Writing a book in 365 days – 249/250

Days 249 and 250

Just how is my novel going?

…

What works, and what do you like about it?

Given that the story had been written over quite a few years, and has changed in content a few times, and the start more than once, overall the story works as I’d originally intended.

A burned spy, who was almost killed on his most recent mission, and while in recovery, is contemplating retirement, is convinced to return to the job with a job that was meant to be an easy re-entry.

Of course, it is the very reason why he was nearly killed that is the reason why this new mission is blown before it gets off the ground. Perhaps for that reason, he decided to continue, knowing the odds are stacked against him.

…

What doesn’t work, and why?

I’m not so sure I want to keep the story that revolves around the outside of the mission he is on. The mission, to protect a keynote speaker on behalf of the government, turns into a localised effort to use the host country’s lack of human rights as a springboard for an attempted coup d’état. Our protagonist, of course, does not know the keynote speaker is working in concert with the revolutionaries, which just adds to the complexity of his position.

Thus, we have corrupt politicians, evil secret police, an incorruptible police commissioner, revolutionaries, a missing leader of the rebel forces, a son of that leader with overly ambitious aims and revenge uppermost on his agenda, and a variety of bit players who are all trying to steal the show.

…

What has to stay, and is there more to the story?

At this point, I’m satisfied that everyone with a role is staying. They fit together perfectly, from the menacing to the would-be heroes. If I stick simply to the revolution and the lead-up to it, it’s fine.

…

What has to go, and what gaps may need filling?

What might need to be removed is the search for and elimination of the people who are working against the organisation, the very people who caused the protagonist to be almost fatally injured. For the boss of that organisation to use our protagonist on the promise of getting those who caused his near-death crisis doesn’t really benefit the story.

The main story itself runs to about 70,000 words, so it doesn’t need the extra tale to confuse the main story, and in the end, it might serve as a sequel.

…

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated at what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service. He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me. But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you. So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.” I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not. They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here. There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here? Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”

“That is why you have another visitor. I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first. I have come, basically to ask you for a favour. This situation has afforded us with an opportunity. We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious. What sort of opportunity was he talking about? Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that. “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do. They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country. I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him. I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were. And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done. But. There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal. I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change. “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can. They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel. I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home. What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say. Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex. Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”

“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

In a word: Steal

You know how it goes, somebody breaks into your house and they steal the family jewels, which means, they’ve taken something that’s not theirs.

Baseballers will be well familiar with the term steal a base because that sneaky second base runner is trying to get to third, before the pitcher fires in a curveball.

But then there’s that same thief trying to rob you is stealing his way downstairs.

You come across a bargain, that is the seller doesn’t quite know what they’ve got and assumed it’s junk, that’s a steal.

On stage, one actor can steal the limelight from another. if a film, an actor with a lesser part, can, if their good enough, steal the scene.

And if you’re lucky enough, you might steal a kiss, or just get slapped.

Then there’s the government, using a certain event to change the laws, and it might just steal your liberty.

This is not to be confused with the word steel, which means something else entirely, like a very malleable metal that’s low in carbon.

Or like most of our heroes, they have nerves of steel, or if they are like us, they need to steel themselves with a suitable fortification, rum is my choice.

But for me, I like the phrase, he had a steely look on his face and it was hard to tell if that was good or bad.

“What are the odds…”, a short story

I’m not a betting man.

I’d been to the horse races a few times, but every time I backed a horse to win, it would come last, and if I backed it to place, it would come fourth.

Then, every time I bought a lottery ticket, my numbers never seemed to come out, as if they were lighter than the others.

You get the picture, gambling, and I didn’t get along.

That being said, Vernon, a friend from school days, and then, having made the graduate program for the same company, remained friends into adult life. He was a betting man, he bet me he would be married first, he picked horses that came first, and always walked out of a casino with more than he walked in with.

And he was right, he got married first, had children first, settled into a manager’s role, and was content.

I was not so eager to follow in his footsteps; I often said that I hadn’t found the right girl yet, but the truth was, I wasn’t exactly putting myself out there. A couple of bad experiences had put me off the whole idea.

He had a side bet with another of our friends that I would not get married before I was forty. He had mentioned it to me some time ago, and I’d agreed with him; it was a safe bet.

The thing was, Evie had learned about that bet, and it was, in her mind, a situation tailor-made for her, being Vernon’s very popular wife, and not one to pass up a romantic challenge. Not after Vernon had suddenly decided to make a bet with her, to find me a girlfriend. With a time limit, of course, of six weeks. Just to make it interesting.

Of course, I had no clue this challenge existed, not until much later.

What I did know was that she had a vast array of both married and single girlfriends and acquaintances and was known to throw memorable parties on a Friday night. She had issued me with a standing invitation a long time ago, one that I kept promising to honour, but I never seemed to get there.

I knew some of her friends were single, and that she had a reputation of being something of a matchmaker. Vernon told me that those Friday night affairs were where some of his other friends had found romance and that it wouldn’t surprise him if I was not a target.

I agreed with him, but coincidentally, right after he said this, I got a call from Evie, who all but ordered me to attend this Friday’s festivities. I was going to decline, but she added that it was Chloe’s fifth birthday, and as her Godfather, I was obligated to attend.

It had been an honour when Vernon first asked me; it still is, but it seemed to me it was going to be used for some other reason, so I was going to have to be on my guard.

Over the years, I had met most of Evie’s girlfriends, and they were fun, yes, I’d heard about the exploits on weekends in Vegas, but it was not for me. I was the quiet, shy type, and they, in a nutshell, were not.

I’d met most of Evie’s family. She was one of five girls, the one in the middle. The two older sisters were professionals, one a doctor, the other a lawyer. The two younger sisters were more hands-on; the second youngest, Zoe, was a home caterer, and the youngest, Yasmine, with no head for, or desire to own, a business, was more carefree. Like Evie, she was family-oriented and still lived with her parents. The most level-headed, and the one they all turned to for advice, was Melanie, the eldest.

She was the first person I saw after I arrived. I thought I would get there early because I never wanted to make an entrance.

“I haven’t seen you around for a while,” Melanie said, already with a champagne flute in her hand. Something else I knew, she liked to drink wine. She was also married, but as I remember, her husband was away a lot.

“Part of the low profile I try to keep. How is Leonard, still the king of frequent flyer points?” His travels had finally earned him a special card reserved for very few.

“He’s in Paris, probably with his mistress.” She shrugged. “Husbands are like accessories these days. You can keep them or throw them out. I’m sure Genevieve will get tired of him soon and send him back.”

A unique attitude, for one who was supposed to give advice.

“You’re still not married, I see. Good choice. Marriage these days seems to be only good for a year or two, then sue the other for everything they’ve got. Sorry, I lost a case today, so I’m feeling a little cynical. Come back when I’ve had a dozen champagnes.”

She suddenly spotted one of Vernon’s neighbours and headed in his direction.

Zoe was walking past with a tray of canapes in her hand and stopped. “Ian? It is you. It’s so long since I’ve seen you.”

“Geraldine’s wedding. You catered for that. A splendid feast, I might add.”

Geraldine’s wedding had been a year ago, and after everyone had gone home, I found Zoe out the back in tears. She didn’t tell me then what had happened, but we talked for hours. Out of all the Wolverhampton’s, she was the most sensible, and the one I liked the most. But, like all those like her, she was spoken for.

“It was. How have you been?”

“Working, eating, sleeping, repeat.”

“It’s a bit like that, isn’t it? It gets to the point where all the days seem to run into each other, and in the end, you don’t know what day it is. That’s why I have a smartphone. It’s certainly smarter than I am.”

Something I learned in that discussion was the fact that she suffered from low self-esteem, perhaps from being a younger sister, perhaps because her parents had higher hopes for her than just being a caterer. Given her grades at school and later university, she could have been anything.

I was going to disagree with her and sing her praises, but one of her serving staff came up and told her there was a problem.

She sighed, handed the tray to the new girl, and with a wan smile disappeared towards the back of the house.

I thought then that I should leave because I doubted I would be missed.

Whenever I had to go to a party, particularly like one of these, where no one was sitting, and everyone was mingling, I usually set myself a task, picking a focal point and then following it all night. That night, it turned out to be Zoe. I was curious about how she managed running staff, organising food and drinks, organising the waitstaff, and managing crises.

In between times, Evie was introducing me to various people, married and unmarried, without appearing to do her ‘magical’ thing. Vernon made sure I remained in the mainstream, and not ‘hiding’ as he called it, and the conversation centred on football and baseball when I was with the men, and about vacations and children when I was with the married women and their husbands, and gossip when I was with the single and divorced women.

And all the while I kept an eye on Zoe, zipping in and out of the back rooms, in earnest discussion with what I assumed were prospective new clients, and occasionally on the phone. Not once did she take a spell and relax for a few minutes.

It was, I had to admit by the end of the night, a pleasant way to spend a few hours, made all the more pleasant by not having to worry about Evie trying to ‘match’ me to any of her single friends, though she made sure I knew who they were. Of course, as always, there was not one or another that fitted what was my subconscious selection test. There was one whom I agreed to call and have coffee, but that was an open-ended arrangement, done to please Evie more than anything else.

After the last guest left, I wandered out the back. Vernon had asked me to stay and sample a new after-dinner wine he had discovered.

I’d been there for about half an hour when, instead of Vernon, Zoe came out with two glasses in hand.

“Vernon has stood you up, I’m afraid. He’s getting to be an old married man who has to be in bed before midnight. You’ll just have to settle for my company.”

“As long as you are not going to tell me how I should be married, have two and a half children, and be living in a grand house in the suburbs, your company will be fine.”

She handed me a glass and sat next to me on the swing seat. It was a clear, cool night, and I’d been spending time searching the stars for constellations. Sorry, I was never very good at astronomy.

“You don’t want that?”

“I don’t know what I want. Wouldn’t that all fall into place when you found the perfect partner?”

“Is there such a thing as a perfect partner? We start out thinking that, think we’ve found it, then the bastard goes off and has an affair.”

There was a lot of anger in those last few words of her statement. It explained the few heated exchanges I’d seen her have in what she thought were private moments. I wasn’t prying, I just happened to be nearby at the time.

“Then perhaps my expectations have been set too high. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Everyone told me what he was like.” She shrugged. “Another box ticked for life’s experiences.”

We drank wine and sat in silence. Unlike some others that evening, where it was kind of awkward, I didn’t feel that with Zoe. In fact, I was not sure what it felt like. Companionable?

“Look, I don’t have the best sort of shoulder to cry on, but if you need someone to listen, it’s one thing I’m good at.”

Tears were forming in her eyes, and I’d only just noticed them in the moonlight.

“I could do with a hug. Are you any good at those?”

“I could try, and you could let me know. Always looking to add strings to that proverbial bow.”

She smiled. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Nothing in particular. Why?”

“I need someone to just take me away from all this, if only for a day or two. Vernon said you have a cabin by a lake, and I’ve never been fishing. Is it too forward for me to ask, I mean, sorry, sometimes I just speak before I think.”

“One thing at a time. Hug first, then fish. Maybe.”

Upstairs, Evie rested her head on Vernon’s shoulder as they both looked out over the back garden and, more specifically, at Ian and Zoe on the swing chair.

“What are the odds, Eve. I told you he had a thing for her,” Vernon said.

“I would have said ten to one against. It’s so unlike her. I mean, he’s just so boring.”

“Is he now? That’s just the impression he gives everyone else. So much for your matchmaking.”

…

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 86

As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some years ago.

Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.

For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1

These are the memories of our time together…

20160921_071452

This is Chester. He’s having a hard to trying to understand the notion of a day happening only once every four years.

I try to explain to him that it’s the fault of the Romans getting the calendar wrong.

He tosses that aside and mutters, Time is irrelevant.

How so? OK, I have to bite, because I’m sure I’m about to get a catlike pearl of wisdom.

It comes and it goes, and if it wasn’t for the fact there was night and day, you’d have absolutely no idea what time it is.

About to dismiss it as crazy, I stop to think about it.

And, damn him, he’s right.

Of course, one could argue semantics, and say if I was outside, I could approximate the time by the sun, or at night by the stars, but that’s a little beyond the cat’s imagination.

So, in a sense, you might be right, but I can usually guess what the time is.

Chester shakes his head.

You’re retired, time is irrelevant for you too. You can sleep all day and work at night if you want to. Or not do anything at all.

Like you?

Another shake of the head.

What is the point in having a serious discussion with you? But just one question before I go?

That’ll be interesting.

Was I born on the 29th of February?”

No. Not that lucky, I’m afraid. Why?

If I was I would have no reason to feel every one of those 18 human years I’ve had to put up with your nonsense. It would only be 4 and a half.

He jumps off the seat and heads out the door.

Where are you going now?

To bed. It’s been a long morning.

You’ve only been here 10 minutes.

In your time. In cat time, it feels like hours. Only call me if you see a mouse.

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 52

This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.

The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, 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.

Things are about to get complicated…

We took the elevator down to one of the basement levels, and then along a long poorly lit passageway which in my estimation had taken us to another building.

It would not have surprised me if it had been part of a large underground complex used in the second world war, safe from the overhead bombing raids. Certainly, a lot of the fittings and paintwork looked very, very old, and I could imagine armed soldiers stationed along the length of the corridor each in his own little cutaway.

At the end, the building was a lot more modern and bright.

There was a large open space, and we headed towards one of the corners where the walls had wallpaper scenic views that if you didn’t know it was a photograph, it could almost be mistaken for a view overlooking the Thames.

It made that corner space more liveable.

There were two desks, more computers, and another girl who appeared like she had been waiting for us.

“I was told you wanted to view CCTV for the day of the recent street bombing.”

If the girl knew what I was looking for, then Monica would already have seen it and most likely had it analyzed by a team of experts. If it wasn’t for the fact I wanted to see it myself, I might have just gone to her for the official report.

“Yes.”

I sat down beside her, and Joanne remained standing, behind us.

“OK. There are seven cameras in that location, five of which were working at the time. There is one across the road from the café, and it provided a good view of the actual explosion.”

She brought it up on the screen and ran it from shortly before O’Connell passed the front. Then he came into view, walking as though he was purposefully going from one place to the next, almost stopping to look sideways into the café. A prolonged moment looking through the window told me he had seen the reporter.

We could not see the reporter from our viewpoint.

But it was clear that O’Connell had seen something else because his pace quickened.

Then the explosion happened, and he was caught up in the aftermath, as was I as I had just entered the frame, following diligently. My effort to look nonchalant, and not following O’Connell was not very good. If this was a training tape on what not to do, that was me.

Watching it was horrifying, watching myself being blown a short distance across the pavement, followed by rubble. Watching a dozen other people suffering far worse injuries were far worse.

I saw myself getting gingerly up off the ground, then seeing two men running past in the opposite direction, one of whom was McConnell. I hadn’t realized at the time it was him. Then we disappeared out of frame.

“Is there a camera farther along?”

She checked the list, picked a site, and brought up the feed for that timeframe, and just in from on the left-hand side was me, pinned to the ground by two men, and a street policeman, covered in dust walking up to us.

A discussion ensued, then the two men got in the car and drove off.

McConnell then suddenly reappeared from the right-hand side of the frame, walking past me and the policeman now on the ground.

Where had he come from? How did he manage to get back to the bomb site, if that was where he had gone?

“Can we go back to the bomb site from where we left off before?”

A few seconds before the footage recommenced.

A minute, perhaps a little longer passed as those who had survived were trying to get up, McConnell reappeared from an alley two shops along from café, almost untouched by the blast, and crossed the road.

A few seconds later another person came out of the alley and followed him.

“Can you focus on that person who came out of the alley?”

She stopped the feed, zoomed in, and then cleaned up the blurry image until it showed a woman’s face.

“Who is she?”

She brought up the comments that went with the footage. It had been already reviewed previously, as part of the investigation into the bombing.

“They couldn’t formally identify her.”

“Anyone hazard a guess?”

“No. She’s still a person of interest though.”

I gave the girl a piece of paper with a list of seven of the scientists from the laboratory. “See if you can find wives of the male scientists.”

Joanne had been intrigued the whole time we had watched the event unfolding.

“That was you caught up in the explosion, wasn’t it?”

The pictures had been grainy and indistinct, so all I looked like was an anonymous blob. Monica had obviously not told her of my involvement.

“Yes. And McConnell. I suspect McConnell did get the hand-off, but not from the journalist. The journalist was in the café with the wife of the scientist who stole the information, though it would only be speculation to assume they were together, or whether she was there to sell the information, and give it to McConnell.”

“Anna Jacovich, wife of Erich Jacovich. Microbiologist,” the girl said.

McConnell had lied.

…

Writing a book in 365 days – My story 37

More about my story – the use of sleeper agents

…

Back to the Cold War: Inside the Shadowy World of Soviet Sleeper Agents

“The only thing that keeps a spy from being discovered is the distance between his secret and the world’s indifference to it.” – Anonymous

When the iron curtain fell in 1991, the headlines celebrated the end of a decades‑long standoff between the United States and the Soviet Union. Yet, even as the superpowers signed arms‑reduction treaties, another, quieter battle was winding down behind the scenes: the covert war of sleeper agents—deep‑cover operatives who lived ordinary lives while waiting for a moment to strike for Moscow.

In this post we’ll:

Trace the origins of the Soviet sleeper‑agent program.
Dissect how it worked—recruitment, training, and long‑term maintenance.
Showcase the biggest successes that altered technology, policy, and public perception.
Examine the spectacular failures that exposed the whole enterprise.
Reflect on the legacy of these hidden players in today’s intelligence arena.

Grab a cup of coffee (or a glass of vodka, if you prefer a period‑appropriate touch) and let’s travel back to the era when a quiet neighbor could have been the most dangerous weapon in the Soviet arsenal.

1. The Birth of a “Sleep‑Tight” Strategy

1‑2‑3… why “sleepers”?

The concept of a sleeper agent is not uniquely Soviet—British intelligence had its “fifth column” operatives during WWI—but the KGB’s systematic, state‑sponsored approach made the practice a hallmark of Cold War espionage.

Key Driver	Explanation
Strategic Depth	Unlike “spot” agents who gathered intel in plain sight, sleepers could infiltrate the most secure circles (government, academia, industry) and stay undetected for years.
Ideological Leverage	The Communist Party’s promise of a “world revolution” attracted idealists, disillusioned Westerners, and even financial opportunists.
Technological Race	The arms race demanded early warnings on missile development, nuclear physics, and computing—fields where a single insider could change the balance of power.

The official Soviet term was “ILLEGALS” (illegal residents), a reference to the fact that these agents operated without diplomatic cover. Their existence was first codified in the 1950s under the direction of Vladimir Semichastny, then head of the KGB’s First Chief Directorate (foreign intelligence). By the 1970s, the program had grown into a global network of about 5,000–7,000 deep‑cover assets.

2. How a Soviet Sleeper Was Made

Recruitment – Often started at university or through left‑leaning political groups. The KGB’s “Illegals Program” looked for technical talent (physicists, engineers) and politically pliable individuals (students, journalists, expatriates).
Training – A grueling 18‑month curriculum at the KGB school in Moscow’s “Dzerzhinsky” academy covered:
- Tradecraft (dead drops, cipher use, covert photography)
- Language & Culture (perfecting the “cover identity” language and customs)
- Psychology & Counter‑Surveillance (how to stay calm under interrogation)
Insertion – Agents received “legit” passports—often forged from real Soviet documents or forged using stolen identities. They would then emigrate to their target country, sometimes as children (the “Kompromat children” used as future assets).
Life as a Civilian – Most sleepers took ordinary jobs: university professor, businessman, diplomat, or even a stay‑at‑home parent. Their espionage duties were triggered only by “activation” via radio, dead‑drop letters, or later, encrypted emails.
Maintenance – The KGB’s “Case Officers” maintained regular contact, paying allowances, providing new instructions, and ensuring loyalty through blackmail material (the infamous “Kompro-Mat”).

3. Success Stories: When the Sleeper Woke Up

3.1. The Cambridge Five – Ideological Idealists

Agent	Cover	What They Gave Moscow	Impact
Kim Philby	British intelligence officer (MI6)	Access to British war plans, U‑2 program details	Compromised NATO’s early Cold War strategy, forced the West to rethink its counter‑espionage tactics.
Guy Burgess & Donald Maclean	Diplomatic service	Secret documents on NATO, atomic research	Created a crisis in the UK foreign service and led to the 1956 “Cambridge Spy Scandal.”
Anthony Blunt	Art historian & Surveyor of the Queen’s Pictures	Insight into elite British cultural circles	Though his betrayals were less operational, the scandal tarnished the UK’s reputation for aristocratic “innocence.”

Why it mattered: The Cambridge Five proved that high‑level ideological recruitment could bypass many traditional security checks. Their revelations spurred the United States and Britain to overhaul security vetting procedures, laying groundwork for the modern polygraph and background‑check regime.

3.2. The Atomic “Mole” – Klaus Fuchs

Cover: Physicist at the Los Alamos Laboratory (Manhattan Project).
Leak: Detailed designs of the U‑235 plutonium‑based bomb and later the hydrogen bomb.
Result: Accelerated the Soviet Union’s first atomic bomb test in 1949 by an estimated two to three years.

Key takeaway: Technical insiders could compress decades of research into a handful of microfilm rolls. Fuchs’ case also demonstrated how ideology (anti‑fascism, communism) could outweigh personal gain.

3.3. The “Illegals” of the 2010s – A Modern Echo

In 2010, U.S. authorities arrested ten deep‑cover Russian agents (the Illegals Program). Among them:

Marina and Victor Cherkashin (pseudonyms “Mikhail” and “Nina”) – Worked as a married couple in New York, gathering intelligence on U.S. political lobbying.
Jack Barsky – An American who grew up in West Germany, later recruited to spy on NATO and the U.S. Air Force.

Their arrests re‑ignited public fascination with sleeper agents and highlighted how digital communications (encrypted emails, burner phones) had revived old‑school tradecraft for a new era.

4. The Flops: When the Sleeper Was Uncovered

4.1. The Hollow Nickel Case (1953)

What Happened: A nickel with a tiny cavity was found in a Chicago laundry. Inside was a microfilm containing Soviet cipher instructions.
Outcome: Led to the arrest of KGB operative Morris “Moe” Cohen, who was later exchanged for U‑2 pilot Francis Gary Powers.
Lesson: Small operational errors (a misplaced microfilm) could unravel entire networks.

4.2. The Rosenberg Trial (1951)

Who: Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, American citizens convicted of passing atomic secrets to the USSR.
Result: Their execution sent a chilling message to potential Soviet assets and hardened U.S. anti‑communist sentiment.
Impact: Though some historians argue that the actual technical value was limited, the political fallout was massive—fueling McCarthyism and a culture of suspicion that hampered legitimate academic exchange for decades.

4.3. The “Burglar” Who Wasn’t – Aldrich Ames (1994)

While Ames was a CIA double agent for the Soviets (not a sleeper), his case exposed KGB tradecraft: the use of compromising material and cash payments. The FBI’s ability to track his suspicious wealth highlighted a critical weakness in the Soviet sleeper system—overreliance on monetary incentives that could be audited by Western financial watchdogs.

4.4. The Failed “Operation Cedar” (1975)

Goal: Insert a Soviet mole into the U.S. National Security Agency (NSA).
Result: The operative was caught during a routine polygraph test.
Takeaway: As technical security (polygraphs, background checks) improved, human‑factor vulnerabilities (ideological loyalty) became the limiting factor for sleeper recruitment.

5. The Ripple Effect – How Sleeper Agents Shaped the Cold War

Accelerated Arms Race – Leaks like Fuchs’ designs forced the West to invest heavily in counter‑intelligence and protect classified research, spurring a feedback loop of secrecy and espionage.
Policy Shifts – The Cambridge Five scandal led the British government to create the Security Service (MI5) “Double‑K” unit, tasked exclusively with rooting out internal betrayals.
Cultural Imprint – Sleeper‑agent stories fueled a new genre of spy fiction, from John le Carré’s The Spy Who Came in from the Cold to the TV series The Americans. Even pop culture icons like James Bond adopted the notion of a “double‑life” operative.
Legal & Ethical Debates – The Rosenberg executions sparked ongoing debates about due process, civil liberties, and the morality of using coercive interrogation (the “enhanced interrogation” methods that later resurfaced in the War on Terror).
Technological Legacy – The Soviet focus on cryptography (the “One‑Time Pad” system) forced the West to develop its own public‑key encryption methods—technology that underpins today’s internet security.

6. The Modern Echo: Are Sleepers Still Sleeping?

While the Soviet Union no longer exists, its tradecraft DNA lives on in Russia’s SVR (Foreign Intelligence Service) and even in China’s Ministry of State Security (MSS). Recent indictments in the United States (the “Nigerian hack‑and‑sell” scandal, 2021) reference “illegals” as a template for modern covert operations.

Key differences today:

Cold War	Today
Physical dead drops (microfilm in hollow objects)	Encrypted digital drops on the dark web
Cover via long‑term residency	Cover via freelance tech work / remote “consultancy”
Ideology-driven recruitment	Financially‑motivated recruitment (crypto‑wealth, corporate espionage)
State‑run training facilities	Private “mercenary” training schools & online tutorials

The principle remains the same: hide in plain sight, wait for the moment, then strike. The only thing that has changed is the medium of the strike.

7. Takeaways for the Reader

Sleeper agents were not just spies; they were long‑term influencers who could shape scientific progress, diplomatic negotiations, and public opinion from behind a kitchen counter.
Successes often hinged on ideology and technical expertise, while failures usually involved operational sloppiness or improved Western security measures.
The legacy of the Soviet sleeper program endures in today’s cyber‑espionage and intelligence‑gathering practices. Understanding this history helps us see why modern governments invest heavily in counter‑intelligence, background vetting, and digital forensics.

Searching for locations: Brisbane botanical gardens, Australia

The flowers were out in full bloom the day we took the grandchildren for ‘a walk in the park’.

Of particular interest was the Japanese garden with a trail with rocks,and mini waterfalls

And as a fitting end to the day, a chance to feed a family of ducks

What I learned about writing – I need a writing room, don’t I?

The Sacred Space: Do You Really Need a Writing Room? And What Are the Bare Bones Requirements?

The romantic image of a writer often conjures up a cozy study, perhaps with a crackling fireplace, shelves overflowing with books, and a perfectly placed vintage desk. But for many of us, the reality is a bit more… chaotic. Squeezed into a corner of the living room, hunched over the kitchen table, or even balancing a laptop on the bed.

So, the burning question arises: Do I really need a writing room?

The short answer? It depends. For some, a dedicated space is the holy grail, the key to unlocking consistent creativity and productivity. For others, the freedom of writing anywhere can be liberating. However, if you’re finding your words are constantly interrupted, your focus is fractured, and your writing sessions feel more like a battle than a flow, the answer might lean towards a resounding “Yes, you probably do!”

Think of it like this: you wouldn’t expect a surgeon to perform a delicate operation in a busy marketplace, would you? While you might be able to grab a few scribbled notes amidst the hustle, sustained deep work often requires a controlled environment.

But before you start picturing an elaborate home renovation, let’s break down the basic requirements of a functional writing space. You don’t need a palace; you need a sanctuary.

The Bare Bones: What Your Writing Space Absolutely Needs

Forget the antique globe and the plush Persian rug for now. Let’s focus on the essentials that will actually help you get words on the page:

A Designated Spot (However Small): This is the cornerstone. It doesn’t have to be a separate room. It could be a corner of your bedroom, a specific chair at the dining table that’s only for writing, or even a visually distinct area in your living room. The key is that when you occupy this space, your brain knows: “It’s writing time.”
A Comfortable and Ergonomic Work Surface: This is where you’ll spend your time. Whether it’s a sturdy desk, a well-positioned table, or even a comfortable lap desk, it needs to allow you to sit or stand in a way that doesn’t cause strain. Think about the height of your chair and table, and the position of your screen. Your body will thank you in the long run.
Adequate Lighting: Straining your eyes in dim light is a recipe for headaches and fatigue. Natural light is ideal, but if that’s not possible, invest in a good desk lamp that provides sufficient, focused light without glare. You should be able to see your work clearly without any discomfort.
Minimal Distractions (Within Reason): This is where the “room” aspect often comes into play, but it’s about managing distractions more than eliminating them entirely.
- Visual Clutter: While your dedicated spot might be small, try to keep the immediate area around it as clear as possible. A cluttered space can lead to a cluttered mind.
- Auditory Clutter: If you live with others or in a noisy environment, consider noise-canceling headphones or a white noise machine. The goal isn’t absolute silence, but rather to control the auditory landscape so it doesn’t hijack your focus.
- Digital Clutter: This is a big one. Turn off unnecessary notifications on your phone and computer. Close irrelevant tabs. Create a digital environment that supports your writing, not hinders it.
Your Essential Tools: What do you need to write?
- For Digital Writers: Your laptop or computer, a reliable power source, and perhaps an external keyboard or mouse if that improves your comfort.
- For Analog Writers: Pens, paper, notebooks, a dictionary, a thesaurus – whatever your preferred analog tools are.

Beyond the Bare Bones: Making it Your Writing Room

Once you have the essentials covered, you can start to personalize your space. This is where the magic happens and it truly becomes your sanctuary.

Inspiration: Add a few things that spark your creativity – a favorite quote, a piece of art, a plant.
Comfort: A comfortable chair is a huge plus.
Organization: Shelves or drawers to keep your research, notebooks, and other writing-related materials tidy.
Sensory Elements: Perhaps a calming scent or a favorite mug for your tea or coffee.

Ultimately, the most important requirement for a writing room is that it facilitates your ability to write. It’s a space where you can enter a flow state, where distractions melt away, and where your imagination can take flight.

So, do you need a writing room? If you’re struggling to find your focus and consistency, the answer is likely a resounding yes. Start with the bare bones, and then build your personal haven, one word at a time.

What are your must-have elements in a writing space? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation. I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample. I was going to give them the re-worked short story. Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself. We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected. I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party. I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble. No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

Get it here: https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance

One writer's experiences, and battles with words

Category: blogging