First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

…

Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right

Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.

It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.

…

John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence, after being so indifferent for so long.

They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable, calls on an old friend for help in finding her.

After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.

But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.

What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I never wanted to be an eyewitness – 3

Three

There was no going back down the stairs, or using the elevator, because there was nothing down below but people who wanted to kill me, and there were no other means of leaving the building other than by the helicopter that just landed.

And there was a distinct possibility that those down below were slowly moving upwards, to join those who had just arrived, a move designed to make sure I would never leave the building. Except they had no way of knowing their team upstairs had been eliminated.

That left us with one and only one way of getting away from the building.

“We’re going. Now,” I said, heading towards the open door where the pilot had just got out.

She seemed surprised. “How? In that?” She was pointing at the helicopter.

“Come on.” I climbed into the pilot’s seat, ran a quick check, then started the take-off procedure.

She came over just as the main rotor started spinning. She climbed in and was about to close the door.

“Toss your phone,” I said.

“What?”

It was getting noisy.

I picked up one of the two guns I had and pointed it at her. “Toss your phone.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Stopping them from tracking us. Toss it.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

“We’ll see.”

She tossed the phone out the door the closed it. I put my gun down, and now ready for take-off, I took a deep breath and lifted the craft off the pad.

Amy looked furious. But she had a gun and she could have used it to stop me leaving and she didn’t. Not yet anyway. She put on a headset and glared at me. I could feel her glare boring into me.

“Where are we going?”

Fortunately the pilot conveniently left the flight plan in the side door panel, and listed the takeoff and landing as the Downtown Manhattan Heliport, a training flight for a new pilot, but it had been anything but that, a quick hit and run landing and take off from a prohibited rooftop helipad, though how they obtained permission was a question no doubt answered when I called up control.

But it was going to be where I imagine I was to be taken if captured, the least likely scenario after my hotel had been stormed with the only outcome possible, and where my assailants would be picked up after a successful kill.

It made going there not an option, but I would have to appear like I was heading there until I came up with an alternate plan. At the very least I could head for the river.

Before I answered Amy, I had the aircraft controllers to deal with because I hadn’t notified them, I was departing the building, and was, momentarily an unidentified flying object.

I managed to convince them I was the pilot, but there were a few tense moments where I had to explain what had happened in what the previous pilot had been an emergency, and that he had to set down or crash. I told them it had something to do with the tail rotor and if they were tracking me, they’d pick up the erratic flight we were taking.

After another few tense moments, they told me to return to the take-off point and then asked me for the reassurance I’d make it back, and that we were heading for Downtown Manhattan which was part of the flight plan, but stumbled over the reason for leaving early. From the tenor of the controller’s voice, I got the impression we would be landing in trouble, so I needed another landing site.

“Somewhere other than where they’re expecting us. If we’re lucky and I don’t crash into the river.”

“Do you really know how to fly this thing?”

Admittedly the way I was struggling to keep the craft under control, the controls required deft handling and that was difficult considering the shakes I’d acquired back at the hotel.

“For both our sakes, let’s hope I can. We can’t go back to Downtown Manhattan where they will be waiting for us. Any ideas about an alternative?”

“If you hadn’t thrown my phone away, I might be able to help you.” She was still angry with me.

I had noticed when I got in that the pilot had left his phone on the console and had seven missed calls. No doubt those waiting were getting anxious as to how their mission was running.

I handed it to her. “Use this, its owner won’t be needing it.”

By her expression, and after an attempt to unlock it, it wasn’t looking good. But, if she was as clever and resourceful as I thought she was, then that phone wouldn’t present a problem.

Then it started ringing or vibrating instead. Somehow from disconnecting the call, she was able to break in and get the dialing screen. From there she was able to get the internet, and a minute later said, “There’s a landing on the river, off West 30th street. You’re heading in the right direction.”

Directions given, she made another call, to her superior.

There were no introductions. “Yes, we got out, using the helicopter that brought in a kill squad.”

The next question would be where we were, and this would determine how much I could trust her, or that her mission priority was keeping me alive.

“Not sure, sir. We’re kind of flying by the seat of our pants, but at least it’s over the water, and the control tower is not happy.”

Silence while she listened, then, “Not a good idea. They’ll be watching you, and it’s best we remain footloose for as long as we can. I’ll let you know when we land. What happened in court?”

I saw a faint smile. “Bet he wasn’t happy about that. See you soon.”

I didn’t ask. I just saw the helipad, and now had to make out that we still had problems, which might be a little difficult because I’d been ignoring the controller’s request for me to head towards Downtown Manhattan. I had told him once that I was having difficulty maintaining level flight, but I was staying over the river, just in case. But, a helicopter in trouble would get emergency services mobilized, so wherever we landed, we were going to have a reception party and unwanted guests.

Latanzio’s people would be looking and listening intently for our whereabouts, and that of an errant helicopter that would not be going back to where it should. They’d know how many landing sites there were, how close, and how much pressure we would be under to land. For all we knew, there might be a sniper waiting at each of the heliports. Fanciful thinking maybe, but this was a very well-organized hit, and there would be contingency plans in place.

I could see the teleport landing and headed towards it, trying to make it look like it was going to be a difficult landing.

I didn’t have to try very hard. There was a gusty wind making the craft pitch and had under light hands on the controls.

I could see an ambulance and fire truck just back from the landing site, lights flashing. The controller had predicted there might be a problem, which meant if we touched down there were going to be awkward questions.

“That was quick,” Amy said. She too had noticed The reception committee.

Oddly, I didn’t see a police car, or that is to say, a car with blue flashing lights. Would the FBI be there?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of light, and instinctively pulled the stick sideways and went into a deep sideways descent, just as a loud pinging noise came above the whine of the turbine.

A bullet, which if I hadn’t gone into evasive mode would have hit the engine, or worse, one of us.

“What the hell was that?” She yelled, looking around, thinking it was a problem with the helicopter.

“Someone is shooting at us. Hang on.”

I pulled the stick in the opposite direction, at the same time getting away from the shooter as fast as possible. The turn had a ghastly effect on my stomach, and I thought, for a moment, I was going to be violently ill. Amy had also turned a shade of white too.

We were finally out of range, skimming about 100 feet above the water’s surface, slowing down after the panic, and looking for a spot, any spot, to put down and get away.

There, in the distance a car park blocked off and being repaired, but enough space to land. I could hear the controller screaming in my ear demanding an explanation for my rapid and dangerous departure, but I didn’t have time to explain, nor would he believe me, not if he hadn’t heard the shots fired in our direction.

There were several workmen standing to one side, watching the arrival of a concrete truck as I came in low over their heads and set the craft down about fifty feet from them.

I shut the engine down and waited a minute before opening the door and jumping out, keeping low under the still-spinning rotor blades, and Amy joined me.

One of the crew started coming towards us, two others were taking photos of the helicopter with their cell phones and another was making a call, either to friends or the police.

“We have to go,” I said. “No time to talk to the locals. What you need to do is find someone who can hide us until we think of a next move.”

We ran towards the road and then dodged traffic to get to the other side. We didn’t have time to wait for lights, or the traffic to stop. Twice I was nearly hit by a moving car, instead, the squeal of rubber on tar.

On the other side, and temporarily safe, Amy was on her phone.

“Calling for backup or a ride?”

“Actually no. I have a friend or a friend, you know the sort. I think he can help us, but you might not like it.”

What was not to like if he could save us from the Latanzio’s.

“Call. Anything is going to be better than acting as a live target.”

The call connected. “Joe, are you busy at the moment? No? Good. I need you to bring Hollywood to New York. Today.”

…

Writing a book in 365 days – 363

Day 363

Writing exercise … Between a rock and a hard place…

…

It was the very definition of being between a rock and a hard place.

What were the odds that Helena would be the one who got stuck with the one client for whom things would go sideways?

Not that anything was assured in any of the scenarios that were supposed to have been carefully constructed so that the clients got the full experience.

The biggest problem was that the client never read the fine print and realised that people were playing roles and those roles didn’t include certain services, and then complained bitterly.

She did not offer full service. She was not expected to. That costs more, and other employees would.

This gig was an accompanying role, leading to the next phase, and providing assistance. As an agent’s contact would be in a foreign country.

It wasn’t about the nursing of what was quite obviously someone who had either been drugged or was on drugs, though her initial thought was that he had been affected by someone who slipped him a tainted drink.

Certainly, during her initial observation, he had arrived at the bar after being dropped off by a taxi, the usual method, and came in.

He’d stopped just inside the doorway and ran his eyes over the layout, as any spy would, checking the clientele and the exits in a scan that might be interpreted by anyone watching as looking for his blind date.

Scan over, exits covered, he selected a table that had a complete view of everyone coming and going and sitting. A waitress came over and asked what he wanted, and went back to the bar.

Among the instructions for this phase, he was to order two glasses of Scotch on ice.

He did not look like he might have after taking the serum, or that he was in any difficulty.

Five minutes passed before the waitress returned with the two glasses and put them on the table. He paid the waitress, and she walked over to another table where a man was sitting, cap low over his eyes, and fur-lined coat still zipped up.

People usually took their coats and hats off before sitting. This guy didn’t. Why?

He finished his drink and then glanced over at the new arrival. He was waiting. Again why?

The new arrival picked up one of the glasses and swirled the liquid around in the bottom of the glass. She could hear the tinkle of the ice against the glass from where she was sitting.

Satisfied, perhaps, he downed the contents and put the glass back on the table.

That’s when the man in the cap and zipped-up coat left.

For her, it was time to meet the target.

After half an hour, where the introduction had gone to script, they talked like two people had just met in a bar, then they left.

Then it happened.

Whatever had caused the problem wasn’t the serum going wrong. That was a lie. Whatever happened, happened because they took that drink, the drink brought by the waitress, a waitress who had disappeared after the man she visited left.

And the man she visited was obviously involved with what just happened. And what just happened wasn’t part of the scenario. And what her supervisors were telling her was not exactly the truth either.

Something was very, very wrong.

Walking back into the room, letting the door close, and noticing him missing was concerning.

Until she realised that the balcony window was open.

“Robert?”

A second later, there was a very loud bang, something cracking into the wall outside on the balcony.

That was followed by another loud bang, then a lesser bang, followed almost immediately by another.

She heard him yell, “Don’t come out.”

“What is…” She was cut off by the sound of exploding glass as the glass panel beside the sliding door shattered.

“Call the police and tell them to hurry,” he yelled.

She had been walking towards the sliding door as the panel beside it exploded, and she felt the passing projectile that just missed hitting her. Some glass fragments did not, and she could feel the cut on the side of her head stinging.

“Are you.. “

“Alive, for now. Call.”

She picked up his cell phone and pressed the emergency button that flashed up when she swiped the screen, then seconds later got an operator who took the details.

A minute later, sirens filled the area, and by the time she stumbled onto the balcony, a car had pulled up at the bottom of the street.

Sitting against the wall, blood leaking from a wound in his upper arm, the target was ashen and starting to slump sideways.

What else could go wrong?

It was time to run. This, whatever this was, was not what she signed up for. This was not the scenario she had been briefed on.

There was nothing she could do for him. She was not trained in first aid, and whatever his problem was, first aid wouldn’t fix it.

He needed a battlefield medic.

A glance over the balcony, the last thing she should have done, showed a policeman directing officers all over the place, and worst of all, he was looking up, and she looked down.

She cursed under her breath.

“Run, now.” She muttered to herself.

Into the room, a quick look. What had she touched? No time to think. She headed straight for the door, opened it, and ran into a huge policeman who gathered her up in a bear hug.

She kicked and screamed and clawed, but it was of no use. Another policeman arrived, along with an ambulance crew and a SWAT team, the first to help the bear, and the others into the room.

…

What I learned about writing – Gertrude Stein’s literary landscape

Gertrude Stein: The Unlikely Architect of Modernism

When we think of literary giants of the early 20th century, names like T.S. Eliot, Virginia Woolf, or Hemingway often come to mind. But what about Gertrude Stein? The same woman who hosted glittering salons in Paris, who championed avant-garde artists like Picasso, and who coined the phrase “rose is a rose is a rose”? While she may not be the first name that leaps to mind in discussions of the novel, Stein’s influence on modernist literature—and her own experimental writing, such as Paris, France—proves she was a force no less transformative than her contemporaries.

The Salonnière and the Literary Scene

Gertrude Stein was first and foremost an impresario of modernism. Her Salons in Paris became the epicentre of a literary and artistic revolution, where writers, painters, and thinkers collided. Thinkers like Jean Cocteau, Ezra Pound, and Alice B. Toklas (her lifelong partner) rubbed shoulders with artists like Pablo Picasso and Henri Matisse. Critics often dismissed her as an eccentric or a socialite with a passing interest in the arts. After all, wasn’t she the one who bought a “worthless” Picasso painting and declared, “One must be intelligent to recognise modern art”? But Stein’s genius lay not in critiquing art so much as incubating it.

Her salons weren’t just parties—they were laboratories for modernist ideas. By giving emerging artists a space to breathe and a writer like Hemingway someone to idolise, Stein helped shape the creative currents of her era. She understood that art thrives in community, and her role as a curator of talent was arguably as significant as her contributions as a writer.

The Paradox of a “Poor Writer” with a Masterpiece

Herein lies the irony: Stein, who famously said she knew “more about writing than any living person,” was also criticised for being a “bad” writer. Her work was dense, repetitive, and often baffling—a far cry from the narrative clarity of Hemingway, whom she mentored. Yet, her novel Paris, France (published posthumously in 1940 but written in the 1930s) is a testament to the rewards of her unconventional approach.

Paris, France is not a novel in the traditional sense. It is a sprawling, poetic meditation on the city of Paris, rendered in a stream of fragmented sentences, lists, and obsessive repetitions. Consider this passage:

“Paris is Paris is Paris is Paris is Paris.”

At first glance, it reads as a tautology—or a joke. But beneath the surface, Stein’s repetition becomes a kind of incantation, a way of peeling back layers of language to reveal the essence of a place. She is not describing Paris as a tourist might (“the Eiffel Tower is beautiful”); she is dissecting the act of perception itself. Her prose forces readers to slow down, to sit with ambiguity, and to find meaning in the accumulation of language, even when it resists neat interpretation.

What Paris, France Teaches Us

Stein’s work defied the conventions of the novel, but in doing so, she exposed the limits of those conventions. Paris, France teaches us that literature can be more than a narrative; it can be a linguistic experiment, a philosophical inquiry, or even a form of art criticism.

Her approach mirrors the Cubist paintings hanging in her apartment—breaking down form to reconstruct it anew. In this way, Stein bridges the gap between modernist literature and visual art, insisting that language, like paint, can be reimagined. For readers willing to embrace the challenge, Paris, France becomes a lesson in how to observe the world with fresh eyes.

Legacy: The Muse, the Mentor, the Mysterious Voice

Gertrude Stein’s legacy is a mosaic of contradictions: she was a shy woman who became a social maven, a Jewish American expatriate who celebrated European modernism, and a writer whose cryptic prose both alienated and inspired. Hemingway dedicated A Moveable Feast to her, calling her “the only one of the older generation who had any real understanding of what writing was.” Yet, in death, Stein has been alternately romanticised and relegated to the footnotes of modernist studies.

But perhaps it’s time to revisit Stein not just as a patron of greats or a stylistic oddity, but as a literary provocateur who dared to ask: What is the role of language? What is the role of the artist? Her novel Paris, France is just one example of her answer—a work that reminds us that creativity often thrives in the margins, in the spaces between clarity and chaos.

In the end, Gertrude Stein holds a unique place in the literary landscape. She taught us that art is not always about skill or structure, but about the courage to see differently. And in that, she was a modernist to the core.

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the type of clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’ but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

The was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him was not the concierge, and instead brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position and then made a clunk when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the life lobby, only in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over the the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.