To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.
But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continued on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.
That, I think, is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.
It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?
My private detective, Harry Walthenson
I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.
But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.
Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.
Then there’s the title, like
The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello
The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.
But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.
Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.
I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026. It even has a cover.
It’s time to delve into the past that Zoe tries so hard not to remember because the memories are painful.
It was a time before she became the emotionless killer she was now, and the people who had turned her into one.
Friends, lovers, teachers, mentors, but, in the end, all people who wanted her for one thing or another because they were selfish.
Alistair’s mother, Olga, was one, the woman who first had the job of training her, the first to recognise that while gifted, she would be trouble.
She had been recommended to her by a man called Yuri, the first of many to take advantage of an innocent girl who didn’t know any better.
Once trained, she was placed with Alistair, and he too, wanted her for himself, until he found her replacement, a man who wrongly thought she was so emotionless she would be happy to share him with others.
It was a mistake he wouldn’t be making again.
It was Yuri she discovered who had been in contact with the kidnappers in Marsailles, and perhaps inadvertently inserting himself into her quest for those seeking to kill her. He would know who it was seeking her, and who the name Romanov referred to.
After ensuring John was safe, she contacted him.
There’s a conversation, and he agrees to meet her, reluctantly, as being seen with a fugitive might harm his reputation.
It’s going to be an interesting conversation and reunion.
By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope that the day would improve.
The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers. Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier. I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village. I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.
I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed. In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passengers’ attention. Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.
I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back. He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury. He looked at her ticket, then nodded dismissively and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway. I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.
From what I could see, there was something about her. It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile. I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone. Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.
She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model. I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris. The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.
Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.
She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on. I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me. I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin. My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.
I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast. With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination. It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight. It would give me enough time to sample the local fare and take a tour of the medieval village.
Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch. After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward. I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and letting the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.
It didn’t work.
I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked and what part I played in it. And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out. What was wrong with me?
I usually blamed it on my upbringing.
I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land. There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.
Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would have needed to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later, a keen military mind. If nothing else, I could ride a horse and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.
I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared. I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.
Computers were the new vogue, and I had an aptitude for programming. I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which, although I hated the subject, I excelled in. Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.
About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.
Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks. It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.
Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited my qualifications, and the rest I think I intimidated simply because of who I was. In that time, I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist and, through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.
And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time, she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues. I knew that in building a relationship, compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise, and what had happened was always going to be the end result.
It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing. There was a certain expectation I had to fulfil, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented. The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged. Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian. He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties. He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns. He was one of the lucky ones.
I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa. From that moment, my obscurity disappeared. It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses. He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.
Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door. There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.
Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa? For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her, when she had a certain air of unpredictability. That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future. She just failed to see how much he was using her.
Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.
I thought about calling her. It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.
I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move. The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red. It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific. In fact, her sublime beauty was the other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact that her hair was short rather than long and jet-black.
I had to wrench my attention away from her.
A few minutes later, several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid. I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.
I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes before retracing my steps to the front of the ship, and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water. It was almost mesmerising. There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.
Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”
I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned. The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close to me without my realising it. How did she do that? I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.
“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping. I hear the water is very cold.”
Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck. There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her, particularly around the eyes, and of her hair, which was jet black. An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtly, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.
Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory. The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent and was fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.
Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate. Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes. My first thought, then, was to be careful.
“No. Not yet.” I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak. And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.
The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanour as a little warmth reached her eyes. “So that’s a maybe. Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”
It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.
“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away. Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped, she turned to face me again. She did not move closer.
I realised then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket. “Thanks for your concern …?”
“Zoe.”
“Thanks for your concern, Zoe. By the way, my name is John.”
She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease. “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”
“I might throw myself overboard?”
“An idiotic notion, I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”
Then she tilted her head to one side, then the other, looking intently at me. “You seem to be familiar. Do I know you?”
I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings. If she were, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me. Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.
“Probably not.” I also didn’t mention the fact that she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.
She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realised who I was. “Yes, I remember now. You made the front cover of the Economist. You sold your company for a small fortune.”
Of course. She was not the first who had recognised me from that cover. It had raised my profile considerably, but not Sternhaven’s. That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family. I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.
“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.” Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.
“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky. It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”
The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times, which had made that exact comment recently.
“But I am boring you.” She smiled again. “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts. I am sorry.”
She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.
“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me. It had been Sebastian, on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money. He was not very subtle when he described their methods.
But I knew he was right. I should have let her walk away.
She stopped and turned around. “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”
A sudden and awful thought popped into my head. Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit. “Are you a reporter?”
I was not sure if she looked surprised or amused. “Do I look like one?”
I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment. “People rarely look like what they are.”
I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave. Instead, she astonished me.
“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true. Aside from the fact that this excursion was probably a bad idea. And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”
I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignore their natural instinct. I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.
“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing. I was supposed to be travelling with my prospective bride. I think you can imagine how that turned out.”
“She’s not here?”
“No.”
“She’s in the cabin?” Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment, then came back to me. She seemed surprised I might be travelling with someone.
“No. She is back in England, and the wedding is off. So is the relationship. She dumped me by text.”
OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her? I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.
She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge. No walking the plank today. She moved towards it and sat down. She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair. Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.
I wondered, if only for a few seconds, if she used this approach with anyone else. I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.
She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us. After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message. It is difficult, the first few days.”
“I saw it coming.”
“I did not.” She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her. “But it is done, and I moved on. Was she the love of your life?”
OK, that was unexpected.
When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry. Sometimes I ask personal questions without realising what I’m doing. It is none of my business.” She shivered. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”
She stood and held out her hand. Should I take it and be drawn into her web? I thought of Sebastian. What would he do in this situation?
I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet. “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.
I’ve managed to come back from the Democratic Republic of the Congo (where I’m deeply immersed in another story) for long enough to continue writing the last few chapters of the NaNoWriMo project.
Today, I wrapped up Chapter 33 and went through the aftermath of the latest attack on the main character, with a little assistance from a new operative, and one I’m beginning to like more than I should.
I’m hoping this is not a bit-part player who’s going to steal every scene she’s in.
Then it’s onto chapter 34, where we get to sit down and discuss what happened and why. Sometimes we tend to overlook the obvious and not realise that what seems too good to be true generally is.
And where the title of the book gets justified.
There’s more than one betrayal going on here, and it’s going to be a hard pill for one of the characters to swallow.
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.
I did not go back to the hotel, but instead went home from the airport, half expecting to find Cecilia still there.
She wasn’t, but the lingering scent of her perfume hung in the air as a reminder. I entered if it might stir up Violetta’s ghost because more than once I thought I heard her moving about the house.
It was, of course, my imagination, but just the same it was a slim possibility. I guess talking to her even though she was not there didn’t help.
I had no intention of seeing or talking to Juliet lest she alerted Larry to my visit. It needed to stay anonymous for it to be effective.
A shower, a change of clothes and into the anonymous car that looked like a million others on the road.
Oh, and a little deft driving to lose the car that followed me away from the garage. The Frenchman was persistent, I’ll give him that.
Larry’s mother lived in a mansion overlooking the Mediterranean, and I’d spent a few afternoons on the patio sampling the energy and cheese of a country that knew how to excel in both.
When Violetta first got sick, we had been invited to stay for a few months and she had loved it. It had made her feel better, but in the end, there was no beating cancer that was very aggressively attacking her.
Perhaps it was fitting she took her last breath in the place she loved so much.
I hadn’t been back since, and passing through the gates brought back a flood of sad memories and a tear or two.
Not enough to blur my sight, and take down the two guards Larry had lurking near the gate, supposedly in hiding, with a tranquilizer gun.
I dragged the bodies deeper into the hedgerow. They wouldn’t be waking up for at least 12 hours, time enough to do what I had to.
It was a pleasant but invigoration walk up the hill keeping to the cover the garden provided until I stepped out just in front of the patio, and beyond the open doors the dining room where five people were seated.
“What, not waiting for the guest of honor?” I said, stepping out into full view of the diners.
Two men on the door turned swiftly and both were tranquilized before they could take a step. I turned and looked over my shoulder at the site I thought Cecilia would take, then turned back to see both Larry and his mother out of their seats.
First observation, I didn’t know Larry had three children only two. The son was a replica of him, the girls, both more than ten, were identical twins and like their mother. Once again, I had to wonder why a woman like Brenda would be interested in a man like him.
“What are you doing here?” Larry growled, stopping short of approaching me, eyes on the tranquilizing gun.
The thought crossed my mind that I should just put him to sleep, taken away, to have a less civilized conversation, something he would understand.
“I invited him to dinner. He is an old friend, and you know him as well as I do.”
Her eyes were on the bodyguards on the ground, and Larry, waiting for his reaction. She came over and hugged me. “So nice to see you again.”
“You were in London,” he said tonelessly. It was a statement, not a question.
“Marvels of modern transport. You should stop using leaking rowboats to come and go and embrace the jet age. Sit down Larry, you’re making a scene in front of your family.”
“Who is he dear,” his wife asked as he threw himself back in the chair next to her. The three children looked me over like they would a new toy, the son in particular, with a trademark scowl on his face.
“A policeman of sorts.”
“I didn’t know you were working with the police.”
It was an interesting statement, and if I didn’t know better, it seemed to me she was pushing a button. The look she gave him was priceless.
“Perhaps you and the children should leave the table and let me sort this small problem out.”
“No dear. I want to hear what he has to say.”
He turned to glare at her, a particularly dark expression, whether it was the result of my unexpected arrival or her defiance which I thought was brave under the circumstances, whatever the reason, it showed her to be vastly different from the description of her in the department’s files.
“I told you…”
“You do not raise your voice at me, or anyone, at the dinner table. You also apparently have some explaining to do because when I asked you what happened to your brother, Trevor, you told me the police killed him. I’m assuming that by police you mean in the form of our dining companion who just arrived.”
He looked surprised, no I would say that he was shocked. “You seem remarkably well-informed about something you really know nothing about.” He was showing remarkable restraint because I knew if it was anyone else, they’d be all but dead.
“I know that Trevor told you several times he wanted nothing to do with the business. We used to spend time talking about what he wanted to do with his life and lament the fact you wouldn’t let him. I know you coerced him into running that errand for you because he rang and told me, no asked me, to intervene on his behalf. It seems he knew that there was a traitor in your organization, that he told you his suspicions, but you said it couldn’t possibly be that person. Then when it all went, as he said, to hell in a handbasket, he called me to tell me what happened, and then called your mother, at the behest of your so-called police assassin, and she was talking to her when you arrived. So, Larry, the key question here is, what did you do that took a brother who was alive when you arrived, to dead on arrival at the hospital? You were there, so only you know what happened.”
“I did nothing. He was alive when I put him in the ambulance.”
“Who went with him to the hospital?”
“Jimmy.”
“The person he told you was the traitor. The person you said couldn’t possibly be one. He didn’t go with Trevor to the drop-off, so how did he get there?”
I’ll be honest, I was fascinated, if not hanging on every word. One nuance I did pick up on, was the way she spoke about Trevor told me they had more than just conversations. Had Larry known that also?
“He was not a traitor.”
“And yet you have no explanation as to why he disappeared shortly after Trevor died. Convenient, don’t you think?”
She sat there, face to face, with the man she had married twenty years before, then a relatively naive young woman who knew who he was, but not what he was to become. She didn’t rate highly in the files simply because she purposely stayed out of the limelight, and distanced herself from the business, and Larry’s business associates. I suspected it was to shield her children from the uglier side of the criminal world. Now, I got the impression Larry was trying to induct his son into the business, although only 16, and she was not happy with it or with him.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Less bluster, it was odd to see Larry in a situation where he wasn’t in charge.
“You mean, for once in your life, you don’t have the lies at your fingertips. Let’s leave that for the moment and move on to Jaime Meyers.”
Now he was truly shocked, like a man who just received an umpteen-volt jolt.
“How do you know…” He turned and glared at me.
“Don’t look at me, Larry. I haven’t told anyone about our conversation in London, as per the agreement I made with her. I think you might want to consider the possibility that your wife is not the dumb blonde you tell your friends she is.”
A cat among the pigeons’ statement drew a very dark look from her. “Trevor told me you called me a dumb blonde and I didn’t want to think that was true, but when Elaine told me she overheard Lorenzo talking to his friends using those exact words, I was disappointed.”
The Chekhovian Blueprint: 6 Principles for Crafting a Masterpiece
When it comes to the art of storytelling, few names command as much respect as Anton Chekhov. A master of the short story and the stage, Chekhov didn’t just write fiction; he dissected the human condition with the precision of a surgeon.
While Chekhov never penned a rigid “how-to” manual, his letters to fellow writers and his own body of work reveal a distinct philosophy. He believed that to create a truly great story, a writer must adhere to six fundamental principles. If you’re looking to elevate your prose, here is the Chekhovian blueprint for narrative excellence.
1. Objectivity
Chekhov famously argued that a writer should be an objective observer rather than a moral judge. He believed that the author’s job is to present the truth of a situation, not to lecture the reader on what is “right” or “wrong.”
The Significance: By removing your personal judgment from the narrative, you allow the reader to draw their own conclusions, making the story feel more authentic and less like a sermon.
2. Truthful Descriptions of Persons and Objects
Chekhov had a disdain for flowery, abstract language. He believed that the world should be described through concrete details. Instead of telling the reader that a character is sad, he would describe the way the moonlight glinted off the neck of a broken bottle.
The Significance: Specificity anchors the reader in the story. It transforms a vague concept into a visceral experience, forcing the reader to see and feel the world you’ve constructed.
3. Extreme Brevity
If you’ve ever heard the advice, “If you can say it in one word, don’t use two,” you are hearing an echo of Chekhov. He was a master of concision, stripping away every unnecessary adjective and redundant sentence until only the essential remained.
The Significance: Brevity respects the reader’s time and intelligence. It sharpens the impact of your prose, ensuring that every word performs a specific function within the story.
4. Bold and Honest Declarations
Chekhov loathed “literary” language—the affectations and clichés that writers often use to sound clever. He advocated for honest, direct language that cut straight to the heart of the matter.
The Significance: Honesty creates trust. When a writer speaks plainly and boldly, the reader feels they are in the hands of someone who isn’t hiding behind a mask of artifice. It creates an immediate, intimate connection.
5. Spontaneity (Nature)
Chekhov believed that a story should feel like it grew naturally, rather than being forced into a rigid mould. He advocated for a sense of “spontaneity,” where the narrative flows organically from the characters rather than being puppet-mastered by the author.
The Significance: When a story feels forced or overly engineered, the reader notices the “gears” turning. Spontaneity preserves the magic; it makes the story feel like a discovery rather than a lecture.
6. The Absence of Falsehood and Rottenness
By “rottenness,” Chekhov meant the artificiality of sentimentality and forced happy endings. He insisted that writers should avoid the temptation to provide easy answers or sugar-coat the complexities of life.
The Significance: Real life is messy, often unresolved, and frequently bittersweet. By avoiding “rotten” shortcuts, you honour the complexity of the human experience. A story that ends on a note of ambiguous truth is always more powerful than one that ties every loose end in a neat, dishonest bow.
The Takeaway
Anton Chekhov’s principles are not just technical rules; they are a call to emotional honesty. He teaches us that the greatest power of a writer lies in the ability to observe the world clearly, describe it concisely, and let the characters live their own lives without interference.
The next time you sit down to write, ask yourself: Am I judging the characters, or showing them? Are these words necessary, or just pretty? Is this ending earned, or is it a shortcut?
Follow the Chekhovian path, and you won’t just be writing a story—you’ll be capturing a piece of life itself.
It’s been nearly a week since I’ve put a word to paper, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking about it.
And today, I set aside some time to complete the last chapter of section 2, and in the process, make some amendments to the penultimate chapter of that section.
It changed the word count for that chapter to 1,031, up from 919, and added 2,155 words for the last chapter.
I’ve also tidied up the plan for the last four chapters of section 3, one of which had been done, leaving three.
Then it will be a matter of writing the epilogue, or section 4, which was going to have four chapters, but it now seems like it might be two or three, depending on how events work out.
Also, I had all the chapters in their relevant files and formatting, ready to be combined into the first draft of the book.
So far, the total words written are 82,690, far more than I expected.
Don’t ease your way in; grab the reader’s attention by swarming them with flying bullets and dragging them on a roller coaster ride that simply doesn’t stop.
…
The bullet passed through my left sleeve, grazing the arm just below the shoulder.
I heard the shot, well, a volley of shots from the three men with automatic guns, and only realised one had almost found its mark when my arm started to hurt.
It was the least of my problems. The three men were gaining on me, and their marksmanship could only improve as they got closer.
The darkness was supposed to cover us, but no one had predicted clear skies and a large moon.
“You said no one was home.” The hissed statement came from the other person who’d been with me.
“Bad intel. Shit happens.”
At the top of the hill, after running through a grove of trees to try and misdirect their aim, and skidding to a halt before going headfirst down.
Both of us were fit, but even so, the hard running, the dodging and weaving as bullets thwack into the trees beside us, we were still gasping for breath.
At least one part of the briefing had been right.
If we got into trouble, going down the hill and into the river would be the best escape route if things got bad.
“You’re joking.” Alicia had stopped, bent over double, trying to suck air in and look at the slope at the same time.
“Death or glory,” I said.
A bullet hit the tree next to her head, and then I was following her down. I doubted they would follow us.
A last glance back showed they had slowed down, and I got the feeling they knew something about the slope I didn’t.
Halfway there was a sudden explosion, the debris threw us sideways, and luckily, because there was another explosion just in front of where Alicia was heading.
“Mine,” I heard her gasp just before she started sliding on the loose scree. I was right behind her.
A rocky ledge arrested the free fall, and we came to a sudden and abrasive stop. Several bullets hitting rocks to the side of us forced us across and behind the dense shrubbery.
It was about another hundred yards to the water’s edge, but now, closer to the bottom, I could see a track. We hadn’t been told there was a track around the lake.
And headlights in the distance.
Behind us, another two mines exploded, showering us with scree.
“Jesus.” Alicia wasn’t used to being shot at or running through minefields.
“Better not look to the left then.”
She saw the approaching car. “Oh, shit. What else is going to go wrong?”
“Welcome to my world. We need to be down and in the water before that vehicle reaches us.”
At that moment, a cloud covered the moon, and it went dark. Or darker.
“Now.”
She didn’t need to be asked twice.
We were on the track before I could count to ten. The headlights suddenly disappeared, perhaps going around a bend in the road.
“Ready to take a dip?”
“I always wanted to go for a midnight swim.”
The headlights started to reappear.
We slipped into the water and swam away from the shoreline, trying to make as little wake as possible, heading towards the island about eighty yards away, taking a circular track, keeping close to the rocky edge.
It took that car about forty-five seconds to reach the spot where we had got in the water, and by that time we had reached as far as the rocky outcrop that was the last cover before striking out towards the island.
At that point, we stopped to see what they were going to do. Just as a light flickered to life.
A searchlight.
The beam slowly tracked out over the water towards the island. Then, it slowly tracked back to the point where we had just slipped underwater.
Seconds later, we came back up for air, and I could see the search light reach the point where we had entered the water.
“What now. They’re going to see us if we try to get to the island.”
“Go around the point and out of sight, give us time to consider options. At the very least, get away from them.
We reached the other side just before the searchlight picked up the point where we had just been. Around the corner was inky blackness, but it wasn’t going to last. The clouds were breaking up, and the moon would be out again.
We climbed out and sat on the rocky ledge. The slope leading down to the waterline was a rock climber’s paradise. It wouldn’t have been too hard to climb up.
The thing is, we now have a new problem.
A motorboat was heading towards us, and in the distance, we could see a flashlight. At first, we pointed at the lake surface, then, when close to the shoreline, pointed at the cliff.
“We go up,” I said.
A few seconds later, we were climbing as fast as we could.
A few seconds after that, bullets started pinging off the rocks below us.
At the top and over onto the flat surface, bullets were still pinging off the rocks, but now harmlessly.
Alicia took a minute to breathe, as I did, that last part of the climb turning my legs to jelly.
“Are we safe now?”
“When we get to that treeline, about fifty yards, or a little more.”
She started running.
We’d both heard it, the thumping sound of a helicopter rotor.
We have visited this town on a hill, famous for its fourteen towers, twice. The first time we stayed in a hotel overlooking the main piazza, and the second time, for a day visit, and return to a little restaurant tucked away off the main piazza for its home cooking.
No cars are allowed inside the town and parking is provided outside the town walls. You can drive up to the hotel to deliver your baggage, but the car must return to the carpark overnight.
This is one of the fourteen towers
I didn’t attempt to climb to the tower, which you can do in some of them, just getting up the church steps was enough for me. Inside the building was, if I remember correctly, a museum.
Looking up the piazza towards some battlements, and when you reach the top and turn left, there is a small restaurant on the right-hand side of the laneway that had the best wild boar pasta.
Another of the fourteen towers, and through the arch, down a lane to the gated fence that surrounds the town. The fortifications are quite formidable and there are several places along the fence where you can stand and look down the hill at the oncoming enemy (if there was one).
Part of the main piazza which is quite large, and on the right, the wishing well where my wish for a cooler day was not granted.
Officially, the Piazza della Cisterna is the most beautiful square of the town, San Gimignano. The well was built in 1273 and enlarged in 1346 by Podestà Guccio dei Malavolti.
And not to be outdone by any other the other old towns, there is an old church, one of several. It is the Collegiate Church or the Duomo di San Gimignano, a monument of Romanesque architecture built around 1000 and enlarged over time.
Next door is the Museum of Sacred Art.
And I guess it’s rather odd to see television aerials on top of houses that are quite literally about a thousand years old. I wonder what they did back then for entertainment?
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 