Today, we’re back in Vienna, with Zoe planning their escape. We’re off to the railway station and catching the train. Unfortunately, Worthington is able to track them and knows exactly where they are, and where to direct his hit squad.
And you guessed it, mayhem is about to erupt in the station. But, as Zoe knows all too well, chaos can be her best friend, and they escape.
Sebastian knows something is afoot with Worthington, because all of a sudden, he has disappeared.
That’s good for Sebastian in one sense, he can go ahead with the interrogations of Isobel and Rupert in his quest to find out where John, and ultimately Zoe, is.
But the thing is, they are disinclined to be helpful in any way shape or form, and Isobel in particular, tells him to bring on the torturers.
Weird maybe, but Sebastian knows she’s probably getting a kick out of it.
…
Today’s writing, with Isobel laughing in the face of danger, 1,905 words, for a total of 43,067.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.
04:00 in Africa was an interesting time of the morning, especially after a few hours of intense rain during the night. I could see what the Colonel meant if it had been raining because outside the barracks it was very wet.
Whilst the others appeared to get some sleep, in a much better environment than the back of an aircraft, I lay awake, at first waiting for the sound of the aircraft leaving, and then listening to the rain that started an hour or so later, followed by the sounds that came afterward. It was never silent, and there was always that suspicion of being attacked when you’re at your most vulnerable. I had a weapon ready, just in case.
Outside the cloud cover had gone and it looked like it would be a fine day.
When I did the headcount, I noticed Mobley was missing as agreed, and by the time we had assembled, the cars had arrived. We would be driving ourselves in a convoy behind Monroe and the Colonel, who was no longer dressed in army fatigues, along with Jacobi and one of his guards.
For the trip, we had been supplied with the western notion of jungle wear, safari suits, that identified us not only garrulous visitors, but typical tourists hardly prepared for what was to come. It made a good cover for a group of ‘fools’ making a documentary.
All we had to do was get to the location for the exchange of the hostages reportedly between Aba, a town in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and somewhere on the outskirts of the Park. It was going to be an easy drive from Uganda to Aba, then the situation might change.
I was going to be in the rear vehicle, with Leslie Davies. The more I thought about her being assigned to this mission, it seemed she was here solely for her ability to fly anything with wings. It was the part that was missed on her resume, perhaps for a reason, but whatever that reason was, it would become clear eventually.
We left at 04:05. Monroe had a slight problem starting her car.
Other than exchanging a few words before getting on the plane and then getting off the plane, Davies and I had not spoken. After half an hour of driving in silence, I decided to break the ice.
“What did you do to get nominated for this mission?”
A glance sideways gave me no indication of her thoughts, or what look was hidden behind the aviator sunglasses. I hadn’t seen her smile, or talk to any of the other team members other than a few brief words with Monroe, likely because she was the only other female.
Even then, I didn’t get the impression they were going to be best friends.
“Best you don’t know.”
Her reply came about three minutes after I’d asked, and at a point where I assumed she was going to ignore me.
“Let’s say I’m curious.”
“Curiosity killed the cat.”
“I’m not a cat.”
Another two minutes of silence, then, “Disobeyed a direct order.”
Not as bad as killing your immediate superior because you didn’t like him. And I could sympathize. Some orders were utterly ridiculous.
“Not a bad thing.”
“Not what the court-martial thought.”
I noticed she didn’t use sir. I could live with that.
“You volunteer?”
“In a manner of speaking. You?”
She raised her glasses slightly and gave me a sideways glance.
“In a manner of speaking. Been here before, not that it was for very long, and in a different part of the country, but the powers that be deemed my experience adequate for the mission.”
“I take it the mission isn’t to take pictures of animals?”
It might. Just not the animals you’re expecting.”
It was our lucky day. At the Vurra customs post we were met by a Ugandan official who had been forewarned of our arrival, and whom I expect was well compensated for his work, and after going through a half-hour of paperwork, we were taken to the Congo counterpart with whom Jacobi weaved his magic.
I say lucky because the border crossing was often closed, either because of the weather, the road conditions, or the fact neither country was talking to the other, though it was more to do with the Congo villagers and their dispute over lands that stretched into Uganda.
We arrived with a number of trucks, to join a long line waiting to cross, and included were several United Nations vehicles.
Everyone seemed to take the delays and administrative diligence in their stride.
We were moving again, behind several tracks, almost an hour and a half after arriving. All of the crates of equipment had been opened and inspected, as had our packs, and the raft of documents Monroe had been supplied. She had a satellite phone at the ready in case we needed to make any calls, though I was not sure what Bamfield would have been able to do.
But, after a few tense moments, everyone lost interest in the documentary crew and moved onto the next vehicle.
Jacobi said it was the easiest crossing he’d made.
About a half-hour, after we had driven on our way, then my radio crackled, and Mobley reported in. He had just crossed over and was behind us, and a number of trucks.
I got a strange look from Davies.
“Insurance,” was all I said. “Which no one else needs to know about.”
The road was not exactly in the best of condition in places and having four-wheel drives was a help. The lie of the land was quite flat, and we passed a lot of small villages and curious looks from the villagers. Some parts of the road were quite bad, and we had to drive very slowly, especially where it was damp, but for the most part, it was reasonably dry and the roads were navigable.
Other times, Jacobi said, after the rains, those same roads were impossible to drive on and would often see villagers out trying to help the truck drivers keep moving.
I had expected to run into a number of soldiers, but for the first few hours after leaving the border, there wasn’t a lot to see other than flat land, villages, and people on the side of the road, along with the occasional vehicle, belying the fact it was a major road between the border and a town called Aba, a distance that was measured at about 170 kilometers.
Anywhere else in the world it would have taken about an hour and a half, but here, it was early afternoon and finally on a stretch of reasonable road into Aba. A refuel and we’d be on our way quickly. The first of the kidnappers appointed times was 16:00 hours and I was hoping the roads would get us there by that time.
I used to have these strange ideas about upper management, and in some cases, how they lived in offices up in the clouds.
The perks, I guess, of making it to the top, a combination, sometimes, of good luck and in others hard work.
Perhaps I make too much of it, but it is only an observation from someone who never quite made it to the top of the pile. Alas, I didn’t have that killer instinct, nor the desire to use others on my way to the top.
But, those notions stuck with me and had found their way into this story.
It also introduces a new character, one that has an idea he might be in trouble though not quite why.
I stopped for a moment to take in the vista It was like stepping into a different world. Everything was new, clean and fresh. Strategically placed flowers, carpets deep piled and clean, expensive landscape paintings adorned the walls, and the support staff tucked away on various nooks and crannies, usually smiling and happy. And why not? They were far, far away from the problematic day to day running of the company. Here the tea, coffee, and sugar didn’t come from tiny paper packets and taste like floor sweepings.
Merrilyn, Aitchison’s personal assistant, had the gift of being able to dress to suit the weather or mood. This particular day, the bright colors were in deference to the coming of spring. Added to this was her impeccable manner and attitude. It was hard to believe she was still in her early twenties.
She smiled as I turned the corner and headed towards Aitchison’s office, in a manner that infused all who came near her with equal joy and enthusiasm. It brightened my morning.
“How do you di it?” I asked. It was a standard question.
“Do what?” It was the standard reply.
“Manage to look so good on a Monday morning.”
“It’s called grooming, Bill. “What can we do for you?”
“Mr. Aitchison wishes to see me. Perhaps it will finally be a promotion to these lofty heights.”
“There’s a long queue before you.”
“Sad, but true.” I shrugged. “But you never know. I live in hope if only to be near you.”
She smiled again. “Perhaps one day.” Then, in an instant, she switched to somber, efficient, business mode, “Go on in. I’m sure he’s expecting you.”
I knocked on his door, waited for the muffled “Enter”, and went in.
Thick carpet, velvet wallpaper, mahogany furniture, the best examples of comfortable easy chairs arranged around a coffee table, the office was one of the perks of the job. There was a carefully hidden private bar somewhere in the room, and the subject of much lower floor speculation. Everyone who lived on the lower floors aspired to this level of luxury and recognition of personal achievement.
He pointed to the chair in front of his desk without looking up from the file he was reading. On his desk were two glasses and a bottle of Scotch. He leaned forward, took a sip out of one, and then returned his original position, leaning back as far as the large, leather-covered and padded seat would let him. He looked agitated, far from his usual self-assured and calm demeanor.
He was one of the very few in the executive who frequently came down to visit us, and always had an amicable manner, whether the news was good or bad. That amiable manner was missing this morning, replaced by something I’d not seen in him before.
Or in anyone else for a long, long time. Fear.
He looked up, took his reading glasses off and placed them carefully on the desk. “Did Benton tell you what happened?” His tone was constricted, tinged with worry. Yes. The eyes gave it away. I’d seen the look before, in a momentary flash, a detail in memory rising to the surface.
“Yes. Briefly. He said it was something to do with Richardson. Rather melodramatic to be suiciding in his office, or words to that effect.”
“Well, the police might be calling it a suicide, and that fool Benton would like it to be suicide, but in my opinion, it’s a case of murder.” He emptied the glass and poured another. The rim of the bottle rattled on the rim of the glass. He was shaking and trying to keep it under control. “He’s dead. Very dead.”
It took a few moments before I realized the importance of his statement. Dead was serious, very dead was very serious.
“How?” My voice moved up one octave. I wondered where this was heading. Why he was telling me?
“One shot to the head. He was supposedly holding the gun when they found him, making it look a perfectly normal suicide.”
I quickly reviewed the rest of what I knew about Richardson, albeit second hand.
His wife had walked out on him. He spent a few months trying to climb into the bottle, came out of it fairly well, and had recently struck up a friendship with one of the many middle-aged women who worked in the office. Speculation had it she was already married. It was not a course I would take in similar circumstances, but he was closer to a number of them than most. Suicide seemed a bit out of character.
Was Aitchison also was suggesting that might be the case?
Or did he know something about Richardson the rest of us didn’t?
“He didn’t seem the type,” I said, expecting a rebuke. I was not sure if Aitchison was asking for an opinion.
“No he was not, and I agree you. Everyone seems to have thrown caution to the wind, and want this case settled, and the police out of here. But, not at the expense of a good man’s name.”
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on the 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
“You haven’t been truthful with me, have you?”
That was Dobbin’s opening shot once we were in the car and out in traffic. It was as if he was worried someone would be listening in on our conversation.
“Says the spider to the fly. Isn’t it the nature of this business not to play all your cards at once?”
“You’ve been in this business all of five minutes. You don’t get the right to play cards.”
“I’m still alive, no thanks to anyone but my own skill.”
I could see the disdain in his expression, and the annoyance in his eyes. Perhaps he was a man used to getting his own way. I was expecting a retort, but he said nothing.
“How many different organizations do you work for, or is it none, and you just have fake IDs to get you in the door?”
“Need to know. Have you found O’Connell yet?”
“He’s dead. I saw him killed in an alley. I’m sure Maury and Severin had him shot, no coincidence they turned up just after he hit the ground. I searched the body, there was nothing on it. Before he was shot, he told me to speak to you. I did. Anything else I’m doing is for my own protection. Assigning Jan to befriend me, then play me would have been a good plan if I hadn’t found out. I know she found O’Connell’s other residence, but I’m willing to bet she found as much as I did nothing. Your people do that to Maury?”
“In a manner of speaking. He wasn’t going to talk, and we couldn’t let him back on the street.”
“And knowing that I would go back to the hotel, what were you hoping for, that I would get arrested for his murder?”
“We were hoping you would glean information from her handler, or the police. Seems both are either tight-lipped, or they know nothing. Her handler is an incompetent fool.”
“Where is she?”
“Waiting for you at her apartment. I want the pair of you to find O’Connell. He either has the information, or he knows where it is. They found the charred remains of a body in the cafe where the explosion was, a freelance reporter, who, according to his editor, had the story of the century. No other details, though.”
“That either means military or industrial secrets. Why would the reporter want to meet with O’Connell?”
“That’s not your concern.”
“Well, you’re wrong if you think O’Connell had the USB. He didn’t get inside the cafe before it blew up, I know, I was there, and witness the whole event. You know the drill, he goes past, checking to see if the target is in place, then makes sure the location is clear, then goes back and facilitates the handover. He only just got past the front when the bomb went off. I’m sure you’ve seen the CCTV footage.”
Yes, his expression told me he had.
“So how do you come to the conclusion he still has it?”
Never cite logical arguments to a man who lives in a fantasy world.
“Law of averages tells me there is a copy, and O’Connell would have made sure there was a backup plan, and location.”
It then struck me, after having talked to O’Connell, and knowing Dobbin knew O’Connell was still alive because he had rescued him from the alley and Severin’s cleaners. It was not just a matter of getting him to admit it, and the fact O’Connell had done a runner on him.
“You seem convinced O’Connell is still alive.”
He glared at me. Truth or dare?
“Because he is. The trouble is, he’s gone to ground and I can’t raise him. He was supposed to wait a few days in a safe place while we hunted down Severin and Maury. We had one, but not the other. I doubt he’ll surface before he gets word that Severin has been neutralized. Every hour that information is still out there, is the chance it will fall into the wrong hands, so we need him and the information found.”
“You think he’s gone rogue.”
“I don’t think anything.
The car stopped outside O’Connell’s apartment block.
“Place nice with Jan, and find him and the information.
I got out of the car and watched it rejoin the traffic.
Before heading to the front entrance, my phone rang. Odd, because only two people knew my number, and it was neither of those two.
Curiosity overcame reluctance to answer. “Yes.”
“I’m texting a meeting point. Be there at six.” The line went dead before I could say anything. Four hours.
No doubting the voice. Severin. And he sounded scared.
I wondered if he knew what had happened to his partner in crime.
I had, literally, just witnessed the end of the world on the large screen TV.
Live and on CNN.
There had been skirmishes, Russia looking to take back its satellite countries and restore the USSR, and NATO posturing when the leaders of the countries asked for help and received none. Everyone knew what would happen if they did. War.
But, the playing field changed when Russia set it sights on Poland.
Rollback 83 years, the last time a country rolled into Poland. What happened? War.
This time, threats, empty it seemed for a month, and then, yes, we were plunged back into War.
This time, however, everything was different. Yes, wars were once predominantly waged with men and machines. That type of warfare changed when Germany introduced the VI Rocket bombs, a means of remotely bombing selective targets. Hit and miss maybe, but it worked. Last time we had an atomic bomb, or two as it happened.
This time, we had guided missiles, with nuclear warheads, not a hundred, but thousands, deployed all around the world, aimed at selected targets, not necessarily military targets, but civilians.
There were some who thought they could negotiate a peace settlement.
And, in the middle of that, someone pressed the button. You know that infamous button that sends a nuclear weapon on its way.
We all saw it launch, live.
We all saw it land, dodging every defence system in its path, with devastating effect, as the camera melted, and everything just went black. Not one, but all over the world.
It was estimated that the whole world lost a third of its population in four hours, vaporised by missile strikes, and another third would be dead within a month from proximity radiation. The remaining third, when the dust settled, and those who were not in the direct line of fire, well, the weather would soon decimate them.
Us.
We all thought nuclear weapons were just a deterrent.
Now, well, it was too late to think about anything. We were, as I just heard on the TV, all going to die from the fallout. It was only a matter of time before it reached us. Then, according to the expert, we would all end up with radiation poisoning and die.
I was fortunate enough to live on one of the most southern parts of Australia, a small town by the name of Cockle Creek, Tasmania. Even though I had never heard of it until overwhelmed by the loss of my wife, I wanted to hide from the world, and Cockle Creek was just the place.
Now, for a while, it was going to be a haven.
Before the storm clouds arrived.
I switched off the TV, and most likely wouldn’t be turning it back on. There wasn’t going to be any good news, and I really didn’t want to know how long we had left. I put several bottles of red wine, some cheese, bread, and meat into a bag, and headed down to the beach.
It was part of a secluded part of the shore that backed onto a half dozen houses, and on rare occasions, the neighbours appeared, spoke briefly and went about their business. People in my street were at best recluses, at worst hermits, all of us running away from something.
It wasn’t long before Angie appeared, at the end of her evening run. I’d met her several times, and knew a little of her history, once married to a cheating bastard, once had a good job but because of him had to leave, now no longer interested in anything.
I understood her.
She stopped. I expected a wave as she passed by.
“Max.”
“Angie. How are you?”
“Usual. See the news?”
“Hard to miss it.”
“Not a lot to look forward to?”
“I came here to spend my last days in peace, there’s just fewer of them, I guess.”
“Pragmatic.”
“Realistic.
She came over and sat beside me. For some odd reason, I’d packed two glasses. Had I a premonition she would drop by?
“Red?”
“Why not?”
We sat there and drank wine, first from one bottle, then starting on the next. We didn’t say anything, there wasn’t anything to say.
“Would you believe me if I said I was once a scientist? There’s a more specific name, but the scientist will do?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“M\y dad refused to believe a woman could be that smart. My husband was a bit like that, never liked the idea that I might be smarter than him.”
“Some men feel threatened.”
“Would you?”
“My wife was far smarter than I was, but I loved her because she was her, not the smart part. That was just a small part of who she was. And she didn’t care if I was a dustman.”
“Were you?”
“No. I owned a bookshop, served coffee, and talked to strange people all day.”
“Lots of dusty books then?”
I had no idea if she was joking or just commenting, but it didn’t matter. It was amusing to think of it like that.
“Lots. So, what branch of science was it?”
“Snow science.”
OK, so my poker face wasn’t quite working, and it wasn’t hard to guess what I was thinking.
“Look it up, it’s real.”
“No internet anymore. Kind of got nuked along with a lot of other stuff. But, despite the scepticism I suspect there is such a thing, and, if I remember right, is that something to do with the study of snow and ice movement, possible for the prediction of similar events?”
“It had a lot to do with predicting storms, and how snow affected water supplies. There’s a whole lot more, but it’s rather irrelevant now. Like me.”
“Like all of us, I think, though if you’re feeling irrelevant, come and see me and I’ll try to think of a way to change that.”
“Could you?”
“Probably not. But I know how you feel. That’s why I’m here.”
Another few glasses of wine, enough time to consider what she said, and how to make sense of it, before she said, “My last job was for an eccentric billionaire. I never told anyone because it was the craziest two years of my life.”
“Why bring it up?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. Turns out he wasn’t batshit crazy after all.
”OK, I’ll bite. Why was he crazy?”
“Because he built a huge city like complex under the ice in Antarctica. He said that man would destroy the earth sooner rather than later, and he wasn’t going to hang around and watch them do it. Space travel was too difficult, so he did the next best thing. A haven for 5,000 specially selected people. I was his snow and ice expert.”
“It’s all melting.”
“Deep in the ice. There are a few thousand years before it all dissipates, and even then, it’s below ground. We anticipated every scenario.”
“Bet you didn’t think of aliens with excavators.”
“Now you’re mocking me.”
I shook my head. “No. Ivan Rostov, an oligarch. Strange man, stranger idea, bet rich enough not to care what the world thought of him. You knew Ivan?”
“Slept with him once. Bit of a disappointment.”
“Sorry to hear that. Before or after your husband strayed.”
“After. I have principles.”
“You should be there, with him.”
“Wasn’t open for business. When I left, just before I came here, it was in the last stages of being shut up until when it would be needed. I guess that’s about now. But I don’t work for him, and he doesn’t need me, and I don’t think I could stay there anyway. How long do you think people would have to stay there?”
“From what I’ve been reading, between 5,000 and 25,000 years, but that’s very extreme and assumes plutonium has been used. A substantial amount of the northern hemisphere has been rendered radioactive, and if Chernobyl is anything to go by, a long time. People wouldn’t see daylight in this lifetime.”
“Sounds like fun then. You up for a home-cooked meal. Long time since I’ve entertained, seems like there might not be many more opportunities.”
“Why not?”
Sitting opposite a woman who I had probably seen a dozen times in a year, and spoke to here, albeit briefly, on three of those occasions, I felt remarkably at ease in her company.
Perhaps it was the fact we were all living on borrowed time, perhaps in those circumstances, we had let a lot of our guard down. Whatever it was, sitting there, enjoying the moment, I felt as though I’d known her all my life.
An odd ringing sound broke the silence that had settled on us.
She got up. “Excuse me for a moment.”
She went into another room, the ringing stopped and I could hear her muffled voice. A minute later she returned with a device that looked like a satellite phone in her hand.
She put it on the table and sat down. “You’re on speakerphone. Now, tell me what you just said again.”
A male voice, relatively old if I was to guess, and authoritative.
“We are just packing, and tomorrow we will be going to nowhere. I’m sorry I haven’t been as communicative in recent times, so much to do, so little time, but, as you are aware, the world has finally gone to hell in a handbasket, and we’re getting everything ready. I’d like you to come. After all, it’s as much your pet as it was mine.”
“Tempting offer, but I don’t think we’ll ever see daylight again.”
“That maybe so, or maybe not. We have no idea how mother nature is going to handle this swipe, but that’s in the future. Staying outside is simply a death sentence, and you’re too good for that.”
I looked at her, the look conveying the unspoken quester, ‘Is that your former boss?”
She nodded, a sign to me at least, that she could read minds. Perhaps then not a good thing.
“I have a friend here, if he wanted to, could I bring him as my plus one?”
“Certainly.”
“I need time to think about it. Can I call you back?”
“Any time. As I say we leave tomorrow and will be there in a week. I’ll be dropping in anyway, whatever you decide.”
“Ok. Thanks.”
She disconnected the call.
“Nowhere?”
We gave New Eden and name that people would never quite understand. We used to say, we’re going nowhere, when we were going to the building site. It was how we kept it secret.”
”You should go. Life is precious and you should hang on to it for as long as possible.”
“What about you?”
“I’m sure there are other more important people you could take.”
“There are none that I care about. Not anymore. Why do you think I’m here, alone, and never leave?”
I shrugged.
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough. There’s no obligation on your part to be anything but a friend. If I go, I need to have at least one person there I know.”
“Won’t all the people who built it be there?”
“I never got to know any of them. Didn’t want to. But with you, after one afternoon, I feel as though I want, I need to know more about you. You are perhaps what some would call a kindred spirit. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but these are strange times, are they not?”
I smiled. They were. And oddly enough, I felt the same about her.
“Perhaps if we both take the week to think about it?”
She nodded. “Dinner at yours tomorrow?”
“Afternoon wine, same time, same place?”
A nod and a nod.
I saw the superyacht arrive and drop anchor about a mile offshore, and then, after a half-hour of activity on the rear deck, the launching of a tender, which then headed slowly towards our section of the beach.
It was a no brainer, in the end, we got along so well, why would I want it to end? So we had to live in a bunker for 50,000 years. It would be with her, and that’s all I cared about.
She took my hand in hers. “So, are you ready to catch the last boat to nowhere?”
We’re still in Bratislava with Zoe making a few repairs, having been injured in the getaway from the hotel, where bullets were flying around indiscriminately.
In a nondescript hotel near a railway station, the favorite accommodation for assassins, maybe, there’s enough time for John to get the message Zoe is not happy with him bringing along a hit squad.
And, they’re on the news, that is to say they know who it is that’s on the news, the blurry figures are too indistinct for anyone else to identify them. It was disconcerting to be called criminals fleeing the scene of a crime.
Back in London, Sebastian is about to have a set to with Worthington, who has decided Sebastian is too close and might compromise his black op, so he’s sending him to Paris.
It’s here we learn that Sebastian has both Isobel and Rupert locked up in the cells in the basement, awaiting interrogation, and Worthington orders him to send them home.
Of course, Sebastian is not going to so anything of the sort.
He knows they know where John is, and by implication, where Zoe is, and wants to know.
In the first edit, I suspect I will have to mention Sebastian ‘arresting’ Rupert and Isobel just to keep continuity, and no unfathomable surprises later on.
…
Today’s writing, with Worthington getting his ducks in a row, 1,445 words, for a total of 41,162.
This is an old chateau at the foot of a skiing area on the north island of New Zealand. It was once predominately advertised as a guest house for hikers in the summer months.
However, with fertile imaginations, we can come up with a whole different scenario.
Like, for instance, a haunted house, owned by an old and some might say creepy family, a place where few are invited, and those that are, approach the front door with trepidation.
It could be the family estate, the sort of place grandparents live, and their children consider themselves lucky to have escaped and their children, in turn, hate going there.
Of course, the opposite to that is that everyone loves going there for the holidays when the whole family gets together.
Then, a murder occurs…
It might also be a hotel in an unusual backdrop, where fugitives come to hide, or just one person from the city, trying to get away from a bad partner, or someone working there seeking a fresh start.
The truth is, there are any number of possibilities.
Yes, it’s that little or big furry thing that’s also known as man’s best friend, a dog.
But the word has a number of other meanings, like a lot of three-letter words.
It can also mean to follow someone closely.
If you are going to the greyhound racing, you could say you’re going to the dogs, or it could mean something entirely different, like deteriorating in manner and ethics.
Then there are those employers who make their workers work very hard, and therefore could be described as making them work like a dog.
Some might even say that it is a dog of a thing, i.e. of poor quality.
There’s a dogleg, which could aptly name some of those monstrous golf course holes that sometimes present the challenge of going through the wood rather than around it.
Tried that and failed many times!
A dog man used to ride the crane load from the ground to the top, an occupation that would not stand the test of occupational health and safety anymore.
And of course, in a battle to the death, it’s really dog eat dog, isn’t it?
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on the 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
When the room was empty and only Richards and I remained, he cut the ties that bound my hands and legs.
“Bad business,” he said.
I sat again, and flexed the muscles that had begun to stiffen up whilst tightly bound.
“I’m assuming you know a woman by the name of Jan?” I said. “She told me she was working for MI6 so I’m assuming you’re her handler.”
“When she chooses to be handled, yes. Jan is just one of her names. She’s currently missing, and I think we now know why?”
“Her work,” I nodded towards the body.
“God no. She’s charged with chasing down leads and then calling the cavalry. We had a tracker on this chap, found him, and had him in a safe facility awaiting interrogation, what we thought was safe at any rate, and Jan and another agent watching over him until the interrogation team arrived. When the interrogation team got there everyone was gone, but with enough blood on the floor to paint a pretty clear picture. Maury had been interrogated and killed there, dumped here, with no indication of the whereabouts of our agents. She told me this guy and another trained you, and others, in rather strange circumstances. A bogus operation. To what end?”
“From what I could tell, a single surveillance operation. Me and a dozen others. Cut loose after it failed, those of us that survived, that is.”
“A lot of effort to achieve nothing.”
“Pity we can’t ask him what it was about?” I looked over at the body. Maury was hardly recognizable. Whoever carried out the interrogation had been either in a hurry or in a bad mood.
“Indeed. She told me this chap called O’Connell was involved. Now so?”
Another rule that popped into my head from the training: never share information with other agencies unless you absolutely had to. I had no doubt if Dobbin was here, he would agree, but he wasn’t.
I wondered if I should tell him she had allegiance to another branch of the secret services, or mention Dobbin.
“He was the surveillance target. We were charged with observing him, but not what he was suspected of. I followed him as far as the exploding shop, got temporarily disorientated after the blast,, but managed to reacquire the target, following him to an alley where I spoke briefly to him before Maury and Severin arrived, and he was shot, apparently killed.”
“Either he was or he wasn’t.”
“The body disappeared. My view is he is still alive, somewhere.”
“That explosion was supposed to be caused by a gas leak.”
“Standard operational doubletalk. A journalist was killed, apparently in the shop waiting for the target. It went up after the target passed, I’m assuming his tradecraft was to check first then go back. Never got a chance. I think now given the circumstances, the journalist was going to hand something off. I’ve been asked a number of times by various people about a USB drive. You know anything about it?”
“This is the first I’m hearing about anything about a USB drive. You know what was on it?”
“Above my pay grade, I was told.”
“OK. What about this Severin character?:
“All I have is a phone number, and that, I think we can both agree, will be a burner.”
“Agreed, but it might be useful.”
I gave it to him and he put it on his phone.
A new team of men in white suits arrived at the door, no doubt MI5 forensic specialists, and two more agents, bigger and tougher, what I would call the muscle.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to come back to the office to answer a few more questions. It’s not custody, but mandatory co-operation.”
“And if I refuse?”
“It might make their day if you know what I mean.”
I shrugged. One I might be able to take, but not the both of them. And they both looked like they would be happy to teach me the error of my ways if I tried to escape/
“That won’t be necessary. I’m taking him with me.”
“Dobbin just came to the door, flashing an MI6 warrant card.
“I’ve been charged with cleaning this mess up.”
“And so you shall, but not including this agent. Orders from above, reasons why, as they say, are above your pay grade.
I suspect the warrant card said Dobbin outranked him. Did our people have fake MI6 IDs?
“This is highly irregular.”
“Call your boss, if you don’t like it. I can wait.”
I could see the reluctance in his face.
He glared at me. “Go, but don’t go too far. I still might get clearance to have another chat.”
John has found Zoe after playing a little cat and mouse in the streets near the hotel. Back at the hotel, they just get back to the room when a member of Worthington’s hit team arrives and comes off second best.
Of course, the rest are stationed at the obvious exits, and it takes some effort to getaway.
Even that escape is fraught with danger, but with all the cunning she can muster, Zoe makes sure they get back to Vienna.
With Worthington’s hit team hot on their train, a diversion in the main railway station helps aid their departure.
By now, two things are certain:
Worthington is behind the latest attempted hit, and they are both in the firing line, and
John had to decide whether or not he wants a life always looking over his shoulder.
No prizes for guessing his choice!
…
Today’s writing, with John throwing his lot in with Zoe, 2,905 words, for a total of 39,717.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 