Tag: Book

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 52

This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.

The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Things are about to get complicated…

We took the elevator down to one of the basement levels, and then along a long poorly lit passageway which in my estimation had taken us to another building.

It would not have surprised me if it had been part of a large underground complex used in the second world war, safe from the overhead bombing raids.  Certainly, a lot of the fittings and paintwork looked very, very old, and I could imagine armed soldiers stationed along the length of the corridor each in his own little cutaway.

At the end, the building was a lot more modern and bright.

There was a large open space, and we headed towards one of the corners where the walls had wallpaper scenic views that if you didn’t know it was a photograph, it could almost be mistaken for a view overlooking the Thames.

It made that corner space more liveable.

There were two desks, more computers, and another girl who appeared like she had been waiting for us.

“I was told you wanted to view CCTV for the day of the recent street bombing.”

If the girl knew what I was looking for, then Monica would already have seen it and most likely had it analyzed by a team of experts.  If it wasn’t for the fact I wanted to see it myself, I might have just gone to her for the official report.

“Yes.”

I sat down beside her, and Joanne remained standing, behind us.

“OK.  There are seven cameras in that location, five of which were working at the time.  There is one across the road from the café, and it provided a good view of the actual explosion.”

She brought it up on the screen and ran it from shortly before O’Connell passed the front.  Then he came into view, walking as though he was purposefully going from one place to the next, almost stopping to look sideways into the café.  A prolonged moment looking through the window told me he had seen the reporter.

We could not see the reporter from our viewpoint.

But it was clear that O’Connell had seen something else because his pace quickened.

Then the explosion happened, and he was caught up in the aftermath, as was I as I had just entered the frame, following diligently.  My effort to look nonchalant, and not following O’Connell was not very good.  If this was a training tape on what not to do, that was me.

Watching it was horrifying, watching myself being blown a short distance across the pavement, followed by rubble.  Watching a dozen other people suffering far worse injuries were far worse.

I saw myself getting gingerly up off the ground, then seeing two men running past in the opposite direction, one of whom was McConnell.  I hadn’t realized at the time it was him.  Then we disappeared out of frame.

“Is there a camera farther along?”

She checked the list, picked a site, and brought up the feed for that timeframe, and just in from on the left-hand side was me, pinned to the ground by two men, and a street policeman, covered in dust walking up to us.

A discussion ensued, then the two men got in the car and drove off.

McConnell then suddenly reappeared from the right-hand side of the frame, walking past me and the policeman now on the ground.

Where had he come from?  How did he manage to get back to the bomb site, if that was where he had gone?

“Can we go back to the bomb site from where we left off before?”

A few seconds before the footage recommenced.

A minute, perhaps a little longer passed as those who had survived were trying to get up, McConnell reappeared from an alley two shops along from café, almost untouched by the blast, and crossed the road.

A few seconds later another person came out of the alley and followed him.

“Can you focus on that person who came out of the alley?”

She stopped the feed, zoomed in, and then cleaned up the blurry image until it showed a woman’s face.

“Who is she?”

She brought up the comments that went with the footage.  It had been already reviewed previously, as part of the investigation into the bombing. 

“They couldn’t formally identify her.”

“Anyone hazard a guess?”

“No.  She’s still a person of interest though.”

I gave the girl a piece of paper with a list of seven of the scientists from the laboratory.  “See if you can find wives of the male scientists.”

Joanne had been intrigued the whole time we had watched the event unfolding.

“That was you caught up in the explosion, wasn’t it?”

The pictures had been grainy and indistinct, so all I looked like was an anonymous blob.  Monica had obviously not told her of my involvement.

“Yes.  And McConnell.  I suspect McConnell did get the hand-off, but not from the journalist.  The journalist was in the café with the wife of the scientist who stole the information, though it would only be speculation to assume they were together, or whether she was there to sell the information, and give it to McConnell.”

“Anna Jacovich, wife of Erich Jacovich.  Microbiologist,” the girl said.

McConnell had lied.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

The A to Z Challenge – O is for “Oh, Oliver!”

Amelia Benton, nee Fosdyke had worked very hard to get where she was.  Becoming a star didn’t happen overnight, as much as the fan magazines would have it, because one star performance had to be followed by another, and another.

It meant you had to be lucky enough to get that call, the one that ensures you get a role that was a plum, or it was written for you.

It also meant playing the game, trying to not rock the boat or push too hard, realizing that extra straw some demanded would break the proverbial camel’s back.

And with the successes came favors, cards she could play at the appropriate time. 

She used one of one of these to help her brother, Oliver, a budding scriptwriter, who, she was assured, had talent, and a reasonable script.

It was, for her, a leap of faith.

But there was only one problem. Oliver could be a pedantic pain in the neck, and after being given a miraculous first chance. He was burning bridges and causing grief.

It was why she called him, and, in the end, demanded his presence.  Or else.  And she still held enough sway over him to ensure his obedience.

She was reading her latest script when her personal assistant ushered him into the room, making him wait until she finished the scene.

Then putting the script to one side she glared at him.  Being older, she had often been left to mind him and had established a form of authority which earned until he was older, and some idiosyncrasies set in, making him harder to contend with.

Burning bridges and being haughty were two recent traits that ordinarily she would ignore, but it was impacting her reputation.

Time to fire the first salvo, “Just what the hell are you playing at?”

He stood before her, a truculent expression on his face.  He was still bristling from the rebuke served by his assistant, a wise-ass boy named David.

“I just got a call from the front office telling me Joachim is up there with chiefs discussing your role in the delays to production.  It might not be all your fault Oliver, but you could try to be less confrontational.”

“They keep asking for idiotic changes, I mean, seriously, how do you work with these people?”

“A few lines here and there, I’m told.  Seriously, Oliver?  I get you this opportunity and how do you repay me.  This is my neck on the line, not only yours and if Joachim can’t save you, I definitely won’t.  Do you understand what I’m saying here?”

He nodded.  “I am not ungrateful Amelia, believe me.  I just didn’t expect…”

“Nothing in this business makes sense Oliver, and yet, after a while, you find that it does.   You’re new and inexperienced in the industry.  Get some experience and a few years in, and maybe then you can complain.  Until then, I don’t expect any more issues.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me, Oliver.  Save them for the people who matter.  Now, you better get back back to your meeting.”

Job done, she went back to the script.

Oliver stomped back to his office, more annoyed than ever.

The meeting was not exactly a humiliation, the script changes were not exactly a surprise to him because, as David had said, they’d already been discussed.

But he had dismissed them.  What was wrong with the lines as originally written.  He knew that the two leads when rehearsing the lines had twisted the words hence the sniggering at the end of the scene.

The director should have exercised more control over his actors, more control in fact over the whole cast.  He understood why his sister would be concerned, given her connections.

But he wasn’t going to be told what to do.  And, as for that wise-ass David, changing his script without permission, or consultation, even of it appeased the director, well, he was going to get what he deserved.

The director took him aside at the end, though, that was unexpected.  Oliver had been sufficiently fired up that had he seen David right after the meeting, he might have said some very regrettable things.

Now, having time to simmer down, he was starting to have second thoughts.  His sister hadn’t said as much, but like other occasions where pride had got in the way, she hadn’t been there to save him from himself.

Just then, David poked his head in the door.  “You wanted to see me?”

Oliver could clearly see the boy wanted to be anywhere nut in his office.  “Come in and shut the door.”

David came in, reluctantly, shut the door, and moved the seat back away from him before he sat.

“You do realize,” Oliver said, “that you were not hired as a writer.  In fact, I’m not quite sure what you were hired for.”

“Yes.”  Wary.

“Then why would you make those changes.”

“It’s what you would have done.  You talked about it with the director and the actors involved.  I was there, and I saw the script annotations.  The director wasn’t happy, and I want to keep this job and learn.”

“Irritating superiors is not the way to go about that.”

“Not my intention.  You just temporarily lost sight of the end result.  It in no way changes anything.  You were about to get removed, by the way, and that would have been wrong.  Call it what you like Mr. Fosdyke, but you’ve been handed a reprieve.  You can yell at me if you like, but it won’t change anything.  I’ll still be here.  Better though, if we got along, and after all, I’m sure you could teach me a lot about writing a really good script.”

He could, though he could never see himself as a teacher.  And this fellow was a bit presumptuous.  But he hadn’t done anything he wouldn’t have done himself, so no harm done.  A small price for a few lessons.

“OK.  But don’t let it go to your head.”

David looked visibly relieved.  “Can I go now?”

“No.  We have a few additions to do.”

“Done.  They’re annotations in your master.  As I said, nothing you hadn’t already thought of.”

“I threw that script away.”

“I know.  It was a mistake, so I kept it.  It has a couple of other good ideas in it.  I suggest you consider them.  Now.  I gave to go.  See you early tomorrow.”

Oliver watched him leave, a little faster than he should, then laughed.  Impertinent.  He’ll probably go a long way in this business.

© Charles Heath 2022

NaNoWriMo – April 2022 – Day 18

First Dig Two Graves, the second Zoe thriller.

…

It’s time to delve into the past that Zoe tries so hard not to remember because the memories are painful.

It was a time before she became the emotionless killer she was now, and the people who had turned her into one.

Friends, lovers, teachers, mentors, but, in the end, all people who wanted her for one thing or another because they were selfish.

Alistair’s mother, Olga, was one, the woman who first had the job of training her, the first to recognize while gifted, she would be trouble.

She had been recommended to her by a man called Yuri, the first of many to take advantage of an innocent girl who didn’t know any better.

Once trained, she was placed with Alistair, and he too, wanted her for himself, until he found her replacement, a man who wrongly thought she was so emotionless she would be happy to share him with others.

It was a mistake he wouldn’t be making again.

It was Yuri she discovered who had been in contact with the kidnappers in Marsailles, and perhaps inadvertently inserting himself into her quest for those seeking to kill her. He would know who it was seeking her, and who the name Romanov referred to.

After ensuring John was safe, she contacted him.

There’s a conversation, and he agrees to meet her, reluctantly, as being seen with a fugitive might harm his reputation.

It’s going to be an interesting conversation and reunion.

…

Today’s writing, with Zoe traveling from Budapest to Zurich, 2,285 words, for a total of 49,911.

“Anyone can have a bad day” – a short story

It had been one of those days, you know, the sort where you hoped, when you woke up again, it would be a distant memory if not gone altogether. Everything had gone wrong, the handover from my shift to the next, longer than usual, I got home late to find the building’s security system malfunctioning, and after everything that could go wrong had, I was late getting to bed, which meant I was going to be tired and cranky even before my shift started.

But what topped it all off was that the alarm didn’t go off. It was not as if I hadn’t set it, I remembered doing it. There was something else in play.

I rolled over and instantly noticed how dark it was. It was never this dark. It was why I chose an apartment as high up as I could, there would always be light coming from the advertising sign on the roof of the building over the road at night, or direct sunlight not blotted out by surrounding buildings.

I also left the curtains open, deliberately. I liked the notion of being able to see out, sometimes looking at the stars, other times watching the rain, but mostly to see that I was not in a dark place.

Not like now.

I got out of bed and went over to the window. Yes, there were lights, but they were all the way down on the street level. Everywhere else, nothing. It had to be a power blackout. Our first in a long time. I should have noticed the air conditioning was not on, and it was almost silent inside the room.

The apartment had windows that opened, not very far, but enough to allow some airflow, and the room feeling stuffy, I opened one in the bedroom. Instantly, sounds drifted up from street level, and looking down I could see the flashing lights of police cars and fire trucks, as well as the sounds of sirens.

The cold air was refreshing.

It took a few minutes before I realized the elevators would not be working, and I remembered the only pitfall of having a high-up apartment, it was a long way down by the stairs, and even longer going back up.

In the distance, I could see other buildings, about ten blocks away, with their lights on. It had to be a localized blackout, or perhaps a brownout. We had been having problems across the city with power supply caused by an unexplained explosion at several power stations on the grid.

Some were saying it was a terrorist attack, others were saying the antiquated infrastructure had finally given out.

My attention was diverted from the activity below by the vibration of my cell phone on the bedside table. I looked over at the clock and saw it was 3:10 in the morning, not a time I usually got a phone call.

I crossed the room and looked at the screen, just as the vibrating stopped. Louis Bernard. Who was Louis Bernard? It was not a name I was familiar with, so I ignored it. It wasn’t the first wrong number to call me, though I was beginning to think I had been given a recycled phone number when I bought the phone. Perhaps the fact it was a burner may have had something to do with it.

About the go back to the window, the phone started ringing again. The same caller, Louis Bernard.

Curiosity got the better of me.

“Yes?” I wasn’t going to answer with my name.

“Get out of that room now.”

“Who….” It was as far as I got before the phone went dead.

The phone displayed the logo as it powered off, a sign the battery was depleted. I noticed then though I’d plugged the phone in to recharge, I’d forgotten to turn the power on.

Damn.

Get out of that room now? Who could possibly know firstly who I was, and where I was living, to the point they could know I was in any sort of danger?

It took another minute of internal debate before I threw on some clothes and headed for the door.

Just in case.

As I went to open the door, someone started pounding on it, and my heart almost stopped.

“Who is it?” I yelled out. First thought; don’t open it.

“Floor warden, you need to evacuate. There’s a small fire on one of the floors below.”

“OK. Give me a minute or so and I’ll be right out.”

“Don’t take too long. Take the rear stairs on the left.”

A few seconds later I heard him pounding on the door next to mine. I waited until he’d moved on, and went out into the passage.

It was almost dark, the security lighting just above floor level giving off a strange and eerie orange glow. I thought there was a hint of smoke in the air, but that might have been the power of suggestion taking over my mind.

There were two sets of stairs down, both at the rear, one on the left and one on the right, designed to aid quick evacuation in the event of a calamity like a fire. He had told me to take the left. I deliberately ignored that and went to the right side, passing several other tenants who were going towards where they’d been told. I didn’t recognize them, but, then, I didn’t try to find out who my fellow tenants were.

A quick look back up the passage, noting everyone heading to the left side stairs, I ducked into the right stairwell and stopped for a moment. Was that smoke I could smell. From above I could hear a door slam shut, and voices. Above me, people had entered the stairwell and were coming down.

I started heading down myself.

I was on the 39th floor, and it was going to be a long way down. In a recent fire drill, the building had been evacuated from the top floor down, and it proceeded in an orderly manner. The idea was that starting at the top, there would not be a logjam if the lower floors were spilling into the stairwell and creating a bottleneck. Were those above stragglers?

I descended ten floors and still hadn’t run into anyone, but the smell of smoke was stronger. I stopped for a moment and listened for those who had been above me. Nothing. Not a sound. Surely there had to be someone above me, coming down.

A door slammed, but I couldn’t tell if it was above or below.

Once again, I descended, one floor, two, three, five, all the way down to ten. The smoke was thicker here, and I could see a cloud on the other side of the door leading out of the stairwell into the passage. The door was slightly ajar, odd, I thought, for what was supposed to be a fire door. I could see smoke being sucked into the fire escape through the door opening.

Then I saw several firemen running past, axes in hand. Was the fire on the tenth floor?

Another door slammed shut, and then above me, I could hear voices. Or were they below? I couldn’t tell. My eyes were starting to tear up from the smoke, and it was getting thicker.

I headed down.

I reached the ground floor and tried to open the door leading out of the fire escape. It wouldn’t open. A dozen other people came down the stairs and stopped when they saw me.

One asked, “Can we get out here?”

I tried the door again with the same result. “No. It seems to be jammed.”

Several of the people rushed past me, going down further, yelling out, “there should be a fire door leading out into the underground garage.”

Then, after another door slamming shut, silence. Another person said, “they must have found a way out,” and started running down the stairs, the others following. For some odd reason I couldn’t explain, I didn’t follow, a mental note popping up in my head telling me that there was only an exit into the carport from the other stairs, on this side, the exit led out onto an alley at the back of the building.

If the door would open. It should push outwards, and there should also be a bar on it, so when pushed, it allowed the door to open.

The smoke was worse now, and I could barely see, or breathe, overcome with a coughing fit. I banged on the door, yelling out that I was stuck in the stairwell, but there was no reply, nor could I hear movement on the other side of the door.

Just as I started to lose consciousness, I thought I could hear a banging sound on the door, then a minute later what seemed like wood splintering. A few seconds after that I saw a large black object hovering over me, then nothing.

It was the culmination of a bad night, a bad day, and another bad night. Was it karma trying to tell me something?

When I woke, I was in a hospital, a room to myself which seemed strange since my insurance didn’t really cover such luxuries. I looked around the room and stopped when I reached the window and the person who was standing in front of it, looking out.

“Who are you?” I asked, and realized the moment the words came out, they made me sound angry.

“No one of particular importance. I came to see if you were alright. You were very lucky by the way. Had you not stayed by that door you would have died like all the rest.”

Good to know, but not so good for the others. Did he know that the fire door was jammed? I told him what happened.

“Someone suspected that might be the case which is why you were told to take the other stairs. Why did you not do as you were told?”

“Why did the others also ignore the advice.” It was not a question I would deign to answer.

They didn’t know any better, but you did, and it begs the question, why did you take those stairs.”

Persistent, and beginning to bother me. He sounded like someone else I once knew in another lifetime, one who never asked a question unless he knew the answer.

The man still hadn’t turned around to show me his face, and it was not likely I’d be getting out of bed very soon.

“You tell me?”

He turned slightly and I could see his reflection in the window. I thought, for a moment, that was a familiar face. But I couldn’t remember it from where.

“The simple truth, you suspected the fire was lit to flush you out of the building and you thought taking those stairs would keep you away from trouble. We both know you’ve been hiding here.”

Then he did turn. Hiding, yes. A spot of trouble a year or so before had made leaving Florida a necessity, and I’d only just begun to believe I was finally safe.

I was not.

They had found me.

And it only took a few seconds, to pull the silenced gun out of his coat pocket, point it directly at me, and pull the trigger.

Two stabbing pains in the chest, and for a moment it was as if nothing happened, and then, all of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe.

The last thing I saw and heard, several rounds from at least two guns, voices yelling out on the passage, and people running.

As I lay dying, my last thought was, it had been a good run, but no one can run forever.

© Charles Heath 2021

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 51

This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.

The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Things are about to get complicated…

Once out of the elevator I could see another security desk halfway up the corridor.  There were no doors before the desk, only after, so my destination was past the desk.

I pulled out my card in readiness, and as I approached, a woman came out of a door behind the desk and joined the security guard.

She spoke to the guard, then looked at me.  “My name is Joanne, I have been assigned to help you, and in accordance with security measures in place on the floor, I will be accompanying you.  One of the conditions of access is to not be anywhere on your own.”

“Except in the restroom, I hope.”

A momentary frown, “Common sense applies, you know.”

OK, try not to be flippant.

She handed me a form, I read it, ticked several boxes, and signed it.  I gave the guard my card and he scanned it.  Logging my movements, was not unexpected.  Having a shadow was.

But, there was nothing I was going to look at, that I didn’t want anyone not to know about.

“Good,”: she said when I handed the form back.  She in turn passed it to the guard, then said, “Follow me.”

A gate opened to let me through, then jolted shit behind me.  Either the mechanism was broken, or the thud was just to remind people going through it, it was not a toy.

We went three doors up the corridor where she stopped, opened the door, and ushered me in.

It was a reasonable-sized room with a desk, a computer with three screens, and two chairs, one I guess for me, and one for her.

We sat.

I thought I’d ask a couple of questions first.  “Do you always look after incoming researchers?”

“Yes.”

“And when there is none?”

“I work in with the research team, creating or updating breeding papers for agents in the field.”

“Do agents normally come in to look stuff up?”

“No.  Generally, they request it through secure channels.”

“Secure channels?”

“Usually, one of our consulates or embassies scattered all over the world.”

Good to remember.

“You’re just going to sit there?”

“Yes.”

I shrugged.  So be it.

I logged in and typed in Severin’s original name David Westcott.

The search engine brought back over a million hits, the first dozen relating to a violinist who seemed to be having a relationship and drug problems.

To narrow that search down, I added ‘Military service” in the hope that he may have been in the military before joining the intelligence services.

He was.  I did the same for Bernie Salvin and found the two of them had served roughly at the same time, in the same places, and were among the last people out in 2014.

When I added “Intelligence” to the search, the computer sent me on a side mission, bringing up documents relating to both men’s service in various branches of the intelligence services, for 5 years, after which it seemed they had just up and left, their service sheet marked ‘retired’, which could have meant anything, but I think it was a euphemism for ‘dead’.

I thought about asking my shadow, but that would lead to too many other questions that I didn’t want to answer.  As it was, I could see she was very interested in the two names I’d just searched on.

It explained how both men were so knowledgeable about the operations and facilities.  A quick search on the training facility we had used showed it had been closed, and abandoned, 6 years before.  I’d always thought it had that abandoned feel about it, and we were using it for the atmosphere value.

Then came searches on Severin and Maury and Arche Laboratories, and that too brought up the Security profiles of both men, but their prior history had been manufactured, though no doubt based on their real experience, being in the military in Afghanistan, and in a branch of the intelligence services, though not mentioning the specifics.

There was information on several security breaches and the computer systems being hacked reportedly by a foreign country, but nothing had been taken, a story perhaps to allay the fears of people who might think dangerous material might have fallen into the wrong hands.

At the very least, it was reported the facility would be shut down, due to its age and everyone being reassigned to a new more secure facility.  The fact Severin and Maury didn’t transfer told me they had either been caught, or they ad jumped before the fingers of accusation were pointed at them.  Either way, both had disappeared off the face of the earth.

Until I and others have become their unwitting recruits.

Everything O’Connell said was true, and it was all there, so Dobbin was as well versed on the pair as I now was.  And, now I had some background before I met Severin later in the day.

When Joanne finally plucked up the courage to ask me about my searches, I told her I had been reading up on a lot of old laboratories that used to contract government research and had narrowed the place where the information came from to several candidates and struck it luck the first search.  Arche Laboratories.

Previously I had got a list of the security staff from half a dozen labs that had closed unexpectedly, looking for possible matches to Severin and Maury, because I thought they would have a military and intelligence background, but the two I’d used, didn’t seem to fir the profile.  Their photographs, those that were posted for Arche Laboratories looked nothing like the Severin and Maury today, but I’d expected that.

She didn’t need to know that and looked satisfied with my answers.

Now it was time to look at some CCTV feeds.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

NaNoWriMo – April 2022 – Day 17

First Dig Two Graves, the second Zoe thriller.

…

Yesterday there was a moment where I went back over the plot, and whilst that exercise was a success in a way, it also got me thinking, and like always, I couldn’t sleep, thinking about how the timeline was working, but the narrative wasn’t.

Yes, I made the fatal mistake of considering editing in the middle of a writing marathon.

What brought this self-destructive mood on? A movie. No relevance at all to my story, but it was a study in interactions between disparate people, which is what I have going on between John and Zoe.

It works in the first story because they are thrown together and everything is new and crazy.

In the second, the premise is that the novelty of the thing they had is wearing off.

Zoe needs to keep occupied and doing something other than all she’s ever known is not exactly on her to-do list.

Of course, that’s all put on hold because she is now a target because of the death of Alistair, and it’s a problem she has to take care of. Alone.

I realize now there needs to be some discussion around this, and the way the story starts does not set the scene.

Similarly, there should be more definition of the relationship as it stands, or not as the case may be, and reasons why John decides to go after her, if only to get the truth because he believes she is using the people seeking revenge as an excuse to keep him at arm’s length.

And, from her perspective, it’s not so much she doesn’t want to be with him, it’s because she doesn’t want him ending up dead, given the sort of people she was up against. Not being able to articulate her feelings, as it’s not something she really knew how to, there’s bound to be some confusion.

Inevitably he is going to find her, and when they d, the reasons why they are together are clear, but there’s still many reasons why he shouldn’t be there. Her life is not the sort of life he would want, by choice, and it’s not going to improve, so where is this thing going to take them?

I haven’t thought it though, so I’m going to take some time out to sort it out. I’m 47,000 odd words into the narrative, so I have a day, two at the most to review, and perhaps rewrite to get the missing perspective I’m looking for

…

Today’s writing, a part of the assessment of their relationship underway, 560 words, for a total of 47,626.

The A to Z Challenge – M is for – “Murder at the mansion”

My great grandfather used to say the mark of a man was not how wealthy or wise he was, but by how much respect he garnered.

Well, my great grandfather was wealthy, wise, and also respected … by everyone but his children.

It was an interesting tale, oft-told by my father over the dinner table, when we, his children, would bemoan the fact that he was too hard on us.

Like my great grandfather, our father had also made something of himself, took every opportunity afforded him, and made it a success.

Yes, there were failures, like how our mother couldn’t handle the success and virtually abandoned us because of him, like our first stepmother, who hated children, and for a while, virtually turned him against us, setbacks that were eventually overcome.

To the outside world, we always said everything turned out all right, but the reality of it was completely the opposite.  Appearances were just that, appearances.

My eldest brother, John, was out the door as soon as he could escape, and into the military, and from that moment we never really saw him.

Then there was me, Toby, with a name I hated, stuck at home to weather the endless storms, and to look after my youngest sister Ginny, who really didn’t have a care in the world.

I don’t think I ever got to have a childhood.

And lastly, my younger sister, Melanie, the tearaway tomboy troublemaker, a devil in disguise, that was responsible for ten nannies in twelve years.

We were as disparate and different as any group of siblings could get, and that was all because of how, in the end, our father finished up exactly like the man he often disparaged, our great grandfather.

Wealthy, yes, wise, the jury was still out in that one, and respected, yes, by everyone but his children.

And, now, I was looking at the body of the man I called my father, sprawled out on the floor, and it was quite plain to see he was dead.

There was no mistaking the bullet hole in his head, Or the puddle of blood emanating from the back of his head.

Someone, obviously, hated him more than we did.

…

I was surprisingly calm in the face of such a calamity, faring better than Ginny, who was the first to discover him.

She was once subject to bouts of hysteria, and that it had not happened in these circumstances was, in a sense disconcerting.  She had reason to hate him more than the rest of us, the reasons for which I had only learned the night before.

She was sitting on the floor, not ten feet from the body, staring at what she had described as the devil incarnate.  She had every reason to kill him, in fact, I had wanted to myself when she told me.

And when confronted him and demanded to know the truth, he had laughed at me, telling me that it was just a figment of her imagination.

I had to call the police, but before that, I needed to have a clear idea of where everyone was. 

It was a weekend where, for the first time in twenty years, all four siblings were home.  It was ostensibly for an announcement regarding the family, read how my father was going to bequeath his worldly possessions in the event of his death.

And I suspect, to tell us about the fact he was dying, the running battle he had with cancer finally getting a stranglehold in his body, and that he had about six weeks to three months left.

Not that he had said anything, I had received an anonymous email from his doctor telling me, that he didn’t believe we should not be kept in the dark.  But it was not the news I’d shared with the others, hoping the man himself would.

That secret had died with him.

John and Melanie had both yet to put in an appearance.  It had been a late night, and we had all ended up in John’s room, drinking shots of whiskey and talking about how different our lives had been, and how it had been too long apart.

I’d been very drunk at the end and barely made it back to my room before collapsing on the bed.  I had no idea what happened to the others.

Ginny didn’t drink, or so she said, but the few drinks she had, had no effect on her.  She had Bern in a dark mood and no wonder.  She had left all of us in utter silence, devastated at the revelation our father was a monster, the reason why our mother left, unable to do anything to stop him.

She should have taken Ginny with her, but she didn’t, probably saving Melanie from a similar fate.

Threats against his life flew thick and fast, and the once made by John actuary sent a shiver down my spine.  He was the only one experienced in killing, and I could totally believe he could kill in cold blood and not even blink.

Had he?

“Fuck!”

Great timing.  John just walked into the room, still in his pajamas and looking disheveled, as if he had just fought off a pack of bears.

“This your doing?”

“What?  No.  Saying and doing are two different things, Toby.”  He looked down at Ginny.  “Ask her, she had more reason than any of us.”

I was going to, but she seemed in a catatonic state.

“No.  I did not, and believe me, I’ve wanted to for many years.”

Ginny, obviously not in a catatonic state.

“Have you called the police,” he asked.

“Not yet.”

“Good.  Let’s think about this first.  Any sign of a breaking?”

I checked the French windows behind the desk and they were intact and locked.  The room, other than the body on the floor was as it always was.

Not a book or paper out of place.  The desk was clear.  Usually, there was a computer and cell phone on it.

“His laptop is missing.  A robbery gone bad?”

“Robbers don’t usually carry guns, let alone be able to shoot so accurately.”  He was standing over the body making strange body movements, then, “whoever shot him was behind the desk.  He must have heard something and came to investigate.”

If it was any time up to the fifty shots of whiskey, we would have heard a gun going off.

“Silencer?” I said.

“I’m a light sleeper, so I would have heard it.  Others too. It screams premeditation.  Robbers don’t bring guns with suppressors.  If it was a case of being caught unawares, that shot could have gone anywhere.  No, whoever was in her was looking for, maybe found, something, and may have made enough noise to get his attention with the intention of killing him.”

“Holy Mary mother of God!”

Melanie just arrived, riveted to the spot, just inside the door.

“I take it you didn’t do it?” John said to her.

“Me?  You have to be joking.  I wouldn’t know what end of the gun to use.”

Not true, I thought, Melanie was in the gun club at her exclusive school and won various awards for pistol shooting, and we’ll as an expert clay pigeon shooter to boot.  But it was school days, a long time ago.

I looked at her pointedly, and I think she realized what my glare implied.

“I think it’s time we called the police,” I said.

“Can’t we just dig a hole and bring him out there somewhere and pretend he’s gone away?”

“A thought, but not practical, unless one of us did it and we need to hide the evidence.  Anyone going to own up?”

No one spoke.

“Good.  Just remember from this point on, if you have any deep dark secrets, they won’t be for much longer.  We will be the prime suspects.  Leaving isn’t an option.”

“Let the chips fall where they may.  At least the bastard got what he deserved.

I pulled out my phone.

“Last chance.”

John was looking resolute.  Melanie was in a state of shock.  Ginnie went back to being almost catatonic.  I don’t know what I felt, sad, maybe, but with all that had come before, perhaps a sense of relief.

I dialled the number.

“Daisy.  No, I’m alright.  We have a bit of a problem here.  Someone has shot and killed my father.  I think you’d better get here.”

“Right.  Don’t touch anything and keep the scene clear.  I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

I disconnected the call and put the phone back in my pocket. 

At that same moment, I had a great overwhelming feeling that one of them did it.  I couldn’t see how anyone from the outside could or would.

As John said, let the child fall where they may.

“OK.  Daisy wants us out of the room.  Let’s go.”  I said, helping Ginnie up from the floor

“Daisy?  She that girl you were pining over back in elementary school?” John muttered.

“Married her too.  Deputy sheriff now, so be a good boy.  And don’t think our relationship will make this any easier.”

As I closed the door to the office and turned the key in the lock, I could hear the sirens in the distance.

The die, as the saying goes, was cast.

© Charles Heath 2022

NaNoWriMo – April 2022 – Day 15

First Dig Two Graves, the second Zoe thriller.

…

Today, we’re back in Vienna, with Zoe planning their escape. We’re off to the railway station and catching the train. Unfortunately, Worthington is able to track them and knows exactly where they are, and where to direct his hit squad.

And you guessed it, mayhem is about to erupt in the station. But, as Zoe knows all too well, chaos can be her best friend, and they escape.

Sebastian knows something is afoot with Worthington, because all of a sudden, he has disappeared.

That’s good for Sebastian in one sense, he can go ahead with the interrogations of Isobel and Rupert in his quest to find out where John, and ultimately Zoe, is.

But the thing is, they are disinclined to be helpful in any way shape or form, and Isobel in particular, tells him to bring on the torturers.

Weird maybe, but Sebastian knows she’s probably getting a kick out of it.

…

Today’s writing, with Isobel laughing in the face of danger, 1,905 words, for a total of 43,067.

The A to Z Challenge – N is for – “Now I understand”

My brother only had one job.

To arrive on time with the envelope.

It was a test.

He failed.

…

At that moment, when my expectations were completely trashed, and there was a great deal riding on it, words could not express my disappointment.

Michael had the better end of the deal.  Being second-born meant that avoided all of the family’s hopes and expectations that fell on me, that I would carry on the business, as our father had, his father before him, going back six generations.

Without any of the expectations loaded on his shoulders, he got to live a free and easy lifestyle, one with little responsibility, some of which o would have liked to have myself.

Then there was the problem where my father, not quite the businessman as those before him, had made a number of dubious decisions, leading us down the path that almost closed the business down, and had only just found the financing to keep it afloat when he died suddenly.

It left me in charge of what could have been a sinking ship, but, as I unraveled the complexities of the deal he had made, it soon became clear he had made a deal with the devil himself.

And fort eight hours before that missed drop-off, I had finally discovered all of the connections through countless shell companies to arrive at the person from whom he had secured the funding.

Walter Amadeus Winthrop.

A man whom my father had hated because he had stolen away the only woman he had ever loved, a man who was in the business of stealing other people’s companies, ideas, products, and people because he could.

And he wanted our company, simply so he could destroy my father a second time.

There was no doubting the reason why my father had died.  He had found out who had supplied the funding.

I had the evidence that linked Winthrop to dirty dealings and promised to get it to the DA’s office by a particular time, but a previous and more pressing appointment meant I couldn’t be in two places at once, so I sent Michael on my place.

It had been time-sensitive and having missed the deadline to tender the documents in court, the case lapsed, and Winthrop, who had been arraigned many times before and got away for lack of evidence, or witnesses, survived yet again.

…

It wasn’t out of the question that Michael had been kidnapped by Winthrop’s people, but I didn’t think it was possible they knew about him, simply because as part of his distancing from the family he had taken our mother’s birth surname.

I rang his cell phone, and it went to his voice mail.  That was not really a concern because he rarely answered the phone the first time, especially if I was calling him.

Next, I called his latest girlfriend, not the usual sort of girl he dated, and quite a surprise given her sobriety and work ethic.  She was, I thought more than once, the sort of girl I’d like to meet.

When they introduced thirty-hour days, perhaps.

“Good morning, this is Katherine Willoughby.”

“Good morning, Katherine, it’s Michael’s brother, Jake.”

“He’s not here.  I assume he made it to the meeting?”

“He didn’t.”

“But that can be possible.  I went with him until outside the front door of the building.  I saw him go in, talk to the reception, and then get taken up in the elevator.”

“Then we have a mystery on our hands.  He hasn’t called me to say it’s done, and as usual not answering his phone.”

“That’s just for you.  If I call…  I’ll call you back.”

I waited for five minutes, then my phone rang.  Katherine again.

“He’s not answering for me either, and that is very unusual.  Did you talk to others at the meeting?”

“Yes, they just said he didn’t turn up, but I have another thought.  Leave it with me.”

A call to the DA’s office sent an assistant down to the front desk, where it was established, that Michael had signed in, and the officer that remembers him could recall the name of or describe the person who came and collected him.

But he had gone there as I’d requested and was beginning to look like Winthrop obviously had someone in the DAs office keeping him informed on what was happening.

Which meant, Winthrop’s people had taken him.

It was a development I hadn’t entirely unexpected.

…

This was my first time on what was known as a superyacht.  Really, it was slightly smaller than an ocean liner, and the grand tour showed fifteen staterooms, a dining room, a games room, a ballroom, well a small one, and various other rooms that were as remarkable as they were mysterious.

For a laugh, I said it was missing a library.

I was promptly corrected.

My host, the owner’s daughter, Sylvia, no last name given or asked for, had promised a visit and passing by after picking up the vessel after some repairs, she collected me by helicopter, and took me straight to the ship.

I was taking in some sea sir, trying to make sense of what just happened, and get some sea air.

“You look unhappy, Jake.”

“My brother has gone missing.  He was delivering some documents for me and never arrived.  While it’s like him not to finish anything he starts, this time I know that, at the very least, he made it to the building.”

“That seems very strange.”

“Not when you factor in who the documents were about.”

I’d told her some of the history over a few drinks, perhaps more than I should.

“I’m sure you’ll discover what happened soon enough.  Chef tells me lunch is ready.”  She held out her hand, “come, dine with me.”

We went into the dining room and sat.  Two waiters in full livery attended us, serving champagne and hors d’oeuvres.

That’s when my phone rang.

And Sylvia said, quietly, “put it on loudspeaker, on the table.”

The tone was insistent and worried me.  The call was from Michael’s phone.  He was simply calling me back.  Just the same, I did as she asked.

I said, “Michael?”

“Is that Jake?”

“Put my father on the phone, Ari.”  Sylvia looked as though she knew who it was.

I looked over at the woman I knew as Sylvia.  She was supposed to be a representative of another company in the same business we were, and I’d met her at a business conference in Miami, a few months back.  That she would turn out to be something else wasn’t the surprise I thought it would be.

It wasn’t long before I began to think I’d been seeing the daughter of the man who I believe killed my father.

“He’s not here.”

“Tell him I’ll sink this tub he sent me to get if he doesn’t get his ass on the phone now.”  Not angry but laced with intent.

Silence.

I was going to say something, but I think words failed me.  What could I say, if she was a Winthrop, his success in destroying us was complete?

I just sat in silence.

Then, “What are you doing Sylvie?”

I assumed that voice belonged to her father, the infamous Winthrop himself.

“You shouldn’t have let me go to explosives school.  Oh, that’s right, you did know.  So much you don’t know about me.  I’ve wired this yacht Dad, and I will sink it.  I’m sure mom will be impressed.”

I heard a sigh.  Was he trying to deal with an errant daughter?  Was she crazy?  She certainly had a lot of talents, piloting helicopters, and making bombs; was there a stint in the military somewhere in her resume.

“What do you want, Sylvie.”

“Stop pissing off my boyfriend.”

“Jake?  Have you been dating Jake,”

“In a manner of speaking.  Since he hates the family so much and given what you just did, I’m not surprised, and I’ve been trying to figure out a way to tell him.  But kidnapping his brother?  Not a way to impress him Dad or give me a usable Segway.”

“You do know Jake is helping the authorities put me in jail.  That’s not going to happen.”

“I don’t care what your issues are with the authorities, but if you’re worried that the evidence Michael had will have you prosecuted, then you have lied to me, and I told you what would happen if I found out you lied to me.”

“You’re just a child.”

“Whose got a penchant for blowing up things.  I’ll start with this boat, then I’ll move on to bigger and better things, like your car collection.  I’m thoroughly pissed off myself now.”

Silence.

“What do you really want?”

“Give them their company back.  You don’t need it.  Get Ari to take Michael home and apologize for making a mistake.”

“And the documents?”

“Burn them for all I care.  You’re going to make a very generous investment in their company, and then never bother them again.”

“And the ship?”

“Just hope I’m in a good mood in a few hours’ time after lunch, and Jake doesn’t jump overboard to get away from me.”

“OK.  Your mother is waiting for you in Venice.  Don’t upset her.”

“Why would I?  I’m her favorite.”

The line went dead.

“So, Jake, didn’t I tell you I’d fix everything.”

She had, and I’d foolishly thought no one could handle Winthrop.  “Would you sink this ship?”

“Hell yes, just to piss him off.  Now, where is lunch?  Negotiating makes me hungry.  And,” she smiled wickedly, “there’s a stateroom with our name on it.  You are coming to Venice?”

I guess it really was a matter of who you know, not what you know. 

“Of course.”

© Charles Heath 2022

NaNoWriMo – April 2022 – Day 16

First Dig Two Graves, the second Zoe thriller.

…

I’ve been looking back at what’s been written, something you shouldn’t do when trying to get 50,000 words written in 30 days, but I’m ahead of the count, and a little checking is needed, just to make sure everything is running smoothly.

Not that any book written on the fly like this runs smoothly.

There are three themes to this story:

1 – Worthington, now head of the Intelligence agency, seeking revenge for Zoe killing his brother by mistake, a mistake that he caused

2 – Alistair’s mother deploying a collecting of agents, some being Zoe’s colleagues once, to assassinate the woman who assassinated her son

3 – John’s ever-growing fear that Zoe is tired of him, and, after she leaves, and even though she promised to come back, he doesn’t want to wait to find out he’s been dumped.

4 – Sebastian is always lurking in the background, ostensibly to recruit her as an assassin, but really because he’s jealous of John’s good fortune.

Our two intrepid heroes go off to save her in Marseilles where she learns of the identity of who is ostensibly looking for her, and sets her off on a lone hunt for him.

We then deploy two new characters, Rupert and Isobel, who along with John will create a private detective agency, that John uses to locate Zoe by any and all means.

Isobel soon finds out that searching for Zoe on the internet brings risks, both at home and abroad, bringing her in contact with another hacker who seems to know where Zoe’s past is hiding. But can they be trusted?

John heads off to Vienna, after being supplied a file on Zoe, full of information he had not known about her. What he learns in Vienna leads him to Bratislava, when a photo identifying where she suddenly arrives on his phone.

John locates her, she realizes he is being used as bait, and they leave, but not before the hit team almost completes their mission, and leave behind a trail of bodies as they get away, but not without injury.

John gets the answers he is seeking, that if he wants a life of looking over his shoulder, by all means, tag along. She is quite pleased to see him, not so much that he brought ‘friends’ but she might yet get to train him.

Sebastian, feeling left out, grills Isobel and Rupert, gets sidelined by Worthington because anywhere Sebastian goes, trouble follows, and then convinces Isobel that John is in over his head and needs their help.

He’s not wrong because Worthington has dispatched another hit team to the main railway stations in Vienna where John and Zoe are looking to escape, only another shootout occurs as they once again escape when all the station’s exits are not covered.

The story has now reached a point where everyone is converging on Vienna.

Along with another person who Juhn knows, and will least expect to arrive on his doorstep.

…

Today’s writing, with Zoe languishing in a dungeon waiting for a white knight, 3,999 words, for a total of 47,066.