Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

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

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

 

The hut was a barracks, with bedding and ablutions for twenty men.  Since this was one of two, I assumed the other hut housed the twenty soldiers that the Colonel had alluded to.  There would be no more than one or two others including the Captain.

Hopefully, there were not more in Nagero.

The two hostages had been taken to the Captain’s office where I assumed there was probably a brig for them to be locked in.  Not quite what I was expecting, but no plan was ever perfect.

I went to the rear and sat down at a table that could accommodate about ten.

Davies and Shurl joined me.

I looked at Shurl.  “Good work, and glad they didn’t shoot you.”

“So am I.  Monroe had joined the others.  I had to make a lot of noise before they found me, so I don’t think this is a crack troop.”

“The Captain, or whatever he is, looks sharp,” Davies said.

“New command perhaps.  Can’t believe his luck, I’m guessing.  Did you get a look at the plane?”

“As much as I could without looking like I was looking at it.  It’s been well maintained, and I have no doubt we can get it off the ground.  It just depends if we need help to get the engines started.  It’s possible they don’t, though it’s not usual for this type of plane.  We shall see when the time comes.”

“Can you take off at night?”

“It’s a bit dangerous without lights.  I see they have a lighting system, so I suggest, if and when we break out of here you get someone to find the switch.”

“Noted.”

“Any idea when that’ll be?”

“I’m sure we have people working on that as we speak.”

The door at the entrance to the hut opened and the Captain stood next to his officer, with a gun pointed loosely in our direction, just in case we got the idea we could escape.

“Mr. James.  Time to tell me all about your escape plans.”

“I’m not so sure they could be called that, now.”

His tone hardened.  “Don’t keep me waiting.  I have people waiting for my report.”

I shrugged and got up.  “Just make sure everyone is ready to move when the time comes.  Tell Baines that I expect him to find the generator and get the lights working.”

The Captain’s impatient look told me not to keep him waiting any longer.

The Captain led the way, and his officer kept the gun pointed at me, just in case of what I’m not sure.  Inside his office, rather spacious, and with a door which likely led to some form of accommodation and the brig where the hostages were being held.  The door was closed so I couldn’t see, so it had to be an assumption.

The officer remained in the doorway, while the Captain sat behind a large desk, and gestured for me to sit the other side.  It didn’t look like a comfortable chair.

I thought I’d start the ball rolling.  “I’m assuming that there isn’t always an army guard on this airstrip?”

“No.  When we heard you were coming for the prisoners, a detachment was sent.  Fortuitous wouldn’t you say?”

“For who.”  Time to sow some seeds of discontent.

“What do you mean Mr. James?”

“Your mate back at the militia camp just pocketed two million US dollars’ worth of diamonds for those two men.  What was your cut?”

A shocked look, one that eased back into benign slowly.  No cut from that look, I’d say.

“We pride ourselves on being above bribery.  That was the old way of doing things.”

“Clearly the militia don’t agree.  Are you going to give them back to the commander so he can raffle them again?”

The Captain didn’t seem to understand the word ‘raffle’.

“Sell them back to us for another two million.  Maybe you should talk to your superiors and see what they think.  If you left us go, I can arrange for five million, for you and your friends to share.”

Disdain, or disappointment.

“What did I just say about bribery.”

“That it’s not the way things are done.  Maybe not in the capital, but this is the boondocks, and you’re the man in charge.  Five million can go a long way, but I suspect if you tell your superiors, you won’t get to see any of it.  Or perhaps you should take a few men over to the Militia commander’s camp and demand your share, or just take it.  After all, Captain, who is in charge of this sector, him or you?”

At least he was thinking about it.  Five million was a lot of money, but in US dollars, that could take him anywhere.

I remembered my old instructor saying, one, ‘every man has his price’.

I just had to find the Captains.

“Aside from trying to bribe me, Mr. James, what were you hoping to achieve here?”

“A rescue.  I know we tried once before and not succeeded, but you know how it is, if you at first don’t succeed, try, try, try again.”

“That it failed before should be a warning that we are not as weak as you might think we are.  The US Army is not necessarily the best in the world.”

“So I’m beginning to discover.  Did we train you?”

“No.  I spent some time in England, training with the British Army.”

So that was where he got his accent and ramrod stiff never a crease out of place posture.

“But,” he said, “this not about me, but you.  And your so-called film crew.  How did you expect top escape through this airstrip, flights are restricted, and you can’t possibly fly in a Hercules?  The runway is not long enough.

“No, we were hoping for something a bit smaller than that, but we’ll find out tomorrow what it is.  I’ll be standing on the patio looking as surprised as you are when it arrives.  Now, let me ask you a question.  Do you know who those men are that you have in detention?”

“Militia prisoners.”

“For doing what?”

“I don’t ask questions.  I obey orders.

“Then I’ll tell you.  They were trying to set up a trade agreement for some precious metal you have in abundance here.  Good for the country for income, and employment.  Might even help you get on better terms with the rest of the world.  Unless of course, you don’t want to.”

“I am a soldier, not a politician.  That’s their problem.  I was told to hold you until my superiors arrive.”

“Who told you?”

“The Colonel.  He’s based in Ada.”

So, we had a leak.  Surprising given the limited circulation of the plan.  It might be down to Jacobi, but somehow, I didn’t think it was him.  He had several opportunities to turn on us and he didn’t.

“So, you’re saying we basically drove into a trap?”

“Yes.  So much for the smart Americans who have all the technology and answers.

I could understand his contempt, especially when the attempt had failed so badly.  Pity then he didn’t understand what was about to happen to him.

© Charles Heath 2020

A picture can paint a thousand words, or more, or less, but…

…

The interesting thing about a place in the dark, in the distance, and behind a chain wire fence usually means something. Especially when there are mysterious lights involved.

We were at a night sports event, watching over a thousand screaming and yelling kids from five to eighteen pretending to compete in a variety of athletic events.

I was there to nominally to support my granddaughter in her endeavours, but right at that moment, on the far side of the track, what I was really there to see was what was behind the wire fence

“Are you watching, Poppy?”

Well, at that moment I wasn’t, but I did turn just in time to see her clear a meter high high jump and execute an elegent backflip, a result no doubt of the ballet training she had since the age of four. Seven years later those lessons had transformed into a high jumper with a great future.

Except, she couldn’t really care less. It was more about the parents and athletic organisers expectations, than hers. I was there, she told me in a secretive tone, to tell everyone to back off.

if you think spying was a dangerous occupation, then let me tell you trying to navigate a safe path between child and parents, and then the rest of the word, forget it.

So, with my trusty phone camera, slightly modified, I was pretending to take pictures of surrounding trees in the high density lighting for the athletics oval, whilst zooming in on the real target.

And, about to take the money shot, I could feel a tugging on the side of my jacket.

I looked down to see the petulant face of a child not happy.

“You said you were coming to see me perform.”

I had. I looked over at the woman the boss had assigned as my ‘date’, Nancy, and whom I’d introduced as a long time friend who deigned to suffer my invitation so she could meet the girl I was always talking about.

“Yes, Poppy,” she said with an evil undertone. “You said you wanted to see her high jumps. You’d better get over there, while I take some pictures of the trees for you.”

“Why do you want pictures of dumb old trees?” That was a question I would have asked myself, and I didn’t quite have an answer for it.

Nancy did. “Because he’s odd like that. It’s one of the quirks I like about him.” She took the camera out of my hand and shooed us off.

And, heading back to the high jump, she asked, “What’s a quirk?”

“Just ask your father later. He knows all about quirks.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021

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

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

An excerpt from the book:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2024

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

As we all stood either on or off the boat, two things were clear to me.  The first, Rico’s genuine surprise at finding the body on his boat, and the second, how quickly the authorities had circled in for the kill.

I know calling 911 was supposed to get a rapid response to dire situations, but to get from the police station to the pier would take at least five minutes longer than it had, and that was breaking all the speed limits.

I might be jumping to conclusions, but someone wanted Rico to be found with an unexplainable body.  His recently departed friend’s maybe?

Johnson waited until the officer off the boat had finished his call, and asked, “What are we doing here?”

It was now obvious the men on the boat was either state police, the coast guard, or some Federal branch-like FBI or, if Rico was suspected of dealing or trafficking drugs, the DEA.

“Take him into custody.  Some of our people will be along to sit in on the questioning.  This is an FBI crime scene and we’ll take it from here.”

“These two?”  Johnson nodded in our direction.

“They’ve just found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Cut them loose, they have nothing to do with this, other than to contaminate our crime scene.”

And that was it, more men, this time in white overalls, came up from below the deck of the newly arrived boat and came over.  Crime scene investigators.

Johnson grabbed both of us by the scruff of the neck and shoved us in the direction of the shore.  “Get out of here before I find something to charge you with.”

Neither of us waited to be told a second time.  We were lucky, very lucky.

And Johnson was not happy his investigation had been pulled from under him.  He needed a case like this to enhance his prospects for the upcoming election for the new Sherriff.

On dry land again I stopped and turned to look back at the boat, and Rico, now handcuffed and guarded.

In the background something else caught my attention, slowly cruising past the unfolding scene aboard Rico’s boat.  A large ocean-going yacht, one that was owned by the Benderby’s.  With Alex standing at the back of the bridge looking at Rico’s boat, and two others at the stern, dressed in what looked like diving suits, putting equipment away.

Even from this far away I could see the smug expression on his face.

No prizes then, for guessing how the police got an early warning.

Equally so for guessing who it was most likely to dump a body on a boat and have someone else take the rap for it.  I had no doubt that a quantity of drugs would be found in some hidey-hole on Rico’s boat where he usually stashed the drugs he picked up from out in the sea lanes.  A win-win, for law enforcement on many levels, and Benderby.

The question then I needed an answer to was, who was the dead man, and what was his relationship with the Benderby’s.  I think I was now certain Rico had no idea who the man was, or why he was found on his boat, dead.

© Charles Heath 2019

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

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

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

I was not sure how the Congo commander was going to react when four cars with people who looked more like mercenaries than a film crew turned up at the front gate.

Not that we had the film equipment to use as a cover. I guess that was the reason the kidnappers had removed it from our cars. One less reason to believe our story. I would have been curious to hear just how the commander had described us to his Congo counterpart.

Or what sort of treatment we were going to get. I don’t think the hostages were going to like the idea of becoming hostages again, albeit with a new set of ransom demands, and probably a lot of harsher treatment. Mercenaries could be rough, but they needed resources, and trying to negotiate with overly damaged goods wouldn’t set much of an example.

The Government military, on the other hand, would not be too particular. And capturing an invading enemy force, spies if you will, well, that was going to be a feather in the cap of the airfield commander.

But would he tip his hand at the gate or wait till we pulled up outside the headquarters building. If there was one.

We were about to find out. The gate was in sight and flanked by two very bright lights which we had all seen for about the last half mile, flickering through the undergrowth. The road was well made, and we would have made good time, but I deliberately slowed down to give Monroe time to get into place.

Another brief report from the Colonel told me they reckoned on 20 troops deployed at different parts of the field, just in case we decided to ‘sneak’ in on foot.

At the gate the road widened into a large turning circle for turning back cars.

I stopped right on top of the gate. A non-commissioned officer came out of a small shack by the gate and joined two men standing either side of the gate. Weapons weren’t pointed in our direction, but that could change quickly.

I was going with the film crew going home story first.

“Who are you?” I noticed the officer had a clipboard and made a show of looking at it, and the page underneath. “You are not on my list.”

“Probably not. We have been filming a documentary, and it’s time to go home. We have an aircraft coming in tomorrow morning to pick us up.”

One of the guards came through the gate and went down one side of each car, then came back up the other side, peering in through the windows. Back at the gate, he spoke to the officer.

“You have weapons. That is unusual for a film crew isn’t it?”

Highly, if we were anywhere else in the world. “We were warned about militias. Luckily we didn’t run into any.”

“Then, before you enter the airfield I suggest you, and your men, surrender any weapons.”

“Of course.” I relayed the instruction back through the cars. The soldier then came down the car and collected the weapons in a bag. As I’d assumed, we were not going to gain admission to the airstrip armed. It was probably also a law which in any country made perfect sense.

Once the soldier returned the officer had the gate opened, and came over to me.

“Fill in the form, and we’ll get you on your way soon enough.”

He handed me the clipboard, and then stepped away, taking out a radio unit of his own and spoke into it in a language I didn’t understand. Perhaps we should have kept Jacobi with us for a little longer so he could interpret.

When I filled out the form and handed it back, he said, “Drive up the road about a half-mile to a hanger and park your cars out the front. I suggest when getting out of the cars not to make any sudden or suspicious moves.”

Like we’d been told almost word for word back at the commander’s camp. Interesting.

The men at the gate didn’t follow us, but I did see, coming from two separate points back from the runway, or what looked to be the runway, two groups of five soldiers in each, in a proper formation. That was not the actions of a motley militia.

Serious soldiers perhaps.

It didn’t take long to reach the hanger, quite large, but in a sorry state of repair. Beside it was two old army huts that were in better repair and lit up. At the top of the steps of one stood the commander, a Captain. Clean, fresh, snug-fitting uniform, looking the part. Newly promoted, with something to prove.

With him were another six soldiers, armed and ready. That made 16 plus him. Where were the others?

Another non-commissioned officer came out of the hut and briefly spoke to his commander. Then he went back inside, and the commander came down the stairs to greet me. The rest of the team stood together, in front of the third car, and about 20 feet away. They were trying their best to cover the two hostages.

“Good evening Mr. James.” Reasonably good English, polite, but there was a slight edge to his tone.

“Good evening.”

“May I ask, which way do you come?”

“From Faradje, on the way to Nagero. I was going to drive into Nagero but changed my mind. Best to get here and be ready.”

“I heard there were some elements of the militia on the road. Did you meet any?”

“No. I was told that this country is quite safe and that we would not be harmed, thanks, I’m told to the good services of the Government’s military. You will be pleased to learn that it is quite safe, a point I will be spreading when I return home. Hopefully that will bring in more tourists.”

“If, as you say, you’ve been making a documentary, it seems odd to me that on one hand, you don’t have any equipment, and on the other, that you have not included Garamba.”

“A valid observation. We had to call the shooting off because two of our crew are ill and need to be returned home, and we left the equipment back in Faradje, our last stop, ready for the replacement crew who will be scheduled to fly in, in the next week or so.”

I had considered what I might say and tried to make it sound plausible, but in the end I don’t think it mattered what I said, especially if the other commander had forewarned the Captain of our impending arrival.

“Yes. That may be true, or it might not. I’m assuming the two sick members of your team are over next to the film crew. In that case, I believe both of us know that those men do not belong to your crew, but are escaped prisoners.”

He gestured towards his men and they went over to the group and extracted the two hostages.

Seemingly it was game over.

“So Commander Ntumba called you after we left?”

“Not a lot happens here without my knowing it. It was in his best interest to inform me.”

Something in the distance caught his eye, and I moved my line of sight to match his. Shurl, hands in the air, with two more soldiers behind him, coming from the bush line on the other side of the runway.

Commander Ntumba would also have told him about our sniper, as I’d surmised, and there was no mistaking the look of glee on his face. Outsmarting what he would consider a crack team of mercenaries from the United States.

I turned back and shrugged.

“Yes, he also told us about your sniper Mr. James. You didn’t think he was going to sneak up on us like he did Commander Ntumba did you?”

“It was worth a try,” I said in my best-defeated tone.

“Right. For the time being you will be kept in detention until I speak to my commander. You will not be leaving this airport. Your rescue plane, when it arrives, will be detained. I will have further questions for you later. Film crew indeed. Take them to B Block,” he said to the officer, then headed back up the stairs to his office.

As far as he was concerned, it had been all too easy.

© Charles Heath 2020