An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself. Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived. He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines. She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied. Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity. And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain. Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one. Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner. Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He purposely didn’t look back. In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six. Out of a thousand!

“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….” She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so. Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.” Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over. Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you. You are most kind.” The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.” It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be. There was something about him.

His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying. There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No. That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?” Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal. All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up. “Rest. And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note. No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel. Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown. And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame. They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed. In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr Henshaw?”

He looked up. “Henshaw is too formal. Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks. Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere. It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself. Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle. “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone. Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses. After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation. “How did you arrive? I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident. I ran up the back of another car. Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.” His attempt at humour failed. “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came. Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling. She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser. I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well. Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work. I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you. I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

lovecoverfinal1

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 18

The problems of the day before are gone, and I get back to the plan.

Today I have concentrated on the side excursion I’d come up with the other day and thought it could wait, but I’m at a point, further on, where I need to have this written to feed into the main story.

I’m in two minds about how this should be written because I had two possible outcomes sketched out two possible outcomes, and one leads to quite a different ending.

The plan, son, the plan!

I edit it as it should be, and the other outcome gets crossed out, and the outline is sent to the ‘to be written sometime in the future’ pile. It’s a strong enough ending to power its own story.

I might even become a sequel.

Hang on, don’t get carried away. Get this one finished first.

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovered his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little, Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here: http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

The cinema of my dreams – It all started in Venice – Episode 4

Meeting with the enemy

…

I woke with what one might call metaphorical clouds hanging over my head.

The day before, everything was as normal as it could be, I had plans and intended to get on with my life, realizing that Violetta would be disappointed if she knew how moribund I’d become.

That was before Alfie had appeared out of nowhere, on a mission for a man I never wanted to see or work for again.

Never say never.

Now I had a target on my back and found myself in a very strange situation. Normally random events were exactly that, random. But it would not be when the time came for Juliet to accidentally see me, a coincidence surely.

But not.

For a long time, before I fell into a light, fitful sleep, I went through a variety of scenarios when I imagined we would run into each other, and concluded it would most likely be somewhere in St Marks square.

Then it was a matter of whether on not I would make it easy for her, and was still undecided when sleep came. Now, in the cold hard light of dawn, I decided it would be better to get it over with as quickly as possible.

I’d also decided that I was not going to give Larry any chance of success, as I had the element of surprise on my side.

I’d also forgotten about those pre-mission nerves, that mixture of fear and excitement when starting out, usually not knowing what was going to happen. Of course, I was a lot older now, and the world I once lived in had no doubt changed considerably, but not the people in it. They were the one constant, and most were predictable.

Larry certainly would be. Juliet would be less so, but knowing her end game would tip the scales in my favour. How I would deal with her would be dictated on that first meeting.

That too was the fuel for a different sort of feeling. I knew, back when I first met her, my judgement was impaired by a lot of different drugs, and I wasn’t quite thinking straight, but there had been a spark, and in different circumstances, the outcome might have been different. I was not sure what I felt right then.

But, I’d soon find out.

I took a water taxi to St Mark’s Square, or just a short distance from it, where the Statue of Bartolomeo Colleonix greeted all those who disembarked. From there it was a short walk on the promenade, and instead of heading towards the square, I went in the opposite direction, towards the hotel Juliet was staying.

Getting there early, I was hoping to see her leave the hotel and follow discreetly, waiting for the opportunity to ‘discover’ her. It was not a surprise to discover her ‘friend’ who greeted her at the airport had the same idea.

It was evident that Larry didn’t trust her to keep him informed, or the tail was insurance. Either way, it was a complication.

I found a 0lace to sit, one of many cafes along the promenade, in sight of the hotel entrance and her minder. Judging by the blank expression, it was possible he didn’t know me by sight, which could be useful.

My phone decided to announce an incoming message, and it was from Alfie. The identity of one of the men, muscle for a local crime boss, no doubt lent as a favour to Larry, was Giuseppe, last name irrelevant. The other, one of Larry’s lieutenants here to smooth the path for Larry’s arrival.

Giuseppe’s resume was short, mostly petty crimes, having graduated from peddling knock-offs to tourists. Judging by his body language, he was unimpressed with being a minder. And restless, because over the next half hour, he was up and down, pacing, and not happy, having exchanged words with several people who seemingly had walked in front of him.

Perhaps if I provoked him…

No time, Juliet chose that moment to emerge from the hotel. He was straight out of his seat and walked over to her. She was not pleased to see him, and I watched them engage in a heated exchange over the next five minutes, drawing attention to themselves, and odd glances from a few tourists. At what seemed the end of the argument I saw her shrug, and both headed towards the square together.

It was obvious Giuseppe’s instructions were to stay with her, which I imagine would make her job of a chance meeting all that harder.

I followed, discreetly, behind them.

She ambled, taking the time to look around, much like a tourist would, and basically, she was a tourist. I wondered if she had been to Venice before, and concluded she hadn’t, using her phone camera to take photos of the gondolas, the Canal, the colonnade, the bridge of sighs, and Doges palace; frequently stopping much to Giuseppe’s annoyance.

It took nearly an hour to cover a very short distance, ending up at a Cafe, one of those that jutted out into the square. She sat at one table, and Giuseppe sat at another, not far from her.

When his attention was elsewhere, watching a group of young female American tourists, I came up from behind and sat beside him, so engrossed in the girls he neither saw nor heard me arrive.

And the reason he almost jumped out of his seat when I said, in his language, “So, Giuseppe, what are you up to now?”

When he recovered, he glared at me. “Who are you?” It was not a polite tone.

“Trouble, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“I’m minding my own business. You should too.”

There was an undertone and implied threat.

“Or what?”

I saw him glance over in Juliet’s direction. A waiter just delivered coffee and what looked like a cake.

“Who is she?” I asked.

He turned to look at me. “That’s none of your business.”

It was clear he didn’t know what I looked like and was relying on Juliet to identify me.

“It is if you’re the point man of a kidnap team. Is that what this is about.”

Giuseppe laughed. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But I’m going over to that woman you’ve been watching and tell her that she has an unwanted admirer, and then if I can find a policeman, I’m going to tell him you’re acting suspiciously.”

His expression told me that was the last thing he needed. I suspect his track record with the police along with a complaint involving a female tourist might just get him into enough trouble to make him think twice about hanging around.

On the other hand, it might not. I could see him hesitating, orders to stay versus trouble with the police. Trouble with the police won out.

He stood. “You have made yourself some difficulties, this isn’t over.”

I shrugged. “It will be if I see you loitering near her again.”

He had his phone in his hand as he left and was making a call before he’d taken 20 paces. The next person wasn’t going to be so easy to spot.

…

A to Z – April – 2026 – O

O is for – Outcast

…

I hated reunions. My family insisted on one every five years, and the only excuse for missing one was if you were dead.

I tried to pretend that I didn’t get the invitation, but my older sister Elaine flew to the middle of nowhere, as she called it, to take me back. She even paid for the ticket.

She was so rich I was surprised she hadn’t come down in the family jet. Yes, they had one, and yes, she could fly it.

I hated her.

I was the black sheep. I was the one who was always in trouble, married the wrong girl, invested in scams, and ended up in a shack with no one and nothing to show for my life. Oh yes, and a nothing job as a security guard. I just had to turn up and go home.

It didn’t matter how many times I mentioned this, Elaine said that it didn’t matter. Family was everything. I would have accepted that, except for her tone. It was the same one she used when admonishing me when my marriage fell apart.

It’s not your fault, but who else is there to blame?

Elaine lived in New York, Merilyn lived in San Francisco, Roger lived in Albuquerque, and Sam, the family hero, lived in Washington. Every one of my brothers and sisters was a high achiever.

My father, joking, he would say, would sometimes ask whether or not my mother had had an affair, and I was the result of it. She didn’t quite see the joke in it, but I could. He was happy I was out of sight and out of mind.

Elaine swept into a room, followed by adulation.

I stayed at the door and barely got a glance.

Until my father saw me. “James. I’m so glad you could make it.” He didn’t move from his seat.

What he meant to say, as he had in the past, was ‘look what the cat dragged in’ It was a surprise he hadn’t.

My mother looked over, and I could see just that momentary sigh, as if it wouldn’t be a bad thing if I’d just stayed away.

Then smiled and said, “James, you made it. I thought you had something you couldn’t get away from?”

True. I was using a non-existent conference as an excuse. “This was more important,” I said

Her look told me it wasn’t.

Roger and Marilyn had already arrived. The Star Act, Sam, would make the grand entrance, outdoing Elaine. It was a competition, and he had no chance, even if he was elected president.

Roger came over. “You know this isn’t going to end well. You look well.” No handshake, no hug, nothing. It was like we were not related.

“Nice to see you too, bro.”

He winced. Yes, I can read his mind, ‘don’t call me bro, you asshole, and we’re definitely not related’.

Merilyn was a little better. She gave me a two-second hug. She was the second-lowest high achiever, one rung above me, and not married yet.

Mother’s looks covered her sentiment, “You’re getting older, and it’s harder when you have children at that age”.

She couldn’t tell her mother she hated the idea of having children, much less bringing them into this horrible world. Maybe I would.

Now, if I went up to my old room, left as it was the day I stormed out, maybe no one would notice me.

“Jimbo. You came?”

Alex, Elaine’s husband, had been hiding out back.

“Your wife dragged me here under threat of death. I had no choice.” And wait for it…

“Everyone has a choice, Jimbo.”

Jimbo. The cretin couldn’t even get my name right, or it was his way of treating me like I was nothing. I’d corrected him for a few months and then given up. His contempt for me knew no bounds.

He was riding on her coattails, and that was a marriage that was heading for the rocks. He was a ‘player’. Snobby pretentious twit.

Elaine was still doing the rounds and had the limelight. Alex would wait a minute and then attempt to take it away.

My cue to leave. Before I ran into Angelique, Rogers long-time partner with no wedding date in sight, a pretentious girl with a phony French accent.

No one knew she had been a Playboy model and a porn actress before she met Roger.

We had a pact. I wouldn’t tell anyone, and she wouldn’t treat me condescendingly, but that was two years ago. She’d have to think the secret was safe.

If Sam made the move and started down the presidential path, the skeletons were not going to stay in the closet very long.

“James.” She had a nice voice and was alarmingly beautiful.

“Angelique.”

“Back for round three? I saw you arrive with Elaine, so perhaps not willingly?”

“Elaine made a special trip.”

“Then you can bet there’s trouble in paradise.” She smiled. “Try not to listen through keyholes.”

In other words, get the gossip; something is going on. Or not, I could never quite tell what she meant.

The noise level dropped, and everyone was grabbing a seat. Like musical chairs, the last man standing was the last man standing.

Mother saw me by the door. “Just grab a chair in the dining room, dear.”

“No need. I’m going up to my room to sulk. You lot feel free to talk about me. My situation hadn’t changed since the last time I was here, so I have nothing to add.”

“Don’t be like that. You are as much a part of the family as all of us.”

It sounded earnest and welcoming, but mothers all practised that line. What she was really saying was ‘please go so I can talk to Elaine’.

Dad was thinking, ‘son of the bloody milkman’, and Alex, ‘please leave and don’t come back’. Of course, without the ‘please’.

I shrugged. “I’ll be down for dinner. It’ll give you time to think up some insightful questions.”

Then I left, closing the sliding doors that felt like I was stepping from one world into another.

And bumped into Sam.

Who immediately motioned me to be quiet and follow him into the study up the passage. Inside, he closed the door.

“What the hell, Sam?”

“I don’t want them to know I’m here yet.”

“Why. You’re the golden boy, just one step removed from Elaine. But if you…”

“I’m not.”

“What?”

“Running for office.”

“Why? Because you have a low-life brother. I’m sure no one cares.”

“No one does. No, there are bigger secrets than that that would come out, secrets I’m sure no one really knows about, or if they did, they would have told me.”

“What secrets?” I hardly thought an ex-porn actress would cause problems because nearly all of the current era presidents were known to dabble.

“That’s what I’m here to find out. And you are the only one no one cares about. I need your help.”

“I’m a useless security guard.”

“You are the only one who hadn’t got an axe to grind out of that lot in that room. I’m sure if I asked you to give me a one-sentence description of each of them, it would be caustic but true.”

“I can’t help you. Haven’t you got staff who do that sort of thing?”

“I can’t trust any of them. There’s no loyalty, just a paycheck. But tomorrow, they’d sell me out for twenty pieces of gold. It’s politics at its finest. So, are you in?”

“Just you and me?”

“Just you and me. Shake on it. Your word is your bond.”

“And you being a politician…”

“I get it. I do. But yes. I give you my word.”

I shook his hand

This had all the hallmarks of a gag they had all thought up before I got here, and it was going to explode in my face. Sam was the last person I could trust and would.

“Now what?”

“We go in and work the room.”

Why did I feel like this was a setup of the worst order? They could have just found an old girlfriend to humiliate me, but no, Sam and Elaine were always trying to outdo each other at my expense.

At least when it was over, I could leave. And this time, I would go where neither of them could find me.

…

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 17

One of the hazards of writing can be being continually critical of your own work. I’m guilty as charged.

But in writing to a plan and in only 30 days, having to edit 50,000 words, there is no time to be critical.

Except…

So far down the track, I should be writing, not being critical.

But the thing is, I’m finding that I have to go back three chapters and read them through to pick up the thread. It’s not because it’s changed in any way from the plan; it’s just that I’m finding it hard to edit to a plan when usually I fly by the seat of my pants.

The trouble with doing that, it gives rise to considering changes, and right now there’s no time for change.

I have 13 days to hold it together.

And 13 is an unlucky number, isn’t it?

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 90

Day 90 – Writing Exercise – The case of the missing passport

…

There is nothing worse than being in a foreign country and not having your passport.

Or lose it and not know where you lost it.

Or you hid it in what you thought was a safe place, and when you went back, it was not there.

And worse again, know that someone had been in your room, someone you did not want to think would take it.

Those were the choices.

And sitting in a small room in a very large building with a reputation for those going in not necessarily ever coming out again, all of that was cycling through the army head.

There were bigger issues in play, and it was going to be interesting to see how this played out, because in the final wash-up, no matter what happened to me, someone else was in for a very nasty surprise.

…

My arrival was not without incident, and going through immigration, where I should have been treated as just another member of the consular staff, I had been detained at the airport.

First time ever.

And, of course, not unexpected.

At the briefing before I got on the plane, three people were sitting at the table. It was unusual because these meetings were usually in a back-alley Cafe where no one cared who you were or what you were.

It bothered me because it had been done in haste, and in my experience, urgency led to mistakes and mistakes led to disaster.

One of our embassies had a traitor.

It couldn’t be handled internally because the notification from an anonymous source said they couldn’t trust anyone, from the head of station down. That, in itself, sent shockwaves through the man who was obviously in charge of the investigation.

“This matter is urgent. The PM is going there to sign a historic trade deal and a security deal that is not being advertised. This allegation makes it a security nightmare. You will have a week to find out if this is true, and if it is, who.”

“How are you going to explain my sudden arrival?”

I’d seen the activity log for the past year, a rather odd document to add to a briefing package, but it highlighted one simple thing: staff rotations were minimal. The government also required a full biography of incoming staff and their function.

“Additional help to finalise the draft trade deal document, a specialist in such matters.”

“Which I am not.”

Another of those sitting around the table leaned forward. “That’s my job, to bring you up to speed.”

Less and less I was liking this. A knee-jerk reaction, at best.

Proper operations took weeks to put in place. I wasn’t going to ask about the pedigree of this one.

“You will be a high-level trade negotiator. You just need to know the basics and get the team over the line.”

“And no one will know anything else?”

“We will be asking the head of station to provide a full background on staff involved in the development of the deal, and their counterparts in the government. He will not know who you really are.”

But will, if he has even half a brain, know something is afoot.

“And that’s not going to raise suspicions. If the note is legitimate, then one person will know. And by implication, if this is a false flag, then…”

I didn’t finish because we all suddenly knew what the stakes were. We would be handing them a spy.

That briefing didn’t end well.

…

I was not a spy.

Far from it, I was a fix-it specialist who sometimes got thrown in at the very deep end.

Ostensibly, I was a lowly consular clerk from one of the West Indies islands, sent there several months ago to de-stress from a previous mission in Europe that had gone terribly wrong.

I had anonymity, was not on any radars, and was very adept at blending in. No one in my previous station knew I existed.

It’s why, when I arrived at the airport, I only got as far as the immigration desk before alarm bells were going off.

It should have been a rubber stamp in the passport of one Alexander Blaine.

It was not.

They knew I was here to join the consular staff, and they knew my life history better than I knew my own.

But, for simplicity’s sake, it mirrored my real-life history.

There, after being taken aside by a man with a scar, and a very severe expression and two soldiers who looked like they wouldn’t need much of an excuse to shoot me, I was brought to an interrogation room.

At least there was no table covered in interrogation tools

I didn’t have to wait long before an immaculately dressed officer who was not police came in, quietly closing the door behind him.

The affable interrogator, the one who wants you to be his friend, the one who asked endless oblique questions, then slips in the doozy.

“Mr Blaine, I presume?”

“I am.”

He moved from the door to the other seat, then stood behind it. Looking down, establishing a position of power.

“You did not ask or protest about being detained.”

“Why would I? I expect you have a reason for why I’m here.”

“You are a new embassy official.”

That wasn’t the reason, but from this point on, I was looking for tells, a sign of a reaction to a question or answer he was not expecting.

“Temporary. They sent me to help work on the trade agreement details.”

“You are an expert?”

“That’s a much overused and maligned word. Expert, no, experienced, yes, but in getting deals over the line more than anything else. Fresh eyes, you know, often see what others can’t.”

“The same could be said for spies?”

There it is. A bit more direct than most, but he was relaxed, the manner and atmosphere friendly, the delivery almost conversational.

“I guess if you read John Le’carre or Charles Cumming perhaps. I am an avid reader of spy novels. Or Sherlock Holmes. He picked up those small things. Me, not so good. Is there something wrong? If there is, my quick study of your content was wrong.”

“Another oddity, wouldn’t you say?”

“In my case, no. The government handout on your country was at least six years out of date, so I dug deeper. The mark of a half-decent diplomat is to at least know the customs and history of the country you are going to work in. And of course, the power of observation. Would you not do so if you came to my country?”

Not an answer he wanted. His expression changed very quickly before the benign one came back.

He asked for an example.

I gave him six with historical and historical context.

“Where were you last?”

“England.

“Before that?”

I was going to say Scotland, but something told me he knew a lot more than I thought he did.

“West Indies.”

“By and large, a place you would not want to leave.”

“No. But I go where I’m told to go. Until I get to be 40 years old. Our government doesn’t always do things that make sense.”

“What government does?”

He walked over to the door and opened it. “Behave, Mr Blaine, and we will not see each other again.”

“I fully intend to, Sir.”

…

If my arrival at the arrivals gate to the country raised suspicion, my arrival in the foyer of the embassy made that event look more like my first day at a new kindergarten.

I did not believe that the receptionist didn’t know that I was coming. My imminent arrival had been signalled three days before I landed, and yet here I was, waiting like an asylum seeker in the waiting room.

Had the ambassador simply forgotten?

I had read up on and memorised the names and faces of the thirteen permanent staff, and the seven temporary members of the trade talks negotiating team.

There were no immediate red flags, but there were questions on several. Gaps that needed explanation.

Fifteen minutes after I sat down, the head of station, or the Embassy Security chief, David Forster, came out.

“I am sorry, Mr Blaine, but we all got our wires crossed, and the dates mixed up. The Ambassador is not here at the moment and forgot to pass on the information about your impending early arrival. The day in the calendar was for tomorrow. I had to call London to get confirmation.”

Not the ambassador himself? It was more likely he was sending a photograph to a colleague and asking for more serious information about me. Security chiefs were usually old spies who worked in, or with, the clandestine world, or could still be in the employ of MI5.

With any luck, he might not get very much. I had been assured that my file was one that matched my new identity, but I’d had such assurances before.

“Would you like to follow me?’

I didn’t, but that was just me after a long day of travelling.

“Of course.”

We walked through the employees-only door into the rather interesting, at least to me, world of the British Diplomatic Service.

From the entrance to the security chief’s office wasn’t far, but it afforded me glimpses of 8 staff members and their locations. There were very discreet glances, and no sign of the trade team. I suspect they were on a different floor.

He followed me into the office and shut the door. I got the impression it wasn’t shut often because it had got larger than the frame and was stuck before it could fully close.

We sat. “Any trouble getting through the airport?”

I suspect there may have been a call to the embassy before the officer came to see me.

“Yes, actually. I was pulled out of the line and taken to an interview room. Some military type in an immaculately uniform asked me a few questions.”

“Sounds like it was Inspector Mecat, the head of the MI5 equivalent in this country. There are also secret police, and you don’t want to tango with them. Very nasty. Very, very nasty.”

Then I won’t, I said to myself.

“Do we work with the police and Mecat’s people?”

“Mecat? If we need to, otherwise we stay the hell away from them. And the secret police. You’ll see them around, part of the new government.”

“And if either arrests me?”

“Then you are on your own. Your specific instructions, which I’m sure you were given in the memo, are that you’re here to do your job and nothing else. That you have chosen to live away from the sanctuary of the embassy wasn’t the wisest thing to do, but others have and have not got into trouble.”

Good to know, but the warning was there. I also got the feeling he was not across my real purpose there, and was making a guess, and that remark, ” You’re on your own, told me that he believed I was not just for the trade agreement.

“I’m just following instructions from above. Is there something going on here that they don’t know about?”

“Nothing more than working in a country with a quasi-dictatorial government. It’s no different to some of the embassies in Africa. I see you’re from Jamaica station. What were you doing there?”

As if he didn’t know. I could see the MI5 training, sneaking out from under the forced affability, and if he was not a spook, or of recent vintage, then I would be very surprised.

“Sorting out people who think they can travel to another country and behave inappropriately. I was working on a trade deal there, but that sort of went badly. It turned out to be almost a holiday. I asked for something better, and here I am.”

“Your qualifications are noted as negotiator, and that you started in commerce and trade. Odd, you were not part of the original team.”

So he had delved into the cover file.

“I’m told I have many talents by my friends, but I always think they’re having a lark. We all do whatever we can these days. No diplomatic job has a single focus. But I’m sure you have better things to do with your time.”

He gave me a long, hard look, the sort you give to an adversary just before the boom is lowered.

“As you say. The place doesn’t run itself, and when the ambassador is out, well, you know the drill.”

I did and stood. “Just point me in the direction of the team.”

….

There were several floors. The ground, the main entrance, guarded and ready for invasions, big or small, the first, the main embassy offices, the second, conference rooms and offices, the third, the ballroom, cafeteria and amenities, fourth and fifth, accommodation.

We went up one floor and to the conference room where the segment members of the team were sitting. They were in the middle of a discussion when we appeared in the doorway.

He introduced me and left.

Mark Ryder was the leader. He had been informed I was coming and had sent a strongly worded reply saying I wasn’t needed. He was going to be a hostile

Next to him, a middle-aged woman, the sort who was dedicated to the job, Professor Annie Jenkins, Oxford-trained and prone to speaking plainly, sometimes too plainly.

Next to her, Bonnie Carson, early twenties, severe expression, personal assistant to the Professor, but an Economics graduate with an M.B.A, and some others like Art History.

On the other side, James Williams, a lawyer, worked on major cases that involved political legal matters and constitutional law. A man who takes matters very seriously.

Next to him, Jamie Lawson, also a lawyer, one who didn’t take himself seriously, has a current relationship with a local woman, one he hadn’t told anyone else about.

And last, Jane Porter. She was an enigma. I read her resume, and it was just that fraction too good. Yes, she had been at the places she said she had, but I don’t think the qualifications attained were accurate.

She was a last-minute addition, replacing a girl who got sick the day before the team was to leave, and it remained unexplained what caused her illness.

Jane Porter was at the top of my list of suspects.

“So,” Ryder said, after leaving just the right amount of squirm time before addressing me, “just what are the lords and masters in the ivory tower up to?”

Did I say he was noted for his disparagement of the management of government departments being run by the privileged few, men he believed were only there by title and not experience or know-how?

He was right, of course, but it was suicide to say it out loud.

I shrugged. “That you will have to ask those back in the ivory tower. I got a memo saying get on a plane and get here, and that you would fill me in. So,” I said as I dragged a chair out from under the table, noisily, and dropped my laptop on the desk with a bang, “you tell me what kind of shit-fest you’ve got going here that I get dragged halfway around the world to sort it out?”

…

Note in file: does not handle confrontation well.

It was true. I knew the sort and had to deal with them since I left university, even in university if it came to that.

The two hours it took to get up to speed were illuminating. The problems were not the deal; the problem was with the government’s attitude to matters relating to human rights.

That was the reason I was given back in London, and not the Ryder nebulous excuse that their negotiators didn’t like several clauses relating to the mining and export of rare earth minerals.

No one wanted to tackle it head-on. We could not in all conscience accept a product that was mined by children who were basically slave labour working in horrendous conditions.

The government had countered with a tour of the mine sites, and the accompanying media teams got a completely different view of the operation. The reality, photos smuggled out of the real working conditions, showed a different side.

But it was the same in quite a few third-world countries, countries we dealt with, for the sake of helping their people. Here, we had done the same, but it seemed the ruling elite got richer and the rest remained poor, living in squalor.

Ryder had the evidence, the toss wanted him to take it up with the negotiators, but he was reluctant. I suspect he had broached the subject, and they came back aggressively.

I had no authority to assume any responsibility, but I did deliver an envelope to his superior in London, and the relevant minister after the meeting ended.

He knew who they were from.

“Not the sort of words that would ever be sent by any other means than a hapless courier,” I said, once they’d passed from my hand to his.

“Seriously?”

“They don’t trust electronic messaging or mail services.”

“Who are you, really?”

“Diplomatic staff. Here to help in any way I can.”

“This is about the rare earth minerals, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know precisely. You just need to add a clause that says that the company in charge of the mining must adhere to international laws regarding the employment of minors.”

“I spoke to their head negotiator on the issue, and he assured me they complied with all the international protocols, but for the sake of good order, said things would go smoother if we just took them at their word.”

“Then I suspect you will be between a rock and a hard place. I’ll be here until the minister comes or not.”

He was not pleased.

…

I’d been there for three days and covered everyone in the embassy, including a gathering on the third floor to introduce me to everyone.

The Ambassador was back from a neighbouring country and greeted me like I was an old friend he hadn’t seen in years. He was the perfect man for the job, with a disarming manner and cheerful attitude. Bombs would be falling around him, and that smile would be there, telling everyone it was just a minor inconvenience.

What was clear, he and Ryder did not like each other at all, and he and the professor did not like each other at all.

Forster introduced me to each of the staff, and only one gave me a bad vibe, if it could be called that, Allison Dupre. She had a French accent, somewhat forced, late twenties, perhaps older, and my impression; she was trying to look like something she was not.

When we shook hands, which surprised me, I felt a sudden darkness coming over me. I thought she seemed familiar, but I didn’t recognise her as anyone I had met before.

She just didn’t recognise me at all.

The following night, as I was leaving, I saw Allison and Jane Porter in the middle of a heated discussion. I didn’t give it much thought. Such discussions were not rare, though usually an embassy’s staff were a tightly knit unit, especially in countries such as this.

Then, as luck would have it, Porter was going out, and I was a safe distance behind her. It was a breach of protocol to go out alone, especially in the circumstances. She was either very brave or very stupid.

I would check the next day if she had told anyone.

Meantime, I followed her to, of all places, the hotel where I was staying for the week, not one of the five stars, but a three and a half star special, picked randomly from one of those cheapest rate websites.

I considered not going in, but when I saw her go to the reception, have a short conversation, a shake of the head from the clerk, she went over to the lounge seats and picked one.

I shrugged and ambled in. She saw me at the same time I saw her and got up out of the seat.

Had Jane come to see me?

“Thomas.”

“Jane. But please call me Tom. It doesn’t sound as pompous.”

“Tom, then.”

“You shouldn’t be out alone; you do know that?”

“I wanted to see you away from the embassy and the prying eyes.”

“How do you know Ryder hasn’t got you under surveillance. I’ve seen at least two MI5 types trying to make themselves invisible. And I’m sure there are rules against fraternisation.”

“Is that what you think this is?”

“No, but it’s more about what others might construe it to be. That’s just the world we live in.”

Where was this going?

“You’re the one they sent out to find the traitor.”

Which meant she was either the instigator or the target. If she were the latter, then I was just exposed. Perhaps I was dealing with someone very clever. We moved to a quiet corner where I could see everyone else.

“What traitor?” I put on my much-practised benign expression and looked appropriately surprised.

“I put in coded messages, and days later, here you are “

“Coincidence, I assure you. I was yanked out of Jamaica to help get this trade deal over the line. I am not happy about it. And if there is this traitor, and I’m assuming it’s in the embassy, and one of the staff, the person to take it to is Forster, head of security.”

“I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could kick him. Tried it on the first day after I arrived. God’s gift to women, he said. Allison thinks he’s a legend and just told me he was hers.”

It was wrong on so many levels

“His problem, not yours. Ours. She’s also meeting up with one of those secret police types. Even in civvies, you can tell. She’d been here before, on an archaeological dig.”

OK, that wasn’t in the briefing papers.

“How do you know that?”

“She told me. Then, I figured that the reason why the government always seemed to know what we were planning before we told them was from a leak, and she’s it.”

“I think Foster’s would know if that was the case. Logically speaking, if he was responsible for knowing everything about the people in his purview.”

Then, something that really bothered me. Allison was walking from the life lobby to the front door, almost disguised, and had another guest not dropped his briefcase, I would have missed her.

Moments after Allison passed through the main entrance, Jane’s phone buzzed. She looked at and stood, almost too quickly.

“Sorry. Just forget I said anything. It’s clear you’re not who I thought you were.”

And then left, almost running.

If I was not mistaken, if I were to go up to my room, I would find that it had been searched. I’m not sure what that meant, but I had to guess. Forster had just used two staff members in a clever operation, one to distract, the other to search.

They would find nothing.

It meant that Forster was resourceful. He knew where I was staying, and I hadn’t told anyone exactly where I was.

This was the decoy room, the one I did tell them about. It looked like I was staying in the room, but I was not.

Just the same, I went up and checked. The seals were broken. Everything looked the same, but the photos I’d taken of where everything was placed were slightly askew. Hurried.

My list of one became a list of three.

…

“Follow that cab…” – A short story

Nothing ever good comes from eavesdropping.

Or, so my mother said, once, with such feeling that I suspect she had some experience of having done so. It might explain the enmity between her and her older sister, the aunt we never saw.

Except all that changed when I received an odd email from a woman who claimed to be that very aunt.

We had all been warned about scams that came from dubious sources online, and this initially struck me as one. I would need more information before I answered.

That meant poking the bear, that is, asking my mother about her sister.

And coming right out with the words she hoped she’d never heard.

“Aunt Guenivere sent me an email, asking if we could meet. It seems she wants to meet the nephew she hasn’t seen since I was born. What happened to you two?”

It brought a look of total hatred in return.

“You would be wise not to respond. That woman is just plain evil.”

“You do realise that a statement like that makes it even more imperative that I should meet her. If you’re not going to tell me what happened, I’m sure she will.”

“Then if you must, you must.”

It wasn’t resignation but suppressed rage. Whatever had happened, it was something she believed no one would believe her, or understand, least of all me.

With that, she stood and walked out of the room, leaving me with the ominous feeling that it would be the last time I saw her.

After verifying that my so-called aunt was Aunt Guenivere, I arranged a meeting in a public place, a tea room in Queens. And it wasn’t going to be hard to recognise her, she would just be an older version of my mother.

I knew this because I had found a photograph of my mother and her two sisters, all of whom looked very much alike. I’d known about the younger sister, who had died in an accidental car crash many years before, and what my mother regarded as a wasted life.

I saw her about the same time she saw me.

And she just made it to the table when her cell phone rang. She smiled, put a hand up and asked for a moment, and then went back outside. I watched her walk up and down, slowly at first, but I could see the conversation was getting heated.

After a few minutes, I went outside to see if I could be of any assistance.

Apparently not. One look was enough, and I knew what it meant. At least her sister and my mother shared the same facial expressions when angry.

Then the conversation ended. I thought, for a moment, she was going to throw the phone on the ground, and only just managed to stop herself.

Instead, she came over and said. “I’m sorry, but something has come up and I have to go. I’ll call you.”

With that, she waved down a taxi, one stopped, and she jumped in.

Another pulled in behind her taxi and, on the spur of the moment, said with a flourish, “Follow that cab.”

The driver turned to look at me and then said, “You’re kidding.”

I held up a hundred-dollar note and said, seriously, “This is yours if you don’t lose it.”

Incentive enough.

It was a lot easier to follow that taxi than I thought. We caught up and the first set of lights and then proceeded to miss every second intersection as if the universe knew I needed to keep her in sight.

All the way to the Upper West Side and a very expensive apartment block. I paid the cabbie and jumped out, just in time to see a very familiar figure join my aunt.

My father.

And they didn’t look like people who didn’t know each other, or who were at war.

They remained outside the apartment block, and I could see my father had arrived by cab, and it was waiting for him.

I got as close as I could, hidden effectively behind the bushes that lined the building entrance. They were speaking loudly, which surprised me

“What the hell were you thinking?” he said, not angrily, but I could tell he was agitated.

“I was thinking it was time someone told him the truth.”

What truth?

“You know what Evelyn thinks of that, and I do too. You made an agreement.”

“I’ve changed my mind. After all, he is my son, not hers.”

—–

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life. Again.