The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 13

It’s still a battle of wits, but our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

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

If at first, you don’t succeed, try a few threats, or leverage.

Or just get rid of the problem

Back in my cell, delivered more forcibly than when they escorted me to the interrogation room, I had time to consider his words.

A tactic, I told myself. Classic divide and conquer.

It was obvious that he wanted me to corroborate his suspicion that Breeman had sent the helicopter out to find his operation. Did it sound like something she would do or any other commanding officer whose jurisdiction this operation fell under?

Why hadn’t they told her? If t was military and being run by our side, why would they keep it secret from their own people, especially when something like what just happened, could happen?

It didn’t make sense.

Unless, of course, it was the CIA. They seemed to be a law unto themselves, except in this case they needed something to incriminate her with in order to have her removed, and replaced with a more sympathetic commanding officer.

It was all too much for a gunnery sergeant like me to understand.

At least I didn’t know anything so I couldn’t tell them anything. A little solace perhaps, but the trouble was, they’d never believe me.

I sighed. Perhaps some sleep before they returned for the next round.

They came in the middle of the night. Or day, I had no idea what it was outside because there were no windows in my cave cell.

They had no intention of being polite, I was dragged up by the scruff of the next and tossed in the direction of the door. When I stumbled, still half asleep and unable to see properly, one of the guards kicked me and said he would do it again if I didn’t get up.

He did anyway because I took too long.

My ribs were hurting when I breathed, as I staggered in front of them, one behind me giving me a shove every two or three steps, perhaps hoping I’d stumble again so he could kick me.

At the interrogation room, a different one this time, he shoved me in and shut the door. I didn’t hear a key in the lock, so perhaps they were hoping I’d try to escape.

There was only one chair in the room, and I sat in it. I couldn’t sit up straight because it hurt, so I had to slump over.

A half hour later a man and a woman, both with white coats like a doctor would wear, came in. Nothing was said. The man took up a position behind me, then held me so I couldn’t move.

The woman then joined him, produced as a syringe, and jabbed it in my neck.

The man let me go, and a few seconds later I fell off the chair onto the floor hitting my head in the process, and a few more after that, it was lights out.

At least there was no more pain.

I’ve got words on paper, but

They’re not exactly Nobel prize-winning prose.

Well, not yet.

I guess the point is that I have at least crystallised my thoughts on paper so that I can do something with them. After all, anything is better than nothing, isn’t it?

Sometimes I wonder. I look back on a lot of the stuff I wrote forty or fifty years ago and it looks bad. The thing is, then, I thought it was great, and that I was destined to do great things with the written word.

Pity, all this time later, I’ve turned into a self-critical monster, where it seems nothing I write is any good.

So, does that mean we need to be less critical of our work? After all, through the years, when I’ve shared novels and short stories with others, they have all universally said they’re quite good.

So…

Ut’s time to go back to the previous day’s work and rework it. Yes, the idea that I wanted to write about is where I wanted the story to go, it’s just the execution.

The problem is, since then a few other ideas have been running around in the back of my head, and these could be added or used to further the current plotline.

The other problem is, it is one of the six stories that I’m writing by the seat of my pants, you know, the way some pilots like to fly a plane, without all that computer backup. Similarly, this is the way I sometimes like to write.

It’s as much a surprise to me is it is to the reader.

There’s good arguments for having planned the story from start to finish, but with these, I like to write it and see where it takes me. They’re episodic, so sometimes I get to write three of four episodes at a time, and these would most likely in a book become a chapter.

Last night I wrote two episodes, but it seems that it might need pointers back in previous episodes, because we all like to leave a trail of crumbs for the reader so when they get to the denouement, they remember, ah yes, back in chapter two such and such happened, but why am I only remembering it now?

Ok, enough convincing myself I’m a good writer, it’s time to get back to work…

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 3

Dreaming I was in the desert…

But it was just another episode of the helicopter story, we’re back on the ground after that fateful jump, things are not going quite as planned.

Do they ever in life or death situations?

…
Yards were like miles, and I didn’t have the time to reach the weapon. I could see the pickup going around the burning wreck as he of the helicopter and approach me.

But, being the optimist I was I had to try.

And fail.

The pickup was on me before I’d made it halfway, stopping about a foot from me. Any further and it would have run me over.

I got to my knees and put my hands on my head not giving them any immediate reason to kill me. The man who had fired the rocket got out of the vehicle moments after it stopped.

A man in military garb, not very old. And not a foreigner. I was expecting South American, but not ostensibly one of us. A glance inside the vehicle showed the driver was a woman, in civilian clothes.

A surprise, yes.

“Mr. James I presume.” English, well spoken.

Another surprise or more than one, that he spoke English and knew who I was.

“We were expecting you but not be quite so dramatic entrance. Please stand.”

Kneeling had been difficult; I was not quite sure how standing was going to work. I was still recovered from the impromptu exit from the helicopter.

I tried and fell back on the ground. I looked up at him. “Sorry, the legs are still a little rubbery.”

He simply shook his head, leaned over and dragged me to my feet, then slung me over his shoulder, carried me to the rear of the pickup and tossed me in. I just managed to avoid hitting my head on the floor.

The man climbed in the back and then slapped the back of the cab.

Crunching gears, an over-revving engine, then a jerky start. It was not going to be a comfortable journey.

…

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 3

Dreaming I was in the desert…

But it was just another episode of the helicopter story, we’re back on the ground after that fateful jump, things are not going quite as planned.

Do they ever in life or death situations?

…
Yards were like miles, and I didn’t have the time to reach the weapon. I could see the pickup going around the burning wreck as he of the helicopter and approach me.

But, being the optimist I was I had to try.

And fail.

The pickup was on me before I’d made it halfway, stopping about a foot from me. Any further and it would have run me over.

I got to my knees and put my hands on my head not giving them any immediate reason to kill me. The man who had fired the rocket got out of the vehicle moments after it stopped.

A surprise, yes.

“Mr. James I presume.” English, well spoken.

Another surprise or more than one, that he spoke English and knew who I was.

“We were expecting you but not be quite so dramatic entrance. Please stand.”

Kneeling had been difficult; I was not quite sure how standing was going to work. I was still recovered from the impromptu exit from the helicopter.

I tried and fell back on the ground. I looked up at him. “Sorry, the legs are still a little rubbery.”

The man climbed in the back and then slapped the back of the cab.

Crunching gears, an over-revving engine, then a jerky start. It was not going to be a comfortable journey.

…

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 31

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

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

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

Chasing leads, maybe

Was it too late to admit that I was way in over my head?

Of course, it should not come as a surprise that Jan would know of his alter ego if she was the friend she said she was. Her name was on that scrap of paper with part of the address, and I should have guessed.

Again, my lack of knowledge and training was letting me down.

Now it seemed I had both Severin and Maury, Nobbin and Josephine, and Jan all working against me.

He had more enemies that I did, which begged the question, what the hell was he in to? What could he possibly have found that was so damaging?

Perhaps I’d find that out if or when I found the missing USB drive.

In the meantime, I had to get back to the hotel before Jan did and try and keep a straight face.

But just as I started to put the seat belt on, another figure was walking from the road towards the front door. A man, tall, with a purposeful stride.

The light was still on so I would get to see who it was once he reached the door. Then I saw the front door open, and Jan standing in it. A second later I saw the face, just as he passed through the doorway and the door shut.

Severin.

She had lied. So, why was it making me so angry?

I should have realized the whole Maury thing was a setup. She hadn’t called her office, she had called Severin, and he can’t have been far away to get there in the time he had.

So, why didn’t he drag me off?

Easy. So I would see the need to keep working with Jan, and in doing so, when I found the USB I’d tell her, and the next minute I’d get whacked over the head, and lose it.

Damn.

I was being played like a finely tuned fiddle.

But at least I knew about the car and had removed any evidence and the letters that were left on the ground inside the door. It was something, and she would not find anything to help her, even if she knew he had a car. It meant I was one step ahead of her.

After thanking a last look at the block, I left. Better to find somewhere else to stay, just for tonight, and then go back to the hotel in Charing Cross and see if she returned.

I found a small hotel just off Bromley Road, a short distance down Avondale Road. Out of the way and unassuming, with car parking that couldn’t be seen from the main road. The late hour raised an eyebrow, but I used the excuse of getting in late from the airport. After all, it was 02:30 in the morning and I was surprised there was anyone available on the front counter.

He gave me a room tucked away in a corner where there was only one entrance, and I could see anyone coming. I wasn’t expecting anything, but just in case I had checked the car for a tracker.

None that I could find.

I needed sleep, but lying there staring at the ceiling, I replayed the arrival of Jan at the flat, followed by Severin. It was a reminder that I should not believe or trust anyone.

It reminded me of the words of one of the instructors who said, one morning, quite abruptly, that we were about to become the loneliest people in the world. If we trusted anyone, even if they were from our own side, it could mean one thing and one thing only. Death.

We could not and should not trust anyone.

We should not believe a word of anything anyone tells us.

We should not recruit anyone from outside the service because unless they could be fully vetted, they could be your undoing.

We could not have friends, and certainly no romantic interests otherwise they would be used as leverage against us.

It was the worse hour lecture we’d been given, and the instructor had told us he had left the best till last. It was time to decide whether we wanted to go on or bail. Several had.

I didn’t think, then, it would be a problem.

Now, I was beginning to think otherwise.

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 30

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

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

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

Chasing leads, maybe

Collecting the car was easy because it was not kept near my flat. I could not afford to park nearby, and couldn’t get a permit to park on the street. I had cursed my bad luck at the time, but now it was very useful.

I spend a few hours resting in the car, stopping along the way at a park, and then, well past nightfall, I drove to the block in Oakwood Avenue, easily recognizable from the exterior photo also provided by the realtor.

Twice around the block, I stopped around the corner, past the block, and noted that I could walk back and then take cover from the trees and shrubs growing in front of, and around the building. To reach the right flat, I would have to pass down the inner side towards the rear where, hopefully, there might be a door.

Otherwise, it would have to be the hard way.

At 00:45, I left the car, and walked back to the block, keeping an eye out form people walking, or looking out their windows on either side of the street. Then, satisfied I hadn’t been seen, I ducked through the trees and quickly walked the distance from the front to the side where I stopped and waited. After a few minutes, and nothing had stirred, I started down the side of the building.

Several flats had lights on, but the curtains were drawn. Being the ground floor, I doubted whether those curtains would be open at night. It didn’t take long to be alongside the flat in question.

It was in total darkness, and the curtains had been drawn.

First problem. There was no back door. The traditional entry point would be the front door, and no doubt there was a communal back door as well. Next, I checked the windows, and those that I could see were complete glass and non-opening. Worse still they had a metal grilled across them to deter thieves.

Near the corner, leading to the rear of the building was a window, higher up and ajar. By its location, I guessed this was the bathroom or the toilet. I was hoping for the former.

It took a few minutes to unlatch the window and several more to scramble up the wall, and it through the window opening, which wasn’t much wider than me. I had to be careful not to drop any of the bottles on the inner ledge.

Once down of the other side, inside the room, it was a narrow bathroom, without a bath, and almost impossible to see. I fixed the window and put everything back on the ledge, just in case someone did a circuit of the building at a security measure.

Once inside, and after one in the morning, little stirred.

I could just faintly hear the flat owners above, hardly enough noise to be concerned about, and bringing a thought; shouldn’t they be asleep like everyone else.

It was certainly a quiet neighborhood.

I brought a small torch from the car with me and sparingly used it to find my way around. When my eyes got used to the semi-darkness, I found that the flow from small lights of appliances adequately lit the rooms.

It had two bedrooms, one empty and being used as a storeroom, a lounge room, a dining area, and the bathroom, and kitchen area. It was big enough for a couple, or even a couple with one child.

Inside what I assumed was the front door, I found several letters shoved under the door. They were addressed to Mr. Adam Quinley.

I hoped that I’d not made a mistake and broken into a flat belonging to another person. O’Connell didn’t see to me to be a Quinley, because it was an unusual name.

The dates on the letters went back a week and told me whoever the flat belonged to, they hadn’t visited it for a while. I went back to the lounge room and over to a desk. There were the familiar cords leading to no computer, but there was a printer. It meant he had a laptop he carried with him.

A laptop that no one had found. It suggested to me that he had it somewhere near him, perhaps in a car, which may be still parked in a garage, or parking station somewhere.

I searched through the neat pile of documents on the desk, and in a folder marked ‘Accounts’ and found one for the car registration, in the name of Quigley. I noted the registration and type of car, and just in case I forgot it, folded the piece of paper and put it in my pocket. It would be the subject of my next search if nothing showed up.

The next half hour I made a thorough search of the flat and found nothing of use. I checked for all the spots he might have hidden the USB, but it was not there. He had kept it somewhere else.

Done, I left the flat by the front door, and for good measure, checked his mailbox, outside, and found a number of letters. I took them and would look at them back in the car. Just as I made the tree line to walk back, a car stopped outside the building.

The door opened and I watched the driver get out of the car, stop and look up and down the street, then walk towards the front door,

By chance, the occupant of the flat above the door switched on a light in the room which, uncurtained, spilled out to shed light on the person now at the front entrance.

I recognized her immediately, just before the light was switched off and darkness took over.

It was Jan.

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 29

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

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

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

Chasing leads, maybe

Alone in the room, Herman returned. I hadn’t seen him leave, but he was a cat, and cats were adept at slinking around, quietly stalking their quarry. On the edge of that threshold between passage and living room, he was sitting, watching me.

“So, Herman. The stories you could tell, eh?”

It elicited a meow and a deadpan expression. No point in trying to read his mind, I’d probably finish up with a headache.

“Don’t suppose you could tell me where O’Connell’s secret hideout is?”

Another meow.

If he could talk no doubt he was saying that he wouldn’t tell me even if I tried to bribe him. I thought about it, but instead went over to the door and opened it about six inches.

“You can go now. It’s not safe, for man, woman or cat.”

Nothing this time.

“You’d better go before I change my mind.”

We were having a staring match.

Was that a nod? He stood and started walking towards the door. Perhaps he sensed I might close it just before he made it there. Then, in a flash, he was gone.

I shrugged, and followed him out, closing the door behind me.

He was fast. He was nowhere in sight. Places to go no doubt.

Like me.

Only I wasn’t quite sure where it was. I pulled out the piece of paper that was for a flat for sale, with several part words on it, ‘oak’ and underneath it, ‘Brom’.

It had to be part of the street name and a suburb. The ‘Brom was obviously Bromley, the other a part of the street address.

I needed to find an internet café and do some research. I also needed a new cell phone, but that could wait. The main problem was finding an internet café, once just about on every corner, but now, with everyone owning a smartphone, there were very few to be found.

It took an hour before I found one in a back street in an area where there were several low-cost hotels, the sort that backpackers stayed in.

Armed with coffee and a sandwich, I began the search, starting with the realtor, and found the listing was no longer available, that is, not on their internet site. It told me that the flat was taken up, possibly by O’Connell.

Next, I brought up a map application and put in the address, for information on both pieces of paper and ended up with Oakwood Avenue of Bromley Road, nearer to Beckenham than Bromley.

I had the flat number, now all I had to do was check it out.

Another search on the computer gave me the relative times, and a map to follow, by bus, train, and car. I would have to get my car, which would take about half an hour, then drive out to the address which would take a further half-hour.

The flat was on the ground floor, and the realtor’s brochure had the layout of the block, and where the flat was located. That it was on the ground floor and on a corner would make it easier to gain access without causing any trouble.

I would time my arrival for after dark so that I would go relatively unnoticed.

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 28

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

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

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

Chasing leads, maybe

It was rather an anti-climax to see the cat, Herman, come slinking out of the bedroom, down the passage, and then stop just at the edge of the room to look at the visitors.

He must have been hiding in her room all this time, and when he’d heard the door close, he thought it was safe to come out.

Jan saw him and held out her hand, “Come on, Herman, you’re safe now.”

He didn’t seem to agree and sat down just back of that invisible line in the sand that he wasn’t, yet going to step over.

But he did meow a few times, just to let us know he wasn’t pleased.

“Now that you’ve seen the cat, what were you thinking might be of significance?”

“I don’t know. The fact he considered the cat his might have been significant in some way.”

Herman was back on his paws and taking tentative steps towards Jan. Each time he stopped, he looked sideways at me, waiting. Perhaps he thought I might attack him. It would be the other way around.

“Doesn’t trust me, does he?”

He took a step back at the sound of my voice.

“Don’t listen to him Herman, you’re safe here with me.”

He looked at her, the same expression on his face he gave me. Talk about the original poker face. I doubt anyone could guess what he was thinking.

A few more steps, then about a yard away he stopped again and sat. He then spent the next few minutes looking at me. Was this a test to see who blinked first? I knew who would win that contest. Not me.

Jan moved slightly and he jumped, and moved back several steps, looking warily at us both now.

“We’re not going to win him over, are we?”

“Maybe, maybe not. There are a bowl and some food in the other room. Put some in the bowl and bring it to me.”

Ah, the way to a cat’s heart is through his stomach. I think the only thing relevant to that statement was that he was male. I did as she asked, and handed her the bowl, and resumed my position, far enough away for him not to consider me a threat.

He watched me leave the room and return again, and I think he recognized the bowl, and that we were about to trick him into submission.

She put the bowl down next to her and patted the floor.

“It’s your favorite, Herman.”

Yes, head movements, and was he sniffing to see if he could recognize what was in the bowl? Maybe he was hungry after being hidden away. Would starvation overcome a fear of strangers?

A minute later we had the answer. He was hungry and tentatively came over before smelling what was in the bowl before starting to eat.

Jan patted him.

“Works every time,” she said.

Both of us realized at the same time that Herman had a collar, slightly lost in the fur. And she had the same idea as I did, that the collar might be significant.

She removed it as gently as she could without startling him, and then looked at it, around the outside, and then on the inside, and a sudden change of expression told me she found something.

“VS P4 L324. What do you think that means?” she asked?

“Whatever it is, it’s a reminder that’s significant to O’Connell, or it is a message to someone if anything happened to him. I expect that might mean it was a message to you. You shared the cat so, clearly, he thought at some point in time you would look.”

“If he was expecting me to decipher it, then he must have seen something in me that I can’t.”

“You would work it out in time. The point is if he hid that in plain sight, believing that if anyone came, they would take no notice of the car, then what else might he have hidden. Does the cat have a bed?

“Not at his place, he used to sleep at the end of his bed. But I put out an old blanket.”

How did she know the cat slept on the end of O’Connell’s bed? I wasn’t going to ask, but if they were more than just friends, perhaps he had confided some details of what he was doing.

“In your room?”

“In the spare room where you found the food.”

I went back to the room found the blanked tossed in a corner, put there by the person who searched her flat no doubt, because I couldn’t see the cat doing it, not unless he was extremely bad-tempered and had super cat powers to move objects multiple times heavier than he was.

I picked it up and immediately had cat hair on my clothes. Good thing then I wasn’t allergic to cats.

Then, I had a feeling someone was watching me. I was right, Herman had come back to see what I was doing.

“Just straightening it out for you,” I said.

The death stare didn’t change. He just stood there looking at me. Or was he looking through me at something else, like a ghost? It was slightly un-nerving.

I felt around the edges and suddenly, in the middle of one side, where the manufacturer’s label was, it felt like something was under it. On closer examination, I could see the stitching had been removed for several inches in length and then crudely sewn it back together. Inside what would be a pouch, I could feel something under the material, and with a little more twisting I thought it might be a tag.

I’d seen a pair of scissors in the kitchen and came back to get them. Jan was busy trying to position the wet part of the towel over her head. After I’d finished with the blanket, I would fetch her some Panadol.

I gently cut the crude stitches and then wriggled the item out. It was a card with a number on it, 324. That was all that was printed on the card. Not what it was, who it belonged to, or what it represented. I went back into the room where the cat was now sitting on her leg.

“There was a card sewn into the blanket. It has the number 324 on it. That would make it…”

“… a check for a post box, or safety deposit box, or a storage locker.”

Not exactly what I was going to say, but close enough.

Then she said, “It’s the same number on the collar. L324. Locker 324. Somewhere defined by VS and P4.”

“Do you have a computer?”

“Not here. Do you?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll go into the office and use one of theirs. I assume you can do the same?”

I could, but I wasn’t quite sure what or who would be waiting for me,, now that I knew I couldn’t trust Nobbin.

“To be honest, I don’t think it’s safe for me. It’s probably better if I don’t, not until I can find out who is who.”

Either of the two, Nobbin or Severin could be on the wrong side, maybe even both of them. I was surprised that Severin didn’t drag me off when he came for Maury. Perhaps I was still useful to him in the field as a second-string to finding the USB.

I helped her to stand.

“No time like the present. I’ll let you know what I find if anything. Are you going to stay here?” she asked.

“No. Severin knows about this place and might come back. We’re done here. I’ll make sure the cat gets out. I don’t think you should come back here unless you have to.”

“Then I’ll see you at the hotel.”