An excerpt from “The Things We Do For Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself. Feeling the dampness of the pillow, and fearing the ravages of pent up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs. Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived. He’d heard her and Mrs. Mac coming up the stairs, and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs. Mac to show her to a table.

She was about mid-twenties, slim, long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines. She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied. Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity. And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain. Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs. Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one. Coming up to the new arrival she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner. Would you like to sit with Mr. Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back on his neck stand up. He purposely didn’t look back. In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six. Out of a thousand!

“If Mr. Henshaw doesn’t mind….” She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so. Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.” Mrs. Mac promptly ushered her over. Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you. You are most kind.” The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.” It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone but made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs. Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be. There was something about him.

His eyes, they mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying? There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No. That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?” Seconds later she realized she’s spoken it out loud, had hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilization, and home, as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal. All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slight abrupt in manner, perhaps as a result of her question, and the manner in which she asked it.

She looked up. “Rest. And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note. No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had actually said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs. Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel. Of course, there had been no possible way she could know than anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but realized it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for very different reasons.

On discreet observance whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced and he had no sense of humor.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown. And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame. They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and rather incongruously, was he could do with a decent feed. In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr. Henshaw?”

He looked up. “Henshaw is too formal. Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs. Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks. Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere. It was, she thought, almost unbearably awkward.

Mrs. Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself. Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle. “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone. Then, to Mrs. Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humor.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought, when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs. Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses. After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation. “How did you arrive? I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question, otherwise she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me I had an accident. I ran up the back of another car. Of course, it didn’t matter to him the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.” His attempt at humor failed. “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came. Both had found, after getting to know each other better, their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs. Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling. She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living,” Michelle asked in an off-hand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser. I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening had worn on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well. Even the carefully applied makeup, from close up, didn’t hide the very pale, and tired look, or the sunken, dark ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work. I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you. I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night and then smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner now over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet the compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

lovecoverfinal1

That helicopter story that kept me awake – Episode 38

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

“So, Jacobi, tell me what I don’t know.”

I was taking the track slowly and keeping within a short distance of the cars behind me. The road was little more than a dirt track, and in places, there were almost un-navigable ruts. We would not have got a truck down this road.

He looked sideways at me. “You know as much as I do.”

“That’s not possible. I know nothing. You set this up. Tell me about the leader of this group. Is he the heard of his own militia group?”

“An area commander of a larger group spread out across the top of the Republic, bordering onto Sudan. They get their guns and other military hardware across that border. Where we’re going, it’s their main camp in this location.”

“How many men will be here?”

“Twenty, thirty. Sometimes they train new recruits.”

“Those militia back there, were they his people?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do, Jacobi. And I think if you want to come out of this alive, you might consider giving me all the facts. If they were his men, there could be ramifications if they don’t report back, especially if he was expecting to add to his payday.”

“Even if they were, there’s no communication lines out here. They would have to report back to the camp first. And then there’s the possibility with all the money they were supposed to collect, there might be a detour. It’s why I think they asked for 10,000 rather than the 5,000. The commander was going to take a cut. Loyalty only goes so far in these places.”

“No likely surprises?”

“None that I’m aware of. You killed them all anyway. Dead men do not get up, walk back to come and inform.”

No, they didn’t.

A mile to go I saw the rear car stop for a few seconds and Monroe and Stark get out and disappear into the bush. The chances were they could walk through the bush faster than we could drive on the track, and beat us there.

And, then, the checkpoint was in sight, a pair of empty petrol drums with a piece of wood across the road, each end resting on a drum. Behind the barrier were three men, one I presumed to be the commander, the other two, guns at the ready, his guard. Behind them was a clearing with several buildings and to one side several huts that might belong to some villagers. There were a truck and two Toyota tray utilities parked to one side.

All in all, I could see about ten men.

When I reached the barrier, I stopped but left the engine running. Just before we arrived, I gave the order to hide the hand weapons. It was risky going in unarmed, but the chances were they’d take the guns if we were wearing them. This way, if we needed them, there was a slight chance we might be able to retrieve them.

Both Jacobi and I got out. I left my door open. Jacobi closed his.

“Sergeant James, I presume.” Good English, beaming smile, friendly manner.

“I think I know how Dr. Livingston felt. I am he.”

A puzzled look for a moment, then the resumption of good nature. He didn’t understand the nuances of British history in Africa.

There was no handshake, none was expected. Jacobi stepped forward. “I assume the packages are here, and in good condition.”

“Of course. I assume that you have brought the exchange material.”

“We have. Now, if we can just park these cars, we can get on with the exchange.”

“In a hurry, Jacobi? Somewhere else to be?”

“Yes, as it happens. I’m a busy man, as you are aware.”

Politeness disappeared from his face as quickly as the sun sometimes went behind a cloud.

The commander looked over towards a hut just back from the road, one I hadn’t seen from the car because it was hidden by a grove of bushes. Two men came out.

“Move the barrier.”

As they did, he said to me, “Tell your men to get out of the vehicles and come slowly up the track. My men will bring the vehicles into the camp. Tell them also not to make any sudden or suspicious moves, or there will be trouble.”

A glance back showed another four of his men, also armed, appearing out of the bush towards the driver’s side of the cars.

I’d brought the radio and gave them the instructions the commander had given me.

Five minutes later we were standing outside one of the huts, the cars were parked neatly in a row, and each of us had been frisked as I thought we would. The four who acted as drivers were now our guards, not with weapons trained on us, but they could be very quickly.

The commander waited until the guards at the checkpoint had replaced the barrier, then came striding towards us. I could see he was counting heads and seemed perplexed by the time he reached us.

“There are men missing. Where are they?”

…
© Charles Heath 2019-2021

“Uncanny good luck shines upon me…” – a short story

I never did take advice very seriously. Especially when they were issued by old man Taggard, a man of some mystery that we all, adults and children alike wanted to know about.

Everyone in the street knew him as he had lived in the almost derelict mansion at the end of the cul-de-sac forever, way longer than anyone else in the neighborhood had. In fact, it was rumored he had owned all the land around and sold it off bit by bit over time, the reason why there were so many houses of varying age in the estate.

Ours was one of the older houses, a few doors up from it. We were close enough to observe Taggard’s habit, like sitting gon the porch on an old swing chair in the afternoons, to the late-night wanderings in the street. Some said he was accompanied by the ghost of his long-dead wife, which led to stories being told of the house he lived in being haunted.

As children, we had been brought up on a diet of TV shows such as ‘The Munsters’ and ‘The Addams Family’, and had invented our own make-believe show called ‘The Taggard Mansion’, the house with ghosts, and the neighborhood center for strange goings-on.

And as children were wont to do, we had to ‘investigate’.

There was a ‘gang’ even though we didn’t refer to it as such, about seven of us who lived in nearby houses, and all of whom had very active imaginations. We also met in the cubby house out the back of our house to plan forays to find out whether the rumors were true. The thing is we never got very far as he seemed to know when we were sneaking in and scared us off, so for years, the rumors remained just that, rumors.

But as grown-ups, and by that I mean, middle teens, our plans became bolder and more sophisticated, based on a whole new breed of TV shows, where the seemingly impossible was no longer that. And Andy Boswell, my older brother’s best friend, his father was a private detective, or so he told us, and he had managed to ‘secure’ some of his father’s tools of the trade; a camera on the end of a wire that could connect to a cell phone, a listening device that could hear through walls, and in-ear communicators. We could now, if we were close enough, see under doors, and hear if anyone was in. We could all keep in touch, though I couldn’t see how this would help.

But a plan was formulated. All seven of us had a role to play. My brother Ron and Delilah, his girlfriend, were taking point, whatever that meant, Andy and I were going to take point, while Jack, Jill, and Kim were going to run distraction. The theory was, they’d make enough noise to keep the old man occupied chasing them. No one had been inside the house, ever. Andy and I were going to be the first.

Andy had drawn up a plan and it was up on the wall. He had charted the house, and had a very accurate picture of the house’s footprint, where doors and windows were, likely entrance points, including a hatchway down into what he assumed was a basement, though he preferred to call it the dungeon, and a layout of the grounds. Apparently under the undergrowth were paths and gardens, even a large fountain that once graced the grounds of the three-story mansion made of sandstone, and built sometime during the middle of the 1800s.

Andy had done some research, mostly from old newspapers, and also discovered that the old man had once been married, they had a half dozen children, three of whom had died, the others scattered around the world. It explained why no one ever visited the place.

The distraction team would be going in through the front gate, easy enough because it had come off its hinges and just needed a shove to open. The old man usually emerged from the house via the driveway, or what was once a drive that cars could enter one side of the property, stop under a huge canopy, and emerge onto the road further along. But it’s overgrown stare, the width of the pathway was now about six feet. The fact it was once an amazing feature was the roadside lights, now all but disappearing behind the undergrowth.

Andy had found a photograph in the paper of it, and it had looked magnificent, as had the gardens, the overhanging canopy, and all the lights. To think such magnificence was now lost. And having seen it for what it once was, it was not hard to imagine any number of scenarios, my favorite, rescuing a damsel in distress from the tower. Yes, it even had a tower, two, in fact, at each end of the house. My brother always said I had an overactive imagination.

Andy and I would be going in by the less used car exit, and heading for the left side of the building where Andy said was several floor-to-ceiling windows that looked to him like French doors. Of course, none of us knew what French doors were, and my brother cut Andy short when he tried to explain.

Failing that, there was a door at the rear that seemed to be open, and we’d try that next. We would get into position, advise the distraction team, and the operation would be a go. The only debate was what time of the day were we going to do it. My brother preferred late in the afternoon. Andy said it was better at dawn, or soon after if we were looking for maximum confusion of the target.

Dawn, confusion, tactics, target, Andy was in his element. He was going to be a spy when he grew up. My brother said he would never grow up, but then, my brother said I was a dreamer and would never amount to anything. We ignored his advice, well, we pretty much ignored everything he said.

We were going in at dawn.

At 5 a.m. on Saturday morning, we gathered at the cubby house ready for action. We all took a communicator and put it in our ears, and then had fun saying stupid stuff, and hearing it through the earpieces. It was weird but added an exciting element to the adventure. I know my heart was beating faster in anticipation. Andy was pretending to be cool and failing. I suspected my brother and Delilah had other plans when we left them alone in the cubby house. The distraction team was ready to go.

Shortly after the sun came up, it was cool and the air still. It was going to be a hot day, and that first hour, everything was almost perfect. It seemed a waste to do anything but let the early morning serenity settle over us. Not today. Andy and I went to our position, slowly feeling our way through the bushes, taking bearings from the light poles, and every now and then seeing the guttering and what looked to be a concrete path. Beyond that was once a garden, and I tried, more than once, to imagine what it was like.

In my ear I could hear the others in the distraction team setting up at the start of the driveway, ready to go. We reached our position, about twenty feet from the so-called French windows, the view into the house blocked by curtains, but beyond that, what we could see was darkness inside the house. Taking in the whole side of the house, there were no lights on behind any of the windows. If we didn’t know better, we could have assumed the house was empty.

I heard Andy say, “Ready. Start making noise.”

A minute later we could both hear the distraction team in the distance and through the communicators. It took two minutes before we heard the old man, yelling, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Their job done, getting him out of the house, all they had to do was retreat.

Time for Andy and I to go.

Working on the basis that no one else was at the house, and the fact we had no evidence there was, we were not overly worried about making a stealthy approach. I could hear in my earpiece, the gasping of those in the distraction team having just made it outside the gate, and to tell us the old man had stopped at the gate. I doubt he had been running, but his yelling was just as effective.

That had stopped, and a sort of silence fell over the area.

We were now at the French doors, and Andy produced another tool that he’d forgotten to tell us about, a lock pick. The fact it didn’t take long to unlock the door told me he was either very talented, or the lock was old and presented no problems. Either way, he opened the door and ushered me in.

I brushed the curtains aside for him to follow, then moved in as he followed, closing the door behind him.

I’d taken five steps before I heard a woman’s voice say. “Uncanny good luck shines upon me. My knights in shining armor. You’ve come to rescue me, no?”

…

Writing about writing a book – Day 22

More of Bill’s backstory, and, if it’s possible, I’m beginning to like this guy.

I suspect, for him as well as many others, it wasn’t easy, but in war zones, it’s either hot or cold, but never any pleasant in any weather conditions, and perhaps if there was a possibility of a fine, balmy, day, there would be no time to enjoy it.

Sleep was difficult.

Sleep was always difficult, if not impossible.

Whilst I had lived in barracks, in the tropics as part of my training and acclimatization, it was nothing like this. Nothing could have prepared me for the endless, oppressive heat.

It started from the day the plane had landed on the tarmac at Saigon airport, the crew opened the door to the cabin, and we walked down the stairs. The heat came from above, and from the tarmac below. We were soaked in sweat by the time we reached the buildings.

And it was difficult not to be exhausted, even if you were lucky enough to get a few hours sleep. That constant feeling of exhaustion was the biggest enemy, and what caused many of the unnecessary deaths. In the end, for many, it was just too much. For me, it was training that kept me alive, because of that little voice in my head that kept me vigilant.

That and a keen sense of self-preservation.

Our platoon was still recovering from the shock of seeing the death of two of our mates the previous day. Although in the camp only a week, already it felt like a year. We’d been sent out on a patrol, trying to find a group of the enemy who was responsible for cutting one of the supply lines, and it hadn’t taken long for us to realize we didn’t really know if it was the Viet Cong or the people we were supposed to be protecting. They all looked the same to me, and we had to rely on our South Vietnamese Army liaison to ensure we didn’t shoot the wrong people.

After an eventless day, if you discounted the rain, the heat, and the scares, the Lieutenant ordered us to make camp, just before darkness set in. We had not seen the enemy, and, as I was finally getting to understand, we probably wouldn’t until they were prepared to show themselves.

At that moment of maximum unpreparedness, when our attention was diverted, and after a long and debilitating day, they chose to attack.

I had no doubt they had been tracking us, and for quite some distance. I had that effect of hair standing up on the back of my neck. It actually saved me from getting shot.

The attack killed three of our men and shattered our confidence.

No one slept that night, either from fear the attackers would return, or because we were just plain terrified. I volunteered for guard duty. It was easier to be up and about instead of on a camp stretcher staring at the roof of the tent waiting for the inevitable.

Seeing our mates killed so horrifically, before our eyes, had the desired effect. In the beginning, we expected it to be a walk in the park, with some hoping that we would just stumble around in the jungle for a week or so, then go back to the camp for a well-earned rest. None had counted on the reality of war, or the fact some of us might die. Some were even hoping they would not have to shoot their gun.

All of those illusions had now gone after three months had passed, and as reality set in.

Some had sobbed openly, such was their preparedness. I had to say, I was a little more prepared, but had hoped for a little more time before the battle. And it surprised me how calm I was when all around me it was chaos.

“Bastards,” Killer muttered.

We called him ‘Killer’ because it was the nickname the Army had given him. We were sharing the guard duty and had spoken briefly over the watch, but up till then, the silence had stretched over an hour or so. It didn’t take long for anyone to realize he was a man of few words.

He’d been in the regular army for years and asked for the posting. He’d made Sergeant several times, only to lose those same stripes for fighting, usually after R&R and a bout of heavy drinking. Now assigned to our platoon to lend his experience, the conscripts were expecting him to ‘look after’ them. Other than myself and the Lieutenant, he was the only other regular soldier. Unfortunately for them, he hated both conscripts and the Viet Cong in varying degrees, and depending on his mood there was little tolerance left for the rest of us.

“The people who sent us here or the people trying to kill us?” I asked before I realized I’d spoken.

I didn’t hear the reply, the skies opening up with another torrential downpour that lasted for about five minutes, and going as fast as it came. When the sun finally came up, it would make the atmosphere steamy, hot, and unbearable. It was quite warm now, and I was feeling both uncomfortable, and fatigued.

Killer looked just as stoic as he had before the rain. He looked at me. “Damn weather. Worse than home.”

“Scotland?”

“Scapa Flow, Kirkwall. I should have been an engineer on ships like my father, but I was too stupid. Joined the Army, finished up here. What’s your excuse?”

“Square peg in a round hole. The army seems to handle us in its stride.” It was more or less the truth. I joined the Army to get away from my parents.

“That it does. That it does.”

The rain came and went, during which the rest of the camp roused and went about its business. It had been a long night for some, still getting over the shock of the attack, and the ever-pervading thought the enemy was still out there, biding their time. It would be, for them, a waiting game, waiting for the conditions to wear us down, and lose concentration as inevitably we would.

Certainly, by the time we were relieved from sentry duty, I felt I was in no condition to match wits with a donkey, let alone the enemy on his own home ground. When I stumbled over to the mess area and looked at the tired and haggard looks on the faces of the platoon, I realized that went for all of us.

Killer and I managed to get about an hour’s rest before the call came to move out, rain or no rain, and after a breakfast to make anyone ill, we left. For hours it rained. No one spoke as we strained to listen over the rain spattering on the undergrowth, all the time expecting the unexpected. That was the benefit of the surprise attack; we no longer took for granted we would be safe.

Water gathered in pools along the trail, hiding any chance of seeing landmines. Rainwater and sweat ran into our eyes, making it difficult to see. Water leaked everywhere, making it very uncomfortable. This was not a war; this was utter stupidity.

I was about to remark on the futility of it all to the Lieutenant, who had taken the lead, when one second he was talking to me and the next he crashed to the ground, a sniper’s bullet killing him instantly. Someone yelled “Contact” and we hit the ground, bullets flying all around us.

Too late, I thought, as I felt the hit of what seemed to be a large rock, then the searing pain in my leg, just as I hit the ground…

‘The Devil You Don’t’ – A beta reader’s view

It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you.

John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.

What should have been solace after disappointment, turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

He suddenly realizes his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.

The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where, in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.

All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.

…

Available on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

An excerpt from “Betrayal” – a work in progress

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 her knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, who life both at work and at home was boring. Not that she had blurted that out the first tie she 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 one, 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 the 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.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir. It was her worst nightmare.