John has found Zoe after playing a little cat and mouse in the streets near the hotel. Back at the hotel, they just get back to the room when a member of Worthington’s hit team arrives and comes off second best.
Of course, the rest are stationed at the obvious exits, and it takes some effort to getaway.
Even that escape is fraught with danger, but with all the cunning she can muster, Zoe makes sure they get back to Vienna.
With Worthington’s hit team hot on their train, a diversion in the main railway station helps aid their departure.
By now, two things are certain:
Worthington is behind the latest attempted hit, and they are both in the firing line, and
John had to decide whether or not he wants a life always looking over his shoulder.
No prizes for guessing his choice!
…
Today’s writing, with John throwing his lot in with Zoe, 2,905 words, for a total of 39,717.
When I first saw it I thought it was an old country estate, converted and expanded into a golf clubhouse.
It wasn’t. It is a purpose-built clubhouse and function center for corporate seminars and wedding receptions, as well as catering to the golfer, and golf tournaments.
It also has a very good outlook over the golf course.
But, in my writer’s mind, this will provide inspiration for a story that could be set in a large country house, with the central tower and lookout featuring in what might be a grisly death, and a group of guests who have gathered together to enact a mock murder that turns out to be very real.
Yes, the idea has been done to death over many many years, but I have a few new twists in mind.
Pick a mountain, and hike over it. The harder the trail, the better it was.
There were five from the original group of eight, from thirty years ago, brought together by the first Gulf War, and kept together as support for each other as we tried, and sometimes failed, to reintegrate into civilian life.
It had saved me.
It had not for Benny, Jack, and Roland, and as hard as they tried, and as hard as we tried to save them, it was as sad as it was tragic, not only for us but for those they left behind.
Over the years we added, and lost, new recruits.
This year there would be six, the original five, and a new recruit, a woman that Wally had recommended, and though there were no rules barring women, it just never seemed to be a potential candidate.
Until now. Josephine or Jo had seen service in Iraq and was known to Justin, who worked off and on in a veteran’s hospital as a counselor. He could see the signs of a deteriorating soul and asked her if she would like to join a bunch of fools tackling a trail sensible people would leave alone.
A girl joining five guys in the forest, I could see how that might look, especially when he told me. Both of us were surprised when she agreed to come along. The only hitch, she would be coming with me to base camp.
I just hoped it was not another pathetic attempt on his part to matchmake. In all that time, since returning, I had not had a successful, or long-term relationship, simply because I didn’t want to share the burden.
The others were more successful in varying degrees, but rarely mentioned it when we got together. I was happy for them, but it was not for me.
Josephine arrived, precisely at the time she said she would, in a vintage Mustang that sounded like it had a V8. Josephine was once a mechanic, and according to Justin, had rebuilt the car from the ground up after finding it in a hayloft.
It looked brand new,
I was out front tossing stuff into an SUV when she pulled into the drive. From there I watched her extricate herself from the driver’s seat, a tall thin girl with long blonde hair, and that Scandinavian look about her.
Nothing about what I saw in front of me screamed battle veteran.
“Ken, I presume?”
I was not sure whether we should shake hands, hug, or what. Instead, I just stood back and nodded.
“Josephine, or Jo?”
“My real name is Betty, but I hate it, so either will do.”
How do you break the ice with what appeared to be an ice maiden?
“Justin said you were looking for some excitement. I’d hardly call our little group exciting, but you never know. There might be a few bears to wrestle.
“I hope not.”
“Don’t worry. These bears are not all that dangerous if you leave them alone. Have you heard of the expression, ‘don’t poke the bear’. Very apt in this case. Want to toss your kit in the back? I’ll get off the driveway and you can park your car in the garage. Nice car, by the way. Always wanted one, could never afford it. Still, a man can have dreams.”
She smiled, but I think my prattling was a sign of being nervous in her presence, a common complaint of mine. I just never did understand how to talk to women about normal stuff.
I wondered, for a moment, if the bears were all we would have to worry about, because as we were going inside, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a large black SUV parked just down from the front of my house, window down and a man, smoking a cigar, looking directly into my yard.
It was not the first time, I’d been in a few scrapes and on the end of some surveillance, but this felt different.
I guess I’d soon find out.
…
It was a two-day trip and we would be stopping in Iowa City on the way. There was a light conversation for the first half-hour, as we both realized, we were not conversationalists. Perhaps if we had more in common.
But the silence that fell over the cabin was not an uneasy one. She closed her eyes and appeared to sleep. I drew the straw to drive the first leg, she the second.
I’d not noticed the black SUV, but that didn’t mean it was not somewhere behind us. I deliberately parked around the back of the diner, then told her I needed to look at the engine to check if we were leaking oil, which it did sometimes, and watched her go inside.
I knew surveillance tactics. Put a tracker on the car, and then you can follow at leisure.
I felt around all the spots a tracker could be hidden, and after almost believing there wasn’t one, I found it, tucked under the driver’s side door in a slot meant for the car jack, then attached it to another car.
Black SUV would be out there somewhere. It was moot whether he would fall for the trick.
Jo was sitting in a booth with two cups of coffee.
“I hope you like fried chicken.”
“My favorite, but then, anything fried is my favorite.”
She smiled, but I could see the sadness. I wonder what had happened to her, but I was sensible enough to know not to tug at that string.
“Up for the next leg?”
“Yep, but it’s going to be a little more sedate than I’m used to. Unless, of course, you want to get there early.”
“No, slow and steady is fine with me.”
How do you keep an eye on what’s behind you without looking like you’re keeping an eye on what’s behind you?
Jo never looked in the rear vision mirror, except if she was changing lanes, or passing another vehicle. Other than that, she looked to me like she was pouring her whole soul into the job at hand.
It wasn’t until we were almost to Iowa city before I thought I saw the black SUV and then lost it as she turned to go into the motel. On the way, I changed the reservation for two adjoining rooms, and dinner to be brought in. I used the excuse that it would be better not to go out, that way we could get an early night, and start the next morning.
I wanted to be the first at the base camp so I could bring her up to speed on how things worked. And the quirks of the rest of the hikers.
Then, after dining in her room, I left her with a six-pack and some awful TV show.
Back in my room, I dug out my laptop and did a search on her name, on the off chance the internet might yield some answers.
There were a lot of Josephine Littleton’s oddly enough, and over 15,000 hits. I had to scroll six pages before a single line caught my attention. Local Deputy Sherriff has assault charges dropped.
A click on the URL led me to a newspaper article, the Rio Grande Sun, dated six months ago, with a photo of a man in a Deputy’s uniform, who looked something like the man in the SUV, and a woman that was definitely Jo.
Married before she went to the war when she came back, he found it difficult to handle her and like most spouses who have no understanding of the problem, react. Some leave, after trying to reconcile the spouse they now had versus the one before and failing, very few resort to more direct action. Deputy Grady reportedly assaulted her. Her word against his, and against the law in a small county where they would close ranks, she had only one option.
Drop the charges or leave. She left, no doubt hoping to get away from him, but he would have contacts, and no trouble tracing her. Did she know he was following her?
It might be a subject for conversation tomorrow.
I was woken by the sound of a thump, something hitting the wall between our rooms, and raised voices.
I got the adjoining rooms just in case I needed to get in to see her if she was having the nightmares we all had. I unlocked the door and stepped into the room.
There was a man on the floor, groaning, and Jo, in pajamas, sitting on the end of the bed, tears flowing down her face. There were also red welts on both cheeks, from being slapped.
The man looked up at me. “Walk away. This is none of your business.”
I glared down at him. “Too late, I’ve seen your face, Deputy Grady. Now it is my business.”
I looked at Jo. “Are you alright?”
She shook her head, no.
“What happened here?”
Grady rolled over and stood up, flexing his body as if to tease out the aches and pains. I assumed it was he who hit the wall.
“We were having a conversation, and she unaccountably shoved me into the wall.”
“Before or after you hit her.”
She raised her head and looked at me. “Leave, like he said. There’s nothing you can do for me.”
“Save yourself a whole world of pain, too,” Grady added, with the sort of gloating tone only a small-town cop could do so well. The big man in a small world.
“I’m not leaving until I get the truth, Grady. But I will give you a little information for free. Be thankful you can get up off the floor. I know something about the pain Jo is going through. You don’t, you could never understand. When you assaulted her, she could have retaliated, but instead, she cared enough about you to leave before she did. Right now, you just got the reprieve of your life. To be honest, I expected to see you slit from groin to throat and your heart tossed in the trash can, and she would have done that eyes closed and without a second thought.”
I was laying in on a bit thick, but this fool really didn’t know how lucky he was. When I lashed out, I hurt five people, badly, and I hadn’t realized what I was doing until Justin told me to stop.
Jo looked at him, the look of surprise on his face, then me, then back to Grady.
“You never understood, and you didn’t care. Get the fuck out of my life, and don’t come back, or I will kill you.”
He glared at her.
“What the hell is wrong with you? We were fine until you went away. I told you not to go. You didn’t have to go.”
“You were smothering me. You, your mother, and that awful sister. I thought a few months away would clear my head. It did far worse than that, and I need help, not you.”
“You were fucked in the head before you went away. God, to think I wasted my time trying to make something out of your pathetic life.”
He looked at me. “You’re welcome to her. I’m done.”
He picked up his cap off the floor and jammed it on his head, then headed for the door. I opened it for him. “Don’t let me see you again, or you will feel the full force of the US military machine rolling right over the top of you.”
“Fuck you too, asshole.”
I closed the door after him and leaned against it.
She looked at me. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ve been there and done a lot worse. But I think you just took the first step on a long road to recovery, you admitted you need help.”
“I did, and you have no idea how that feels.”
There were still two bottles of beer left so I opened them and handed one to her. “Here’s to the first day of the rest of your life.”
Today we are in Vienna, at the hotel that Zoe was staying trying to get information out of the hotel staff. This leads to a contact on a riverboat that goes from Vienna to Bratislava in Slovakia.
Yes, we’re off to Bratislava, chasing Zoe down.
In the background we have the shadowy Worthington, pulling endless strings, gathering information on her whereabouts for John. He had deduced that if John can find her, she will pause long enough for Worthington’s hit team to get there.
John does not realize he has ulterior motives, but, then John doesn’t fully understand the spy business.
John also tasks his newfound private investigators to track her down, and Isobel doesn’t disappoint.
Then, a photo of her from Worthington arrives, she is discovered, and, as you can surmise, all hell breaks loose.
I’ve always wanted to go to Bratislava, ever since I saw it in a James Bond movie. That showed it had trams, and I’m one of those people who love trams, trains, buses, anything that reeks travel.
I would also like to hop a boat and travel up the river, perhaps from Vienna to Bratislava, or beyond.
One day.
…
Today’s writing, with John desperately trying to find Zoe, 2,525 words, for a total of 36,812.
Across a crowded dance floor, your eyes meet, and then that tingling sensation down your spine.
A girl who could be a princess, who might be a princess in any other lifetime, and a girl who might just outshine Annabel.
And then the moment is gone, and I could not be sure if it really happened.
“You seem preoccupied.” The almost whispered voice beside me belonged to Annabel, who had mysteriously disappeared and as mysteriously reappeared by my side.
“Just checking who are the pretenders and who are the aspirants.”
Annabel and her parents had a thing about people, who had money, who didn’t, who aspired to be part of society, and those who thought they were. It was a complication I didn’t need.
“Does it matter?”
Interesting observation, who was this girl, and what have you done with Annabel? I turned slightly to observe what some might call my girlfriend, but I was never quite sure what I was to her. Perfect in almost everything, I noticed one slight flaw, no two, a smudge in her make and hastily applied lipstick.
Did it have something to do with her mysterious disappearance?
“Perhaps not. We can be gracious no matter what the circumstances.” A moment, closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, as if preparing for a death-defying leap into an abyss. Then, with an enthusiasm I certainly didn’t feel myself, she said, “Let’s mingle.”
Being with Annabel could be an experience in itself, the way she carried herself, the way she radiated warmth and humility, and then sometimes when in high dudgeon, you wanted to be anywhere else. Today, she shone. I could see the write-up in the social pages of tomorrow’s newspaper, exactly where she wanted to be. Relevant.
I knew the drill, as consort, to be one pace back and one to the side, being aloof but not aloof, on hand to provide the comment that complimented Annabel’s narrative.
I had suggested that we might take to the dance floor, once around the floor to make an impression, but Annabel, being 3 inches shorter than me in heels, was reluctant. Not because she couldn’t dance, well, that’s not exactly true, it wasn’t one of her strong points, but there were more pressing things to do. She didn’t say what they were.
To her equals she was all smiles and politeness, to the aspirants she was gracious, to the pretenders, short but sweet. In political parlance, we would be pressing the flesh. In any political arena, I suspect, she would excel.
Then, suddenly, we chanced upon Mr. And Mrs. Upton, and their son Roderick. I’d seen them once before, at Annabel’s parent’s house when I had been invited to dinner and had noticed, in front of him she was quite animated. This time her expression changed, and it was one I’d seen before, one I thought was exclusively for me.
I was wrong.
Although that look disappeared as quickly as it came, and she had reverted to the usual greeting, she did take Roderick’s hand when she was re-introduced, and while to all others it seemed like the second time she had met him, I could see it was not.
He looked uncomfortable, and, as he made a slight movement, I could see a smudge of makeup on his lower jaw, and lipstick on his collar, in a place that would not normally be seen. It was simply a quirk of fate.
By the time I’d processed what I’d seen, we were meeting the next person.
The princess.
“Miss Annabel McCallister, I presume?”
Annabel, suddenly, seemed flustered. She usually knew everyone at these affairs, to the extent I thought she had a bio specially researched for her, but the princess apparently was not on the list.
“You have me at a disadvantage. Whom might you be?” The tone was slightly brittle, the cheeks slightly reddened, and she was annoyed and embarrassed. Someone’s head will roll for this.
“Frances Williams, or the Boston Williams.” An offered hand, taken and then released. When Frances saw her puzzled look, she added, “I belong to the distant branch who live across the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. Crumbling castles, and once upon a time, tea plantations.”
And then I committed the ultimate crime, I spoke. “Surely you do not live in a crumbling castle?”
Annabel scowled, Frances laughed, “Oh, no. Daddy’s spending a few million to fill the cracks so it isn’t as draughty.”
Interview killed stone dead. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Frances. Perhaps our paths might cross again.” In which I read, I hope they do not.
Frances was a girl who could play Annabel at her own game, and quite likely she would win.
We did the obligatory waltz, her strongest dance, and it was one of fluid motion and great concentration, in order to shrug off the Frances factor. After that, she said she needed a few moments to get some air, and it was probably perverse of me to think that finally, someone had bested her.
I had no interest in further mingling and found a quiet corner in which to view the proceedings and contemplate where the princess had disappeared to.
Apparently not as far away as I thought. “You saw it, didn’t you?”
I guess I could feign ignorance, but the princess was all-knowing and all-seeing, and now beside me, close enough for another tingling sensation in my spine from the timbre of her voice.
“A tryst with Roderick, I suspect.”
“Handsome lad, cheeky grin, just enough nervousness that someone would suspect they’d been shagging.”
I turned to look at the amused expression. “Who are you, really. You’re definitely not one of the Boston Williams.”
“No. They’re too stuffy for me. My real name is Cherie, not French, but I can speak it if you like?”
“Probably not. Mine is schoolboy at best. How did you get in here?”
“A rather enterprising waiter, and a hundred dollar note. Most of these twits wouldn’t know the real thing even if they fell over it.”
“An attention-seeking journalist then?” She would not be the first, to try to see how the so-called other half lives.
“Perish the thought. I just love these affairs, the people, the atmosphere, the food, and the drink. And meeting people like you, a contradiction in every sense. You don’t want to be here, and yet here you are. You don’t want to be with her, and yet you are. Duty? Obligation?”
“All of the above.”
“And now you know she’s having a dalliance.”
“What rich and famous couple are monogamous? You read the papers, its musical beds. It comes down to how much pride you want to swallow for the sake of family, business, and appearances.”
She shook her head. “That’s not you. Humor me, come to the Cafe Delacrat tomorrow, 10:00 am. We’ll chat.”
I took Annabel home, and it was like nothing had happened, and she was not seeing anyone else. The girl, if nothing else, was a consummate actress, and had I not seen the evidence, I would still think I was the only person for her. But she was inordinately happy, and I had not been able to do that for her for a long time.
Perhaps it was time to move on.
I nearly decided to stay in bed and not go to the Cafe Delacrat, but the thought of seeing the princess once more was the compelling argument to go.
When I got there, a few minutes before the hour, she was not there, and I thought to myself, I had been tricked. That thought magnified when it came to a few minutes after when the waiter brought out the latte. The coffee aroma was good, so it would not be a wasted visit.
And, like the princess she was, she arrived late. Dressed in a yellow summery dress with flowers, red shoes and handbag, and the obligatory scarf and sunglasses, she looked movie star stunning. She sat down, and the waiter was there before she finished squirming into the seat.
“I’ll have what he’s having.”
“Latte.” He probably knew, but I wasn’t leaving anything to chance.
“I didn’t see you arrive, otherwise…”
“Very few people do.”
“By the way, you look amazing.”
“What? This old thing. It’s been sitting in the back of the closet since I last visited San Gimignano. Have you traveled?”
“Yes.”
“Man of few words. Compliments women. Apologetic. That girl is not for you.”
“And you might be?” I was wondering what her motives were.
“Me? No. Too old, a bit of a lush, certainly not monogamous, and frankly, you could do a lot better. In fact, you deserve better.”
“Then…”
She was watching the other side of the road, the front entrance to a rather pricy hotel in fact, as a taxi stopped and two passengers got out. When it drove off, I could see a man and a woman, and when I looked closer, I saw it was Annabel and Roderick, holding hands and looking very much in love, as they literally bounced into the hotel. No baggage, 10:00 am, no prizes for guessing why they were there.
“How did you know?”
She shrugged. “I know she is not the one for you. So, if you had but one wish, who would you wish for? I’m sure, over time, there has been a girl who stole your heart. We all have one, in my case, probably two, or three.”
Who was this woman, my fairy godmother?”
Yes, she inspired me to think, and closed my eyes to go back to a time in university when I ran into this amazing girl who spent far too much time helping others than to worry about herself. We spent a lot of time together, and yet we were not together in that sense, as much as I wanted to be. I sense though it was not the time or the place for her, and, after two years, she simply disappeared.
“Miranda Moore.”
I hadn’t realized I’d said her name out loud.
“Yes?”
I opened my eyes and looked up to see the very girl, a few years older but no less attractive than she was then, apparently a waitress at that cafe.
“Peter?”
“Miranda? Wow. I’ve been looking for you, high and low. What happened?”
“My mother died and I had to go home. It’s been a few years of hell, but, like you say, wow. Looking for me, you say?”
“High and low.”
“And now you’ve found me?”
“I’m not letting you disappear on me again. Can we…”
“I finish at noon. Come back then, and I’m yours. God, it’s so nice to see you again.”
We are now up to the part where we introduce Isobel properly and find out why such a talented person is drifting in the doldrums of Rupert’s private detective agency.
Aside from being a once high-flying legal eagle, she is also a computer hacker, or perhaps that’s what she evolved into in a devil finds work for idle hands type person.
This hacking is going to be useful, but it’s also going to bring problems, especially when she starts tracking down Zoe.
And, it seemed she had struck up a dark online relationship with another hacker with the handle Tzar. What are the odds he is Russian?
She’s digging for information, and Tzar helps, and, suddenly it appears, briefly, then is gone, with a warning. Stop digging.
And if she doesn’t.
People were coming for her.
Meanwhile, in the basement, Zoe has had enough time to devise a mask that might stave of the effects of the gas long enough to affect an escape.
And, it almost works, the mask that is.
She manages to get past all of the guards, but Romanov is waiting.
He doesn’t kill her, but he does give her some information, then leaves. He knows how dangerous she can be, especially when wounded.
…
Today’s writing, with Isobel trawling the dark web, 2,583 words, for a total of 8,871.
How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.
In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.
I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.
Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.
There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.
Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.
It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.
For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.
It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!
Most children, when they turn 18, or 21, get a car as a present for their birthday. In fact, I had been hoping, in my case, they would buy me a Ferrari, or at the very least, an Alfa Romeo, blue to match my older sister’s red.
Hope is a horrible thing to hang on to.
Instead, I got a seat at the table.
Not an actual seat but joined the other 7 family members that comprised the management group for the family-run business. One would retire to make way for new blood, as they called it.
“This is how it works and has done for a hundred years. In your case, you will be replacing Grandma Gwen. You will be given an area to manage, and you will be expected to work hard, and set an example to your employees. There will be no partying, no staying home when you feel like it, and definitely no getting into trouble. And for the first three years, you will sit, be quiet, listen and learn. One day, down the track, you will become the CEO.”
“If we’re still in business.” It didn’t take much to see that the company was struggling, as indeed many others were in the same industry, cheap imports and changing tastes taking a huge toll.
But we had been making exclusive and distinctive furniture for a long, long time, and discerning people who wanted a reminder of an elegant past still bought it. Part of my training, before I got that seat, was to learn the trade, and like all members of my family, could build a chair from start to finish.
It was part of the mantra, lead by example.
…
On the second day in my new role as manager, I arrived at the office, grandma Gwen was throwing the last of 50 years’ worth of stuff into three large boxes.
It was no surprise that she was resentful at being ousted to make way for me, not that she needed the money, but because even approaching 90, the last thing she wanted to do was retire.
I got the cold stare when she saw me, and, on her way out, a parting shot, “Don’t get comfortable, sonny, they’ll be closing the doors in three months, even sooner. Your father hasn’t a clue how to run the place.”
Out on the factory floor, the eight specialist workers didn’t exactly give her the goodbye I expected, showing that she didn’t have their respect. The foreman, Gary, the man who had shown me the intricacies of the work, opened and closed the door for her, shrugged, and headed back to the office.
The others went back to work.
When he came into the office, his expression changed from disappointment to amusement. He had said, years ago when I was very young, I’d be sitting in that office one.
Now I was there, though the chair, plush and comfortable when new about 50 years ago, was now as old and tired as the office’s previous owner, was hardly a selling point for the job.
“Told you you’d be sitting in that chair one day. That day is here.”
“Maybe not for long, though.”
“Don’t pay no mind to Gwenny. She and your father never got along. She wanted to sell the business 20 years ago when it was worth something, but your Dad wanted to keep the worker’s jobs. It’ll be a different story in a few years, once we’ve all gone. No one wants to be an artisan anymore. And wires, it’s all about furniture in boxes, all veneer and plastic, and a two tear life.”
“Shouldn’t we get a slice of the veneer and plastic market?”
“Can’t beat the overseas factories at their own game. The trick is to diversify, but to do that we’d need to retool, and repurpose factory space and that costs money, big money.”
With all that stuff I learned at University, economics, management, and design, it might have been better to have taken the medical path, but I had been convinced to lay the groundwork to take over the company one day.
Back then, it wasn’t a possibility the company would not go on forever. It seemed odd to me that my father hadn’t said anything about the situation Gary knew so well. Did he not listen to those who knew most?
“So, what’s the solution?”
“That depends on you.”
This was not the job I signed up for.
What did I know about furniture?
It didn’t matter.
It was about manufacturing in a world economy, and the point was, that we could not compete. Like the car industry, there was nothing but foreign imports and rebadged imported items made overseas.
So what was my role?
I was sure that every conclusion I had come to, everyone else around the table was painfully aware of too. A short discussion with my elder sister confirmed it.
It was like being aboard the Titanic and watching it sink firsthand.
That seat at the table was in an ancient wood-paneled room with a huge table that seated 24, a table and matching chairs reputedly hand made by the first owner of the company, my so-many times great grandfather, Erich.
The room reeked of wood polish, the mustiness of age, and a deep vein of tradition. Paintings on the walls were of every CEO the company had, and the first time I was in that room was the unveiling of my father’s portrait.
It was like stepping into a time warp.
Alison, my father’s PA was just finishing up setting the table for the meeting that morning. She had Bern around for a long time, so long I could remember her when I was a child.
She looked over as I stepped into the room.
“You’re just a little early.”
“Just making sure I know where I’m going.”
“Are you nervous?”
“No. It won’t be much different from sitting down to a family dinner, only a few less than normal, and I suspect there won’t be too many anecdotes.”
“It can be quite serious, but your father prefers to keep it light, and short. Your grandfather on the other hand loved to torture the numbers with long-winded speeches and religious tracts.”
Small mercy then.
“Where do I sit?”
“Down the end in the listen and don’t speak seat. It’s where all new members sit for the first year.”
That was twice I’d been told.
There were eight family members, the seven others I knew well, some better than others. I’d seen arguments, words said that were better unsaid, accusations, and compliments. I’d seen them at their best and at their worst.
It would be interesting to see how they got along in this room.
It started with an introduction and mild applause at my anointment to the ‘board’.
Then the captain of the Titanic my father as the current CEO, read out the agenda.
No icebergs expected, just plain sailing.
I sat, and I listened. It was easy to see why it was plain sailing. The family had made its wealth generations ago when our products were in high demand, and we had been living off the wealth generated by astute investment managers.
But even so, the business could not keep going the way it was without being an ever-decreasing drain on resources.
We needed a plan for the future.
“Now, if there’s no more business…” My father looked around the table, his expression telling everyone there was no more business, and stopped at me.
Was that my cue?
“I’m sorry, but I can’t sit here and pretend this place isn’t going to hell in a handbasket.”
“It may or it may not be, but that is none of your concern.”
The tone more than suggested that I should stop, right now. Of course, if I had the sense expected of me I would have, but if I was going to make a contribution, I might as well start now.
“Do you have any idea what’s going on here? We need a plan for the future, we need to be doing something.”
All eyes were on me.
I’d never seen my father so angry. At that moment I thought I’d pushed it a little too hard. To be honest I don’t know what came over me.
He glared at me for a full minute. Then as if a thought came to me that moment, there was a slight change in expression.
“Then, I have a proposition for you. I want you to work on this plan you say we need to have, what you think will be best for the company, and the family, for everyone, for the future. I believe everyone here will agree on something, as you say, that needs to be done.”
There were nods all around the table.
Then, looking directly at me, he said, “if there is nothing else. Good. Our business is done.”
Investigation of crimes don’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was very careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rules out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective Inspector Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her Sargeant was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be a very bad boy. Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then we saw each about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
It’s been quite some years since we were in Vienna, and I remember it was a very pleasant experience, and the copious notes and photographs I took have aided in the writing of this chapter.
There is no doubting the zeal Worthington will put into the capture or assassination of Zoe, if and when she is discovered, and John would be horrified if he knew he was being used in such a manner.
At times it is going to be a bit like reading an Eric Ambler thriller, going to the hotel, getting information from concierges, and then tracking her movements. Money, as always, speaks one language, pay enough and you will find out what you want to know.
We know Zoe is languishing in a basement somewhere in Bratislava.
John is about to find out that is where she went, but searching for someone in Bratislava is going to be completely different from searching for someone in Austria.
The same rules don’t apply in Hungary.
…
As for our visit, we stayed in the Hilton Vienna Park, though the park had a different name then. It wax also when we have our first authentic Vienna Schnitzel and sampled Austrian cherries.
From there we took the train to Schonbrunn Palace, with its extensive gardens and maze, and the impressive architecture, old rooms and paintings, and at the end, so many sets of crockery.
There was also a kitchen nearby that made Apple Strudel, where we watched it being made and then had a slice to taste afterward.
We also went to a Wiener Palace which served a large and varied number of sausages.
Unfortunately, there were no music recitals or orchestral events at the time of our visit.
…
Today’s writing, sampling the best Vienna had to offer, 2,731 words, for a total of 28,973.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 