The novel ‘Echoes from the Past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The Birthday’.
My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.
Thus, the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.
So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.
So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.
I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.
And like all rewrites, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.
There was motivation. I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample. I was going to give them the re-worked short story. Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’
Originally, it was not set anywhere in particular.
But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself. We were there for New Year’s, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.
One evening, we were out late and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow; it was cold and wet, and apartment buildings were shimmering in the street light, and I thought, “This is the place where my main character will live”.
It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected. I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.
I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went, so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.
Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller Centre is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.
The original main character was a shy man with few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party. I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble. No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.
Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule and begins a relationship?
But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.
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!
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 were several 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 a 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 that 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, it literally 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 recurrence. 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 that 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 that 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 romanticised 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.
The problem is, there are familiar faces, and the question of who is a friend and who is a foe is 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.
…
At the end of the discussion, which began to get quite heated, I was escorted from the room and taken to another interrogation room.
Fresh from his intimidatory success with Jacobi, Lallo was, no doubt, going to try to press on his advantage with me, though I was not quite sure what it was he thought I could help him with, other than to dissuade him from his current plan.
I had to wait an hour in that small, stuffy room, considering the possibilities. Surely he wasn’t expecting me to join his band of merry men.
When he finally came, he arrived with a folder and two bottles of cold water, one of which he gave to me before he sat down.
I took a sip of water out of the bottle after checking that the seal hadn’t been broken. I still didn’t trust him, and with good reason, considering the trick he’d played on me.
“Now, I’m sure you saw and heard everything that happened with Jacobi.”
I nodded.
“He’s the reason your mission failed. He met the other team on the ground and was supposed to lead them to the building where the targets were hiding. Instead, he told the Government forces, Bahti, the plan for their rescue and their location. It was a double-cross brought on by greed.”
“It always is. But he’s more than likely right about the fate of the two prisoners.”
“Half dead, yes, pressed into working on a prison farm, but neither has been cracked yet. After the last attempt at rescuing them, we cultivated new agents on the ground. Their advice has led us being able to formulate a new attempt to rescue them.”
Had they asked my opinion long before the first attempt, I would have told them to have more than one source, particularly if they were paying handsomely for information. It was always an opportunity for double-crossing.
There still was, but I don’t think that eventuality was factored into Lallo’s thinking.
“Who’s the fool you have in mind to lead this disaster?”
“You.”
Good thing I’d braced myself for the bad news, and it came as no surprise. In that hour of considering possibilities, they all seemed to come back to one person. I was the only one left who’d been there, if only for a few hours.
It had also given me time to work on an excuse not to go.
“I don’t think so…”
Lallo put his hand up to stop me. My protestations might have worked on a reasonable man, but Lallo wasn’t reasonable.
“Well, you, too, have a choice. Stay and be court-martialled for your failure to follow orders in the last attempt, or redeem yourself and volunteer to lead the next.”
“I did nothing wrong the last time.”
“Not according to the investigation I’ve just completed, the one that I intend to submit to the JAG if you are unwilling to follow orders.”
And there it was. All the time I’d been in Lallo’s hands, he had been compiling a feasible case against me, just so that I could be induced to do his bidding. I was stupid not to connect the dots long before this and shut my mouth. Everything I had denied was the same evidence he could use against me.
In a typical military style, someone had to shoulder the blame for the previous mess.
And to be given a choice, one that made me as expendable as Jacobi, was, as far as Lallo was concerned, a masterstroke.
If I were killed in action, he would have a scapegoat he needed. If I didn’t go, I would be court-martialled and thrown in a cell for the rest of my life. And if I went and succeeded, he would become the golden boy in the intelligence services, and the same fate as any other scenario would befall me. It was a lose-lose.
“You’re not throwing out any bones?”
“Don’t have to. But you get to pick the team you want to go with you.” He tossed a file across the table to me, and I opened it. Several pages, with photos attached.
A who’s who of the military types that spent more time in the stockade than on the battlefield. Men who would do anything to stay out, men who had nothing to lose. Expendable men.
“You’re kidding?” I looked up at him, but his expression told me he wasn’t.
“Are you sure any of these will obey orders?”
“You have my assurance they will. We’re sending an observer, just to make sure everyone stays on mission. You have three days to pick a team of four men, establish command, and prepare to leave.”
Something else I thought about in that hour, other than it was probably the last time I would have for reflection, was that it would have been better to die in the helicopter crash.
I waited until he left the room before I reopened the file.
I had intended to go to the Burkehardt residence with Ceceila as backup, but that would have left Francesca to her own devices, which to me would have been to turn up at the residence unannounced.
If Francesca had wanted to leave, Cecelia would let her, and it would not surprise me if she either let her bosses know how things were going, especially in relation to Juliet, or that they would want Francesca to find her. The other possibility is that Francesca was on her way, or already at the residence, making herself known on behalf of her employers.
That I was wrong on all counts when I rang Cecelia to see if she had left was disconcerting. It meant another game was in play. I was sure she had reported to her employers by now, and that they had asked her to impede us at every turn. It just made it harder to guess why Francesca was with us.
I was stopped at the gate to the main Burkehardt residence by guards, who, I deduced from their dismissive manner, had been instructed to turn everyone away. I asked them to tell the Mistress that I had information on the Countess Heidi von Burkehart’s whereabouts and then waited ten minutes before the gates magically opened.
If Alessandro were there, I would have some explaining to do.
I parked the car on the gravel outside the front portico and walked up the stairs to the front entrance. The doors were open, and a man in a morning suit was waiting for me. I’d give the gate my Detective Inspector’s name, without the Detective Inspector prefix.
“Come this way.”
It was all he said.
I followed him through to a large room off the side of the entrance hall, which looked like a library, with several full-size suits of armour.
The older Countess was waiting for me at the front of her desk.
“Mr Johnson, though I’m sure that bears no resemblance to your real name, and Detective Inspector, you definitely are not.”
“I assure you I am, but it’s just one of my jobs. Like I told your son Alessandro back in London, they only call me when it looks like the jurisdiction is about to change.”
“You have no authority here.”
“True, but like I said, they call me in when that happens. My other self is the one with no borders, nor do I care about jurisdiction. I come, solve the problem, and then go. I am only interested in the well-being of Countess Heidi. Don’t make this into more than it is.”
“Security said you were going to be a pain, as did the people I employed to find the countess. Perhaps I should fire them and employ you instead.” She went behind her desk and sat down.
I sat in a chair to one side of the desk.
“It won’t do you much good to try. I’m not doing this for the money. I’m supposed to be retired, but I have an old boss who won’t let me go.”
“Rodby, yes. His wife is the sister of the countess. Fancy having a direct connection to a spy organisation. I only just found that out, but I’m sure you knew that. I presume your other self is a spy?”
“I wish. The suits, the cars, the toys.” I shook my head. “Nothing quite as glamorous, I can assure you. And I only just discovered the Heidi connection, too. One of the drawbacks, we don’t always get the whole story.” A bit too much sharing, but it was more to disarm the old lady, who looked to me still had some fire and brimstone in reserve.
“You said you have information about the countess?”
“I do. But before I tell you, I need to know if there is anyone you have managed to make angry, or you have caused problems for, or who wants to buy this enterprise, perhaps with prejudice?”
She gave me a look that was surprise or contempt before she summoned her best angry tone to say, “That’s absurd.”
It meant one of the three suggestions was right.
“You run a very profitable and well-respected operation here. It no doubt creates rivalry with others in the same line of business who are not as well run, perhaps.”
It had to be a business rival. The most recent information from the research team mentioned that there were several suitors for the business after the Count died, but no one specific.
I could see her expression soften, as if it was a problem she wanted to resolve herself, but it was not working out. Alessandro had tried and failed to make it seem like business as usual, but a ship without a rudder soon foundered. The uncertainty about the successor to the count had created uncertainty in the investors.
“There is one person, though I’m not sure he qualifies as aggressive, but he is incompetent. Alberto Dicostini. He and the count were friends and business partners until Dicostini stole from the business. After that, they became bitter rivals. I am sure it is he who killed my husband, and later my son, the count. It is why my sons and daughter have such security. He had vowed to kill us all. He will fail, as he always does.”
And there was a possible solution to the problem. It might have been Dicostini behind the fake countess, and if he presented her as the countess and she inherited, then what is hers would become his. It’s almost foolproof. The fake would have to pass the keen eyes of the Burkehardt family. I’d seen the fake, but I hadn’t known the real one.
“You are vehemently opposed to the countess inheriting, are you not?”
“She is an incompetent fool.”
“But a member of this family, and if she were to inherit, would she keep it in the family?”
“You’d think so, but a friend told me she was going to sell it, maybe not to Dicostini, but it will have the same effect. He will get what he wants.”
“Have you tried to convince her to do the right thing. As far as I can tell, she is the lawful heir.”
“There is another.”
“Which did your investigators tell you about?”
“How do you know this?”
“I have one of them with me. Not here now, but back in Sorrento. That might not necessarily be the case. I’m beginning to believe that she is not a legitimate heir. I suspect that Vittoria Remano, as she calls herself these days, did have a child, but not by the Count. And although the count said he fathered a child, I believe he never got to see anything but photos, nor living proof, just the word of a maid.”
“And the birth certificate?”
“Did you get your investigators to check it?’
“I assumed they did.”
“Then they’ve got two days before I bring the three women to the solicitor’s office for the signing. One of them will be a woman claiming to be the countess.”
“So, you know where she is?”
I sighed. “You’re not listening to me.”
She paused for a moment as if to go over our conversation. Then, “You’re saying the woman you have is not the countess?”
“I’m saying I don’t know, but if it was the real countess, who was kidnapped with Mrs Rodby, why is Mrs Rodby still missing?”
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 the eye socket to the mouth, and he was wearing a black shirt with a red tie.
That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.
He apologised 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 recognise 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 went 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 tyres.
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.
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 realised 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 was 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 through the back door if there were one.
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:
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 discreet 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 we 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-foot fall 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 of where he had gone.
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.
Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right
Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.
It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.
…
John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence after being so indifferent for so long.
They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable and calls on an old friend for help in finding her.
After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.
But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.
What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is a foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look, sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in.
I had to wonder if Lallo had already called the number on the phone he had handed Jacobi, and then considered, if that was the case, there would be no need for Jacobi to call anyone. Or Lallo had got an answer, just not the answer he was expecting.
Jacobi looked at the phone, and I got the impression he was weighing his options. The first was how long Lallo would hold him in custody. That I think we could both assume to be forever if necessary. There was, no doubt, a cell at a black site with his name on it already. The second, if he did call his contact, would that contact cooperate, though it was hard to say what it was that Lallo was expecting Jacobi’s cooperation for.
But there was no doubt Lallo had a plan.
Jacobi took a moment to consider any further options I hadn’t thought of, and then made the call. We were only going to get one side of the call.
A raised eyebrow indicated Jacobi had an answer on the other end.
“It’s me.”
Why did everyone say it’s me when asked to identify themselves, or, as in this case, announce themselves?
“No. An unfortunate set of circumstances, and a gross breach of our agreement. I am supposed to have autonomy of operations at home. These bumbling idiots may have blown my cover.”
Somehow, the fact that he was sitting in a small room told me his cover was more than likely a myth. If this was our supposed point man in the failed operation I’d been on, then I could see why it cost a lot of good men their lives.
He had been playing both sides of the fence and sold us out.
“You would have to ask them.”
A moment later, he handed the phone to Lallo. “Prepare to die,” was all Jacobi said.
It didn’t move Lallo in the slightest,
He took the phone and asked, “Whom am I speaking to?”
The expression change told me that it was most likely none of his business.
“This man is responsible for the deaths of a good many men.” A minute’s silence, then, “I doubt that would be the case, considering the number of phones and their credentials. He had been playing you, and perhaps many others.”
The silence was a lot longer, but the expressions changing by the minute told me that Lallo was not going to get what he wanted.
“No, that is not going to happen, not in the circumstances you describe. I will be sending him back, yes, but for another mission. I think it’s time you realised he’s been feeding you false intel for some time.” Silence again, then, “By the time you do, he will no longer be here, there. I’m sorry.”
He disconnected the call and put the phone back in the plastic evidence bag.
Then he sat and gave Jacobi a long, hard stare.
No effect.
“What is happening?” Jacobi finally asked.
“You’re going home.”
“Good. I expect once I get back there, you will leave me alone.”
“On the contrary, Mr Jacobi, you will not be going back alone. In fact, I’m sending you back with my team, and we are going to extract the same people you were supposed to help us extract the last time.”
“I had nothing to do with that. It was simply your incompetence.”
“Be that as it may, you will do as I ask.”
“You are a fool. Why would I do anything for you, and especially since they are both probably dead now, or, if not, past the point of saving?”
“You will then want to hope that isn’t the case, simply because if they are, then three members of your family will be executed. You can say goodbye to them before you leave, or tell them you will see them again; it’s your choice.”
Lallo, it seems, was no fool and had ensured he had the necessary leverage. There was no mistaking the shock on Jacobi’s face.
“You lie.”
Lallo got up from his seat and knocked on the door. It opened, and two men brought in a large screen connected to a computer on a trolley. They moved it to the vacant wall and left. Lallo pressed several keys, and a picture came up on the screen. A woman and two small children, and judging from the expression on Jacobi’s face, exactly who he was hoping he would not see.
There were two hooded soldiers on either side with guns loosely pointing in their direction.
“One word from me, and they will be shot. Considering the treachery you have perpetrated, it’s taking a great deal of restraint for me not to give the order to kill them.”
He took a few seconds to regain his composure. “This serves no purpose,” Jacobi said in a rising pitch, “your people are most likely dead. It has been a long time.”
“I don’t think so. We have word from a different source, a more reliable source, that they are still alive. Barely, but alive, serving a life sentence for treason. And helping the General with information. All you need to do is get a small team of mine in and assist them to effect an escape. They come home alive and, well, your family lives. They don’t come back alive, well, I don’t think that’s an option, is it?”
Jacobi was in an invidious position of being damned if he did help us, or damned if he didn’t. Either way, it didn’t guarantee his co-operation or assistance. Painted into a corner, sometimes people like Jacobi chose the easy road, sacrificing everything to stay alive. No doubt, until this predicament, he was well in favour with Bahti, and from what I’d heard, Bahti was not a man to cross. There was a graveyard in the prison that was full of the remains of his enemies. And people who were once his friends.
I knew firsthand what it was like to be between the proverbial rock and a hard place, and unfortunately, there was no upside. No doubt the team leader of this new folly would have orders to shoot Jacobi once his work was done. Lallo would not be able to leave a man in his position alive because of what he knew.
And from my perspective, I felt sorry for the team Lallo had selected to go on what could quite possibly be another suicide mission.
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 that 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 neighbour 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 in 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 moved 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 into 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 were 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, and where there would be no escape.
Coming in the front door. If I were 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 the 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 neighbours, 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 were 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 realised 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 were 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.”
I called Juliet, then had Cecelia run interference while I left the hotel. No point in having unwanted guests when I was talking to her.
We met at a café not far from the small hotel where the three women were staying. I was reminded when I saw her approaching on foot that she was still as attractive as she had been before her troubles, and there could have been something between us if the circumstances were different.
There was no furtiveness about her movements as if she didn’t have a care in the world. And that, for a woman who had already had one attempt on her life, was odd. To me, at least.
I waited until she had seen me before I ordered coffee and cake.
When she sat, I waited until she was comfortable, then, with just a small hint of annoyance in my tone, said, “For a person whose life might be in danger, you don’t seem to care.”
“Not if they don’t know where we are.”
“Do you believe that? The place where the inheritance documents are going to be signed is a fact everyone seems to know. I was followed here, as far as Pompei, but they will know exactly when I was going. In fact, I was just speaking with another person who was following me, and I brought her with me. She was very interested to know you were in Sorrento.”
The look of smugness disappeared. “Are you mad?”
“Then why should I worry when you said you were here to protect me?”
“That was before I knew what I know now. Have you got anything to tell me that would be useful to know before the shooting starts?”
There was now fear in place of smugness. If she didn’t think she was a real target, now she did. But the question had to be, was she really the daughter of the Count, or someone else? A photo of her in the gardens of the Count’s residence meant very little. The fact that the count had told people he had an illegitimate daughter didn’t mean Juliet was that daughter.
People kept telling me she was, but were they trying too hard to push what could be a lie? It bothered me that I hadn’t spent enough time to find the truth myself.
The coffee and cake arrived.
So had a suspicious man who had so far made three circuits of the block, walking a dog. If he was surveillance, he was going the extra mile to make himself fit into the landscape. There were three others walking dogs.
“What could I tell you?”
“Tell me about your mother, Vittoria?”
“I have vague memories of her when I was little, then a few more when I was a teenager, and we went to Italy. Like any young girl, I was in awe of the surroundings. Having not seen her for a long time, I was surprised when she turned up on my doorstep. There was no mention of a fortune in the beginning, and I was happy to see her.”
‘Now you’re not so sure?”
“You’re here, and when you arrive, trouble follows. Very bad trouble.”
“I didn’t ask Larry to involve you in any business between him and me. That was on Larry, and not that he’s paid the ultimate price. I didn’t kill him, by the way, someone else did that. That’s why I ask. If Vittoria is another of those strange business partners of yours that had some hold over you, best to tell me now, and I’ll deal with it.”
“Do you think you have a legitimate claim on the Count’s estate?”
“Based on the birth certificate, and what I’m told, yes.”
“Birth certificates can be forged, and people tell lies to further their own ends. Has your so-called mother asked you to negotiate a deal in which you will forsake any claim on the estate for a princely sum, say a million euros?”
She didn’t have to. Rule number one in an inheritance scam. Make it real enough so the real heirs can see competition, and then make a demand that’s not too outrageous that they will settle. And quickly, before they have time to scrutinise the proof.
A what-if had just come into my head. Do a deal with the fake Countess, verify her identity, renege on any rights to the estate, and, in turn, when the fake Countess gets the inheritance, get the payout promised. Win-win-win. Who better to verify the countess’s identity than her biggest rival?
“If only that were true, Evan. I’d be rich for the first time in my life. But we both know that will never happen. For the record, I’m not interested in the inheritance. That’s my mother’s issue. She says she was treated badly, but she got a lot of money from the count for my upkeep. I don’t want to be in the middle of this, but what choice do I have?”
I shrugged. She had choices, but kept making bad ones.
“Well, just keep a low profile until I come and get the three of you, and we go to the signing. You might want to tell the countess that three separate parties are looking for her.”
“Are you not coming to protect us in person. Or your friend?”
“No. I don’t want to be killed in the crossfire. Stay where you are. We are the only five who know exactly where you are. Don’t tell anyone, and you’ll be safe.”
And if she knew the countess staying with them wasn’t the real countess, she did a very good job of hiding it.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 