Third son of a Duke – The research behind the story – 5

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.

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Voyage on the Precipice: A Mediterranean Liner Journey in February 1914 and the Unveiling Shadows of War

Abstract

This paper reconstructs a hypothetical, yet historically plausible, passenger liner journey through the Mediterranean in February 1914, tracing an itinerary from Gibraltar to Port Said, with stops at Marseilles, Toulouse (via land excursion), Naples, and Toulon. It aims to “paint a picture” of the multi-faceted experience of such travel, encompassing the opulent comfort and social rituals of the Edwardian era, the technological marvels of the large passenger liner, and the vibrant cultural encounters at each port of call. Crucially, the paper highlights the subtle yet pervasive indicators of impending conflict, examining how preparations for war – from visible naval activity and fortifications to newspaper discourse and diplomatic whispers – would have intersected with the seemingly idyllic world of luxury cruising, offering a poignant glimpse into a world unknowingly poised on the brink of profound geopolitical upheaval.

Introduction

February 1914 represented a peculiar calm before the storm. Europe, having enjoyed a period of relative peace and unprecedented industrial and scientific advancement, was luxuriating in the twilight of the Belle Époque. Travel by large passenger liner had reached its zenith, offering a blend of speed, luxury, and global connectivity that redefined the leisure experience. Yet, beneath this veneer of serenity, geopolitical tensions simmered, particularly within the continent’s intricate web of alliances and imperial rivalries. This paper delves into the experience of a luxury liner journey through the Mediterranean during this specific moment, exploring the sensory, social, and cultural dimensions of such a voyage, while meticulously identifying the nascent signs and preparations for the Great War that would erupt just months later. By reconstructing this journey, we aim to illustrate the striking contrast between the opulent ignorance of a privileged few and the ominous undercurrents that were poised to reshape the 20th century.

I. The Grand Stage: Passenger Liners and the Zenith of Edwardian Travel

The passenger liners of 1914 were floating palaces, epitomising the engineering prowess and social stratification of the age. Vessels like the Olympic, Imperator, Aquitania, or the German Vaterland were, by modern standards, unparalleled in their luxury and scale. Aboard these leviathans, the journey itself was as significant as the destination. First-class accommodation boasted grand dining salons, ballrooms, smoking rooms, libraries, and private suites often adorned with mahogany, brass, and velvet. The social hierarchy aboard mirrored that ashore, with distinct classes experiencing vastly different amenities and interactions. First-class passengers, often from the upper echelons of society – industrialists, aristocrats, diplomats, and wealthy tourists – enjoyed impeccable service, gourmet cuisine, and a meticulously crafted social calendar of dances, concerts, and games.

Technologically, these ships were wonders. Powered by massive reciprocating steam engines or the newer, smoother steam turbines, they cut through the waves at speeds that dramatically reduced travel times. While wireless telegraphy (radio) was increasingly common for ship-to-shore communication, it was still primarily for official messages and urgent passenger communications, not the ubiquitous personal connectivity of today. Navigation relied on a combination of celestial observation, dead reckoning, and rudimentary charts, guided by highly experienced captains and officers. The sheer scale and self-sufficiency of these vessels projected an image of human mastery over nature, fostering a sense of unbounded optimism and security that, in hindsight, was tragically misplaced.

II. Setting Sail: From the Atlantic to the Mediterranean via Gibraltar

Our hypothetical journey begins with the liner, perhaps having crossed the Atlantic or departed from a major British port, making its way through the Straits of Gibraltar in early February 1914.

Gibraltar: A British Bulwark (Brief Stop) As the liner approaches, the imposing Rock of Gibraltar looms, a stark grey sentinel guarding the entrance to the Mediterranean. The air might be crisp, carrying the scent of salt and coal smoke. The ship would drop anchor briefly in the Bay of Gibraltar or tie up at one of its bustling docks. For passengers, even a brief stop would offer a captivating spectacle.

Sensory Snapshot: The clang of anchor chains, the call of gulls, the distant bugle calls from the military barracks. On shore, the narrow, winding streets of Gibraltar Town would be a cacophony of languages – English, Spanish, Arabic – and the sight of British soldiers in their distinct uniforms mingling with local merchants and seafaring types.
Preparations for War: Gibraltar was, first and foremost, a vital British naval base and coaling station. Passengers disembarking for a quick shore leave or simply observing from the deck would witness overt signs of military strength.
- Naval Presence: The harbour would likely host a significant contingent of the Royal Navy’s Mediterranean Fleet – battleships, cruisers, and destroyers, their grey hulks bristling with cannon. These colossal dreadnoughts, the apex of naval power, would be undergoing maintenance, coaling, or drills. The sight of these modern instruments of war, gleaming in the morning sun, would be a clear, albeit perhaps subconsciously interpreted, indicator of imperial might and readiness.
- Fortifications: The Rock itself was honeycombed with tunnels and gun emplacements, a testament to centuries of strategic importance. Though largely static, their presence underlined the British Empire’s commitment to controlling this critical chokepoint.
- Coaling Operations: The gritty, laborious process of coaling – with teams of men shovelling thousands of tons of coal into the ships’ bunkers, blackening the air and the water – would be a common sight, highlighting the logistical demands of maintaining a vast, steam-powered fleet.

After a few hours, the ship would lift anchor, the distant strains of a military band perhaps fading as it steams eastward into the Mare Nostrum.

III. Cruising the Mare Nostrum: A Tapestry of Cultures and Commerce

Life on board during the leisurely cruise through the Mediterranean would settle into a luxurious rhythm. Days would be spent on deck; gentlemen might engage in deck quoits or shuffleboard, ladies might read or converse, wrapped in rugs against the February chill, always attended by stewards. Grand meals, formal attire, afternoon tea, and evening entertainment, from concerts to card games, filled the hours. The air would be filled with the scent of fine cigars, perfume, and the faint tang of sea air.

The Mediterranean, for centuries a crossroads of empires and cultures, offered a constantly changing panorama. Distant coastlines – North Africa to the south, the European mainland to the north – would appear and recede. Occasionally, other vessels would be sighted: smaller cargo steamers, fishing boats, and perhaps the sleek lines of other naval ships, adding a subtle undercurrent of international maritime presence.

IV. European Ports of Call and Inland Diversion

Marseilles, France: A Gateway to Provence. The first major continental stop would be Marseilles, France’s largest and oldest port. The ship would dock amidst a flurry of activity typical of a major commercial hub.

Sensory Snapshot: The vibrant chaos of the Vieux-Port, the cries of vendors, the smell of garlicky seafood, coal smoke, and the distinctive scent of the Mediterranean sun on ancient stone. Passengers might explore the bustling Canebière, visit Notre-Dame de la Garde, or simply enjoy a coffee at a waterfront café.
Preparations for War: While Marseilles itself was a commercial port, not a primary naval base, its strategic significance as a gateway to France and its colonial empire in North Africa was immense.
- Troop Movements (Indirect): Though not directly observed on the passenger liner, the port’s infrastructure would be capable of handling significant troop movements, and the presence of military personnel on shore leave or transiting would be common.
- Newspaper Discourse: Local French newspapers, available at newsstands, would carry reports on European affairs, often with a distinctly nationalistic tone, and discuss naval appropriations or the ongoing arms race. These headlines would be a key source of information – or misinformation – for those interested in the unfolding geopolitical drama.

Toulouse, France: An Inland Excursion From Marseilles, some adventurous passengers might opt for a land excursion. While the liner continued its voyage, those desiring to experience more of France could take the relatively swift and comfortable rail journey inland to Toulouse. This would involve disembarking at Marseilles and rejoining the ship at a later port, likely Toulon.

The Rail Journey: The journey by train would offer a different perspective – the rolling landscapes of Provence, vineyards, olive groves, and quaint villages flashing past. The train carriages, though less opulent than the ship, would still offer comfortable seating and dining cars for longer routes.
Toulouse: Known as “La Ville Rose” (The Pink City) for its terracotta brick architecture, Toulouse offered a rich cultural contrast to the coastal ports. Passengers could explore the Capitole, its grand basilicas such as Saint-Sernin, and experience the distinct cuisine of Occitania. This excursion, detached from the immediate maritime environment, would emphasise the broader European context, with local French life proceeding seemingly undisturbed by global anxieties.
Subtle Undercurrents: Even in an inland city, casual observation might reveal reservists in civilian clothes, military recruitment posters, or conversations among locals hinting at the mandatory military service and the state of national readiness.

Naples, Italy: A Mediterranean Jewel Rejoining the liner, or for those who stayed aboard, the ship would next arrive in Naples, Italy. Mount Vesuvius, often shrouded in a plume of smoke, would dominate the skyline – a powerful, ever-present reminder of nature’s forces.

Sensory Snapshot: The bustling Bay of Naples, the bright colours of local fishing boats, the vibrant street life, the aroma of pizza and espresso, and the energetic chatter of Italian. Excursions to Pompeii and Herculaneum would offer a poignant glimpse into antiquity, providing a stark contrast to the modern luxuries of the liner.
Preparations for War: Italy, a member of the Triple Alliance with Germany and Austria-Hungary, but with increasingly strained relations with Austria, was in a complex diplomatic position.
- Naval Presence (Italian): While not as dominant as British or French fleets, the Regia Marina (Royal Italian Navy) would have a presence. Passengers might observe Italian warships, a less common sight than British or French vessels, but indicative of Italy’s own naval ambitions and strategic concerns in the Mediterranean.
- Political Discussion: Onboard, it’s plausible that discussions among well-informed passengers would touch upon Italy’s flirtation with neutrality, or its growing irredentist claims on Austro-Hungarian territories, revealing the intricate diplomatic dance prior to the war.

Toulon, France: A Naval Fortress. Leaving Naples, the liner would turn north-west, arriving at Toulon, France’s principal Mediterranean naval base. This stop would be the most overt demonstration of imminent conflict preparations.

Sensory Snapshot: The air in Toulon would be distinctively military. The clang of metal on metal from the dockyards, the shrill whistles of bosuns, and the constant movement of uniformed personnel. The city itself, though charming, would feel less like a tourist destination and more like a strategic stronghold.
Preparations for War: Toulon was a beehive of military activity.
- French Fleet: The harbour would be packed with the formidable battleships and cruisers of the French Marine Nationale. These ships, many newly commissioned, would be undergoing drills, resupply, and maintenance. The sight of these powerful warships, often operating in formation or practising gunnery, would be an unmistakable sign of a nation preparing for naval engagement.
- Dockyard Activity: Cranes would swing, materials would be moved, and the rhythm of shipbuilding and repair would be palpable. This industrial activity underscored the ongoing arms race as major powers constantly sought to upgrade their fleets.
- Army Presence: Toulon also housed significant army garrisons. Soldiers in their distinctive French uniform (the relatively visible red trousers and blue coats, soon to be replaced by horizon blue) would be a common sight, both in the streets and perhaps engaging in training exercises on the outskirts of the city.
- Discreet Intelligence Gathering: While innocuous to most passengers, the presence of various flags on ships, the comings and goings of foreign naval attachés, and the general atmosphere would be keenly observed by military and intelligence personnel.

V. Shadows on the Horizon: Precursors to Conflict

Throughout the journey, aspects beyond the specific port observations would subtly reinforce the mounting tensions.

Newspaper Headlines: Daily newspapers, often printed on board or acquired at ports, would carry dispatches from diplomatic capitals. Reports on the Balkan Wars, the assassination of King George I of Greece in 1913, the escalating naval rivalry between Britain and Germany, and the intricate web of alliances (Triple Entente vs. Triple Alliance) would provide a constant backdrop of political unease, even if often dismissed by the leisurely class as “diplomatic squabbles.”
Passenger Conversations: In the smoking rooms and dining salons, conversations among well-informed gentlemen would inevitably turn to politics. Whispers of a coming “Great War,” discussions about the balance of power, and speculation about the Kaiser’s ambitions or the Russian Tsar’s intentions would circulate. The mood might range from jingoistic confidence to apprehensive concern.
Heightened Security (Subtle): While not overtly obvious, security measures around strategic ports like Gibraltar and Toulon would be tighter. Naval patrols might be more frequent, and civilian vessels would be expected to adhere strictly to navigational protocols in military zones.

VI. Gateway to Empire: Port Said

The final destination of this segment of the journey would be Port Said, Egypt, at the northern entrance to the Suez Canal. Here, the Mediterranean’s European character would blend with the exoticism of the Middle East, under the pervasive influence of the British Empire.

Sensory Snapshot: The transition would be marked by a surge of new sights, sounds, and smells. Turbans, fezzes, and flowing robes would replace European attire. The scent of exotic spices, burning incense, and desert dust would mingle with coal smoke. The air would hum with the calls of street vendors and the unique rhythm of Arabic.
Preparations for War: Port Said and the Suez Canal were not just commercial arteries but vital strategic choke points for the British Empire, connecting Britain to its vast holdings in India, Australia, and East Africa.
- Imperial Logistics: The Canal’s importance for the rapid deployment of troops and supplies was paramount. While not a naval base in the traditional sense, the constant traffic of vessels – troopships, cargo ships, and the occasional warship – underscored its strategic value.
- British Military Presence: British military personnel would be visibly present, overseeing the canal’s operations and maintaining security in a region considered crucial to imperial power projection.
- Coaling and Supply: Port Said was another major coaling station, essential for long-range naval operations and imperial commerce. The sight of ships being resupplied would again highlight the logistical underpinnings of empire and potential conflict.

Conclusion

A journey by large passenger liner in February 1914, from Gibraltar through the Mediterranean to Port Said, would have offered a profoundly Janus-faced experience. On one side was the epitome of Edwardian luxury, ease, and cosmopolitanism – a world of grand hotels afloat, exquisite dining, and the serene beauty of the Mediterranean landscape. Passengers, insulated by their privilege and the immense scale of their vessel, could enjoy an illusion of peace and endless prosperity, exploring ancient ruins and vibrant modern cities.

Yet, woven into this tapestry of leisure were the unmistakable threads of an impending cataclysm. From the formidable dreadnoughts at Gibraltar and Toulon, embodying the naval arms race, to the newspaper headlines chronicling diplomatic manoeuvres and the omnipresent military uniforms in strategic ports, the signs of a continent gearing up for war were abundant. The journey itself, through critical maritime chokepoints and alongside key naval bases, served as a microcosm of global realities. The elegance of the ship and the serenity of the cruising life stood in stark contrast to the thrum of industrial mobilisation, the strategic calculations, and the silent, growing anxiety that permeated the very air of Europe. It was a voyage across not just oceans, but also across the precipice of history, a final, poignant glimpse of a world that would be irrevocably shattered just a few short months later. This historical reconstruction serves as a powerful reminder of how quickly the seemingly stable foundations of an era can crumble under the weight of unforeseen conflicts.

References (Illustrative)

Padfield, P. (1981). The Battleship Era. David & Charles.
Greenhill, B. (1977). The Great Liners. Transatlantic Arts.
Massie, R. K. (1991). Dreadnought: Britain, Germany, and the Coming of the Great War. Random House.
Strachan, H. (2014). The First World War: A New Illustrated History. Simon & Schuster.
Turner, R. (1997). The Edwardian Age. John Murray.
Various contemporary travel guides, shipping schedules, and newspaper archives from 1913-1914.

Writing about writing a book – Research – 12

Background material used in researching the Vietnam war and various other aspects of that period

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Who were the North Vietnamese, really?

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More Than Just Tunnels: Deconstructing North Vietnam’s Winning Strategy

The Vietnam War remains one of the most studied and strategically complex conflicts of the 20th century. Facing the overwhelming technological and logistical might of the United States and its allies, the armed forces of North Vietnam—primarily the People’s Army of Vietnam (PAVN), often referred to as the NVA, supported by the southern irregular forces known as the Viet Cong (VC)—employed a doctrine that defied conventional military wisdom.

Their strategy was not about winning battles in the traditional sense; it was about protracted war and the exhaustion of the enemy’s political will.

Here is a deep dive into how the North deployed its troops and the sophisticated methodology they utilized to take the fight to the Allied soldiers.

1. The Deployment Structure: Two Armies, One Goal

The North’s deployment strategy was inherently flexible, relying on a tiered military structure designed to adapt to any environment, from dense jungle to urban centers.

A. The Viet Cong (VC): The Irregular Force

The Viet Cong served as the political and military instrument in the South. They were not a conventional army but an insurgency operating within South Vietnam’s villages and hamlets.

Deployment Methodology:

Decentralization: VC units were deployed locally, focused on small-scale harassment, ambushes, and targeted assassinations of ARVN (South Vietnamese Army) officials.
Infiltration by Footprint: VC units were often indistinguishable from the local populace, deploying fighters who worked the rice paddies by day and fought by night.
Infrastructure Destruction: Their primary military deployment targets were the infrastructure supporting the US/ARVN presence: supply lines, airbases, and communication centers.

B. The PAVN (NVA): The Main Force

The PAVN was the formal, organized army of North Vietnam. These were well-trained, disciplined, and heavily armed conventional units, often deployed in regimental and divisional strength.

Deployment Methodology:

Strategic Infiltration: PAVN forces were primarily deployed via the Ho Chi Minh Trail (see below). They avoided direct, large-scale contact with US forces until the conditions were optimal (e.g., during the Tet Offensive or the 1972 Easter Offensive).
The Element of Surprise: When PAVN units were deployed in pitched battles, they focused on achieving total surprise and concentrating overwhelming, temporary firepower before rapidly melting back into the jungle or border sanctuaries.

2. The Logistics Highway: The Ho Chi Minh Trail

The single greatest factor in troop deployment was the elaborate logistical network known as the Ho Chi Minh Trail. This was not a single road but a constantly shifting, 16,000-kilometer web of trails, paths, rivers, and depots running through neutral Laos and Cambodia.

Strategic Impact on Deployment:

Bypassing Defenses: The Trail allowed hundreds of thousands of troops and vast amounts of material to bypass the heavily fortified Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) and move deep into the South, often positioning them directly behind US defenses.
Sustained Pressure: By keeping the logistics flowing despite intense American air interdiction (Operation Rolling Thunder and others), the North could continually refresh its forces, deploying new units to replace losses and ensuring the insurgency never withered away.
Mobility as Fortress: Because the Trail routes changed daily and were covered by dense jungle canopy, the US bombing campaigns often failed to halt troop movement, making mobility itself a form of defense.

3. Methodology in Combat: Neutralizing US Advantages

The North Vietnamese knew they could not win a conventional war against American firepower. Their methodology was designed purely to negate the US technological superiority.

A. The Strategy of “Clinging to the Belt”

This was one of the most effective tactical moves deployed by the PAVN. When engaging American ground forces, NVA units were instructed to deploy forces and fight at extremely close quarters, often termed “grabbing the enemy’s belt.”

Rationale:

By fighting nose-to-nose, the Americans could not safely call in their most powerful assets—tactical aircraft, napalm, or heavy artillery—without risking friendly fire casualties.
This effectively reduced the battle back to infantry vs. infantry, minimizing the US advantage in technology and maximizing the North’s advantage in tenacity and knowledge of the terrain.

B. Ambushes and Rapid Dispersal

VC and PAVN units specialized in the planned ambush. This was a deployment methodology based on hit-and-run tactics:

Selection of Terrain: Choosing areas where US mobility was constrained (jungles, rice paddies, or remote valleys).
Overwhelming Fire: Deploying all available troops and weapons to achieve a massive initial burst of fire, inflicting maximum casualties in the first minutes.
Rapid Retreat: Before the American command could organize a counter-attack or coordinate air support, the NVA/VC forces would melt away, using prepared escape routes, tunnels, or border sanctuaries (known as Base Areas).

C. The Use of Tunnels and Base Areas

Deployment wasn’t just about moving across the surface; it was under it. The famous Cu Chi Tunnels near Saigon and similar networks served multiple strategic purposes:

Sanctuaries: Allowing troops to deploy and stage operations deep inside areas the US considered secured.
Hidden Bases: Providing underground logistics hubs, hospitals, and command centers.
Evasion: Allowing forces to disappear immediately after an engagement, frustrating US “search and destroy” missions.

4. The Political Dimension: The Protracted War

The PAVN/VC deployment was always dictated by political goals. General Vo Nguyen Giap, the architect of the North Vietnamese struggle, emphasized that the true battlefield was the American political landscape.

The Methodology of Exhaustion:

Avoid Annihilation: Troops were deployed carefully to avoid any battle that could lead to a decisive defeat. Their goal was survival, not conquest until the final stages of the war.
Inflict Casualties: Every single US casualty inflicted by a sustained troop deployment amplified anti-war sentiment back home. The deployment strategy was therefore calibrated to maximize enemy losses while minimizing the risk to the overall force structure.
The Final Phase: Only late in the war, when the US had significantly withdrawn and the ARVN was left struggling, did PAVN change its deployment methodology to focus on large-scale, conventional maneuvers (like the deployment of tank columns and heavy artillery) necessary to secure the final victory in 1975.

The North Vietnamese methodology for deploying troops was a brilliant exercise in adaptability. They transformed their logistical weaknesses into defensive strengths, used geography to neutralize superior air power, and ensured that every soldier deployed served the overarching political mission: convincing the American public that victory was impossible. Their success remains a testament to the strategic power of insurgency and asymmetric warfare.

The 2am Rant: I think the asylum is beckoning

I’m sitting at my desk surrounded by any number of scraps of paper with more storylines, written excepts, parts of stories, and a number of chapters of a work in progress.

Does this happen to anyone else?

The business of writing requires a talent to keep focused on the one project, and silence all the other screaming voices in your head, pouring out their side of the story.

But it’s not working.

I try to be determined in my efforts to edit my current completed novel, after letting it ‘rest’ in my head for a few months.

I planned to have so time off, but all of those prisoners in my head started clamoring for my attention. A story I started some time ago needs revising, another story I wrote last year of NANOWRIMO has come back to haunt me, and characters, well, they’re out in the waiting room, pacing up and down, ready to tell me their life stories.

Is the temporary cure coffee or wine?

Now I think I really do need a holiday

Or a trip to the asylum. Thank God this is not the early 20th century, or I might never return. And if it’s named Bellview, it would be just another story to be written.

The Author that went Bonkers!

Does it ever end?

Writing a book in 365 days – 322

Day 322

Writing exercise – The tea cart was at least five minutes late; something had to be done.

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I worked in an office full of self-absorbed people, who cared only about themselves and what the company could do for them.

It was always about the bonus, about the amenities, about anything they can get for nothing.

So, don’t get me started on the morning tea.

And afternoon tea.

Because of the nature of the work, it wasn’t a good idea to leave the desk, except at lunch when they had to have a break, and when they went home, which sometimes some forgot to.

Or so they said.

I wasn’t that dedicated, so perhaps that was the only reason why I wasn’t rocketing up the promotions ladder. The higher you went, the more the company owned you.

I looked around. Five-thousand-dollar suits, car keys for Maseratis and Ferraris proudly on display. An ancient Ford wasn’t a status symbol, but then I was never about status, just about getting the job done.

Walters, the current ‘ace employee of the month’, was sitting back in his chair and looking at his watch, a Rolex, of course, then the office clock, which was never on time.

“Where’s the tea lady?”

There were two options: going up to the breakout area on the floor below the executive suite or having it at the desk.

Several elderly ladies ran the trolley, a nice, easy job for an hour or so in the morning and the afternoon. The three that serviced our floor were Doris, my favourite, Matilda, who always had a dour demeanour, and Lizzie, younger, once a showgirl, or so she said.

I was never quite sure what ‘showgirl’ meant.

Today, it should have been Lizzie.

“Still boiling the water.” Frazer, equally boorish as Walters, was known for smart ass remarks.

“It’s not as if you haven’t been late when you have to be somewhere.”

Like any appointment with his supervisor.

“Be a good chap, Roly, and find out where it is.”

I glared at him. My name was Rollins, but he called me Rolly. He had a name for everyone he considered beneath him in status.

His other name, Roly Poly, he said when he was with the others at the Friday night drinks at a nearby bar. I went once, heard his slanging off the lesser employees and the others laughing, and decided it was not my thing.

I was going to tell him off, but it would simply go through one ear and out the other.

The breakout area had an annexe where the tea ladies prepared before coming down to their designated food by the freight elevator.

I’d been in it once, and it was lucky to be working. The day I was in it, it stopped twice without reason and missed the floor by a foot which would make it impossible to unload a negotiating.

I went up via the main elevator lobby. Mt first thought was that the freight elevator was stuck, and she was in it

I crossed the breakout area, very spacious and airy, walls without windows lined with vending machines, free tea, coffee and cold water all day.

Today, there were cookies, which sometimes found their way onto the tea cart.

I knocked on the door to the tea lady’s room, and there was no answer. I opened the door and stepped in. It was a restricted area, but there was no key card entry required.

The room was a mess. It looked to me as though someone had a tantrum and started throwing stuff. Until I looked closely and realised someone had been searching through everything in a methodical manner.

There was another door on the other side of the room. I picked my way carefully through the mess; security was going to have to find out what happened here.

Again, I knocked, but there was no answer.

I opened the door

The three ladies were bound and gagged, sitting on the floor. It was then that I realised the tea carts were missing.

I called security. “You have a situation. The tea ladies are bound and gagged, and their trolleys are missing.”

No questions or instructions, a few seconds later, the fire evacuation siren was blaring, a voice over, “This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill. Please evacuate the building in a calm and orderly manner as directed. Floor wardens are to immediately supervise and evaluate floors as directed.”

While that announcement was being made, I untied and removed Lizzie’s gag, then she helped one and I the other.

When they were free, I asked, “What happened?”

Two men and a woman came in and started asking questions. We thought they were health inspectors until they started tossing stuff everywhere, looking for a pass.”

“A pass?”

“Floor access key. Or maybe a master key. Then, because Lizzie went for the phone we finished up where you found us.”

“Did they say anything else?”

“Only they were going to kill some bloke because he didn’t do his job properly.”

“Someone who works here?”

“That would be my guess,” Lizzie said. “Anything important happening?”

Important in this place. Nothing that was ever exciting enough to incite what just happened.”

“Did they find the pass?”

“Yes. It had a man’s face on it, but it was too far away to recognise it.”

I called security again.

“You’re looking for two men, a woman, three tea carts, and they have a pass key that someone else left for them to collect. Do you have CCTV up here?”

He didn’t answer, just hung up. I took that as a no.

When I turned around to tell the ladies we had to evacuate the building, Lizzie was by the door holding a gun.

A gun. Where did she get it? Why did she have it?

“Join the other two and go back into the room.” She motioned with the gun for emphasis. “Now.”

She looked at her watch.

Time was a factor.

“Why are you doing this? Are you in league with those criminals?”

“They’re not criminals. You lot are the criminals. Get in the room, I won’t ask again.”

You can’t argue with a gun. “Let’s go, do as she asks. Not worth the trouble refusing.”

They looked to me like they were going to say something, then thought twice about it and went into the room. I followed, and before she shut the door, I said, “Whatever you’re doing, I hope it’s worth it.”

“It will be.”

The door closed, and I heard the turn of the key in the lock. It was a flimsy door, but this wasn’t the time to kick it in. I waited by the door, and a minute or so later, I heard the outer room door close and I assumed she had locked that too.

“If I hadn’t come, she would have got away with it,” I said.

“She didn’t look like she was working with them. Just goes to show, you think you know someone.”

“And there’s someone else out there working with them.”

“To do what?”

Good question. I was wondering that myself. Lizzie had called the company criminals. All we did was invest money, make the clients richer. Admittedly, it had become that much harder to pick the market given the volatility, which, some argued, was deliberately being manipulated.

One negative word from a government official could send a stock higher or plummet in value, leaving investors with huge losses.

Walters had been flying high on a lot of good tips, but the last stock that went up, he should have sold, instead, waited just a little too long. Perhaps he’d crossed his tipster. That would mean he was effectively insider trading.

Interesting how something comes together with the right catalyst.

The thing is, investors knew who their trader was, so if anyone was upset, they could complain or demand an explanation. The supervisor was tough but fair. You cause a mess, you clean it up.

I doubted Lizzie was one of those high roller investors, but in such a job, a few bucks to supply a pass key was nothing to her. Unless it turned into a murder. Brandishing guns in a highly volatile situation was a recipe for disaster.

“It might have something to do with bad investments.”

And something else just dredged up from the back of my mind. A sighting about a month back of one of the directors of the company having lunch at a fancy restaurant I had wanted to go to, passed most days on the way home from work.

It was not because he was dining there; it was the woman he was with. I thought he might be having an affair, but several days after that, her face popped up on TV, and she was being linked to a government project that was worth billions of dollars.

And the report was about the next big thing in the construction industry

Interesting.

“Not a good look for an investment company to have bad investments.”

“It’s a volatile market, and a lot of investment houses have problems. But you’re right, not a good look, and very problematic if the investors start getting itchy feet.”

“And that happened here?”

“Everyone praises you when you back the right horse, but like a horse race, you never really know which horse is going to win. Sometimes, even dead certs lose. It happens everywhere.”

I don’t think I sold the ‘we are the best of the best’ to her. At that moment, the fire alarm stopped, and the silence was blessed. She just shrugged and produced a set of keys.

“You have the keys to the door?”

“Of course. Senior tea lady. It just wasn’t safe to go out there, until now.”

I stepped back, and she unlocked the door.

“You open it. Lizzie must still be out there.”

I debated whether I should tell her I heard Lizzie leave, but decided not to. I opened the door a crack and peered out.

Nothing.

I pushed the door open and came out into the room.

Silence, which was strange in itself. There was always noise.

She gave me the keys to open the outset door and check. Once again, only opening it slightly, I glanced down both sides of the corridor. If Lizzie had any sense, she would have left quickly

“Stay here and lock the door. I’ll go and see what’s happening.”

I took the closest staircase to go down. In a fire alarm, all the doors on each floor were unlocked. It was eerily quiet on the stairwell as I slowly went down to my floor. I told myself that it could not have been about Walters and the others.

At the level, I slowly opened the door. Silence. If anyone was there, there would be noise, at the very least, Walters babbling on about the intrusion.

I waited a minute. Two. Nothing.

Then, slowly walking up the corridor to the pit, the workspaces of the half dozen of us in the group, and in the office overlooking the outside, the supervisor.

I stopped at the door and nearly vomited. They were all dead, shot multiple times, with blood and bodies everywhere. My five colleagues and the supervisor. Dead.

Walters had done me a favour by sending me off to find the tea lady. Otherwise, I’d be with them, just another dead body.

That’s when the police arrived, about a dozen of them screaming for me to get on the floor, hands behind my head.

…

What I learned about writing – Monday is just another day of the week

I don’t like Mondays – a song lingering on the periphery of my memory, and I’m not sure who sung it.

But it’s official, I don’t like Mondays.

I’ve been procrastinating since last Thursday, telling myself I have to get the next part of one of my stories written, but I keep putting it off. I’m not sure why but it always seems like this, and I have to force myself to sit in front of the computer screen, and come up with the goods.

I didn’t do anything on Sunday, and, as a writer, I guess that’s not very good. I’m supposed to be writing a page, or a hundred or thousand words a day, just to keep the juices flowing.

I’m not in the mood. I sit and stare at the computer screen, and nothing is coming. Is this the first sign of writer’s block?

I dig out several articles on how to overcome it and start putting their suggestions into action. No. No. Maybe. No. I don’t think it’s writer’s block.

Perhaps I need some inspiration so I go to my tablet playlist, spend 10 minutes trying to find the headphones that were carelessly discarded on a seat that had a lot of other stuff on it, by one of my grandchildren the last time they were here.

And, yes, the tablet was left in the middle of playing a Minecraft video which has drained the battery. Now I can’t find the charger!

Back at the computer, holding a dead tablet, and a pair of headphones, inspiration is as far away as the mythical light at the end of the tunnel. Today perhaps it will be an oncoming express train.

Perhaps a pen and paper will work.

An idea pops into my head…

…

Is it possible the passing of a weekend could change the course of your life?

An interesting question, one to ponder as I sat on the floor of a concrete cell, with only the sound of my breathing, and the incessant screams coming from a room at the end of the corridor.

It was my turn next. That was what the grinning ape of a guard said in broken English. He looked like a man who relished his job.

What goes through your mind at a time like this, waiting, waiting for the inevitable? Will I survive, what will they do to me, will it hurt?

The screaming stops abruptly, and a terrible silence falls over the facility.

Then, looking in the direction of where the screams had come from, I hear the clunk of the door latch being opened, and then the slow nerve-tingling screech of rusty metal as the door opens slowly.

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, no.

….

No writer’s block. But I have to stop watching late-night television.

First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

…

Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right

Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.

It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.

…

John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence, after being so indifferent for so long.

They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable, calls on an old friend for help in finding her.

After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.

But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.

What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.

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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