Over the past year or so I have been selecting photographs I’ve taken on many travels, and put a story to them.
When I reached a milestone of 50, I decided to make them into a book, and, in doing so, I have gone through each and revised them, making some longer, and almost a short story.
50 photographs, 50 stories. I’ve called it, “Inspiration, Maybe”
It will be available soon.
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 in 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…
When I woke it was almost dark, and cold.
Was it night? I was in a room, on the floor, and the only light came from a light bulb.
I tried to sit up, but any sort of movement made my headache. Then my memory returned. In the forest, a man, then a woman, then nothing.
Then I heard a noise from the other corner and looked over. Jack. He’d been lying on the floor, possibly waiting for me to wake up. He came over and lay down next to me.
Had they tranquilized him too? It would have been interesting to see what he had done in the forest when they tried to take me away. I was surprised he had not run away, and waiting for me to return like he had the last time.
Were we back in the castle? Around me smelt musty, so it was possible I was back in the castle in one of the more remote dungeons’. But, there was no iron door, or wooden door to the room, just a passage outside, equally badly lit.
So, I was not exactly a prisoner.
A let another half hour or so pass before I tried to get up again. This time, my head hurt less, but the effects of the tranquilizer still made me a little unsteady, and it was necessary to remain near the wall for support.
After I’d taken several tentative steps, Jack joined me.
At the doorway, I stopped and looked out. A passage, with several other rooms off it, and leading to a larger one where there was a table, chairs, and several cupboards. A storage area, or a barn?
I walked slowly, if a little unsteady, down the passage and into the room. At one end of the table was the woman “I’d seen in the forest, the one that had shot me. Behind her, with a mug of coffee, or something else in his hands, was the man.
The watched me as I crossed to a chair at the end of the table, and sat. Jack sat next to me.
The woman spoke first. “Giuseppe tells me your name is Sam Atherton? Your rank?”
I was hoping for an apology. “Captain.”
“The name of the officer who sent you?”
“The one working with the men in the castle, or the man who sent me?”
“The one who sent you.”
I took a moment to consider what might happen if I did. I guess it wouldn’t make much of a difference if the Germans found out who he was if they didn’t know already. There was not a lot they could do. And he already knew and had doubtless dealt with the traitor.
“Colonel Forster.”
I could see, now, the man had his hand on a gun beside him, and was ready to use it. My answer, obviously the correct one, had eased the possibility of getting shot.
“You passed step one, Mr Atherton. But, if you are not who you say you are, you will be summarily shot. I suggest you don’t make any sudden movements.”
“I’m fine with that, but I have a question for you.”
“How do you know we are not working with the Germans?” She leaned back in her chair and I could see she, also, had a gun, under her hands.
Exactly. But, in order to make contact with the right people, the Colonel had sent their leader a phrase, one to use to prove their identity. Since my pursuers were following me to find the remaining resistance members, I had to assume these two were part of that group.
“A phrase was sent two days ago.” I think it was two days ago. “Maybe three.”
“The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog, I believe is that phrase.”
It was. Only the Colonel and I, as well as the resistance leader, knew it.
“And you?”
“Around the rugged rocks, the ragged rascal ran.” I don’t know who came up with them, but I hoped I hadn’t mixed up rugged and ragged.
She smiled. Giuseppe looked a lot more at ease.
“Welcome to our nightmare.”
© Charles Heath 2019
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 prioritising.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Was I working for a ghost?
I sat in that room for an hour.
I had no doubt someone was on the other side of the mirrored wall, watching me, analysing my body language. I hoped I hadn’t given any indication that Nobbin was a name that I recognised, or knew, but I was still new to this game, and as much as I tried to perfect it, I still didn’t think I had a poker face.
More than likely I had a ‘tell’.
There was something else I had to worry about, and that was what approach this Dobbin would take. For instance, did he know that I had met up with the man in the alley, and stretching that big if, did he know who the man in the alley was, and was he one of ours.
Of course, that was another problem I had, and that was recognising who ‘ours’ were. It seems the people I knew, were not the same people who were really running the place.
Or, paradoxically, were these people, interlopers, trying to get intel on the group I was supposedly working for. But they hadn’t disavowed me, so I must be working for someone they approved or knew of.
An hour and a half, and I was beginning to think this might be another game by my previous interrogators. I was glad not to be on the other side of the mirror, trying to work out what I was ‘telling;’ them. Once, I’d got up and stared directly into the mirror, thinking I might be able to see who was behind it. I also thought of tapping it to see if I could get a reaction.
And, in fact, I was about to do that very thing when Nobbin walked through the door and closed it behind him.
I saw him do a quick check of the room, from the floor to the roof, and stopping briefly at the mirror, before sitting down.
“We probably have an audience for this discussion,” I said, inclining my head towards the mirror.
“You might be right, but I did ask for a clean slate, and if anyone is considering recording or viewing this interview, there will be dire consequences.” Looking at the mirror, he added, “I made that very clear at the highest level.”
He then looked back at me. “Your name, I believe, is Sam Jackson?”
“Yes.” My current working name, that is. Once deployed to the field we started using aliases, and my first and current alias was Sam Jackson. But how they made the passport look old and used for that legend was interesting, yet not a question anyone would answer.
“You were recently assigned to a surveillance team, for this man.”
He’d brought a folder with him and pulled out a photograph of the man I’d cornered in the alley.
“Is that him?”
Was there a right or wrong answer here?
“Yes.”
“Who was leading this operation?”
“A man named Severin.”
“Describe him.
I did.
It evoked no reaction. Nobbin had a poker face. In fact, I was beginning to think it was etched in stone.
“Do you know who he is?” I asked.
“No. But we will find out. Thank you for your time.”
He stood, gave me one last look, and left the room.
I waited a minute, and then followed him out, where a security officer was waiting to escort me out of the building.
On the steps outside, security pass returned, I wondered if that was then end of my tenure with that organisation. Or whether I actually had any tenure in the first place.
© Charles Heath 2019
Here’s the thing…
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 instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
As we all stood either on or off the boat, two things were clear to me. The first, Rico’s genuine surprise at finding the body on his boat, and the second, how quickly the authorities had circled in for the kill.
I know calling 911 was supposed to get a rapid response to dire situations, but to get from the police station to the pier would take at least five minutes longer than it had, and that was breaking all the speed limits.
I might be jumping to conclusions, but someone wanted Rico to be found with an unexplainable body. His recently departed friend’s maybe?
Johnson waited until the officer off the boat had finished his call, and asked, “What are we doing here?”
It was now obvious the men on the boat was either state police, the coast guard, or some Federal branch-like FBI or, if Rico was suspected of dealing or trafficking drugs, the DEA.
“Take him into custody. Some of our people will be along to sit in on the questioning. This is an FBI crime scene and we’ll take it from here.”
“These two?” Johnson nodded in our direction.
“They’ve just found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. Cut them loose, they have nothing to do with this, other than to contaminate our crime scene.”
And that was it, more men, this time in white overalls, came up from below the deck of the newly arrived boat and came over. Crime scene investigators.
Johnson grabbed both of us by the scruff of the neck and shoved us in the direction of the shore. “Get out of here before I find something to charge you with.”
Neither of us waited to be told a second time. We were lucky, very lucky.
And Johnson was not happy his investigation had been pulled from under him. He needed a case like this to enhance his prospects for the upcoming election for the new Sherriff.
On dry land again I stopped and turned to look back at the boat, and Rico, now handcuffed and guarded.
In the background something else caught my attention, slowly cruising past the unfolding scene aboard Rico’s boat. A large ocean-going yacht, one that was owned by the Benderby’s. With Alex standing at the back of the bridge looking at Rico’s boat, and two others at the stern, dressed in what looked like diving suits, putting equipment away.
Even from this far away I could see the smug expression on his face.
No prizes then, for guessing how the police got an early warning.
Equally so for guessing who it was most likely to dump a body on a boat and have someone else take the rap for it. I had no doubt that a quantity of drugs would be found in some hidey-hole on Rico’s boat where he usually stashed the drugs he picked up from out in the sea lanes. A win-win, for law enforcement on many levels, and Benderby.
The question then I needed an answer to was, who was the dead man, and what was his relationship with the Benderby’s. I think I was now certain Rico had no idea who the man was, or why he was found on his boat, dead.
© Charles Heath 2019
Over the past year or so I have been selecting photographs I’ve taken on many travels, and put a story to them.
When I reached a milestone of 50, I decided to make them into a book, and, in doing so, I have gone through each and revised them, making some longer, and almost a short story.
50 photographs, 50 stories. I’ve called it, “Inspiration, Maybe”
It will be available soon.
Here’s the thing…
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 instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
Short of jumping over the side, there was no way we were getting away. And judging from the expression on Rico’s face, now very plain to see halfway along the pier, he knew exactly what we’d seen.
Boggs stepped off the deck and joined me, just as Rico made it to the side of the boat, just as it started rocking again, but I was too frightened to feel sick.
But a glance in the opposite direction, out towards the sandbar, showed another boat, coming in our direction very quickly, and by the shape of it, I was hoping it was the police launch. Rico had seen it too.
“What have you done?”
“I called the police.”
“Why?”
The men who had been with him were now retreating back along the pier towards land, but that too, suddenly looked like there would be no escape.
A police car with its siren blaring and lights flashing just stopped at the entrance to the pier and two officers were getting out, guns in hand.
My only thought wasn’t of relief, but that Boggs and I were about to become hostages in the middle of a shootout.
Or not.
Boggs blurted out, “There’s a dead body in the cabin.”
Rico shook his head. “Nonsense. I’ve been gone only an hour and there wasn’t one then.”
He looked around to see the officers coming from the land side of the pier, and the four men slowly walking back towards the boat.
Rico climbed on board, then moved to the hatch. He lifted the hatch cover and folded it back to show an opening into the cabin. It hadn’t been locked, it just looked like it was. Just as the officers made it to the boat, he stepped in, then down into the cabin.
A minute later, when he came up, the police launch had arrived just off the stern. Rico looked shaken like he’d seen a ghost.
I recognised the officer who came on board, a man called Johnson, the police chief’s deputy. He was known to shoot first and ask questions later.
He looked at me, Rico, Boggs, then back to me. “What’s this all about?”
“There’s a body in the cabin.”
He switched his glare to Rico. “That true?”
Rico nodded. “I don’t know where it came from, but it wasn’t there an hour ago.”
The seaman about the police launch slipped a rope over the bollard at the rear of our boat and then jumped on board to secure it. Another seaman did the same at the bow. Two more jumped on board, one covering Rico and the other going into the cabin.
When he came back up on deck he was talking into his cell phone.
I think Rico had a lot of explaining to do.
So did we.
© Charles Heath 2019
Over the past year or so I have been selecting photographs I’ve taken on many travels, and put a story to them.
When I reached a milestone of 50, I decided to make them into a book, and, in doing so, I have gone through each and revised them, making some longer, and almost a short story.
50 photographs, 50 stories. I’ve called it, “Inspiration, Maybe”
It will be available soon.
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 prioritising.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
An interrogation continues
“So, take it from the top, give me a detailed rundown on the operation, from the briefing to coming here.”
That was an interesting request. My usual report would not go into so much detail, and I had been compiling it on the go because if left until the end, crucial details were always omitted.
And, with the explosion, a lot of details had been mislaid in my mind, with more important or over-arching problems, getting a more prominent place in my memory. It was a valuable lesson learned on reporting, we’d received from a man who most of my classmates thought odd, to the point of paranoid.
“I received the text message the night before to report to the midtown office for the briefing. The code word was Chancellor and it was recognised at the security station. If it was bogus I would not have made it in the building.”
“You go there for all your briefings?”
“Yes.”
“Same team?”
“For the previous five, yes. This last one, a different team. “One of us asked what happened to the previous team and we were told that it was none of our business. We were given orders and sent out into the field to do a job. That job, we were reminded, was not to ask irrelevant questions.”
“The leader told you that?”
“In no uncertain terms.”
“Go on.”
“We were given a photograph of the man that I have just given to you. No mention was made of what he had done to warrant surveillance, only that we were to not lose him and to note everything he did.
“We were told where he might be found at a particular time, and a particular place, information that was correct.”
“Your team members?”
“Fiona Davis, Jack Venables, Walter Arbon, and me.”
“I take it you had the target under surveillance, ready to hand off to the next team member?”
“Before the explosion, yes, it was my leg.”
“You’re referring to the explosion in Church Street?”
“Yes. I’d just past it when there was an explosion, and I was caught in the aftermath, and narrowly avoided the shrapnel raining down. Others were not so lucky.”
“That’s where you lost him?”
“He was in front of me, thus avoiding the fallout. It took a minute or so to get my bearings, and even then it was very hazy with the dust and carnage around me, but I did manage to see him in the distance heading towards the next person’s tag point.”
“You didn’t resume surveillance?”
“Couldn’t. Too disoriented. I put out an alert on the comms, but no one answered, not straight away.”
“You didn’t suspect anything?”
“Not then., I put it down to a malfunction from the blast.”
“You said ‘not straight away’?”
“About five minutes had passed when a voice came in my ear, asking for an update. I didn’t think much about it at the time, because of the temporary disorientation, but it was about the time for the next team to take over. There were two rolling teams of four.”
“Why did you think it odd?”
“Because they would know about the explosion. Everyone within a mile radius would. But at the time I simply said I was caught up in the aftermath and that the target was last seen heading towards the takeover point. Then I was told the target was sighted.”
“I assume you then considered your role had ended?”
“Yes. I’d been told to follow the advice of the medical staff on site.”
“Which was?”
“Go to the hospital for a check-up.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No. I was heading away from the blast site when I saw the target again. I stopped, watched, got out of sight, and waited. He was coming back in my direction.”
“Was that an expected scenario, that he might backtrack?”
“No. In the briefing we were told it was possible he would be moving from the point where we found him, to another for a clandestine meeting, away from the blast site.”
What did you do then?”
“Checked the position of the next member of the surveillance team. C I found him, and he was dead. I made an assumption that the other two may have suffered a similar fate, and resumed surveillance on the target.”
“Did you report it?”
“Over the comms, yes.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing, no one answered.”
“Not even the director?”
“No.”
She made a note, crossed it out and wrote another with an underline. A thick black line repeatedly, expressing her anger.
“You maintained surveillance?”
“Yes.”
“Until?”
“I’d cornered him in an alley, near a railway station. I suspected he might head for it. He’s seen me, and nearly dispatched me in the same manner as the others. Luckily it was only a scratch.”
It was more than that and required 12 stitches but they didn’t need to know that.
“Then, Severin arrived, and out of nowhere, he was shot dead.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Only to ask what he had done with the other members of my team. He never answered.”
“Did you report that you’d caught him?”
“No. Didn’t have to. Severin arrived just after I had.”
“And that’s all of it?”
“In my report. Yes. When I get to write it, but I’ll need my phone. It has the relevant details, except for the last part where I’d found him.”
“No name?”
“No.”
“You didn’t know he was one of ours?”
“No. That fact only came to my attention when he told me. When you’re given a target, you don’t ask what the relevance is, or what he’s done. I’m sure you’re fully aware of the current practices and procedures.”
That last sentence slipped out, and by the look on her face, wasn’t well received. I’d forgotten the golden rule. Stick to the facts. No embellishment, no emotion.
She made another note, closed the book, and got up. “I’d like you to stay, just for the time being while we sort through the details.”
Then she left.
© Charles Heath 2019
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 in what happened during the second worlds 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…
I had walked quite fast in my attempt to distance myself from our pursuers if they were, in fact, chasing me. In doing so I had tried to make my escape as quiet as possible.
Now, between Jack and I, hiding in the undergrowth, the only noise I could hear was our laboured breathing, and mine in particular. I hadn’t been expecting to be doing this sort of exercise when I signed on for the job.
Now, I think, exercise was going to become a priority.
If I made it back alive.
A crack and I saw Jack go very still, ears cocked, and looking in what was the direction of the sound. He’d know, better than me, where the noise came from.
Another minute before I could hear muffled voices, then as if they had stepped into a room, I could hear them.
“So, you’re telling me you let him hit you?”
“I had to, for the sake of making it look good. I was told he was no fool.”
The voice of the man who had orchestrated my departure. I shook my head, very disappointed in myself for not seeing through what could have been a very cunning plan. It also explained why they hadn’t summarily shot me. I could see Jackerby gloating over the cleverness of his plan.
So perhaps for a few moments there, I was a fool. Not anymore.
“What do we do if we find him?”
“We’re not supposed to find him, remember. You were at the same meeting, or was that your ghost I saw with me?”
“Observe and report back.”
“Exactly.”
The voices were very close, and I could hear their boots of the rocky path until they stopped.
“Which way?”
The voice sounded very close, in fact, I thought they were just on the other side of the undergrowth, but that couldn’t be right, I could see through it in places, and no one was standing on the other side.
Sound must travel very good in this part of the forest.
“Follow the main river. He won’t be looking to deviate from his objective, which by now would be to find the other members of the resistance and organise his departure.”
“And leave alone what he saw?”
“There isn’t much he could do about it. By the time he’s reported back to London, we will have found the underground members and eliminated any threat.”
“Aha, so he’s leading us to the resistance?”
“That’s the plan.”
“And it was your idea?”
“I do have my moments, thank you. Now, let’s get on, or he’ll get too much of a start on us, and I don’t want to be the one to explain how we lost him to Jackerby in particular.”
A minute passed, then two before I heard the sound of boots receding. Johansson, or maybe Jackerby, had correctly guessed I might know where the other resistance members were, and, after escaping, go straight to them.
Pity, I was going to disappoint them.
© Charles Heath 2019
Over the past year or so I have been selecting photographs I’ve taken on many travels, and put a story to them.
When I reached a milestone of 50, I decided to make them into a book, and, in doing so, I have gone through each and revised them, making some longer, and almost a short story.
50 photographs, 50 stories. I’ve called it, “Inspiration, Maybe”
It will be available soon.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 