be?

For just a moment, close your eyes, toss away everything you might accept as normal, and then, after a minute, open them again, and look at the photo with a new perspective.

Imagine…

 

It took two days for the dust to settle, figuratively and literally.

We heard screaming jet fighters overhead, followed by multiple explosions, then nothing but smoke and ash.  We assumed one of the jets had crashed.

Two days the media was saying it was an unfortunate accident.

On the third day, we discovered it was the result of multiple missile strikes on our power stations and oil refineries.  The jets had arrived too late to stop the attack.

And we only found out because an Army officer who lived in our street came home to collect his family and told us to leave, go anywhere but stay in the city.

The ash in the air was going to get worse, the sun was going to disappear altogether, and, well, he didn’t stay long enough to tell us the rest, but already the air was almost unbreathable.

But the leaving was easy, just take what we could in the car.  The problem was, everyone had the same idea, and by the time we reached the highway, it was a virtual carpark.

By then, it was day four.

That’s when the bombs started to fall.

 

It might not be an exact match for the photo, but that was the idea that came from it.

I’m sure there could be a far simpler and more pleasant story to be told.

 

 

 

Writing a novel in 365 days – 9

Day 9

OK. We’re not doing much writing, and today, we have another suggestion, one that might cause an unnecessary rush at the stationary store for pencils.

I was in one today, a place called Office Works, getting some folders to put the printed copies of my latest books about to be published.

I’d previously bought, pencils – a box of 24, a motorised pencil sharpener, cards – though I intend to use these for a non fiction book, pens – red, blue, black, erasable – for doing crosswords. I’ve not had to buy notebooks for a while, small and large, but last time I got some journalist note books.

But, I digress…

It is suggested and I think it’s a great idea that at times it is better to write down the story, mainly because I can write as fast as the ideas come, and I cannot type that fast. Not without a million errors and a lot of indecipherable words.

There are exponents for both means of getting words on paper, but I have to say the majority of my original books were written in small notepads, at work and elsewhere because ideas and storylines come to me at the sometimes most awkward moments.

Consider carrying around d a notebook and pencil or pen.

Otherwise, my other means of getting ideas down is a note-taking app on my phone, the best at the moment being Somnote.

And tired of waiting for the moment when the book gets underway, stand by, news on that front is coming.

Searching for locations: Auckland, New Zealand – Another city that has a tower

Nearly every city has a high building, a tower, or a large Ferris wheel.

London had the London eye
Paris has the Eiffel tower
The Galata in Istanbul
The CN Tower in Toronto
The towers of San Gimignano
Pisa has a leaning tower

We’ve managed to see all of the above bar the Galata in Istanbul.  One day we might get there.

But, on this side of the world, there are two, the Sydney Tower, and the Sky Tower in Auckland, which we just visited recently.

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It’s not a tall tower, but it definitely gives great vies of Auckland, particularly to the north

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The mountain in the background at the top of the photo is of a volcano on Rangitoto Island.  When we were visiting, there were reports that it might become active again.

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To give a height perspective, it didn’t seem all that far down to the apartment building and gardens nearby.

I’d like to write a political thriller


But, I don’t understand politics.

The question is, do you really have to?

I mean all you have to do is read the papers and read between the lines. It doesn’t take much imagination to find something worth writing about

For instance,

How could it possibly happen that a leader of a very powerful country become a spy for another?

It doesn’t seem plausible, but is it possible?

It depends I’m guessing, on power and wealth, well, perhaps not so much the power, but it is true that money and wealth are great motivators.

How could it happen when the leader is in the public eye nearly all of the time? And even if that leader has closed-door conversations, which is doubtful he would be on his own, the red not really be an opportunity to sell out to the other side.

Even an exchange of gifts, like apartments or a dacha, wouldn’t be enough of an incentive, well, not for me anyway. But a clear path to investment in a rival country, maybe.

Perhaps then rather than becoming a spy, the leader could adopt a policy of appeasement.

We have history to tell us how well that works, and the fact giving concessions to another county only emboldens it to take advantage of apparent weakness, and then, hey presto, we have another war.

So…

What do we really have?

A lot of speculation and conjecture. It’s easy to construe what might be the truth from a set of circumstances and behavioral patterns of the individuals involved.

It could be likened to two cats circling each other in a cage before the fight begins.

The waters can be muddied by a constant stream of incendiary tweets which fire the readers’ imagination, all intended as a smoke screen, or feelers to see which was the wind is blowing.

Is that leader masterful and clever or is he a naive fool?

My political thriller might have a working title of,

‘Which Way Does The Wind Blow’

I don’t usually have a title for any of the books until after the first draft, or sometimes something might spring out as it’s being written.

But, for now, let’s sit back and see which way the wind is blowing.

But, I don’t understand politics.

The question is, do you really have to?

I mean all you have to do is read the papers and read between the lines. It doesn’t take much imagination to find something worth writing about

For instance,

How could it possibly happen that a leader of a very powerful country become a spy for another?

It doesn’t seem plausible, but is it possible?

It depends I’m guessing, on power and wealth, well, perhaps not so much the power, but it is true that money and wealth are great motivators.

How could it happen when the leader is in the public eye nearly all of the time? And even if that leader has closed-door conversations, which is doubtful he would be on his own, the red not really be an opportunity to sell out to the other side.

Even an exchange of gifts, like apartments or a dacha, wouldn’t be enough of an incentive, well, not for me anyway. But a clear path to investment in a rival country, maybe.

Perhaps then rather than becoming a spy, the leader could adopt a policy of appeasement.

We have history to tell us how well that works, and the fact giving concessions to another county only emboldens it to take advantage of apparent weakness, and then, hey presto, we have another war.

So…

What do we really have?

A lot of speculation and conjecture. It’s easy to construe what might be the truth from a set of circumstances and behavioral patterns of the individuals involved.

It could be likened to two cats circling each other in a cage before the fight begins.

The waters can be muddied by a constant stream of incendiary tweets which fire the readers’ imagination, all intended as a smoke screen, or feelers to see which was the wind is blowing.

Is that leader masterful and clever or is he a naive fool?

My political thriller might have a working title of,

‘Which Way Does The Wind Blow’

I don’t usually have a title for any of the books until after the first draft, or sometimes something might spring out as it’s being written.

But, for now, let’s sit back and see which way the wind is blowing.

An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See the excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

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McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

© Charles Heath 2016-2020