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.
…
At least the helicopter pilot hadn’t hit the fuel tanks or any of the control wires.
Because of the holes in the fuselage, we couldn’t fly any higher than between two and five thousand feet or go as fast as Davies would like, but the plane settled into a routine and got us where we wanted to go.
Just a few miles from the base, fuel almost exhausted, we got a fighter escort.
At first, I thought the base commander thought we were an unidentified flying object, mainly because something else had been hit, our communications. We couldn’t tell the base we were coming, and they only had the Colonel’s transmission of an approximate arrival time, much earlier than the actual time we were supposed to arrive.
On the ground, we were met with fire trucks, and a military escort, with weapons that could take out a mouse at one thousand yards. Just in case we were terrorists, I suppose.
We were parked in a bay away from the main terminal area and had to wait for a half-hour before we were met by Lallo. Monroe’s comment, that he was probably finishing his lunch which would be more important than meeting us, had kept us waiting.
The two abductees were the first to leave the aircraft, then Shurl’s body was removed after the doctor certified he was dead.
Then the rest of us were allowed to leave the aircraft. A bus was waiting, and everyone bar Monroe and I had boarded and been taken away. Under guard. Perhaps their service had not mitigated their prison sentences. I didn’t ask Lallo why; I’d probably not get the truth anyway.
“Good job,” he said, after watching the bus depart. “Pity, it wasn’t done right the first time.”
A compliment followed by disparagement.
“Next time you can do the job yourself,” Monroe said. “And until you’ve been in the field and actually got shot at, you’d do well to keep that trap of yours shut.”
“May I …”
“…remind me you’re my superior officer? No. I’m sure that status won’t last much longer. I’m applying for a transfer.”
He looked at me. “What about you?”
“Nothing to say, except I don’t blame her. Now, since all you’ve done is prove to me you’re an idiot, I’ll take my leave.”
In the distance I could see a large American car, the sort that proliferated in the 1950s and 1960s before petrol prices were a problem, cutting across the runway at speed. Was it the owner of the DC3 coming to see the damage?
No. When it got closer I could see Bamfield, cigar in mouth, beaming. I suppose no one felt they had the authority to tell him not to.
The car stopped behind Lallo’s jeep and Bamfield got out, then leaned against the driver’s side door and looked at us over the roof.
“James, Monroe. Still alive I see. Pity about the plane; I know the chap who owns it. He’s going to be pissed when he sees the cannon holes. What happened?”
“Bad guys,” Monroe said.
“Of course. Get in, I’ll give you a ride back to the terminal. We can talk on the way.”
Neither of us moved. If Monroe wasn’t going to suffer fools gladly, neither was I.
“Well…”
“I’d rather walk,” I said.
“We’d rather walk, sir.” With a heavy emphasis on the ‘sir’.
“Look, you did a great job, minimal losses, and we got two assets back. Everyone is happy. But, we have a small problem down in South America…”
From the age of 23, my life had been a complete work of fiction, and I have been so wrapped up in that web of lies that I no longer knew what was true and what wasn’t.
23 years and 1 day to be exact, the day after my birthday. It was the last thing I remembered about who I might have been.
Before a truck nearly wiped me out, destroyed my car, and very neatly me with it.
My survival had been described as a miracle, a triumph for the bionic engineers who got a subject to implant their technology, overcoming the bans for creating and installing such technology in humans by simply not telling anyone.
It was why, when I work up, I was in a small room buried a long way from the surface of the planet, a sort of Frankenstein’s secret laboratory.
But I didn’t know any of this, not for a long time, not till things started to go wrong.
All I knew was what I was told, and that was that I was very lucky to be alive, that I had the best team of surgeons, and they had quite literally glued me back together.
Judging by the number of bandages, I could believe them. It took six months for all of the operations to be completed, and another few for the skin grafts and physical healing.
Not only they were impressed by the way I had recovered, but when I finally got to look at the new me, it was as if nothing had ever happened. Certainly, this time around, I was much better looking, physically fit, and tired, but mentally, I was still on a knife-edge.
That accident replayed in my head at least once every day, and that would probably never leave me. There were other jumbled memories in my head that I couldn’t make sense of, of people who looked like aliens, to be in what might call a laboratory.
And then one recurring, of a woman who might have been an angel or a doctor, or both. She never spoke, just remained by my side nearly all the time, sitting there observing me.
It felt strange, but it was not uncomfortable. And it was hard to tell if the memories were real or just my imagination because since I’d woken and returned to what they called the real world I had not seen her again.
…
I never understood what the expression red-letter day meant, other than in the current context, it was to be the day they sent me home.
There were moments when I never thought I’d see home again, and then moments where I knew no one would recognize me.
The reality is they wouldn’t. In saving me, they completely reconstructed me, from the face down. When I first looked in the mirror my face was bandages. Then I’d was scarred and almost bloody pulp. In the end, staring back at me was the face of someone I didn’t know.
It was the price of being saved, but somewhere behind the tonal inflection of the plastic surgeon was the real reason for the transformation, and perhaps it didn’t have to be that way.
But I was grateful and didn’t want to rock the boat. It just makes it that little bit more difficult to consider re-joining the world.
I’d been escorted to a large lounge that overlooked a snow-covered mountain range, where the sky was blue and the sun shone brightly, giving the whole scene a sort of shimmering effect.
A touch of the glass that separated outside from in was very, very cold to the touch. Was this a secret hideaway in the Swiss mountains, and had I been in a secret laboratory?
Or was this another planet?
Was it the drugs they’d been going me every day making me like this, unsure, uncertain, unsettled, and afraid?
I’d been brought to the room and left there, and for a half-hour I alternately sat, made coffee, stood and admired the scenery, checked all of the books in the bookcase, the bottles of alcohol in the bar, then sat again, trying to dispel the nerves.
Then the door opened, the one I tried and found locked, and to my surprise, the angel walked in, looking more beautiful than ever.
I watched her walk across the room, mesmerized.
She stopped in front of me, smiled, then sat in the chair opposite, or rather not so much sit as curl up into the contours of the seat, feet tucked under her, and arm outstretched across the back, almost as if she was inviting me to snuggle into her.
“How are you this morning Matthew?”
Her voice was equally mesmerizing, and I would be happy to listen to her reading a book or the definition of rocket science.
“Very well.”
“It’s been a long road, sometimes difficult, sometimes almost impossible, but we got there in the end. You are, according to the doctors, fully recovered, and it’s time for you to leave.”
“About that…”
“You have questions, I suspect, and a lot of them. They will be answered, all in good time. But for the present, we will not be casting you out to fend for yourself. I will be coming with you, your intermediary so to speak while you reassimilate. Of course, you cannot go back to the life you had before, that life, that person no longer exists. For all intents and purposes, you had died on the operating table after the accident.”
“That was not what I understood.”
What I had understood was very hazy, after they had brought me to the facility. Bits and pieces of that night, of the accident, and the aftermath, of being in the hospital, and what I thought was me looking down at me on an operating table, being declared dead.
And then being whisked away in an ambulance to somewhere else where there were more doctors and nurses, and a man in a suit saying ‘sign this if you want to live‘.
I was not sure what I signed, then, but now, it was to save my life, but at what cost?
“Things are not always as they seem. You have been treated with largely experimental treatments that otherwise could not be performed on people within the current medical regime. Your life, however, was never in any danger, and, as you can see, you have recovered remarkably. All we ask is that you accept the responsibility of being one of the few that have been granted a second life. I am also another such person, and it will be my honor to help you through what can be a difficult stage, reintegration. You are, for all intents and purposes, Andrew Tavener, but as he is no longer alive, your name will be Mathew Welles. I was once Mary Ballen, I’m now Felicity Welkinshaw. Names are only a part of who you are now.”
It was beginning to sound like I was one of a select group. That Felicity was like me, and she accepted who she was, now. Perhaps things were not so bad, a good job, and a girl like Felicity as a friend, perhaps that was only a small price to pay.
Except…
“So, I cannot go back to where I lived, where I worked, see those people I once knew, friends, family?”
“Not as Andrew, no. But, when we believe you can manage it, you will be able to see those people but only as an outsider who has forged a relationship with all or any of them. However, there is one exception, Wendy. You cannot see her, not even accidentally meet her. For that reason, your new life will be as a new junior executive for the company that oversees the medical research that you have been treated, in England. It is for the best, and you will come to realize that.”
I shrugged. It could be worse. But there was something else on my mind. Something borne out of a lot of fractured memories, after coming to the facility.
“This is going to sound very freakish, but I have to ask. Am I still human?”
Those odd memories, I thought I was being ‘assembled’.
“Yes, though a number of what may seem like robotic changes have been made, what we regard as the next step in human evolution. Now, I think it’s time for our going away party. Everyone will be there.”
She stood, and held out her hand.
I took it and had an immediate tingling sensation, such a human reaction.
Followed by a single memory that came back right at that moment, a snippet of a conversation I’d overheard.
“He’s the best god-damned robot we’ve made to date, even better than Felicity, and that’s saying something.”
And the face of the man was the first one I saw as I entered the room.
This is an inlet near Port Macquarie in northern New South Wales. It is adjacent to a caravan and camping park, close to the ocean and parklands.
But, for our purposes, this scene is going to have a few more interesting connotations than just a few campers going for a jog along the beach, fishing in the estuary, or further out to sea on the other side of the wall in the background.
Firstly, to my favorite kind of story, a spy story…
It’s basically the evil billionaire’s backyard to his island hideaway, and our hero intends to come ashore at night and do battle with the guards, break into the underground holding cells and save the girl.
As always, saving the world comes second!
Or, it’s a place like Fantasy Island, without the landing strip on the beach, where people come to have their fantasies fulfilled. OK, to start there are no robots that are going to go berserk, that’s so ten years ago.
And, no, the hosts won’t be dressed in white safari suits. They went out in the 70s.
Then, I suppose, a story that I like, about people who have secrets, people who are broken, people who just want to get away from everyone else, come to this island where they can live in anonymity, without having to interact with anyone unless they want to.
This is Railway Hotel in Gympie, adjacent to the old Gympie station
Just the name Railway Hotel conjured up a lot of interesting connotations. There’s one in almost every rural town that has Railway station, or perhaps a Junction Hotel, a Railway Hotel, or a Terminus Hotel.
And, once upon a time, there were nearly 600 of them, up until the 1920s, ubiquitous hotels build to house the people building the railways, and, then, when they were finished a lot disappeared, but a lot also remained to service the railway station and passengers coming and going.
These days, these old hotels that still exist are anachronisms of a bygone age, rather ornate wooden structures with big rooms and communal bathrooms, bars, saloons, and dining rooms, and only those curious about the past would stay there.
I’ve stayed in a few myself.
But, as for a story, well, the older, the better, because these would have ghosts.
They could also have infamous pasts, like a fire that destroys only part of the hotel, signs of which form part of the character.
A doorway into a now hidden room closed off because of something horrible happening there, could suddenly become a portal, where stepping through takes you back to the time of the event.
In fact, I’m in the mood to write just such a story…
This is countryside somewhere inside the Lamington National Park in Queensland. It was one of those days where the rain come and went…
We were spending a week there, in the middle of nowhere on a working macadamia farm in a cottage, one of four, recuperating from a long exhausting lockdown.
It was not cold, and we were able to sit out of the verandah for most of the day, watching the rain come and pass over on its way up the valley, listing to the gentle pitter-patter of the rain on the roof and nearby leaves.
But as for inspiration:
This would be the ideal setting for a story about life, failed romance, or a couple looking to find what it was they lost.
It could be a story about recovering from a breakdown, or a tragic loss, to be anywhere else but in the middle of dealing with the constant reminders of what they had.
It could be a safe house, and as we all know, safe houses in stories are rarely safe houses, where it is given away by someone inside the program, or the person who it’s assigned to give it away because they can’t do as they’re supposed to; lay low.
Then there’s camping, the great outdoors, for someone who absolutely hates being outdoors, or those who go hunting, and sometimes become the hunted.
This is countryside somewhere inside the Lamington National Park in Queensland. It was one of those days where the rain come and went…
We were spending a week there, in the middle of nowhere on a working macadamia farm in a cottage, one of four, recuperating from a long exhausting lockdown.
It was not cold, and we were able to sit out of the verandah for most of the day, watching the rain come and pass over on its way up the valley, listing to the gentle pitter-patter of the rain on the roof and nearby leaves.
But as for inspiration:
This would be the ideal setting for a story about life, failed romance, or a couple looking to find what it was they lost.
It could be a story about recovering from a breakdown, or a tragic loss, to be anywhere else but in the middle of dealing with the constant reminders of what they had.
It could be a safe house, and as we all know, safe houses in stories are rarely safe houses, where it is given away by someone inside the program, or the person who it’s assigned to give it away because they can’t do as they’re supposed to; lay low.
Then there’s camping, the great outdoors, for someone who absolutely hates being outdoors, or those who go hunting, and sometimes become the hunted.
This is rugged bushland not far from suburbia, though you wouldn’t know exactly where it is just by looking at the photograph
But, for the writer, this is an excellent setting.
For instance, once again we are out wandering in the bush, lost. It’s not hard to get lost, and stay lost if there are no recognizable landmarks, and given we all walk with a bias to one side or the other, and we have to avoid objects like trees, ravines, animals, and rocks, keeping a straight line is impossible.
But the question is, how did you get into the bush in the first place?
It’s not as if you would deliberately go there, just to if you can get lost.
No, my idea is that you have been kidnapped and drugged, then taken to a location either in the book of a car or just in the back seat with a hood, then dropped off and left to die
The criminals in this story are more efficient in getting rid of pesky witnesses.
Or maybe it’s something less sinister, like going out and counting the koalas in the bush, well, what’s left of the bush as the suburban spray takes more and more of the koala’s habitat.
And it could also be like the planet of the apes, the koalas start fighting back.
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.
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.
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.”
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 