I’m sure a lot of people have considered the prospect of whale watching. I’m not sure how the subject came up on one of our visits to New Zealand, but I suspect it was one one of those tourist activity leaflets you find in the foyer of motels, hotels, and guesthouses.
Needless to say, it was only a short detour to go to Kaikoura and check out the prospect.
Yes, the ocean at the time seemed manageable. My wife has a bad time with sea sickness, but she was prepared to make the trip, after some necessary preparations. Seasickness tablets and special bands to wear on her wrist were recommended and used.
The boat was large and had two decks, and mostly enclosed. There were a lot of people on board, and we sat inside for the beginning of the voyage. The sea wasn’t rough, but there was about a meter and a half swell, easily managed by the boat while it was moving.
It took about a half hour or so to reach the spot where the boat stopped and a member of the crew used a listening device to see if there were any whales.
That led to the first wave of sickness.
We stopped for about ten minutes, and the boat moved up and down on the waves. It was enough to start the queasy stomachs of a number of passengers. Myself, it was a matter of going out on deck and taking in the sea air. Fortunately, I don’t get seasick.
Another longish journey to the next prospective site settled a number of the queasy stomachs, but when we stopped again, the swell had increased, along with the boat’s motion. Seasick bags were made available for the few that had succumbed.
By the time we reached the site where there was a whale, over half the passengers had been sick, and I was hoping they had enough seasick bags, and then enough bin space for them.
The whale, of course, put on a show for us, and those that could went out on deck to get their photos.
By the end of the voyage, nearly everyone on board was sick, and I was helping to hand out seasick bags.
Despite the anti sickness preparations, my wife had also succumbed. When we returned and she was asked if the device had worked, she said no.
But perhaps it had because within half an hour we were at a cafe eating lunch, fish and chips of course.
This activity has been crossed off the bucket list, and there’s no more whale watching in our traveling future. Nor, it seems, will we be going of ocean liners.
Perhaps a cruise down the Rhine might be on the cards. I don’t think that river, wide as it is in places, will ever have any sort of swell.
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.
“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.
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.
This is the staircase down to the bedroom level of a two-story holiday apartment at the Rosebud Country Club on the Mornington Peninsula in Victoria Australia.
It was the first time we stayed there for a long time.
However…
Innocuous stairs leading downwards to a black hole suggest a great many other things, especially if you left your imagination run wild.
For instance:
What if you are an only child being dropped off by your parents at your creepy grandparent’s place in the middle of the woods. Imagine driving up on a cold, wintry, windy, cloudless dark night, and when you get there, this old rambling mansion looks like the coven for witches.
What if when you get to the door this creepy old man who looks more dead than alive answers the door, and when you step over the threshold you hear what seems to be a high-pitched scream coming from outside the house.
What if, when you are being taken up the staircase, every single wooden step creaks or groans, that at the top of the stairs, every painting you pass, the eyes seem to follow you.
What if, when you explore, against the express wishes of your grandfather, you come across a door that leads down into a basement. There has to be some interesting stuff down there, a torture chamber, a medical laboratory with a half-finished Frankenstein, a workshop with coffins stacked in a corner.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.
The next stretch of road was from Aba to Nagero, the gateway to the Garamba National Park. This was a road where we would have to be more careful because it was possible, now we were off the main road, even though it was designated a highway, or perhaps that was a little too optimistic since it had a number N26, which ran into the R240 at a place nominally named Faradje, but did have a place to stay called the Residence Robert Ball.
I guess I missed that.
Beyond Faradje the road was a little more intense, but something else that worried me, there was more scope for us to be ambushed. To be honest, I had expected trouble for the last 100 kilometers, but trucks and people were plentiful enough to keep any surprises away. Now, that element of safety had gone and for quite some distance now we’d been moving slowly, and everyone was on alert.
My fears were not misplaced.
We’d hit a rather rough patch and had to slow down, and coming into a creek crossing the road narrowed, and the trees came down to the side of the road, providing any would-be attacker plenty of cover. I had been considering how I would arrange an ambush when, suddenly the car in front stopped suddenly, and we, caught unawares, slid almost into the back of them.
My other radio crackled, Monroe was reporting in. “Houston, we’ve got a problem.”
A flooded creek that was impassable, or a rockfall. There had been one of each so far, but both had been relatively easy to negotiate.
Then she added, “A gentleman in army gear with a gun. He’s brought a few friends to the party.”
“Real army, or…”
“The or, I think. Some of his ‘men’ are, well, not men.”
A local militia. Ahead I could see several more of the ‘soldiers’ filtering down to cover each of the vehicles until a real soldier stopped near ours, gun aimed and ready to fire.
“Send in our guide and get him to sort the matter out.”
No one was asking us to leave the vehicles yet, so this might but just a ‘request’ for a passing fee. Jacobi had said this might happen once we left the mainstream roads. I had hoped, the Garamba National Park is internationally known, all roads in and out would be ‘protected’. Perhaps that was only for convoys protected by Government troops, a service we had to forego due to the nature of our business.
Five minutes passed, then the next update.
“Jacobi is going now. We’ve finally got past any possible misunderstandings. Good thing he knows the language.”
Mindful of where the soldier covering us was standing and his line of sight into the car, I said into the other radio, “Mobley?”
“Sir?”
“Where are you?”
“About a k behind you.”
“Stop. Park, and approach on foot. We have a small problem, about 10 militiamen have stopped us at a choke point.”
“Done. I will be there shortly. Take them out?”
“Get a position and standby.”
Forward of us little was happening. I could now see Jacobi and the group commander standing to one side of the lead vehicle, talking. Jacobi was gesturing, and the soldier was looking defensive.
Seconds dragged by like they were minutes.
Davies came back to life. “Why have we stopped?”
“Checkpoint.”
“There isn’t meant to be a checkpoint here, is there?”
“No.”
Before we started out Davies had hidden a sidearm under her seat, in a place where I had hoped would not be checked by the border officials. They had made a cursory scan in the front of the car but hadn’t seen it. Now she had reached down and had it in her hand, at the same time making sure she had eye contact with the militiaman on her side of our car.
Our personal detail had doubled in the last minute or so. I had just watched Jacobi return to the lead vehicle, get in, but leave the door open.
The radio crackled again. “They want five thousand US dollars, and we can proceed.”
“We got five thousand.”
“Jacobi says two should do it.”
“Give it a go.”
I watched and waited as it took a few more minutes before Jacobi, with a bulky envelope, got out of the car and walked towards the soldier.
Showing we had money and were willing to hand it over might lead to further demands, particularly if the soldier though he was being disrespected. It all depended on Jacobi’s negotiating skills.
Mobley reported in. He had a position where he could see the men at the head of the convoy.
I spoke into the radio to the others, “Has everyone got a clear shot on their covering guards, just in case this goes sideways.”
“They’re not exactly soldiers,” I heard Barnes say.
“But they’ll shoot to kill you all the same. Unfortunately, we’re on a mission-critical timeline here, and whilst I don’t like it, it’s going to be one of those at all costs decisions.”
A series of ‘ready’ came over the radio.
Several more minutes passed, and more animated conversation between Jacobi and the commander, then Jacobi returned to the car, minus the envelope.
Was it successful?
Monroe. “Seems he wants ten thousand now. Orders?”
“Negotiations are over.”
Several shots rang our, taking down the three men at the front of the convoy in quick succession, the signal for the others to take out their guards almost simultaneously. It was a miracle none of the guards got a shot off, but, then, they were standing a little too close for their own good.
Five minutes later we were back on the road, the militiamen having their arms removed, and removed from sight, just in case anyone came looking for them. It might be a forward group from the kidnappers, looking for some extra cash, or, if the negotiations had dragged on, looking to take the ransom and then demand another when we turned up empty-handed.
Whatever had happened, it was over.
Ten minutes later Mobley had re-joined the convoy behind me.
I had once said that Grand Central Station, in New York, was large enough you could get lost in it. Especially if you were from out of town.
I know, I was from out of town, and though I didn’t quite get lost, back then I had to ask directions to go where I needed to.
It was also an awe-inspiring place, and whenever I had a spare moment, usually at lunchtime, I would go there and just soak in the atmosphere. It was large enough to make a list of places to visit, or find, or get a photograph from some of the more obscure places.
Today, I was just there to work off a temper. Things had gone badly at work, and even though I hadn’t done anything wrong, I still felt bad about it.
I came in the 42nd street entrance and went up to the balcony that overlooked the main concourse. A steady stream of people was coming and going, most purposefully, a few were loitering, and several police officers were attempting to move on a vagrant. It was not the first time.
But one person caught my eye, a young woman who had made a circuit of the hall, looked at nearly every destination board, and appeared to be confused. It was the same as I had felt when I first arrived.
Perhaps I could help.
The problem was, a man approaching a woman from out of left field would have a very creepy vibe to it, so it was probably best left alone.
Another half-hour of watching the world go by, I had finally got past the bad mood and headed back to work. I did a wide sweep of the main concourse, perhaps more for the exercise than anything else, and had reached the clock in the center of the concourse when someone turned suddenly and I crashed into them.
Not badly, like ending up on the floor, but enough for a minor jolt. Of course, it was my fault because I was in another world at that particular moment.
“Oh, I am sorry.” A woman’s voice, very apologetic.
I was momentarily annoyed, then, when I saw who it was, it passed. It was the lost woman I’d seen earlier.
“No. Not your fault, but mine entirely. I have a habit of wandering around with my mind elsewhere.”
Was it fate that we should meet like this?
I noticed she was looking around, much the same as she had before.
“Can I help you?”
“Perhaps you can. There’s supposed to be a bar that dates back to the prohibition era here somewhere. Campbell’s Apartment, or something like that. I was going to ask…”
“Sure. It’s not that hard to find if you know where it is. I’ll take you.”
It made for a good story, especially when I related it to the grandchildren, because the punch line was, “and that’s how I met your grandmother.”
So, it seems there’s going to be a few problems at work. People are dying and no one really knows why.
Perhaps it has something to do with the computer systems and the network. In the time this novel is set, networking personal computers was in its infancy and a veritable rabbit hole to go down.
We need to throw in a bit more background and involve others, but to what extent should these other people have influence over the storyline?
This is why there are puzzling aspects of Richardson’s death, and why is Aitchison so interested?
Says Aitchison…
…
“I knew the man better than most. But even if he was going through a bad patch, and he was a little down, he would not have killed himself, not the way it was presented in his office. The gun was in the wrong hand, his left hand. He was ambidextrous to a certain point, left-handed in some cases, right-handed in others. I knew for a fact he could only shoot with his right hand. Same as golf. But most people here would have seen him use only his left hand.”
I let his words sink in for a moment. How could he possibly know what hand Richardson used for what purpose? Perhaps golf because it was open to Company employees of any level, but shooting?
It came out of my mouth before I could stop it. “How …”
“..do I know about his shooting hand? I ran into him once at the range. I used to shoot a few skeets back in the day. Eyesight has gone to pot these days, so it’s been a while.” The last part was related more for his own benefit.
Good enough answer. I didn’t know Aitchison was a shooter. The office grapevine wasn’t as extensively knowledgeable as it purported to be.
“Then is it possible someone here killed him?”
“Like the woman he was supposedly having an affair or her jealous husband?” He laughed, and it wasn’t a particularly nice one. “The mystery woman he was spending time with was his daughter. He asked me to get her a job, but not to let on that he knew her. Didn’t want her to think he was meddling in her affairs, and that anyone else would see it as favors from the executive to certain employees.”
Aitchison’s voice shook, and he poured another drink to try and steady his nerves. He was agitated, I could see that. And he had evidence that the police would need to help solve this crime. Yet, by the way, he was talking; I don’t think he believed any of what he had just told me would be deemed as relevant.
And I was yet to see a reason why this would affect him so.
“Have you told the police this?
“Yes, but the detective they sent this morning wasn’t interested.”
Perhaps he was writing more into it than there was. I didn’t know what to say and tried to look noncommittal. Then he looked at me with a piercing stare, like the thought had just occurred to him. “You two clashed, heatedly at times. Did you do this?
Perhaps not quite the question I was expecting from him or anyone.
I was innocent, but I had one of those faces when someone puts a question to you rather abruptly, that reddened, either with embarrassment or guilt. I had very little control over it.
But to be accused of murder?
I had an alibi; I was home alone in bed trying to sleep. OK. It was shaky but the truth.
“No. Why would I?”
If I was going to kill anyone in this place, it would be Benton, or even Kowalski, another thorn in my side. Richardson was not on the list, and never would be. He was just old and pedantic, set in his ways. He clashed with everyone at one time or another. In my case, he was just cranky because I replaced his pen and paper accounting with a new application on that computer he refused to use.
He nodded to himself. “I thought not, but I had to ask.”
He stood and went over to the window and looked out. Taking time, I guessed, to collect his thoughts. He remained there with his back to me for a few minutes. It didn’t seem to be a long time.
Then he said, quietly, “It appears there’s something else going on, something that none of us in the Executive know anything about.”
I was not sure I liked the sound of that or the fact he was telling me. This was not something I should be privy to. But that still didn’t stop me from asking, “Like what for instance?”
“The existence of another network.”
“What do you mean?” Another network? There was only one. I had seen it installed, and went through the teething process of getting it up and running, as every bit as hard as bringing a new baby into the world.
I would know if there was another network. Wouldn’t I?
“Apparently there is supposedly another network of computers running in this office. I have only the word of a policeman by the name of Chief Inspector Gator, a computer expert, and a consultant from Interpol. How the hell did this information get to Interpol, of all people?”
I couldn’t tell him. This was news to me.
“What evidence have they got that this ‘other network’ exists?”
“Intercepted telephone calls reporting a connection error to a network system by the name of Starburst. There was a log entry on Richardson’s computer referring to it, about the time of a power failure last night. The computer expert is down in the server room now looking for this other network.”
He swiveled around and looked down at me with a thunderous expression. “You didn’t set anything up for Halligan, did you?”
“No.”
I was surprised he asked. We had a discussion some months ago about the fact most of the AGM’s came directly to me to sort out their computer issues. Halligan was the worst of all of them, using his position to browbeat me into doing work that could only be described as off-book. Whilst strictly speaking, as AGM – Information Technology, Halligan was quite within his purview to make such requests; it was the security aspects that had to be signed off on before executing such requests. It added a new level of pain to the approvals process and had made Halligan an enemy of both Aitchison and myself, even though I had nothing to do with it.
The problem was, like all members of the Executive, Halligan was his own worst enemy. Each of their areas of responsibility was like fiefdoms, and none of them like the others to encroach on their territory. Halligan’s was the only area that had a shared responsibility with security. Soon after the new arrangements were put in place, and the fact I had been left off the list of people to be informed, Halligan had asked me to do some work, and not aware of any change in procedure, did it.
Then, playing the usual game of one-upmanship, Halligan told the Executive of the new initiative and left a smoldering Aitchison in his wake. In the end, all it did was cause me trouble, a severe reprimand, and no apology for being left off the distribution list informing of the new arrangements.
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.
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 problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.
04:00 in Africa was an interesting time of the morning, especially after a few hours of intense rain during the night. I could see what the Colonel meant if it had been raining because outside the barracks it was very wet.
Whilst the others appeared to get some sleep, in a much better environment than the back of an aircraft, I lay awake, at first waiting for the sound of the aircraft leaving, and then listening to the rain that started an hour or so later, followed by the sounds that came afterward. It was never silent, and there was always that suspicion of being attacked when you’re at your most vulnerable. I had a weapon ready, just in case.
Outside the cloud cover had gone and it looked like it would be a fine day.
When I did the headcount, I noticed Mobley was missing as agreed, and by the time we had assembled, the cars had arrived. We would be driving ourselves in a convoy behind Monroe and the Colonel, who was no longer dressed in army fatigues, along with Jacobi and one of his guards.
For the trip, we had been supplied with the western notion of jungle wear, safari suits, that identified us not only garrulous visitors, but typical tourists hardly prepared for what was to come. It made a good cover for a group of ‘fools’ making a documentary.
All we had to do was get to the location for the exchange of the hostages reportedly between Aba, a town in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and somewhere on the outskirts of the Park. It was going to be an easy drive from Uganda to Aba, then the situation might change.
I was going to be in the rear vehicle, with Leslie Davies. The more I thought about her being assigned to this mission, it seemed she was here solely for her ability to fly anything with wings. It was the part that was missed on her resume, perhaps for a reason, but whatever that reason was, it would become clear eventually.
We left at 04:05. Monroe had a slight problem starting her car.
Other than exchanging a few words before getting on the plane and then getting off the plane, Davies and I had not spoken. After half an hour of driving in silence, I decided to break the ice.
“What did you do to get nominated for this mission?”
A glance sideways gave me no indication of her thoughts, or what look was hidden behind the aviator sunglasses. I hadn’t seen her smile, or talk to any of the other team members other than a few brief words with Monroe, likely because she was the only other female.
Even then, I didn’t get the impression they were going to be best friends.
“Best you don’t know.”
Her reply came about three minutes after I’d asked, and at a point where I assumed she was going to ignore me.
“Let’s say I’m curious.”
“Curiosity killed the cat.”
“I’m not a cat.”
Another two minutes of silence, then, “Disobeyed a direct order.”
Not as bad as killing your immediate superior because you didn’t like him. And I could sympathize. Some orders were utterly ridiculous.
“Not a bad thing.”
“Not what the court-martial thought.”
I noticed she didn’t use sir. I could live with that.
“You volunteer?”
“In a manner of speaking. You?”
She raised her glasses slightly and gave me a sideways glance.
“In a manner of speaking. Been here before, not that it was for very long, and in a different part of the country, but the powers that be deemed my experience adequate for the mission.”
“I take it the mission isn’t to take pictures of animals?”
It might. Just not the animals you’re expecting.”
It was our lucky day. At the Vurra customs post we were met by a Ugandan official who had been forewarned of our arrival, and whom I expect was well compensated for his work, and after going through a half-hour of paperwork, we were taken to the Congo counterpart with whom Jacobi weaved his magic.
I say lucky because the border crossing was often closed, either because of the weather, the road conditions, or the fact neither country was talking to the other, though it was more to do with the Congo villagers and their dispute over lands that stretched into Uganda.
We arrived with a number of trucks, to join a long line waiting to cross, and included were several United Nations vehicles.
Everyone seemed to take the delays and administrative diligence in their stride.
We were moving again, behind several tracks, almost an hour and a half after arriving. All of the crates of equipment had been opened and inspected, as had our packs, and the raft of documents Monroe had been supplied. She had a satellite phone at the ready in case we needed to make any calls, though I was not sure what Bamfield would have been able to do.
But, after a few tense moments, everyone lost interest in the documentary crew and moved onto the next vehicle.
Jacobi said it was the easiest crossing he’d made.
About a half-hour, after we had driven on our way, then my radio crackled, and Mobley reported in. He had just crossed over and was behind us, and a number of trucks.
I got a strange look from Davies.
“Insurance,” was all I said. “Which no one else needs to know about.”
The road was not exactly in the best of condition in places and having four-wheel drives was a help. The lie of the land was quite flat, and we passed a lot of small villages and curious looks from the villagers. Some parts of the road were quite bad, and we had to drive very slowly, especially where it was damp, but for the most part, it was reasonably dry and the roads were navigable.
Other times, Jacobi said, after the rains, those same roads were impossible to drive on and would often see villagers out trying to help the truck drivers keep moving.
I had expected to run into a number of soldiers, but for the first few hours after leaving the border, there wasn’t a lot to see other than flat land, villages, and people on the side of the road, along with the occasional vehicle, belying the fact it was a major road between the border and a town called Aba, a distance that was measured at about 170 kilometers.
Anywhere else in the world it would have taken about an hour and a half, but here, it was early afternoon and finally on a stretch of reasonable road into Aba. A refuel and we’d be on our way quickly. The first of the kidnappers appointed times was 16:00 hours and I was hoping the roads would get us there by that time.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 