Tag: Books

“The Devil You Don’t”, be careful what you wish for

John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums.  Looking for new opportunities, prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.

Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.

If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favor for him in Rome.

At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.

That ‘favor’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follows.

Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.

Purchase:

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newdevilcvr3

What happens after the action-packed start – Part 27

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

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

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

 

It took almost an hour to recover.  Monroe didn’t come looking for me, so I think they knew it would take some time for me to get my legs back.

And it felt good to stand under the hot shower for twenty-odd minutes, letting the warmth of the water sink into my bones and clear my head.

And think.

How long had Bamfield have an eye on me?  It was a question that sprung to mind the moment I saw him in the desert camp.  I’d heard if you were transferred to one of his commands, at some point, it was not because it was another posting, it was because he wanted you there.

I’d been specially selected by Bamfield personally, out of the preliminary training camp, to further my military career under his oversight.  I’d made it very clear from the outset that I was not interested in a commission, that I preferred the lower ranks.  Officers were a different breed, and I’d not been cut from that cloth.  Bamfield had admitted as much when I was first interviewed by him, and several other’s on what I soon discovered was his selection panel.

They were charged by him to find the best of the best.

And at that first interview, I’d disagreed with his assessment.  I’d been in trouble before, and the military was the only place I could go if I didn’t want to serve a stretch in jail.  Perhaps it was that innate ability of mine to seek out and become embroiled in trouble that caught his attention.

Certainly over time he and his instructors had honed those skills to a more refined set that, in civilian life, would set me up for a long stay in prison.  It begged the question of what I was going to do with myself after the military had finished with me, a question I hadn’t really thought about until I’d been shunted to my last post in a training school of sorts.

I realised now that it had been Bamfield sidelining me until an operation crying out for my particular talents came along.

That disastrous operation with Treen.

Was it his?  Or was it someone else who pulled it together, and he just provided the manpower.  It had been the first major active offshore operation I’d been on.  There’d been a few skirmishes along the way, but that was the first, and in a zone where I don’t think we were meant to be operating.

That had, I thought, been the sole purview of the CIA, and if I looked back on what had happened, there was no doubt the two agents we were supposed to pull out were CIA operatives, it had got too hot for them to stay, and they had clandestinely called for help.

It begged another question, was Bamfield CIA or working with the CIA, with or without the military hierarchy knowing?

The thing is, if it had been pulled off, as expected, no one would be any the wiser in that country, but once they found out, by whatever means it happened, the proverbial had hit the fan.  It goes hand in hand with trusting people on the ground who were purportedly working against their country’s regime, for better or worse.

That country had a ‘friendly’ government, that had been ‘supported’ and then been deposed in the usual coup by the military, and, afterwards, the new hardliners got the benefit of those times when the country was a friendly and had military hardware and knowledge to wage war clandestinely or otherwise with its neighbours, given willingly.

Lessons hadn’t been learned after a particular middle east debacle.  Maybe lessons would never be learned.  Just look at the number of times had relations turned sour after a coup and agents had to hastily withdraw.  It seems that my visit had been at the end of another of those ‘diplomatic’ missions that had gone wrong.

If this was such a case, I was about to find out.

© Charles Heath 2019

Reading a newspaper can be like reading a good book

Why?

A lot of writers, particularly those who write murder mysteries or conspiracies, used to be either law enforcement or journalists.

A lot of writers have a background in journalism like I have.  Some work for major newspapers or did, and after the first bestseller retired to write more.

But reading newspaper accounts of events, no matter what the subject, somehow takes on the persona of a good story.  It has to if it wants to engage the reader.

There are elements of truth, there are elements of conjecture, and all the while you have to wonder, can this all possibly be true?

What’s that old journalistic adage my editor once told me?  Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

My aspirations of a Pulitzer prize died right there.

Perhaps it’s true.

But for just one minute, let’s examine a possibility or two about the news.  Does it depend on the journalist’s personal feelings, or if not, the view of the editorial staff, who sometimes rewrite a piece to suit a certain editorial slant?

Let’s say we don’t like the current President.  Nothing that is written will be positive, though it will generally stick to the facts, and make them work towards a particular end.

Let’s say we like the current President, and what he’s doing.  We will take the facts and write a glowing piece about all the good he is doing.  There is no doubt that the story will ignore certain facts that might seem detrimental.

But that works for both sides of the fence.  No one seems to want to sit on the fence.

I once watched a show called Braindead when alien ants from outer space came to earth and started eating parts of brains.  It happened to be in Washington, it happened to eat politicians brains, and it exacerbated the animosity between the Democrats and the Republicans.  It was very funny, but who knew it was dead right about the parties, and it’s leaders, brains half eaten or not.

They should air it again in this current political brinkmanship climate to show everyone just how Washington politics works, or in reality, doesn’t work.

Then there’s fake news.  What is fake news exactly?

Using the wrong facts?  Painting a white sheep black?  Or just reporting one side of the story?

As a writer, I now view the newspapers as the number one resource for finding plots, conspiracies, and just plain oddities, mainly because the truth, if it is the truth, really is stranger than fiction.

 

“The Things We Do For Love” – Coming soon

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

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Conversations with my cat – 43

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This is Chester, he’s just reminded me that it is International Cat Day.

I ask, are you really an international cat, because you live here, and haven’t travelled anywhere.

A studious glance at me, then at a map of the word, he then tells me I haven’t taken him anywhere, but he’s been with me in spirit.

Yes, and while I’m away, well, you know how it goes…

Again apparently that was my fault, I didn’t leave strict instructions on what he could or could not do.

I thought we’d set those boundaries a long time ago.

I’m old, is the quick retort,  Memory is failing.  I’m lucky if I can remember what I was doing yesterday.  You’ll have to remind me.

Every morning.

And even then I might still have trouble remembering.

Anyway, don’t you humans have a saying, respect your elders?

OK.  Now we’re back on the age thing.  And, by the way, I don’t think my granddaughter gave you permission to sleep on her pillow.

Seems it’s my turn to eave in a huff!

International cat day?????

 

I’ve always wanted to go on a Treasure Hunt – Part 21

Here’s the thing…

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

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

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

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

 

“Why are we still here,” Boggs asked.

A small crowd had gathered to watch the police, some vocal about them finally doing what they should have some time ago.  Very few people liked Rico and rumours were rife about his alleged participation in trafficking drugs.

The fact the current Sherriff hadn’t arrested him before now was said to be because he was corrupt, but nobody would say so out loud.  I felt sorry for the Sherriff because my mother said he had made it quite clear he was not working for anyone but the city that employed him, and that no one was above the law.

But I’d only heard one person question why he was not here, using the event as part of his campaign for re-election.

“Curiosity,” I said.

“About what.  I thought the situation explained itself.  Rico’s finally been caught red-handed.”

“I’m not so sure/it was him.  Were you watching the boat the whole time when you were waiting for me?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you were, you would have seen him on the boat, join the others and leave.  Did it look like they were killing a man below deck?”

How the hell should I know?  As you said, it was below deck.”

“But the boat would have been moving, well, the mast really.”

“With the wash coming towards it from the fools who drive their boats too fast.  Good luck with that.  Do you want Rico to get off, and then come terrorize us.  That’s what’s going to happen if they let him go.”

“I don’t think so.”

Despite his protestations, Boggs was as interested in what was unfolding as I was.  Only I suspect he wanted to see Rico locked up, if possible, forever.  Quite a few people would, and none more than the Benderby’s.

Boggs might not realise it, but his quest for the treasure was at the heart of this.  Had Rico tried to double-cross the Benderby’s?  He was trying to get Nadia to steal the map from Rico, and perhaps Rico had discovered Benderby was trying to cut him out of the deal.

Had Rico threatened them, and was this how they rep[aid disloyalty?

Or was it my original thought, that the Benderby’s were looking for an easy target?

“I’m going.  Coming?”  Boggs had lost interest.

“No.  Not yet.  I want to see what Alex is going to do.”

“Alex Benderby?  What’s he doing here?”

“He just conveniently arrived on his father’s boat, which means he wasn’t very far away.”

“Of course not.  They’ve been having engine troubles for the last month.  They were probably out testing the repairs.”

“How do you know that?”

“Rico.  He thinks it’s hilarious they spent so much money on that boat and haven’t got a full day of sailing out of it.  More money than sense, that lot.”

I looked in the direction of Alex’s boat and he was coming ashore.  So were the divers, now out of their suits and dressed casually, and for the sake of looking normal, with three women, one of whom looked like Nadia.

“Anyway, I’ve decided,” he said, “we’re doing this treasure hunt on our own.  I don’t trust anyone but you.  It was a mistake thinking Alex would help.  Call me tomorrow when you’re free.  We have to start planning.”

“OK.”

I didn’t see him leave.  I was too busy watching the group with Alex.  It was Nadia, and she was looking very cosy next to him.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

Being Inspired – the book

Over the past year or so I have been selecting photographs I’ve taken on many travels, and put a story to them.

When I reached a milestone of 50, I decided to make them into a book, and, in doing so, I have gone through each and revised them, making some longer, and almost a short story.

50 photographs, 50 stories.  I’ve called it, “Inspiration, Maybe”

It will be available soon.

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Was it a dream, or reincarnation?

I don’t believe we live many lives and are reincarnated over and over.

But…

I have had this dream a few times now and it is, to say the least, disconcerting.

I’m in a room, it looks to be a one-room log cabin, and down on wall a stove and beside it a bed.  It’s cozy, so I suspect it might be cold outside.

The wood stove is burning and is the source of warmth.

This all sounds very homely, perhaps a dream inspired by inner happiness with my lot in life.  I know that around the first time had the dream I was living in a house with a wood stove in the kitchen.

Why then is the woman,  as a matter of interest, the woman who is my wife in this dream, not my current wife?

Are you as confused as I am?

Let me add this, I first had this dream the day before I married in this life.  Could it be construed that I was foretelling a long and contented life with the woman I was about to marry or was it a memory triggered from a previous married life?

I’m sure Freud would have a field day with this one.

 

 

 

“Sunday in New York”, it’s a bumpy road to love

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As they say in the classics, read on!

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Sunday In New York

Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 13

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

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

Am I working for anyone now?

 

So, there I was, walking along the street, hands in pockets, trying to look like my whole world hadn’t come crashing down on me when a car pulled over to the side of the road.

I may have been down in the dumps but not that far that I wasn’t still aware of what was going on around me, the training had been that good, so I hung back a little from the curb and waited to see if was me they were after, or just some lucky rich person being dropped off.

And ready to disappear into the crowd, not that there was one, but there were three exits available and within momentary reach if necessary.

I watched the rear window go down slowly then saw a familiar face.

Nobbin.

“Get in Mr Jackson.  We have more to talk about.”

I hesitated like anyone with the training I had would, as any person with common sense would too, I guess.

“It’s perfectly safe, I assure you.”  He sounded reassuring.

A glance into the car showed only him and the driver, who was getting out of the car.  I watched him come around to the curbside and put his hand on the door handle.

“Sir,” he said.

He opened the door.  Nobbin had moved to the other side.

I shrugged, then got in.  A thought: how many people had got into cars such as this, and were never seen again?”

It was not a statistic that reached any of the newspapers.  Only the end result, a body washed down the Thames, with no indication of who it was, or where they came from, and no identification, or means of identification available.

The door closed, the driver went back to the front of the car, and then gently eased the car out into the traffic.

“I’m sorry for the theatrics surrounding this meeting, but it is necessary.  I’m sure you were told of the need for secrecy in this matter, and I’m just reinforcing that.”

“Just who are you?  And, for that matter, those people back in that building?  Or, if it’s not too hard to wrap your head around, who the hell have I been working for?”

“Good questions, all.  At least now I can speak freely.  As you can, Mr Jackson.”

“Except I have no idea who’s side you’re on, I’m on, or anyone for that matter.  This is not what I signed up for.”

“Well, to put some perspective on your situation, Mr Jackson, you were not supposed to live to tell about it.  It was an operation that was created with one purpose in mind, to find an agent named

William O’Connor, and kill him.  And everyone in the team assigned to the task.”

“By Severin and Maury?  If so, why didn’t they kill me in the alley along with this O’Connor?”

“That is a mystery to all of us.”

“And those people back in the room.  Who the hell were they?”

“Operations.  Trying to find out how a sub-section could be created and function within their purview and not be detected.  That’s what it was, run by two agents who had been expelled a few months back, but who were clever enough to work around all of the safeguards, recruit four agents, and then go after the man who caused the end of their careers.”

“Simple, it seems.”

“Very.  And, if it had not been for you, we would never have known who or why.”

“Perhaps we should be thankful there was an explosion then, otherwise we’d all be dead.”

“Or not, because as far as I know, that was part of the operation, designed to take the target, you and the surveillance member behind you.  It only did a third the job.  It didn’t go off at the critical moment.  No one was seriously hurt, by the way.”

“The policeman?”

“Critical but stable.  He’ll survive.”

“The police who were accusing me of being the bomber?”

“Our people trying to delay you, so our man could get away.  Seems they trained you better than we expected.  Did O’Connor say anything to you?”

“There wasn’t much time before I found him, and Severin shot him.”

“Anything at all?”

“He knew who I was.”

“Then he knew the whole team, and who was running it.”

“He killed two of them.”

“In self-defence.  They were not only surveillance but also assassins.  Different training before they joined your group.”

I had thought there was something odd about them.

“Anything else,” he asked again.

“Yes.  He said to tell you he found something he should, and that the evidence is…  And that’s when he was shot.  He didn’t tell me where it was.”

“He didn’t have to.  We had set up three prearranged drop sites, so it must be in one of those.  Here’s my card.”

He handed me a white card with a name and a phone number.  The name was not Nobbin.

“If this Severin contacts you again, call me.  I am available any hour of the day or night on that number.”

“If he doesn’t?”

“Then you will hear from me in the not too distant future.  The fact you’re a survivor tells me you are resourceful and have the makings of a good agent, one I can use in my department.”

“And those others back at the office?”

“You won’t hear from them again.”

The car stopped outside an underground staircase.

“This is your stop, Mr Jackson.  Thank you for your co-operation.”

Perhaps my career wasn’t in tatters.  I got out of the car, and watched it leave before heading for the underground, his card safely tucked away in my pocket.

 

© Charles Heath 2019