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

I wandered back to my villa.

It was in darkness. I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.

I looked up and saw the globe was broken.

Instant alert.

I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there. I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either. Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.

Who?

There were four hiding spots and all were empty. Someone had removed the weapons. That could only mean one possibility.

I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.

But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.

Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.

There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch. One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage. It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief. It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.

It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely. It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.

The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground. I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side. After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks. It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that. I’d left torches at either end so I could see.

I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch. I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end. I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door. It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.

I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.

I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.

Silence, an eerie silence.

I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting. There wasn’t. It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.

I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was. Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.

That raised the question of who told them where I was.

If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan. The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental. But I was not that man.

Or was I?

I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness. My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void. Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly. A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.

Still nothing.

I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job. I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.

Coming in the front door. If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in. One shot would be all that was required.

Contract complete.

I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door. There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting. It was an ideal spot to wait.

Crunch.

I stepped on some nutshells.

Not my nutshells.

I felt it before I heard it. The bullet with my name on it.

And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea. I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.

I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.

Two assassins.

I’d not expected that.

The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part. The second was still breathing.

I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives. Armed to the teeth!

I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian. I was expecting a Russian.

I slapped his face, waking him up. Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down. The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally. He was not long for this earth.

“Who employed you?”

He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile. “Not today my friend. You have made a very bad enemy.” He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth. “There will be more …”

Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.

I would have to leave. Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess. I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.

Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally. I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.

A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.

Until I heard a knock on my front door.

Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?

I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm. I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.

If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation. Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.

No police, just Maria. I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.

“You left your phone behind on the table. I thought you might be looking for it.” She held it out in front of her.

When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”

I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”

I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.

“You need to go away now.”

Should I tell her the truth? It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.

She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity. “What happened?”

I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible. I went with the truth. “My past caught up with me.”

“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss. It doesn’t look good.”

“I can fix it. You need to leave. It is not safe to be here with me.”

The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened. She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.

I opened the door and let her in. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences. Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge. She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.

I expected her to scream. She didn’t.

She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous. Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about. She would have to go to the police.

“What happened here?”

“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me. I used to work for the Government, but no longer. I suspect these men were here to repay a debt. I was lucky.”

“Not so much, looking at your arm.”

She came closer and inspected it.

“Sit down.”

She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.

“Do you have medical supplies?”

I nodded. “Upstairs.” I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs. Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.

She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back. I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.

She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound. Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet. It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.

When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”

No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.

“Alisha?”

“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you. She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”

“That was wrong of her to do that.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Will you call her?”

“Yes. I can’t stay here now. You should go now. Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”

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

…

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The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 53

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the Second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

…

War is hell.

I remembered an old Sargeant Major was telling us that going to war was not fun, that the very real possibility of getting killed should be the only thing on our minds.

Along with keeping your head down and being very aware of your surroundings.

Apparently, he had been at a place called Gallipoli, and from what I had read, that was a special kind of hell.

He had also said fifty per cent of us wouldn’t return. I hoped to be in the fifty per cent that did. Just to spite the old bastard.

I knew it was going to get problematical sooner than we thought, I could smell the aroma of burning bush on the air, and as we got closer to the castle, the smoke got denser.

Wallace had a cunning plan, he’d used flame throwers to set the bush on fire so we couldn’t get to the castle under the cover of the forest. It was a plan he hadn’t me about.

Carlo had stopped, also understanding what Wallace had done. Would this interfere with us getting to the external entrances, or if the other three were unattainable, could we get to the secret entrance?

I caught up to him. “Not exactly what we envisaged. I had no idea Wallace was planning this?”

“It is a logical move. He can’t leave the castle, and as it was, he knew the forest would give us cover until the very last moment.”

“And now?”

“Now we use another entrance. Take longer, but we’ll get there. Only problem, they will be expecting us, and waiting.”

The others joined me, just as Carlo did an about-face and started going back the way we came.

“Where is he going?” Blinky asked.

“Another way. Wallace is burning our cover.”

He shrugged. “I suppose it would be too much to ask for some rain?”

“Sadly no. Fine and clear with a touch of fog, well, smoke maybe.”

He didn’t think it was funny. War I guess could do that to you.

When Thompson and company were planning the operation that was set up primarily to get defecting Germans out of the country, there was only so much research that could be done.

It was one of the reasons I got a seat at the table, my exploits in Italy looking at ancient buildings suddenly became a red-hot reason to be included. The war had all but petered out in that part of the country, the Germans were shoring up the Italians, and the Allies had bigger plans to invade via Sicily, or one of those islands.

Someone mentioned something hush-hush about Italy and the road back to peace, but at that point in time, the end of the war was not in sight.

The point was, the castle was in a strategic location, it was only being held by a small garrison, according to the resistance, ideal for what Thompson wanted. Approvals gained, he sent in a team of German-speaking soldiers to replace those there, as if nothing had happened and then set up the pipeline.

It worked.

For a while anyway. Several months after the new team had set themselves up and the personnel was moving through, it all stopped.

First thought was the Germans had discovered what was going on and switched the team again. Until Thompson noted we were still getting reports from Wallace, one of his men on the ground.

That’s when Thompson decided to send me.

And. No, it was not just a matter of saying, great, I always wanted to holiday in Italy, and particularly Tuscany. My excuse, I was not trained to be a commando or a secret agent.

Of course, I made that one fatal mistake, I had enlisted to fight in the war, and it was not my decision where they sent me.

So, I was on the next plane to Tuscany.

The trouble was, Thompson and I both agreed that it was more likely the men we selected had not changed their allegiances, they just went back to what they were before. Wallace, Johannesen and Jackerby had all been extricated from blown missions, and Thompson had been left scratching his head as to who the mole was in his office.

Too many coincidences proved it wasn’t.

Except coincidentally, Thompson had teamed up all the traitors in one place.

So, my mission was twofold, first to ascertain if they were traitors, and, if they were, to execute them.

The next problem, the mission was almost over before it started, because even though Thompson had told Wallace the wrong pick-up point where my plane would be landing, cloud cover made it impossible to guarantee I’d be jumping at the correct spot.

As it turned out, the resistance had planned a huge ambush in exactly the same place my plane landed, and I was in the middle of it. The rest as they say is history.

The thing is, ever since I landed, I had the benefit of a huge amount of good luck.

That couldn’t last.

Carlo seemed unfazed about the fire, perhaps he had expected it, but his only concern was time. We had to be in the castle just as the explosions started.

With 23 minutes to go, Carlo stepped up the pace. For a big man, he didn’t make much noise. I wished I could say the same for myself.

…

That word: Home – in sayings

I’m always on the lookout for inspiration for stories, especially the short stories I attach to photographs in my Being Inspired series, and one of the topics that has been suggested is along the lines of the following.

There is certainly a lot of scope with these.

Home is where the heart is

One’s home is the preferred place to all others, the one you are most emotionally attached, i.e. you have the deepest affection for. It may not necessarily be a physical place though.

I must say I tend to agree with this because every time I go away, I’m always looking forward to coming home.

Even when I’ve had to stay away for a few months, it’s not possible to call that home, it’s just another place to stay.

On the other hand…

It’s the name of a song by Elvis Presley.

And it has been the title of several films.

The Hallmark channel presses this point home time and time again.

Pliny the Elder is credited with coming up with the saying.

Home is what you make it

This is a similar saying, but, to me, it means something completely different

Though many will say this means that it’s where family and friends can come to, a place where memories can be made, I don’t believe it’s the same as the first saying.

What you make of it depends on your circumstances, you can hate it because it might be because you’re stuck with one parent with perhaps a step-parent. Or you might love it because you’ve escaped a bad situation.

But it’s not necessarily where your heart is.

Wherever I hang my hat I call home

Barbra Streisand made this song famous, and probably means that no matter where you are, it is home to you. It would be more fitting for someone who doesn’t necessarily see their true home very often, ie you work in the diplomatic service or in the military and you move around a lot.

Home away from home

This is a place that is as good as your real home.

Writing a book in 365 days – 105

Day 105

Write a story that has the line, “If you knew better, you would stop reading this right now, but I know you won’t.”

…

I looked down at the woman who called herself my mother and shook my head.

It was hard to reconcile the fact that over two hundred people turned out for the funeral, one hundred and ninety-nine of them I had never seen or met before.

Ten of them had stood up in front of the mourners and reminisced on the life of a woman that I had no idea was the person they were describing.

Kind, generous, loving, a friend to everyone…

… except her son.

The one I knew, her lawyer, who was overseeing the execution of her will. That she would even remember me or put me in that will was a surprise. I hadn’t seen her in forty years, the day her latest husband kicked a naive and very frightened fifteen-year-old out of ‘his’ house when she was away.

He had been just the latest of terrible men she had taken up with after the sudden death of my father, a year before.

I left and never came back. I burned any letter that came from her until I eventually moved to the other side of the world and built a life of my own.

Until I got that fateful phone call.

My mother had died, and her last request was to find me. I had changed names and disappeared several times, and yet I’d been found.

How?

The lawyer summed it up in a half dozen sentences. She had a team of private investigators keep track of me. Once she discovered what her latest ‘boyfriend’ had done, she had kicked him to the curb, an interesting expression for a lawyer, and set about finding me. When I didn’t answer her letters, she didn’t lose interest. She just had them keep track of me, in case, one day, I changed my mind.

That I didn’t was her greatest sorrow.

I was of two minds whether to go back and attend the funeral, and nearly didn’t. That was Noelle’s doing, insisting the lawyer pay for two first-class tickets, which he did. That she said, spoke volumes, though not explaining what she meant.

Of course, Noelle knew the story. Like everything about my life, she had wheedled and cajoled it out of me over a long period of time. She knew when she met me, I was damaged goods, but I soon discovered she was everything I needed to heal.

I felt a hand slip into mine, and her aura enveloped me. “She has passed Ian, and she can’t hurt you anymore.”

That was a matter of opinion because seeing her again dredged up a lot of very good memories after that kind, generous person they described until my father died.

It seemed odd to me that none of the other one hundred and ninety-nine attendees were very interested in me or why I was there. But, then, nor was I interested in them. They just seemed to melt away, leaving almost as if there were rented mourners. Perhaps they were.

Ten minutes after the service, it was just the coffin, me, Noelle, and the lawyer, who had given me some time to be with her. I was surprised that I hadn’t just left with everyone else.

“As I said earlier, Ian, there will be a reading of her will back in my office on Wednesday, and you are specifically requested to attend.”

“Is there any point. I mean, after forty years, I hardly think we would ever remember she had a son.”

We’d had this same argument earlier, and he had no persuasive argument then. This time, he had come prepared. I could see an envelope in his hand.

“She knew that you might show some reluctance, so she wrote this letter,” he held up the envelope. “I urge you to read it. It might explain a few things about her, or it may not. I was not privy to the contents, only that I was given explicit instructions to give it to you at the funeral.”

He held it out. I looked at it, then Noelle, who nodded. I took it and put it in my coat pocket.

“Thank you, Ian. I am very sorry for your loss, and I will leave you now. Later, perhaps.”

He held out his hand, and I shook it. It was my mother I hated, not him.

I remained there with her until the casket was closed and taken away for the cremation she had requested.

It was a silent drive back to the quaint hotel Noelle had found for us, and the room, she pointed out, a king back in the so-called dark ages, had stayed there.

Given the modern look, I’d say that the King would not recognise the room now if he had stayed there, which was a remote possibility. Just the same as an advertising hook to start there, it worked.

The letter was sitting on the table between two very comfortable leather chairs, and after dinner downstairs in the dining room, we had opened a bottle of champagne and sat in front of the fireplace, which we were told was used in winter.

It was cold but not that cold, but as I picked up the envelope, I shivered.

Her ghost?

“What did you think it said?”

“Perhaps a belated apology. I don’t know. She’s had forty years to think about it.”

“Are you going to read it?”

That was a question I had churned over in my mind the whole way from the church to the hotel. Was there anything left to say, or anything she could say that would make a difference?

“Yes.”

The first few lines anyway. I opened the envelope and pulled out several sheets of lined paper, and at first glance showed very neat and legible handwritten script, the sort that would take forever to write. It was the sort of perfection she indulged in, and I remembered bringing with her when she used to write letters, being told at the same time that we should never lose the art of writing or communicating with others.

To her, a person who could not write or find a reason to write to someone else was not someone she would want to know. I’m sure after I refused to write back, I fit into that category.

I unfolded the pages and steeled myself for what was to come.

My dear Ian,

If you are reading this, then I have passed. It is regrettable that we did not speak again after you left in the spring of 1985, and sad that in the years that followed that you did not reply to my letters.

It took many months before I discovered what had happened in my absence, but it is no excuse to simply say it would not have happened in different circumstances.

In all likelihood, it would have happened anyway, then or later, because, in truth, after your father died, I stopped being your mother. I have no excuse and offer none. Nothing will ever make up for the injustice wrought upon you.

Though while you may have hated me, I never for one minute stopped loving you, and when I finally accepted you wanted nothing more to do with me, I asked some friends to keep an eye on you. Although you may not have realised it, I have been able to help you in your endeavours, as a proud mother would in different circumstances.

I put the letter down for a moment and thought back over several key moments in my life, reflecting on how hard it had been to achieve certain milestones, against the odds and in the face of almost insurmountable obstacles.

Were they all that insurmountable if there was an invisible hand behind it? Had I not achieved those milestones on my own?

Before you get all ‘het up’ over what you might consider interference, believe me when I tell you, you had achieved the unachievable all on your own, but sadly, your background was working against you. I simply helped to level that so-called playing field.

I knew in my heart that if you wanted to reconnect with me, you would, and in that, I decided I would not interfere. Perhaps I will live to regret that, but it was never going to happen if I turned up on your doorstep. And, believe me, there were many times I wanted to do just that.

I have said all that I wish to say about those matters. What happened is what happened, and it can not be undone. I hope you will see your way to come to my funeral. It will be very strange with lots of people who will be very alien to you.

All they saw was the widow of a billionaire who was their benefactress, and hoping by paying their respects would continue to be so. The same could not be said for you, you came because you wanted to, not because you to and for that I am very grateful.

Then, at the bottom of the page was, in a less tidy hand, the words, “If you knew better, you would stop reading this right now, but I know you won’t.”

Whatever followed was on the next page, except there wasn’t a next page. I showed it to Noelle.

“What do you think of that?”

She read the words and turned the page over, thinking it might be on the back. There was nothing on the back. She looked at the page in the light, perhaps thinking there might be indentations, but there weren’t any.

“There was more, and it’s missing. What do you think it said?”

“Something someone didn’t want me to read. I guess we will be going to the reading of the will after all.”

“The game’s afoot?”

“Indeed.”

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 1

My mind will not rest.

Down here, it is summer, and the last few days have been rather hot, well, it is summer after all, but tonight it is particularly hot.

So, as I can’t sleep, I’m lying on the couch staring at the ceiling, otherwise known as the cinema of my dreams.

Where am I?

Well, it has to be someplace cool, of course.

I have no idea where or when I got sucked into this game of searching for treasure. Boggs had been reading some newspaper article relating to a Spaniard who had survived a shipwreck off the coast and had supposedly come ashore dragging his treasure chest, all that he could save from the sinking ship.

I think my priorities may have been slightly different.

Standing on the beach where Boggs believed the man came ashore, we looked inland at the coastal plain now overbuilt with holiday houses and apartments, behind that, some parkland, under threat from the developers, and behind that, the mountains.

I could guess what Boggs was going to say next.

“It has to be somewhere in the mountains, a cave perhaps.”

My map told me there was a mountain face for about 25 miles in either direction and rising to two to three thousand feet up. I didn’t calculate the area, I just considered it big.

“If he came ashore here, dragging a heavy chest, and barring all of this building, he would take the most direct route inland.”

He pointed in the direction he thought the Spaniard took.

My eyes followed his arm and stopped at a beacon halfway up the hillside.

That was a long way, pulling a heavy chest.

“Not up the hill, maybe, but somewhere along the base.”

“And don’t you think every man and his dog would have made the same assumption, and covered the ground already.” The treasure hunt was beginning to bore me.

His expression changed, the sort that told me he might not have considered that possibility. Boggs was like that, always thinking he had the original idea.

“Perhaps, then, a drink and more thought on the matter.”

We trudged through the soft sand to the bar just off the sand, a small place called The Spaniard. A sign on the window said ‘Treasure Maps for sale’.

Well, the bar was air-conditioned, and the beer was cold. I have one myself and see where this cinematic experience goes

“Sunday in New York”, a romantic adventure that’s not a walk in the park!

“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.

When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.

From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.

There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.

Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.

Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?

Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?

Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?

As they say in the classics, read on!

Purchase:

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“Echoes From The Past”, the past doesn’t necessarily stay there

What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

…

Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.

Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment Will’s life slowly starts to unravel and it’s obvious to him it’s time to move on.

This time, however, there is more at stake.

Will has broken his number one rule, don’t get involved.

With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.

But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved there is going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.

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