Category: Thriller

Inspiration, maybe – Volume 1

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

They all start with –

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

lookingdownfromcoronetpeak

And the story:

…

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

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

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

The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent.  We were following the car he was in, from a 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.

“Maybe next time,” Alan said.

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

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2026

…

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

InspirationMaybe1v1

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 21

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

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

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in.

…

Lallo delivered that statement with deceptive calm, and I didn’t miss the inference.  That is if he was trying to say that anyone associated with that operation was likely to end up dead sooner rather than later.

Food for thought indeed, and suddenly it explained the reason for this interrogation.  And though I didn’t want to believe it, or even think it possible, Breeman might be in some way connected with that operation.  Or someone involved in it.

Suddenly I found my mid connecting dots, real or imaginary, that led back to Breeman requesting my transfer, knowing who I was, and then becoming closer in a way that was not expected, or could be explained, which had consequences if it came to light.

That was what Bamfield was alluding to in the desert camp.

But even Lallo had to admit it would be stretch at best to tie what was a random event being selected for what was basically an off-book training flight to being shot down, and link to a failed operation, and a suspicious suicide by Treen. 

Especially when it was Bamfield’s own men who shot the helicopter out of the sky because we had so-called encroached the no-fly zone.  Yet, by extension, if those people knew the proximity of the helicopter to the ground, and how thorough my survival training had been, that posed a whole new raft of questions, which, right then, I didn’t want to think about.

No, it was utterly ridiculous.  My thoughts were simply the manna which drove conspiracy theories.  Lallo was jumping to conclusions, and even I was guilty of the same offence.

Time to put it out of my mind, and answer the question, even if it sounded rhetorical.  “It was the Colonel who tried to kill me, not the person who sent me on that operation.  Are you trying to tell me Bamfield is involved in more than one conspiracy?”

Lallo simply shook his head, made a note in his notebook, and turned the page.

“Let’s go back to the day you were assigned to the ill-fated exercise.  How many of your number at that particular base, are available for helicopter duty?”

“Four.”

“Who assigns the missions?”

“Operations.”

“Not the commanding officer?”

“No.”

“And in this particular case, when you were sent on the fatal mission?”

“I had to countersign the order.  I didn’t see her name on the form.”

“But she would know, or be able to make suggestions.”

There was a group who made those decisions, not any one person, and it was possible anyone of that group could make a suggestion.  But, as for Breeman, I doubt she was interested in that level of micromanagement.

Yet there was a suggestion I’d been moved off the active roster, and that it was possibly on her orders.  Perhaps it would be best not to say anything about that.  It also begged the question of why.  Had she known something might happen to me?  Or did she have an idea what might happen for another reason?

“Anything is possible, but I’m not privy to the machinations of command.  I just do as I’m ordered.”

He smiled thinly.  “I’m sure you’d say that even if it wasn’t true.”

Lallo was becoming an annoying little gnat, so I decided to treat him like one.  “Is there an actual point to these questions, other than to dredge up past history, make erroneous accusations, and base all your conclusions on conjecture?”

“I simply deal with the facts before me.”  It was almost a childish response.

A face hovered outside the ward door, and he noticed it.

“Excuse me.”  He put down the notebook and headed out the door.  Monroe remained, looking menacing.

Was someone else listening, and didn’t like the turn of events?

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2023

First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

…

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 cinema of my dreams – It ended in Sorrento – Episode 43

I’m off to Rome to see a lawyer

…

Before I went to Italy I called in on Anthony and his assistant Alessia and got them to give me a briefing on the mother of the man who had become and died the countess’s husband.

Along with a warning that the mother was not in the brief, and he was reluctant to share what information they had.  I left thinking something had happened or changed, and Anthony had been told to respond only to specific questions; Rodby was trying to keep my attention on his orders.

The question burning at the back of my mind:  what was Rodby hiding?

I also asked for a copy of the coroner’s report on the death of the count, and even before I got through the first paragraph, there was enough evidence to prove he had been murdered.

Did the countess get a copy of the report, or was that left in the hands of the family?  I suspect the latter, because of one statement she made, the Count’s family handled all the ‘detail’s’.  I was beginning to think that she was about to become a detail herself and be handled accordingly.

It was also clear that the Count’s mother, a countess herself, was the one who ruled with an iron fist, even before the count was dead. She had run the business.  And now he had died, their cosy arrangement was about to be signed away into the hands of a woman who was not going to let the older countess run it.

That was probably for a reason, the old countess was doing stuff that she didn’t want anyone to know about.  Had her son discovered the truth and she had him killed.  At least I could discount Alessandro and Fabio.  They were both the most unlikely assassins and if they had tried, they would have botched it.  And I doubt either would have anything to do with killing their brother.

The briefing had a slim folder that contained several sheets of paper that outlined the nature of the Burkehardt businesses.  It seemed the companies never made profits, which made it odd as to how the family members could live such extravagant lifestyles.

The old countess’s name was Anna, rather plain, I thought, and had been the daughter of a poor wine grower.  His was not a large vineyard, but they were very good grapes and sought after by the bigger winemakers.  She had grandiose ideas and had virtually blackmailed the man she married.

Of course, it wasn’t hard to see that the family were also making a few other distilled products.  Without telling the government.  But if you read between the lines, Anna wasn’t exactly a law-abiding citizen., and she had some very rough-and-tumble acquaintances, not the least of which had ties to the mafia.

I was going to create a splash, on both sides of the channel, when I landed in her drawing room.

My first stop when I arrived in Italy was to go and visit the countess’s private legal representative in Rome.  I had asked Cecelia to get the name and address from the countess, and she texted the details as I got off the plane at the airport.

Cecelia also sent me a photo of Anna, at the house in Sorrento, along with both Alessandro and Fabio, who must have taken a flight the previous day.  It seems their concern the countess was missing was not a priority.

I hated driving in Rome, so I left the car in a parking garage on the way to Sorrento on the outskirts of the city and took public transport.  I had one of those back-of-neck sensations when I collected my bag off the carousel, and it was as I suspected, a man trying very hard to look like a fellow passenger watching me.

He passed me off to someone else after I collected the rental car, and drove to bus terminus out in the suburbs on the way to Sorrento.  Whoever was tailing me in the car was very good, and I only saw them twice.

Rodby checking up, or someone else.  I didn’t see Alfie, and after the last debacle, he may have been replaced, but whoever that was, they would be less conspicuous than my current minder.

I took the bus but wasn’t joined by anyone, but that didn’t mean they had lost sight of me.  I checked and thought I’d made the car following the bus.  These people were relentless.  And there were a few of them, and whoever their boss was, he had deep pockets.  Not Rodby then.

From the bus terminus, it was a short walk to the building that housed many lawyers.  In England, they were called chambers.  In Italy, they were called camere degli avvocati, or something like that.

I could speak almost fluent Italian because of Violetta, though she used to tease me over some of the word translations, and many a day was spent teaching me the language.  Even so, I still didn’t always get it right, but these days I liked pretending I had only schoolboy Italian and see if people helped.

This was going to be one of those occasions, not because I had the time, but I had picked up another tail and they were very good.  It added some interest to my day where otherwise it might have been boring.  This time it was a woman, not much older than me, but not conspicuous and had I not been looking, would have missed her.  She hadn’t entered the building yet, and if I wanted to draw her in, I might have to force her hand.

So I stood there, in front of the board, trying to make head or tail of the names, and descriptions on the board that listed the tenants of the building, and I pretended I was having difficulty.  Perhaps looking confused was more of a help than a hindrance because it gave the girl that I assumed was following me the perfect excuse to stop and ask, in almost perfect English, “You are lost perhaps?”

“I am, and not perhaps.”  I gave her the piece of paper with the avvocati’s name on it, and after a quick perusal of the board, she pointed him out.

“Fourth floor, I’m going there myself.”

We crossed to the elevator and waited with several other people who definitely looked like lawyers, barristers, or wealthy clients.  My impression of the building with ornate marble on the floor and walls, was that only the rich could afford to work her and afford the services of them.

© Charles Heath 2023

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

I wandered back to my villa.

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

I looked up and saw the globe was broken.

Instant alert.

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

Who?

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

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

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

Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.

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

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

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

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

I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.

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

Silence, an eerie silence.

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

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

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

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

Or was I?

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

Still nothing.

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

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

Contract complete.

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

Crunch.

I stepped on some nutshells.

Not my nutshells.

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

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

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

Two assassins.

I’d not expected that.

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

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

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

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

“Who employed you?”

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

Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.

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

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

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

Until I heard a knock on my front door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You need to go away now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I expected her to scream.  She didn’t.

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

“What happened here?”

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

“Not so much, looking at your arm.”

She came closer and inspected it.

“Sit down.”

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

“Do you have medical supplies?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Alisha?”

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

“That was wrong of her to do that.”

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

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

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

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2022

strangerscover9

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility that the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’, but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him he was not the concierge, and instead he brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position, then clunked when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the lift lobby, only what was in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over to the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

…

© Charles Heath – 2018-2025

“Sunday in New York”, a romantic adventure that’s not a walk in the park!

“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.

When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.

From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.

There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.

Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.

Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?

Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?

Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?

As they say in the classics, read on!

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The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 20

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

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

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in.

…

Lallo gave me a minute or two to read what amounted to two lines, that my co-operation was expected, and to be given.  It wasn’t exactly addressed to me personally, but a blanket authorization to interview anyone involved in that operation.

I handed the letter back, but not before I noticed it had been unfolded and refolded several times as if it had been used before.  Had Lallo already interrogated Treen, the only other survivor?

Lallo’s first question: “Do you know who was responsible for organising that operation?”

It was rather an odd question, asking a Sergeant who was assigned at the last minute.

“Look, at the time I was assigned to non-combat duties, not as an on-call commando.  I was a late replacement for the member of the team who had to withdraw due to an accident. I was simply ordered to join the team at the airfield.  Given the results, I’m hoping whoever it was that organized and authorized that operation got the bollicking they deserved.”

I had been annoyed at the time, but I’d got over it.  In keeping with a lot of the operations I’d been involved with; very few had a successful outcome, but usually with fewer casualties.

He gave me a sidelong glance, close to an admonishment.  “Just stick to the facts when answering questions.  The other survivor was Lieutenant Treen, correct?”

Not a happy man was the Lieutenant.  Not happy that the operation was changed at the last minute or the fact the odds had been stacked against us, and not happy I’d been flown in as a replacement what he regarded as his personal group.

“Yes.”

“Are you aware he requested an investigation into that operation?”

It came as no surprise.  On the flight over, he had expressed more than one concern about the lack of intelligence and what the real situation was like on the ground.

“No.”

“Were you aware that a week ago Lieutenant Treen was found dead in his quarters, from an apparent suicide?”

Treen if anything was a soldier’s soldier, and the last man to contemplate suicide for any reason.  Surviving, just, that botched operation would not be a catalyst for such an event for such a man.

“No.”

“Odd then, don’t you think, you are nearly sent to your death the day after?”

If that was the case, and on the face of it, it seemed so, that wasn’t the only oddity about this whole affair.  I remembered the date of the General’s letter, the one telling me to be co-operative. It was the day before Treen’s suicide.

I didn’t think it was a coincidence?

It was quite clear someone didn’t want the General or whoever Lallo was working for, to question the last two survivors.

The question now was: what did we know, or what they thought we knew that was so important, that silencing us was necessary.

And would ‘they’ try again?

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2022

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


What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

…

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 that 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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The cinema of my dreams – It continued in London – Episode 42

Meeting the Rodby’s

…

I picked a safe place to meet Rodby.

I called him directly, which is what none of his agents did, ever.  That was because no one knew his private number.  No one except perhaps Mrs Rodby and, now, myself.

It didn’t elicit kind words.

When he answered with a tentative yes, I started with, “One day you are going to tell me just a little more than you think I need to know.”

“Evan?”

“Who else would have the audacity to talk to you in such a manner?”

“Someone with either suicidal tendencies or one with a death wish.  I don’t see you as having the former, so I’ll run with the second.  You are aware I could have you arrested and worse?”

The thought had occurred to me.  There were certain people in the organisation that were untouchable, and he was one of them.

“You can do that if you like, but there will be consequences.  It might be an idea to wait until after we’ve met.”

“Come into the office.  I’ll be here all morning.”

“Not this morning.  Somewhere else, today.  Trafalgar Square, fifteen minutes.  I won’t bother asking you to come alone but be aware I’m not pleased with you.”

I hung up before he could ask why.

I did several circuits of the perimeter, then observed the tourists from the stairs of the gallery behind, then waited until I saw Rodby, with Mrs Rodby as I hoped, coming towards the square from Haymarket.

The fact it concerned the countess almost ensured that Mrs Rodby would be along to find out what happened to her friend.  But, to me, she could do that just as easily by being on the end of the telephone.  Rodby himself had laid down the law about bringing civilians into organisational matters, and Mrs Rodby was a civilian.

There was not one law for the boss and one law for everyone else.  Rodby was not like that, so there had to be a compelling reason why she was being included.

I watched them walking slowly and thought what an unconventional sight they made.  All the time I knew Rodby, he never walked anywhere. And he definitely would never be seen with Martha.  His enemies if they were out and about would have leverage being dangled in front of them, which is why we seemed to live such monastic lives or quit so we could have a normal one.

Once again, I thought this very unconventional.

Though at this very minute, I could snatch her off the street.

It was incentive enough to maintain vigilance and note where every unsavoury character was.  And there were a lot of them judging by appearances.

As I followed from behind, I sent a text message to Cecelia to tell the countess she would be able to talk to Mrs Rodby in about fifteen minutes.  I had managed to clone Mrs Rodby’s phone and get the number.

I timed my arrival to close to them as they crossed the road in front of the gallery coming up behind them, and as they stepped onto the footpath on the other side I said, “Nice to see you both out and about together.  Is this a prelude to retirement?”

Both stopped and turned around.

OK, there was a mental note about to be stored.  Mrs Rodby was the same height and wearing heels.  What relevance was that she didn’t wear heels for one very specific reason, it made her taller than her husband and that was one part of his ego you didn’t mess with.

Mrs Rodby had got shorter.  Of course, I hadn’t seen her for a while and there didn’t seem to be a height difference the night of the opera, so perhaps it was just my view from where I was standing.

“Are you trying to give us heart attacks, Evan?”  Martha spoke, while Rodby was looking around.  Fifteen minutes was too short a time to get a team of agents on the ground, but there would be one.  He would have people observing via the CCTV camera.

“It was not my intention.”

Standing on the path was blocking the foot traffic and we moved towards one of the fountains.  I kept an eye on the direction from where they came, but they were not being followed.  We were not far from the fountain when we stopped.

Rodby looked annoyed.  “Enough with the theatrics.  Where is the countess?  From what Alf told me, she should be with you, the reason why you summoned us here.”

“Toy told me to find her, not bring her to you.”

“You’re not one to interpret orders, Evan, although I should have factored in your unorthodox method of doing the job.”

“I was thinking that was why you asked me, and not one of the other dozen or so people you could have.”

That was another thought that just popped into my head.  Why me?  I was not his first choice for this type of mission, and I had long discounted the original contrived reason for meeting the countess, that Martha might be matchmaking, a suggestion dropped by the countess herself.

I knew Mrs Rodby, and she was not a matchmaker or the sort who would interfere in anyone’s life.  Granted she knew about Violetta, but that was only after she was diagnosed, and Rodby let us into a small part of his life, and that was only because I had retired and there was no conflict of interest.  Which flicked my attention back to Martha.

She had aged a lot since I saw her last when it seemed she could not be perturbed by anything.  Violetta, in fact, had said she was as close to an angel as she would ever get to see.

Now that angel was not looking happy.  “You met and talked to her?”  Mrs Rodby asked.

“Yes, and she insists that she left the hotel as a precautionary measure, unsure of Alesandro’s intentions.  She seemed to believe he was being manipulated by his mother, who I think might be a problem.  I spoke to Alessandro, and he assured me he had nothing to do with her departure.”

Rodby had maintained continuous surveillance of the square and then brought his eyes back to me.  It wasn’t exactly a look of daggers, but close.  “Do you think she might harm the countess?”

“I have no idea where she fits into the equation though on the surface it seems she wants to be in control of the family business, if indeed she hasn’t been all along.”

“It could just be a family feud, fuelled by the fact that it’s possible the running of the business might fall to the countess, who is for all intents and purposes, an outsider.  Everything was fine while he was alive, it’s only since he died, that she has been having difficulties.”

Could that be a subtle hint that she might have killed the count herself to get control of everything?  Would the countess do that?  Not the woman that I met at the opera, and then later on, whether she was brandishing a gun at me or not.

“So, it’s possible the family might be trying to stop her from inheriting.  That’s a bit hard under Italian law isn’t it?”

“Not if she’s dead.”

“And if there’s a daughter?”

“Same problem arises, needing a similar solution.”

With mafia connections that wouldn’t be too much of a difficulty to arrange.  Not surprising then that Mrs Rodby was worried about her friend.

“Then given Anthony told us that we were, yes, to find her, but also to make the problems go away, though not exactly in those words, what exactly was I supposed to do.  I didn’t interpret that as going in and taking out the family.  He didn’t mention any extraction team, nor did he say I had to tell you where she was, only to provide an update.  I am, here.”

“What about that daughter you mentioned, Juliet Ambrose.  Don’t you find it coincidental she pops up as a key player, the daughter of a maid, Vittoria Romano, who by all accounts is trying to eliminate the countess?”

“It’s a small world.  What can I say?  It was a surprise to learn of her involvement, and no doubt Alfie told you I met up with her and also told that I saved her from being killed?”

“By whom?”

“It could be anybody.  She had dealt with one too many bad people of the years, but it’s possible it might be the Burkehardt’s.  The count did tell the countess that she existed, as he did to Alessandro, but he would not have disclosed her actual identity.”

“Then the countess doesn’t know who she is?” Martha seemed surprised.

“She does now.  that’s where I found the countess, in Juliet’s flat.”

“And they’re together still?”

“Last I heard.”

“Would that be a very bad idea, especially if the mother found them?  You can be sure this Juliet and her mother are not plotting…”

“…to kill the countess and step in as another legitimate heir?  I don’t think so.”

I found it surprising that Martha was so well-read into the case, perhaps better than I was.

“Have you met her mother?”

“Cecelia has.  And that’s another question.  Why did you reassign me to her, that’s not usual practice.”

“She’s used to your maverick ways, and last assignment you two worked well together.”

“It might also mean she’s become a maverick too?”

“I told her to learn only the good aspects of being an agent from you, though I’m beginning to question that decision.  Where is she?”

“In Italy watch over the countess, and keep an eye on the mother.”

Mrs Rodby had been watching us.  “Are you two like this all the time?  How did anything get done?”

“Slowly,” I said.  “It’s a bit hard to do anything when you don’t get the whole story.  But, for now, the countess is safe.  Cecelia is investigating Vittoria and I know where Juliet is, and what her involvement is.  None.  For now.  But that might change when her mother appears.”

A few seconds of silence, and then Mrs Rodby’s phone rang.

She pulled the phone out of her bag, looked at the screen, and then answered it with a tentative ‘Yes?”

She then turned to Rodby, “It’s the countess.”  She put it on speakerphone, and I moved away so I couldn’t hear her, but within reach of them if anything happened.

Nothing did.

Five minutes later, Rodby stepped away and came over to me.  “Get over to Italy and find the lawyer handling her side of the inheritance.  You need to get her to him before they meet with the family lawyers.  Whatever you do, ensure you keep her safe.”

“What about the matriarch?”

“Ignore her.  Your priority is the countess.”

I watched them walk away thinking I’d got out of that way too easily.  And wondering if I should have remained within earshot of the conversation.  Something about this whole affair suddenly wasn’t adding up.

© Charles Heath 2023