Is that a video game on the computer, or I’d that a board game with friends?
In reality, I didn’t play games with friends because I’m a poor loser. Especially monopoly.
But to play a game often means you take on a persona or a role, as one, or one of many.
Personally, I like role-playing games like dungeons and dragons.
I’m going to a play
This is a stage production of a scripted story with various people in roles.
A play can have a star, a lead actor in a pivotal role to draw in the viewers
I’ve been to good plays and bad ones with great actors and some not-so-great ones.
A play can be hard to understand, it can be a musical with singing and dancing, or it can be rollicking good fun where the audience dances in their seats.
The worst play I ever saw was Dr Zhivago, it never seemed to end.
The best play, The Pyjama Game, with John Inman from Are You Being Served, a British comedy TV show.
I’m going to play the game
There’s a slight difference between this and the first example because it means instead of doing something your own way, you’re going to do eat everyone else does, prompting the analogy, you’re going to fight fire with fire.
Yep, even the explanations can be confusing. You have to love the English language for being that.
I’m going to play a role
So many connotations to this one. For instance, I’m going to be someone I’m not. If I’m a kind person, then I’m going to pretend I’m mean.
I’m going to join a group of like-minded people and help further their cause, that is to say, together we changed the course of history, and I had a role in that.
Let’s hope it was for the betterment of mankind and not a leap towards infamy.
And of course, if you play a part in a play, it means you are pretending to be someone else. I like the idea of playing God, but that’s usually the lead actor, I’m usually the janitor, servant, or just plain dogsbody.
It was in darkness. I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.
I looked up and saw the globe was broken.
Instant alert.
I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there. I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either. Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.
Who?
There were four hiding spots and all were empty. Someone had removed the weapons. That could only mean one possibility.
I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.
But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.
Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.
There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch. One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage. It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief. It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.
It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely. It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.
The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground. I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side. After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks. It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that. I’d left torches at either end so I could see.
I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch. I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end. I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door. It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.
I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.
I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.
Silence, an eerie silence.
I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting. There wasn’t. It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.
I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was. Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.
That raised the question of who told them where I was.
If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan. The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental. But I was not that man.
Or was I?
I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness. My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void. Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly. A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.
Still nothing.
I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job. I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.
Coming in the front door. If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in. One shot would be all that was required.
Contract complete.
I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door. There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting. It was an ideal spot to wait.
Crunch.
I stepped on some nutshells.
Not my nutshells.
I felt it before I heard it. The bullet with my name on it.
And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea. I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.
I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.
Two assassins.
I’d not expected that.
The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part. The second was still breathing.
I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives. Armed to the teeth!
I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian. I was expecting a Russian.
I slapped his face, waking him up. Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down. The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally. He was not long for this earth.
“Who employed you?”
He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile. “Not today my friend. You have made a very bad enemy.” He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth. “There will be more …”
Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.
I would have to leave. Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess. I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.
Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally. I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.
A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.
Until I heard a knock on my front door.
Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?
I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm. I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.
If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation. Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.
No police, just Maria. I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.
“You left your phone behind on the table. I thought you might be looking for it.” She held it out in front of her.
When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”
I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”
I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.
“You need to go away now.”
Should I tell her the truth? It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.
She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity. “What happened?”
I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible. I went with the truth. “My past caught up with me.”
“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss. It doesn’t look good.”
“I can fix it. You need to leave. It is not safe to be here with me.”
The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened. She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.
I opened the door and let her in. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences. Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge. She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.
I expected her to scream. She didn’t.
She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous. Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about. She would have to go to the police.
“What happened here?”
“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me. I used to work for the Government, but no longer. I suspect these men were here to repay a debt. I was lucky.”
“Not so much, looking at your arm.”
She came closer and inspected it.
“Sit down.”
She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.
“Do you have medical supplies?”
I nodded. “Upstairs.” I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs. Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.
She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back. I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.
She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound. Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet. It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.
When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”
No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.
“Alisha?”
“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you. She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”
“That was wrong of her to do that.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Will you call her?”
“Yes. I can’t stay here now. You should go now. Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”
What happened should not have happened, but it did. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and met the wrong people.
It earned me a beating simply because the arresting officer was a belligerent fool, and of course, I had to stir him up. I wanted to see what I was up against, and what I learned, I rather wished I hadn’t.
And it meant, if I got to walk away from this, I had a lot of explaining to do, and not just to my captors.
I sighed. It could be worse.
The bench in the cell was hard and uncomfortable, but it was meant to be like that for a reason. The occupant was not meant to be comfortable. It was cold, then hot, then cold again. I’d expected a few buckets of ice-cold water thrown at me, but they were holding off on that treat.
Big ugly looking guards with guns came to the front of my cell and banged on the iron bars with those guns, making what they thought was a statement. In the end, they were just big ugly men with guns banging on the iron bars to keep me awake.
Do that for a few hours. Alternate light and dark. Disorientate.
Deliver water, and make it look like you’re not the bad guys here. Lace that water with something terrible, yes, been there, and had that treatment. Stomach pains, dehydration, deprivation.
It was all part of the softening-up process.
Number six visitor was different from the rest. He came and went, staying only for a minute, two at the most. He was dressed impeccably and had a well-groomed manner about him.
The rest, the guards, perhaps the jail chief, all looked like they slept in their clothes, hadn’t had a shave or a wash forever, and looked perpetually angry.
He was the master interrogator.
He let the theatrics continue for another 14 hours, making sure I got little sleep and no relaxation. He sent in a few soldiers to give me mini beatings, just in case I forgot I was the trespasser, not them.
Then he had me half dragged, half escorted to a lower room, one that had nothing in it but two chairs. No tools of trade, just a bare room, with, I noticed, blood stairs around the drain, under the chair. A predecessor may not have had a good time in this room.
The guards secured me to the chair and then waited outside, facing away from me. They’d obviously been instructed not to engage in conversation or answer any questions. When I thought about it, they probably didn’t speak English.
An hour later he sauntered in as though he had all the time in the world. He did. He stood outside the cell for a few minutes, looking at me, perhaps daring me to speak. Later maybe.
Then he dismissed the guards.
Unsurprisingly, the door wasn’t locked. I’d guessed as much, so perhaps it was a test to see if I could escape. It was a bit difficult, even for me, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.
“So, Mr Tomlinson, what have you got to say for yourself?”
Good start, give me a chance to incriminate myself.
I thought briefly about the circumstances, about having an invitation to a party, using this as cover to case the residence, and, if it was possible, making my way upstairs to the owner’s study and looking for evidence of his participation in various illegal activities.
It was a long shot at best, my contribution to the briefing before I embarked on this folly, was that no so-called legitimate businessman would keep that particular type of evidence at home.
I was told I would be surprised just how many people in a similar position thought they were above the law.
Anyway, I was caught out before I started looking and only managed a cursory examination, which in my mind justified my belief there would be nothing there.
“Wrong place, wrong time. I took the wrong door. As corny as it sounds, I was looking for a restroom.”
“When everywhere from the ground floor up it was very clearly labelled no trespassing?”
“The need for a restroom sometimes outweighs the risk of breaking house rules. There was an unusually high demand on the lower floor aside from the fact the main restroom was out of commission.”
“Come now, Mr Tomlinson, we both know that’s not quite true.”
“Then why, firstly, was the upstairs room not marked out of bounds, and secondly, why was the door unlocked.”
“It was not.”
“At the risk of starting a childish to and fro, it was unlocked.” It hadn’t been locked, that was true because we did have a little inside help, but that was not for me to explain.
I could see a reddish tinge starting to build up at the top of his cheeks, a sure sign of impatience, and the fact he was not going to let me verbally spar with him for much longer.
“You were caught where you were not supposed to be. What were you looking for?” There was an edge to his tone, impatience showing through. He was a man of quick temper, which may or may not be an advantage to exploit.
A little nudge perhaps, “This is going to become tiresome for one of us. Do you have a name. It seems only fair you tell me since you know mine.”
“My name is irrelevant.”
“And yet I will find out eventually. You do realise I am, among many things, a journalist, and that I am here to cover that party, and the announcement both Lady Pelham and Mr Davies were going to make.”
“Then you should not have been poking around in places you have no right to be.”
“A judgement call made by a man who too readily jumped to the wrong conclusion. My understanding was that the deal could not be sealed if the three organisations didn’t sign the letter of intent, which, I was informed, was going to be at the celebration, after, of course, the usual dull speeches. I have a feeling at least one of the organisations didn’t sign. Not yet anyway. You might want to check that small detail before we continue.”
He shook his head. “You think I’m a fool.”
“Not yet, but it may still come true if you make a hasty decision.”
I’ll be honest, round about then I was praying for a miracle because his patience was at an end. I was stalling, but it couldn’t last much longer.
Just as he stood and was about to leave the room, we both heard the resounding thump on a door and accompanying shout, which if I was not mistaken was, “Open this door, you fool.”
No prizes either for guessing who it was. Davies.
The door was opened and Davies and several other men, representatives of the government, including the Interior Minister, the man we all believed was also the head of their so-called secret service, and no doubt boss of my interrogator, all came in.
A look passed between the minister and the interrogator, which told me he had been on borrowed time to get to the truth. It also told me the minister had known where I was all the time.
“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” The interrogator met the men before they could get much further into the room. If he was hoping to stop them from seeing me, it failed.
Both Davies and the minister both saw me tied up, at the same time. Davies was shocked to see me, the minister not so much, but trying hard to look surprised.
“What is he doing here?” Davies demanded. Then he swung around to look at the minister, “Did you know he was here? You told me you had no idea where he was.”
“I did not. Fontaine?” He then turned to his interrogator. “Explain this situation.”
“We caught him in Mr Davies’s study, a room strictly out of bounds.”
Davies glare went from my interrogator to me.
“Looking for a restroom, the one downstairs was suffering a malfunction, I believe,” I said.
Davies took a moment, then said, “Yes, it was. Someone had stuffed a lot of paper down the drain. It’s a bit difficult to mistake a study for a restroom.”
“The door was open, just one of many I tried to see if it was a restroom. It was in darkness so I’ had to step inside to find a light switch. Apparently, this man,” I nodded to the interrogator, “thought I was up to something else. I guess, when you’re a journalist, most other people consider us as bad as, if not, a spy. I apologise for not making it to our interview, but as you can see, I was tied up.” It was a joke in poor taste. “Out of curiosity sir, am I to assume the agreement was signed, sealed and delivered.”
“It was not, and I believe we now know the reason why.” He glared at the interrogator. “Free this man right now, he’s coming with me.”
“And the charges of trespass,” the interrogator asked.
Davies glared at the minister. “We can continue with this charade and lose several billion dollars of investment, or we can label this a very bad mistake, and end it now. I’m sure Tomlinson here will be glad to forgive and forget this matter.”
For a minute it didn’t look to me like the Minister was going to give in, but then he simply sighed and relented. “A mistake which will have consequences, Mr Tomlinson, I assure you. Whatever we can do to make up for this, please let me know.”
With a wave of the hand, the misunderstanding was over. I’m not sure what the Minister could give to make up for the 14 hours plus of bad treatment, but I was sure, judging by his expression, that he wanted nothing more than to have me executed by firing squad, but had to sacrifice that satisfaction by taking a large share of the billions on offer.
The thought that the country would benefit from this deal was an idealistic notion that some people thought possible, but everyone else knew it was just a payment to the current government to keep their allegiance and the supply of certain minerals that were otherwise quite scarce.
No doubt once I reached safety I would be advised not to write about my experience. Nothing would come from embarrassing our new ‘friends’.
Davies took me back to the hotel, and directly to Alexandra Pental’s suite. Davies apologised profusely for the overzealous guards at his house, and my incarceration which, to explain the cuts and bruises, equally overzealous prison guards who would be punished severely.
She smiled and nodded, said all the right words, and then dismissed him with the promise she would be attending the signing in one hour. It was her preference for a more low-key event. After that, we would be taking our leave, and requested the private jet at the airport be refuelled and cleared to leave the moment we were aboard.
It was clear in her manner that she was less than impressed and had given serious consideration to cancelling the deal. I had no doubt the Embassy officials had several heart attacks for various reasons when the signing was postponed.
The door had barely closed when she glared at me across the room, then, after a minute, which was worse than the 14 hours in that cell waiting for the interrogation, she shook her head. “Drysdale told me that he had demanded to know what they’d done with you, and all he could get was denials.”
“The minister knew all along, I don’t think Davies did. He was too shocked when they burst into the cell block.”
“What the hell were you doing in a cell block?”
“Preparing for the interrogation.”
“Not like that we see on TV?”
“That would be far more acceptable than what I was probably going to get. Except the interrogator was holding back. Perhaps he knew U wasn’t going to talk, or he was hoping the minister would bail him out of trouble. The minister, by the way, doesn’t want this deal.”
“Why?”
“I suspect he made a promise to the Chinese. There’s an unofficial report there was a Chinese delegation here last week, wrapping up the details of another offer, one that gets the Minister a bigger share of the proceeds, and a lot more say over internal affairs. Your deal just gives him money. I believe he wants to run this country as a dictatorship.”
“But that is going to happen?”
“Not today at any rate.”
There was a knock on the door and the butler went to answer it. She was in the presidential suite and had brought several of her personal staff. Including security. The minister wanted to install two of his men, but they were pushed outside the front door.
A moment after the butler came in from the anteroom. “It’s Sir Hugh Drysdale from the British Foreign Office, Miss Pental.”
Read one of the secret service representatives who had been at the briefing in London, and for the local briefing in this very room 72 hours before this fiasco unfolded.
“Show him in.”
He was alone, which surprised me. He nodded towards her and gave me a curious look. “Nearly a day in the infamous dungeons, Hugh, and they let you walk out.”
“They had a choice between the deal or nothing. I was part of the deal, apparently.”
Alexandra shrugged. “I’ll ask the difficult questions, then. What went wrong?”
“They knew I was coming. Someone told them, though I don’t think it was the person who unlocked the door. If they knew, then they would not want the person who told them known which is why they didn’t press me for answers or go straight into a full-blown interrogation. If they did, they must have thought I’d guess who it was.”
“Can you?”
“An educated guess, maybe, but it is a person who they can talk to at will, and here, so it’s someone in the Embassy. Get a list of those who knew about what we were going to do and narrow it down. As for the mission, I just got in the door when they pounced so my reason for being there was quite legitimate. I was surprised, once you postponed the signing, they didn’t come sooner.”
“The Minister confessed he was shocked that you had disappeared from the Davies residence. No one had seen you leave, and they traced your movements up to the passage where Davies study is, but there was no other coverage. You simply stepped into a dead spot and disappeared.”
“Or the surveillance footage was wiped.”
“Anything is possible,” Drysdale said, “It was your opinion that we would not succeed. Care to explain how you came to that conclusion?”
Did I blow my own mission? No. “I have a source here, one close to Davies, who knows quite a bit of what’s going on with him and his involvement with the government, and with the government itself, and sometimes shares information that can be traced back, so there are caveats. Davies has three houses, one here, one in a resort by the Black Sea, and a Dascha not far from Moscow. No one but Davies goes to the Dascha.”
“You could have shared that precious piece of information earlier.”
I could, perhaps, if I had it earlier but it was not forthcoming until I received a coded message under my door the day we arrived. To anyone else, it was suggested tourist destinations. But more importantly, it said that Davies was aware I was a journalist looking for a story, and they would be watching me. The problem was I had to let myself be caught or there would be a witch hunt for my source if I didn’t.”
“I suppose it’s not possible to get a name.”
“This place is worse the East Germany and the Stasi. Some secrets will go with me to the grave. That is one of them.”
“You know where exactly this Dascha is then?”
“That’s for your people to find out. My guess is that what you seek will be there.” I glanced at Alexandra who looked impatient. “Once I get that interview, we’re gone. I don’t like this place.”
“Some of us don’t get a choice.” Drysdale was trying to sound philosophical and failing. “Pity this country is landlocked. I used to like the idea of British gunboat diplomacy. Things have changed and not for the better.”
“It’s a brave new world,” Alexandra said. “A year ago, I would not be allowed in the country if I wanted to do business.”
Drysdale handed me a folder which he had taken out of his satchel “The interview questions, pre-vetted by the Minister. No deviations. I know what you’d like to ask, but those are questions we don’t need answers to. Now right now. Let’s get this done and call it a win.”
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months 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…
This is Chester.
Not everything is fine in la-la-land, as he now calls it.
Not happy that I didn’t tell him about the second week of child invasion.
He should consider himself lucky that the school week started on Tuesday, and only one was staying home to do schoolwork.
The other has been able to return to the classroom.
One less tormentor, I heard him mutter as he slinked past the room where the homeschooler was working.
But a more sinister problem had arisen.
He’s stopped eating his food. I first thought this was part of a two-week standoff, where he cuts his nose off to spite his face.
This is not the first time we’ve been through this.
So, just to see if it is a fit of pique, I get him his absolute favorite food. Fresh Atlantic Salmon cut into small pieces just the way he likes it.
Yes, the aroma reaches him in his hiding spot, along with the call-out that I’d bought him salmon, but when he goes to the bowl, he takes a sniff, or two, then wanders away.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on the back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Chasing leads, maybe
“You haven’t been truthful with me, have you?”
That was Dobbin’s opening shot once we were in the car and out in traffic. It was as if he was worried someone would be listening in on our conversation.
“Says the spider to the fly. Isn’t it the nature of this business not to play all your cards at once?”
“You’ve been in this business all of five minutes. You don’t get the right to play cards.”
“I’m still alive, no thanks to anyone but my own skill.”
I could see the disdain in his expression, and the annoyance in his eyes. Perhaps he was a man used to getting his own way. I was expecting a retort, but he said nothing.
“How many different organizations do you work for, or is it none, and you just have fake IDs to get you in the door?”
“Need to know. Have you found O’Connell yet?”
“He’s dead. I saw him killed in an alley. I’m sure Maury and Severin had him shot, no coincidence they turned up just after he hit the ground. I searched the body, there was nothing on it. Before he was shot, he told me to speak to you. I did. Anything else I’m doing is for my own protection. Assigning Jan to befriend me, then play me would have been a good plan if I hadn’t found out. I know she found O’Connell’s other residence, but I’m willing to bet she found as much as I did nothing. Your people do that to Maury?”
“In a manner of speaking. He wasn’t going to talk, and we couldn’t let him back on the street.”
“And knowing that I would go back to the hotel, what were you hoping for, that I would get arrested for his murder?”
“We were hoping you would glean information from her handler, or the police. Seems both are either tight-lipped, or they know nothing. Her handler is an incompetent fool.”
“Where is she?”
“Waiting for you at her apartment. I want the pair of you to find O’Connell. He either has the information, or he knows where it is. They found the charred remains of a body in the cafe where the explosion was, a freelance reporter, who, according to his editor, had the story of the century. No other details, though.”
“That either means military or industrial secrets. Why would the reporter want to meet with O’Connell?”
“That’s not your concern.”
“Well, you’re wrong if you think O’Connell had the USB. He didn’t get inside the cafe before it blew up, I know, I was there, and witness the whole event. You know the drill, he goes past, checking to see if the target is in place, then makes sure the location is clear, then goes back and facilitates the handover. He only just got past the front when the bomb went off. I’m sure you’ve seen the CCTV footage.”
Yes, his expression told me he had.
“So how do you come to the conclusion he still has it?”
Never cite logical arguments to a man who lives in a fantasy world.
“Law of averages tells me there is a copy, and O’Connell would have made sure there was a backup plan, and location.”
It then struck me, after having talked to O’Connell, and knowing Dobbin knew O’Connell was still alive because he had rescued him from the alley and Severin’s cleaners. It was not just a matter of getting him to admit it, and the fact O’Connell had done a runner on him.
“You seem convinced O’Connell is still alive.”
He glared at me. Truth or dare?
“Because he is. The trouble is, he’s gone to ground and I can’t raise him. He was supposed to wait a few days in a safe place while we hunted down Severin and Maury. We had one, but not the other. I doubt he’ll surface before he gets word that Severin has been neutralized. Every hour that information is still out there, is the chance it will fall into the wrong hands, so we need him and the information found.”
“You think he’s gone rogue.”
“I don’t think anything.
The car stopped outside O’Connell’s apartment block.
“Place nice with Jan, and find him and the information.
I got out of the car and watched it rejoin the traffic.
Before heading to the front entrance, my phone rang. Odd, because only two people knew my number, and it was neither of those two.
Curiosity overcame reluctance to answer. “Yes.”
“I’m texting a meeting point. Be there at six.” The line went dead before I could say anything. Four hours.
No doubting the voice. Severin. And he sounded scared.
I wondered if he knew what had happened to his partner in crime.
This book has finally reached the Final Editor’s draft, so this month it is going to get the last revision, and a reread for the beta readers.
…
So what do you do when you start having doubts about everything to do with your life? It starts with a sleepless night agonising over why you were lied to.
Then, in the cold dark hours of early morning, you turn to the only thing that can possibly give you answers.
The internet.
It’s time to delve into the prior life of the woman you are beginning to think is completely strange to you, and what do you find.
Previous relationships with a man before she was married to the man she said was Jack’s father. And yes, the man in the old photos is very easily recognisable as his father.
What’s more, he is a criminal himself, and is supposedly in jail. There’s more to that story.
Then Jack gets a cryptic message from his mother, who tells him she’s left a package for him at the travel agency, and that she is going away.
That meant we had to make the journey from New York to New Jersey, by train. It involved the underground, or as New Yorkers call it, the subway, from Columbus Circle which by any other name was really, 80th street, to 34th street which apparently was the New Jersey jump-off point for us to get overground, well a lot of it was overground. So, were we going uptown or downtown?
Apparently, it was downtown, and to 34th Street on the A train.
You would not think this to be a difficult task, but for people not used to the subway, and where they were going other than some internet derived instructions, but without the help of a man at the station, just getting tickets may have stopped us dead in our tracks. With his help, we determined the return fare for three of us and then get through the turnstile onto the platform.
We get on the A train, but soon discover it was not stopping at all stations. There was for a few minutes, a little apprehension we might just simply bypass our station. Luckily we did not.
Now, finding your way to the New Jersey transit part of Penn station might appear to be easy, on paper, but once there, on the ground, and mingling with the other passengers which all seemed to be purpose going somewhere, it took a few moments to realize we had to follow the New Jersey transit signs.
This led to a booking hall where luckily we realized we needed to buy more tickets, then find the appropriate platform, and then get on the right train, all of which, in the end, was not difficult at all.
Maybe on the return trip, it might be.
At Newark Penn station it was momentarily confusing because the exit was not readily in sight, so it was a case of following the majority of other passengers who’d got off the train.
This led us to exit onto the street under the train tracks. Luckily, having been before to Prudential Stadium to buy the tickets, we knew what the stadium looked like and roughly where it was, so it was a simple task to walk towards it.
We were early, so it was a case of finding a restaurant to get dinner before the game. So was a great many others, and we passed about 6 different restaurants that looked full to overflowing before we stopped at one called Novelty Burger and Bar.
It looked inviting, and it was not crowded.
It was yet another excuse to have a hamburger and beer, both of which seemed to be a specialty in American. I could not fault either.
And soon after we arrived, this restaurant too was full to overflowing. Thankfully there were other Maple Leaf fans there because being in a room full of opposition teams supports can be quite harrowing.
That was yet to come when we finally got to the stadium. I was not expecting a lot of Maple Leaf fans.
We went to this game with high hopes. New Jersey Devils were not exactly at the top of the leader board, and coming off the loss in Toronto, this was make or break for whether we would ever go to another game.
It’s remarkable in that all the Ice Hockey stadiums are the same. Everyone has an excellent view of the game, the sound systems are loud, and the fans passionate. Here it seems to be a thing to ride on the Zambonis.
At the front door they were handing out figurines of a Devil’s past player, and it seems a thing that you get a handout of some sort at each game. At Toronto we got towels. And, finally, we were in luck
The Maple Leafs won.
And it was an odd feeling to know that even though their team lost, there did not seem to be any rancor amount the fans and that any expectation of being assaulted by losing fans was totally unfounded, unlike some sporting events I’ve been to.
Perhaps soccer should take a leaf out of the ice hockey playbook.
That also went for taking public transport late at night. I did not have any fears about doing so, which is more than I can say about traveling at night on our own transport system back home.
Oh, and by the way, there are train conductors who still come to every passenger to collect or stamp their tickets. No trusting the passenger has paid for his trip here. And, if you don’t have a ticket, I have it on good authority they throw you off the train and into the swamp. Good thing then, we had tickets.
A visit first to Agatha’s parents was not the nightmare he was expecting, considering the last one, being treated like something the cat dragged in, handed a large envelope with money in it, and the signature on a piece of paper saying he would never return, or come back into her life.
He was not proud of his actions that day, and it haunted him for a long time after, but it was for the so-called best. Their mixed marriage was never going to work, no matter how much she wanted to piss her father off, and he knew it.
It didn’t take long to realise the parents didn’t want anything to do with the children, that their opinion of their grandchildren was less than stellar, and that he would have to do something about them.
Agatha’s own description was hardly a recommendation, but she had dropped the ball once that parenting thing had got too hard, and chose the easiest option, sending them away to an institution that was supposed to turn them into individuals others could use as an example.
Of course, that went horribly wrong, as any normal person would expect. Children needed both hands-on parenting and discipline. Instead, they were left to find their own way, and it was the wrong way, the result of too much money and too little commonsense.
From observing Agatha, Michael knew the children were never going to get the parenting they needed from their grandparents, who conveniently advised they could not be tapped to take over their care, so his mission just got a lot longer and far more difficult.
It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you.
John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.
So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?
That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.
What should have been solace after disappointment, turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.
He suddenly realizes his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.
The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where, in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.
All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.
On an early morning walk, I discovered the Brooklyn Diner, a small restaurant tucked away in a street not far from Columbus Circle, perhaps a piece of history from the American past.
After all, if you’re going to take in the sights, sounds, and food of a country what better way to do it than visiting what was once a tradition.
This one was called the Brooklyn Diner. It had a combination of booths and counter sit down, though the latter was not a very big space, so we opted for a booth.
The object of going to a Diner is the fact they serve traditional American food, which when you get past the hot dogs and hamburgers and fries, takes the form of turkey and chicken pot pies among a variety of other choices.
Still looking for a perfectly cooked turkey, something I’ve never been able to do myself, I opted for the Teadition Turkey Lunch, which the menu invitingly said was cooked especially at the diner and was succulent. I couldn’t wait.
We also ordered a hamburger, yes, yet another, and a chicken pot pie, on the basis the last one I had in Toronto was absolutely delicious (and cooked the same way since the mid-1930s)
While waiting we got to look at a slice of history belonging to another great American tradition, Baseball, a painting on the wall of the Brooklyn Dodgers at Ebbets field, long since gone from their home.
The Turnkey lunch looked like this
which didn’t seem to be much, and had this odd pasta slice on the plate, but the turkey was amazing and lived up to the menu description.
The Chicken Pot Pie looked like this
And looked a lot larger in reality than the photo shows.
But, sadly while it was not bad, it was a little dry, and could possibly do with using the more succulent thigh part of the chicken.
All of this was washed down by Long Island Ice Teas and Brooklyn Lager.
AS for the Diner experience, it’s definitely a 10 out of 10 for me.
