Writing about writing a book – a novel twist

I have decided to write about the process for me to write a book, working on the book at the same time. The character writing the book is fictional and bears no relation to me, well, mostly not.

You will join me on the rollercoaster.

It will be appearing a bit at a time over the coming months, with the first instalment below.

Day One

I woke to a day where the sun was shining through the crack in the curtains. It was not so much the brightness, but the fact it was moving, the gentle breeze moving the curtains and creating a strobing effect.

It was the first day of the rest of my life.

I was about to start the next Pulitzer Prize for literature. Or something like that.

For so many years now my life had been weighed down by the monotony of a job I hated, a life that was going nowhere, and the pursuit of that no existent fortune that I believed was the answer to all my problems.

Those prayers to the great God Money were never heeded.

So, contrary to the well-meaning advice everyone gave me, I ignored them all, sold off the albatross around my neck, a house with a gigantic mortgage attached, and moved into a small but comfortable garret in a picturesque part of town.

It was called a ‘renovators’ delight. What did it matter the wallpaper was peeling the paint fading and the carpet had seen better days.

It was mine.

Whether or not in the coming days, weeks, or months, I was a ‘renovator’ would be interesting.

My wife, Anne, had often said I wouldn’t know which end of the hammer to use.

Oh, and did I tell you, I moved on from her, or probably it was the other way around. I’d let her down one too many times, she said, and found someone else more ‘reliable’.

Good for her, my brother had always said she deserved someone better, and it surprised me the marriage lasted as long as it did. I still loved her, I always would.

I sprung out of bed and opened the curtains. Spread out in front of me was a blue sky, bright sunshine casting its glow over the park and gardens opposite.

On my darkest days, I used to sit on a bench and watch the ducks swimming in the pond. I wanted a carefree life like they had, and that was my dream.

Now I was living the dream.

Or would be till the money ran out.

I had enough for a year.

The second bedroom was the writing room. The walls were lined with shelves, books by my favourite authors, books on writing, all dog-eared and well-read.

The typewriter was sitting on the desk waiting for the first words to be written.

I had a computer, but I was not going to use it for the second draft.

I had a supply of writing pads. Like the great authors, I was going to write the first draft by hand, revise, and then type it.

I was going to be old school.

I sat down, picked up a pen, and scratched my head.

I began writing, ‘It was a dark and stormy night’.

That was as far as I got.

Maybe this was going to be harder than I thought.

Perhaps after coffee and toast …

…

The Cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 67

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…

Was it all simply a dream?

…

If I thought the death of O’Connell and the detention of Dobbin and Jennifer was the end of it, I was wrong. Both Monica and Joanne Arrived with several agents and took us back to the sandstone building, separated us, and then subjected us to endless questions.

I sat in the room with a guard outside in case I decided to leave, which I considered after an hour, but just as I was standing up, Monica walked in. If I was to guess at the tactics, she had interviewed Yolanda, and possibly Jan as well before she came to me.

It was a technique we were taught, to know the answers before you ask the questions. But, you had to assume the other people knew what the answers were, and I knew they were not in possession of all the facts.

I was not sure I was in possession of all the facts.

Monica had a file with her, quite large, put it on the desk unopened and then sat down opposite me. I pretended not to watch. I pretended not to care. More lessons from agents who were now dead. I’m not sure what sort of a recommendation that was as to how good they were.

“You seem to have a particular knack for picking up people to help you, Sam. Annoying, and loyal. I need more people like you, Sam. You’ll be pleased to know they had not one bad word to say about you.”

“Hardly a recommendation if you’re going to throw me into a bottomless pit.”

“Interesting idea. I suspect though you would know how to get out of it, or if you didn’t, had some experts hiding somewhere who would come and get you out.”

“Good to know. So, why am I here?”

“Anna.”

“Anna is dead, she was killed in the café explosion.”

“I’d agree with you, only the body we pulled out of the café was male, what is believed to be a homeless man who was sheltering in there. The café hadn’t been used for a year, and there were no locks on the back entrances.”

“No Anna?”

“No.”

“Yolanda said she saw Anna in the café.”

“Yolanda is no longer sure what she saw. She admits to impersonating her, contacting O’Connell, and selling him the bogus USBs. We recovered the money, less a hundred thousand pounds. She claims she didn’t take any money for herself. There were another 8 USBs all with the same files on them. We recovered the two from Dobbin. The same. He was not very pleased.”

“Was he responsible for killing Severin and Maury, and O’Connell?”

“He says no.”

“Jan?”

“She wishes she stayed at MI6 and never got dragged into Dobbin’s fantasy.”

“The notion there are the formulas to create super viruses on the loose?”

“We only had Severin and Maury’s word that was the case. The laboratory where the scientist worked and supposedly created the viruses, refute that any such data had escaped their premises, and better still, had destroyed it when they realised what was happening. I would not put it past them to have arranged for the death of the inventor. If the truth is known, Severin was trying to worm his way back into the fold with a whole end of days scenarios which he manages to save the day. In other words, it’s quite possible the whole exercise was a hoax.”

“With endless dead people.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. Dead people add credence to a scenario, it helps to sell the notion what they’re saying is true.”

So, the whole affair was simply a situation created by Severin for his own benefit. “Dobbin thinks he was had, like us?”

“Exactly. The trouble is we must take all threats seriously until proven otherwise. So, the upshot of all this is, if you, Jennifer, or Yolanda want a job with the department, let Joanne know and we’ll put you into the program. There’s one coming up next month.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

”O’Connell? Where did he fit into all this? I mean we were following him, he killed three of our surveillance team, and he was obviously spooked about something. And someone was trying to kill him. Dobbin?”

“Dobbin believes he set the whole thing up himself.”

“He had turned the seed of a hox into five million pounds. Why didn’t he abscond with it?”

“He thought he was, with Yolanda. We believe he let her take the money with the intention of killing her and taking it back when he got to London. It’s convoluted but in a way, it makes sense. Yolanda is very lucky to be alive. So are you and Jennifer.”

I shrugged. “Do all your operations end up like this?”

“Mostly. If you decided to join the fold you’ll discover what we do is little more than smoke and mirrors. Sometimes we have a win. Sometimes.” She stood. “I hope you decided to join us.”

With that she left the room, leaving the door open. No threats about spilling secrets, no signing of papers, nothing. Perhaps she believed I wouldn’t tell anyone, but probably more to the point, who would believe me.

Maybe when I woke up tomorrow morning, I will realize it was all just a dream.

…

Writing a book in 365 days – 263/264

Days 263 and 264

Writing exercise

…

I made a mistake.

And for that mistake, I was probably going to pay for it for the rest of my life.

The mere fact that I was set up by someone I trusted implicitly made not one jot.

There were no such things as friends, simply marks who were there to be exploited by people who didn’t care whose lives they ruined.

And it was our fault, I finally realised. I had sought to blame everyone else, but in the end, I had the power to not go along with the plan.

But, human nature being what it was, and having someone flatter you and feed that ego, and that element of bravado that dwelt in us all, I fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

I was sitting opposite that person right now. The call was not a request. If I didn’t show, I would suffer the consequences. If I did not comply, I would suffer the consequences.

And those consequences? People who didn’t deserve to die would. People I cared about. And what was worse, some other schmuck would take my place.

My tormentor had gleefully told me the world was full of schmucks just like me, lining up to be used. Everyone had secrets, secrets they didn’t want exposed.

The thing was, he wanted me to become one of those scmucks and blackmail my best friend, probably one of only three.

Because he had an idea, and they wanted that idea, and they didn’t want to pay for it. That was how the rich got richer and the poor, the ones who had all the good ideas, stayed poor.

Now, having got through college and about to take a step onto the world stage, Jeremy, my friend, was going to take his idea and change the world.

It was an idea that my tormentor had told me was utterly brilliant and worth a gold mine.

Just not for Jeremy. People like him didn’t understand that giving away life-changing technology was not the right thing, that people had to pay, and keep paying.

Like the man he worked for, who already had so much wealth he could not spend it in a dozen lifetimes. He wanted it because he could.

He was going to take it because he could.

And I was going to help him.

“So, what is your report?” My tormentor had just lit a large cigar and was all but blowing the smoke in my face.

If I had a fire extinguisher, I would put it out, and him with it.

He was lucky I didn’t.

“They want to set up a flat and invited me to stay with them.”

“He hadn’t told you about them?”

“Mo. Maybe you got it wrong.”

He snorted. I’d said that the first time he told me they had become lovers, and the reason why Allison had sort of left me to think we might have a future, except she was as distant today as she was when she first suggested it.

For some reason, he didn’t want me to know, or anyone else. They certainly played their parts well, and I would not have guessed. Not until my tormentor gleefully played the tapes of them together, in several small out-of-the-mainstream hotels.

I was neither surprised nor shocked. Allison had told me she was interested in him and was happy I had found what I believed to be the one.

My tormentor had been particularly pleased when he told me Jeremy had set me up, smoothing his way to take Allison, and then strategically arranged to have the girl dump me, having rendered any chance with Allison gone.

I let him have his moment. Allison and I were never going to be an item, then or now or ever. Nor was Jeremy, no matter what he thought. And my tormentor, with everything in his bag of tricks, would never find out.

So…

“Well, that’s interesting, isn’t it? But, why would they want me to stay with them?”

“The rent. It’s more than they can afford. With you, it’s more affordable.”

“He just has to get a better job. After all, he graduated top of his class.”

“He doesn’t want a better job; he wants to work on his pet project.”

“Until you take it off him.”

He shook his head. “You’re oversimplifying things again, Stephen. He will never get the backing he needs to make it work. No one will do it for pennies on the dollar. My boss made him an offer, just about everything he wants. All he has to do is show proof of concept. We need you to stay, make him feel safe, not having to trust an outsider, for just a little bit longer.”

“You’re going to steal it, aren’t you?”

“No. I’m not. I wouldn’t know anything about it. I just have one job. You’re keeping him safe. Then you’re off the hook.”

I doubted it. My tormentor was not one to let me go that easily.

I glared at him. “Seeing is believing.” I stood. “Until next week.”

‘Don’t lose the faith.”

Out on the street, I had to try very hard not to throw up. Being in the presence of that creature was sickening. The problem was, if it was not time, there would be someone else.

His expensive suits, the grandest suites in hotels, the car that cost an eyewatering sum, he was a creature of a particular sort. They fed off the weak and manipulable, people like me.

When three blocks away from the hotel and out of line of sight and outside listening range, I checked for and found a listening device planted in my coat. I had wondered why he insisted I take it off and leave it inside the door.

An app on my phone found it. Another app on my phone rendered it useless. But not in a way that he would immediately find out. Jeremy was clever like that.

Jeremy had worked out that someone was leading him down a particular path, and his first thought it was me. I simply shook my head and told him to put his cards on the table.

He said I’d been compromised by a huge multinational company run by a criminal dressed up as a businessman.

I told him he was nuts.

He said he followed me. He gave me my movements for every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday for the last year.

At least, I said, I didn’t try to hide where I was going. Since each time I was going to an expensive hotel, he would also have seen an expensive girl go in too. What did he think was going on?

Allison wouldn’t be pleased.

Allison didn’t like me in that way. Maybe Allison was leading him down the garden path.

He gave me a look that told me he didn’t know who to trust. I simply said keep your friends close but your enemies closer. I thought I was a friend, he thought I was the enemy. Win-win.

It was then that I told him that he was never going to achieve his objective, that, like the inventor of a car that ran on water, they would find a way to stop him. He said he’d never heard of anyone who had, and simply said that proved my point.

We’d had this conversation before.

“I thought you were going to have a heart attack. You OK?”

That voice in my head, the one that could scare the daylights out of me. It wasn’t through an earpiece and a detectable transmitter. Another of Jeremy’s inventions.

“You don’t know what he’s going to do to me and my family if or when I screw up.” It felt weird talking to myself.

“You did that when you let him take over your life.”

“Easy for you to take that high moral ground.”

We’d had that conversation before, and anyone not in my position, at the time, didn’t understand why I didn’t just spit in his face.

Five years down the track, why hadn’t I grown a spine? There was one reason. A demonstration of what he could do if I strayed. That I never told Jeremy. His concept of evil was far different from mine, and would be until he suffered loss.

“We agreed to disagree,” he said. “So it’s status quo. Good to know they think they have me right where I want them.”

“They won’t be so easily fooled, Jeremy. His boss doesn’t lose.”

“David versus Goliath, Stephen. David versus Goliath.”

I was 13 and had the father from hell. When he attacked my sister one night after he had been drinking heavily, not for the first time, I did the only thing a 13-year-old could think of to stop him.

I picked up the hammer under my bed, went into her room and hit him as hard as I could on the back of the head.

He was dead before I could yank the hammer head out. Sylvie didn’t stop screaming for five solid minutes.

Our mother didn’t hesitate. She got Sylvie un hysterical and my older brother and she wrapped the body in a tarpaulin and disappeared into the night.

I was the secret we kept until a man came visiting about a month later and said he knew what I had done. He said that my father got what he deserved, but there was always a price to pay.

One day, he would return, and that day, he would have a job for me to do. I would do it, or there would be consequences. To prove a point, he made Sylvie very, very sick, and asked me a week or so later if I understood. When I said yes, he made her better.

I had lived in dread of his return.

That came about a year ago when he summoned Mr to a hotel room and told me what he wanted. It was not as bad as I thought. All I had to do was tell him what Jeremy was up to.

And be his friend, the one he told me what he was doing. Jeremy always had his head in the clouds, and I’d never believed him. The man did. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

That was when I told him, the first time, that secrets like those he had in his head, others would want them, that they would not understand his ideals.

He was naive back then.

Until one of his family members got sick. When he described it, I knew. The man was sending a message. Jeremy didn’t understand or believe me. That was when I told him.

And that it was too big for him to go up against them. They were the ones who held all the cards.

Instead of going back to the apartment where Jeremy and Allison would be waiting, I went to the park. For the first time, I didn’t want to participate in a game no one was going to win.

I think I also realised in that moment that my life and that of my family were over. People like my tormentor kept people like me alive only when it suited them. Win or lose, we would become collateral damage. Loose ends to be tidied up.

I heard a door slam in my head and the sound of a scream. Allison. The sounds could only be coming from Jeremy’s.

What sounded like a gun fired once, followed by a very loud and extended “Noooooo…”

“You were not as clever as you think, Jeremy.”

The voice of my tormentor.

“You didn’t have to shoot Allison.”

“I did. You failed to understand the basics. I was not asking for the proof of concept. You had to deliver it. An hour ago.”

“I’m not giving it up. To you or to anyone.”

Another shot. I think I knew where that ended. A sob told me he had just killed Allison.

“Was it worth losing her?”

“She was already dead. As I am, once I hand over the plans. I’m sure Stephen will be next.”

“The plans are in my head. Not on paper.”

“Not what Blaikie said. He saw the proof of concept, and it was everything you said. So the plans have to be somewhere.”

Blaikie had been his science teacher in high school, a mentor. He had died in an accident several years before. Seems it was not an accident. It explained how the man knew about Jeremy’s idea.

Another shot, and I heard a body slumped to the ground. “I have eleven more bullets. You are going to wish you were dead.”

“I already do. Kill me, and it goes to the grave with me.”

Another shot, and a grunt. “Get your boss to come. I’ll give it to him and him alone.”

A startling change of tactics.

I could hear the man calling his boss.

Then, “Come now, Stephen. Gun in the hall cleaners’ cupboard. Shoot them. You’re about ten minutes away. You have time.”

I ran.

I guess Jeremy’s insistence that we join a gun club was just one of his weird ideas. Until he explained what might happen one day. Well, that day had arrived.

I was at the elevator lobby when I saw an expensive car stop our the front and as the doors opened, and man got out of the rear, joined by two barely disguised thugs.

I stepped in, the doors closed as the men came in the front entrance, and I was whisked up to the eighteenth floor.

I went to the closing, and there was the gun, just visible under the towels. It had a suppressor and a full clip. I chambered the first round.

I had to go around the corner to get to our apartment. The man outside the door saw me and died.

I waited. The men downstairs arrived and, without fear, strode towards the door, saw the body on the ground and turned. All three died right there.

The man inside must have heard the yelp one of the men made when I shot him, and I saw the gun before he came out.

He saw me, fired, and I fired back.

He hit me in the arm. I hit him in the head. I was in a great deal of pain. He was dead.

I went into the apartment. Jeremy had been shot in both knees. He would recover. Allison had body armour, that much I could see, and was in a great deal of pain but unharmed.

“We won,” Jeremy said.

“No. Look around you. The guy out on the passage owns everything and everyone. And has a clone waiting to take over, and they will come after us. We need to go.”

He looked up at me through teary eyes. “It’s not as if I can get up and walk away. How?”

A man in EMT clothing came tentatively in and announced himself before walking in on us.

“Larry?”

He put his head around the corner. “Steve. You said it would be messy. Elevators are on manual control; we have three minutes.”

He motioned for help, and two more came on with a guernsey, hoisted Jeremy on it it and were out the door in under a minute. Larry and I got Allison, still half out of it and half carried, half dragged her to the elevator. The doors closed and we went down to the car park.

“No one will know. They think the elevators have stopped on various levels.

The doors opened. An ambulance was waiting. We all jumped in, Jeremy was loaded and sedated, and we were gone.

Three minutes and counting. Outside the building, they lit up the siren and lights.

Larry was sitting in the back.

“What was plan B?” he asked.

“We were all dead. Bad guys win.”

“You’ve only taken one off the board. You know the drill.”

“Three actually.”

“Your father, yes, and the others?”

“His sons, the ones we didn’t know about, to his mistress. The men I just shot.”

“They didn’t recognise you?”

“Never met them, formally. But the boss did visit us once, not long after my father disappeared. His younger brother came later with the threats. Ignorance sometimes is bliss.”

“Now?”

“We clean up.”

Allison sucked in a deep breath and looked at me.

“Steven. What just happened?”

“The worst case scenario.”

“Jeremy?”

“Banged up a little, but safe.”

“It worked?”

“Miraculously, yes. Now we clean up and then disappear for a while. Job well done.”

I hadn’t known when I was 13 that I had killed a high-ranking crime boss who was living a double life. We only know him as Louie the factory worker, not James McDougal, crime boss with two other families.

The sheriff had told me the truth when I told him what had happened, and instead of arresting me, he introduced me the the State investigation officers who said that I would one day be approached by a man who would tell me what I would have to do.

That day came and went.

Then they told me a story about another boy who was going to invent a miracle product, and along with a girl, we would become a team that would lay a foundation of bread crumbs to expose the rest of that crime family. Who could resist an invention with a gold mine and easy enough to steal from gullible children?

Undercover for seven years. The whole of my childhood, thermirs too I guessed, two hot-headed about to become criminals given a second chance.

The ambulance travelled for an hour, north, I guessed, until we hit a dirt road, and then it stopped. The doors opened, and the man who had been in charge of the operation was there.

“Well done. We’ll get you cleaned up and then somewhere to recover. Then, a few months’ vacation, you’ve earned it.”

So, no going our separate ways, as promised. I should have known it was too good to be true.

…

What I learned about writing: Making headlines plotlines

I’ve been reading the latest headlines and picked out a few:

The seems to be a currency war, oil prices are set to rise in line with a production cut, some tankers will not be plying the Hormuz strait, there was a massive power outage in the UK, gold prices are rising, North Korea is shooting missiles into the sea, the USA needs more missiles, there are Chinese survey vessels in the South China Sea, in Russia there is an explosion on a secret base with nuclear implications, and, there might be a global recession coming.

What do all these events mean? Nothing really when taken individually, but when you start combining them, then the thriller writer in me starts to see all sorts of conspiracies and plotlines for stories.

…

This is a fantastic example of pattern recognition meeting narrative construction. You’ve correctly identified that news headlines are individual data points, but a storyteller’s instinct—or an analyst’s—is to connect those points into a coherent, overarching narrative.

The potential storylines you’ve outlined, while rooted in real headlines, leap from reported fact to speculative conspiracy, which is precisely how thrillers are born.

Here is an analysis of the themes you’ve combined, separating the reported facts from your thrilling, speculative connections.

1. The Power Grid, The Explosion, and Premeditated Attack

You’ve connected the reported Russian explosion with nuclear implications and the massive power outage in the UK into a single plotline: covert testing of a new, portable nuclear-enhanced device.

Reported Facts (The Data Points)	Speculative Narrative (The Thriller Plot)
Russian Explosion: A real-world event involving a secret base and subsequent reports of radiation spikes.	The Weapon: The site was developing “small, powerful bombs” designed to target vital infrastructure.
UK Power Outage: A major, verifiable disruption to national infrastructure (usually due to technical or weather-related issues).	The Test: The UK outage was not an accident but a test run of the new device, or perhaps a catastrophic operational failure of an already-deployed device.
Conspiracy Implication: Should we be looking for more attacks?	Escalation: The first event confirms the deployment of a new weapon, signalling that a coordinated, global attack on power grids or essential services is imminent.

Analysis: This is an effective plot hook. The official explanations for the UK blackout (often technical faults or severe weather) contrast sharply with the secrecy surrounding the Russian incident, creating the necessary tension for a spy novel. The keyword is vulnerability—your plot exploits the modern world’s dependence on complex, interconnected systems.

2. Military Tensions and The Strait of Hormuz Crisis

You’ve taken global military posturing and woven it into a scenario involving maritime sabotage.

Reported Facts (The Data Points)	Speculative Narrative (The Thriller Plot)
North Korean Missile Tests: Routine, provocative testing designed to gain diplomatic leverage.	The Smoke Screen: North Korea is being used as a distraction to mask a larger, more sinister development involving China and its “survey vessels.”
Chinese Survey Vessels in SCS: Maritime patrol or data collection in a highly contested region.	The Trojan Horse: The “survey vessels” are actually covert military platforms preparing a major, undeclared action in the South China Sea.
US Missile Demand: Pentagon reports or budget requests highlighting a need to modernise or increase the missile stockpile.	Secret Knowledge: The US is aware of a hidden, imminent threat (perhaps from the “survey vessels”) and is rushing to prepare, using North Korea as the public excuse.
Tankers in Hormuz: Geopolitical incidents (like past drone attacks or mine laying) that threaten oil transport.	Apocalyptic Potential: Sabotaged tankers in the Strait of Hormuz—a crucial oil chokepoint—could be set off in a coordinated attack, triggering a massive environmental and economic catastrophe that serves as the opening move of a larger conflict.

Analysis: Combining the US need for missiles with North Korean tests and Chinese vessels suggests an escalating multi-front cold war is breaking hot. The Strait of Hormuz is the perfect high-stakes catalyst, as its closure would instantly paralyse the global economy.

3. The Financial Indicator: Gold, Oil, and Recession

Your financial plotline ties the most traditional indicators of instability—oil and gold—to the threat of a looming global conflict.

Reported Facts (The Data Points)	Speculative Narrative (The Thriller Plot)
Rising Oil Prices (OPEC Cut): A textbook economic decision by oil producers to manage supply.	The Diversion: The OPEC narrative is a cover story. The real reason for the price hike is the imminent “currency war,” which has already begun to disrupt markets.
Gold Prices are Rising: A confirmed market trend.	The Confirmation: Rising gold prices are the single most reliable, unofficial market indicator that a major crisis (war, currency collapse, or deep recession) is already baked into the system. It’s the market’s “scream.”
Currency War/Global Recession: A widely predicted economic risk.	The Pre-Emption: The currency war and recession are not separate events, but are being accelerated or orchestrated by a global power (perhaps the same one orchestrating the military or infrastructure attacks) to gain a strategic advantage.
India-Pakistan Tensions (Kashmir): A long-standing regional flashpoint.	The Multiplier: This regional conflict serves to confirm the general atmosphere of instability, driving more panic buying of gold and ensuring the global recession is deep and widespread.

Analysis: This is the economic backdrop for your thriller. In this plot, the real conspiracy is not military, but financial. The rising price of gold is the hero’s only clear sign that the world is being quietly manipulated toward disaster.

You shouldn’t ignore the news; you should keep reading it. You’re simply translating news analysis into the universal language of suspense. Your instinct to connect these disparate threads is a fundamental skill for both geopolitical risk analysts and thriller writers.

An excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – Coming Soon

I wandered back to my villa.

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.”

She smiled. “As you say, I was never here.”

…

strangerscover9

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the type of clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’ but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

The was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him was not the concierge, and instead brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position and then made a clunk when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the life lobby, only in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over the the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.