Category: Book

“What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.

Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.

They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?

When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.

When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.

Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.

Find the kindle version on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

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 continue 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 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 mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, 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 Brother’s 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 went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and at the editor for the last.

I have high hopes of publishing it in early 2021.  It even has a cover.

PIWalthJones1

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 15

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

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

And, so, it continues…

 

The new leader of the resistance was the woman, Martina, best if I didn’t know her last name.  Fair enough.  There had been a necessary restructure after the infiltration, and untimely deaths of over half their number.

When I asked what happened to the former leader, I learned that he, and all but five other members were captured and taken to the castle.  They were now, for all intents and purposes, double agents, working for the Thompson at the castle.

The remaining five, of which Giuseppe and Martina belonged, had been forced to hide, dodging the men sent from the castle to hunt them down and kill them.

It was both the lack of reporting from the castle, followed by a message received regarding a possible traitor inside the resistance we had received in London, that set everything in motion, including my arrival to ascertain what was happening within the resistance group, and also at the castle.  Until that information reached us, there had been no reason to suspect that anything was wrong, and that the plans set in place to facilitate the defection of useful German scientists and, in some cases, high ranking officers, or that it had been infiltrated and to put it bluntly, original members had been killed and replaced.

I hadn’t realised who was in charge until the paratroopers had arrived and I’d become a prisoner.  Part of my brief had also been to verify the layout of the castle in accordance with old plans we had found using my archaeology background as a front, and Id managed to explore certain areas before Thompson had become suspicious and basically stopped me.  I’d searched part of the lower levels of the castle, but hadn’t got as far as the dungeons, where I eventually discovered becoming one myself, they were keeping many more prisoners.

I hadn’t long enough in the dungeons to discover whether any of the prisoners were part of the original team sent, whether there were any defectors being still held there, except for two that I’d seen, and definitely one I talked to, but there had to be more.

And, now that I’d found the remaining members of the resistance, it was my intention to return to rescue then, and retake the castle.  What was going to make it difficult, if not impossible, was the fact there were only five, and they were all busy trying not to get caught.  Still, I had to try, and I asked Martina if it was possible to get everyone together for a meeting.

Martina just laughed.  Whether it was my request or my plan to retake the castle was the cause of her mirth.

“With what?”  she said incredulously, “there are only five of us left, and we spend most of our time keeping one step ahead of the turncoats.”

“How many of them are there?”

“Too many, led by that bastard Francesco.  He didn’t like taking orders from a woman, thought we’d picked the wrong side, especially when the Germans killed about fifty of the villagers when we refused to give ourselves up.  They killed his wife and mother  after he refused to send them away.”

That didn’t seem right to me, to align yourself with that sort of enemy, not after what they had done.  Except there was no telling what anyone might do in the face of such an adversary, or circumstances.  But I had to ask, “Why would they?”

“They’ve got hostages from the village up there, in the dungeons.  That’s how they turned them.”

Damn.  I was not going to be able to turn them back, not when the lives of their friends, even family, was being threatened.

“Is that the case for those who didn’t surrender?”

“No.  Our relatives left when we could see what was going to happen.”

“So, the problem we have is, freeing the hostages, freeing the soldiers if there are any of the original group, retake the castle, and get the pipeline working again.”  And, I thought to myself, pull off seven miracles in fifteen minutes.

I was putting forward what was for all intents and purposes impossible.

“There’s more,” she said.  “There is a high-value scientist coming, last advice was that he was in transit from Germany to here.  We know, and they know, courtesy of Francesco.  They want him captured; we want him safely delivered to the submarine waiting to take him to England.  He’s due in three days, and he doesn’t know the castle’s allegiances have changed.”

“Then we’ll have to intercept him.”

“Yes, but we don’t know what he looks like, but we do have a code name.  Francesco and the castle don’t have that, only his real name.”

A name I saw on a highly confidential document on Forster’s desk the day he briefed me on my current mission.  Blackfoot.  I thought it was an operation.  I think that was the code name for the defector.

“Blackfoot?”

“How did you know?”

“A lucky guess.” 

The question I had was, why didn’t he tell me about it?  Did he think I was going to get captured and tortured?

“Well, you’re right.  But it means Francesco and his men are going to be looking extra hard for us, because without that codename, as soon as they fail to confirm their identity to him, he will kill himself rather than go back, which I’m guessing will be their least preferred option.  And to make matters worse, London’s orders are quite specific, this man must be delivered alive.  He has critical information they need, and which will hasten the end of the war”

“Then I think we should tell London the nature of our situation and see what they come up with.”

 

© Charles Heath 2019

The 2am Rant: How about this for a plotline?

No matter how hard you try, how seamless, on paper the plan is, the odds are something will go wrong. That is not to say I am a fatalist, or a glass half empty kind of traveler, because most of the trips I have planned, and taken, have been relatively painless.

Except our good luck had to finally run out.

It was not a matter of bad planning; it was just one of those times when events didn’t quite go according to plan. It happens.

For instance, the simple objective was to get from Brisbane in Australia to Florence in Italy. There is no direct flight. Booking on an airline site is a horrendous experience, fares are ridiculously high, and there is no accommodating stopovers.

This is a trip that only a travel agent can handle.

The objective, travel to London via Hong Kong, or Singapore, or any medium distant airport, then on to London, or Paris, or where-ever, then to Florence. No overnight stopover, staying in a hotel, not this time, in either of Hong Kong or London.

Simple.

Not.

It was as horrendous for the agent as it was navigating the airline’s internet site. It was not something that could be done, sitting opposite her as she deftly navigated the highways and byways of the travel system on her computer. This was a longer, more intricate job.

Two days later she had the solution for the Brisbane, Hong Kong, London, and thence Florence trip. It would require a stay of 10 hours in Hong Kong, the connections didn’t align according to price constraints, and then a 14 hour layover in London as flights to Florence were not aligned either. All well and good. Cathay Pacific for the trip to London and Vueling Airlines for the Florence leg. At least we would arrive in Florence at a reasonable hour, about 6pm.

On paper, it was the most practical solution in the circumstances.

Reality proved it to be something else entirely.

At Brisbane airport, we were given boarding passes for the flights through to London, but by some quirk of fate had our baggage checked through to Florence. How this could be done without boarding passes for the London to Florence flight was a surprise. Back in Brisbane, the check-in person told us she could not give us a boarding pass for the London to Florence leg because the system would not issue it. We could she said, get it easy enough when we arrived in London.

The first leg went smoothly enough, though we did not realize until we got on the plane that it stopped over in Cairns for an hour or so. This was not a problem, just made the time between Brisbane and Hong Kong longer than we anticipated.

In Hong Kong, we had no trouble getting into the lounge I’d booked. The problem came with the interpretation of using the bathroom facilities, and it took several hours before we finally realized that the bathroom facilities were not part of the lounge but operated independently and you had to book your place. By that time there were a large number of people ahead of us (who obviously knew the problems associated with these facilities) and it annoyed me that the lounge staff did not mention it when we arrived.

The Hong Kong to London leg was as all long haul flights are. We knew what to expect, and arrived in London around 6 am. We arrived at terminal three and the lounge we’d booked was in terminal three. All we needed was a boarding pass to get in.

Oops.

That was not the case.

Because we could not get back into terminal three without a forward boarding pass we had to exit and go through customs and immigration. We were told that the only way to get a boarding pass for the Florence flight was to go to the airline counter.

The problem was Vueling did not have an airline counter.

This is where tempers started to flare. 7:30 in the morning, no means of getting into the lounge which we had paid a lot on money for, and no one in the terminal being helpful.

The Vueling web site was impossible to use.

The telephone number rang out.

At this point, I was beginning to believe the airline didn’t exist and we had been ripped off.

Only by a quirk of fate, reading the departures board, did I see a flight for Vueling leaving at 10 am, with the check-in counter displayed.

By this time we had spent two very frustrating hours and I was nothing short of angry.
At the gate, the head of the check-in counter, a representative of Vueling was surprised we had any problems, particularly in Brisbane, but happily issued the boarding passes.

When we mentioned the baggage she advised us it was lucky we did, otherwise it would have gone missing. She took the tag numbers and sorted that problem out.

The airline, it seems, is well respected, and based on the service I received, I had to say I agreed

The problem was back in Brisbane with an inexperienced check in person.

There was only one problem in getting to the lounge, now four hours later than we had advised, the fact we had to go back through customs, and in doing so, the duty-free that we had brought from Hong Kong was now outside the limits allowed, and the customs staff were adamant despite the circumstances we could not take it with us. $400 worth of goods finished up in the bin.

It would be true to say that day the customs staff at Heathrow were not the best ambassadors for their country, and one, in particular, would be best doing service elsewhere where human contact was not a requirement. As for the others, they were as helpful as they could be, but rules unfortunately were rules.

At last, rather distressed over the duty-free, and the lateness of our arrival at the lounge, there was no possibility of getting a short sleep before going to Florence. At least we did not have the same problems using the bathroom facilities, our room I’d book had them included in the room.

We rested, and figured nothing else could go wrong.

Not. Again!

The plane was advertised to leave London at about 3 pm. We left the lounge expecting to get to the gate on time. We checked on the departure board for the flight to get the gate number, only to see a notice ‘delayed’. When that delay passed 5 pm, two hours later, we decided to go to the counter and find out what was happening.

Only to find there was no airline counter. Again!

We asked at least a dozen people, including the special helpers the airport who there is plenty of signage to say to go to if you have a problem, but not one of them knew where the counter was or who was looking after the affairs of the airline. By this time other irate passengers of the delayed flight were massing, also seeking answers. One discovered who the agent was, and we descended on the counter as a large group.

The first person I saw at the counter was the woman who had checked us in that morning. For her, it had been a long day, and it was getting longer.

The problem, the plane had been delayed on an earlier leg, yes it would be arriving, having just left the lat airport, and we would be embarking about 7:30. For our trouble, we got a meal voucher, and at least we could have a reasonably good dinner.

The plane arrived, we embarked, the service was good and the people on board as cheerful as they could be given the delays and the discontented passengers.

We arrived in Florence just before midnight, our driver to take us to the hotel was waiting for us, and the hotel upgraded us to a very nice room.

All in all a harrowing journey, but at the end, basically a six-hour delay, and two very tired, but happy people. And we were in Florence, in summer. What more could anyone want?

Writing a book in 365 days – 358

Day 358

The Doyen of Noir: What Raymond Chandler’s Life, Style, and Philip Marlowe Teach Us About Storytelling

When you think of classic American crime fiction, the name that instantly flickers to mind is Raymond Chandler – the heavyweight champion of hard‑boiled noir whose razor‑sharp prose still feels fresh after more than eighty years. Chandler didn’t just write detective stories; he invented a literary atmosphere that turned a gritty, rain‑slick Los Angeles into a character in its own right and gave us the unforgettable gumshoe Philip Marlowe.

But behind the sleek dialogues and smoky tavern scenes lay a life riddled with missteps, self‑destruction, and surprising twists. By digging into Chandler’s history, his flaws, and his unmistakable style, we can extract timeless lessons for writers, marketers, and anyone who wants to make an impact with words.

1. A Rocky Road to the Pen

MilestoneWhat HappenedWhy It Matters
Early Years (1888‑1912)Born in Chicago, moved to Colorado, a peripatetic childhood. Lost his mother at 12 and was sent to live with relatives in England.Early displacement instilled a sense of alienation that later seeped into his urban landscapes.
Oil‑Field Engineer (1912‑1932)Spent two decades drilling in Texas and Mexico, clashing with corporate bureaucracy and the harsh desert.The “outsider‑against‑system” mindset is a core theme in his novels.
World War I ServiceServed in the U.S. Army, briefly, then returned to the oil business.Experience with hierarchy and authority fed his skepticism of power.
The Downward Spiral (1932‑1934)The Great Depression wrecked the oil market; Chandler’s marriage collapsed. He turned to alcohol, gambling, and a series of odd jobs.The personal chaos sharpened his eye for the darker side of human nature—fuel for the noir aesthetic.
Breakthrough with The Big Sleep (1939)At 49, Chandler finally published his first novel, introducing Marlowe.Proved it’s never too late to start a successful second career.

Takeaway: Chandler’s path to literary fame wasn’t a straight line. It was a series of failures, relocations, and personal battles that forced him to confront his own darkness. For creators, this teaches that authentic storytelling often springs from lived adversity—the harder the journey, the richer the material.

2. The Signature Chandler Style

a. The “Hard‑Boiled” Voice

  • Economy of Language: Chandler favoured short, punchy sentences that carried weight.
    Example: “She was a cheap, cheap girl, and the cheapness rubbed off on the rest of us.”
  • Wry Similes & Metaphors: He turned ordinary observations into unforgettable images.
    Example: “He looked as if he’d been run over by a train and then dragged through a sandstorm.”
  • Moral Ambiguity: The lines between good and evil are blurred; even the hero has flaws.

b. Los Angeles as a Character

  • Concrete Details: From neon signs to desert highways, Chandler painted the city with a painter’s precision.
  • Atmospheric Consistency: Rain, fog, and darkness aren’t just weather—they’re mood setters that echo the protagonist’s inner turmoil.

c. Dialogue That Cuts

  • Witty Banter: Conversations feel like chess matches—each line a strategic move.
  • Understatement: Frequently, what isn’t said speaks louder than the spoken word.

Takeaway: Chandler’s style is a masterclass in restraint. He shows us that brevity, vivid imagery, and a strong sense of place can create a world that feels larger than the sum of its pages.

3. Philip Marlowe: The Archetype That Still Resonates

TraitHow Chandler Crafted ItModern Echo
World‑Weary CynicMarlowe narrates with a mix of sarcasm and weary empathy.Anti‑heroes in film/TV (e.g., Breaking Bad, The Wire).
Moral CompassDespite his jaded outlook, Marlowe adheres to an internal code of honor.Brands that position themselves as “honest rebels” (e.g., Patagonia).
Lone WolfHe operates alone, skeptical of institutions.Freelance creatives, solopreneurs, and “maker” culture.
Sharp Observational SkillsHe notices the smallest details—a stray cigarette, a shaky handshake.Data‑driven marketers who derive insight from micro‑behaviors.

Marlowe’s lasting appeal lies in his human contradictions: tough yet tender, cynical yet idealistic. He’s a reminder that complex, flawed protagonists are far more compelling than flawless heroes.

4. What We Can Learn From Chandler’s Legacy

1. Embrace Your “Not‑So‑Great” Past

  • Your setbacks are a goldmine for narrative tension. Chandler turned his own bitterness into a voice that resonated with millions.
  • Practical tip: Keep a “failure journal.” Record moments that felt humiliating or painful; later, mine them for raw material.

2. Cultivate a Distinct Atmosphere

  • Whether you’re writing a novel or drafting a brand story, the setting is a silent storyteller.
  • Practical tip: Before writing, create a sensory map: list five smells, three sounds, and two visual motifs that define your world.

3. Write With the Economy of a Detective’s Pistol

  • Every word should earn its place. Trim the fluff, sharpen the similes, and let subtext do the heavy lifting.
  • Exercise: Take a paragraph you love and rewrite it using 30% fewer words without losing meaning.

4. Give Your Hero a Moral Compass, Even If It’s Bent

  • Audiences crave characters who stand for something, even if that something is a personal code that defies society.
  • Implementation: Define your protagonist’s “one rule they’ll never break” and let it guide every decision.

5. Let Dialogue Do the Detective Work

  • Bad dialogue is a dead giveaway of lazy writing. Let characters reveal plot, personality, and tension through how they speak—not just what they say.
  • Practice: Write a scene where two characters talk about a crime without mentioning the word “crime” at all.

5. Bringing It All Home: Your Own Noir Blueprint

StepActionOutcome
1. Harvest Personal GritList three moments of personal failure.Source of authentic conflict.
2. Choose a “City”Identify a physical or metaphorical setting that mirrors your theme.Creates immersive atmosphere.
3. Define the Hero’s CodeWrite a one‑sentence creed for your protagonist.Anchors moral ambiguity.
4. Draft with a “Marlowe Lens”Write every scene as if you’re a detective observing details.Boosts vividness and tension.
5. Polish for PunchCut words, sharpen similes, test dialogue for subtext.Delivers Chandler‑style impact.

Final Thoughts

Raymond Chandler’s journey from oil‑field engineer to the reigning monarch of noir proves that a writer’s personal turbulence can become a powerhouse of creativity. His blend of hard‑boiled prose, atmospheric detail, and a morally complex hero continues to shape everything from modern crime thrillers to brand narratives that crave authenticity.

If you can channel Chandler’s willingness to stare into his own darkness, harness it into a distinctive voice, and give your audience a world they can see, smell, and feel, you’ll not just write a story—you’ll craft an experience that endures.

Take a page from the master: own your scars, paint your city, and let your protagonist walk the line between the shadows and the light. The result? A story that, like Chandler’s, never truly fades.

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Brasilia

Discover Brasília’s Hidden Gems: 5 Under-the-Radar Adventures

Brasília, the futuristic capital of Brazil, is a city of sleek modernist architecture and political grandeur. But beyond the iconic landmarks like the National Congress and Cathedral of Brasília (Catedral de Brasília), there lies a quieter, more authentic Brasília waiting to be explored. If you’re ready to venture off the beaten path, here are five unique experiences that will make your visit unforgettable.

1. Step Back in Time at Cruzeiro Velho

Tucked away in the Setor Habitacional Jardim Botânico, Cruzeiro Velho is a charming neighbourhood that offers a glimpse into Brasília’s origins. Established in 1959, this area was one of the city’s first residential enclaves, featuring traditional Portuguese-style houses constructed from adobe and wooden beams. Unlike the city’s geometrically modern structures, Cruzeiro Velho exudes rural simplicity and warmth. Stroll through its narrow cobblestone streets, visit the historic Igreja de Nossa Senhora do Carmo (Church of Our Lady of Mount Carmel), and join locals at the community square for a slice of real Brasília life. Tip: Visit in the evening when the community hosts small cultural events, like folk music performances.

2. Admire Street Art in the Túnel das Artes

Hidden beneath Asa Sul, the Túnel das Artes (Arts Tunnel) is a vibrant canvas of local creativity. This 110-meter tunnel, once a utility passage, is now a kaleidoscope of murals, graffiti, and mosaics by Brasília’s most talented artists. The artwork reflects the city’s dynamic spirit and social narratives, making it a must-see for art enthusiasts. Since it’s a working-class thoroughfare, you’ll often spot locals enjoying the art amidst the hum of daily life. Pro Tip: Bring a camera and explore the tunnel during daytime when the lighting highlights the vivid colours.

3. Relax in the Tranquil Jardim Botânico de Brasília

Escape the city’s buzz at the Jardim Botânico de Brasília (Brasília Botanical Garden), a serene sanctuary housing over 2,000 plant species native to Brazil’s Cerrado and Amazon regions. While it’s a scientific institution, the garden’s peaceful atmosphere and scenic walking trails make it a beloved retreat for horticulturists and nature lovers alike. Don’t miss the Pavilhão das Orquídeas (Orchid Pavilion) and the Casebre (a replica of a traditional Cerrado house). Essential Info: Admission is free, and the garden is open daily from 8 AM to 6 PM.

4. Taste Local Flavours at Feira Central

One of Latin America’s largest markets, Feira Central, is where Brasília’s soul tastes best. This bustling hub, open Monday to Friday, is a sensory overload of sizzling street food, fresh produce, and handicrafts. Sample regional delicacies like feijoada (Brazilian stew), queijadinha (cheese cake), and quindim (egg custard in a caramel cup). The market is also a treasure trove for Afro-Brazilian art, leatherwork, and traditional cangaço-style jewellery. Traveller’s Note: Arrive early to avoid the midday heat and join locals for a lively pre-lunch tradition.

5. Discover Nature and Nostalgia at Parque da Torre de TV

Located in Asa Sul, Parque da Torre de TV blends history, nature, and fun. The park is anchored by the iconic Torre de TV, a 139-meter communications tower that once served as a vital link for Brazil’s media. Surrounding the tower is a scenic reservoir, walking paths, and a mini-zoo with native wildlife. Rent a paddleboat on the lake or hike the trails to the top of Morro da Mineirinha for panoramic views. It’s a family-friendly spot that feels worlds away from the city’s formal vibe. Insider Tip: Visit on weekends when the park hosts cultural fairs and open-air concerts.

Conclusion: Beyond the Blueprints
Brasília’s true magic lies not just in its architectural masterpieces but in the stories whispered through its lesser-known corners. Whether you’re savouring street food at Feira Central or wandering the adobe streets of Cruzeiro Velho, these off-the-beaten-path adventures reveal a city that’s as rich in culture as it is in innovation. So let curiosity be your guide, and discover Brasília beyond the blueprints.

Final Note: Before you go, check local event calendars for festivals, farmers’ markets, and art exhibitions that add spontaneity to your trip. Brasília’s hidden gems are best discovered with an open heart and a willing spirit.

What I learned about writing – Writers must read

Reading gives you an insight into how successful writers are … successful

Set yourself a reading list, and don’t limit yourself to the sort of genre of books that you wish to write. But, I have to admit I’m guilty of not necessarily reading everything because there are genres that I do not like.

But, for the purposes of this exercise, what you are looking for are:

  • Descriptions of locations, the methods by which the author conveys the setting, whether dark, light, eerie, scary, dripping with menace, or inspiring fear. A dark room can be just a dark room, but it can be so much more.
  • Descriptions of people. If anyone who witnessed a crime was asked to describe the guilty, ten different people would give ten different descriptions, and unless there was a distinguishing factor like he only had one arm, it might describe a quarter to half the population. Your job is to see how others do it and refine it for your characterisations.
  • Conversation. We all have conversations, but when it comes to writing them down and making them sound plausible, that’s another story. Conversation is the hardest part of this writing thing, or at least I think so.
  • Writing style. You will eventually get your own, but to begin with, it might be a little strange. Reading many similar-themed or genre books will give you some idea of what the publisher’s editors are looking for.

You will have to read quite a few; I have a library with about 3,000 books, which I have accumulated over the past 50 years. And I think I have learned a thing or two from reading nearly all of them.

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

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 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 passenger’s 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 let 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 need 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 the qualifications I had, and the rest, I think I intimidated the interviewer 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 fulfill, 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 one other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact 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 mesmerizing.  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 me without my realizing 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 subtle, 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 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 demeanor 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 realized 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 was, 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 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 realized 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 recognized me from that cover.  It had raised my profile considerably, but not the 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 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 ignoring 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 traveling 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 traveling 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 realizing 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.

It just started to rain.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2023

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Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Buenos Aires

Exploring Buenos Aires Beyond the Tourist Trail: 5 Unexpected Adventures

When most travellers picture Buenos Pride, they think of the tango‑filled streets of San Telmo, the grand avenues of Recoleta, and the bustling cafés of Palermo. While those neighborhoods are undeniably iconic, the Argentine capital hides a wealth of lesser‑known gems that reveal a more intimate, quirky, and authentic side of the city.

If you’ve already checked off the classic attractions and still have a craving for something different, these five off‑the‑beaten‑path experiences will take you deeper into Buenos Aires’ soul—without the crowds. Pack a reusable water bottle, wear comfortable shoes, and get ready to wander where locals love to roam.

1. Stroll Through the Hidden Gardens of Jardín Japonés at Night

Why it’s special
Most visitors see Jardín Japonés (the Japanese Garden) during daylight hours, but the garden transforms after sunset. The soft glow of lanterns, the gentle hum of koi swimming under moonlight, and the occasional echo of a distant saxophone from a nearby jazz bar create a magical, almost cinematic atmosphere.

What to do

  • Evening tea ceremony – Join a 30‑minute tea‑ceremony workshop (offered on Fridays at 7 pm). It’s a quiet, meditative experience that includes a short talk on the tea’s cultural meaning.
  • Night photography – The garden’s bridges, stone lanterns, and the iconic tea house make superb low‑light subjects. Bring a tripod and experiment with long‑exposure shots of the koi pond.
  • Moonlit stroll – Follow the moss‑covered stepping stones along the tea garden’s “Shinrin‑yoku” (forest‑bath) path. The silence is punctuated only by the rustle of bamboo and distant traffic, offering a rare moment of urban tranquillity.

Pro tip – The garden closes at 9 pm, but the surrounding Barrio de Palermo’s quiet side streets remain lively with hidden speakeasies. Grab a late‑night empanada from a local bakery and head to Bar Los Galgos for an after‑hours gin cocktail.

2. Take a Mini‑Cruise on the Río de la Plata in a Historic “Patache”

Why it’s special
While most tourists imagine the Río de la Plata as a massive, industrial waterway, a handful of small, restored patache vessels (traditional Argentine sailing boats) offer intimate tours focusing on the river’s ecological and historical narrative.

What to do

  • Eco‑tour (2 hours) – Departing from Puerto Madero’s Muelle 1, this guided cruise visits the “Isla de los Pájaros” bird sanctuary. A naturalist points out native herons, cormorants, and the occasional shy black‑skinned swan.
  • Historical storytelling – On select evenings, a local historian narrates tales of early 19th‑century smugglers, the 1880 “Golden Age” of river trade, and the river’s role in shaping Buenos Aires’ identity.
  • Sunset salsa – Some night cruises feature impromptu tango or milonga lessons on deck, letting you sway to the river’s gentle lull while the city lights flicker in the distance.

Pro tip – Book the “sunset salsa” cruise for a Wednesday or Thursday—mid‑week sails are less crowded, and you’ll enjoy a complimentary glass of Malbec from a boutique vineyard in Mendoza.

3. Explore the Street Art Labyrinth of Colegio Nacional de Arquitectura (CNA)

Why it’s special
The façade of the National School of Architecture (CNA) is a living canvas. Since 2015, a rotating collective of local and international muralists has turned its concrete walls into a kaleidoscope of political commentary, surreal imagery, and whimsical cartoons.

What to do

  • Guided “Graffiti Walk” (45 min) – Follow a self‑guided QR‑code trail that links to short video interviews with the artists. Learn the symbolism behind the giant armadillo, the floating books, and the hidden QR‑code that unlocks a secret Instagram filter.
  • Hands‑on stencil workshop – Every Saturday at 11 am, the school’s community art space offers a free stencil‑making class. Produce a mini‑poster to take home—a souvenir you actually made yourself.
  • Evening “Light‑Up” show – On the first Friday of each month, the building’s façade is illuminated with projection mapping, syncing the murals to a live DJ set. The resulting visual symphony is a must‑see for night‑owls.

Pro tip – Bring a reusable tote bag for the workshop supplies and wear comfortable shoes; the CNA campus is a sprawling, cobblestone‑strewn complex perfect for a leisurely wander.

4. Savour a Secret Supper Club in Barrio Chino (Little China)

Why it’s special
Buenos Aires’ Chinatown, nestled in the heart of Belgrano, is often overlooked by tourists who flock to the more famous “Chinatown” of Buenos Aires (the restaurant strip on Avenida Corrientes). Hidden within the narrow alleys is a rotating supper club run by a collective of Chinese‑Argentine chefs who fuse traditional Sichuan flavours with Argentine ingredients.

What to do

  • Reserve a seat – The club operates on a “by invitation only” model. Sign up on their WeChat group or follow their Instagram (@secretchinasabado) to receive a secret code for reservations.
  • Taste the “Chimichurri Dumplings” – A standout dish that blends Argentine chimichurri sauce with delicate pork dumplings, served with a smoky paprika‑infused broth.
  • Cultural exchange – After dinner, the chef hosts a short talk about the migration story of Chinese families arriving in Buenos Aires in the early 1900s, followed by a live erhu (Chinese violin) performance.

Pro tip – Arrive a few minutes early to explore the nearby Plaza de la China, a tiny garden with a bronze statue of a dragon. The surrounding streets are lined with hidden tea houses where you can enjoy a post‑dinner té mate infused with jasmine.

5. Ride the Vintage Tram and take a short walk to the local Museum in La Boca

Why it’s special
Most visitors associate La Boca with colourful houses and the famous Caminito street. Few know that a vintage 1920s tram line still operates on a short, scenic route that ends at the Museum of Industry—a former meat‑packing plant turned interactive exhibition space.

What to do

  • Tram ride (20 min) – Board at the historic Tram Station Plaza de la República (a modest brick building with a tiny ticket booth). The tram clatters through cobblestone streets, passing hidden murals and small workshops.
  • Museum tour – Visit the museum that showcases local history.
  • Coffee at the café.

Bonus: How to Weave These Experiences Into One Seamless Itinerary

DayMorningAfternoonEvening
1Night stroll in Jardín Japonés (7 pm)Late‑night empanada & cocktail in PalermoRest
2Mini‑cruise on Río de la Plata (2 pm)Walk along Puerto MaderoLight‑up show at CNA (9 pm)
3Graffiti walk at CNA (10 am)Stencil workshop (11 am)Dinner at secret Chinatown supper club (8 pm)
4Tram ride and walk to La Boca Museum Museum tour & coffeeFree night – explore local bars in La Boca
5Free day – revisit favorite spots or relax in a parkOptional bike ride along the Ecological ReserveCelebrate with a tango show in a hidden speakeasy

Final Thoughts

Buenos Aires is a city of layers—each neighbourhood, street, and riverbank offers a story waiting to be discovered. By stepping off the traditional tourist map, you’ll uncover hidden gardens that whisper at night, historic vessels that glide through the river’s heart, and culinary experiences that fuse continents.

These five “road‑less‑travelled” adventures give you a taste of the city’s creative, industrial, and multicultural spirit, inviting you to see Buenos Aires not just as a destination, but as a living, breathing tapestry of stories.

Ready to explore? Pack your curiosity, charge your camera, and let the hidden corners of Buenos Aires become your personal playground.

Happy travels!

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

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

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s the current situation?”

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

He looked in my direction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was hoping for the latter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was nerves more than the cold.

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

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

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fear factor increased exponentially.

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

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

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

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

We needed a distraction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Charles Heath 2016-2020