Category: Thriller

“The Enemy Within” – the editor’s second draft – Day 24

This book has finally come back from the Editor, so this month it is going to get a second revision, a second draft for the editor, and beta readers.

And so it begins…

…

Are we no better than them?

…

At what point do you tell yourself that

  • You are doing this for King and country
  • The end justifies the means
  • You are on the right side of justice
  • Bad people get what they deserve

Can you truly tell yourself that doing to them what they did to you is morally justified?

I’m not sure Jack is fully across what it is he has to do in order to find out what he wants to know.

It’s fine to tell yourself it’s what they do to you when the roles are reversed, but the question had to be, is there another way?

Well, the first interview went as expected. No information told that they know nothing, they are just foot soldiers told to act on orders, not question them, and no they don’t know who the person is that sent on your mission other than the operations officer.

The fix-it men, those who are little more than thugs in cheap suits are a case in point. They dish out the violence to achieve an end or carry out an assassination when asked.

He tried to do it the easy way. He soon learns there is no easy way.

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 51

As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.

Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.

For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1

These are the memories of our time together…

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This is Chester. Our standoff continues.

I can tell he’s not happy because when he’s going down the passage and I’m going in the opposite direction, he changes sides.

Instead of coming over to see what food he’s getting, he waits in another room. That is fine by me because it takes a little longer to find out he’s not in an eating mood.

And come to think of it, he no longer climbs up on the table when we’re having fish. I’ve told him more than once that eating off someone else’s plate is just not good manners.

Perhaps I should not be so concerned he’s not talking to me, because he’s almost become the cat I’ve always wanted.

What’s that expression, cut your nose off to spite your face.

But, it isn’t going to last. This morning when I go down to the library, which is just a fancy name for my writing room, he’s sitting on top of my closed laptop.

I never used to close it but the last time I cleaned it I found cat hair, an allegation he vehemently denied and tried to tell me it the dog we used to have.

I didn’t bother telling him the laptop is new, and the dog’s been gone for 12 years.

I ask him to move.

He yawns and makes himself more comfortable.

He still hasn’t realized that all I have to do is pick him up, and move him, which I do.

I sit down to start work, he jumps up on the table and gives me that ‘I dare you to do that again’ look, and I stare back with the ‘do you really want to do this’ look.

Fifteen minutes later…

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 47

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.

…

At least the helicopter pilot hadn’t hit the fuel tanks or any of the control wires.

Because of the holes in the fuselage, we couldn’t fly any higher than between two and five thousand feet or go as fast as Davies would like, but the plane settled into a routine and got us where we wanted to go.

Just a few miles from the base, fuel almost exhausted, we got a fighter escort.

At first, I thought the base commander thought we were an unidentified flying object, mainly because something else had been hit, our communications. We couldn’t tell the base we were coming, and they only had the Colonel’s transmission of an approximate arrival time, much earlier than the actual time we were supposed to arrive.

On the ground, we were met with fire trucks, and a military escort, with weapons that could take out a mouse at one thousand yards. Just in case we were terrorists, I suppose.

We were parked in a bay away from the main terminal area and had to wait for a half-hour before we were met by Lallo. Monroe’s comment, that he was probably finishing his lunch which would be more important than meeting us, had kept us waiting.

The two abductees were the first to leave the aircraft, then Shurl’s body was removed after the doctor certified he was dead.

Then the rest of us were allowed to leave the aircraft. A bus was waiting, and everyone bar Monroe and I had boarded and been taken away. Under guard. Perhaps their service had not mitigated their prison sentences. I didn’t ask Lallo why; I’d probably not get the truth anyway.

“Good job,” he said, after watching the bus depart. “Pity, it wasn’t done right the first time.”

A compliment followed by disparagement.

“Next time you can do the job yourself,” Monroe said. “And until you’ve been in the field and actually got shot at, you’d do well to keep that trap of yours shut.”

“May I …”

“…remind me you’re my superior officer? No. I’m sure that status won’t last much longer. I’m applying for a transfer.”

He looked at me. “What about you?”

“Nothing to say, except I don’t blame her. Now, since all you’ve done is prove to me you’re an idiot, I’ll take my leave.”

In the distance I could see a large American car, the sort that proliferated in the 1950s and 1960s before petrol prices were a problem, cutting across the runway at speed. Was it the owner of the DC3 coming to see the damage?

No. When it got closer I could see Bamfield, cigar in mouth, beaming. I suppose no one felt they had the authority to tell him not to.

The car stopped behind Lallo’s jeep and Bamfield got out, then leaned against the driver’s side door and looked at us over the roof.

“James, Monroe. Still alive I see. Pity about the plane; I know the chap who owns it. He’s going to be pissed when he sees the cannon holes. What happened?”

“Bad guys,” Monroe said.

“Of course. Get in, I’ll give you a ride back to the terminal. We can talk on the way.”

Neither of us moved. If Monroe wasn’t going to suffer fools gladly, neither was I.

“Well…”

“I’d rather walk,” I said.

“We’d rather walk, sir.” With a heavy emphasis on the ‘sir’.

“Look, you did a great job, minimal losses, and we got two assets back. Everyone is happy. But, we have a small problem down in South America…”

…

© Charles Heath 2020

“The Enemy Within” – the editor’s second draft – Day 25

This book has finally come back from the Editor, so this month it is going to get a second revision, a second draft for the editor, and beta readers.

And so it begins…

…

What is the truth?

…

When I first started writing this story, I had an idea in mind where it would lead.

All I knew was that by the end of the story, a person who thought he knew what was right or wrong, would discover that the concept of right and wrong was just a matter of who told you what was right, even if it was wrong.

After all, he was on the right side, and doing good often meant doing anything and everything to ensure the bad buys didn’t win.

You know, the ends justify the means.

What if the one person you thought was on the side of truth and justice, was simply someone who wanted wealth and power and didn’t care how it was achieved?

The first draft of this story saw the main character, our protagonist, get sent on a mission that was compromised before it started.  What he thought was a mentor, and killed in action, and only just avoiding the same fate himself, was later portrayed as anything but the honourable man he thought he was.

It was meant to be a glimpse into the smile and mirrors world where nothing is as it seems.

In editing, the story seemed to take on a new life, and the true meaning of what the Enemy Within is about starts to come through.

It’s what I think I originally intended.

Plots ripped from newspaper headlines – 2

Truth is stranger than fiction

…

So, today’s seeming straightforward news event that didn’t make the front page, nor the next three,  
is about the death of a man and a woman who had just begun dating, their bodies being found in an ordinary suburban house.

The police received a call regarding their welfare and upon visiting the house, found the man and woman lying side by side on the floor, deceased.

The police were not treating the deaths as suspicious.

So …

What if …

The first thing that leaps off the page is the fact the police are not treating the deaths as suspicious.

That’s exactly the moment that investigators should be looking at the situation a little more closely because, in our scenario, the scene has a staged look about it, and on the surface, it appears to be a simple case of a dual drug overdose.

Firstly, the friends of the two were not aware they were ‘doing drugs’ and if they were, lying on the floor at home was the last place it would happen.

No drugs were found in the house, and the sniffer dogs could find no trace of any except on the bodies.

Secondly, in the upstairs office, a laptop computer was missing, only the cable and mouse were still sitting on the table.  Curiously both their cell phones were missing, but nothing else.  Between them, they had about 500 pounds, which meant, if there was foul play, the perpetrator had very specific items to take.

Nothing else was disturbed.

Thirdly, a quick examination of the bodies showed the woman had bruising to her neck, a sign that someone had held her in a choke hold perhaps, but the coroner would have a closer look.

Fourthly, a simple check on the names comes back with an access denied flag on the male.

That, as far as Detective Chief Inspector Barnes was concerned, was enough to change the investigation from death by misadventure, to a suspicious, possible murder.

‘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.

…

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

…

“The Enemy Within” – the editor’s second draft – Day 25

This book has finally come back from the Editor, so this month it is going to get a second revision, a second draft for the editor, and beta readers.

And so it begins…

…

What is the truth?

…

When I first started writing this story, I had an idea in mind where it would lead.

All I knew was that by the end of the story, a person who thought he knew what was right or wrong, would discover that the concept of right and wrong was just a matter of who told you what was right, even if it was wrong.

After all, he was on the right side, and doing good often meant doing anything and everything to ensure the bad buys didn’t win.

You know, the ends justify the means.

What if the one person you thought was on the side of truth and justice, was simply someone who wanted wealth and power and didn’t care how it was achieved?

The first draft of this story saw the main character, our protagonist, get sent on a mission that was compromised before it started.  What he thought was a mentor, and killed in action, and only just avoiding the same fate himself, was later portrayed as anything but the honourable man he thought he was.

It was meant to be a glimpse into the smile and mirrors world where nothing is as it seems.

In editing, the story seemed to take on a new life, and the true meaning of what the Enemy Within is about starts to come through.

It’s what I think I originally intended.

An excerpt from “Betrayal” – a work in progress

It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t.  It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…

She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room.  It was quite large and expensively furnished.  It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.

Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917.  At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.

There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.

She was here to meet with Vladimir.

She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.

All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring.  Not that she had blurted that out the first they met, or even the second.

That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.

It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years.  She had been there once, and still hadn’t met all the staff.

They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.

It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this was a fencing match.

They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity.  She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.

The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined.  After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.

Then, it went quiet for a month.  There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited.  She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.

A pleasant afternoon ensued.

And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.

By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends.  She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy.  Normally for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.

She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful.  In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.

After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit.  She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.

It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine.  She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.

A Russian friend.  That’s what she would call him.

And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue.  It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.

Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour.  It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.

So, it began.

It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country.  It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms.  When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.

Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report.  After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.

But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report.  She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.

It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen.  Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.

And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.

She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room.  She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.

Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.

There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit.  She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.

Later perhaps, after…

She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.

A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival.  It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality.  A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.

The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.

She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir.  It was her worst nightmare.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 31

This is rugged bushland not far from suburbia, though you wouldn’t know exactly where it is just by looking at the photograph

But, for the writer, this is an excellent setting.

For instance, once again we are out wandering in the bush, lost. It’s not hard to get lost, and stay lost if there are no recognizable landmarks, and given we all walk with a bias to one side or the other, and we have to avoid objects like trees, ravines, animals, and rocks, keeping a straight line is impossible.

But the question is, how did you get into the bush in the first place?

It’s not as if you would deliberately go there, just to if you can get lost.

No, my idea is that you have been kidnapped and drugged, then taken to a location either in the book of a car or just in the back seat with a hood, then dropped off and left to die

The criminals in this story are more efficient in getting rid of pesky witnesses.

Or maybe it’s something less sinister, like going out and counting the koalas in the bush, well, what’s left of the bush as the suburban spray takes more and more of the koala’s habitat.

And it could also be like the planet of the apes, the koalas start fighting back.

Stranger things have been known to happen.

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 46

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.

…

It took longer, as everything does when you’re in a hurry.
 
The plane was loaded, the fuel truck had just disconnected the final hose, and was leaving the field, and Davies was firing up the engines.
 
Everyone was on board and strapped in.  I gave my thanks to the Colonel and shut the door before joining Davies in the cockpit.
 
Looking at her cool, calm demeanor gave me confidence.  If anyone could get us out of here in one piece, she could.
 
I put the headphones on and put on the seat belt, just as she revved the engines, saw the wave from the ground crewman who removed the wheel chocks, and we started moving.
 
15 minutes to spare.  Would it be enough?
 
The Colonel had said that it was possible the helicopter might be one of those belonging to the air force and might have missiles that could shoot us down.  Not a good thought.  At the very least it would have a cannon, and if the bullets hit us, it could make an awful mess of the fuselage.
 
He didn’t have any good news though.
 
I was hoping it would just be a commercial helicopter with a couple of thugs with handguns shooting at us.
 
At the top of the runway, she didn’t waste time going to full throttle, and we started rumbling down the runway.  Unfortunately, the wind had changed and to take off we had to initially fly towards Congo airspace before turning towards our destination.
 
Then we lifted off and started gaining altitude.
 
Then I heard Davies mutter, “Fuck.”
 
Trouble.  I saw what elicited the curse.  The helicopter, heading towards us.
 
“Military,” she added.
 
Not that I had any idea what I was looking for, but it didn’t seem to have rockets, but it did have a cannon barrel under the fuselage.
 
“Brace yourself,” she said.  “We’re about to get on the roller coaster.”
 
Still climbing we were getting closer, and I could just see the cannon move.  If it was shooting rounds, they didn’t hit us, not from such a distance, but they were getting closer because we were still flying towards them.
 
Then, suddenly, she turned the planes to the right and down, a plunge so quick that my stomach was in my mouth.  I hate to think what it would be like for those in the back.
 
Aside from the fact my hearing was blocked by the headphones, I could still hear several mini-explosions coming from behind me.
 
Another curse, rather longer this time, from Davies and she twisted the plane back in the opposite direction, and heading around towards the airfield again, much lower down this time, with the helicopter in hot pursuit.
 
Now we couldn’t see it, but it would have a good view of our engines and tail.
 
If any of the bullets hit, we’d be in big trouble.
 
I was bracing myself for disaster.
 
Davies was coaxing the plane upwards, but it seemed sluggish.
 
Nothing happened.
 
“Gun’s jammed.” She said.  “If you don’t maintain your equipment…”
 
That statement was cut off by a huge explosion and turning as far as I could in my seat I just saw the remnants of a firewall, what was once a helicopter.
 
“Ground to air rocket.  The Colonel must have some interesting toys at his disposal.”  Davies sounded very relieved.
 
I started breathing again.
 
“Are we damaged?”  It was a valid question.  The plane seemed like it was flying awkwardly.
 
“I’d say so., Those explosions.  Cannon fire hitting the fuselage.  Probably took out some controls, or failing that, since there’s still maneuverability, probably just a few holes creating drag.”
 
She was a matter of fact like, but that was more because she was fighting the controls to keep us moving in the right direction.
 
Away from trouble.
 
“Go check it out,” she said.
 
At the head of the cabin, I saw the problem, a row of neat holes carved from one window through to halfway along the fuselage, going down.  We’d be lucky if one of the bullets hadn’t struck one of the wires that drove the flaps/
 
There was a hell of a noise from the air coming in through the holes.  
 
By the second window, slumped forward, was Shurl.  There was blood and blood spatter on the floor.  Monroe came up to me and yelled in my ear.
 
“Damned good flying, and only one casualty.  We were incredibly lucky.  Shurl wasn’t quick enough to get on the floor.  Other than that, we’re still in the air, and I’m guessing someone shot the helo down?”
 
“Ground to air missile.  Any sooner, that would have been us.  Try and sit back, rest, and enjoy the in-flight service.  Oh, and a prayer or two might help.”

© Charles Heath 2020-2021