The view in the front of me, and everyone else, didn’t change. I didn’t expect it to. It was dark and sometimes eerie out in space, and like us, eventually, hurtling towards the unknown.
But, that was yesterday.
That all changed a little over an hour ago when we made the first contact with another race. Admittedly it was not the ideal way to start a new relationship, but it was a start.
I had no doubt the diplomatic team was hard at work coming up with ideas on how we were going to approach these new people.
But in the meantime, we were, quite literary, hurtling through space faster than any human’s had before.
The chief 3ngineer was right when he said the problems were fixed, and the main drive was online and ready to go.
At first, it seemed like nothing had happened when Mr. Saville pressed the button. Then, gradually, the speed indicator moved, from 3.5 to 5, then to 7, and finally, 9. Nearly three times faster than anyone before.
Which brought a new set of issues. We would be arriving at the two ships, apparently waiting for us, a lot quicker than the original estimate of 7 hours.
It was now down to about 45 minutes, and we were going to need a plan of action.
There was a platoon of special soldiers on board, an odd addition to what was supposed to be peaceful exploration, but their inclusion was non-negotiable. I knew the previous captain was not very happy with them being on board, and the one conversation between the captain and their leader was quite acrimonious.
I hoped to improve relations and stepped off the bridge to go visit the commander.
They had a separate section of the ship, where they had quarters, training, and planning facilities. The commander, Lieutenant Colonel Baxter, had an office, and his 2ic met me at the elevator and escorted me to it.
“Not the best was to become captain of a ship,” he said.
“If I had a preference, no. I assume the Admiral had spoken to you.”
The Admiral seemed to have spoken to everyone, perhaps to ensure that I would get the support I needed. Captains were generally a lot older than I was and commanded respect through years of service and experience.
Though I didn’t lack years of service, I did lack experience in running a ship like the one I was now on. But, I told myself, I would not have been made number one if I didn’t merit it.
“We’re going after the people who took the captain and one of our scientists, yes. I see we’re about a half-hour before we encounter two alleged sentry ships.”
“Possibly. But you will need to supply a four-man team in case we have to go off ship, for security purposes only.”
“And if diplomacy doesn’t work.”
His shoot first and ask questions later policy was not going to go down well, it certainly didn’t with the previous captain, and it wouldn’t with me either.
“I’m sure we all know what that will mean when the time comes. The official book on this vessel doesn’t mention anything about armaments, but if I know anything about the military, I’m sure there are defensive weapons installed. I know you told the captain that there were none to your knowledge but we both know this ship would have never left the dock without some form of defenses.”
I could read between the lines. I had a lot of spare time on those interminable cargo runs and read a great deal about the space program, and the hopes and aspirations of a lot of countries in exploring, but not with the means to do it on their own.
Where sport was once the means to unite the world, now it was space, and I had wanted to be a part of it.
In all that reading, it was the obscure references that told the real story. Nothing could get off the grounds without military cooperation, and to get that, some concessions had to be made.
Like Baxter and his men. And for the installation of a host of new weapons, specifically for space. A little further reading showed the advances made in adapting laser technology, and I suspect this ship had a few, as well as other weapons. I hadn’t seen any ray guns, but there were prototypes, and they’d been around for several years.
“I couldn’t say, even if I wanted to. You know how it is.”
“Well, let’s hope your desire for secrecy doesn’t imperil the mission because if it does, you’ll be the first visitor in the brig.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No. That’s just a fact. Now, once more, is there anything you need to tell me, that will be useful in any negotiation with the two ships we were about to encounter.”
He looked at me with what I would have guessed was contempt, but that was how he viewed everyone. There was no doubting his capability, his service record, or his loyalty. But space was different to anything else he’d encountered.
“If they give you any trouble, you let me know. That spare console on the bridge, it controls the ship’s defenses.”
I was smart enough not to ask what those defenses were. We’d all find out soon enough if it came to that.
“Then you’d better send someone up. We might need him.”
“Her actually. Gunnery Sargent Walker.”
Going back up in the elevator I looked at my hands and they were shaking. The first day out, and I was all but ready to go to war.
Not expected, not wanted, but sadly a fact.
When I stepped onto the bridge, the viewing screen showed the two ships, very close, and very detailed.
The second officer was saying, “We arrived early, and if I may ask, why didn’t we just go around them?”
“I’m curious about what they might have to say.”
“And if they shoot at us?”
“I’m sure Baxter will have something to say about that. Is the spare console manned?”
“Yes. By a Gunnery Sargent, part of the military team on board.”
“Good. Now let’s see if we can strike up a conversation.”
I write about spies, washed out, worn out, or thrown out.
It’s always in the back of my mind, sometimes fuelled by a piece in the paper that has a sense of conspiracy about it, and from there, an idea starts turning into words that need to find their way to paper.
Then, if that’s the extent of the first draft, sometimes it goes into the ‘I will come back to this later’ folder and, sometimes, it’s gone and forgotten.
Until I wake up suddenly in the middle of the night, an old story with a new idea fills my head, and I have to get it down.
Then, it will bother me over the next few days, until I give it the attention it’s calling out for. This will often lead to more writing, but planning leading to a synopsis.
The first sentence of a novel is always the hardest. Like I guess many others, I sit and ponder what I’m going to write, whether it will be relevant, whether it will pull the reader into my world, and cause them to read on.
And that’s the objective, to capture the reader’s imagination and want to see what’s going to happen next.
The problem is, we have to set the scene.
Or do we?
Do we need to cover the who, what, where, and when criteria in that first sentence? Can we just start with the edge-of-the-seat suspense, like,
The first bullet hit the concrete wall about six inches above my head with a resounding thwack that scared the living daylights out of me. The second, sent on its way within a fraction of a second of the first found its mark, the edge of my shoulder, slicing through the material, and creasing skin and flesh. There was blood and then panic.
Milliseconds later my brain registered the near-miss and sent the instruction: get down you idiot.
I hit the ground just as another bullet slammed into the concrete where my head had just been.
It can use some more work, fewer commas, and perhaps shorter, sharper sentences to convey the urgency and danger.
Perhaps we could paint a picture of the main character.
He tentatively has the name Jackson Galsworthy. He has always aspired to be a ‘secret agent’ or ‘spy’ and but through luck more than anything else, he was given his opportunity. The problem is he failed his first test and failure means washing out of the program.
What had ‘they’ said? When the shit hits the fan, you need to be calm, cool, and collected. He’d been anything but.
Maybe we’ll flesh the character out as we go along.
OK, I just had another thought for an opening,
Light snow was still falling, past the stage where each flake dissolved as it hit the ground, and now starting to gather in white patches.
It was cold, very cold, and even with the three layers I still shivered.
What surprised me was the silence, but, of course, it was a graveyard beside an ancient church, and everyone who had attended the funeral service had left.
It was a short service for the few that came, and a shorter burial. No one seemed keen to hang around, not with the evening darkness and the snow setting in.
I stood, not far from the filled grave looking at it, but not looking at it. Was I expecting it’s occupant to rise again? Was I expecting forgiveness? I certainly didn’t deserve it.
The truth is, I was responsible for this person’s death, making a mistake a more seasoned professional might not, and the reason why I was shown the door. I had been given very simple instructions; protect this man at all costs.
It was going to be a simple extraction, go in, get the target, and get out before anyone noticed.
A pity then I was the only one who got that memo.
It’s a start, but with the TV going on in the background, Chester complaining about something, and the weeds in the yard are getting higher, there’s too much else going to consider this even a start.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
Nadia dropped me off outside the office of the newspaper, without any firm plan for our next meeting. I had told her I had to spend some time with Boggs’s in the light of this new information, and after some research at the newspaper.
I was hoping there would be back copies of the paper going back a long, long time.
But, a few years back there had been a fire with extensively damaged almost half of the building, and I couldn’t remember if it included the paper archive. Lenny, the recently appointed editor after his father passed on, had often extolled his plans for the paper, including recording the papers on film to preserve what he called a rich history of the area.
I went in to find Lenny sitting behind the main desk, feet up and reading a book, what looked to be a text on handguns.
He looked up when the door closed with a sharp bang.
“Sam Johnson, as I live and breathe. Thought you had equally grandiose plans of leaving town?”
“My father died, and it seemed a bad idea to leave my mother, being the only kid and all. You know how it is?”
Lenny had just gotten over a recent bereavement and had to move his mother to an old folk’s home because of worsening health. I’d seen him around town from time to time, but time had taken its toll, and he was never the healthiest of kids.
He was never interested in school, perhaps knowing he was always going to end up a newspaperman.
“Indeed I do? Need a job? I need a good reporter, and if I remember correctly, you were a hell of a reporter at school. How many scandals did you uncover?”
“One, and it was by chance.”
“Seemed like more than that.” He shrugged. “I’m sure, like five thousand others, you’re looking for work?”
“Was. I’m working down at the warehouse.”
“Benderby’s. Thought you hated them.”
Everyone hated them, and most of the people I knew because we were always on the end of his cruelty. His father’s pre-eminence and his own football prowess ensured he would always be better off than any of us, and able to get away with his ‘boyish pranks’.
“I did, and I do, but you know how it is. Pride has to be swallowed in these economic times. But, if you need help, maybe I could write a few articles, but without credit.”
“When can you start?”
“After a little research. I’ve come to look at the papers going back to the beginning of time. Please tell me they weren’t burnt in the fire?”
“They were. Sadly. But with did get them filmed so instead of the archive taking up half the building, it now occupies one small room. What’s the subject?”
“The Ormiston’s.”
“Ah, the treasure hunt that Boggs says he’s not on, and you’re the secret partner in crime.”
“Hardly.”
“It doesn’t exist, you know. All those maps, the legends, the lies, and then there’s the Cossatino’s. It’s an invention of theirs to drum up money from unsuspecting fools. Always has been. Oh, and was that Nadia I saw drop you off out the front. There’s a dangerous piece of work.”
“Maybe she’s changed.”
“A leopard doesn’t change its spots, you know that. She’s just trying to find out what you know, and probably feeding you false information. The girl’s a snake, always was and always will be.”
And, if I was to admit the truth, that was probably the case, another of the Cossatino’s having fun at someone else’s expense. She seemed sincere, but then I knew very well the wiles of the woman, and the troubles she had caused many a boy, and, later, many a man.
“It’s a two-way street, Lenny. You know the saying, keep friends close, and enemies closer.” It was a lame retort, but it made me feel better.
“Just don’t get caught playing on both sides of the fence. The files are that-a-way.” He pointed in the direction of a door off to the side, then went back to the book.
My brother always lamented that we did not deserve what happened to our family as a result of a bad decision our great, great grandfather made.
To me, it was just another example of one businessman being smarter than another. The fact he lost the family fortune was terrible, but he had no one else to blame but himself. That old saying you have to speculate to accumulate may well have worked, if he had speculated correctly. He didn’t.
I had no idea why so many of us failed to accept the reality with each new generation, carrying the loss like a badge of honour, and choosing to be bitter, especially towards the family of the so-called villain, Angus McTavish. From everything I’d read about him, he was ruthless, friendless, the sort of man who would swindle his own mother. Why would he draw the line at his business partner?
At any rate, it was one of the reasons why I left home and the country, to get away from all of it.
Five years of bliss passed, and it was only the death of my father that brought me back home. He had carried the grudge from his father, like his father before him, and it had passed to the son, my older brother Ken. I was sorry to see him go, but not surprised that bitterness had eaten away at his soul, killing him before his time.
It was going to do the same to Ken. It had destroyed his marriage to what I thought was the most patient woman in the world. It turned his children against him, tired of him going off looking for evidence of the swindle. Our father had never found any, there was no reason why he should.
And it was a surprise that he came to the airport to pick me up. I hadn’t sent a message, only that I was returning for the funeral, and after a 20-hour flight, Ken was the last person I wanted to see.
When I saw him in the area where relatives and others waited for the incoming passengers after going through immigration, I groaned. He saw me, waved and then waited until I reached the terminal proper.
“You didn’t tell me when you were arriving, which is disappointing. After five years, Ethan?”
“You know why. I hope you’ve finally got past it. With Dad gone, you no longer have to appease him anymore.”
“But that’s just it, he died before he got the good news. I’ve got the evidence.”
He was almost like a dog with a new toy, and it was disappointing. I should have realised he was never going to let it go. “What good is it after all these years? It isn’t going to get the money back. What he did was ruin both our families, Ken. They, at least, managed to get over it.”
“You’re wrong. They didn’t. He invested the wealth in bonds and locked them away in a secure location, and pretended he’s lost it all in the stock market crash. He was a wily, cunning bastard, and those McTavish’s know exactly where it is, and have been living off it for years.”
Last I’d heard, most of the family were all struggling to live, much the same as everyone in the post-pandemic world. In fact, I’d met up with Adrienne McTavish in Boston only a few weeks ago, quite by accident, and we had talked about the feud, the bitterness and hate on both sides and the utter waste of time and energy being expended.
She had also mentioned the rumour that Old Man McTavish had supposedly invested the funds in bonds, none of which had been found, and her investigation had shown, money came in, and money went out, and when traced to the bank, showed it had gone to an investment company, that subsequently filed bankruptcy soon after the wall street disaster. The money had simply disappeared. The idea it was bonds was someone’s fanciful extrapolation of the facts.
“Not the McTavish’s I know, Ken.”
“They’re cunning liars, Ethan. As I said, I have the evidence, and I’ll show you when we get home.”
I made a mental note to move up my return flight to the day after the funeral. If this was the state of affairs, I didn’t want to stay a minute longer than I had to.
I made a mistake in agreeing to stay with Ken. His apartment was a disaster area, much worse than it had been before.
A quick look on the kitchen bench showed every one of his bills was overdue, and he was close to eviction. The obsession had so overtaken him he had lost sight of reality.
“Sure you in financial trouble?”
He’d seen me looking at the unopened envelopes on the bench and was gathering them up.
“It’s temporary. The company closed down, and couldn’t recover after the pandemic. I’ve got an interview next week, but it might not come to that.”
I didn’t ask. He always spoke in riddles. “Do you need some money to ride you over?” He might be a pain, but he was family.
“Might not need it. I have a plan to make things right.”
He made coffee, I wandered down to the other room where the obsession had come to life. The wall of shame as he called it had got much bigger, and the files were stacked on the desk, rather neatly instead of the normal mess.
He came in as I was looking at the montage of documents and Post-it notes that covered almost the entire wall, all closing in on one spot in the middle where a piece of paper had
Meeting, Empire State Building, August 7th, 1929
“That meeting was where McTavish executed the con that swindled our great grandfather with promises of untold riches. It could have Bern true the way the stock market was at the time, but I suspect McTavish knew it couldn’t last, and had lined up a dozen prospective suckers. Ore great grandfather was the first, trying to see if it worked on him, then use it as bait for the others.”
“There’s more people involved?”
That was news to me. We had always thought McTavish had only taken advantage of his business partner.
“There’s depth to this man we haven’t even scratched the surface. Dad got the idea when another name popped up on the documents that were signed. Yes, we now have copies of the investment documents he signed, and several more people who were involved. It led to discovering another 22 families who had been destroyed. They like us thought it was just bad luck when the stock market crashed on the 28th of October 1929, but no. He swindled them too.”
“But that doesn’t mean he put all of the money into bonds, or that those bonds didn’t lose all of their value in the crash unless they’re government bonds.”
Ken rifled through the files and found the one he was looking for. It appeared empty but when he opened it there were two sheets of paper in it.
He handed them to me. US Treasury bonds, one dated 1929 and the other 1960. Neither had a name on them.
“What am I looking at other than a photocopy of two treasury bonds.”
“Proof McTavish invested all of the swindled money in bonds, then one of his relatives converted them into new bonds which means they all knew where the money went “
Two random copies of conveniently dated bonds were not proof in my mind’, nor a court of law either which would be the only place he could get any sort of redress. If the statute of limitations didn’t make it impossible anyway.
“Hardly what I would call proof. Where did they come from?”
“A spy in the McTavish’s camp.” He said like it was the answer to all the world’s problems. “That’s what I’ve been working on for years, and finally it’s paid off.”
“Who?”
“Need to know Ethan and you don’t. I can’t trust you.”
No surprises there. I could understand why he wouldn’t tell me, I’d never been sympathetic to the cause, but spies. How far was he willing to go?
“All you do need to know is that tomorrow it’s all going to be sorted.”
“How?”
“Again, need to know. You’ll just have to wait and see.”
To say that I was worried about his frame of mind was an understatement.
After being borderline manic depressive, this sudden onset of euphoria was concerning. I was hoping something hadn’t snapped.
At dinner with other members of the family, all equally invested on the search for retribution, the only subject up for discussion was my absence and everything that had happened while I was away.
Aside from people aging five years, life for them was the same.
Life for me was different, but no I had not found a wife, had children, had no one special, and had no ambitions other than to just live as comfortably as I could. I didn’t tell them I was now a journalist in a rural city, that was facing redundancy as the internet was more popular than print.
That was something I would have to face when I returned.
It was an interesting, if uneventful evening.
The next morning, I woke up early and went to look at the wall. I was looking for clues about what he was going to do today that was going to make a difference.
There was, on a side wall the McTavish family tree from the old man down, and I traced Adrienne’s lineage back.
I looked at the dates filled in from birth to death. The bloodline had been secured in 1928 when the last of his children were born, that being the direct descendent, her father.
Something I hadn’t realised was the date old man McTavish had died, and that was three days after the stock market crash, 31st October. I thought it had been years after that.
Beside the dates was a newspaper article, about the death and apparently, he had been hit by a car after stumbling on the sidewalk and killed instantly.
My mind then jumped to a conclusion, had he told anyone about reinvesting the swindled funds before he was accidentally killed. If he transferred the funds to bonds. And if he did, who would he have told, if anyone. In his place, given what had just happened at the time you’d be reluctant to tell anyone about what amounted to treasure.
No. Now I was getting wrapped up in Ken’s conspiracy. If there was a spy, perhaps they were simply feeding his fantasy.
Then my eye caught another item, tucked way down the bottom, at the end of a red piece of string coming from the meeting date of when Ken assumed the swindle took place.
A closer look at the card showed the words, “Do you wish you could go back and change the past?” That was all it said, with a phone number.
I could feel rather than hear Ken come into the room.
I turned. “This is some montage. How long has it taken?”
“It’s not all mine. Dad had most of this already, but he hadn’t connected all the dots.”
“And you have?”
“Enough to know precisely when the damage was done.”
I had only a few moments to decide whether to bring up what I’d read on the card. If I was not mistaken, it was suggesting time travel was possible, and if my brother thought it was, then I had a lot more to worry about.
“I followed the red line, Ken. That doesn’t mean what I think it does?”
“I don’t believe it either, Ethan, but a friend I’d mine said he tried it, and he was given the opportunity to change one mistake, and now his life is so much better.”
Of course, that could have happened for any number of reasons, most of all, the human mind can be tricked into believing something happened, even if it didn’t, or that it was simply the power of positive thought.
“Perhaps they simply suggested very powerfully that he change his ways.”
“Or something else. I’m going there at 10:00. I need a fellow sceptic, just so I know it’s not possible, because if it is …”
“You can change the course of history. You know that. If it was possible, which we both know it’s not, it’s possible you might erase us from existence. One innocuous and seemingly innocent interaction could have catastrophic unintended consequences.”
“Which is moot since it is impossible. Up for the challenge?”
If only to put the myth to bed and stop the people running this hoax from convincing him otherwise.
I nodded.
Ken had already made the call and had the address to go to. It was, when we arrived, a rather dilapidated warehouse on an industrial estate that was no longer in use.
At least that was my first impression. The building looked like it was about to fall down. Outside, a dozen cars were parked sporadically in an overgrown car park, giving an impression they had been dumped there.
It was a very elaborate illusion. When we got closer to the front entrance the doors looked rustic but solid and when we were close, slid silently open.
Stepping across the threshold was like stepping into another world. A woman in a white lab coat appeared from the side.
“Mr O’Reilly?”
We both were, but it was Ken she was referring to.
“Guilty.”
“Everything is ready. You have the documents we discussed to sign and then everything is ready to go.”
“You aren’t seriously suggesting that you can send people back in time,” I said.
“That’s precisely what we are doing. You are?”
“The sceptical brother.”
“Well, sceptical brother, let me assure you this has been tested and used successfully. However, we can only send one person back. You will be required to wait in the anteroom for the duration.”
OK, she certainly sounded serious, and as though she believed that time travel was possible, so I had to wonder just what happened. I had been hoping to see the process.
Perhaps I should just play along. “You are aware of the consequences of meddling in the past. One subtle change can have drastic consequences.”
“We are very careful in selecting candidates. And yes, we are very mindful of consequences which is why we can abort the process at any point. Now, if you don’t mind…”
Another woman in a lab coat came out to usher me to the anteroom room, much the same as a frequent flyer lounge with comfortable chairs, a buffet and both TV, playing Quantum Leap episodes, not without irony, and dated newspapers.
Ken was taken away and I only got a glimpse of the room he was taken, a curious deep blue light within.
“How long will this take,” I asked her.
“As long as it takes. Make yourself comfortable.”
When I woke, I was on unfamiliar surroundings, and only vaguely aware of what had happened.
It involved Ken, that much was clear, but not why, where or when.
I remembered being in a departure lounge.
A minute later I felt a hand on my shoulder gently shaking me.
“Wake up sleepy head. It’s time to go.”
It wasn’t Ken shaking me, but a woman. I blinked a few times trying to bring objects into focus and then recognised the face.
Adrienne McTavish.
“Adrienne. What are you doing here?”
She smiled. “You forgot, didn’t you?”
I had no idea if I had forgotten anything, except why I was here and why she was with me.
“I have a bad habit of doing that, don’t I?” It was one of my faults, absent-mindedness. I remembered that much.
“You do. We’re going to stay at your grandfather’s so you can convalesce. The boys have been looking forward to exploring the mausoleum as you call it. Come,” she held out her hand and I took it.
Standing nearby was a girl, almost as tall as her mother and the spitting image of her, just along from me with two boys, twins. On her finger was a wedding ring which I assumed was the one I gave her.
What the hell had Ken done?
“Oh, and happy anniversary Ethan. Thank you for this.” She must have noticed my puzzled expression. “Are you alright? The doctors did say they didn’t expect any further loss of memory or hallucinations, but the great news is they got all of the tumours. You’re going to be fine.”
To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.
But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.
That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much idea of where it’s going as the reader does.
It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?
My private detective, Harry Walthenson
I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.
But, I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.
Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.
Then there’s the title, like
The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello
The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.
But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.
Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brother’s Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and at the editor for the last.
I have high hopes of publishing it in early 2021. It even has a cover.
This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.
The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Things are about to get complicated…
With Jan safely in custody, probably for about 15 minutes when Dobbin discovered she was in police hands, Jennifer and I were free to chase up O’Connell and maybe we would also find Anna.
It was a long shot at best.
But we had to find out more about Anna Jacovich. For that, we would have to go back to the office and talk to Joanne. I told Jennifer what I intended to do and dropped her at the safe house for some much-needed rest before we went after O’Connell.
Then, back in the car, I called the number I had for Joanne.
“Sam.”
“Memorised my number?”
“I like to know who’s calling before I answer.”
“Then this isn’t a restricted line?”
“Restricted enough.”
“I found your little toy?”
Did I hear a sigh?
“You know the world we live in Sam, trust no one not even your mother. Hard for me to trust or not trust her, she passed away when I was seven. Monica said you were good. What can I do for you?”
“A full workup on Anna Jacovich. I’m coming into the office now, and will be there in about half an hour.”
“No pressure then?”
“Not at all.”
“Try not to irritate security this time.”
I’m sure I saw a grim expression on the face of the soldier that had been there the last time I tried to run the gauntlet, and then disappointment when my card worked. I signed in and put the name of the department I was visiting down as Research.
When he asked for a name, I gave him Joanne’s. No doubt he would call her long before I got to her.
She met me at the second level of defence and then took me to a room where two folders sat at opposite ends of a table, two desk lamps shining light down on them. The rest of the room was in darkness.
When she shut the door, I said, “Please tell me there in;t a firing squad in black camouflage just waiting to shoot me.”
She smiled. “If it was more sensitive information, I’d let you read it, then have you shot. Not today.
That was a relief. Oddly, I believed that she would if the circumstances warranted it. Joanne was scary, nor scary than Jan. It’s the quiet ones you had to worry about.”
We sat.
“Read. Then I’ll answer questions.”
For the ten minutes, it took me to discover that Anna was a biochemist herself, and had worked in a not-so-secret government laboratory that had been unmasked with disastrous results, adding another dimension to the problem. I was beginning to think she might be the one who created the monster and had set her husband up to take the blame.
If that was the case, she was never going to pass it on to O’Connell or sell it to him, other than to take the money and run. If that was the case, Severin knew it was her all along, and how dangerous she was.
But and there was a big but in all of this. She needed an accomplice to get to England, which was O’Connell. Now he was no longer needed…
Yes, she would also need both Severin and Maury off her tail, and that had been taken care of.
Jan? Unless I completely misread her, it was not possible she could be the accomplice; she was doing what Dobbin requested. Or had she? Dobbin did say she was able to make executive decisions on the fly.
“The threat isn’t O’Connell. He’s just a pawn.”
“Not just a pretty face then?”
“I never regard my face as pretty.”
She shook her head. “It’s Anna. She played Severin and Maury, she played Dobbin, and she played Dobbin’s little toy soldier, O’Connell. Or Quigley I believe his real name is. I hesitate to say O’Connell played you.”
“Call a dog a dog, Joanne. If I had more experience and more information I might have seen that. You can’t keep people in the dark, and then expect miracles.”
“I’m the messenger, Sam.”
“I’ve been known to shoot messengers, just because I can.”
“Save your bullets for the bad guys.”
“How do I know you and Monica are not the bad guys?”
Another shake of the head. “OK. You’ve passed the scepticism test, Sam. Now put it away. We have to work together on this. It’s a condition for continuing to work on the case.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I don’t need to answer that. But, I get it. You’re a self-starter and will keep at it, with or without us. I can see why people like you. To me, your just another dangerous amateur.”
There were words I could say, but judging by the reek of self-aggrandisement, it would not penetrate the thick hide.
I smiled. “Not noted for your charm then.”
“No. Where is Jan?”
“Who?”
“Don’t play games, Sam. They don’t become you. You went to see Severin, but he ended up dead, and she shot him. Why?”
“You read this file?” I picked it up and dropped it on the table.
She was the sort that read the first page, the preamble, and the last page, the result or desired result.
“I did.”
“Then you know why, as for Jan, if you know I was there when Severin was shot, you’d know where Jan is.”
“She disappeared into the trees. And no doubt in the wind. You should know she’s a trained MI5 assassin on loan to Dobbin.”
Who was now in jail somewhere pending the Detective Inspectors leisure, unless she filed a report. If she did, she would be out now, and looking for O’Connell and Anna.
“Then how should I know?”
She shrugged. “I thought I’d ask. I’m not sure I like having to peel away the layers of this story one by one.”
“Be more forthcoming.” I stood. I had what I needed. “If that’s all, I’ll go on with the job.”
“O’Connell?”
“He’s probably dead by now, but I have to find him, one way or another.”
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.”
How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.
In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.
I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.
Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.
There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.
Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.
It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.
For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.
It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!
On a night that most attendees would hope simply pass by without any fanfare, there proved to be more than just the usual rubbing shoulders and an opportunity to reacquaint themselves with the other movers and shakers in Marin County.
Yes, this year, there was a new theme, one that harled back to the mid-nineteenth century when the Gentry held balls, and there was dancing.
There was also a slight break in tradition when not all attendees were from the same social set, and finally, after many years of lobbying, certain residents of Cedar Falls were invited, one of who was our own, and rather well-known, William Benjamin Oldacre.
The Oldacres have been living in and around Cedar Falls for as long as anyone can remember, in fact, since 1807, nearly 19 years before the first vestiges of a town appeared. They were here long before the Reinharts, they have a school named after one, a street, the public library, and several buildings.
And, yet, no one received an invitation to the ball, or any of the fundraisers, until now.
Be this as it may, I mention this for only one reason, it brought about a change to proceedings, and the dancing and this reporter will bear witness to what was an excellent rendition of the Viennese Waltz in the first instance, led out by none other than William Oldacre, and the second daughter of James Edward Rothstein, Emily Rothstein.
Such was their flair and artistry one could almost assume they were an item. Watch this space if there are further developments.
The article went on the tell everyone how much was raised and where it was going, though tongue in cheek I got the impression it was not where most wanted it to be directed.
It wasn’t quite the hatchet job I was expecting, but it was an interesting touch to highlight the longevity and renown of the Oldacres in the area versus the new kid with all the money.
Our family just wasn’t good at taking over or making buckets of money.
I know Dad left the paper on the bench open at the page, and I could see his expression, when he read it, one of mock indignation. He preferred that no one remembered the Oldacres’ part in the town development. It wasn’t quite what everyone imagined it to be.
Darcy appeared, still in pyjamas and; looking sleepy. Her life had changed since the ball, a girl now in ‘demand’ as she put it. It was a notoriety she didn’t need.
“You’ve seen the assassination?”
“How do you know what’s in it?”
“Taylor rang and told me. You got a mention, liked infamously to the one and only Emily. That cat is well and truly out of the bag now.”
“We danced, that’s all it said.”
“Maybe but what it really says, between the lines, is that you two are an item.”
“It said ‘one could almost assume’.”
She shook her head. “Semantics, again, Will. We know differently, don’t we?”
I was off to the library to do some research on the Oldacre family, fired up again after reading Angela’s piece, just in case a rebuttal was needed.
I made it to the street when a very familiar limousine stopped, and Genevieve got out.
“Mr Oldacre.”
“Please, that’s my father, I think we knew each other well enough to use first names.”
“William.”
“Genevieve. What do I owe this honour?”
“Miss Emily would like to see you?”
“Would she now. Well, as it happens I’m off to the library. I might not be, if she had called and told me, but she didn’t, and I’m not going to drop everyone when she summons me. This is me telling you to tell her there is a way to do things properly.”
I thought she would get annoyed, certainly, her expression changed from bright and sunny to somewhat clouded.
“My thought exactly, and I did tell her, equally as politely.”
“I’m sure you did. Now, I’m going to start walking in the direction of the bus stop. If you choose to tell her my sentiments, that’s fine, otherwise I’m sorry you were sent out on a fool’s errand.”
She smiled. “I’d rather be here than there.”
I could understand that sentiment. She got back in the car, but it did not drive off. She was calling Miss Emily.
I made it to the bus stop before my cell phone rang.
“William?”
“Emily.”
“Genevieve says you’re being petulant.”
“No, Genevieve did not say I was being petulant. If you are going to paraphrase what people say to you incorrectly, Emily, I will hang up.”
Silence for a few seconds, then, “You’re going to be a pain in the ass, aren’t you?”
“No. I’m being me, and if you want to talk to me, call, we’ll arrange to meet, and then we’ll talk. You do not summon me by sending a car and an assistant. It’s a waste of resources and manpower.”
“I want to see you now.”
“Then you have to call and then we meet. If you’d called last night, we would be meeting now, if you get out of bed before seven.”
“I didn’t know last night. I just read the paper. She’s not very nice.”
“I thought we dodged a bullet.”
“We’ve become an item?”
“Assumed to be an item. There’s a big difference. People ask, you simply say it’s a work in progress.”
“What does that mean?”
“Exactly. Now if you want to meet this morning, then call me in an hour and I’ll tell you where and when.”
“This is not going to work.”
“That’s your call, Emily, not mine. I know you can be the girl I know and love, you just have to realize who that girl is. My bus is here. We’ll speak later.”
An hour and a half later we were sitting in a booth at the café near the library. It was one of my favourite haunts, it had a jukebox and all the old 50s and 60s hits. I had offered to buy it when the current owners decided to retire or sell.
It was playing ‘Irresistible You’ by Bobby Darin when Emily came in.
She smiled as she sat down. “Did you play that for me?”
“No, someone else put it on, but it is appropriate.”
“God, you are going to drive me nuts.”
“Isn’t that your job, to drive me nuts?”
She shook her head. “You made me think before nine William. Not happy.”
“Then you’d better get used to it. I don’t like wasting the day.”
I could see a retort forming in her eyes, and then she parked it at the back of her mind. I suspect I had an inkling as to what it was, she was going to say, and certainly what she was thinking. The same thought passed through mine, and it surprised me.
“Now,” I said, “What do you want to talk about?”
“The article in the paper. It was a bit nasty.”
“Semantics, Emily. Down among the common people, it is viewed as an elitist affair. I don’t agree about the stuff on the Oldacres. We may have been here since God created the earth, but we did nothing of note. If we had, the place would be called Oldacre Falls, not Cedar Falls. It’s just Amanda venting.”
“I thought journalists were supposed to report “the news, not comment on it.”
“You live in a different world.
“Daddy owns the company that owns the paper. He says the news is what he says it is.”
That was just a little scary. “You have heard the expression, don’t shoot the messenger, haven’t you?”
“She doesn’t like me.”
“And why is that, Emily?”
Dorothy, my usual waitress, came over with the coffee pot to give me a refill. Most mornings I usually stayed for three. This morning, I was considering adding some bourbon.
She looked at Emily with something akin to surprise. This café was hardly a place the Rothstein’s frequented. “Coffee, Emily?” She was not going to call her Miss Rothstein.
“Yes, thank you.”
Emily, on her best behaviour. Or perhaps because she was not with her friends. They had something of a reputation when visiting local stores.
Dorothy collected a cup and saucer and brought it over, then filled it.
Dorothy looked at me. “I read the paper.”
“Don’t believe everything you read.”
Emily frowned at me.
“I’m still waiting for my invitation,” Dorothy said, a smile forming.
We always said that the world would stop spinning on its axis if one or other of us got invited. Exactly the opposite had happened to me that night, the earth moved. I was not going to tell Dorothy that.
“Perhaps,” Emily said, “we should make the next more town centric.”
Dorothy looked puzzled so I translated, “Ask more of the town’s folk along. It’s a good idea.”
“Good idea.” Dorothy had to go; another customer was after more coffee.
I looked at Emily. “I have a great idea. It’ll kill two birds with one stone. If you are thinking of joining your father’s company, perhaps you should ask him if you could work in the charity functions area, as an organiser. Even better, since the company doesn’t specifically have a department to handle that, tell him to create a foundation, and ask him if you can be in charge. That would be a real job, and I know you can organise.”
“You mean work in an actual role?”
“It might actually work in your favour, showing Amanda you’re not the person she thinks you are, and if you impress her… What were you planning to do after Uni?”
“Go away with friends, like a graduation thing. Surely, you’re going away, like, to celebrate freedom after all that school stuff.”
“Some of us have to earn a living, we don’t all have rich fathers.”
“You could come with me.”
“With your current friends, Emily? You are so much better than they are. You just need purpose, and with them, it’s about being entitled and delinquent because they can. I know you’re better than that, and I think you do too.”
“I think my head hurts talking to you,” Emily said, standing. “I’ve known them all for a long time, William, and we have plans.”
“And I don’t expect you to change them on my account. Just think about it. If you want to be seen differently, and with respect, then you’re the one who has to make it happen.”
“Whatever!”
There was the Emily of old.
I watched her leave, as did Dorothy, who came back after she left.
“The course of true love…”
“Never quite works out when there’s a huge chasm between the social strata. I believe she can change; I just think at the moment she doesn’t believe in herself.”
Perhaps she saw my wistful look as I watched her cross the road.
“At least it was one tick in a box, the Viennese Waltz. The lessons paid off?”
“They did. It was like dancing on air, she is that good.”
“Perhaps it’s more than that, Will, she had the right partner. Don’t give up on her.”
I shrugged. She was the most vexing girl I’d ever known.
This is a residential tower down at the Gold Coast, Queensland, Australia, with every apartment on the beachside overlooking the ocean.
There could almost be a Die Gard scenarion going on here, but I like the idea of a drama unfolding in the penthouse, like
The husband comes home and finds the wife with her personal trainer, who is getting too personal, and he is about to thrown him over the balcony. That’s a long way down.
Uber eats arrive at the door, but it’s really two wannabe ransomers who take the daughter, tie her up, then start making absurd demands, and the daughter almost throws the two of them over the balcony.
But, not one to miss an opportunity, or get her stepmother, who is younger than her, into all sorts of trouble.
The brother of the owner, a single father is killed in a freak accident, and his son has to be taken in, brought back to the penthouse, and thinks he’s struck it rich. The conniving brat is about to be taught a lesson he’ll never forget when he discovers all is not what it seems.
Or my absolute favorite, I win the lottery, move into the apartment, and so do the other 27 layabout members of my family.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 