With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction. He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from eye socket to mouth, and who was also wearing a black shirt with a red tie.
That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.
He apologized as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.
I kept my eyes down. He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognize later in a lineup. I stepped to the other side and so did he. It was one of those situations. Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.
Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic. I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone. I shrugged and looked at my watch. It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.
Wait, or walk? I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station. What the hell, I needed the exercise.
At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’. I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light. As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tires.
A yellow car stopped inches from me.
It was a high powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini. I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.
Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car. It was that sort of car. I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him. I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on. The moment had passed and everyone went back to their business.
My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter. Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.
At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure. I was no longer in a hurry.
At the next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring. I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road. I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.
At the next intersection, I realized I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar. It was somewhere on 6th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.
I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did. There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me. It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.
Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me. As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger; a large man with a red tie.
Now my imagination was playing tricks.
It could not be the same man. He was going in a different direction.
In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long cold winter. I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.
I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in. I would have a few drinks and then leave by the back door if it had one.
I’m working on a novella which may boringly be called “Motive, Means and Opportunity” where I will present a chunk of information from which you if you want to, can become the armchair detective.
Here’s the second part, the so-called Means
Everyone knew I had a gun. It was locked away in a safe that was not in an obvious position in the dressing room at home.
Several years ago our neighbourhood had been subjected to several breaking and several people had been injured, prompting the rest of us to seriously consider getting protection.
I got a Glock 19, 9 mm along with several of my neighbours and then both Wendy and I got lessons so we knew how to use it properly, and avoid shooting either each other or in our feet.
The thing is, there had only been that one round of breaking, and since the gun was put away on the safe about eighteen months ago, it had not seen the light of day since.
Or so I thought.
When asked to check if it was still there, it wasn’t, much to my surprise.
Equally, to my surprise, the bullet that killed James Burgman was a nine millimetre. Was that a coincidence, I didn’t think so.
It’s like working in two offices, one uptown, and one downtown.
I have two blogs, this one, and another which is purely for writing, and generally, a lot of starts and not a lot of finishes. I get ideas, and it’s a place to store them, and give a few people some amusement at my, sometimes, improbable situations and far-fetched stories.
Here I try to be more serious.
I have the ceiling, the cinema of my dreams. Here anything is possible, like jumping from a helicopter about to explode, and survive, and get out of a sinking ship, like Houdini. Of course, there is always one time when it doesn’t work, and Houdini knows that all too well.
Over there, I have a series which I started here, long ago, where I take a photograph and write a story inspired by it. The interesting thing about that is I could probably use the same photograph over and over, and it would inspire a different tale.
I know, if I was running a writing class, everyone would see that photograph differently.
But what amazes me sometimes is the fact the story is not directly related to the theme. It got me thinking about how we view our experiences, and what triggers memories. I’ve discovered that it doesn’t necessarily happen by correlation, say, for instance, a memory of being in New York might be triggered by a visit to a cafe in Cloncurry.
I try to do one of these every day, but sometimes it’s hard work. Writing itself can be some days, particularly when the words are lurking there, behind that invisible, impenetrable, rock wall.
OK, so I’m stuck in the middle of writing a piece over there, and I’ve come over here to whinge.
But, enough. I’ll let you know what the cinema of my dreams is showing, later.
There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?
A retired spy, well not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.
But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.
And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.
Susan is exactly the sort of woman that piqued his interest. Then, inexplicably, she disappears. That might have been the end to it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum, find her or come back to work.
Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!
A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.
When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.
Every year we bowed to the absurdity that Edward John Berkely bestowed upon us for that one week we all agreed to, somewhere back in the mists of time, for reasons now, no one could remember.
It took the form of Edward’s version of the Amazing Race, with 25 clues that took us to places we’d generally never been to before, each of us starting from our home city, and ending up in the same destination, the Empire State Building.
It was always that week beginning the first Saturday in December, and ran for a week, each day ending up in a particular hotel where the numbered clues for the next day would be delivered. The first day’s clues were delivered by email and told us when to start.
We also had a burner phone, delivered before the start, used to track each team, mostly so that we did not cheat. No one ever had, but perhaps that was due to having the phone. It was the only means of communication with Edward, along the way, in case of problems.
Elaborate, yes. Exciting, yes, in the beginning.
Last year, I had suffered a series of misfortunes and failed to finish, the first time, and I had told Edward I was no longer interested. So soon after the death of my wife, I didn’t want to go, but he cajoled me into it.
This year, when he sent the email to ask if I was participating, I told him I wasn’t. Without Jane, who loved the challenge of it more than I did, it seemed pointless, and when I didn’t hear back, I assumed my name had been struck off the list, and gave it no more thought.
As time passed life began to assume a form of normality. It might have taken less time if we had children, but that was not possible, and we accepted it. By myself in a big empty house, it took a while to realise all it did was shackle me to the past, and I had to move on.
There was nothing to keep where I was, our friends were great when there were the two of us, but not so much after she had passed. They came, gave their condolences, and then slowly stopped coming. They were mostly Jane’s friends, and I learned later, didn’t like her choice of husband, but tolerated me for the sake of her happiness.
On the other side of the country, I knew I could lose myself in a city as large as New York, and never run into anyone I’d known. I was happy to be by myself. At conferences, the six I attended around the country each year, they were people I knew and liked Jane, but she was not one of us. When she passed, that first conference was difficult.
Now, I was the one without a plus one, and had settled back into a bachelor’s existence, and, no, I was not interested in finding a replacement for Jane.
Of course, what we tell ourselves and what happens, in reality, are two entirely different things, particularly when a random chance meeting with an old friend I’d not seen for 20 years came out of that proverbial left field.
Mary-Anne Dawkins. Or at least that was the last name I knew her by.
The girl next door, the girl I grew up with, the girl I went through grade school, elementary school, and later, for a time, college. We never dated, it never got to that, but we were inseparable, always had each other’s back, and it had been a sad day when her parents decided to return home and took her and her brother with them.
That day broke my heart, for reasons, then I could not explain. Much later I realised she had been the love of my life, and the one that got away. And with the passing of time, I had almost forgotten her.
I saw her standing at the reception desk of the hotel I was staying for the latest conference when I returned to change for the dinner being held on the last day.
At least I thought it was her. When I stood beside her, and she turned to look in my direction, she simply smiled and ignored me. It was her smile, the one that reminded me of the cat who ate the canary. There were three attributes, the smile, the wavy hair, and the infectious giggle. All three were present in that girl beside me, an older version. But exactly how I would have expected her to age.
“Mary Anne Dawkins,” I said when she turned to go to her room.
She stopped. “Yes, once. It’s now Mary Anne Thomas. Do I know you?”
Interesting that she would not remember me. “My name is Gary Johnson. We used to be friends back in Saratoga.”
“Exactly when?”
I explained the relationship we had for over a dozen years, and that still didn’t register.
When she saw my puzzled expression she said, “Oh, sorry. I was in an accident about a year back, a bad one as it happens, and lost most of my memories before it happened. Basically, I was lying in the hospital with absolutely no idea who I was, where I came from, or what I did. You have no idea how scary that can be. Anyway, one of my friends recognised the photo in the paper and came to rescue me. If you were who you say you are, then if I had those memories, I would remember you, but, I’m sorry, I do not.”
And her point was, this would probably look like I was trying to hook up.
I shrugged. “Then I’m sorry to hear about what happened and will leave you in peace. It was nice to see you again, anyway, Mary Anne.”
Over the next hour or so I pondered the plight of people who lost their memories and what it must be like, waking up one morning and not knowing who you were.
Some people might be thankful given their circumstances. It only highlighted the fact my memories were intact, and sometimes I wished they weren’t because of how painful some were. My life had too many moments that inspired grief rather than rejoicing and seeing Mary Anne again had dragged a lot back to the surface.
Enough to make it impossible to go to the post-conference dinner. Feeling as miserable as I did then, I would not make good company.
Instead, I went down to the hotel restaurant and asked for a table in a corner and was going to have dinner on my own.
I was on my third drink when a familiar face appeared at the restaurant doorway, scanning the tables. Mary Anne. Was she looking for someone?
Our eyes met and moved on, but in a single moment, I felt a spark of regret.
A few minutes later a waiter came and asked me if she could join me for dinner, the restaurant was full, and she had not made a booking.
I shrugged. Why not? It would be like dining with a total stranger, which could be interesting, or just plain sad.
“Thank you for this. I was supposed to be dining with someone else, but they had to cancel. I didn’t fancy going elsewhere, and thought, well, you might tell me a little about myself.”
“Are you sure you’d want to do that? I would think it might be better to leave the old you behind and embrace the new you.”
She settled in the chair and ordered a drink. Those few minutes gave me time to glance at the older version of Mary Anne, and my mental vision of her didn’t match the physical version sitting opposite. She looked, to me, very sad.
“Someone else told me that, and I remember at the time, it might have had something to so with my past, something very bad. I wake up some mornings very frightened and have these bad dreams from time to time. The doctor said it might be just a result of the accident, but some of them are quite real.”
Perhaps that was what was driving the sadness. “I only knew you when you were a child, from grade school to the start of college. Without that friendship, I don’t think I might have achieved what I have over time.”
“Were we more than just friends, weren’t we? I feel that it might have been more. Another result of the accident is that I can sense things from people. The tenor of your voice conveys a depth of feeling. It also tells me you recently suffered a terrible loss. A wife?”
Or she could just see right through me. I’d never really recovered from losing Jane, and yes, being with her now, those feelings had resurfaced.
“My wife died about a year ago, and with you, I always suspected my feelings were one-sided. I never expressed them, and by the time I realised what they were, you were gone. A regret, yes, but we all learn to live with regrets and mistakes.”
It was a convenient moment for the waiter to arrive and take our order. I needed the time to reshelve those memories and change the subject.
“It has to be a monumental coincidence our being here at the same time. I’m at a law enforcement conference. You?”
It seemed odd saying it, law enforcement because it was not exactly true. I was not in a police or sheriff’s department, but something else. I just used the anonymous cover of working for the NYPD as a cover. I had once, earlier on, and people usually accepted it.
“I’m looking for a Xenolith”
She saw the curious expression on my face, and added, “A rock, a large rock.”
Inevitably I had to ask, “Why? Are you a geologist?”
“No. A travel guide of sorts. I work for a company that finds unusual things for travellers to do, or at the moment, elements of a tour that is like the Amazing Race. We have a client who does it once a year for his friends.”
“Edward Berkeley”
Her turn to be surprised. “You know him?”
“An old friend from school days.” And then it occurred to me, she would have known him had she had her memories, because we all used to hang out together, and another memory resurfaced, the fact he fancied her, and then a pang of jealousy, she fancied him.
This was too much of a coincidence. “Have you met him?”
“No. I was out of the office a few months back when he brought the list of places for us to look for. Oh, I see, would he have recognised me?”
“He did have a thing for you. I’ll be honest I was a little jealous, but his parents were very rich and I couldn’t compete.”
“One thing I remember is when they told me had come to the office just to see me, I got a very bad vibe. Conversely, here with you, it does seem familiar, and don’t get me wrong or write anything into it, I feel, for the first time, safe. It’s a very odd feeling to have, but perhaps it comes from our time together. I don’t know.”
Food was served, it was time to leave that and change the subject. I could see a change in her, one of confusion. I didn’t want to be the one that might bring back memories that had been taken from her for a reason.
It was something I’d read about once when dealing with head trauma, and bad things that happened to people. The mind, given an opportunity, just simply shut them out to protect.
Waiting for the next course, a bottle of wine was ordered and served, and the conversation moved on.
“What do you do in law enforcement?”
“Research. You know, you watch the TV shows and there’s this guy or girl behind a computer reeling off stuff relevant to the case. It doesn’t quite work like that, it’s sometimes a lot more difficult, but it’s more or less the job.”
“That’s why you’re here?”
“I was asked to come and lead a session on the more obscure sources of information. Sometimes I think when I retire, I will be able to do family trees with my eyes closed. I researched mine, going all the way back to the people who came over from England.”
“Oh.”
The main course arrived, and it seemed to have an effect on her because she closed her eyes, put her hands on her forehead, and said, “Oh, no. Oh, God no, no, no…”
And then passed out.
It was three days before she woke.
I had tried to find if there was any significant person in her life that should know what happened but found nothing on her, nor in her room. Other than her name on the booking form, the fact she had paid herself, she had paid cash and had no credit cards or driver’s licence, or any documentation to verify who she was.
I knew her as Mary Anne Dawkins and tried to trace her that way, but her identity disappeared after she left my hometown. No Mary Ann Dawkins from there could be traced, nor her parents.
It was like she had appeared out of thin air.
With no one else available, and with the permission of the local police force, I stayed with her, and would until she woke when we could get answers to the mystery.
It was a relief when she opened her eyes. Those first few seconds when there would be disorientation, showed through the surprise, then fear in her expression. Then she saw me, and I wanted to believe it was a smile, but it might have been something else. I was holding her hand at the time.
“Gary, Gary Johnson, of Saratoga, yes? I know you, don’t I.”
“The same.” OK, what just happened? The girl I’d seen before didn’t have a clue who I was. Could that have been an act? If it was it was very convincing.
“What are you doing here? Where am I. by the way? A hospital, yes. I had an accident though I don’t remember anything of it. T-boned in a taxi on the way to the airport? Hey, I was coming to see you…”
“Whoa.” This was getting freakish. Had she just come out of the fog left behind by the accident, and time had stood still for, what, a year? I asked her, “What day is it?”
“October 7th, 2021.”
“Actually, it’s March 23rd 2023.”
“Oh my God. What the hell? Have I been in a coma all this time? How is it possible to lose that much time?”
At that point, the doctor and nursing staff came in and took command of her, and I was relegated to the passage, on the outside looking in. I watched her go through a dozen different states of mind and the gamut of emotions until finally, she had settled, and I was allowed back.
I just sat down when she reached out and grabbed my hand and held it tightly.
“You have to do something for me. It might sound very weird, but believe me, it’s very important because if you don’t, he might succeed in finishing what he started out, killing me.”
“Who?”
“James Fordsburg. You would remember the Fordsburg case; the family were funnelling finds into a private army with the intention of staging a coup and taking over the country. They had property in remote places that were discovered to be training camps, munition dumps, an airport with fighter planes.”
I remembered it. The closest we ever came to civil war again.
“The reason why we left in a hurry. My father worked for the Fordsburgs. He found out what was going on and became a whistleblower. The case never made it to court, the Fordsburgs killed themselves, along with the top military people. What you and everyone else didn’t know was the was a junior Fordsburg, but he did use that name, he used his maternal family name, Berkeley, and his name, Edward Berkeley.
“He never stopped searching. He killed my father, mother and brother, even if the police still say it was an accident, and he’s never stopped looking for me. I then got the idea if I found you, you would know what to do and tracked you down. I spoke to Jane. When I explained who I was, she said she would tell you. Anyway, a year ago, he found me, and I just managed to get away, get a car, and come to see you. I was on my way to the airport, and here I am 18 months later, the message finally delivered.”
It was an amazing tale. If it was true, then Fordsburg the younger would be on the wanted list. That Edward was this Fordsburg, that was a little harder to come to terms with.
“OK. You know I have to check the facts, and that means leaving you here, but I will arrange for protection.”
I heard the door to the room close behind me, and a voice say, “That won’t be necessary, Gary. I can take it from here.”
I heard Mary Anne gasp. I turned around and saw Edward in a county Sherriff’s uniform.
“I don’t know what tales she’s been telling you, Gary, but all of it is in her imagination.”
“So you’re not a Fordsburg?”
“Me? No. You know who I am, Garry. The middle of the road, invisible guy, with rich parents that made my life miserable.”
“I’m not made,” Mary Anne said. “He’s dangerous, and we will not leave this room alive.”
I was inclined to agree with her. He was behaving oddly, like he was strung out, and trying to keep a lid on it. That made him highly unpredictable.
I stood and turned to face him.
“Be careful Garry. No sudden moves. I hope you’re not buying into this tissue of lies.”
No, but I was playing for time. The fact he was in the room meant he had got rid of the guard at the door. It was possible the doctor might come back, and equally possible he might be momentarily distracted.
As I was thinking that he had drawn his weapon, I had to assume the safety was off.
“No need for guns, Ed. I’m not a threat. Nor is Mary Anne. Not if what you say is true.”
The next thing that happened was a loud clanging sound which was the distraction I needed, but it didn’t quite turn out the way I expected. Yes, I got to him, yes, I partially neutralised the gun, and yes, in the scuffle that followed the weapon discharged.
This is what we saw driving along the Coquihalla Highway in Canada, a rather infamous stretch of road featured on the Discovery Channel, and yes, we saw a number of cars and trucks off the side of the road, and not in a good way
The road was iced over in place, and driving was difficult, but on the plus side the scenery was spectacular, and it was hard not to be distracted when driving.
But, inspiration for a story? It might go something like this:
…
Arty was adamant that he knew the best where man in the business.
That might gave been true if he was in the middle of the city where there were endless tests and turns that could be used to lost chasing police vehicles.
But that didn’t apply to the open road, and one that was think with ice and snow, even if it had recently been cleared.
But that wasn’t as bad as the fact that we had got free of the city, lost the pursuing cars, changed vehicles, and got away free.
All he had to fo was follow the road.
Except Arty had a temper, and getting stuck behind an old van going ever so slowly on the road, caused him to first blast them with horn, then start doing dangerous accelations up behind them, and then attempt to overtake on a bend in the road.
That might not have been so bad if there had not been an oncoming car, but there was.
Even that might not have been so bad if the car had not been a police vehicle.
But the real kicker: Arty lost control of the car and we went sailing off the edge of the road into a ravine, landing on soft ice which after a minute started cracking and then gave way.
The last place I wanted to be was to be sinking into a freezing cold river, but there we were, all frantically trying to get out.
Fortunately, I did, but not before I was soaking wet, and almost frozen. The rest didn’t make it.
I turned, and saw what appeared to be a relatively unkempt man standing behind me.
Jerome Kennedy. Astro physicist. A man who was mocked rather than revered for his theories on space, and in particular, space travel.
And those theories were, to put it mildly, interesting.
It was probably why the Admiral conscripted him for this voyage into the unknown.
“I though that was only in the imagination of television script writers.”
“Possibly, but we just witnessed something that none of us can rationally explain. One minute they were there, the next, poof.”
“That’s why you are along for the ride, to find explanations for the unexplainable. I look forward to your report.” Then, turning back to the navigator, “are we still in touch with the original alien vessel?”
“Just, and still heading towards Uranus.”
“Then let’s get after it, maximum speed when possible.”
I left the newly promoted number one in charge and went into the captains day room. I was still getting used to the idea of actually bring captain, because the aura of previous inhabitant of this room was still there. And it felt like he was in the room watching everything I did.
I shook my head, as if that would cast off the jitters I felt, and sat down behind the imposing desk, one thathad been made over a hundred years before, and from a vessel with the same name.
I still didn’t have a lot to put in any report to the Admiral, but had a lot to think about.
I brought up the navigation screen and looked at the suggested path from where we were to Uranus, and the time it would take.
There was a buzzing sound, and a face appeared on my screen. It was the Captain’s personal assistant for want of a better name, Louise Chalmers, an ex Lieutenant Colonel from the military, but not by much. She had retired into this position, and, I suspect, another was for the military to keep up to date on the Captain’s decisions.
“Come in.”
The door opened, she came in, and it closed behind her. There was no open door policy on this ship.
“Sir.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m not sure if you are aware, but I am here to serve whomever the current Captain is, and since Captain V is not here, that would be you in his stead.”
I had read that she was his choice for P A, and that it was a personal matter, as usually Captains didn’t have such staff members.
“I thought you were on board to serve only the previous captain “
“Not so. If you read standing order 207615, you will realise my position was ratified as general crew member, serving the ship rather than an individual. My job is to make your job easier.”
While she was speaking, I fetched the standing orders, and the one she referred, and a quick scan proved such to be the case.
“In what way?”
“Paperwork, the vane of any officers existence I’m told, and to organise all activities of a non urgent nature, like bring the daily reports to you.”
I knew that captain had to be appraised of everything that happened on board, just not every day.
“I take it you have the reports?”
“I have, and unfortunately, as per regulations, I have to make sure you have received them. Your predecessor wanted me to summarise. I can do the same for you.”
It’s like working in two offices, one uptown, and one downtown.
I have two blogs, this one, and another which is purely for writing, and generally, a lot of starts and not a lot of finishes. I get ideas, and it’s a place to store them, and give a few people some amusement at my, sometimes, improbable situations and far-fetched stories.
Here I try to be more serious.
I have the ceiling, the cinema of my dreams. Here anything is possible, like jumping from a helicopter about to explode, and survive, and get out of a sinking ship, like Houdini. Of course, there is always one time when it doesn’t work, and Houdini knows that all too well.
Over there, I have a series which I started here, long ago, where I take a photograph and write a story inspired by it. The interesting thing about that is I could probably use the same photograph over and over, and it would inspire a different tale.
I know, if I was running a writing class, everyone would see that photograph differently.
But what amazes me sometimes is the fact the story is not directly related to the theme. It got me thinking about how we view our experiences, and what triggers memories. I’ve discovered that it doesn’t necessarily happen by correlation, say, for instance, a memory of being in New York might be triggered by a visit to a cafe in Cloncurry.
I try to do one of these every day, but sometimes it’s hard work. Writing itself can be some days, particularly when the words are lurking there, behind that invisible, impenetrable, rock wall.
OK, so I’m stuck in the middle of writing a piece over there, and I’ve come over here to whinge.
But, enough. I’ll let you know what the cinema of my dreams is showing, later.
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.
…
Three a.m. is meant to be so quiet; you could hear your heart beating.
Ten to, all hell had broken loose when one of the conveyor belts broke, and a replacement was needed, and the engineers were on the clock.
Ten past, the hullabaloo had died down, and back at the desk, I was contemplating a long scotch to calm the nerves. Drinking on the job was not condoned, but not unheard of. I opened the drawer and looked at the bottle, then thought the better of it.
And, when I looked up, Nadia was standing in front of the desk.
She was as quiet as a ninja, and just as dangerous.
“Never a dull moment,” she said, dragging a chair over and sitting down. “I got here a half hour ago and all hell was breaking loose.”
“Conveyor broke. No one wants to see production stop or slide. Too many questions.”
“Fixed?”
“Of course.” I made a note to order a replacement. Better to have two in store, just in case.
“How did you get in?”
Security was tight, not like it used to be, especially after what happened to me.
“I know the guards, they know I’m not a threat.”
I could beg to differ, but I was glad to see her. “Did you know Alex was a caver?”
“A what?”
“One of those people who go scrambling through caves.”
“I doubt it.”
“He used the word spelunking.”
“Which is?”
“Exploring caves.”
“He’s no explorer, I bet he’s looking for the treasure.”
“And so has a million others before him. I seriously doubt the treasure will be in a cave in the hills, which is where all the known caves are. Of course, that doesn’t necessarily include the so-called underground river under the mall, but apparently isn’t.”
“You heard?”
“That the flooding was not necessarily the result of a flood of water from the mountains, yes. A problem with the foundations, it has been suggested.”
“A fact Benderby is working overtime to cover up.”
Nadia seemed well informed. I was guessing the Cossatino’s could see an opportunity to blackmail Benderby, if they had proof. I wouldn’t put anything past them.
“You know something I don’t?”
“We always know something others don’t.”
“Have I got a dark secret?”
“That depends.”
She smiled, and it worried me.
“Your mother and Joshua Benderby used to be very good friends when they were at school.”
Old news, well, not so old news, but if I hadn’t seen the flowers…
“What are you insinuating?”
“They had a fling before your mother realized what sort of a man he really was and picked your father instead. But, from what I’m told, they were close, and there wasn’t a lot of time between the breakup and you coming along.”
Odd, but that was just the thought that entered my mind at the exact instant she said it.
“But, I look nothing like the Benderby’s.”
“Benderby didn’t look anything like his parents either, it’s a generational thing, so you might want to find a photo of his father and mother, you know, just to settle the nerves. Or a DNA test.”
It was the last thing on my mind. Imagine being a stepbrother to Alex. Wouldn’t that get his nose out of joint, going from the only son and heir to sharing the mantle? I was older than him, too, which gave me more of a claim on the fortune.
No. Not a chance in the world. There wouldn’t be enough money to assuage the horrors of that family. It would be bad enough if they got together now, which wasn’t as unlikely as it sounded. His wife had died, and he hadn’t remarried, or, for that matter, found someone else. Yet.
“Have you come with any other news?”
“No. Just a picnic basket. I thought you might want a late, late supper.”
It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t. It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…
She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room. It was quite large and expensively furnished. It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.
Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917. At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.
There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.
She was here to meet with Vladimir.
She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.
All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring. Not that she had blurted that out the first they met, or even the second.
That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.
It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years. She had been there once, and still hadn’t met all the staff.
They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.
It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this was a fencing match.
They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity. She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.
The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined. After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.
Then, it went quiet for a month. There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited. She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.
A pleasant afternoon ensued.
And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.
By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends. She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy. Normally for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.
She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful. In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.
After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit. She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.
It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine. She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.
A Russian friend. That’s what she would call him.
And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue. It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.
Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour. It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.
So, it began.
It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.
She wasn’t.
It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country. It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms. When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.
Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report. After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.
But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report. She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.
It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen. Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.
And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.
She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room. She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.
Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.
There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit. She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.
Later perhaps, after…
She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.
A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival. It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality. A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.
The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.
She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.
