For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
…
Johannsen hadn’t signed up for this. He’d been in the room when Leonardo reported to Wallace, to tell him that the villagers had been neutralised, and he brought the ring leaders of the so-called resistance to the castle.
By his reckoning, Leonardo and his men had killed probably 20 or so people who had nothing to do with the war, other than try to live around the war going on in their backyard.
In fact, when he had arrived at the castle, the intention was to work with the locals and the resistance to facilitate the onward movement of prized defectors. Until Jackerby arrived, and the dynamic changed.
Johannsen hadn’t realised that Wallace was a double agent, not until it was too late.
The thing of it was, Wallace thought he was a double agent too, a belief Johannsen had taken extreme care not to dispel. And, where it was possible, he had tried to help those caught up in Wallace’s trap.
Wallace was already in situ at the castle when Johannsen arrived with another four men to join those already there, on order from London to vet the incoming defectors. Those four he had met at the plane, and he hadn’t realised they were not who they were supposed to be. By the time the four who had been replaced were found, it was too late to stop the mission.
That brought the complement to 10 including Wallace and himself. Then he received a message, one he assumed was from Thompson, advising the arrival of a further 5, Jackerby and four soldiers.
He soon discovered that those orders were false.
When Jackerby reported to Wallace, and the fact Wallace sent him out of the room, he stayed behind, hidden, to listen to the conversation. There he discovered he was in the midst of an enemy operation that had enlisted a number of double agents across Euprope from the German Army.
He then tried to warn Thompson in a coded message, but that had been substituted by Wallace with another, causing another lamb to be sent to the slaughter, Atherton. When Jackerby first arrived, he advised Wallace, not Johannsson, that Atherton was not one of them, so an attempt was made on,his life, but failed.
For a while that was the equivalent of throwing a cat among the pigeons.
By the time the paratroopers arrived, there was no effort to hide who they were or what they were doing. The castle was, for all intents and purposes, a Nazi stronghold, there to collect and execute defectors. All he had to do was play his part, and try not to rouse the suspicions of Jackerby, whom, it seemed, trusted no one.
Wallace wasn’t all that interested in being as suspicious as Jackerby, who had to be gestapo, or worse, one of the SS.
But luck was on Johansson side when he took a plan to Wallace that would essentially free Atherton, and then have Atherton lead them to the other resistance. It was also a master stroke to select Burke, a simple man who liked to think everything was his idea.
That Atherton had got away was no fault of his, but those charged with following him. Jackerby had tried to mess with him, but Wallace intervened, telling Jackerby that he had had missing people too and should be out there looking for them.
With any luck, Johansson thought, they would be dead, a likely result since none of them had come back yet. Now, all he could do was sit and wait for Atherton and whoever was left from the resistance to come and stop Wallace, and especially Jackerby.
Johansson knew that Atherton had a good working knowledge of the castle’s architecture, because on one occasion they had discussed archaeology. Johansson was not an archaeologist, but had worked with one and an assistant, before the war, at several digs.
He was hoping Atherton had a idea where there might be a secret entrance to the castle. It was old, and in his spare time, he had been pacing out room measurements, looking for nooks and crannies, and anything else that would be useful.
He had found a room full of swords, not exactly in fighting condition, but might be useful in a situation that called for a weapon. After all, he had taken a few sword fighting lessons at the university.
He had traversed several stone passageways, found two different passageways from the upstairs down to the radio room, and beyond that, where there was an exit or entrance, what in modern terminology would be called the tradesman’s entrance.
It was for all intents and purposes, a back door.
He had also gone around the whole perimeter of the outer castle wall, looking for holes. When he thought about it, leaving holes in the wall was asking for trouble because the idea was to keep people out, not to leave quickly and quietly in the middle of a siege.
And this castle had seen a few sieges in its time. More than once if he could travel back in time, he would have like to see what it was like 200 years ago, or more.
But there were only three entrances or exits that he knew of. There were no grates on the ground, or anywhere within 20 yards of the exterior wall, or conveniently hidden in the surrounding forests.
He was also sure there were hidden passageways inside the castle that must go somewhere, a result of checking internal measurements of rooms, and a few came up oddly short a few yards.
Still down in the dungeon on another of his subterfuges, the new arrivals guard had just appeared.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
The shrill ring tone of my phone woke me. And, for a moment I was in a state of panic because I’d woken in unfamiliar surroundings. Until my eyes cleared and I realized I was still at Nadia’s. And it was morning. What the…. The phone was still ringing, and Nadia, lying on the bed beside me rolled over and said, sleepily, “Are you going to answer that?” I picked up the phone off the bedside table and pressed the green button. I already knew it was Boggs. “Don’t you know what time it is?” It was nine, a respectable hour of the morning to call. It was just that I was tired. “Where are you?” I could lie, or I could tell the truth. I don’t think I should say at home because I suspect that was where Boggs was now. And my mother would be there, wondering what happened to me. “Out and about. Nice day for some exercise. Why?” “Your mother is not happy you didn’t come home. And I’m surprised. Where were you?” Good question. One that needed time to consider, time I didn’t have. “Surveillance. I’ve been watching Alex and his friends. It’s been a long night. What do you want?” “I was going to head down towards Kentville, check on the other river. We need to drive down there.” “Well, right now I’m busy, so it will have to wait until tomorrow morning. Sorry. I have a job to do, and then I have to get home before I go to work.” “What was Alex up to?” “Not over the phone. I’ll tell you when I see you. Come back home about lunchtime.” I could tell by the silence he wasn’t happy. “OK.” He hung up. I glared at the phone and put it back on the table, then turned to look at Nadia. First thing I noted, we were both still in the clothes we were wearing the previous night. “What happened?” “Nothing.” A momentary look of disappointment crossed her face. “You were tired and I told you to stay.” “Nothing can happen, or I’ll become Vince fodder.” “I wouldn’t tell him.” “He’d find out. He has walls as spies.” I looked around the room looking for potential spy cameras or bug locations. “He wouldn’t dare.” I climbed off the bed and smoothed out my clothes. It didn’t make much difference to the crumpled look. “At least it looks like I’ve been on an all-night surveillance assignment.” “What are you going to tell Boggs.” “Nothing. There’s nothing concrete to tell him yet, just that Alex is, like the rest of us, running around in circles. Nadia remained on the bed, and even though she looked as messy as I did, hers was a far more alluring messy. I could feel the pangs of a forbidden desire. Time to go. “Come back tonight. We can go on a voyage of discovery, see the mall as you’ve never seen it before.” “Sounds like a Discovery Channel documentary advert.” She sat up then stood and teased the knots out of her hair. It was the first time I’d seen it out. It gave her a whole new, softer look. “Is that a look of desire I see in your eyes, Smidge?” And the whole moment was shot to pieces. “Don’t call me that. I’ll see you tonight, though I’m not sure why.” I let myself out, after carefully checking to see if the way out was clear. The last thing I wanted, or needed, was to tangle with Vince. Or ending up letting the dream become reality.
This is not a treatise, but a tongue in cheek, discussion on how to write short stories. Suffice to say this is not the definitive way of doing it, just mine. It works for me – it might not work for you.
Everyone has one in them, possibly more, and me, well, it’s how I keep the wolves from the door.
Yes, I read my stories to them and they fall asleep.
Or maybe not, I’m never quite sure what effect anything I write has on anyone. And, reading a lot of the posts on how to handle bad reviews and rejection, such a recurrent theme, I don’t think I want to.
Ignorance is bliss, is it not?
Well, one day I’m sure something will happen. It’s probably in the seven stages of writing:
Euphoria
Planning
Research
Writing
Failure
Search for the guilty
Distinction for the uninvolved
I guess you don’t fail if you don’t put it out there. Searching for the guilty, well, there’s only one person to blame, the editor, and distinction for the uninvolved, didn’t your friend, relation, confidente, significant other, say it wasn’t going to work?
But, despite everything, I like writing short stories and try to produce one in a single sitting. I try to keep the word count down, but the stories, somehow they just evolve in my head and don’t want to end the main character’s story.
In reality, there is no end to the story unless they die, and then, of course, the story branches off, just like a family tree,
Some stories are so intricate, they need another story to fill in the gaps, and then another because the plot is running through your head at a thousand miles an hour and your fingers won’t stop typing, because if you do, it will all dissipate into thin air like smoke.
Stories can, you know, dissipate like smoke, one minute your mining a rich vein the next, you’ve hit a ton of worthless quartz.
Then all the constraints come into play, nagging at the back of your mind, and you find yourself waking up in a bath of sweat crying out, I didn’t do it, the crime that is, not lose the best 2,000 words you’ve ever written.
But that’s all of those words you write, isn’t it?
But I digress, and I’ll write some more on the subject, what was it again?
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
Jackerby came back and sat down. It was clear he was annoyed his lunch was interrupted.
“Atherton’s not among those Leonardo brought back.”
Johannsen silently breathed a sigh of relief. While he was still outside there was hope he would not get hurt. If he had the sense to keep his head down. Anyone else, Johannesen would not have cared.
“Who did Leonardo bring in?”
“Some woman called Martina, the one he says is in charge of the resistance. He said he raided their last stronghold, killed everyone except the three people he knew were in the resistance. They’re now in the dungeons.”
“We should be down there asking questions.” A pointed glare from Wallace carried the message, what are you doing here?
“No use. He nearly killed them, and it’ll take a while for them to recover.”
“To find out where Atherton is?”
“It seems that was the least of his concerns. Apparently, she apparently humiliated him so he was more interested in payback.”
“It wouldn’t be hard to humiliate a fool like him,” Johannsen muttered.
Wallace glared at him. “You should have more faith in our Italian friends, Richard.”
“My faith in him extends only to the fact he will drink the cellar dry.”
Wallace shrugged. “Once he’s served his purpose…” and left it at that. “Have you got onto London and asked them for further information on Mayer?”
“I think, by now, they would have tumbled to what’s going on here. Especially after I saw Atherton come out of the radio room just before Jackerby arrived. I asked the operator, and he gave me a coded message, but it’s not like any code I’ve seen.”
“And you’re telling me this now?”
“At least he didn’t smash it, which is what I would have done. We haven’t heard any more from High Command other than to say the traitor was thought to be heading for Innsbruck and coming over the mountains near the Brenner Pass. They’ve got people looking, but nothing as yet.”
“Now we’ve lost Carmichael, do we have a description of him?”
“Yes.”
“Good. At least something is happening.”
After lunch, Johannsson went down to the dungeon to check on the prisoners. Wallace had assigned their ‘welfare’ to him. It was a difficult assignment seeing they arrived both exhausted, weak, and then subjected to an initial interrogation that determined whether or not they got medicines or food.
Most were left to starve. Any women were sent to the soldier’s barracks, where they were out of his control. None had ever come back, and he was ordered not to go check on them.
All told, there were 12 still in cells, with three due to be executed later that day. All had worked in an armaments factory and had admitted to having information about the bombs that were being dropped over England.
Another six had yet to say what information they had, and had been subjected to severe torture, the handiwork of two of Jackerby’s men, and who Johannsen thought had been trained by the Gestapo. In fact, he believed they were Gestapo, and that Jackerby, though he didn’t have the uniform, was a ranking SS officer.
Not a man to cross. Leonardo would find that out soon enough.
The most recent three, the resistance fighters were put in separate cells next to each other. The guards had been told to listen to any conversations they had, and report. As yet, none of them had spoken.
Considering the condition they arrived in, that was no surprise.
He stood outside the cell holding the woman they called Martina.
The leader.
She hadn’t moved from the moment she had been dropped there.
A guard appeared beside him.
“Nothing yet?” Johansson asked him.
“I doubt they’ll speak again. If that’s what Leonardo does to his so-called countrymen; I’d hate to see what he does to his enemies.”
“You let me know if she says anything.”
The soldier nodded, then went back to his station.
The other two were men, one old, one younger. An odd group to be part of the resistance. The woman he could understand and was the key.
He now believed Atherton would come to rescue her. Like any good British soldier, his empathy would be his downfall.
A long time ago, when I was 17 or 18, I used to do a lot of reading. It was a long ride in on the train from home to work, and back again, and I did, then, have the time to read.
Having my own money, I was able to buy my own books, and these generally ran to mysteries and thriller, and naval stories. The later took my interest for a while because I had notions of becoming an Ensign until I realized I needed better educational qualifications and a higher level of fitness.
So much for those aspirations, so I just read about what it would be like.
However…
I worked with a number of interesting characters, including one, a chap who was about 25, really old and wise to a 17-year-old, who deplored my reading choices.
It seemed Agatha Christie, Ngaio Marsh, Brian Callison, Hammond Innes, and Alistair Maclean didn’t quite fit the reading profile he thought I should follow.
Well, I hadn’t been to university, and I hadn’t realized there was such a thing as English, or any other, literature. He was adamant that if I wanted to call myself a ‘man of books’ I had to read ‘proper’ books.
So, what eventuated, was a reading list.
If I wanted to converse with him on literature, I had to read every book on the list.
And I wanted to appear, at least, slightly more sophisticated, that the reader of penny dreadfuls. I didn’t know what that meant, and in those days there was no internet, so it remained for a long time a phrase of mystery.
But, the reading list,
‘Hard Times,’ and ‘Bleak House’ by Charles Dickens
‘Seven Pillars of Wisdom’ by T.E. Lawrence, yes, that famous man who was better known as Lawrence of Arabia
‘Tess of the D’Urbervilles’ by Thomas Hardy, which fuelled a desire to read most of Hardy’s books
‘The Day of the Triffids’, by John Wyndham, a rather strange addition to the list since it was science fiction. I suspect he was a closet Trekker.
‘To the Lighthouse’, by Virginia Wolff
‘Pride and Prejudice’ by Jane Austen
‘And Quietly Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Alexandrovich Sholokhov. I had great fears that I would have to learn Russian, but that wasn’t the only shock, so was the size of the book
‘War and Peace’, talking about long books, by Leo Tolstoy
‘One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich’ by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, and thereby concluding the Russian classics
Of course, your definition of literature can change, and as a result of reading all of these books, and it took quite some time, and this led to selecting a more interesting collection of books to read, which he, in some small measure, took the credit for.
I discovered R.F Delderfield, and the trilogy, ‘A Horseman Riding By’, which led to ‘The Headmaster’, ‘The Avenue’, and ‘God is an Englishman’
C.S. Forester and the Hornblower series, but who also wrote several mysteries
F. Scott Fitzgerald and ‘The Great Gatsby’ as well as several other classics
Eric Ambler, master of thrillers from the ’30s and ’50s, particularly spy novels, and was probably the one who introduced me to the world of espionage
and last but not least, Dashiell Hammett’s ‘The Maltese Falcon’.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
There was a clock tower not far from the hotel, and I heard it strike 12 midnight. It was time to go home before I turned into a pumpkin. Or perhaps I didn’t quite have it right. It didn’t matter. I needed sleep and it wasn’t going to happen here.
Nadia was being a temptress and not even realizing it.
“You need me on your team. I know the inside of the mall like the back of my hand.”
It didn’t surprise me. She used to run with a group of girls who could give Alex and Vince a run for their money in being cruel. I was positive now that she was in the mall at the same time we were, and quite possibly following us. After what Alex said earlier, there were going to be a lot of people following each other.
“You know where the bodies are?”
A slight hesitation before she said, “I might.”
The question was whose bodies. Missing girls, Benderby’s enemies. Certainly not the archaeologist, but if there was a torture chamber down there, maybe some clues that would point the police in the right direction.
“Well, tempting as that sounds, but no.”
“What if I told you I think I know where they tortured that archaeologist guy.”
“Why would they, in fact, it’s the one thing in all of this that puzzles me. Rico might have had a reason simply because he’s little more than a blunt instrument, not an extractor of information, that required a little more refinement than he’s, and the Benderby’s, what on earth could he know that they needed it from him.”
“Try the exact contents of this so-called treasure.”
“No one could possibly know what that pirate, whatever his name was, actually had?”
Not unless he was with the captain when he buried it, which, of course, unless he was a time traveler, he wasn’t and therefore couldn’t know.
“No one could possibly know that.”
“I beg to differ.”
She knew something we didn’t. This was turning out to be a very interesting day.
“How?”
“Say for instance the pirate had a journal, a ship log I think it’s called, and in that journal, he noted everything he pillaged from all of the ships they attacked.”
“You’ve seen it?” I asked, slightly incredulously. This was the first I’d heard of one, and I doubted Boggs had either unless it was something he was not telling me.
“No.”
“How do you know about it?”
“Vince.”
“He’s pulling your leg. There’s no such journal or log in existence.”
“Oh, there is. That’s what the archaeologist had. And that’s what both Alex and Vince were trying to buy. And when he wouldn’t sell it to Alex, his men went a little too far with their persuasion tactics.”
“I bet Vince wasn’t happy.”
“No. He thinks Alex does know where it is, so they’re playing their games of cat and mouse. But it’s a waste of time. My source tells me the archaeologist never gave up the location of the journal. Both the Benderby’s and the Cossatino’s have been to his house but it was nowhere to be found.”
And if that was the case, then there would be no interior to the house left, one of the other would have stripped the walls in their search. But, if it was true and there was such a journal, two questions came to mind. The obvious was, where was it? The less obvious was why didn’t the archaeologist go looking for the treasure himself?
There was an answer, that he didn’t have the right map.
I cast my mind back to the only time Boggs showed me what he called the real map. It had been folded, and you could see the fold marks that had been there for a long, long time. Was it possible at some point the map was separated from the journal?
Had someone known about the map, and stolen it and rather than the journal?
“I can see the cogs ticking over in your head Smidge. You are going to need me, in the end. Especially if you find the treasure. You’ll want to know what both Vince and Alex are up to, and little old me with be right there between them.”
“You think that Alex doesn’t know what you’re up to?”
“You already know more than you did when you walked in the door. Either of them finds the treasure, I get nothing. You and Boggs find it, maybe I’ll get something. I don’t care what they think.”
She was dangerous, deceptive, and beguiling sometimes all at the same time. This was one of those moments.
“I think Boggs doesn’t entirely trust you, or anyone,” she said.
“That couldn’t possibly surprise you. Look what’s happened to him over the years. No one knows what happened to his father.”
“Maybe we can find out. How about you and I pay the mall a visit. I guarantee it will be a lot more interesting than finding a mannequin.”
It was not for the first time, but this time was significant because he had basically agreed in principle to vote for both sides.
And, when he realized what had happened, he had, depending on how you looked at it, been tricked.
Not good for someone who was well respected by both sides, and whose vote would count towards picking up those who were undecided.
That was just pointed out to him by Amy, his personnel assistant, the moment he arrived back in the office.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at a point just past her head, a copy of a painting by one of the old masters, still an object of beauty.
“So, when did Cheney change sides?” He asked, dragging his attention back to the problem in hand.
He suddenly realized what had happened, and it was a well thought out scheme. Cheney had always been on board with the Board’s recommendation until he accepted Kane’s invitation to come to a meeting that would attempt to explain why the board’s recommendation was wrong.
He should have been skeptical of Cheney’s sudden change of mind, and then of the discussions he had attended with Cheney’s allies, with the objective of changing their minds too. In fact, he had left with the impression he had persuaded them, saying, in essence, they should all vote against.
Seeing Cheney that morning with the leader of the group agreeing to vote for the motion, should have set off alarm bells. The phone call from Williams, the head of the group voting for the board’s recommendation, saying he was pleased that Kane had finally seen ‘the light’ as he called it, had been interesting, to say the least, especially when he mentioned in passing, how very much the board appreciated Kane’s confidence in them.
He had done no such thing.
Instead, Cheney had put him on the spot, and his words were now being taken out of context.
“This morning. I just got word from Ellie, who told me he had a breakfast meeting with Jacobs and Meadows. She said he came back looking very pleased with himself.”
Jacobs was the chairman of the board and Meadows was the CEO who was pushing the new plan, which would break up, and sell-off, or disband, the underperforming divisions of the company. By having Meadows in attendance, Jacobs could basically offer Cheney anything he wanted.
And top of his list was my division.
“Yes, and I think we can guess why. He wants this division. Of course, if they gave it to him, it would not be the magic bullet he thinks it will be. Nor would it line the shareholders, and therefore the board members pockets as it has in the past.”
“Is this situation the proverbial double-edged sword?”
“It depends. I doubt you could quit out of dissatisfaction with a crappy board decision. I doubt anyone could in the current financial climate. But you won’t have to worry. It might mean going back to the pool for a while if you don’t want to work with Cheney.”
“No problem there. Ellie had already told me my days are numbered.”
Understandable. Ellie and Amy had put themselves forward for the role of Jake’s personal assistant, and Ellie had tried very hard to convince him Amy was not suitable for a variety of reasons, none of which he found valid, and appointed her. Ellie was not one who forgot or forgave easily.
Although he didn’t like denigrating anyone, he had said more than once to Amy, both Ellie and Cheney suited each other. Neither cared who or what they destroyed to get what they wanted.
“Then it looks like you and I are heading for the scrap heap.”
“Sounds like an excuse for a long lunch.” She smiled. For a woman who was about to lose a dream job, she was in remarkably good spirits.
“Ask me again in an hour. I have a few things to do.”
“Call in some favors, maybe?”
People didn’t rise in a company over several decades without making friends, making enemies, and stumbling over information which may or may not be used depending on circumstances at the time. He had a few interesting tidbits in his arsenal, but whether he would use them or not wasn’t uppermost in his mind.
“We’ll have to see.”
Jake watched her leave, and, not for the first time, he wondered what life with her might be like. He had never married, but had, for a number of years had a more or less relationship with the Chairman’s daughter, before she broke it off. He suspected the Chairman had instigated it given the number of times she had tried to contact him since parting.
That door had closed. As for Amy, she had a husband who was a member of the armed services and had been killed in Afghanistan. She had weathered that event and finally come out the other side of some very dark days, some of which he had witnessed personally, and tried to help where he could. But was she up to dipping her foot into the dating thing. He wasn’t prepared to ask. Not yet.
He sighed and picked up the phone. It was time to call Jacobs. It was the day I knew he would be in his office, not at the factory site where we all were housed, but in the top floor of a prestigious building in the city, twenty miles away You could call it an ivory tower, but the board did oversee the functioning of seven different and diversified companies.
Some time ago they had called for ideas on how to integrate a lot of the similar processes of those diversified companies, but in the end, they had paid a ‘crony’ a million dollars for an unworkable plan, and it had not gone any further. Now, the conglomerate was bleeding cash, someone had come up with a new, knee jerk, plan.
Jacobs was surprised to hear from him.
“I was told,” he said, “everyone is now on board.”
“They probably are. It’s just that it is no longer a problem for me. You’ll have my resignation on your desk by close of business.”
That statement was met with silence. Stunned, or was it smug satisfaction. He had always viewed Kane as a thorn in his side.
“Is that really necessary?”
“I think you know why, and whatever the plan was, it has backfired. I don’t need the job, nor do I need the aggravation of scheming and plotting.”
“I think you’re making a mistake, but let’s be very clear about this, you leave, there’s no coming back. If I were you, I would consider my position very carefully.”
Interesting reaction. The only conclusion from his reaction was that the thorn was now removed.
I expected just such a reaction.
Now, for the next job. Kane went down to the factory floor and called in all the production managers. Like himself, he knew most of them didn’t really have to stay, some could retire, some could go into business by themselves, most could walk into another job, even a better job, the next day.
Kane left that meeting a half-hour later, telling them the decision to stay and work under Cheney, a man none of them liked, was their decision but he was moving on.
He called Amy, asked if she had sent his resignation letter, which she had, and to pick the restaurant for lunch, the more expensive the better, and that he would pick her up outside the front of the office block.
For Kane, it was the 107th day of what he called the rest of his life. He was woken by the sun streaming in through the window of his hotel room. He had reached Singapore and had been told that Raffles Hotel was the place to stay.
He agreed. Old but new, the place just reeked of nostalgia.
The figure beside him stirred, opened her eyes, and smiled.
“Good morning, Amy.”
“It is a good morning, isn’t it Kane?”
Over lunch that fateful day 107 days ago, he took the chance of asking her if she would be interested in dating him. Nothing heavy, no strings, he would understand if she thought it inappropriate.
She didn’t think it was inappropriate, just wanted to know why it had taken him so long.
The had got married in Rome, 42 days ago, in a quaint little church, and after a week, moved to Venice for the honeymoon. They hadn’t set a limit on how long it should be. There was no reason to go back.
Of course, just when it’s least expected, the phone would ring. His cell phone. It was the first time in months.
“Hello?”
He was surprised it was Jacobs. He’d followed the fortunes of the company he had abruptly left, as it tried to implement the plan that Cheney and his ‘friends of the board’ had voted for. One problem after another; in three months the stock value of the parent company had lost 90% of its value. As Kane had expected, every one of his management team resigned the day after, knowing full well, once Cheney was installed as manager, the transition would fail.
Now, faced with hostile shareholders, a corporate watchdog investigation, someone had to turn around the company’s fortunes or it would slide into liquidation before the week was out.
“It seems that we have serious problems implementing the restructure. We have made some mistakes, but I think if I could tell the receivers that we have a plan and you would be heading up a new management team, we could save the company and all of the employees.”
The 2,500 left. They should have left well alone, and the whole 8,000 that had been there the day Kane left would still be employed.
The Board and upper management would do well out of the company going under. The staff, well, they always lost.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Now, if you don’t mind, I have business to attend to. Goodbye.”
I turned the phone off and put it back on the bedside table.
“Who was that?”
“Someone from another lifetime. Now, where were we?”
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
Leonardo was a happy man.
It was quite a by coincidence that they had run into Chiara, and it hadn’t taken long to break her. He had thought of taking her to the castle to let Jackerby extract the information, but he was tired of them telling him what to do.
He would get the information, and then act, taking the ringleaders of the remnants of the resistance back to the castle, and expect to get that well-earned pat on the back for a job well done.
He’d said he would take care of the rabble, and he had.
Until Wallace had asked him where Atherton was.
And there was that small problem of Carlo, too, though he was not going to mention that in his report to Jackerby.
Francesco had softened the three leaders of the resistance up before taking them to the castle, taking particular pleasure in attending to Martina himself. The three could barely walk and were almost dragged up to the castle.
The first question Jackerby asked was why he had beaten them when he’d expressly been told to bring them to the castle alive and in a fit state to be questioned. None of the three was in any sort of state to do anything other than collapse.
Jackerby’s men took them to the dungeons.
The second question Jackerby asked was where Atherton was.
“That was basically the whole point of the exercise,” he yelled at Leonardo, who, by this time was getting annoyed himself.
“He’s still out there, and you can be assured he will be causing us trouble. Those three you dragged back, whilst a nuisance, hardly compare to what Atherton can do.”
“There’s only one of him. There’s no way he’s going to be able to break into this castle, by himself, and do anything.”
Jackerby shook his head. It would not matter what he said, Leonardo was just a fool, a petty little thug who quite rightly had been ostracised by the rest of the village. And when this exercise was over and Mayer was recaptured, he was going to take extreme pleasure in killing Leonardo and his followers.
“Go get something to eat, rest, then get back out there. I want Atherton found. Surely there is nowhere left where he can hide.”
There was a dozen, or more, places, Leonardo thought but he wasn’t going to tell Jackerby that. Instead, he had made up his mind to do as Jackerby asked, rest, then take a few hours the check all the entrances and exits to the castle before going back out to find Atherton.
Or at least that was what he was going to tell Jackerby.
In reality, he had had enough of these interlopers, and it was time he removed them from the castle. It was time he took over. The war was not going to end any time soon according to his sources further north, and there were worse places than a castle to hole up in until the war ended. Especially considering how much wine was being stored in the cellars.
Wallace was in the dining room and had been in the middle of lunch when Leonardo came back. Rather than talk to him, he sent Jackerby to deal with it.
Johannsen was sitting at the other end of the table, contemplating the wine. It was not a good idea to be drinking wine in the middle of the day when trouble could arrive from any number of quarters.
In fact, he was surprised that the other resistance hadn’t made an all-out attack on them. It seemed unlikely to him that those that hadn’t followed Leonardo up the hill, were of little consequence.
If anything, and of his experience of the resistance in France, one resistance fighters was worth 10 or more enemy soldiers. They had a reason to fight, for their country, and liberation for the Nazis.
Of course, Leonardo and his men were oblivious to the fact that they were working for the Germans, not the British, but to them, he thought, anyone other than an Italian was worth working for if they were prepared to pay.
Leonardo and his men were mercenaries. Guns for hire. They didn’t care who they worked for. But there was something else. Leonardo hated the villagers, and it wasn’t difficult to convince him they needed to be kept in line and report any newcomers to the castle.
Adding the reward was a bonus.
“Atherton’s not going to come and present himself at the front door, you know that,” he said to Wallace.
Then he decided to have some wine. It’s not as if the war would be arriving any time soon.
“You know him best. A fighter, an organizer, or office boy.”
“Paper pusher, by all accounts. I’m not sure why Thompson would send him other than he was desperately out of good agents. You saw how much resistance he put up.”
“Jackerby seems to think there’s more to him.”
“Jackerby sees shadows where there are none. Where did you say he came from?”
“North Africa.”
“Then he’s had too much sun.”
“A little advice then. I wouldn’t say that to his face.”
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
For a thug like Alex to actually have something that resembled a good idea, perhaps it was more the people he surrounded himself with that made him look clever.
Boggs had not mentioned anything about the people who owned the land before the Naval yard had been constructed. Perhaps he had maps dating back to then, or maybe he didn’t. Boggs didn’t exactly confide in me everything he knew.
Maybe he didn’t trust me.
But there was a new lead now, courtesy of Alex, and it was one that I was going to chase down and bring it to Boggs at the appropriate time.
I need to find information about the Ormiston family, and whether or not there were any descendants in the area. But first, I would have to go to the library and talk to the ‘old biddy’, Gwendoline Frobisher, Gwen to her friends. Fortunately, I knew her well from the days of studying in the library.
And on some of my free days, helped her out with cataloging and returning books to their shelf positions. She only had one helper then, and she was older the Gwen, and not a lot of help putting books back on the higher shelves.
The rest of my shift was uneventful, and I closed and locked the door at precisely 11 pm. On the way to where I left my bicycle, my cell phone rang. Boggs? He knew when I finished, and how punctual I was when leaving.
I looked at the screen. Private Number.
I was going to ignore it, but, in the end, curiosity got the better of me.
“Yes?”
“Smidge?”
Nadia. What was she calling me for at this hour of the night?
“I told you not to call me Smidge.”
“Sorry, a force of habit. It sort of suits you though.”
“Then I’m hanging up.”
I went to press the disconnect button, but I could hear her saying, ‘don’t do that, I have some news.”
I waited a few seconds before I answered, “What news.”
“Not the sort you talk of over the phone.”
But it is the sort of hook someone would use to lure you to a place where Vince could beat you up. She had done it before.
“Not if it’s a trap. Sorry, but too many bad memories of your treachery, Nadia.”
“It’s not like that, now. You know what I think of Vince these days.”
“I know how you’d like me to think you think of Vince, but that could be all show. You are, after all, a Cossatino, and you can’t change those spots.”
“I can, and I have. Promise. Meet me at the hotel.”
“Now?”
“It’s not as if anyone’s going to notice, and, if they do, you can guess what they’ll be thinking.”
I sighed. It was giving me a headache. “Half an hour,” I said, and disconnected the call.
Half of me was saying not to go, the other half was intrigued, not so much for the news, but visiting Nadia in the middle of the night. Many years ago, I used have dreams about Nadia, not ones that were spoken of out loud. Now I had the chance to fulfill one; not so sure.
Near to midnight, everyone should be in bed, everyone except those staying at the hotel. Lights we on in several of the rooms, and a customer was in the office.
I parked the bike near the office and walked quickly to her room, knocked on the door lightly, and braced myself for the ‘surprise’, Vince waiting for me.
She opened the door and I looked over her shoulder. It looked empty but there was a lot of space I couldn’t see from that position.
“There’s no one here.” She grabbed me by the shoulder and dragged me in, looked up and down the corridor, then closed the door.
I quickly checked the bathroom. Clothes hanging from the shower rail, a very messy room. My impression of her was shattered.
“You see anything interesting in there?”
I assumed she was referring to the underwear. There might have been a momentary stray thought, but it was not one I’d admit to.
And in her dressing gown, it was hard to suppress the shive down my spine.
I sat on the end of the unmade bed. An odd thought, didn’t she let the housemaids in to tidy up, or, had she spent all day in bed? Scrub those thoughts.
“What is this news?”
“What were you doing at the mall?”
Was that Nadia in the yellow? I glanced around her room and then my eyes rested for a second on a yellow jacked tossed in a corner on the floor. Damn.
“What mall? I tried to sound convincingly surprised.
“You know what mall. You were with Boggs. What were you two up to?”
“I thought you had news for me?”
“I have. Stay away from that place. Otherwise, you might get buried there. That’s the Benderby’s torture chamber, and where they bury the evidence of their crimes.”
“Those are only rumors.”
“Not according to Vince. He reckons he’s seen a body there.”
“Perhaps he was mistaking it for a dressed mannequin. Even I’ve seen that.”
“You’re a fool. Don’t keep following that Boggs around like his little lap dog. He’s eventually going to get you into a mess you can’t get out of. There’s a lot of his father in him. Doesn’t know when to let it go.”
“This coming from Vince or you, because it sure sounds like Vince trying to put us of the scent.”
“What do you think happened to that archaeologist they found on Rico’s boat?”
“Well, my first thought was the Benderby’s did for him. As far as I can tell, the Benderby’s got him to verify the provenance of the gold coins they found on the ocean bed.”
“You mean the two surfers?”
“The Benderby’s bought them off them.”
“You mean the Benderby’s paid them, then two days later they turn up in a dive hotel having overdosed on heroin and not a cent to their names? That event was not widely known because Benderby bought off the reporter for the local paper.
“If you know about it, why did the Cossatino’s make some noise?”
“Because it was their heroin.”
This was terrifying, to be caught between a turf war with either side willing to stitch up the other, for points, or for their silence. Boggs and I were two small fish in a very smelly pond, with no chance at outwitting these two.
The story below was the one that was supposed to be published under T, but the month got away from me and I was not able to get most of what I wanted to do done.
After all, it was the A to Z as well as NaNoWriMo for April, and the notion I could write 26 short stories and complete a 50,000 word novel at the same time…
What was I thinking?
Anyway, I had the bones of the story written, I just needed time to finish it. So, here it is, as will for the next few days, stories for U, V, W, X, Y and Z.
…
The email I received said:
“Go to Newark airport, go to the United booking desk and give them your name. Take proof of identity. Pack for five days, light.”
It was going to be, supposedly, a magical mystery tour. I read in a travel magazine, that a company offered five day inclusive trips to anywhere. You do not get the destination, just what to take. Then, just be prepared for anything.
I paid the money and waited, until last evening when the email came.
I was ready.
When I presented my credentials as requested, I found myself going to Venice, Italy, a place I had never been before.
When I looked it up, it said it took about 10 hours to get there with one stop in between. Enough time to read up on the many places to go and see, though according to the instructions, everything had been arranged in advance.
I could also take the time to brush up my schoolboy Italian.
When I got off the plane at Marco Polo airport, in Venice, it was mid-morning, but an hour or so was lost going through immigration and customs. A water taxi was waiting to take me to a hotel where I would receive further instructions. I was hoping it would on or overlooking the Grand Canal.
At the airport I wondered if there was going to be anyone else on this trip, or whether I would be doing it alone. I’d read sometimes likeminded people were put together for a shared experience.
We had to agree and then fill out an extensive profile so they could appropriately match people. Sometimes, people joined at different times along the way, you just never knew what was going to happen.
That random unpredictability was just what I needed having just gone through a breakup after a long period of peacefulness and stability, and frankly, I would not have chosen this type of tour if I had not.
It was a pleasant half hour or so winding our way through the canals, having paid the driver extra to take long route. I’d not been in Venice before, but I had read about it, and while some of the negative comments were true, it didn’t diminish the place in my eyes.
And the hotel, on its own island overlooking the main canal was stylish and elegant, and my room exactly where I’d hoped it would be. I think I spent the next hour just looking out at the city, and the boats going by, like a freeway or turnpike, a never-ending stream of traffic.
A knock on the door interrupted what might have been described as a reverie, by one of the concierge staff delivering an envelope with my name on it.
Perhaps more instructions.
“Tomorrow will be a free day in Venice. See attached suggested itinerary for ideas on what to do. Then, the following day you will be travelling from Venice to Florence by train departing Santa Maria Novella at 10:20 am.”
I looked at the list of suggested places to visit and a day would not be enough, but I could always come back. I’d always assumed this trip would give me some idea of what was on offer, and that if it was great, I could always come back.
A second reading of the instructions picked up something I’d almost missed. A dining party in the hotel where others like myself, with similar arrangements to mine might attend. It was underlined that it was not mandatory to attend, only if you wanted to.
The only provisor was that you do not talk about where you were going, only about yourselves, an opportunity to meet others and not dine alone. It was an interesting idea. All we had to do was give our name and the time of the booking.
I would think about it.
I arrived at the entrance to the restaurant at five minutes to eight, after a long deliberation on the merits of whether I wanted to see the other travellers.
At first, I thought what the point would be if you couldn’t talk about where you were going, but, after more thought, I wondered what it was that motivated those people who had also opted for a leap into the unknown.
These were not adventure holidays as such, just someone else planning the itinerary so you didn’t have to.
I gave the maitre’d my name and he escorted me to a table set for ten, of which four people were already seated. Were they expecting ten? Would anyone not turn up?
We exchanged greetings and I sat. Two men, two women, sitting together. My first thought, two couples, but I would not make any assumptions.
One of the women spoke first, “My name is Marina Delosa. I assume you are another intrepid traveller?”
“Ben Davis. I’m not so sure about the intrepid part, just lazy, I think, because I’m not very good at arranging my own travel.”
“I think you might say that applies to all of us,” she said.
The others introduced themselves as Angela and Harry Benson, and David Wilson.
“We were quite pleased they chose to start our tour in Italy. I have always wanted to visit Venice, so the travel Gods must be smiling on us,” Harry said.
“I must say I was surprised. I guess it’s one of the benefits of this type of travel, not knowing where you’re going to end up. I think my secret wish was to come here, too, or at least Italy. I think I have a relative or two that came from here.”
“That might be said for all of us,” Marina said. “One part Italian, one part Irish, and not quite sure what the other parts are.”
Another intrepid adventurer arrived at the table, another woman. She was older than the rest of us, but I would not think by more than ten years. She had the same look of trepidation I had felt before coming. And, at a guess, recently divorced, or separated.
“Anne Lebroski,” she said, leaving a seat between her and I. It was an interesting move. I had deliberately not tried to distance myself.
Only six of a possible ten arrived, and it turned out to be a very good evening. Whilst all of us had that battle within not to talk about where we were going, it seemed to force the issue of talking more about where we had been previously, and what we did with our lives.
And as quickly as it had begun it was over and everyone kept the conversation going until the elevator dropped us off, each to a different floor, as if we were deliberately being kept apart. Of course, it was simply my overactive imagination conjuring up different scenarios, perhaps in an effort to make a simple holiday seem more exciting
Suddenly, once back in my room, a great tiredness came over me and I barely made it into bed. Would we all run into each other the next morning over breakfast? It was a thought that kept me awake for all of a few minutes before slipping into an uneasy sleep.
When I woke up, I was confused and disorientated.
In those initial few seconds, and through the blurry eyes of just having woken, what I saw was unfamiliar.
I was definitely not in my room at home.
It took a few more seconds, in fact, almost a minute, before I realised that I was not at home. It was a hotel room, and quite unusual, light seeping through the thick curtains that covered what had to be a window.
Was in morning, afternoon, or evening? It had to be morning.
And, what was I doing in a hotel room?
When some of the fog had cleared away, I slipped out from under the sheet, and crossed over to the desk on the other side of the room. I pulled the curtain aside slightly and more light came in, splashing across the desk. On it was a piece of paper, a receipt, with the name Hilton Molino Stucky, Venice on it.
What was I doing in Venice?
I pulled the curtains further aside and looked out the window. It overlooked a body of water, and right then, a very large cruise liner was passing by. A very, very large cruise ship.
Then, behind me I heard a noise and turned.
There was someone else in the bed, a head appeared from under the sheet and looked over at me. A woman, messy blonde hair and a familiar face.
I didn’t remember coming to Venice or travelling with anyone. I was sorely tempted to say, “Who are you?” but stifled it. Instead, I asked, in what was a croaky voice, “What happened last night?”
The woman looked surprised. “You don’t remember?”
“To be honest, I’m having a hard time remembering where I am, let alone what I was doing?”
“Well, for starters, you were drinking copious quantities of champagne, which you well know you should not because of what it does to you.”
OK, that had a semblance of truth about it, not that I remember drinking champagne, but what it does to me. Exactly what was happening now. Last time, well, I couldn’t remember, but it wasn’t good.
Still, I didn’t know who this woman was, but I had enough sense to play along. The taste in my mouth reminded me of drinking too much wine, which was what I used to do.
“This much is true. When…” There I stopped, realising how it might sound.
Another look, not of surprise, but disdain perhaps?
“You don’t remember my arriving last night. Nor, I’m willing to bet, inviting me here. You rang two days ago, said you just arrived in Venice, and knowing I was on assignment in Rome, called me, asking if I wanted to come and see you, stay a day or two.”
It was not something I would have done, but for the simple reason I didn’t know anyone in Rome to call. But, oddly, she looked familiar. “Marina?” I said, almost under my breath.
The smile returned. “You do remember.”
“Barely, along with dinner the other night, with some other people. Tourists?”
“Yes. Two days ago, you said you’d asked some travel agents to pick your destination, and it ended up in Venice, along with several others. We’re supposed to be going to Florence this morning, but I was hesitant waking you in case you weren’t feeling well.”
Well, that part was true. I wasn’t. And that reference to Florence, it seemed likely. There was another piece of paper on the desk, an itinerary which said I was travelling to Florence by train. I looked at the clock beside the bed.
6:17 am.
I looked at the itinerary, and the train was at 11 am.
The itinerary had two names on it. Ben and Marina Davis. I knew I was Ben, but I didn’t remember anything about having a wife, or friend, named Marina. More of the fog had lifted in my brain, and every instinct was telling me to play along. I don’t know why that message popped into my head at that exact moment, but it did.
“We’ve got five hours before the train leaves. I suspect it might be a good idea to start getting ready. I’ll call down for coffee, and, bearing in mind I’ve lost all sense of orientation and not exactly sure of everything going around me, as you say I should not be drinking wine in copious quantities, I’ll toss you the phone so you can order whatever you want. Sorry, but for the moment, I’ve forgotten everything.”
Let her counter that, or also play along. Her expression told me she was thinking about what I said, but then shrugged. “You don’t remember asking me, do you?”
“I do remember something, and it involves you because you are very familiar to me, so don’t be too upset. I am glad you’re here, because I was simply dreading travelling in Italy by myself, and you are almost a native. There, I knew there was a perfectly good reason why you’re here.”
She didn’t look quite so sure. “I’ll be in the bathroom,” she said. “Coffee will be fine. I think I had too much to drink last night too.”
After she disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door, odd, I thought, for a woman who had slept in the same bed as I, I called down for coffee and croissants. By that time, I was feeling better, and the queasy stomach was subsiding.
Twenty minutes later there was a knock on the door.
Room service.
“Ben.”
I did remember the person outside the door, dressed as the room service waiter. “Alan.”
“They took the bait?”
“Obviously. Too much booze…”
“Slipped you a mickey. Be careful. These two don’t play by the rules. Luigi is downstairs pacing like a cat ready to pounce. Thin short guy in a cheap black suit, pink shirt and grey tie.” Alan shook his head. “No dress sense whatsoever.”
“I don’t remember much.”
“Nothing happened, don’t worry. Had eyes on you the whole time like we promised. Now, you’ve a train to catch. Just be careful.”
He brought the tray in and put it on the desk.
Marina chose that moment to open the door.
“Room service,” I said. “Coffee for two. There’s a croissant too if you want one.”
“Sir,” Alan muttered, and headed for the door, remembering at the last second to produce a form for me to sign.
Then he was gone.
Fog cleared, everything came back in a rush. She was still standing in the doorway, the only think between her and modest, a large white towel wrapped around her. Beautiful but deadly, Alan had said.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 