Category: Fiction

Writing a book in 365 days – 333/334

Days 333 and 334

Writing exercise – Include a love story, a catchy song, and a misunderstanding

…

Was it possible that one person could make a difference?  Yes!

My head and heart were still reeling the next morning, while battling with the effects of lack of sleep, euphoria was running at an all-time high, and the lyrics of ‘I could have danced all night’ were running through my head.

That night, it had been very hard to get to sleep, my mind going over every detail.  Was I writing more into this than there was?  Quite likely.  I would have to find some way of putting it all into some sort of perspective.  We just got along.  We were compatible.  We were not lovers or candidates for an affair.  That was not what I wanted, nor, I’m sure, did Katrina.  It had to be business as usual.

I was looking out the window again, down at the many people pouring out of the railway station on their way to work.  This morning, I viewed them in a different light, as people who, like I, no doubt had the same struggles, the same feelings, the same highs and lows.  No longer did I think I was the only one who could have problems.

Being a bad-tempered, forever-angry manager seemed to be part of the job.  It didn’t take long; after I’d assumed the position, I started to fit the mould.  I guess, after the last manager, the staff had every right to expect more of the same, and I’m afraid I hadn’t let them down.  It wasn’t hard because if you gave them an inch, they took a mile. 

I started with all the best intentions.  Then, as the rot set in at home, it had a great deal of influence at work.  As despondency closed in from all sides, relations on all fronts deteriorated.  Amazingly, I could see it all quite clearly, where things had been going wrong.  Was it symbolic that the sun came out at that precise moment, bathing me in a shaft of sunlight and warmth through the clouds?

Jenny came in with the morning mail.  As was customary, she would put it on the desk, and, if there was anything important, bring it to my attention and leave.  I had heard rumours she was less than impressed with me, but it was hard to find anything out.  Certainly, most mornings, I didn’t so much as acknowledge her existence.

“How are you this morning?”  I turned to catch her just as she was leaving.

She stopped.  “Very well, thank you.”  Her tone was slightly apprehensive.

“I know it’s probably a little late, but I apologise for being the cranky old bastard in the past, and I have greatly appreciated the work you have been doing for me all this time.”

Her apprehension changed to surprise.  “Thank you.”

“And for not going over to Whiteside when they offered it to you.”

“That was easy.  You were the lesser of the two evils.”

I smiled, trying to disarm her fears.  She looked at me, expecting a trap.  I’d also heard about Whiteside.  “I guess, in the fullness of time, when they write the history of this place, it will count for something to be known as the ‘lesser of two evils’.  But to more important things.  What’s really going on in this place?”

It took a while to break down the apprehension.  She had every right to be wary, but I finally convinced her that I was not the monster I was made out to be.  I also knew, discovering quite by accident, she was the editor of the unofficial staff newspaper.  She had a great sense of humour, as well as journalistic ability, which few knew about.

It was a great session, leading up to the morning tea break.  She gave me a rather potted history of each of the people in the department, pointing out, in her opinion, she added quick, their good and bad points.  When I asked her about my colleagues, she was a little more guarded, but I found out enough to satisfy my curiosity.

As she was going, perhaps finally deciding our new working relationship was sufficiently amicable, she asked, “Is there anything going on between you and Katrina?”

I looked at her and smiled.  “No.  As much as everyone would like it, I’m afraid our only claim to fame is morning tea and lunch on the odd occasion.  Still, if people think there is, it won’t matter what I say, will it?”

“No.  I’m afraid not.  You are up against a strange mentality here.”

“What do you think?”

“Does it matter?”

“It may seem odd to you, but yes.”

“She has the extraordinary quality of bringing people out of themselves.  Personally, I believe you.  From my experience working for you, I know you are one of the few with integrity.  And if you did go off the rails, I wouldn’t hold it against you.  This place manages to do it to everyone eventually.”

I deliberately did not go up to the tearoom to see Katrina.  Not that I didn’t want to, but I suspected my face would be a little like an open book, and I needed time to get my thoughts and emotions under control.

She came up to see me mid-morning about a minor administrative problem, which could easily be solved over the phone.  When she came in, I looked up, a felt a little quickening in my heart rate, but otherwise tried to look normal.  The business matter was resolved quickly, but she made no attempt to leave.

“We missed you at tea.”

“Work is piling up.”

“It has nothing to do with us?”

She was direct, and it was as if she could read my thoughts.

“I’m just a bit worried about what people are saying.”

She shook her head.  “Whatever for?”

“You should hardly want to have your name linked to mine in having a sordid affair.”

“Sordid, hey?  I’ve never had a sordid affair.  Is that an offer?”

I felt embarrassed.  Normally, I wouldn’t dream of talking to any woman in this manner.  “You know what I mean.”

“I think I do, and I’m flattered you have considered my feelings.  It’s a rare quality some of your contemporaries should take note of.  But you should not give a damn about what anyone thinks.  You and I know the truth, so we can have the last laugh on all of them.”

She made it sound all too easy, but I was sure it wasn’t quite the way she put it.  We were, unfortunately, up against human nature.  For many, it would be impossible to see that we could be just friends.  And for me?  Or her?  Perhaps it should end here.

“Do you seriously think that’s possible?”  I looked at her, perhaps for the first time, in a different light.  She was quite beautiful, with the look and personality to drive some men to distraction.

I had put my ear to the ground, and she was one of the few women who excited most of the men in this company.  One had even told me his secret desires at one management party, such was the lack of serious topics.  It angered me that my mind could sink to their level.

“I like you, John.  I like you a lot.  You’re going to have to make up your own mind about that.  I have.  What happens from here is up to you.”  With that said, she left me in more turmoil than I needed.

For several days, I went home earlier than usual to see if I could sort out some of the problems at home.  I took the children aside, one at a time, and had a long talk with them.  They thought it was rather novel that I should talk to them at all, but seemed to be willing to give it a chance.

Perhaps it was something I should have done long before this, but it was something that had slipped.  Once, when they were young, I spent more time with them.  Of course, then I was a lowly clerk, without the pressures of promotion.

How much of our interaction with family was lost as we worked our way up the ladder of success?  It was all from a business point of view, not personal, and it was true that the more successful we became in the company, the less successful we were at home.

I had a number of long talks with Joan, taking her to dinner, and spending a weekend away from the children on our own.  There was still some of the feeling we had for each other lurking beneath the hostility.  At times, we had arguments, but they were less intense, and relations were better.

Our discussions, however, were not on the same level as those I could have with Katrina.  Katrina had, in some unimaginable way, opened up a little of me, the real me, I’d not known before.

Whilst we had maintained a relatively platonic relationship, I had set aside any other feelings.  We still had the occasional cup of coffee or quick lunch, but it didn’t have the same feel to it, and she’d noticed it but said nothing.  I missed her, being with her, expressing my feelings.  Being myself, the newly discovered me.

Even Jenny, my new sounding board, said she’d noticed a subtle change.  In fact, at the end of one of our morning briefings, she added the observation, “You should not dwell too much on what other people think.  If you do, you will always be unhappy.”

I knew what she meant.  I leaned back in my chair, hands behind my head, and looked deep into my soul.  What did I want?  What did I feel?  Should I run with it, or run away from it?

I’d known the answer to that long before I picked up the phone.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

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

To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.

But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.

That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much idea of where it’s going as the reader does.

It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years.  Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.

But, I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it.  Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.

Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life.  I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.

Then there’s the title, like

The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello

The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister.  And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.

But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.

Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brother’s Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then went the way of the others.

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

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

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

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

…

By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope the day would improve.

The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers.  Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier.  I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village.  I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.

I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed.  In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passenger’s attention.  Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.

I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back.  He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury.  He looked at her ticket then nodded dismissively, and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway.  I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.

From what I could see there was something about her.  It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile.  I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone.  Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.

She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model.  I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris.  The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.

Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.

She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on.  I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me.  I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin.  My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.

I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast.  With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination.  It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight.  It would give me enough time to sample the local fare, and take a tour of the medieval village.

Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch.  After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward.  I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and let the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.

It didn’t work.

I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked, and what part I played in it.  And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out.  What was wrong with me?

I usually blamed it on my upbringing.

I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land.  There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.

Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would need to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later a keen military mind.  If nothing else I could ride a horse, and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.

I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no-one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared.  I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.

Computers were the new vogue and I had an aptitude for programming.  I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which although I hated the subject, I excelled in.  Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.

About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse.  There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.

Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life.  My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks.  It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.

Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited the qualifications I had, and the rest, I think I intimidated the interviewer simply because of who I was.  In that time I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist, and through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.

And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.  Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues.  I knew that in building a relationship compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise and what had happened was always going to be the end result.

It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing.  There was a certain expectation I had to fulfill, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented.  The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged.  Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian.  He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties.  He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns.  He was one of the lucky ones.

I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa.  From that moment, my obscurity disappeared.  It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses.  He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.

Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door.  There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.

Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa?  For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her when she had a certain air of unpredictability.  That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future.  She just failed to see how much he was using her.

Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.

I thought about calling her.  It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.

I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move.  The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red.  It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific.  In fact, her sublime beauty was the one other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact her hair was short, rather than long, and jet black.

I had to wrench my attention away from her.

A few minutes later several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid.  I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.

I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes, before retracing my steps to the front of the ship and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water.  It was almost mesmerizing.  There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa, and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.

Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”

I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned.  The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close me without my realizing it.  How did she do that?  I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.

“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping.  I hear the water is very cold.”

Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck.  There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her particularly around the eyes, and of her hair which was jet black.  An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtle, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.

Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory.  The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent, and fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.

Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate.  Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes.  My first thought, then, was to be careful.

“No.  Not yet.”  I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak.  And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.

The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanor as a little warmth reached her eyes.  “So that’s a maybe.  Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”

It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.

“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away.  Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped she turned to face me again.  She did not move closer.

I realized then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket.  “Thanks for your concern …?”

“Zoe.”

“Thanks for your concern, Zoe.  By the way, my name is John.”

She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease.  “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”

“I might throw myself overboard?”

“An idiotic notion I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”

Then she tilted her head to one side then the other, looking intently at me.  “You seem to be familiar.  Do I know you?”

I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings.  If she was, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me.  Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.

“Probably not.”  I also didn’t mention the fact she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.

She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realized who I was.  “Yes, I remember now.  You made the front cover of the Economist.  You sold your company for a small fortune.”

Of course.  She was not the first who had recognized me from that cover.  It had raised my profile considerably, but not the Sternhaven’s.  That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family.  I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.

“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.”  Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.

“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky.  It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”

The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times which had made that exact comment recently.

“But I am boring you.”  She smiled again.  “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts.  I am sorry.”

She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.

“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me.  It had been Sebastian on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money.  He was not very subtle when he described their methods.

But I knew he was right.  I should have let her walk away.

She stopped and turned around.  “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”

A sudden and awful thought popped into my head.  Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit.  “Are you a reporter?”

I was not sure if she looked surprised, or amused.  “Do I look like one?”

I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment.  “People rarely look like what they are.”

I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave.  Instead she astonished me.

“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot.  To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true.  Aside from the fact this excursion was probably a bad idea.  And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”

I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignoring their natural instinct.  I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.

“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing.  I was supposed to be traveling with my prospective bride.  I think you can imagine how that turned out.”

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

“She’s in the cabin?”  Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment then came back to me.  She seemed surprised I might be traveling with someone.

“No.  She is back in England, and the wedding is off.  So is the relationship.  She dumped me by text.”

OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her?  I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.

She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge.  No walking the plank today.  She moved towards it and sat down.  She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair.  Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.

I wondered, if only for a few seconds if she used this approach with anyone else.  I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.

She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us.  After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message.  It is difficult, the first few days.”

“I saw it coming.”

“I did not.”  She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her.  “But it is done, and I moved on.  Was she the love of your life?”

OK, that was unexpected.

When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry.  Sometimes I ask personal questions without realizing what I’m doing.  It is none of my business.”  She shivered.  “Perhaps we should go back inside.”

She stood, and held out her hand.  Should I take it and be drawn into her web?  I thought of Sebastian.  What would he do in this situation?

I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet.  “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.

It just started to rain.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2023

newdevilcvr6

Third son of a Duke – The research behind the story – 16

All stories require some form of research, quite often to place a character in a place at a particular time, especially if it is in a historical context. This series will take you through what it was like in 1914 through 1916.

…

The Strategic Function of the British Army in Egypt, 1915: Defence, Staging, and the Western Front Pipeline

I. Introduction: Egypt as the Strategic Nexus of the British Empire in WWI

Geopolitical and Strategic Context of Egypt (1914-1915)

At the onset of the First World War, Egypt occupied a singularly crucial position within the structure of the British Empire, primarily due to the Suez Canal. Opened in 1869, the canal was recognised as the vital artery, or the “jugular vein,” connecting the Mediterranean Sea and the Red Sea, offering the shortest possible route between Britain and its dominions in India, Asia, and East Africa.1 Maintaining control of this waterway was not merely a matter of regional security but an absolute imperative for the overall logistical integrity of the imperial war effort, ensuring the rapid transport of troops, supplies, and commercial goods to Europe.2

The military formation responsible for administering the armed forces in the region was the Force in Egypt (FiE), established in August 1914 and initially commanded by Major General Julian Byng, who was later replaced by General John Maxwell in September 1914.4 Politically, Egypt was formally declared a British Protectorate on 18 December 1914, solidifying British military control, a necessary measure following Britain and France’s declaration of war on the Ottoman Empire on 5 November 1914, and the subsequent Ottoman Sultan’s proclamation of a Jihad.3

Initial Strategic Ambiguity and the 1915 Priority Shift

In the earliest months of the war (late 1914), before the direct Ottoman threat fully materialised, the strategic value of the FiE was somewhat ambiguous. Initially, several elements of the force were considered available surplus and were sent to Europe to participate in the fighting on the Western Front.4 This early troop transfer demonstrated that the British High Command viewed the Egyptian garrison, at that time, as a potential reserve force for the main theatre of war.

However, the subsequent direct threat posed by the Ottoman Empire—which quickly materialised in February 1915 with a significant raid on the Suez Canal—instantly re-prioritised the FiE’s mandate.2 The overriding strategic imperative became the defence of the Canal, requiring a standing force of approximately 30,000 troops.4 This critical shift meant that Egypt ceased functioning as a manpower reservoir for the British Expeditionary Force (BEF). Any available troop capacity, particularly from the Dominions, was immediately diverted to the new strategic offensive aimed at neutralising the Ottoman threat: the Gallipoli Campaign. Consequently, the primary function of Egypt in the 1915 calendar year was twofold: Suez Canal defence and serving as the staging and logistical base for the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force (MEF) destined for Gallipoli. The evidence demonstrates that Egypt was definitely not used as a primary training pipeline for fresh British (UK) soldiers destined for the Western Front during 1915.

II. The Dual Roles of Egypt in 1915: Defence and Staging

The Defence of the Suez Canal: FiE’s Primary Mandate

The Force in Egypt’s foundational objective throughout 1915 was the protection of the Suez Canal.4 Following the declaration of war against the Ottoman Empire, the security of this waterway, which prevented British Empire troops from being cut off from Europe, became paramount.2

The initial force deployed for defence, under General Maxwell, was composed largely of Imperial contingents, reflecting Britain’s global military reach and the prioritisation of UK troops for the Western Front in late 1914. Key elements included the 10th and 11th Indian Divisions, the Imperial Service Cavalry Brigade, and the Bikaner Camel Corps, supported by elements of Indian and Egyptian Army Artillery.4 This defence force totalled around 30,000 troops.5

The anticipated Ottoman offensive materialised in February 1915. Turkish forces crossed the Sinai Peninsula and attempted to breach the defences on the Canal. The British, having fortified the length of the Canal and expecting the attack, successfully repulsed the assault over two days.2 The Ottoman attack was a failure, resulting in the loss of nearly 2,000 troops, while British losses were minimal (32 killed, 130 wounded).5 Following the raid, the British strategy evolved, extending defences from the western bank to the eastern bank of the canal, a costly, manpower-intensive commitment that tied down a substantial force throughout 1915 and 1916.2

The ANZAC Training Pipeline (Confirmation of Staging Role)

Egypt’s secondary, but equally important, role in early 1915 was to serve as the training and mobilisation centre for Dominion troops intended for combat. The Australian Imperial Force (AIF) and the New Zealand Expeditionary Force (NZEF), collectively forming the ANZAC Corps, were originally intended to train in England. However, the decision was made to divert them to Egypt in December 1914, primarily because the military camps in England were overcrowded and unsuitable for housing so many men through the winter months.7

The main facility established was Mena Camp, a vast training ground situated near the Giza Pyramids, about 16 kilometres from Cairo, which housed approximately 25,000 soldiers at its peak.7 Other training areas, such as Moascar near Ismailia, were also utilised by the 1st and 2nd Australian Divisions.9 Training was arduous, six days a week, involving marching across sand dunes and deserts in full marching order, exposing troops to extremes of heat and cold.8

The nature of this training environment—desert operations and movement in arid conditions 8—was highly relevant for the impending operations in the Middle Eastern theatre (Gallipoli, and later Sinai and Palestine). This environment was fundamentally unsuitable and strategically irrelevant for preparing troops for the static, trench warfare of the Western Front, where different technical and survival skills were required. The specialised training context provided in Egypt underscores that the forces stationed there were being prepared for operations against the Ottoman Empire, confirming that Egypt was focused on the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force (MEF) pipeline, not the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) pipeline, in 1915. Following several months of preparation, the ANZAC Corps were duly deployed to the Gallipoli Peninsula starting in April 1915.10

III. British (UK) Troops in Egypt (1915): The Gallipoli Staging Hub

Egypt as the Operational Base for the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force (MEF)

Following the decision to open an offensive against the Ottoman Empire at Gallipoli, Egypt became the indispensable operational base for the entire campaign.13 This base provided essential logistics, handling the transit of troops and vast quantities of supplies to the Dardanelles. Furthermore, the extensive medical infrastructure, including hospitals like the 2nd Australian General Hospital established at Mena House, received and treated the sick and wounded evacuated from the peninsula.9

Deployment of UK Regular and Territorial Divisions (The 1915 Flow)

The UK military units that passed through Egypt during 1915 were universally channeled toward the Gallipoli theatre, reinforcing the conclusion that Egypt’s function was MEF-specific in that year.

  1. The 29th Division (Regular Army): This division, often referred to as the ‘Immortal’ division, was an elite force assembled in England from regular battalions recalled from garrisons worldwide.14 It was integral to the initial offensive. The 29th Division sailed via Egypt in March 1915, arriving at the peninsula to conduct the critical landing at Cape Helles on 25 April 1915.12 Their time in Egypt was brief—a logistical staging operation—not a sustained training period specifically designed for future deployment to the Western Front.17
  2. Territorial Force (TF) Reinforcements: As the Gallipoli campaign devolved into attritional deadlock, UK Territorial Force units were deployed. The 53rd (Welsh) Infantry Division, mobilized in England and subsequently numbered the 53rd (Welsh) Division 18, embarked from Devonport between 14 and 19 July 1915.19 They sailed via Alexandria and landed at Suvla Bay on 9 August 1915.18 The commitment of this large UK formation to the MEF, routing through Egypt, demonstrates a key strategic priority of 1915: dedicating UK manpower to the secondary, Ottoman theatre.22

This commitment occurred despite the precarious manpower situation facing the British Army overall in 1915, which saw the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) overstretched and struggling to replace losses from a system that was slowly training and equipping millions of volunteers (Kitchener’s New Armies).23 The fact that UK territorial and regular units were funnelled into the MEF through Egypt confirms that the movement of UK troops via Egypt was solely focused on supporting the eastern campaign during that year.

IV. The Western Front Training Question: Analysing the BEF Pipeline

The Conventional BEF Training Structure (The UK/France Model)

The training regimen for British soldiers destined for the Western Front (the BEF) in 1915 followed a standardised and logical geographical path. Initial basic training for volunteers and Territorial reinforcements was conducted extensively across the United Kingdom, often overwhelming the existing barracks and necessitating the conversion of thousands of public buildings into temporary training centres.24 Once this fundamental training was completed, advanced instruction, acclimatisation, and specialised training specific to trench warfare were established in the vast rear areas of France and Belgium.24 This system was designed to be as direct and efficient as possible, maintaining a continuous flow of manpower to the BEF, which reached a size of 247,400 fighting men by 1915.26

Assessment: Why Egypt Was Not a BEF Training Base in 1915

The logistical and strategic realities of 1915 argue strongly against the idea that Egypt was used for training UK troops specifically for France.

First, using Egypt as a training base for the BEF would have represented a highly inefficient and circuitous logistical route. Troops recruited in the UK or the Dominions would have been shipped thousands of kilometres to Egypt, trained in an inappropriate desert environment, and then shipped thousands of kilometres back across the Mediterranean to France. This would have bypassed the established, highly efficient, and industrialised pipeline running directly from UK ports to the Western Front.27

Second, the manpower in Egypt was already fundamentally tied to theatre-specific objectives. The defence of the Canal and the support of the massive Gallipoli operation required a standing garrison and extensive logistical support staff.13 Diverting personnel or resources to train fresh BEF recruits would have compromised the core missions in the Middle East.

Therefore, the historical record indicates that UK military authorities did not establish specialised training camps for British troops destined for the Western Front in Egypt during 1915. The British units that staged there were either brief transients on their way to Gallipoli (e.g., the 29th and 53rd Divisions) or veteran units resting and recuperating, preparing for deployment to the secondary campaign.

The dedication of Egypt as the primary logistical and staging base for the MEF, handling all supplies, sick, and wounded for Gallipoli 13, functioned as a critical strategic pressure valve for the British military system. By accommodating the vast logistical requirements of the eastern campaign, the Egyptian base prevented this logistical weight from destabilising or collapsing the already strained infrastructure supporting the Western Front in 1915.23 While Egypt did not contribute trained manpower directly to the BEF in 1915, it was vital in sustaining the war on two fronts simultaneously.

V. Egypt’s Transition: The Post-Gallipoli Shift and the 1916 Flow to France

The military role of Egypt underwent a dramatic transformation at the close of 1915, a shift that is critical for understanding the chronological parameters of the user’s query.

The December 1915 Flood: The Return of the MEF

The failed Gallipoli Campaign concluded with the complete evacuation of Allied forces by January 1916.28 Starting in December 1915, the remaining forces of the MEF, including large numbers of seasoned UK, ANZAC, and other Imperial troops, were withdrawn and returned to Egypt.4 The Force in Egypt, which had been reduced mainly to a “training and reinforcement camp” during the Gallipoli offensive 4, now swelled with veteran combat divisions. For example, the 53rd (Welsh) Division, having suffered massive casualties at Gallipoli, arrived back in Egypt around 20 December 1915 for rest, refitting, and future deployment.20

The 1916 Reallocation: Egypt as a Source for the BEF

The concentration of experienced troops in Egypt immediately transformed its strategic status. With the growing scale of operations expected on the Western Front, particularly the massive offensive planned for the Somme, there was an intense demand for veteran fighting formations to reinforce the BEF.23 Egypt now housed a large strategic reserve of combat-tested units.

Crucially, the 29th Division, which had spent 1915 fighting solely at Gallipoli, rested briefly in Egypt (January to February 1916) and then received definitive orders on 25 February 1916 to move to France.17 The division embarked in March and began concentrating east of Pont Remy between 15 and 29 March, thus becoming a major fighting force on the Western Front.17

This transfer of the 29th Division confirms that Egypt did function as a strategic staging ground for UK troops destined for France—but this role only materialised after the evacuation of Gallipoli, beginning in the calendar year 1916. Following this reallocation, the FiE was formally merged with the remainder of the MEF to create the Egyptian Expeditionary Force (EEF) in March 1916.4 The EEF was then dedicated entirely to the defence of the Canal and the subsequent prosecution of the Sinai and Palestine Campaign.30

VI. Conclusion: A Multi-Functional Imperial Base

The role of the British Army in Egypt during 1915 was multifaceted but sharply delimited by the strategic priorities of the war’s Eastern theatre. Egypt was established as a vital imperial base with three key operational functions: the necessary garrisoning and defence of the Suez Canal, primarily undertaken by Indian and Egyptian forces; the primary training and mobilization hub for the ANZAC Corps destined for Gallipoli; and the critical logistical staging base for all UK Regular and Territorial forces (such as the 29th and 53rd Divisions) committed to the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force (MEF).

Final Determination

In a specific answer to the query regarding whether Egypt was used for training British (UK) soldiers for France in 1915, the comprehensive evidence strongly indicates No.

The UK training system for the Western Front remained decentralised in the United Kingdom and industrialised in the rear areas of France. The British units that trained and staged extensively in Egypt were primarily the ANZAC Corps. The veteran UK units that eventually fought on the Western Front, originating from Egypt—most notably the 29th Division—did not transfer to France until after the Gallipoli evacuation, commencing in 1916. Thus, in the calendar year 1915, the manpower allocated to Egypt was rigidly defined by the need to secure the Canal and prosecute the Gallipoli campaign.

The following data summarises the composition and disposition of forces in Egypt during the critical period of 1915.

Table 1: Composition and Primary Role of Key Forces in Egypt (1915)

Formation TypeExample Units PresentApproximate StrengthPrimary Role in Egypt (1915)Destination from Egypt
Imperial Garrison (FiE)10th & 11th Indian Divisions, Bikaner Camel Corps~30,000Defence of the Suez CanalEgypt/Sinai
Dominion Expeditionary ForceANZAC Corps (AIF/NZEF)~25,000Training/MobilizationGallipoli (MEF)
UK Regular (Staging)29th Division15,000+Staging/Immediate DeploymentGallipoli (MEF)
UK Territorial Force (TF)53rd (Welsh) Division15,000+Staging/ReinforcementGallipoli (MEF)

Table 2: Key British Troop Movements from Egypt to External Theatres (1915-1916)

Unit/FormationDate Arrived in EgyptKey Activity in EgyptDate Departed EgyptDestinationCausal Relationship to Query
ANZAC CorpsDecember 1914Training (Mena/Moascar)April 1915GallipoliConfirms 1915 training role, but not for UK troops/France.
29th Division (UK Regular)March 1915StagingApril 1915GallipoliUK troop passage in 1915 for MEF, not BEF.
53rd (Welsh) Division (TF)July 1915StagingAugust 1915GallipoliUK TF units prioritized for MEF in 1915.
29th Division (UK Regular)January 1916 (Returned)Rest/ReorganisationMarch 1916France (Western Front)Shows Egypt becoming a BEF staging post, but only after 1915.

“Going out of my mind…” – a short story

Accidents can happen.

Sometimes they’re your fault, sometimes they’re not.

The accident I was in was not. Late at night driving home from work, a car came speeding out of a side street and T-boned my car.

It could have been worse, though the person who said it had a quite different definition of the word worse than I did.

To start with, I lost three months of my life in a coma, and even when I surfaced, it took another month to realize what had happened. Then came two months of working out my recovery plan.

If that wasn’t trial enough, what someone else might describe as the ‘last straw that broke the camel’s back’, my wife of 22 years decided to send me a text that morning, what was six months in hospital, to the day.

“I’m sorry, Joe, but enough is enough. I cannot visit you anymore, and for the sake of both our sanity, I think it’s time to draw a line in the sand. I know what happened isn’t your fault but given the prognosis, I don’t think I can cope with the situation. I need time to think about what will happen next and to do so, I’ll be going home to spend some time with family. Once again, I’m so sorry not to be doing this in person. I’ll let you know what I decide in due course. In the meantime, you have my best wishes for your recovery.”

In other words, goodbye. Her family lived in England, about 12,000 miles away in another hemisphere, and the likelihood of her returning was remote. We had meant to visit them, and had, in fact, booked the tickets shortly before the accident. I guess she couldn’t wait any longer.

My usual nurse came in for the first visit on this shift. She had become the familiar face on my journey, the one who made it worth waking up every morning.

“You look a little down in the dumps this morning. What’s up?”

She knew it couldn’t be for medical reasons because the doctor just yesterday had remarked how remarkable my recovery had been in the last week or so. Even I had been surprised given all the previous negative reports.

“Ever broken up by text?”

“What do you mean?”

“Frances has decided she no longer wants to be involved. I can’t say I blame her, she has put her whole life on hold because of this.”

“That’s surprising. She’s never shown any disappointment.”

“Six months have been a long time for everyone. We were supposed to be going home so she could see her family. Maybe that’s what it’s all about.”

I gave her the phone and she read the message.

Then she handed it back. “That’s goodbye, Tom. I’m sorry. And no, I’ve never had a breakup by text, but I guess there could always be a first time.”

She spent the next ten minutes going through the morning ritual, then said, “I’ve heard there’s a new doctor coming to visit you. Whatever has happened in the last few days had tongues wagging, and you might just become the next modern miracle. Fame and fortune await.”

“Just being able to walk again will be miracle enough.”

That had been the worst of it. The prognosis that it was likely I’d never be able to walk again, or work, and the changes to our lives that would cause. I knew Frances was bitterly disappointed that she might become the spouse who had to spend the rest of her life looking after me, and though she had said it didn’t matter, that she would be there for me, deep down I knew a commitment like that took more internal fortitude than she had.

She ran her own business, managed three children into adulthood, and had a life other than what we had together. When I was fit and able, and nothing got in the way, it had worked. Stopping everything to cater to my problems had severely curtailed her life. Something had to give, and it had.

But, as I said, I didn’t blame her. She had tried, putting in a brave face day after day but once the daily visits slipped to every other day, to once a week, I knew then the ship was heading towards the rocks.

This morning it foundered.

I pondered the situation for an hour before I sent a reply. “I believe you have made the right decision. It’s time to call it, go home and take some time to consider what to do next is right. In normal circumstances, we would not be considering any of this, but these are not normal circumstances. But, just in case you are worried about the effect of all of this on me, don’t. I will get over it, whatever the result is, and what you need to do first and foremost is to concentrate on what is best for you. If that means drawing a line on this relationship, so be it. All I want for you is for you to be happy, and clearly, having to contend with this, and everything else on your plate, is not helping. I am glad we had what time we had together and will cherish the memories forever, and I will always love you, no matter what you decide.”

It was heartfelt, and I meant it. But life was not going to be the same without her.

…

I’d dozed off after sending the message, and only woke again when my usual doctor came into the room on his morning rounds, the usual entourage of doctors and interns in tow. I’d been a great case for sparking endless debate on the best route for my recovery among those fresh out of medical school. Some ideas were radical, others pie in the sky, but one that seemed implausible had got a hearing, and then the go-ahead, mainly because there was little else that apparently could be done.

That doctor, and now another I hadn’t seen before was standing in the front row, rather than at the back.

The doctor in charge went through the basics of the case, as he did every day, mainly because the entourage changed daily. Then, he deferred to the radical doctor as I decided to call her.

She went through the details of a discovery she had made, and the recommendation she’d made as a possible road to recovery, one which involved several radical operations which had been undertaken by the elderly man standing beside her. When I first met him, I thought he was an escaped patient from the psychiatric ward, not the pre-eminent back surgeon reputed to be the miracle worker himself.

It seemed, based on the latest x-rays, that a miracle had occurred, but whether it was or not would not be known for another week. Then, if all went well, I would be able to get out of bed, and, at the very least, be able to stand on my own. In the meantime, I had endless sessions of physio in the lead-up to the big event. Six months in bed had taken its toll on everything, and the week’s work was going to correct some of that.

It meant there was hope, and despite what I said and thought, hope was what I needed.

There had been ups and downs before this, fuelled by a morning when I woke up and found I could wriggle my toes. It was after the second operation, and I thought, given the number of painkillers, it had been my imagination.

When I mentioned it, there was some initial excitement, and, yes, it was true, I wasn’t going out of my mind, it was real. The downside was, that I couldn’t move anything else, and other than an encouraging sign, as the days passed, and nothing more happened, the faces got longer.

Then, the physiotherapist moved in and started working on the areas that should be coming back to life. I felt little, maybe the painkillers again, until the next, and perhaps the last operation. I managed to lift my left leg a fraction of an inch.

But we’d been here before, and I wasn’t going to hold my breath.

…

Annabel, the daughter who lived on the other side of the country, finally arrived to visit me. I had thought, not being so far away she might have come earlier, but a few phone calls had sorted out her absence. Firstly, there was not much use visiting a coma patient, second, she was in a delicate stage of her professional career and a break might be the end of it, and thirdly, she accepted that I didn’t want to see her until I was much better.

She was not very happy about it, but it was a costly venture for her, in terms of time, being away from a young family, and just getting there.

Now, the time had come. She had a conference to attend, and I was happy to play second fiddle.

After the hugs and a few tears, she settled in the uncomfortable bedside chair.

“You don’t look very different than the last time I saw you,” she said.

“Hospitals have perfected the art of hiding the worst of it, but it’s true. The swelling had receded, the physios have revived the muscles, and I have a little movement again.”

“The injuries are not permanent?”

“Oh, they’re permanent but not as bad as first thought.”

“Pity my mother isn’t here.”

“She was day after day, through the darkest period. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But your mother is an independent woman, and she has always been free to do what she wants, and I would not have had it any other way.”

“But deserting you in the middle of all this…”

“It’s been very debilitating on her. I can understand her reasons, and so should you. She will still be your mother no matter what happens to us.”

There had been a number of phone calls, from each of the children, decrying her actions after she had sent a text message to each of them telling them what she was doing. She had not told them she was leaving, in so many words, but leaving the door ajar, perhaps to allay their fears she was deserting them too. Annabel had been furious. The other two, not so much.

“And this latest development?”

I had also told her about the miracle worker, and the possibilities, without trying to get hopes up.

“On a scale of one to ten, it’s a three. We’ve been here before, so I’m going to save the excitement for when it happens, if it happens.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

It was a question I’d asked myself a number of times, one that I didn’t want an answer to. Hope was staving it off, each day a new day of discovery, and a day closer to the idea I might walk again. I had to believe it would happen, if not the next day, the next week, month, year, that it would eventually happen.

For now, all I had to do was stand on my own two feet.

It was ironic, in a way, that simple statement. ‘Stand on your own two feet’. Right then, it seemed so near, and yet, at the same time, so far away.

I didn’t answer that question, but did what I usually did with visitors, run a distraction and talk about everything else. This visit was no exception. I had a lot of catching up to do.

…

It’s odd how some call the day of momentous events D-Day because to me nothing would be more momentous than the invasion of France during the Second World War.

Others were not quite of the same opinion. It was going to be a momentous day.

It started the same as any other.

The morning routine was when the duty nurse came to do the checks. Then the physio, now a permanent fixture mid-morning, just after the tea lady arrived. Deliberate, I thought, to deprive me of my tea break, and some unbelievably delicious coconut cookies.

Then the routine changed, and the escort arrived to take me down to the room where the physio had set up an obstacle course. It looked like one, and I’d told him so when I first saw it, and he had said by the time he was finished with me, I’d be able to go from start to finish without breaking a sweat.

In my mind perhaps, but not with this broken body. I didn’t say that because I was meant to be positive.

An entourage arrived for the main event. I would have been happier to fail in front of the doctor, the miracle worker, and the physio, but it seemed everyone wanted a front-row seat. If it worked, the physio confided in me, there was fame and fortune being mentioned in Lancet, which was a prestigious medical journal.

Expectations were running high.

The physio had gone through the program at least a hundred times, and the previous day we had got to the point where I was sitting on the side of the bed. We’d tried this ordinary maneuver several times, previously without success under my own steam but this morning, for some reason it was different.

I was able to sit up, and then, with a struggle move my legs part of the way, and with a little help for the rest.

What was encouraging, was being able to swing my legs a short distance. It was those simple things that everyone could do without thinking, that had seemed impossible not a month before, that got people excited. I didn’t know how I felt other than I missed those simple things.

Then the moment had arrived. Hushed silence.

There was a structure in place. All I had to do was pull myself across, at the same time sliding off the bed and into a standing position. There was a safety harness attached so that if my grip slipped it would prevent me from falling.

It was probably not the time to tell them the pain in my lower back was getting worse.

So, like I’d been instructed, and going one step further than the day before, I reached out, grabbed the bars, and pulled myself up and over, at the same time, sliding off the side of the bed. I could feel the tug of the safety harness which told me I had left the safety of the bed, and was in mid-motion.

I could feel my legs straightening, and then a very softly landing on the floor, the safety harness letting my body drop down slowly.

The pain increased exponentially as the weight came down onto my legs, but my body had stopped moving. I could not feel the tightness of the harness, but a rather odd sensation in my legs.

All that time I had been concentrating so hard that I had heard nothing, not even the encouraging words from the physio.

Until I realized, from the noise around me, that it had worked. I was standing on my own two feet, albeit a little shakily.

And I heard the physio say, in his inimitable way, “Today you just landed on the moon. Tomorrow, it’s going to be one small step for mankind. Well done.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021

Research for the writing of a thriller – 3

Background material used in creating a location, an explosive situation, and characters to bring it alive – the story – A Score to Settle

…

The assistant who is anything but…

…

The Ghost in the Cell Block: When Undercover Becomes Ultimate Sentence

In the murky world of espionage, there are missions measured in months, and then there are missions measured in souls. Few agents ever truly pay the ultimate price, but some lose something far more valuable than life: they lose the self.

This is the volatile, razor-sharp reality facing Kaelen, the subject of a disastrous operation that has already cost her everything—including her name.

The Line That Dissolved

Kaelen wasn’t just working undercover; she became the cover. For years, she anchored herself so deeply into the shadows of a powerful criminal network that the defining line between her identity and her fabricated persona ceased to exist. She was the ghost that haunted the operation, successful beyond all measure, yet utterly unreachable.

When the signal came to extract, she refused. She had become indispensible, and in her drug-fueled, identity-splintered mind, standing down meant abandoning the mission—a mission that had superseded her marriage, her career, and her sanity.

She was literally dragged out—a reluctant, raging captive forced back into the daylight. Tragedy followed immediately: her husband, the last tether to her real life, was found violently murdered. The evidence was planted, the frame solidified, and Kaelen—a high-value operative now deemed unstable, drug-addled, and a convenient scapegoat—was sent down.

Her destination: a maximum-security women’s correctional facility. Her sentence: recovery and consequence. Her reality: a broken mind and a terrifying, blank space where the memory of her husband’s death should be.

The Crucible: Fodder for the Spies

Maximum security is rarely a place for healing; it is a pressure cooker designed to break the already broken. Kaelen is locked in the system, trying to navigate the agonizing fog of withdrawal while serving time for a crime she can’t remember committing and almost certainly didn’t. Her past genius is now overshadowed by her present fragility.

She is, precisely because of her profound damage and her unique skillset, now the perfect asset—or the perfect piece of wreckage—for the shadowy figures who still move the chess pieces.

Enter Rook.

Rook is the definition of a world-weary spy. A brilliant operative who has spent decades operating alone, he has finally hit a wall. He needs eyes and hands in a place where only the forgotten reside. He needs an asset who is underestimated, disposable, and capable of operating without definable allegiance. He needs Kaelen.

Their partnership is a forced marriage of necessity and paranoia. Rook is risking his career; Kaelen is risking her tenuous grip on reality. Kaelen can handle herself—years of deep immersion have given her instincts sharper than the correctional officers’ blades—but the question isn’t about ability. It’s about commitment.

The Volatile Equation

The spy business necessitates unfortunate bedfellows, and the prison environment multiplies the toxicity exponentially. Trust is the most expensive and dangerous currency.

Rook needs Kaelen to infiltrate the prison’s black market economy, which he suspects is tied to the very network she once served, and possibly, to her husband’s murder. But the mission demands that Kaelen remain clean, focused, and loyal—a set of demands entirely counter to the chaos that defines her current existence.

Will she lapse? The craving for the numbing oblivion of the drugs is a constant siren call, especially as fragments of the disastrous undercover mission begin to surface, threatening to shatter her fragile new identity. She made promises to herself, resolutions forged in the cold light of detox, but the darkness she inhabited is waiting for her return.

The prison walls are closing in. Every inmate, every guard, and every whisper could be an informant, a threat, or the unfortunate bedfellow Rook warned her about. They are operating within a system designed to punish, but which is now being used to execute a far more dangerous agenda.

Kaelen’s recovery is crucial, but her relapse could be catastrophic. In this volatile cage, the stakes aren’t just about freedom or vengeance; they are about stopping a localized crisis that threatens to blow the lid off the entire espionage world, taking Rook, Kaelen, and everyone around them with it.

What I learned about writing – Inspiration comes from the most unlikely sources-3

What do you make of this lot:

What happened at a Russian missile site?  This is also tinged with nuclear fallout.

The US is consulting with allies in Asia about missile sites.  Nothing more inflammatory to a country like China, with whom relations are deteriorating at a rapid rate of knots.

Investors rush to buy bonds.  OK, that’s short term bonds not long term bonds, and that, of course, caused an inverted curve, or a preclusion to a recession.

Gold and silver investment is booming, and in times past, this could be a precursor to war.

China has a huge fishing fleet in the South China Sea.  Why, no one knows.

China is also planning naval exercises in the same area.  Are they flexing muscles or sending a warning?

They’ve also had problems in Hong Kong, but it didn’t escalate into what happened at Tiananmen Square.  But, bottom line, Hong Kong is not a place to go to or stop over any more because of a constant threat of being arrested.  I’m certainly never going there again, which is a shame because it was my second favorite Asian city after Singapore.

And, of course, there’s another flashpoint in Kashmir, which everyone seems to have an opinion, but that had been simmering for a long, long time, and probably will for years to come.

And as for the former world power, the UK, they have got past Brexit, or have they?

So, from a thriller writer’s perspective, it means that if Russia is rearming, the US is trying to pre-empt missile strikes from China, or anything is simmering in North Korea which currently doesn’t seem to be the case, it seems the savvier investors have a notion the world might be on the brink of war, and the US might be in the middle of it all.

The US appears:

  • to be in a trade war with China, or perhaps a war of words
  • are selling billions worth of arms to Taiwan, a red rag to a bull if there was ever one
  • are offering to help out in Kashmir
  • are sending ships to the South China sea to show the ‘flag’
  • are standing back and watching North Korea launch missiles
  • are emphatically denying there will be a recession, at least at home

Can we get a plot line out of all this?

Title:  Flashpoint

Synopsis:

A leaked report on a Russian missile base suggests a recent ‘mishap’ with disarming ‘old nuclear missiles’, was more than just routine issue, and a flyover by satellite shows there are more sinister and unexplainable operations in play.

Meanwhile, the arrival of a Russian nuclear specialist and a group of Chinese scientists in North Korea is quickly followed by several missile tests a week later.  Are the North Koreans, with the help of the Chinese, looking to arm their missiles with Russian nuclear warheads?

The CIA has sent two of their best operatives to find out what is really going on, one, Sam Stockton, borne of Russian parents, and who has yet to exorcise his demons from the last failed mission, and the other, Elizabeth Chen, a North Korean expert who is coming out of retirement for this particular delicate assignment.

Will they discover the truth before the world descends into a nuclear holocaust?

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

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

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s the current situation?”

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

He looked in my direction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was hoping for the latter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was nerves more than the cold.

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

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

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fear factor increased exponentially.

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

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

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

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

We needed a distraction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

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 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, they 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 realized she’d spoken it out loud, had 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 civilization, 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 realized 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 observance, 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 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, 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 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, 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 off-hand 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, and 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 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.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2024

lovecoverfinal1

Research for the writing of a thriller – 3

Background material used in creating a location, an explosive situation, and characters to bring it alive – the story – A Score to Settle

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The assistant who is anything but…

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The Ghost in the Cell Block: When Undercover Becomes Ultimate Sentence

In the murky world of espionage, there are missions measured in months, and then there are missions measured in souls. Few agents ever truly pay the ultimate price, but some lose something far more valuable than life: they lose the self.

This is the volatile, razor-sharp reality facing Kaelen, the subject of a disastrous operation that has already cost her everything—including her name.

The Line That Dissolved

Kaelen wasn’t just working undercover; she became the cover. For years, she anchored herself so deeply into the shadows of a powerful criminal network that the defining line between her identity and her fabricated persona ceased to exist. She was the ghost that haunted the operation, successful beyond all measure, yet utterly unreachable.

When the signal came to extract, she refused. She had become indispensible, and in her drug-fueled, identity-splintered mind, standing down meant abandoning the mission—a mission that had superseded her marriage, her career, and her sanity.

She was literally dragged out—a reluctant, raging captive forced back into the daylight. Tragedy followed immediately: her husband, the last tether to her real life, was found violently murdered. The evidence was planted, the frame solidified, and Kaelen—a high-value operative now deemed unstable, drug-addled, and a convenient scapegoat—was sent down.

Her destination: a maximum-security women’s correctional facility. Her sentence: recovery and consequence. Her reality: a broken mind and a terrifying, blank space where the memory of her husband’s death should be.

The Crucible: Fodder for the Spies

Maximum security is rarely a place for healing; it is a pressure cooker designed to break the already broken. Kaelen is locked in the system, trying to navigate the agonizing fog of withdrawal while serving time for a crime she can’t remember committing and almost certainly didn’t. Her past genius is now overshadowed by her present fragility.

She is, precisely because of her profound damage and her unique skillset, now the perfect asset—or the perfect piece of wreckage—for the shadowy figures who still move the chess pieces.

Enter Rook.

Rook is the definition of a world-weary spy. A brilliant operative who has spent decades operating alone, he has finally hit a wall. He needs eyes and hands in a place where only the forgotten reside. He needs an asset who is underestimated, disposable, and capable of operating without definable allegiance. He needs Kaelen.

Their partnership is a forced marriage of necessity and paranoia. Rook is risking his career; Kaelen is risking her tenuous grip on reality. Kaelen can handle herself—years of deep immersion have given her instincts sharper than the correctional officers’ blades—but the question isn’t about ability. It’s about commitment.

The Volatile Equation

The spy business necessitates unfortunate bedfellows, and the prison environment multiplies the toxicity exponentially. Trust is the most expensive and dangerous currency.

Rook needs Kaelen to infiltrate the prison’s black market economy, which he suspects is tied to the very network she once served, and possibly, to her husband’s murder. But the mission demands that Kaelen remain clean, focused, and loyal—a set of demands entirely counter to the chaos that defines her current existence.

Will she lapse? The craving for the numbing oblivion of the drugs is a constant siren call, especially as fragments of the disastrous undercover mission begin to surface, threatening to shatter her fragile new identity. She made promises to herself, resolutions forged in the cold light of detox, but the darkness she inhabited is waiting for her return.

The prison walls are closing in. Every inmate, every guard, and every whisper could be an informant, a threat, or the unfortunate bedfellow Rook warned her about. They are operating within a system designed to punish, but which is now being used to execute a far more dangerous agenda.

Kaelen’s recovery is crucial, but her relapse could be catastrophic. In this volatile cage, the stakes aren’t just about freedom or vengeance; they are about stopping a localized crisis that threatens to blow the lid off the entire espionage world, taking Rook, Kaelen, and everyone around them with it.