Category: Thriller

“Echoes From The Past”, the past doesn’t necessarily stay there


What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

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Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.

Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment Will’s life slowly starts to unravel and it’s obvious to him it’s time to move on.

This time, however, there is more at stake.

Will has broken his number one rule, don’t get involved.

With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.

But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved there is going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.

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An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See the excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

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McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

Writing about writing a book – Research – 10

Background material used in researching the Vietnam war and various other aspects of that period

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The psychological cost of the war

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The Wounds That Wouldn’t Bleed: Ailments Ignored in the Vietnam War

The Vietnam War was a conflict unlike any other the United States had faced. It was a war fought without front lines, defined by relentless heat, suffocating humidity, and an enemy that could appear and vanish in an instant.

While the bravery of field medics (corpsmen and ‘Docs’) in saving lives under fire is unquestionable, the systemic priorities of triage—getting the wounded off the battlefield and stabilizing life-threatening injuries—meant that a massive spectrum of chronic issues, insidious tropical diseases, and rapidly developing psychological trauma were often minimized, misdiagnosed, or tragically ignored.

Here, we examine some of the most pervasive physical and psychological problems faced by soldiers in Vietnam that suffered from a profound lack of medical knowledge or understanding at the time.

1. The Invisible Enemy: Psychological Trauma and the Battle for the Mind

Perhaps the most significant failure of the medical system during the Vietnam era was the inability to properly recognize, diagnose, and treat the psychological toll of the conflict.

Battle Fatigue vs. Post-Traumatic Stress

When veterans returned from World War I, their trauma was called “shell shock.” By World War II, it was “combat fatigue.” In Vietnam, the terms were often minimized further, reducing severe psychological breakdown to simple “Malingering” or “Adjustment Reaction of Combat” (ARC).

The reality, which wouldn’t be formally recognized as Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) until 1980, was that soldiers were enduring moral injury, existential fear, and chronic stress that profoundly altered their brains.

Why it was ignored:

  • Triage Priority: A bullet hole took precedence over a panic attack. Medics were trained to save life and limb, not treat anxiety or nightmares, which were often seen as a lack of fortitude rather than injury.
  • The Rapid Rotation: Soldiers served one-year tours. This quick deployment and extraction created a high-intensity, short-duration experience that left little time for psychological decompression. Soldiers were often back on the streets of the U.S. within 48 hours of leaving the jungle, carrying their trauma immediately into civilian life without systemic transition or monitoring.
  • Lack of Training: Psychological care was not integrated into frontline medical training. Soldiers complaining of severe depression, extreme paranoia, or panic attacks were often given mild sedatives and sent back to the line, perpetuating the cycle of trauma.

2. Jungle Rot, Immersion Foot, and Chronic Skin Ailments

The humid, perpetually wet environment of Southeast Asia was a breeding ground for infections that troops rarely, if ever, experienced in temperate climates. While many were treatable, they were often dismissed as minor annoyances until they became debilitating.

The Problem of Pervasive Fungi

Soldiers rarely wore dry clothes or dry boots. This led to a host of chronic dermatological nightmares:

  • Jungle Rot (Tropical Ulcers): Severe, deep fungal, and bacterial infections that often developed around minor scrapes or insect bites. These infections were intensely painful, slow to heal, and could leave deep, permanent scars. Because they were not immediately life-threatening, treatment was often limited to basic cleaning and topical creams, which struggled against the persistent humidity.
  • Immersion Foot (Trench Foot): Though more commonly associated with WWI, this condition was rampant. Prolonged exposure to wet conditions damaged nerves and blood vessels in the feet. If not addressed quickly, it could lead to permanent numbness, chronic pain, and in severe cases, the need for amputation.

Why it was ignored:

  • Normalization: Medics dealt with “wet foot” complaints constantly. The sheer volume of non-fatal skin issues meant that only the most severe cases were evacuated, forcing troops to fight on with chronic, festering wounds that impacted mobility and mental focus.
  • Medic Knowledge Gap: Tropical medicine was not a primary focus for most U.S. military doctors and medics, many of whom were trained for European or temperate environments. The tenacious nature of tropical pathogens was frequently underestimated.

3. The Crisis of Self-Medication and Substance Abuse

The stress, fear, and hopelessness experienced by many troops led to staggering rates of drug use, which peaked near the end of the conflict. This was not initially treated as a medical or psychological crisis, but primarily as a disciplinary problem.

The Opioid Epidemic in the Ranks

By the early 1970s, it was estimated that 10–15% of American troops in Vietnam were addicted to heroin, which was cheap, pure, and easily accessible. Marijuana and amphetamines (often called “speed” or “pep pills”) were also widely used to counteract fatigue, stress, or simply boredom.

Why it was ignored/mismanaged:

  • Punishment Over Treatment: The military initially approached substance abuse as a failure of discipline and a threat to combat readiness, leading to punitive measures (like dishonorable discharge) rather than therapeutic intervention. This discouraged soldiers from seeking help.
  • Lack of Resources: There were few dedicated military facilities or personnel focused exclusively on drug detoxification and addiction counseling within the war zone.
  • Systemic Blindness: The high command often struggled to acknowledge the extent of the problem, preferring to view it as a small behavioral issue rather than a massive systemic reaction to the trauma of a brutal and unpopular war.

4. Unrecognized Exposures: Lingering Toxins

While the full medical impact of exposure to chemical agents like Agent Orange did not become widely known until years after the war, troops were dealing with immediate, acute symptoms that were often misdiagnosed or dismissed.

Medics were not equipped to understand or treat the complex, long-term effects of dioxin exposure. Soldiers who developed severe skin rashes (chloracne), gastrointestinal distress, or chronic neurological symptoms were often treated symptomatically and sent back to duty, unaware of the devastating biological time bomb they were carrying.

The Cost of Ignorance

The failures in recognizing and treating these “invisible” ailments during the Vietnam War underscore a critical lesson for military medicine: the wound not bleeding is often the most dangerous.

The generation of veterans who returned home—many physically healed but mentally broken, struggling with chronic pain, addiction, or undiagnosed psychological scars—paid the steepest price for the medical system’s lack of knowledge, its focus on immediate trauma, and its reluctance to acknowledge the true, corrosive nature of a prolonged jungle war.

The legacy of Vietnam required the armed forces and the Veterans Administration to fundamentally alter their approach to mental health and chronic care, a painful evolution that continues today.

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

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

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

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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“The Things we do for Love”, the story behind the story

This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 72 this year.

Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.

Why, you might ask.

Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne

At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.

I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.

Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them

Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.

I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.

Damn!

So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years

I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.

It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey.  Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.

Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.

So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.

Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.

It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there.  She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.

And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions.  Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.

Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.

But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.

As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life

If only I’d come from such a background!

And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.

I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.

One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.

Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.

It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife.  Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.

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lovecoverfinal1

Writing about writing a book – Research – 9

Background material used in researching the Vietnam was and various other aspects of that period

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Saigon in the sixties – heaven or hell

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Saigon’s Neon Oasis: Where Soldiers Found Solace Amidst the Vietnam War’s Peak

The Vietnam War was a brutal, relentless conflict, a landscape of jungle, mud, and unimaginable hardship. But for those serving, there were moments, brief and precious, when the war receded, replaced by the artificial glow of city lights, the clink of ice in a glass, and the distant thrum of rock and roll. This was Saigon, the dynamic, often chaotic capital of South Vietnam, a city that, at the peak of the war, became a paradoxical oasis for weary soldiers seeking escape.

Saigon was a city of stark, poignant contrasts. On one hand, it was the administrative and logistical heart of the war effort, a place of military compounds, constant vigilance, and ever-present tension. On the other, it pulsed with a vibrant, albeit often artificial, civilian life, offering a dazzling array of “entertainment” spots where GIs could, for a few hours, pretend they weren’t in a war zone.

Let’s take a stroll through the Saigon of the late 1960s, a city that learned to cater to the needs of soldiers desperate for a moment of normalcy.

The Gritty Glamour of the GI Bars

The most immediate and common escape for soldiers in Saigon was undoubtedly its bustling bar scene. Streets like Tou Do (later Dong Khoi) and Nguyen Hue were lined with establishments ranging from dimly lit dives to multi-level discos, each promising a temporary reprieve.

  • Hostess Bars: These were perhaps the most iconic. Girls, often dressed in traditional ao dai or fashionable Western clothes, would sit with soldiers, chat, dance, and encourage them to buy “Saigon Tea” (often watered-down drinks at inflated prices). The atmosphere was a potent mix of camaraderie, loneliness, longing, and sometimes, genuine connection amidst the transactional nature. Places like “The Caravelle Bar” (not the main hotel bar, but smaller adjacent spots), “The Blue Door,” and countless nameless establishments served as noisy, smoky havens.
  • Live Music Venues: Rock and roll was king. Bands, often local Vietnamese groups with surprisingly good English, belted out hits from the Rolling Stones, Beatles, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and Jimi Hendrix. These places were a cacophony of sound, laughter, and the clinking of bottles – a direct link to the world they’d left behind.
  • “Relaxation” Spots: Beyond the main drag, smaller, shadier alleys held a myriad of establishments offering various forms of “stress relief,” from massage parlors to more illicit activities. These spots catered to the darker side of desperation and the sheer animal need for comfort or oblivion.

A Taste of Home, A Taste of Elsewhere: Restaurants & Cafes

Food was another critical component of the escape. After weeks or months of C-rations, a proper meal was a luxury.

  • American Eateries: Many restaurants sprang up catering specifically to American tastes, serving steaks, burgers, fries, and milkshakes. These provided a comforting taste of home, a tangible link to a world without war.
  • French Influence: Saigon still bore the indelible mark of its French colonial past, and this was evident in its sophisticated dining scene. Soldiers could find excellent French cuisine, from rich stews to delicate pastries, and enjoy strong, aromatic Vietnamese coffee in elegant cafes.
  • Local Delights: For the more adventurous, the city offered an explosion of local flavors. Pho stalls, bustling street markets selling grilled meats and fresh spring rolls, and family-run restaurants serving traditional Vietnamese dishes were everywhere. While some soldiers stuck to what they knew, many embraced the opportunity to savor authentic local fare.

R&R: A Slice of Luxury and Normalcy

Beyond the quick escapes, many soldiers sought longer periods of Rest & Recuperation (R&R). While some went to destinations like Bangkok or Sydney, Saigon itself offered significant R&R opportunities, particularly for those on shorter breaks.

  • Luxury Hotels: The Hotel Caravelle, the Rex Hotel, and the Continental Palace were beacons of relative luxury. With air conditioning, swimming pools, attentive service, and fine dining, these hotels offered a temporary return to civilian life. Soldiers could shed their uniforms, don civilian clothes (often custom-tailored in Saigon’s famous tailor shops), and enjoy amenities that felt worlds away from their daily realities.
  • Shopping: Saigon was a shopper’s paradise. GIs could get custom-tailored suits or dresses made almost overnight, sending them home as gifts or wearing them during their R&R. There were also markets bustling with vendors selling silks, lacquerware, “gucci bags” (often fake, but still coveted), and trinkets of all kinds.
  • Movies & Bowling: For simpler diversions, Saigon had cinemas showing American films and even bowling alleys, offering familiar pastimes that helped to momentarily erase the war from their minds.

The Ever-Present Shadow

Despite the neon lights, the music, and the fleeting moments of normalcy, the war was an ever-present shadow. The sound of distant artillery, the occasional explosion from a VC attack, the sight of wounded soldiers being transported, and the sheer number of uniformed personnel served as constant reminders. The “entertainment” in Saigon was less about genuine joy and more about coping, about finding a temporary mental refuge from the relentless pressure and trauma of combat.

For soldiers at the peak of the Vietnam War, Saigon was a place of profound duality: a chaotic battlefield and a desperate sanctuary, a city that offered illusions of escape while continuously reminding them of the grim reality just beyond its glittering facade. It was a place where humanity, in all its complexity, struggled to find moments of solace, however brief, in the heart of conflict.

Research for the writing of a thriller – 1

Background material used in creating a location, an explosive situation, and characters to bring it alive – the story – A Score to Settle

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The premise

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The Powder Keg Conference: When Irony Meets Incitement in the Republic of Azmar

The world of international politics often serves up a certain dish of absurdity, but occasionally, the ingredients align for a truly catastrophic meal. We are witnessing such a geopolitical culinary disaster right now, brewing in the fictional Republic of Azmar.

Azmar is, by all measures, a textbook example of modern authoritarianism: a military dictatorship, financially and politically shielded by a major superpower, and helmed by President General Kroll, a man whose personal wealth seems to increase inversely to his country’s freedoms. The regime’s human rights abuses—disappearances, rigged judiciary, suppression of dissent—are not simply allegations; they are an open, festering secret among global watchdog organizations.

And yet, this week, Azmar is throwing a party.

The Irony Convention

In a move that strains the very definition of chutzpah, the Kroll regime is hosting the Global Summit for Progressive Human Rights Advancement.

The contrast is dizzying. While political prisoners languish in overcrowded, secret facilities, the capital city has been scrubbed clean. Banners proclaiming “Justice Through Dialogue” hang from lampposts. The state-run media is ecstatic, broadcasting endless interviews about Azmar’s commitment to “international transparency.”

The goal, of course, is not dialogue. It is legitimization. The conference is a Potemkin Village, a meticulously constructed facade designed to convince foreign investors and, more importantly, the regime’s international patrons that Azmar is a stable, reforming nation.

And perhaps the most volatile element of this stagecraft? The roster of attendees.

The Ethical Tightrope Walk of the Keynote Speaker

The event has attracted truly renowned figures: Nobel Laureates, celebrated international lawyers, and veteran human rights defenders. These are people whose careers have been defined by fighting the very abuses Azmar exemplifies.

Why are they here? For some, it is the genuine belief that dialogue must occur, even with the devil. For others, it’s the hefty speaking fees and the promise of a global stage. Whatever the motivation, their presence offers the Kroll regime exactly what it craves: a veneer of institutional approval.

When a celebrated author stands at the podium, criticizing abstract concepts of oppression while simultaneously shaking hands with the architect of that oppression, the lines between principle and pragmatism blur dangerously. Their words, intended as a critique, are instead absorbed into the regime’s propaganda machine: “See? Even the world’s greatest thinkers endorse Azmar’s path forward.”

It is a tense, ethically compromised theatre. But the real drama is about to erupt just outside the conference hall.

The Return of the Ghost

For years, the domestic unrest in Azmar has been a low, continuous rumble—a simmering resentment against Kroll’s corruption and brutality. The memory of the previous government, the democratically elected administration deposed in the violent coup fifteen years ago, lingered like a ghost, kept alive only by hushed whispers.

That ghost has just materialized.

Simultaneously with the arrival of the international luminaries, news has swept through the Azmari underground that Elias Mendieta, the long-missing son of the deposed and disappeared president, has returned home.

Elias Mendieta represents everything President Kroll is not: legitimacy, democratic mandate, and the promise of a free Azmar. His return is not just political news; it is a profound symbolic act. It transforms simmering discontent into active incitement.

The Collision Course

The timing is either impossibly unlucky for President Kroll or perfectly calculated by Mendieta’s supporters.

Think about the dynamics now at play:

  1. Maximum Global Focus: The world’s major media outlets and human rights organizations are all focused on Azmar due to the conference.
  2. Maximum Internal Tension: The regime has poured all its resources into maintaining a facade of tranquility, meaning security forces are stretched and focused on keeping the peace in the capital’s diplomatic quarters.
  3. Maximum Ideological Threat: Elias Mendieta, the embodiment of popular resistance and democratic history, is now mobilizing supporters in the streets.

This is not a political confrontation that will play out in press releases. This is a dramatic, high-stakes collision.

If Mendieta attempts to make a dramatic public appearance, the regime faces an impossible choice:

  • Option A: Allow him to speak. This instantly delegitimizes the conference and risks igniting mass protests that could turn revolutionary.
  • Option B: Arrest or silence him violently. Doing so while Nobel Laureates are debating “the future of free expression” literally blocks away would shatter the carefully constructed facade and invite global condemnation, potentially forcing the major power propping up Kroll to finally step back.

The Republic of Azmar has prepared a gilded stage for a dialogue on human rights, but what is truly about to commence is a revolution.

What could possibly go wrong? Everything. And we are all watching the fuse burn down.

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

Research for the writing of a thriller – 1

Background material used in creating a location, an explosive situation, and characters to bring it alive – the story – A Score to Settle

…

The premise

…

The Powder Keg Conference: When Irony Meets Incitement in the Republic of Azmar

The world of international politics often serves up a certain dish of absurdity, but occasionally, the ingredients align for a truly catastrophic meal. We are witnessing such a geopolitical culinary disaster right now, brewing in the fictional Republic of Azmar.

Azmar is, by all measures, a textbook example of modern authoritarianism: a military dictatorship, financially and politically shielded by a major superpower, and helmed by President General Kroll, a man whose personal wealth seems to increase inversely to his country’s freedoms. The regime’s human rights abuses—disappearances, rigged judiciary, suppression of dissent—are not simply allegations; they are an open, festering secret among global watchdog organizations.

And yet, this week, Azmar is throwing a party.

The Irony Convention

In a move that strains the very definition of chutzpah, the Kroll regime is hosting the Global Summit for Progressive Human Rights Advancement.

The contrast is dizzying. While political prisoners languish in overcrowded, secret facilities, the capital city has been scrubbed clean. Banners proclaiming “Justice Through Dialogue” hang from lampposts. The state-run media is ecstatic, broadcasting endless interviews about Azmar’s commitment to “international transparency.”

The goal, of course, is not dialogue. It is legitimization. The conference is a Potemkin Village, a meticulously constructed facade designed to convince foreign investors and, more importantly, the regime’s international patrons that Azmar is a stable, reforming nation.

And perhaps the most volatile element of this stagecraft? The roster of attendees.

The Ethical Tightrope Walk of the Keynote Speaker

The event has attracted truly renowned figures: Nobel Laureates, celebrated international lawyers, and veteran human rights defenders. These are people whose careers have been defined by fighting the very abuses Azmar exemplifies.

Why are they here? For some, it is the genuine belief that dialogue must occur, even with the devil. For others, it’s the hefty speaking fees and the promise of a global stage. Whatever the motivation, their presence offers the Kroll regime exactly what it craves: a veneer of institutional approval.

When a celebrated author stands at the podium, criticizing abstract concepts of oppression while simultaneously shaking hands with the architect of that oppression, the lines between principle and pragmatism blur dangerously. Their words, intended as a critique, are instead absorbed into the regime’s propaganda machine: “See? Even the world’s greatest thinkers endorse Azmar’s path forward.”

It is a tense, ethically compromised theatre. But the real drama is about to erupt just outside the conference hall.

The Return of the Ghost

For years, the domestic unrest in Azmar has been a low, continuous rumble—a simmering resentment against Kroll’s corruption and brutality. The memory of the previous government, the democratically elected administration deposed in the violent coup fifteen years ago, lingered like a ghost, kept alive only by hushed whispers.

That ghost has just materialized.

Simultaneously with the arrival of the international luminaries, news has swept through the Azmari underground that Elias Mendieta, the long-missing son of the deposed and disappeared president, has returned home.

Elias Mendieta represents everything President Kroll is not: legitimacy, democratic mandate, and the promise of a free Azmar. His return is not just political news; it is a profound symbolic act. It transforms simmering discontent into active incitement.

The Collision Course

The timing is either impossibly unlucky for President Kroll or perfectly calculated by Mendieta’s supporters.

Think about the dynamics now at play:

  1. Maximum Global Focus: The world’s major media outlets and human rights organizations are all focused on Azmar due to the conference.
  2. Maximum Internal Tension: The regime has poured all its resources into maintaining a facade of tranquility, meaning security forces are stretched and focused on keeping the peace in the capital’s diplomatic quarters.
  3. Maximum Ideological Threat: Elias Mendieta, the embodiment of popular resistance and democratic history, is now mobilizing supporters in the streets.

This is not a political confrontation that will play out in press releases. This is a dramatic, high-stakes collision.

If Mendieta attempts to make a dramatic public appearance, the regime faces an impossible choice:

  • Option A: Allow him to speak. This instantly delegitimizes the conference and risks igniting mass protests that could turn revolutionary.
  • Option B: Arrest or silence him violently. Doing so while Nobel Laureates are debating “the future of free expression” literally blocks away would shatter the carefully constructed facade and invite global condemnation, potentially forcing the major power propping up Kroll to finally step back.

The Republic of Azmar has prepared a gilded stage for a dialogue on human rights, but what is truly about to commence is a revolution.

What could possibly go wrong? Everything. And we are all watching the fuse burn down.

“The Devil You Don’t”, she was the girl you would not take home to your mother!

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…

John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.

Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.

If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.

At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.

That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.

Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.

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