John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.
Suddenly, he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.
If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.
At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.
That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.
Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.
I was not sure how the Congo commander was going to react when four cars with people who looked more like mercenaries than a film crew turned up at the front gate.
Not that we had the film equipment to use as a cover. I guess that was the reason the kidnappers had removed it from our cars. One less reason to believe our story. I would have been curious to hear just how the commander had described us to his Congo counterpart.
Or what sort of treatment we were going to get. I don’t think the hostages were going to like the idea of becoming hostages again, albeit with a new set of ransom demands, and probably a lot of harsher treatment. Mercenaries could be rough, but they needed resources, and trying to negotiate with overly damaged goods wouldn’t set much of an example.
The Government military, on the other hand, would not be too particular. And capturing an invading enemy force, spies if you will, well, that was going to be a feather in the cap of the airfield commander.
But would he tip his hand at the gate or wait till we pulled up outside the headquarters building. If there was one.
We were about to find out. The gate was in sight and flanked by two very bright lights which we had all seen for about the last half mile, flickering through the undergrowth. The road was well made, and we would have made good time, but I deliberately slowed down to give Monroe time to get into place.
Another brief report from the Colonel told me they reckoned on 20 troops deployed at different parts of the field, just in case we decided to ‘sneak’ in on foot.
At the gate the road widened into a large turning circle for turning back cars.
I stopped right on top of the gate. A non-commissioned officer came out of a small shack by the gate and joined two men standing either side of the gate. Weapons weren’t pointed in our direction, but that could change quickly.
I was going with the film crew going home story first.
“Who are you?” I noticed the officer had a clipboard and made a show of looking at it, and the page underneath. “You are not on my list.”
“Probably not. We have been filming a documentary, and it’s time to go home. We have an aircraft coming in tomorrow morning to pick us up.”
One of the guards came through the gate and went down one side of each car, then came back up the other side, peering in through the windows. Back at the gate, he spoke to the officer.
“You have weapons. That is unusual for a film crew isn’t it?”
Highly, if we were anywhere else in the world. “We were warned about militias. Luckily we didn’t run into any.”
“Then, before you enter the airfield I suggest you, and your men, surrender any weapons.”
“Of course.” I relayed the instruction back through the cars. The soldier then came down the car and collected the weapons in a bag. As I’d assumed, we were not going to gain admission to the airstrip armed. It was probably also a law which in any country made perfect sense.
Once the soldier returned the officer had the gate opened, and came over to me.
“Fill in the form, and we’ll get you on your way soon enough.”
He handed me the clipboard, and then stepped away, taking out a radio unit of his own and spoke into it in a language I didn’t understand. Perhaps we should have kept Jacobi with us for a little longer so he could interpret.
When I filled out the form and handed it back, he said, “Drive up the road about a half-mile to a hanger and park your cars out the front. I suggest when getting out of the cars not to make any sudden or suspicious moves.”
Like we’d been told almost word for word back at the commander’s camp. Interesting.
The men at the gate didn’t follow us, but I did see, coming from two separate points back from the runway, or what looked to be the runway, two groups of five soldiers in each, in a proper formation. That was not the actions of a motley militia.
Serious soldiers perhaps.
It didn’t take long to reach the hanger, quite large, but in a sorry state of repair. Beside it was two old army huts that were in better repair and lit up. At the top of the steps of one stood the commander, a Captain. Clean, fresh, snug-fitting uniform, looking the part. Newly promoted, with something to prove.
With him were another six soldiers, armed and ready. That made 16 plus him. Where were the others?
Another non-commissioned officer came out of the hut and briefly spoke to his commander. Then he went back inside, and the commander came down the stairs to greet me. The rest of the team stood together, in front of the third car, and about 20 feet away. They were trying their best to cover the two hostages.
“Good evening Mr. James.” Reasonably good English, polite, but there was a slight edge to his tone.
“Good evening.”
“May I ask, which way do you come?”
“From Faradje, on the way to Nagero. I was going to drive into Nagero but changed my mind. Best to get here and be ready.”
“I heard there were some elements of the militia on the road. Did you meet any?”
“No. I was told that this country is quite safe and that we would not be harmed, thanks, I’m told to the good services of the Government’s military. You will be pleased to learn that it is quite safe, a point I will be spreading when I return home. Hopefully that will bring in more tourists.”
“If, as you say, you’ve been making a documentary, it seems odd to me that on one hand, you don’t have any equipment, and on the other, that you have not included Garamba.”
“A valid observation. We had to call the shooting off because two of our crew are ill and need to be returned home, and we left the equipment back in Faradje, our last stop, ready for the replacement crew who will be scheduled to fly in, in the next week or so.”
I had considered what I might say and tried to make it sound plausible, but in the end I don’t think it mattered what I said, especially if the other commander had forewarned the Captain of our impending arrival.
“Yes. That may be true, or it might not. I’m assuming the two sick members of your team are over next to the film crew. In that case, I believe both of us know that those men do not belong to your crew, but are escaped prisoners.”
He gestured towards his men and they went over to the group and extracted the two hostages.
Seemingly it was game over.
“So Commander Ntumba called you after we left?”
“Not a lot happens here without my knowing it. It was in his best interest to inform me.”
Something in the distance caught his eye, and I moved my line of sight to match his. Shurl, hands in the air, with two more soldiers behind him, coming from the bush line on the other side of the runway.
Commander Ntumba would also have told him about our sniper, as I’d surmised, and there was no mistaking the look of glee on his face. Outsmarting what he would consider a crack team of mercenaries from the United States.
I turned back and shrugged.
“Yes, he also told us about your sniper Mr. James. You didn’t think he was going to sneak up on us like he did Commander Ntumba did you?”
“It was worth a try,” I said in my best-defeated tone.
“Right. For the time being you will be kept in detention until I speak to my commander. You will not be leaving this airport. Your rescue plane, when it arrives, will be detained. I will have further questions for you later. Film crew indeed. Take them to B Block,” he said to the officer, then headed back up the stairs to his office.
As far as he was concerned, it had been all too easy.
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
Juliet was waiting for me by the car where we had left it.
By that time, I was almost ready to strangle her with my bare hands.
“Where did you go?”
“Away from trouble. I waited until I was sure you were not going to be killed, then I left.” She held out the gun by the barrel. “I figured you would have been able to take that guy without the gun, and there was no point being captured with it.”
She was right, but that didn’t make me any less angry.
I took it and unlocked the car.
“Where are the women?”
“He doesn’t know. Worse still, he had no idea that another woman was taken at the same time.”
“You believe him?”
“Given the circumstances of seeing the woman who was going to solve all your problems dead on the floor had a way of making you believe. No one is that good an actor.”
She looked at me with a strange expression. “You have one working with you.”
“Her mother wasn’t killed in front of her. Not the same.”
“Square one then?”
“It might be. If he didn’t know where they were or wanted to, it’s as likely as not they are not on any of his properties. If he didn’t care what happened to the countess, that doesn’t mean the same for those who are holding her, or Mrs Rodby. They’ll know, eventually, a reward will be offered, and we’re giving them one.”
I called Cecilia. “How’s the search going. I assume the fact you haven’t called me means you’ve found nothing?”
“Zip. This Dicostini has a lot of dud property. Maybe someone should tell him to build a resort rather than try to grow grapes. There’d be a lot more money in it.”
“I think he has more problems than that to worry about right now.”
“How did you go?”
“Kept the place under surveillance, waiting to see if the fake countess was hiding at his place. She was. She came out, and they had an argument. And he killed her.”
“What? Shot her?”
“He hit her in a moment of temper, she fell awkwardly, hitting her head on the table, dead before she hit the floor.”
“That makes things a little difficult. I assume you didn’t get the location of the two women?”
“You assume correctly.”
“Then they could be anywhere?”
“Maybe, maybe not. I’m going to give you a name and address. Get onto Anthony and find out where he lives, then park yourself outside until you hear from me. I have a hunch, but be prepared to waste some time if it doesn’t pan out. Take Alfie with you. Leave Francesca, there’s nothing she can do now.”
“What are you planning?”
“Offering a huge reward for Mrs Rodby. I think we can safely say the countess is either dead or will be when Dicostini calls the kidnappers.”
“Wouldn’t they just kill her too?”
“They might, but if they’re good, that won’t be a problem. Getting a bigger payday is. Everybody has a price.”
“Even you?”
“When I figure out how to disappear, maybe. Go. Time is wasting.”
I thought about starting the car, then didn’t.
It was not enough that so many different scenarios were running through my head when the call finally came. I was sure now the main game was over, the side players would be looking for a slice of the action.
There were only two candidates. One seemed improbable, which made it the more likely, the other the logical choice, but unlikely. It all depended on how fast Anthony could get the wanted poster out there.
In the meantime, I had another more perplexing problem.
“What are you doing here?” I asked Juliet.
She looked at me strangely. “You asked me.”
“I mean, what are you doing here in Italy?”
She kept looking at me as if I were mad.
“I was setting up for a conference.”
She looked earnest, but there was something in her manner.
“Are you really that pathologist. I mean, for a down-and-out doctor, how could such a disgraced person get a foot back in the door?”
Her look of bemusement turned to annoyance. “Tell me what you really think? It took a lot of banging on doors and grovelling.”
I shook my head. That wasn’t the whole story.
“Why, so I keep running into you?”
“Fate. Serendipity. The universe is telling us we didn’t end things properly the last time.”
Words. Words that had a certain ring to them. I shook my head.
“Fate is a load of bollocks, Juliet.”
“You can call me Julie if you like. It sounds better.”
It was as if Microsoft Word was sent down from that place in the universe where a group of torturers sit around a table to find new ways of making our lives just that little bit more difficult.
I mean, most of the time it works really well and behaves itself.
But…
Then there are the times, usually when you are stressed about a deadline, or you are nearly at the end of what you believe to be the most brilliant writing you have ever put on paper.
Then…
Disaster strikes.
It could be that the power goes off, even for just a few seconds, but it’s enough to kill the computer. It could be that you have reached the end and closed Word down, thinking that it had autosaved, all the while ignoring that little pop-up that says, ‘Do you want to save your work’?
It’s been a long day, night, or session. You’re tired, and your mind is elsewhere, as it always is at the end.
You always assume that autosave is on. It was the last time; it has been since the day you installed it, however long ago that was.
So…
When the power comes back on, you start the computer, go into Word, and it brings back all the windows you had open when the power failed, and the one with the brilliant piece you just wrote, it’s just a blank sheet.
Or up to where it last autosaved, which is nowhere near the end.
Or it didn’t save at all.
You forget the software was updated recently, and that always brings changes. Usually, unwanted changes.
By which time you have that sinking feeling that all is lost, deadline missed, brilliant work lost, it’s the end of the world.
You promise yourself you’re going to get Scrivener, or something else, where this doesn’t happen.
Or if you’re like me, you put the cat on the keyboard and tell him to sort the mess out.
More Than Just Words: Why We’re All Hungry for Stories
Ever found yourself completely engrossed in a book, a captivating film, or even a friend’s animated anecdote? There’s a reason for that. It’s not just our idle entertainment; it’s a primal, fundamental part of who we are. We are, quite literally, hardwired for stories.
Think about it. From the earliest cave paintings depicting hunts and rituals to the grand epics passed down through generations, humanity has always relied on narrative. It’s how we make sense of the world, how we connect with each other, and how we leave our mark.
The Ancient Art of Immortality
At its core, storytelling is a form of history. It’s how we preserve the experiences, the triumphs, and the struggles of those who came before us. Before written records, oral traditions were the lifeblood of cultures, passing down knowledge, wisdom, and identity. The stories of elders became the lessons for the young, the myths explained the inexplicable, and the legends inspired courage.
But it’s more than just a historical record. Storytelling is also a profound act of immortality. When we share a story, we breathe life back into memories. We keep alive the spirit of individuals, the essence of moments, and the impact of events. A well-told story can transcend time, allowing us to feel present with people who are no longer with us, to understand perspectives different from our own, and to learn from their journeys. It’s through stories that our ancestors, our heroes, and even our ordinary lives can continue to resonate in the present and echo into the future.
Feeding the Soul
Beyond its historical and immortalising qualities, storytelling simply feeds our souls. In a world often characterised by fleeting information and digital overload, a good story offers depth, connection, and emotional resonance.
Connection: Stories allow us to step into someone else’s shoes, fostering empathy and understanding. They remind us that despite our differences, we share universal human experiences – love, loss, fear, hope.
Meaning-Making: We use stories to process our own lives and the complexities of the world around us. They help us identify patterns, understand causes and effects, and find meaning in the chaos.
Inspiration: Stories of resilience, innovation, and courage can ignite our own imaginations and empower us to pursue our dreams. They show us what’s possible.
Escape and Joy: Sometimes, we just need to get lost in a different world. Stories offer a welcome escape, a chance to experience adventure, romance, or mystery, and to simply find joy in a well-crafted narrative.
The Power is in Your Hands (and Voice!)
So, the next time you’re drawn to a narrative, remember you’re tapping into something ancient and essential. And even more importantly, remember that you, too, are a storyteller. Your experiences, your memories, your unique perspective – they all have the power to inspire, to connect, and to offer a piece of yourself to the world.
Don’t underestimate the stories you hold. Share them. Write them down. Tell them to your children, your friends, your colleagues. Because in a world hungry for connection and meaning, every story is a gift, a tiny act of immortality, and a vital thread in the rich tapestry of human experience.
Zoe is now painfully reminded why she did not get involved with other people, why it was better to be responsible only for herself. It was easy, perhaps to blame John for making his own problems by not heeding her advice, but, just the same, she felt a small shred of responsibility for his current situation.
After learning that John has been kidnapped by Olga, Zoe first goes to see an old colleague, and Yuri’s friend, Dominica to interrogate her, then meets up with Yuri, and it does not end well for one of them. After telling her he’s the elusive Romanov, Yuri informs her of the fact that Olga has taken John and that Worthington is about to use John’s mother as leverage against her.
Not knowing immediately where Olga is, but believing she will not kill him because Zoe will come to her, she detours to take care of Worthington, having finally realised why he was searching for her. In another of her many disguises, room service visits his room, and Worthington gets more than dinner served up to him.
Of course, Yuri lies. He is not Romanov, and Romanov is not trying to kill her, but find her.
Who is she? Well, you’ll have to read the book to find out.
And, as for Olga, well, hell hath no fury than a woman avenging a woman avenging her son!
Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?
…
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledged that something had happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive, she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realises is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
Investigations of crimes don’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage, the police thought I had murdered my own wife, though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbours reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months, the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last time I saw Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact that she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months, I was barely functioning, to the extent that I had all but lost my job and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in that she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened became our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then, we saw each other about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realise that all she had was her work; personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police, and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone, then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
Zoe is now painfully reminded why she did not get involved with other people, why it was better to be responsible only for herself. It was easy, perhaps to blame John for making his own problems by not heeding her advice, but, just the same, she felt a small shred of responsibility for his current situation.
After learning that John has been kidnapped by Olga, Zoe first goes to see an old colleague, and Yuri’s friend, Dominica to interrogate her, then meets up with Yuri, and it does not end well for one of them. After telling her he’s the elusive Romanov, Yuri informs her of the fact that Olga has taken John and that Worthington is about to use John’s mother as leverage against her.
Not knowing immediately where Olga is, but believing she will not kill him because Zoe will come to her, she detours to take care of Worthington, having finally realised why he was searching for her. In another of her many disguises, room service visits his room, and Worthington gets more than dinner served up to him.
Of course, Yuri lies. He is not Romanov, and Romanov is not trying to kill her, but find her.
Who is she? Well, you’ll have to read the book to find out.
And, as for Olga, well, hell hath no fury than a woman avenging a woman avenging her son!
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 