Category: Mystery

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 28

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

 

By the time they reached the outskirts of Munich, what the Standartenfuhrer considered their biggest hurdle, it was quite dark and almost impossible to see where they were going.

The whole city seemed to have disappeared so effectively was the blackout.  

But there was one benefit, there was little or no traffic on the roads, which lessened the chance of running into another car or truck.

And it was time to refill the tank with two more petrol cans, leaving two remaining.  Filling up now, the Standartenfuhrer said, would get them to Innsbruck.

He sounded confident, but Mayer got the distinct impression it was mostly that he was putting on a brave face.  There had been one instance, the checkpoint before Munich where he nearly lost his nerve.  For the first time, there had been SS guards at the checkpoint, and which had been entirely unexpected.

An SS officer of the same rank had been summoned and he had requested their written orders.  They had paperwork, but Mayer wasn’t sure if it related to their current situation, further confirming his belief this had been a very carefully planned operation to get him out of Germany, and that there was a more pressing reason why.  It definitely had something to do with the V2’s, but had their intelligence services found out about something else, something he didn’t know about?

Given the level of risk to the two men with him, and that at every turn there was a possibility of capture or death, given the level of planning and the run so far, one he would have never thought of trying on his own, he didn’t have a very high level of confidence that they would get away with it.

Those in the SS were not fools, trusted no one, believed nothing they were told, and disregarded anything written on paper.  Check, double-check, then check again.  Take nothing as read.  The document he’d been given on what made a first-class SS officer in the eyes of the Reich, was fundamentally not him, nor most of the German population.

The officer at this checkpoint reminded him of the one who had shot the shooting in the hotel, and for at least ten tense minutes, during which time the other two had conferred quietly in English, one suggestion they cut and run.

That would have invited a hail of machine-gun fire that none of them would survive.

Both looked visibly relieved when he returned, having obviously called the name of the officer who had signed the order.  The only explanation he had for this was that the level of discontent among officers Military of SS must be greater than he thought.



They managed to cross over into Austria without any problems, the route they had taken, a series of back roads and tracks which had been given to them.  Once again, Mayer was surprised that so many people could be working against their own country, but, of what he’d seen, conditions were harsh no matter which part of Germany they were in.

The war was not going the way the German people were being told, and it was hard to see any resolution of the conflict any time soon.

Perhaps everyone in the high command was hoping the new V2 rockets were going to change the country’s fortunes in the war.  If they were, they were going to be bitterly disappointed.  What they needed was the jet-propelled fighters and bombers, something that remarkably had not been implemented years earlier, and would have given them air superiority.

He’d worked on those early jet engines and they were remarkable, and faster than anything the British or the Americans had.  It was hard to comprehend why high command had not pushed forward the new jet-propelled planes that Belin had finally decided to implement.  

And just when the trio had agreed that everything would work out about 100 kilometers from Innsbruck, on the road to the Italian border crossing, they took the wrong route.  It was a mistake brought on by tiredness, and a momentary lapse in concentration.

A checkpoint where there shouldn’t be one.

© Charles Heath 2020

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated at what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first.  I have come, basically to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us with an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that.  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”

“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.

His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2024

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 27

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.

 

It took almost an hour to recover.  Monroe didn’t come looking for me, so I think they knew it would take some time for me to get my legs back.

And it felt good to stand under the hot shower for twenty-odd minutes, letting the warmth of the water sink into my bones and clear my head.

And think.

How long had Bamfield have an eye on me?  It was a question that sprung to mind the moment I saw him in the desert camp.  I’d heard if you were transferred to one of his commands, at some point, it was not because it was another posting, it was because he wanted you there.

I’d been specially selected by Bamfield personally, out of the preliminary training camp, to further my military career under his oversight.  I’d made it very clear from the outset that I was not interested in a commission, that I preferred the lower ranks.  Officers were a different breed, and I’d not been cut from that cloth.  Bamfield had admitted as much when I was first interviewed by him, and several other’s on what I soon discovered was his selection panel.

They were charged by him to find the best of the best.

And at that first interview, I’d disagreed with his assessment.  I’d been in trouble before, and the military was the only place I could go if I didn’t want to serve a stretch in jail.  Perhaps it was that innate ability of mine to seek out and become embroiled in trouble that caught his attention.

Certainly over time he and his instructors had honed those skills to a more refined set that, in civilian life, would set me up for a long stay in prison.  It begged the question of what I was going to do with myself after the military had finished with me, a question I hadn’t really thought about until I’d been shunted to my last post in a training school of sorts.

I realised now that it had been Bamfield sidelining me until an operation crying out for my particular talents came along.

That disastrous operation with Treen.

Was it his?  Or was it someone else who pulled it together, and he just provided the manpower.  It had been the first major active offshore operation I’d been on.  There’d been a few skirmishes along the way, but that was the first, and in a zone where I don’t think we were meant to be operating.

That had, I thought, been the sole purview of the CIA, and if I looked back on what had happened, there was no doubt the two agents we were supposed to pull out were CIA operatives, it had got too hot for them to stay, and they had clandestinely called for help.

It begged another question, was Bamfield CIA or working with the CIA, with or without the military hierarchy knowing?

The thing is, if it had been pulled off, as expected, no one would be any the wiser in that country, but once they found out, by whatever means it happened, the proverbial had hit the fan.  It goes hand in hand with trusting people on the ground who were purportedly working against their country’s regime, for better or worse.

That country had a ‘friendly’ government, that had been ‘supported’ and then been deposed in the usual coup by the military, and, afterwards, the new hardliners got the benefit of those times when the country was a friendly and had military hardware and knowledge to wage war clandestinely or otherwise with its neighbours, given willingly.

Lessons hadn’t been learned after a particular middle east debacle.  Maybe lessons would never be learned.  Just look at the number of times had relations turned sour after a coup and agents had to hastily withdraw.  It seems that my visit had been at the end of another of those ‘diplomatic’ missions that had gone wrong.

If this was such a case, I was about to find out.

© Charles Heath 2019

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 27

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

…

Rolf Mayer had only ever wanted to design and build rockets for the exploration of space.

Somewhere between the germination of that desire, and where he was right now, in the back of a black Mercedes SS staff car heading south towards Nuremberg something had gone horribly wrong.

Back at Nordhausen, he may have been terrified most of the time from the demands of the Reich, and the horrors of how the Reich was achieving its goals, but he was, at least, safe.

Now he was a traitor, with stolen plans, with two Britisher spies, heading for Italy and from there to, well it hadn’t quite been specified where he might end up, but he assumed it would be England.

As yet they had not asked him whether he had the answer to stop this new weapon, and, if he really thought about it, there wasn’t an answer.  Perhaps, with a sense of irony, he could say that in kidnapping him, they might not fix the gyro guidance system which caused a lot of the rockets to go off course and miss their intended targets, but still, a large number would still reach their destination with devasting effect.

As for stopping it, he doubted it could be done.  They were fired from mobile positions, and there were no static launching sites so the enemy couldn’t bomb those sites, nor could they stop their production of them because it was underground.  A lot of lessons had been learned since Pennemunde.

And that brought another thought to mind.  Who was the enemy now, if he was willing to go with these spies?  He was German, and he loved his country, but seeing what he had seen, it was hard to balance that patriotism with the means to achieve their goals.  Perhaps the blame lay with the Fuhrer, but no one ever spoke of what they really thought, only of their undying allegiance to the mother country and its heroic leader.

No doubt, when he reached his final destination he was going to hear a lot of things that may or may not be true about Reich and its leadership.

Mayer noticed the Standartenfuhrer had a map and at various times they would stop the car and consult the map, an older touring map that predated the war.

Listening to their conversations he had learned that the car had a 50-litre tank that was full at the start of their journey.  From Nordhausen to Weimar had been 120 kilometres and had used about 18 litres of petrol.  From that, he deduced that the car would go about 300 kilometres per tankful.  This means they would need more petrol before they reached Nurnberg.

It was one thing to say they were going to take care of the details but getting one of the most heavily rationed commodities in Germany, or anywhere within the sphere of the Reich was nigh on impossible.  He knew this simply because his superiors at the Nordhausen site couldn’t get any petrol for their vehicles.

At this stage of the war, a war they were continually told they were winning, there seemed precious little of anything still available or not rationed, especially food.  Because they were SS they fared reasonably well, but the others not so much, making him feel guilty that he was not going hungry like everyone else.

In fact, he was feeling hungry now, and he didn’t remember seeing any food in the car.

Some distances from Bayreuth, after passing through another checkpoint, they stopped a further 10 kilometres up the road, in a layby that sheltered them from any other traffic, not that there had been anything other than army convoys.  Several times there had been aeroplanes overhead, either coming or going in small groups, perhaps training runs, so perhaps there was a Luftwaffe station nearby

Outside there was another consultation of the map and then the driver headed towards the rear of the car and opened the trunk.  The Standartenfuhrer opened the door.  “You can get out and stretch your legs.”

Mayer climbed out and found just how stiff and sore he was, and it hadn’t been a very long drive, but the roads were not as good as they once were, before the war.

Then he noticed the driver lugging a large can to the petrol cap, opened it, put a funnel in and with some assistance, started refilling the tank.  When he walked towards the rear of the car he saw six such cans in the trunk.  They had come prepared, and given the nature of how they had collected him, he realized that he had been targeted, which meant someone inside the Nordhausen complex was an agent working for British Intelligence.

They emptied two of the tanks into the car, and replaced the cans back in the trunk.

The Standartenfuhrer called him over to show him the map.

It had a line roughly drawn from Nordhausen down to Florence, and notes on the side in red, the most pertinent being the distance by road, if they could take the direct route, which now he knew the circumstances, they could not, was about 1,150 kilometres.

Even in the best of circumstances that would take about three days, maybe more.  And there was certainly not enough fuel in the rear truck to go the whole distance.

The Standartenfuhrer ran his finger down the line, “This is the intended route we decided on, though not exactly sticking to the main roads.  We do not anticipate problems in Germany, but once we cross into Austria and onto Innsbruck there might be a few problems.  We’re not quite sure what to expect at the border.”

“There is no border, not as far as the Reich and the Fuehrer is concerned.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.  But I think it’s about time we had a talk about what happened if anything happens to the two of us.  We’re not planning to get captured, or killed if it’s possible but there’s a lot of risks involved in an operation like this.”

“You expect me to go on alone?”

“Yes.  With the plans and drawings.  You have to get to a town called Gaiole in Chianti which is about 70 kilometres south of Florence.  There you will need to find a man named Luigi Fosini, who will take care of the rest of your journey.  There is a code you will need to give him, but we’ll talk about that later.  All you need, for now, is the destination.”

Discussion over, they got back in the car and continued on their way.

Then he realized he’d forgotten to ask about food, but judging by the dark expressions they wore, he decided to wait a little longer.

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

“Chance Encounter”, A short story

The afternoon rush hour jammed the exit roads, particularly those to the beach.  Nearly everyone was heading for relief from the heat wave, now in its tenth consecutive day.  What had started out a novelty was now just tiresome, with no forecast respite.

A light breeze tried to fan away the afternoon heat, but it had little impact.  The temperature was still hovering in the high 30’s when Bill left the office at 6:30 that evening.

On the road it was little better, and hotter in the car than out.  There was no point running the air conditioner in those conditions, as both he and many others had discovered.  The stop-start traffic made it worse, and people who had already suffered enough were close to breaking point.

Once again, the traffic stopped, and tempers frayed to the point of blowing horns and yelling forlorn abuse at some unseen driver or cause.  It was a no-win situation, and to Bill, a waste of time and energy.  His time and energy, he thought, was best directed at analysis.  Yet how different had the afternoon been to what was currently happening?

In charge of the Customer Service centre for the area’s electricity supplier, it had been difficult to say the least.  That afternoon had seen the highest consumption of electricity since the heat wave began, since time immemorial for that matter, and had started to affect the functionality of the grid, with the first failures occurring. 

It had been predicted, but was not expected quite this early, and as parts of the city were beginning to feel the effect of temporary blackouts, his, and his staff’s work had begun to receive the full effect of the community’s contempt and hatred. 

The traffic disaster was not a patch on the abuse both he and members of his staff had received that afternoon, and he instinctively knew it was not going to improve.

Normally he would stay on and help the incoming supervisor.  This time, someone else could handle the problems.  Doing the usual Friday afternoon desk clean up, he’d found the invitation to Wally’s stag party and as best man, he was obligated to go.  One of the other and more compelling reasons was to see which of his colleagues would make a fool of themselves.

…

It didn’t take long to get home and change into what he considered proper party attire.  He smiled at the thought of being an anachronism from a bygone age, and of what others thought of him.  He was too old to change.

Before leaving, he lingered over several glasses of champagne, and strawberries, trying to get into the mood.  At the same time, he surveyed the ravages of middle management pressures.  Just a year in the job had aged him five, and a tinges of grey beginning to appear at the sides.

A wave of tiredness came over him.  The thought of staying home and immersing himself in classical music and another bottle of champagne crossed his mind, but he said he would go.  Wally was one of the few he could call a true friend.  He would go, but not stay long.

…

As usual, he was late.

Groups had spilled out onto the front veranda, and the front lawn.  He knew most of the partygoers by sight, if not by name.  Acquaintances, not friends.  Not the sort of people he usually mingled with.  He exchanged greetings, accepted drinks, and tried to maintain appearances.

It didn’t take long to realise it was a mistake.  The carnival atmosphere and good cheer all around him made him feel melancholier, as a wave of loneliness closed around him like the night air.

He knew only too well what the problem was but had no idea how to deal with it.  Neither his upbringing nor experience was of any use.  It would require outside help; the sort Wally had already offered.  Just when would he do something about it, if at all?  If the truth were known, Bill was too frightened of the consequences, of getting hurt.  Perhaps a few more drinks…

Making his way through the crowded rooms towards the back of the house, he felt the deadening effect of the alcohol beginning to fight off the empty feeling within.

He made desultory conversation with a secretary he knew was high on the dating list for most junior executives, deriving some pleasure in the thought she talked to him, then to another young lady who worked his shift, whom he thought both intelligent and charming, and whose behaviour didn’t shatter his assumptions as some others had.

As the night wore on. it became evident few had noticed his arrival, even fewer his sudden disappearance to the back veranda, overlooking the ocean.  He had seen Wally on one occasion when he was trying to drink about 10 gallons of beer in one attempt and thought it wise not to interrupt.

It was, he thought, all part of the game, to drink so much he would forget how it was when he was single, though Bill doubted he could do it in a single night.  Bill could hardly wait till the wedding the next afternoon.

…

He looked back momentarily at the apparent abandon of the other guests, hearing the muted murmur of endless conversations, and loud music.  Everyone was having a good time, as it should be.

The gentle, soothing, lapping of the tide on the beach beckoned him.  He put his empty glass on a ledge and went quietly down the stairs onto the sand.  A refreshing, cool breeze rolled in with the tide, immediately improving his mood.

At the water’s edge, he paused momentarily to soak in the calming atmosphere, then put his hands in his pockets and headed for the pier.  A leisurely stroll there and back would be a sufficient break to enable him to endure the rest of the evening.  Yes, he would stay, if only to see that Wally didn’t overindulge.  After all, some duties did fall on the incumbent best man.

Occasionally he kicked the sand with the toe of his shoe, once for a thoroughly detestable human relations consultant, and another for a particularly annoying assistant.  It scuffed the high polish, but he didn’t care.  This was a time when near impeccable would be good enough.

He was alone, and in more ways than one but it was more by design than by accident.  He had recently been involved in a relationship that was doomed before it began.  Work had always pushed that side of his life into second place because he let it. Now, having thought about it rationally for the first time, he realised it was time to place less importance on work and more on giving any sort of relationship a chance.

Wally had offered to find him someone, but knowing Wally as he did, Bill had declined.  Of course, to Wally ‘no’ really meant go ahead anyway.  While at the party, he had surveyed those he thought Wally might have invited as potential matches, some voluptuous, some half-naked, some painted, some all three.

There was no doubting their intent, and he had seen the same in the singles bars when on the town with Wally when they had nothing better to do with a Friday night.  Yet, none of those he’d seen, then or now, matched his criteria.  Were his standards set too high?  Wally never said it, but the fact he didn’t, said more than if he had said it out loud.

Bill sighed.  Perhaps he was too set in his ways and unable to change.

…

Adjoining the pier was the old amusement centre, which burnt down several years before.  It was the reason for the closing of the beach, and its recent exclusivity to those nearby backing onto it.  All that remained was the scorched concrete floor and parts of the walls.  It was these remains he had just gone under.

Beneath them, the sounds of the sea and the night were more pronounced, creating an eerie, sinister feeling.  The smell of the burnt timber still hung in the air, despite the intervening years.

“Hi!”  A feminine voice came out from the shadows, behind one of the pylons nearby.

He started violently, not expecting anyone else.  It took a moment to collect his thoughts, then turn to see who she was. 

“Oh,” was all he could say to the now visible girl’s outline etched against the distant city lights.

Both came out the other side together into the half-light, leaving the gloom behind.  She began, “I hope I didn’t scare you back there?”

“Only half to death.”  He brushed the non-existent wrinkles out of his dinner suit, more a reflex action, then put his hands back in his pockets, composure regained.

“I’m awfully sorry.  I didn’t mean to.”

He was a little angry, and turning to her, said quietly, “Then what was….” He stopped suddenly, surprised at what he saw.  Tall, well-proportioned, dressed in expensive eveningwear, much the same as he was.  He instantly realised she could almost pass as an exact replica of Venus except for the untidy, waist-length hair.

“I don’t know.  I guess I wanted to talk to someone, you were handy, so I just said ‘hi’.”  Her tone was apprehensive, with a slight tremor in it. 

She smiled nervously, yet in a way, he noticed it totally changed her appearance, and his heart missed a beat.

“Oh,” he said again, subconsciously feeling she had put him in his place.  He shook his head and looked again, disbelieving what he saw.

“I hope you don’t mind?”

“Don’t mind what?”  He’d lost track of the conversation and realised he was quickly moving towards looking and sounding like a gibbering idiot.  It was, he realised, just like every other time when faced with a beautiful woman.

“Me talking to you.”

He took a deep breath and tried to remain calm.  He could feel a runnel of sweat slide down the side of his face, “No.  Not really.  It’s just the diversion I need”.  He looked at the sand, the sea, then her.  “I have a feeling I’ve seen you before.” 

He moved on, and so did she, both in unison.

“Staring at you from the pages of magazines?”

“I guess so.  What did you do?  Rob a bank?  Divorce a Prince or millionaire?”

“As if.  Nothing quite as exotic, or exciting, I’m afraid.  Just draped in clothes or plastered in make-up.  Boring huh?”

“No.  Not really.”

“You’re a bit hard up for new lines?”

He shrugged.  It was difficult talking to this woman, and, lacking in confidence, he was starting to feel a little embarrassed.

She changed the subject.  “Do you live here?”

“No….”

“Don’t say it, not really!” she interrupted.

He sighed, trying to regain composure.  “OK.  I was at a party.”

“Aha.  Now we’re getting somewhere.”  Then she gave him a curious look.  “Was?”  Then, after he didn’t answer, “How come you’re not with the others, having a good time?”

“Perhaps I’m not cut out to ‘have a good time’.  Actually, I thought I’d take a time out from the frenetic pace and get some fresh air.”

“And now the fresh air had lost its appeal?”

“I didn’t say that.”  Did that come out sounding flustered?  It was how he felt inside.  He was going to have to try harder if he was to keep her interest.  “It’s beginning to get interesting.  And I still can’t place where I’ve seen you before.”  He shook his head.  “No matter.  What brings you here?”

“Someone told me about this place a long time ago.  I thought I’d come and check it out.”

He turned and headed back, deciding the diversion had exceeded the time limit he’d set, and it had now become an elongated absence.  She did the same.

“And what do you think?” he asked.

“About what?”

This conversation would sound very strange if anyone else was nearby listening to them.  Luckily, there wasn’t.  “This place.”

“Very peaceful, secluded, interesting, as you said.”

“Interesting in what way?”  Damn, had he asked that already?

“Well …”  She shrugged, then asked, “Do you always walk around with your hands in your pockets?”

Simple answer, yes.  “Can’t think of where else to put them.” 

What did it have to do with her anyway?  And, in that instant, he realised that it was he who was the problem here, not her.

“What if you were to hold a girl’s hand?”

“I don’t know of any who would want me to.”

“Would you like to hold mine?”

“Why?  Is it going to run away?”

She smiled.  “More than likely.”

He stopped.  She stopped.  He surveyed her with a critical eye.

“Aha.  The eye that asks, ‘Who is the disreputable and outrageous person who dares to ask such a thing?’

He smiled and took her hand in his.  It was soft and warm and sent a slight tingle up his spine.

“I talk too much. Don’t I?” she asked suddenly after they started walking again.

“No.”

She sighed.  “Here we go again.”

…

On the other side of the pier, there was an old car park, no longer used.  Along the beachfront was a long, low stone wall, and they headed towards it.  Once there, they sat down to watch darkness finally settle in, the last of the sun’s rays melting in a glorious display of reds, oranges, and yellows.

Without speaking, they were content to listen to the waves, feel the cooling breeze, and watch the sea glisten in the moonlight. 

Nothing happened for an indeterminable length of time, during which he nearly forgot she was there.  He suddenly snapped out of it when he heard a match rasping.

He turned to see her trying to light a cigarette, but her hand was shaking so much, the match went out.  She tried again, but the same thing happened.  She savagely threw the cigarette away and pounded her hand on the cement as though it was something she hated.

He took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his coat pocket and offered her one.

“No.  It’s reason enough to try to give it up,” she said quietly.

He returned the items to his pocket and took her hand in his, looked carefully at it, then kissed it.  “Trying to dent cement is not wise unless you are Superman or Supergirl.  I know.  I tried once and broke three fingers.  Fortunately, nothing is broken.”

She moved closer.  “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Making me feel silly.”

“But … I didn’t mean to … I mean …”

She leaned towards him and kissed his lips.  “Hush.”

He held her hand up and looked at it, rather than her, trying to get a grip on his emotions, and saying, a good dead steadier than he felt, “I need a third hand.  Do you think I could have it?”

“With pleasure.  It’s apparently no good to me anymore.”

“Why?”

“Shakes too much.”

“Perhaps I could use it to massage my face.”  He gently moved her hand down the side of his face and again felt a tingle up his spine.  Again, he kissed it gently where she had hit it, not knowing why, just that it seemed like the right thing to do.

“Perhaps not.  Seems to me you have a case of bad nerves.  These are familiar symptoms.  You need a rest, perhaps a holiday, and complete relaxation.  That will be a five-dollar consultation fee.”

She smiled.  “Will you stop it.”

“Why?  It makes you smile.”

“Your right, of course.  I need a rest.  The last six months have been horrible, working day and night, and a failed relationship on top of it.”  She sighed.  “I feel sleepy.”  She leaned against him, putting her arms around him for balance.

“Hey, no.  You can’t do that.”  He fended her off gently.  “I’ve got a party to get back to, and by now I think I should be missed.  God knows what Wally will think.”

He stood and she rolled sideways.  “Oh, come on.”  He looked up towards the sky.  “Why did you make some women like this,” he muttered.  Then he put his arms around her and lifted her to her feet.  She leaned back against him and he could feel how warm and soft she was.  It was a battle just to make sure he kept his hands in the right places, and she wasn’t making it easy for him.

He held her up then moved around to the front and caught her just as she began to fall forward.  It was exasperating, and yet amusing.  He let her go and she began to fall down, so he caught her again.

She was smiling.

“Beware the smile on the face of the tiger,” he muttered.  His face was level with hers and just then an idea came to him.  He kissed her forehead, nose, chin, then finally her lips, and she came to life.

It was just what she was hoping would happen.  Instead of surprising her, she surprised him by responding in kind; leaving him with a feeling he’d never experienced before.  And a heart rate that was off the chart.

“Now, if only you’d tried that earlier,” she said.

He looked her straight in the eye.  “Just who are you?”

“Me.”

“Does ‘me’ have a name?”

“Do you want ‘me’ to have a name?”

“Yes.”

“Claire.”

“Then you may call me Bill.  Do you often pick up strange lonely men on secluded beaches?”

“No.”

“Infuse life into otherwise dead souls?”

“No.”

“Just happened to be the one thing I needed right now?”

She smiled; a smile that made his heart do double somersaults.

“Perhaps a yes.”

“Can I see you again?  I have to see you again.”

“Have to?”

“Like to, then.”

“Perhaps.”

“When?”

“Soon, perhaps sooner than you think.  Do you have to go back?”

“Yes.  If I don’t, Wally will be mad at me.”  He pulled out a notebook and pencil he always carried with him.  “Where do you live?”

She told him.

“If I come by Sunday may I take you out, a drive, somewhere up the coast?  Fresh sea air, total relaxation.”

“Part of the therapy I’m paying five dollars for?”

He brushed a few strands of hair out of her eyes, feeling her warm soft skin under his hand, then kissed her.  “Indeed. Until the next time.” 

She smiled again. “Until the next time.”

He turned and headed back to the party, not looking back.

…

No one noticed his absence; despite the fact over an hour had lapsed.  He resumed his place on the veranda, new drink in hand looking vacantly towards the pier, wondering if he would see her again, if she were just a figment of his imagination.  It was just too good to be true.

“Ah, Bill.  I thought I would find you here.  Thinking about a walk.  No, I see you’ve already been.”  Wally sounded sober and looked it.  Perhaps this was all just a dream.

He looked down.  His shoes still had sand on them.  He looked at Wally and smiled.  “Fresh air.  Contemplating the human condition.  You know what I’m like at parties.”

“Better than you think.  What did you think of her?”

“Her?”

“The so-called blind date.  I didn’t think a formal introduction would work.”

Bill shrugged.  “Very nice, but a little…”

Wally smiled the same unique smile of hers.

“Your sister?”

Wally nodded.  “Take exceptionally good care of her my friend.  She’s very vulnerable at the moment, and I couldn’t think of anyone better to look after her.”  He held up his glass.  “Cheers.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2023

‘Sunday in New York’ – A beta reader’s view

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.

I’ve been guilty of it myself as I’m sure we all have at one time or another.

For the main characters Harry and Alison there are other issues driving their relationship.

For Alison, it is a loss of self-worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.

For Harry, it is the fact he has a beautiful and desirable wife, and his belief she is the object of other men’s desires, and one in particular, his immediate superior.

Between observation, the less than honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.

When it all comes to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, she realises only the truth will save their marriage.

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.

And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, nothing is ever what it seems.

…

Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

…

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.

Just in case.

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

newechocover5rs

Inspiration, maybe – Volume 1

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like.  For instance:

lookingdownfromcoronetpeak

And the story:

It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.

The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.

He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.

The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent.  We were following the car he was in, from a discrete distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.

There was nowhere for him to go.

The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road were now on.  Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.

Where was he going?

“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter.  He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.

“What?”

“I think he’s made us.”

“How?”

“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing.  Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain.  He’s just sped up.”

“How far away?”

“A half-mile.  We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”

It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”

“Step on it.  Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”

Easy to say, not so easy to do.  The road was treacherous, and in places just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three thousand footfall down the mountainside.

Good thing then I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.

Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster.  We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.

Or so we thought.

Coming quickly around another corner we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.

“What the hell…” Aland muttered.

I was out of the car, and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility.  The car was empty, and no indication where he went.

Certainly not up the road.  It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit.  Up the mountainside from here, or down.

I looked up.  Nothing.

Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”

Then where did he go?

Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.

“Sorry,” he said quite calmly.  “Had to go if you know what I mean.”

I’d lost him.

It was as simple as that.

I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.

I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.

It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.

“Maybe next time,” Alan said.

“We’ll get him.  It’s just a matter of time.”

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

Find this and other stories in “Inspiration, maybe”  available soon.

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An excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – Coming Soon

I wandered back to my villa.

It was in darkness.  I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.

I looked up and saw the globe was broken.

Instant alert.

I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there.  I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either.  Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.

Who?

There were four hiding spots and all were empty.  Someone had removed the weapons.  That could only mean one possibility.

I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.

But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.

Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.

There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch.  One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage.  It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief.  It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.

It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely.  It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.

The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground.  I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side.  After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks.  It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that.  I’d left torches at either end so I could see.

I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch.  I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end.  I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door.  It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.

I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.

I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.

Silence, an eerie silence.

I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting.  There wasn’t.  It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.

I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was.  Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.

That raised the question of who told them where I was.

If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan.  The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental.  But I was not that man.

Or was I?

I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness.  My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void.  Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly.  A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.

Still nothing.

I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job.  I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.

Coming in the front door.  If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in.  One shot would be all that was required.

Contract complete.

I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door.  There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting.  It was an ideal spot to wait.

Crunch.

I stepped on some nutshells.

Not my nutshells.

I felt it before I heard it.  The bullet with my name on it.

And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea.  I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.

I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.

Two assassins.

I’d not expected that.

The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part.  The second was still breathing.

I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives.  Armed to the teeth!

I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian.  I was expecting a Russian.

I slapped his face, waking him up.  Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down.  The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally.  He was not long for this earth.

“Who employed you?”

He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile.  “Not today my friend.  You have made a very bad enemy.”  He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth.  “There will be more …”

Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.

I would have to leave.  Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess.  I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.

Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally.  I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.

A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved.  Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.

Until I heard a knock on my front door.

Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?

I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm.  I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.

If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation.  Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.

No police, just Maria.  I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.

“You left your phone behind on the table.  I thought you might be looking for it.”  She held it out in front of her.

When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”

I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”

I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.

“You need to go away now.”

Should I tell her the truth?  It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.

She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity.  “What happened?”

I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible.  I went with the truth.  “My past caught up with me.”

“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss.  It doesn’t look good.”

“I can fix it.  You need to leave.  It is not safe to be here with me.”

The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened.  She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.

I opened the door and let her in.  It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences.  Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge.  She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.

I expected her to scream.  She didn’t.

She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous.  Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about.  She would have to go to the police.

“What happened here?”

“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me.  I used to work for the Government, but no longer.  I suspect these men were here to repay a debt.  I was lucky.”

“Not so much, looking at your arm.”

She came closer and inspected it.

“Sit down.”

She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.

“Do you have medical supplies?”

I nodded.  “Upstairs.”  I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs.  Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.

She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back.  I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.

She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound.  Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet.  It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.

When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”

No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.

“Alisha?”

“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you.  She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”

“That was wrong of her to do that.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.  Will you call her?”

“Yes.  I can’t stay here now.  You should go now.  Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”

She smiled.  “As you say, I was never here.”

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2022

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