There is always something strange about certain photographs that is not evident when you take them.
For instance, the photograph above.
While this might look like vegetation by the side of a river or stream, it’s the blackness behind what look like steps up from the water level that adds a level of intrigue or mystery.
For instance:
…
We had spent two weeks slowly going upriver looking for a needle in a haystack. It was an apt description, because there had been quite a large number of likely spots, all of which, after investigation, came to nothing.
I mean, the description Professor Bates had given was as hazy as day is long in these parts.
His recollection: that it was a cave-like space behind lush undergrowth, with stone steps.
It was all the more confusing. Because when we found him, he was drifting on a rough-hewn and constructed raft, half dead from dehydration. We were told he’d been on the raft for nearly a week.
That meant the cave could be anywhere between where we found him at the 10 mile mark and 200 miles further on, based on river flow.
We were currently at the 150-mile mark, and the river was losing depth and width; soon, there would not be enough water to continue in the boat.
It was dusk and too dark to continue. We’d been enthusiastic in those first days, continuing on in the dark, on shifts, using the arc lamps.
Then, after a week, having lights on made us target practise, and after several brushes with death, and the loss of all the bulbs being shot out, we got the message.
There was the odd marauder during the day, but we had the width of the river for safety. Now that had gone too, and we had lookouts posted, but seeing into the dense jungle was difficult.
But we got through another night with no activity, and come morning, what looked like the entrance to a cave was not fifteen feet from us.
The Review Ripple Effect: How to Capture Those Elusive Reads That Drive Sales
Let’s be honest. As authors, we pour our hearts and souls into crafting our stories. We agonize over plot twists, perfect our prose, and dream of our books finding their way into the hands of eager readers. But once that book is out in the world, there’s a crucial element that can make or break its success: book reviews.
We all know the power they hold. A string of glowing reviews acts like a beacon, drawing in new readers and reassuring them that your book is worth their precious time and money. It’s the “social proof” that whispers, “This is good! Other people liked it, so you probably will too!” And this, my friends, is where the magic of the review ripple effect begins: more sales lead to more reviews, which in turn lead to even more sales. It’s a virtuous cycle, and one that every author should be focused on cultivating.
But here’s the rub: getting those reviews can feel like trying to catch lightning in a bottle. Readers are busy. They might love your book, but the thought of actually sitting down and writing a review can slip their minds. So, how do we bridge that gap? How do we encourage our readers to become our most valuable marketing asset?
The good news is, it’s not rocket science. There are fundamental, actionable steps you can take to significantly increase your chances of receiving those coveted reviews. It’s about building a system, being proactive, and making it as easy as possible for your readers to share their thoughts.
Here are the fundamental steps to getting those essential book reviews:
1. Make Your Book a Review-Worthy Experience from Page One
This might seem obvious, but it’s the absolute bedrock. You can’t expect reviews if the book itself isn’t a positive experience. This means:
Exceptional Storytelling: A compelling plot, well-developed characters, and a satisfying resolution are non-negotiable.
Professional Editing: Typos, grammatical errors, and awkward phrasing are review killers. Invest in professional editing – it shows you respect your readers and your craft.
Polished Formatting: Whether it’s an e-book or a print book, clean and easy-to-read formatting is essential for a smooth reading experience.
2. Explicitly Ask for Reviews (At the Right Time and Place)
Don’t be shy! Readers often need a gentle nudge.
The “Thank You” Page: This is the most common and effective place. At the end of your book, after the story is concluded, include a dedicated page thanking your readers and politely asking them to consider leaving a review on their preferred platform (e.g., Amazon, Goodreads, etc.).
Author Website/Blog: Have a dedicated page or section on your website that links to your book’s reviews pages on various retailers and Goodreads. You can also include a call to action in blog posts or newsletters.
Email Newsletter: This is gold! When you send out newsletters, don’t just talk about your new releases. Remind your subscribers about your existing books and include a direct link to where they can leave a review.
Pro-Tip: Frame your request positively. Instead of “If you didn’t hate my book, please leave a review,” try something like, “If you enjoyed [Book Title], I would be so grateful if you could take a moment to leave a review. Your feedback helps other readers discover the story.”
3. Leverage Your Existing Audience
Your biggest fans are often your most willing reviewers.
Beta Readers and ARC Teams: Before your book is officially launched, send Advanced Reader Copies (ARCs) to a select group of loyal readers, fellow authors, or book bloggers. Clearly communicate your needs – that you’re hoping for honest reviews upon release.
Street Teams: For more dedicated fans, consider forming a “street team” who are enthusiastic about promoting your book. This can involve sharing on social media, leaving early reviews, and spreading the word.
4. Make It Easy: Provide Direct Links
This is a crucial step many authors overlook. Don’t just tell people to “leave a review on Amazon.” Provide direct, clickable links to the review sections of the platforms where you want reviews.
On your “Thank You” page: Include links for Amazon, Goodreads, etc.
In your newsletter: Ensure your review links are prominent and easy to click.
On your website: Have a dedicated “Review Us” page with all the relevant links.
The less friction there is, the more likely people are to follow through.
5. Engage With Reviewers (Thoughtfully)
When readers take the time to leave a review, acknowledge their effort.
Thank you on social media: If a reader posts about leaving a review or shares a particularly insightful review, thank them publicly (if appropriate).
Respond to comments (where possible): On platforms like Goodreads, you might be able to “like” or respond to certain comments.
Important Note: Be cautious about directly engaging with negative reviews. It’s often best to let them stand unless they contain factual inaccuracies or are outright abusive. Focus your energy on celebrating the positive feedback.
The Ongoing Cycle
Building a robust review profile is not a one-time task. It’s an ongoing effort that complements your writing and marketing. As you release new books, you’ll repeat these steps. For your existing books, periodically remind your audience about them and the value of reviews.
By implementing these fundamental steps, you’re not just asking for reviews; you’re building a system that fosters reader engagement and ultimately drives the review ripple effect. And that, dear authors, is the key to unlocking greater readership and, yes, more sales.
What are your biggest challenges when it comes to getting book reviews? Share in the comments below!
Day 271 – Making the reader feel like they’re part of the story
…
Creating the Illusion of Reality: What James Clavell Can Teach Us About Immersive Fiction
“The goal of writing any novel is creating the illusion you are reading reality and you are part of it.” — James Clavell
When you open James Clavell’s monumental Asian Saga—whether you’re dodging assassins in feudal Japan with Shōgun or navigating the cutthroat corporate boardrooms of 1960s Hong Kong in Noble House—you aren’t just reading a book. You are living somewhere else. You smell the rotting vegetation of the jungle, you taste the bitter green tea, and you feel the suffocating tension of cultural collision.
Clavell, a master storyteller who survived a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp, understood something fundamental about the human psyche: our brains are hardwired for stories, but they only surrender to them when the illusion of reality is absolute.
How do you achieve this literary magic trick? How do you pull a reader out of their cozy armchair and drop them squarely into a fictional world, making them believe, if only for a few hundred pages, that it is real?
Let’s unpack Clavell’s profound philosophy and explore how writers can use it to craft unforgettable, immersive fiction.
1. Sensory Grounding: Making the Unreal Tangible
The quickest way to shatter the illusion of reality is through a sterile landscape. If your characters are walking through a room that has no specific smell, texture, or temperature, the reader’s brain wakes up and remembers: I am looking at ink on paper.
Clavell was a master of sensory immersion. He didn’t just tell you a character was angry; he described the “bile rising in the throat” or the “sweat freezing on the back of the neck.”
Sight and Colour: Go beyond the basic colour wheel. Describe the bruised purple of a twilight sky or the dull, oily sheen of a newly cleaned katana.
Sound and Silence: What does the silence sound like? Is it heavy, oppressive, or ringing with the distant hum of cicadas?
Smell: Olfactory memory is the strongest trigger in the human brain. Use it. The scent of woodsmoke, cheap gin, damp wool, or fear-sweat will anchor a reader instantly.
The Takeaway: To make a reader feel like they are part of the scene, bombard their senses. Make your fictional world physically real to them.
2. Radical Authenticity in Detail (Even in Made-Up Worlds)
Whether writing historical fiction, fantasy, or sci-fi, the secret to believability is specificity. Clavell spent years researching Japanese culture, maritime navigation, and political machinations before writing Shōgun. Because he understood the precise terminology of sailing a 17th-century ship and the rigid, life-or-death etiquette of the samurai, the world felt unshakeable.
Readers can smell a bluff from a mile away. If you are writing about a futuristic dystopia, you don’t need a 50-page info-dump on how the ray guns work, but you do need to know how the characters maintain them, what they cost on the black market, and how the metal feels when it gets hot.
Research deeply: Know ten times more about your setting than you actually put on the page. That iceberg of knowledge gives your writing weight.
Use jargon naturally: Let characters use the language of their profession or world without stopping to explain every little term to the reader. This treats the reader like an insider, pulling them deeper into the illusion.
3. Psychological Realism: Flawed Humans, Not Plot Puppets
You can have the most meticulously researched setting in the world, but if the people moving through it feel like cardboard cutouts, the illusion shatters.
Clavell’s characters—like John Blackthorne or Dirk Struan—are gloriously flawed. They are driven by base survival instincts, petty jealousies, profound loyalties, and blinding prejudices. They make terrible mistakes, misread situations, and suffer the consequences.
To make the reader feel like they are part of the story, the internal life of your characters must mirror the messy reality of human consciousness:
Conflicting desires: People rarely want just one thing. They want to do the right thing, but they also want to survive; they love someone, but they also resent them.
Subjective perception: No character sees the world objectively. A nervous character will interpret a falling leaf as an ambush; a confident one will see it as a sign of renewal. Filter the world through the psychological state of your POV character.
4. Stakes That Matter (Life, Death, and Identity)
In reality, choices have consequences. If a novel is going to feel real, the reader must feel that the characters have skin in the game.
In Clavell’s novels, the stakes are almost always existential. It’s not just about winning an argument; it’s about honour, survival, empire-building, or avoiding a brutal execution. When the stakes are high, the reader leans in. Their heart rate increases. They forget to check their phones.
Even in contemporary or quiet literary fiction where the stakes aren’t life-or-death physical combat, the emotional stakes must feel catastrophic to the protagonist. If heartbreak feels like the end of the world to the character, the writer must make it feel like the end of the world to the reader.
The Ultimate Goal: Empathy Through Immersion
Why do we chase this illusion? Why do writers spend years bleeding over manuscripts, and why do readers devour them?
Because, as James Clavell suggests, great fiction offers a radical form of expansion. It allows us to live a thousand lives instead of just one. When a novel successfully creates the illusion of reality, the reader stops being a passive observer and becomes an active participant. They sit in the samurai’s council room; they stand on the deck of the rolling galleon; they feel the crushing weight of the decision.
As writers, our job isn’t merely to tell a story. It is to build a doorway, step through it ourselves, and leave it wide open for the reader to follow.
What about you? What is the last novel that successfully tricked your brain into believing it was real? Let us know in the comments below!
With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction. He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from the eye socket to the mouth, and he was wearing a black shirt with a red tie.
That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.
He apologised as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.
I kept my eyes down. He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognise later in a lineup. I stepped to the other side, and so did he. It was one of those situations. Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I went towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.
Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic. I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone. I shrugged and looked at my watch. It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.
Wait, or walk? I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station. What the hell, I needed the exercise.
At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’. I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light. As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tyres.
A yellow car stopped inches from me.
It was a high-powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini. I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.
Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car. It was that sort of car. I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him. I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on. The moment had passed, and everyone went back to their business.
My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter. Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.
At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure. I was no longer in a hurry.
Next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring. I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road. I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.
At the next intersection, I realised I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar. It was somewhere on 6th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.
I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did. There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me. It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.
Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me. As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger was a large man with a red tie.
Now my imagination was playing tricks.
It could not be the same man. He was going in a different direction.
In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long, cold winter. I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.
I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in. I would have a few drinks and then leave through the back door if there were one.
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And the story:
…
It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.
The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.
He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.
The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent. We were following the car he was in, from a discreet distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.
There was nowhere for him to go.
The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road we were now on. Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.
Where was he going?
“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter. He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.
“What?”
“I think he’s made us.”
“How?”
“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing. Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain. He’s just sped up.”
“How far away?”
“A half-mile. We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”
It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”
“Step on it. Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”
Easy to say, not so easy to do. The road was treacherous, and in places, just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three-thousand-foot fall down the mountainside.
Good thing then, I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.
Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster. We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.
Or so we thought.
Coming quickly around another corner, we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.
“What the hell…” Aland muttered.
I was out of the car and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility. The car was empty, and no indication of where he had gone.
Certainly not up the road. It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit. Up the mountainside from here, or down.
I looked up. Nothing.
Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”
Then where did he go?
Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.
“Sorry,” he said quite calmly. “Had to go if you know what I mean.”
I’d lost him.
It was as simple as that.
I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.
I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.
It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.
Day 271 – Making the reader feel like they’re part of the story
…
Creating the Illusion of Reality: What James Clavell Can Teach Us About Immersive Fiction
“The goal of writing any novel is creating the illusion you are reading reality and you are part of it.” — James Clavell
When you open James Clavell’s monumental Asian Saga—whether you’re dodging assassins in feudal Japan with Shōgun or navigating the cutthroat corporate boardrooms of 1960s Hong Kong in Noble House—you aren’t just reading a book. You are living somewhere else. You smell the rotting vegetation of the jungle, you taste the bitter green tea, and you feel the suffocating tension of cultural collision.
Clavell, a master storyteller who survived a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp, understood something fundamental about the human psyche: our brains are hardwired for stories, but they only surrender to them when the illusion of reality is absolute.
How do you achieve this literary magic trick? How do you pull a reader out of their cozy armchair and drop them squarely into a fictional world, making them believe, if only for a few hundred pages, that it is real?
Let’s unpack Clavell’s profound philosophy and explore how writers can use it to craft unforgettable, immersive fiction.
1. Sensory Grounding: Making the Unreal Tangible
The quickest way to shatter the illusion of reality is through a sterile landscape. If your characters are walking through a room that has no specific smell, texture, or temperature, the reader’s brain wakes up and remembers: I am looking at ink on paper.
Clavell was a master of sensory immersion. He didn’t just tell you a character was angry; he described the “bile rising in the throat” or the “sweat freezing on the back of the neck.”
Sight and Colour: Go beyond the basic colour wheel. Describe the bruised purple of a twilight sky or the dull, oily sheen of a newly cleaned katana.
Sound and Silence: What does the silence sound like? Is it heavy, oppressive, or ringing with the distant hum of cicadas?
Smell: Olfactory memory is the strongest trigger in the human brain. Use it. The scent of woodsmoke, cheap gin, damp wool, or fear-sweat will anchor a reader instantly.
The Takeaway: To make a reader feel like they are part of the scene, bombard their senses. Make your fictional world physically real to them.
2. Radical Authenticity in Detail (Even in Made-Up Worlds)
Whether writing historical fiction, fantasy, or sci-fi, the secret to believability is specificity. Clavell spent years researching Japanese culture, maritime navigation, and political machinations before writing Shōgun. Because he understood the precise terminology of sailing a 17th-century ship and the rigid, life-or-death etiquette of the samurai, the world felt unshakeable.
Readers can smell a bluff from a mile away. If you are writing about a futuristic dystopia, you don’t need a 50-page info-dump on how the ray guns work, but you do need to know how the characters maintain them, what they cost on the black market, and how the metal feels when it gets hot.
Research deeply: Know ten times more about your setting than you actually put on the page. That iceberg of knowledge gives your writing weight.
Use jargon naturally: Let characters use the language of their profession or world without stopping to explain every little term to the reader. This treats the reader like an insider, pulling them deeper into the illusion.
3. Psychological Realism: Flawed Humans, Not Plot Puppets
You can have the most meticulously researched setting in the world, but if the people moving through it feel like cardboard cutouts, the illusion shatters.
Clavell’s characters—like John Blackthorne or Dirk Struan—are gloriously flawed. They are driven by base survival instincts, petty jealousies, profound loyalties, and blinding prejudices. They make terrible mistakes, misread situations, and suffer the consequences.
To make the reader feel like they are part of the story, the internal life of your characters must mirror the messy reality of human consciousness:
Conflicting desires: People rarely want just one thing. They want to do the right thing, but they also want to survive; they love someone, but they also resent them.
Subjective perception: No character sees the world objectively. A nervous character will interpret a falling leaf as an ambush; a confident one will see it as a sign of renewal. Filter the world through the psychological state of your POV character.
4. Stakes That Matter (Life, Death, and Identity)
In reality, choices have consequences. If a novel is going to feel real, the reader must feel that the characters have skin in the game.
In Clavell’s novels, the stakes are almost always existential. It’s not just about winning an argument; it’s about honour, survival, empire-building, or avoiding a brutal execution. When the stakes are high, the reader leans in. Their heart rate increases. They forget to check their phones.
Even in contemporary or quiet literary fiction where the stakes aren’t life-or-death physical combat, the emotional stakes must feel catastrophic to the protagonist. If heartbreak feels like the end of the world to the character, the writer must make it feel like the end of the world to the reader.
The Ultimate Goal: Empathy Through Immersion
Why do we chase this illusion? Why do writers spend years bleeding over manuscripts, and why do readers devour them?
Because, as James Clavell suggests, great fiction offers a radical form of expansion. It allows us to live a thousand lives instead of just one. When a novel successfully creates the illusion of reality, the reader stops being a passive observer and becomes an active participant. They sit in the samurai’s council room; they stand on the deck of the rolling galleon; they feel the crushing weight of the decision.
As writers, our job isn’t merely to tell a story. It is to build a doorway, step through it ourselves, and leave it wide open for the reader to follow.
What about you? What is the last novel that successfully tricked your brain into believing it was real? Let us know in the comments below!
Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right
Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.
It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.
…
John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence after being so indifferent for so long.
They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable and calls on an old friend for help in finding her.
After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.
But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.
What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.
This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.
The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Things are about to get complicated…
“You’re not a target. Yet.”
“Severin?”
“A loose end who was a rather bad blunt instrument, like his friend Maury. They learned of a plan to steal some military secrets, tried to stop it and in the end almost destroyed 12 months of painstaking undercover work. O’Connell had it within his grasp, and therefore in safe hands when those two wrecked a perfectly good retrieval. Four potential agents dead and then there’s you, persistent I will admit, and one other, Jennifer, I believe her name is.”
“But you don’t have O’Connell, do you?”
“My, you have been working hard. My first mistake was to trust O’Connell. My second was to underestimate you, Jackson. I don’t intend to make a third. You don’t trust me, do you?”
Was it possible I’d get some version of the truth?
“Apparently he didn’t for some reason.”
“You found him. Jan said you were being all secretive. There was something you found in that flat in Peaslake.”
“No. He told me that in the alley.”
I sensed he knew way more than I did, but I had a missing piece, and he was going to play nice to get it. The thing is, I didn’t know what that was. Not the whole truth from me.
“Yes. Of course, he did.”
“Perhaps it was self-preservation, not that it did much since someone did shoot him.”
“Not with the intention of killing him. It was all arranged.”
“You knew he would be at that alley?”
“One of three escape routes. Neither of us anticipated you would be good enough to follow him. Severin got lucky with you, probably why he made you the lead.”
Severin hadn’t said as much when he told the group before the exercise began, that I would take point. I thought it was simply because in the prior five tests, I’d only failed one. Everyone else had varying results.
“Have you seen the CCTV footage of the explosion?”
“Several times. It must have been harrowing for you to relive that and see how close you came.”
“It did. But it did afford a view that I missed while preoccupied. McConnell and the wife of the scientist I believe stole the formulas.”
“Yes, Anna. What do you make of her?”
“From a single glimpse?”
“A good agent doesn’t need much to form an opinion. As you know, that opinion could be the difference between life and death.”
He was starting to sound like Severin. He said we had to be able to judge a book by its cover and make the right decision based on it. What did I think of Anna?
“Capable, determined. She survived an explosion that might well have been directed at her. Not your average scientist’s wife. “
“Did you check her out?”
“Not yet. I had this thing with Severin.”
“What did he want?”
“I don’t know. Jan killed him before he could tell me.”
“A guess?”
“He wanted to come in from the cold before he ended up like Maury. He knew his days were numbered. It also means that he knew something that someone didn’t want to be repeated. You, perhaps? I mean, you can help make the connection. Your idea for Jan to get his confidence?”
“Hers. She’s a good agent, so don’t worry about her. Find O’Connell. When you do, you will find Anna, and perhaps, a copy of that USB.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then the department has lost five million pounds.”
This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.
The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Things are about to get complicated…
With Jan safely in custody, probably for about 15 minutes when Dobbin discovered she was in police hands, Jennifer and I were free to chase up O’Connell and maybe we would also find Anna.
It was a long shot at best.
But we had to find out more about Anna Jacovich. For that, we would have to go back to the office and talk to Joanne. I told Jennifer what I intended to do and dropped her at the safe house for some much-needed rest before we went after O’Connell.
Then, back in the car, I called the number I had for Joanne.
“Sam.”
“Memorised my number?”
“I like to know who’s calling before I answer.”
“Then this isn’t a restricted line?”
“Restricted enough.”
“I found your little toy?”
Did I hear a sigh?
“You know the world we live in Sam, trust no one not even your mother. Hard for me to trust or not trust her, she passed away when I was seven. Monica said you were good. What can I do for you?”
“A full workup on Anna Jacovich. I’m coming into the office now, and will be there in about half an hour.”
“No pressure then?”
“Not at all.”
“Try not to irritate security this time.”
I’m sure I saw a grim expression on the face of the soldier that had been there the last time I tried to run the gauntlet, and then disappointment when my card worked. I signed in and put the name of the department I was visiting down as Research.
When he asked for a name, I gave him Joanne’s. No doubt he would call her long before I got to her.
She met me at the second level of defence and then took me to a room where two folders sat at opposite ends of a table, two desk lamps shining light down on them. The rest of the room was in darkness.
When she shut the door, I said, “Please tell me there in;t a firing squad in black camouflage just waiting to shoot me.”
She smiled. “If it was more sensitive information, I’d let you read it, then have you shot. Not today.
That was a relief. Oddly, I believed that she would if the circumstances warranted it. Joanne was scary, nor scary than Jan. It’s the quiet ones you had to worry about.”
We sat.
“Read. Then I’ll answer questions.”
For the ten minutes, it took me to discover that Anna was a biochemist herself, and had worked in a not-so-secret government laboratory that had been unmasked with disastrous results, adding another dimension to the problem. I was beginning to think she might be the one who created the monster and had set her husband up to take the blame.
If that was the case, she was never going to pass it on to O’Connell or sell it to him, other than to take the money and run. If that was the case, Severin knew it was her all along, and how dangerous she was.
But and there was a big but in all of this. She needed an accomplice to get to England, which was O’Connell. Now he was no longer needed…
Yes, she would also need both Severin and Maury off her tail, and that had been taken care of.
Jan? Unless I completely misread her, it was not possible she could be the accomplice; she was doing what Dobbin requested. Or had she? Dobbin did say she was able to make executive decisions on the fly.
“The threat isn’t O’Connell. He’s just a pawn.”
“Not just a pretty face then?”
“I never regard my face as pretty.”
She shook her head. “It’s Anna. She played Severin and Maury, she played Dobbin, and she played Dobbin’s little toy soldier, O’Connell. Or Quigley I believe his real name is. I hesitate to say O’Connell played you.”
“Call a dog a dog, Joanne. If I had more experience and more information I might have seen that. You can’t keep people in the dark, and then expect miracles.”
“I’m the messenger, Sam.”
“I’ve been known to shoot messengers, just because I can.”
“Save your bullets for the bad guys.”
“How do I know you and Monica are not the bad guys?”
Another shake of the head. “OK. You’ve passed the scepticism test, Sam. Now put it away. We have to work together on this. It’s a condition for continuing to work on the case.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I don’t need to answer that. But, I get it. You’re a self-starter and will keep at it, with or without us. I can see why people like you. To me, your just another dangerous amateur.”
There were words I could say, but judging by the reek of self-aggrandisement, it would not penetrate the thick hide.
I smiled. “Not noted for your charm then.”
“No. Where is Jan?”
“Who?”
“Don’t play games, Sam. They don’t become you. You went to see Severin, but he ended up dead, and she shot him. Why?”
“You read this file?” I picked it up and dropped it on the table.
She was the sort that read the first page, the preamble, and the last page, the result or desired result.
“I did.”
“Then you know why, as for Jan, if you know I was there when Severin was shot, you’d know where Jan is.”
“She disappeared into the trees. And no doubt in the wind. You should know she’s a trained MI5 assassin on loan to Dobbin.”
Who was now in jail somewhere pending the Detective Inspectors leisure, unless she filed a report. If she did, she would be out now, and looking for O’Connell and Anna.
“Then how should I know?”
She shrugged. “I thought I’d ask. I’m not sure I like having to peel away the layers of this story one by one.”
“Be more forthcoming.” I stood. I had what I needed. “If that’s all, I’ll go on with the job.”
“O’Connell?”
“He’s probably dead by now, but I have to find him, one way or another.”
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 that 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 neighbour 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 in 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 moved 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 into 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 were 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, and where there would be no escape.
Coming in the front door. If I were 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 the 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 neighbours, 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 were 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 realised 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 were 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.”
