…

I remembered once hearing my mother say after my father had died suddenly, that she regretted not doing more travelling when he was alive.  I also remembered her often saying there never seemed to be enough time to get everything done, that there would be time enough later on to do all those things they never seemed to get around to doing.

It was a familiar lament made by many others during what seemed to be, rapidly passing years.  Until, inevitably, something completely unexpected happened, and equally inevitably, all those plans became moot.

For Janine and me that moment came when we were both sitting in the doctor’s surgery right after he told us the test results were not as good as he had hoped, and more tests were needed before he could positively tell us what was wrong.  Those words of my mother’s came back and hit me like a ton of bricks.

Janine had been tired much more than usual, and lately, everything had become much more difficult.  It was harder to get up in the morning, harder to contemplate cooking, let alone eating, and all those daily chores were more of a chore than before.  When I asked him to hazard a guess as to what the problem was, he refused to speculate but said it was possible he would know more after the next round of tests.

To be honest, I think he knew already.

I think Janine did, too, and was prepared to put a name to it simply because she was now living the same sort of life her mother had, as had her mother before her.  A rare and debilitating form of cancer.

Janine had known it was hereditary, but when it hadn’t affected her the same time as her mother and grandmother, she had believed it had slipped a generation.  Her mother had the first effects of it in her late 30s and died just before she turned 45.  Janine had reached 45 and wasn’t expecting it.  It could still be something else, the doctor said, but his expression that day was not one of hope.

After that first day, I wondered if our lives would end in a sea of regret, wishing that with the benefit of hindsight, we would have done things differently.  But there was a silver lining.  About a year before, we had talked about the possibility of her getting ill and had drawn up a bucket list and began to tick items off it.  Had Janine always known subconsciously that this might happen?

It was a question I was never going to ask her.

We had moved into the room we both knew was going to be Janine’s final home.  She was too weak and in too much pain to be far from the hospital, and this was, the doctor said, the final leg of the race.

I wanted to believe her when she told me she had made her peace with God and the rest of the world, and that she was not going to go out with any regrets.  We had not finished the bucket list, but we had given it a good shake.  I tried to be stoic in the face of her impending death, but sometimes, that was a little hard. 

We had been looking forward to growing old together, and it was one regret I found hard to reconcile.

Her favourite saying had become better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. 

And then, one morning, she had asked, “Why was Margaret, given who she was and how badly she treated people and the fact you were one of them, was your first love?”

Margaret had been the subject of many a conversation in those first few months we dated after Margaret had effectively dumped me.  It had made Janine angry, and for that reason, Margaret was persona non grata

It was something I’d not thought about in a long time. I guess it had been on her mind, especially when in the beginning she had said she always believed she had been my second choice.

“You were never a second choice or the rebound girl,” I said then as I did now. 

And while I wanted to believe that was true, to a certain extent it was a lie.  If the truth be told, she had been there and had always had a ‘thing’ for me, and my sister had always maintained Janine had hoped Margaret would revert to type, untrustworthy to the point of inevitably letting me down.  My sister had also always believed Janine and I would end up together.  In her eyes, we were much better suited, and as time passed had proved.

But Janine asked in the next breath, had I always held a torch for Margaret, with the hope that one day she would come to her senses?

“When you accepted my proposal, my heart was never anywhere but with you,” I said, wondering why she was bringing the matter up now.  “I never had any intention of taking her back, or talking to her, not after what she did.”

“You had not the tiniest regret that you wouldn’t get to be with your first love?  After all, that’s the one that makes the most impact on your life and how it plays out over time.  I always believed part of you was always with her.”

Why would she think such a thing when I had never given her the impression that I was anywhere but with her?

“I have no regrets marrying you.  None.  Margaret sowed the seeds of her destruction for better or worse, and I was not inclined to rescue her or help her in any way when everything fell apart.  Going to see her a few months back was not because I was still interested in her or thinking we might get back together.  Just seeing her and what she had become was reason enough to stay away.  No, believe me when I say she was a bullet dodged.”

I didn’t understand why Margaret was even a subject for discussion in her last few weeks when we should have been reminiscing on what we had.  It caused me some concern she should ever think that she was not the woman I had wanted to be with for the rest of my life.

And what had brought this on? I had not mentioned Margaret since that night I left her at the restaurant, and I had made a point of not talking to Margaret either over the phone or by email.  She had tried to contact me, and I had ignored her.  There was nothing she could say that would make me think that she and I should be together.  Ever.

So, I had to ask why she was so worried about my loyalty or that she could ever think that my heart belonged to anyone else but her.  I had, I said, never given her reason to ever think it was not.

“Because she is about six rooms up the passage from here on life support.  She tried to commit suicide and I suspected that might have been because of something you said or did.”

It bothered me that she could think that, but I guess it was not entirely unexpected given her state of mind.  Margaret had never been the subject of any conversation when she was well.

When we first started dating, I told her exactly where I stood regarding Margaret, and it had never wavered since.  It had helped that Margaret was wise enough to stay away.  I might have done something stupid had she shown her face, even after her relationship with William had fallen apart.

I was never going to be her second choice or backup plan.  But I could see, now, those thoughts had crossed Janine’s mind, how the fear of being a second choice could be considered.  The thing is I had no idea how to reassure her I was not interested in Margaret, in a coma or not.

A few days later, though, when I put my head in the door of the room where Margaret was sleeping, I realised it was a mistake.  I should have realised Janine would have spies everywhere.  She was not normally this paranoid, but in her heightened state, everything would have a meaning even if I couldn’t comprehend what it was.

When I walked into the room, she had that expression on her face that I equated to trouble.  Much like being on the Titanic just before it sank.

“You went to see her,” she said before I could even sit down.

“It would seem out of place if I was not curious as to her condition.  And given the fact she was in a coma and didn’t know I was there, and the fact it was only for a few minutes, is hardly worth mentioning for obvious reasons.  You should not have told me if you didn’t want me to go there.”

Her health deteriorated rapidly, the doctor saying that once the pain reached a certain level, she would become virtually comatose because of the pain medicine.  That morning I reassured her that Margaret meant nothing to me and despaired that our last conversation was not of happier times.  The doctor had said the medication would mess with her thoughts, so I should just nod and agree.

That afternoon she slipped into the final stage, and for all intents and purposes, looked like an angel sleeping.  Twenty-three hours later, the longest period of my life, she died peacefully.  She opened her eyes just before passing and smiled. 

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

…

…

Here’s the thing.

What happened should not have happened, but it did.  I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and met the wrong people.

It earned me a beating simply because the arresting officer was a belligerent fool, and of course, I had to stir him up.  I wanted to see what I was up against, and what I learned, I rather wished I hadn’t.

And it meant, if I got to walk away from this, I had a lot of explaining to do, and not just to my captors.

I sighed.  It could be worse.

The bench in the cell was hard and uncomfortable, but it was meant to be like that for a reason.  The occupant was not meant to be comfortable.  It was cold, then hot, then cold again.  I’d expected a few buckets of ice-cold water thrown at me, but they were holding off on that treat.

Big ugly looking guards with guns came to the front of my cell and banged on the iron bars with those guns, making what they thought was a statement.  In the end, they were just big ugly men with guns banging on the iron bars to keep me awake.

Do that for a few hours.  Alternate light and dark.  Disorientate.

Deliver water, and make it look like you’re not the bad guys here.  Lace that water with something terrible, yes, been there, and had that treatment.  Stomach pains, dehydration, deprivation.

It was all part of the softening-up process.

Number six visitor was different from the rest.  He came and went, staying only for a minute, two at the most.  He was dressed impeccably and had a well-groomed manner about him.

The rest, the guards, perhaps the jail chief, all looked like they slept in their clothes, hadn’t had a shave or a wash forever, and looked perpetually angry.

He was the master interrogator.

He let the theatrics continue for another 14 hours, making sure I got little sleep and no relaxation.  He sent in a few soldiers to give me mini beatings, just in case I forgot I was the trespasser, not them.

Then he had me half dragged, half escorted to a lower room, one that had nothing in it but two chairs.  No tools of trade, just a bare room, with, I noticed, blood stairs around the drain, under the chair.  A predecessor may not have had a good time in this room.

The guards secured me to the chair and then waited outside, facing away from me.  They’d obviously been instructed not to engage in conversation or answer any questions.  When I thought about it, they probably didn’t speak English.

An hour later he sauntered in as though he had all the time in the world.  He did.  He stood outside the cell for a few minutes, looking at me, perhaps daring me to speak.  Later maybe.

Then he dismissed the guards.

Unsurprisingly, the door wasn’t locked.  I’d guessed as much, so perhaps it was a test to see if I could escape.  It was a bit difficult, even for me, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

“So, Mr Tomlinson, what have you got to say for yourself?”

Good start, give me a chance to incriminate myself.

I thought briefly about the circumstances, about having an invitation to a party, using this as cover to case the residence, and, if it was possible, making my way upstairs to the owner’s study and looking for evidence of his participation in various illegal activities.

It was a long shot at best, my contribution to the briefing before I embarked on this folly, was that no so-called legitimate businessman would keep that particular type of evidence at home.

I was told I would be surprised just how many people in a similar position thought they were above the law.

Anyway, I was caught out before I started looking and only managed a cursory examination, which in my mind justified my belief there would be nothing there.

“Wrong place, wrong time.  I took the wrong door.  As corny as it sounds, I was looking for a restroom.”

“When everywhere from the ground floor up it was very clearly labelled no trespassing?”

“The need for a restroom sometimes outweighs the risk of breaking house rules.  There was an unusually high demand on the lower floor aside from the fact the main restroom was out of commission.”

“Come now, Mr Tomlinson, we both know that’s not quite true.”

“Then why, firstly, was the upstairs room not marked out of bounds, and secondly, why was the door unlocked.”

“It was not.”

“At the risk of starting a childish to and fro, it was unlocked.”  It hadn’t been locked, that was true because we did have a little inside help, but that was not for me to explain.

I could see a reddish tinge starting to build up at the top of his cheeks, a sure sign of impatience, and the fact he was not going to let me verbally spar with him for much longer.

“You were caught where you were not supposed to be.  What were you looking for?”  There was an edge to his tone, impatience showing through.  He was a man of quick temper, which may or may not be an advantage to exploit.

A little nudge perhaps, “This is going to become tiresome for one of us.  Do you have a name.  It seems only fair you tell me since you know mine.”

“My name is irrelevant.”

“And yet I will find out eventually.  You do realise I am, among many things, a journalist, and that I am here to cover that party, and the announcement both Lady Pelham and Mr Davies were going to make.”

“Then you should not have been poking around in places you have no right to be.”

“A judgement call made by a man who too readily jumped to the wrong conclusion.  My understanding was that the deal could not be sealed if the three organisations didn’t sign the letter of intent, which, I was informed, was going to be at the celebration, after, of course, the usual dull speeches.  I have a feeling at least one of the organisations didn’t sign.  Not yet anyway.  You might want to check that small detail before we continue.”

He shook his head.  “You think I’m a fool.”

“Not yet, but it may still come true if you make a hasty decision.”

I’ll be honest, round about then I was praying for a miracle because his patience was at an end.  I was stalling, but it couldn’t last much longer.

Just as he stood and was about to leave the room, we both heard the resounding thump on a door and accompanying shout, which if I was not mistaken was, “Open this door, you fool.”

No prizes either for guessing who it was.  Davies.

The door was opened and Davies and several other men, representatives of the government, including the Interior Minister, the man we all believed was also the head of their so-called secret service, and no doubt boss of my interrogator, all came in.

A look passed between the minister and the interrogator, which told me he had been on borrowed time to get to the truth.  It also told me the minister had known where I was all the time.

“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” The interrogator met the men before they could get much further into the room.  If he was hoping to stop them from seeing me, it failed.

Both Davies and the minister both saw me tied up, at the same time.  Davies was shocked to see me, the minister not so much, but trying hard to look surprised.

“What is he doing here?” Davies demanded.  Then he swung around to look at the minister, “Did you know he was here?  You told me you had no idea where he was.”

“I did not.  Fontaine?”  He then turned to his interrogator.  “Explain this situation.”

“We caught him in Mr Davies’s study, a room strictly out of bounds.”

Davies glare went from my interrogator to me.

“Looking for a restroom, the one downstairs was suffering a malfunction, I believe,” I said.

Davies took a moment, then said, “Yes, it was.  Someone had stuffed a lot of paper down the drain.  It’s a bit difficult to mistake a study for a restroom.”

“The door was open, just one of many I tried to see if it was a restroom.  It was in darkness so I’ had to step inside to find a light switch.  Apparently, this man,” I nodded to the interrogator, “thought I was up to something else.  I guess, when you’re a journalist, most other people consider us as bad as, if not, a spy.  I apologise for not making it to our interview, but as you can see, I was tied up.”  It was a joke in poor taste.  “Out of curiosity sir, am I to assume the agreement was signed, sealed and delivered.”

“It was not, and I believe we now know the reason why.”  He glared at the interrogator.  “Free this man right now, he’s coming with me.”

“And the charges of trespass,” the interrogator asked.

Davies glared at the minister.  “We can continue with this charade and lose several billion dollars of investment, or we can label this a very bad mistake, and end it now.  I’m sure Tomlinson here will be glad to forgive and forget this matter.”

For a minute it didn’t look to me like the Minister was going to give in, but then he simply sighed and relented.  “A mistake which will have consequences, Mr Tomlinson, I assure you.  Whatever we can do to make up for this, please let me know.”

With a wave of the hand, the misunderstanding was over.  I’m not sure what the Minister could give to make up for the 14 hours plus of bad treatment, but I was sure, judging by his expression, that he wanted nothing more than to have me executed by firing squad, but had to sacrifice that satisfaction by taking a large share of the billions on offer.

The thought that the country would benefit from this deal was an idealistic notion that some people thought possible, but everyone else knew it was just a payment to the current government to keep their allegiance and the supply of certain minerals that were otherwise quite scarce.

No doubt once I reached safety I would be advised not to write about my experience.  Nothing would come from embarrassing our new ‘friends’.

Davies took me back to the hotel, and directly to Alexandra Pental’s suite.  Davies apologised profusely for the overzealous guards at his house, and my incarceration which, to explain the cuts and bruises, equally overzealous prison guards who would be punished severely.

She smiled and nodded, said all the right words, and then dismissed him with the promise she would be attending the signing in one hour.  It was her preference for a more low-key event.  After that, we would be taking our leave, and requested the private jet at the airport be refuelled and cleared to leave the moment we were aboard.

It was clear in her manner that she was less than impressed and had given serious consideration to cancelling the deal.  I had no doubt the Embassy officials had several heart attacks for various reasons when the signing was postponed.

The door had barely closed when she glared at me across the room, then, after a minute, which was worse than the 14 hours in that cell waiting for the interrogation, she shook her head.  “Drysdale told me that he had demanded to know what they’d done with you, and all he could get was denials.”

“The minister knew all along, I don’t think Davies did.  He was too shocked when they burst into the cell block.”

“What the hell were you doing in a cell block?”

“Preparing for the interrogation.”

“Not like that we see on TV?”

“That would be far more acceptable than what I was probably going to get.  Except the interrogator was holding back.  Perhaps he knew U wasn’t going to talk, or he was hoping the minister would bail him out of trouble.  The minister, by the way, doesn’t want this deal.”

“Why?”

“I suspect he made a promise to the Chinese.  There’s an unofficial report there was a Chinese delegation here last week, wrapping up the details of another offer, one that gets the Minister a bigger share of the proceeds, and a lot more say over internal affairs.  Your deal just gives him money.  I believe he wants to run this country as a dictatorship.”

“But that is going to happen?”

“Not today at any rate.”

There was a knock on the door and the butler went to answer it.  She was in the presidential suite and had brought several of her personal staff. Including security.  The minister wanted to install two of his men, but they were pushed outside the front door.

A moment after the butler came in from the anteroom.  “It’s Sir Hugh Drysdale from the British Foreign Office, Miss Pental.”

Read one of the secret service representatives who had been at the briefing in London, and for the local briefing in this very room 72 hours before this fiasco unfolded.

“Show him in.”

He was alone, which surprised me.  He nodded towards her and gave me a curious look.  “Nearly a day in the infamous dungeons, Hugh, and they let you walk out.”

“They had a choice between the deal or nothing.  I was part of the deal, apparently.”

Alexandra shrugged.  “I’ll ask the difficult questions, then.  What went wrong?”

“They knew I was coming.  Someone told them, though I don’t think it was the person who unlocked the door.  If they knew, then they would not want the person who told them known which is why they didn’t press me for answers or go straight into a full-blown interrogation.  If they did, they must have thought I’d guess who it was.”

“Can you?”

“An educated guess, maybe, but it is a person who they can talk to at will, and here, so it’s someone in the Embassy.  Get a list of those who knew about what we were going to do and narrow it down.  As for the mission, I just got in the door when they pounced so my reason for being there was quite legitimate.  I was surprised, once you postponed the signing, they didn’t come sooner.”

“The Minister confessed he was shocked that you had disappeared from the Davies residence.  No one had seen you leave, and they traced your movements up to the passage where Davies study is, but there was no other coverage.  You simply stepped into a dead spot and disappeared.”

“Or the surveillance footage was wiped.”

“Anything is possible,” Drysdale said, “It was your opinion that we would not succeed.  Care to explain how you came to that conclusion?”

Did I blow my own mission?  No.  “I have a source here, one close to Davies, who knows quite a bit of what’s going on with him and his involvement with the government, and with the government itself, and sometimes shares information that can be traced back, so there are caveats.  Davies has three houses, one here, one in a resort by the Black Sea, and a Dascha not far from Moscow.  No one but Davies goes to the Dascha.”

“You could have shared that precious piece of information earlier.”

I could, perhaps, if I had it earlier but it was not forthcoming until I received a coded message under my door the day we arrived.  To anyone else, it was suggested tourist destinations.  But more importantly, it said that Davies was aware I was a journalist looking for a story, and they would be watching me.  The problem was I had to let myself be caught or there would be a witch hunt for my source if I didn’t.”

“I suppose it’s not possible to get a name.”

“This place is worse the East Germany and the Stasi.  Some secrets will go with me to the grave.  That is one of them.”

“You know where exactly this Dascha is then?”

“That’s for your people to find out.  My guess is that what you seek will be there.”  I glanced at Alexandra who looked impatient.  “Once I get that interview, we’re gone.  I don’t like this place.”

“Some of us don’t get a choice.”  Drysdale was trying to sound philosophical and failing.  “Pity this country is landlocked.  I used to like the idea of British gunboat diplomacy.  Things have changed and not for the better.”

“It’s a brave new world,” Alexandra said.  “A year ago, I would not be allowed in the country if I wanted to do business.”

Drysdale handed me a folder which he had taken out of his satchel  “The interview questions, pre-vetted by the Minister.  No deviations.  I know what you’d like to ask, but those are questions we don’t need answers to.  Now right now.  Let’s get this done and call it a win.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

…

…

I was trying to look like I was not doing what I was doing, and that sometimes was quite difficult.

The thing is, you know what it is you’re doing, and neutrally, you think that everyone else does too.

Especially when people are looking at you, and that look conveys ‘I know what you’re up to’.

All I was doing was sitting on a park bench under a tree next to a small waterfall reading a newspaper.

That was the first giveaway.  No one stopped to read newspapers these days.  It was always about instant news gratification on the cell phone.

The second might well have been me holding the newspaper upside down, or worse, that I had cut two small holes in it so I could see beyond the newspaper without lowering it, much like the cartoons of old.

The third definitely was, that if anyone got close enough, they would see it was yesterday’s paper.  I had been running late and grabbed the wrong edition.

So, why was I sitting on a park bench under a tree beside a small waterfall, trying to look like I was not doing exactly that?

I was expecting company.

It didn’t matter who was sitting on that bench, just that they wore a pinstripe suit and a red rose in the lapel.  The bowler hat and umbrella were optional, but I was feeling whimsical.

After all, in a sense, I was a typical English public servant.

Jacobson, ostensibly the man in charge of a group if us aspiring ‘public servants’ had chosen me to run this errand.  I don’t know why. It was not my turn on the roster, and the person who should be going had been sent elsewhere.

It was unexpected and a much-needed change in what had been a very dull week.

I was five minutes early.  I had taken in the early summer afternoon sunshine, clear sky, and aromas of the outdoor gardens.  There was that freshly watered newly mown grass aroma that hung in the air.

There were quite a few other people also out for the afternoon, some strolling hand in hand, others as families with boisterous noisy children.  There was plenty of distraction and camouflage.

I folded the newspaper neatly, put it on the seat beside me, and sat back, looking towards the lake and thinking I might take a walk down and back before returning to the office.

It’s best not to look like I was scuttling back to the office after making the pickup because that was what it was.  A drop-off and pick-up in plain sight, my first and hopefully not my last.

I looked at my phone, ostensibly to check for incoming messages, but in reality, looking at the time.

One minute past the appointed arrival time.

I gave the scene before me a scan trying to look like I was not scanning the scene before me.  That was difficult.

There were three possible threats that fitted the profile of a possible threat, and I was hoping they were not.

The first, is a man on another park bench under a tree, not beside a small waterfall, reading a newspaper.  It was too far away to tell if it was an older edition.  He was glancing in my direction, able to see me without lowering his paper.

The second was a woman with a pram; standing in front, stopped and ostensibly attending to the child within, if there was a child within.  She had only arrived a minute before the appointed time.

The third was another man on another park bench not reading a paper by rather animatedly talking on his cell phone, at the same time looking in my direction.  Was he on the phone reporting, or was he talking to a friend?

Scan ended, and the target, a woman dressed to be noticed, was strolling towards me along the path in a group of about a dozen others evenly spaced, looking like there’ll were together but they were not together.

So much for anonymity.

The first man noticed the new arrival and was on alert. It could be that she stood out, the sort of woman men would give a second look.  She certainly had my attention.

This was getting to be thirsty work, and I took a drink out of the bottle of water I had brought with me.

The woman with the pram had noticed the first man on his bench stiffen and stopped fussing with the child, and started rocking horse the pram, looking at both him then me, then up and down the path, then repeat.  Was that a look of jealousy after she was the approaching woman?

Was she waiting and looking for my target, or was she waiting for a friend or partner?  She was moving towards me slowly.

The third man’s phone call ended when a woman came and sat next to him and greeted him effusively.  Distraction.

The woman with the pram was suddenly met by another woman, older, most likely a mother carrying a large fluffy toy.  Another Distraction.

First man, no longer on his seat, no longer in sight, where the hell was he?  Damn.

Target arrives, and sits, there’s not supposed to be any interaction, but the first man just hovers into sight and is now looking directly at us.

“Long time no see,” the girl said and slid over towards me, put her arms around my neck, and kissed me.  It was a fluid movement from sitting, sliding, and gathering me up in her web of deceit.

I kissed her back. I was happy to play the part asked of me.

Then she leaned back and smiled.  It was like we had known each other forever.  “My God, you have changed, Daniel, and I have to say I love it.”

She had all but taken my breath away, but not so much that the man who had been watching had moved on, assuming as anyone would that two old friends had just reunited.

All I could say was, “Wow.”

She took my hand in hers and said, “Walk with me.”

She didn’t need to ask twice.  Once up, she didn’t let go.  It was a smooth and fluid operation, and it felt natural and not forced.  I had to remind myself that j was playing a role, it was an operation, and that we were improvising.

Over my shoulder, I could see the first man had stopped a short distance away, now intrigued, perhaps to see how this played out.  If he was expecting a drop, he was not expecting two old lovers to reunite.

I leaned towards her, whispering, “Over my shoulder red handkerchief.”

“Saw him on approach.  Amateur.”  Then out loud, ” You got that dull as ditchwater desk job, where was it, treasury or no let me guess, revenue and customs?”

“That was the old me, you know, the one you said you wouldn’t be caught dead with.  No, I’m in a far more interesting home, science innovation, and technology.”

“You failed science at school, come to think of it you all but failed everything except how to wear that old-school tie.  My, and you thought you’d end up on a fishing trawler cleaning the bilges.”

“And therefore totally qualified to work for the government in something I know absolutely nothing about.  Did you get that modelling contact?”

“And a screen test.  I was going to be in the movies until I realised what the screen test entailed.  Now I just model clothes.”

The banter, the manner in which we were walking, the carefree air of two people who had nothing better to do, we were heading for the nearest cafe.  Coffee, cake, more outlandish conversation, the drop would be made, my life would have fifteen minutes of what I’d always wanted but would never get, and the job would be done.

Our new friend was already losing interest.

When I finally returned to the office, I tried to act like nothing happened and completely failed.  The thing is, I was supposed to be able to handle any situation, act in any role it took to get the job done, then go home and come back the next day ready for the next role.

What happened before happened and was forgotten.  Our lives were quite literally clean slates every morning.  There was no time to dwell on what happened or what might happen.

Except…

“You’re not the first,” Lenny, another of the team, said.  “The fact is, we all want to spend a few minutes with her.  I’m told her name is Harriet. They call her Harry for short.

Jay, listening to the conversation, said, “Larry’s furious because he had been slated for this operation, and has now missed out.  “He’s been assigned to work with her before.”

That might be the reason why he was passed over.  She might not want to work with him again.  I remembered him from training, and he particularly was prone not to follow orders or ‘ad lib’.

“Perhaps she wanted someone new, who knows how this works.  No one understands what it is we’re really doing that involved her,” Larry muttered, “but the scuttlebutt is that we’re still being tested.  How did it go?”

“Mission accomplished, potential threats taken care of, and I’ve been debriefed.  I’m sure if there was anything wrong, they’ll tell me.”

Sixteen of us had gotten through the first round of training, out of an intake of about a hundred.  That had been whittled down to six, and I was not sure if I was pleased or sad that my tenure would be determined by a situation, I had no control over.

The more I thought about it, the more I realised that whatever they’d been giving us to do, we were still being tested; only these were far more life-like than training.  The question was if I ended up being in the final few, whether or not I would take it.

At the end of the day, I went home.

We had been told from the outset that this was not going to be a nine-to-five job, that we could go anywhere, at any time of the day or night, to do almost anything.  We had to be able to drop everything and simply go.  As per instructions, I had an away bag packed at ready to go.

And more important was that we should have no attachments, and one of the questions, and the main reason why the people recruited us, was because we had no families or friends of consequence.  The reason it was stressed; they could be used as leverage.

On the other hand, if we had those special people we cared about, our minds would not be on the job in hand.

I certainly fit the loner category.  My parents were dead, and I had no brothers or sisters or family of any sort, making me the ideal candidate.  I certainly didn’t want friends; they had constantly let me down in the past.

Of course, if this didn’t work out. I was going to leave the country and become a ski instructor in New Zealand, a place I doubted anyone I knew knew existed.

But until then, my small place in Brooklyn was where I could hide from the rest of the world.

Or so I thought.

I walked up the stairs to the third level, where I shared the floor with another apartment.  I ran into the other occupant the day I moved in, and he had referred to as the penthouse if only to feel better about the small space.

It was enough for me, as a temporary space to call home if and when I would be in London.  I wasn’t planning on being there long or often.

A glance at the other door, the occupant was away.  I unlocked my door and went in.  It was unusually dark, and I did not remember pulling the curtains, I usually left them open to get some natural light in the main room

I stopped inside the door and leaned against it.  There was a very familiar aroma in the room, a particular brand of perfume I had recently become acquainted with.

“Checking to see if I can notice a break and enter,” I said, at that moment to no one in particular.

If I was right, it was the woman I had met in the park who shared a fifteen-minute adventure.

The chair beside my desk swung around, and she was sitting cross-legged on it.  She fit into it like it had been made for her.  It also demonstrated a certain flexibility.

“What gave me away?”

“Perfume?”

“I will have to deal with that, something less potent.”

“Unless you want to intoxicate your target.”

“Does that mean I have you under my spell?”

She uncurled herself from the chair and sashayed over to me.  I could not take my eyes off her, as I suspect was the point.

“If I deemed you a threat, we would be in a very different position right now.”

She smiled.

“Your training officer said you were more dangerous than a cage of riled rattlesnakes.”

“My compatriots would give their right arms to go on a mission with you.”

“And you?”

“I need my right arm, so no.”

“That’s a pity.  You’ve reached the end of your training, and you’re ready.  Would you like to stay? It’s not mandatory.  Long hours, bad pay, and definitely no thanks.  I don’t know why anyone would want to.”

“Today, you almost gave me a heart attack.  It’s the most alive I’ve ever been.  How could I refuse?”

“You will be working with me then.  Undercover.  It’s going to be long and arduous, and the people who were cosying up to are very, very dangerous.  I’ve got your legend, and you’ll have a day to study it, remember every detail, and then live it.  In or out?”

“Right now?”

“Right now.  We leave tomorrow night.  There is no time to think about it.”

I shrugged.  “I’m in.”

“Good.  Everything you’ll need is in your bedroom.  Until tomorrow then.”

She took a step closer and was so close I could feel the temperature rise.  It was like that moment on the park bench.  I leaned forward slightly and kissed her on the lips briefly, eyes closed for just a second before opening them to look at her.

Whimsical.  My heart did double somersaults, and I don’t think it was meant to.

“Perhaps not then.  I think in a very small space of time, I’ve developed feelings for you.”

“I feel it too.  That’s why I want you for the job.  We’re going undercover as husband and wife, and it has to look real.  I knew from that moment on the park bench you were the one.  And you are going to have to compartmentalise those feelings.  Think you can?”

“Of course.  It’s the nature of the job.  I’ll be ready.”

“Excellent.  Change of plans.  I want to know everything about you so I’m staying.  And I’ll tell you everything about me.  Let’s see where this goes.”

I would tell you how that went, but that’s another story!

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©  Charles Heath  2024

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…

This wasn’t the 1920s or 1930s in Egypt where the Howard Carters of this world were making famous discoveries.  It might have felt like that as we sat in the hotel room and she introduced me to the real world of archaeology, that one where time and effort often brought discouraging results and lack of progress, and then how she came to conclude that this unknown pirate that everyone and no one knew about, actually existed.

She was the only one to believe she actually existed and proceeded to explain why she thought differently to all the rest.  The pirate, of course, was female, by the name of Charlotte de Barry.  Born in 1624, she was of an age just as the golden age of pirates began.   Reputed to have taken up with a pirate, she followed him back to his ship, disguised as a man, and learned the trade until her aspirations of captaining her own ship were realised.  Pity then it was via a later Captain who had kidnapped and forced her to marry him, that harbouring a deep down hate for what he had done to her, she bided her time, and working with the crew finally killed him and took over his ship.

Was it a female crew?  It was a question I wasn’t going to ask, but I suspect it was not.  All the references were circumstantial, but there was a journal, not belonging to the captain, but the mate, chronicling their adventures, but the captain referred to in that journal was Captain Rodolph.  Certainly, the story matched that of Charlotte. 

Then there was an account of her in ‘A History of Pirates’, and again, it could be construed it was Charlotte.  I wanted to believe it was true for her sake.  The journal had one particular entry, rather long that detailed the burial of treasure to be collected later, in Jamaica, not far from Port Antonio in a place named, now, Frenchman’s Cove.

The thing is, as a work of fiction, it was entirely believable.  I could write it, and it would be, as she said, a best seller because everyone wants to believe there’s treasure out there, somewhere.

When I asked her about the journal, she said it was a handwritten translation from a number of writing books that dated back to the late 1800s.  She had considered the entries might be the work of a fertile imagination, but there were too many entries that had a ring of authenticity to them, that the writer had to be aboard a pirate ship. 

Others had dismissed them as just that, fictional entries, but she had cross-referenced the dates with other known documents.  A lot depended on their authenticity, and it begged the question of why someone else hadn’t taken the information.  The person she’d bought them off had found them in an old chest up in the attic of her grandparent’s house in England, thought them to be just a work of fiction and put them out for sale in a garage sale.  A lucky find, perhaps.

That didn’t mean I didn’t believe she made a tangible discovery. All it needed was some artifacts, and it would take on a whole new life, and that was where time and money played a huge factor.  Like Howard Carter, those two items were running out.

This, by her own admission, was going to be her final attempt, and I was hoping it would be successful.

After making arrangements to be away for a few weeks and channelling the funds into an account accessible to both of us, we hopped on a plane and headed for Kingston, Jamaica, on the first leg of the trip.

We were planning to head off to the site near Port Antonio, a small Cove where they had to stop and make repairs after a battle at sea with a British frigate, and where the decision was made to offload the treasure into five chests and bury it.

The precise location was not exactly described in the journal, but there were references to landmarks that bore similarities.  It was enough to go ahead and get the government documents required to explore.  She had deliberately made it obscure by outlining a thousand more acres than was necessary.

Imagine then our surprise to find the Jamiesons, father and son, at the check-in counter having arrived the same time as us. It was the best hotel in Kingston, so perhaps not so much a surprise.

Jackson noticed us first.  “Elizabeth, fancy meeting you here.  Or not.  This is your stomping ground.  Found any pirate treasure yet.  What’s it been, seven years?  Did you break a mirror?”

I could see the expression on her face and the anger about to boil over.  I stepped between them.

“I think that was a bit uncalled for, Jackson.”

“Why am I not surprised to see her with a trashy novelist.  Couldn’t be an archaeologist, so you just invent stuff.  I’m not surprised her university funds were cancelled.  It’s going to real archaeology.”

It wasn’t hard to read between the lines.  “Why are you here?”

“Haven’t you been reading the papers?  We’ve found the location of the treasure.  It took a week.  Not seven years.  I guess you’re as big a failure as your boyfriend here.”

She was going to remonstrate, but it wasn’t the place or the time.  We needed facts if he had stolen her dig.  I turned to her and said, “There’s no point discussing this while you’re angry, and we don’t know what’s happened, or if it’s the same dig.  We’ll check in and then find out what’s going on.”  I certainly didn’t want to argue with him here, now.

I could see the anger blazing in her eyes, and if I let her, I was sure that the police would end up being called.  Instead, I hustled her away to a safe distance.  Right then, I didn’t think her opinion of me went anywhere but down.

I saw Jackson say something to the father, and he looked over at us with an odd expression.  Whether or not he had heard his son belittling us, he definitely looked uncomfortable, which to me was odd.

“Why did you do that.  You know what this is about.  He is not content to create his own miracle find.  Now he’s trying to steal mine.”

“You don’t know that for sure.  He might have found something else entirely.  This place has more than one dig right now, and Pirates are in the news.  Let’s check-in, go to the room, and then I’ll make a call.  When my first book was published, I got a call from an editor of the paper here.  I’ll call him and see what he has to say.  Jackson said that it was in the news.”

I could see she was still angry but saving her from making a scene in the hotel lobby was better than the alternative and might play into their hands.  I had to sigh in relief when she did as I asked.

“Do you have someone local you can call and see what’s happening at your site?  I assume you shut it down before coming back?”

“Yes.  I left Jimmie there.  He lives nearby.  Oddly, he hadn’t called to tell me anything.”

“Then perhaps it’s not your site Jackson was referring to.  They could be somewhere else.”

I was hoping it was.

A half-hour later, a local newspaper in hand, and seeing a small story about the famous Egypt archaeologist who was in Kingston to make an announcement about his next exciting project, I arrived back in my room. I could see she was trying to phone her local assistant, just as I tracked down the editor.

He was delighted to hear I was in Kingston and asked if it was for a book signing.

“No.  I’m not sure why my agent doesn’t schedule signings all over the world, it would certainly make a difference to the dark attic I seem to be continually stuck in, writing.”

“Really?”  He seemed to believe me.

“No, not really, but some days I feel like it.  Actually, I’m here because a friend of mine has been working on a dig of her own, investigating one of the few female pirates one Charlotte de Berry, and the myth of buried treasure.”

“A story no doubt you will be writing about.”

“Something like that.  There is another archaeologist in town, we just ran into the Jamiesons downstairs, and I read in the paper there’s going to be a big announcement.  Do you know what it is?”

“As it happens it’s about the same pirate.  But no one believes it’s possible.  One of our experts and believe me she knows everything about Pirates and Jamaica, says that whatever he turns up, it will have nothing to do with Charlotte de Barry, or anyone else.  Any treasure buried or otherwise will not be found. “

“You say that with a lot of scepticism”.

“I read your story on the Jamieson Egypt dig and it dripped with scepticism.  My impression is that you have proof, you just never played that card.  They tried to stop the publication of your first book. Not the wisest of moves because it turned it into a best seller.  It might have just disappeared into the ether had he not.”

A blunt but true assessment.  I had thought it would not get any interest and end up on the remainder tables.  Then came the lawsuit, and the reluctant publisher that had delayed the release, suddenly published and glad they did.

So was I with the three-book deal that followed.

“They simply saw that there was no merit to their case.  But still, it could as you say disappear into the ether.  When is the press conference?”

“Three days.  They’re going to the site, do a preliminary investigation, and then tell the world.  I fear this may be a gigantic hoax and it’s not what we want or need.”

“Then I shall put on my investigative journalist hat and see what it’s about.  And you can have the story whichever way it turns out.”

“Thank you.  We shall speak again.”

I disconnected the call and looked over at Elizabeth.  She did not look happy.  “What did you find out?”

“Jimmie has gone missing.  I spoke to Fred, another chap I was working with, and he said that a large team of people arrived a week ago and set up about a mile away from my site, closer to the Cove.  He says that the man in charge is Jackson Jamieson.  I sent him a photo and he ID’ed him.  I think Jimmie has sold me out.  I told him I would be back with his money but apparently, he called the Jamiesons and said if the price was right, he’d tell them everything.”

“Including the place where you think the treasure is?”

“No.  Only I know where that is.  But if he rips up the site, then might just bulldoze over the top of it.”

“Can they do that?”

“How much money can they throw at it?”

A lot.

“Then we need to get there and see what’s happening for ourselves.  They’ll probably go by helicopter.  We’re going to have to drive there.”

“If we go tonight?”

“We could do that.”

“I’m sorry but this is just too much.  I should have guessed something like this would happen.  It’s all become a very cut-throat business, and I’m just not up for that end of it.”

“Well let’s wait and see.  It all might be a storm in a teacup.”

An hour later, while Elizabeth was showering and changing her clothes, I said I was going down to tell the front desk we would be away for a few days.  In reality, I told her a small lie.

There was one stop along the way.  The presidential suite, where I knew the intrepid father and son archaeologists were staying.  I didn’t have to ask the front desk.

Standing outside, I rang the doorbell, and a minute later, a man came to the door, what looked to me like a butler. 

I’ve come to see Aristotle Jamieson. I don’t have an appointment but tell him it’s Leo Brightman, and it’s in his best interests to see me.”

“Very good.  Please wait.” Then he shut the door again, leaving me out in the passage.

Five minutes passed before he returned.  “Mr Jamieson will see you now.  Follow me.”

It was like some of the very large apartments I had seen in New York when I was contemplating living there. A large living area, a passage to two bedrooms, and a study or meeting room that would double as a dining room.

He was sitting at one end of the table in the meeting room, documents, folders, a computer, and a phone set out neatly in front of him.  The son was not in the room, thankfully.  The butler closed the door behind me, and we were alone.

“If you’ve come to plead her case to withdraw, it won’t work.  Her claim expired two weeks ago, and she should have renewed it.”

“That’s part of the reason I’m here, but not the only.  To be clear, I was, and still am in fact, an investigative journalist.  You will know this because a lot of my first book was based on my investigation into your Egyptian find.  You tried to stop publication and force a few changes, but ultimately, I have you to thank for making me far wealthier than I would have been digging around looking for stuff that’s increasingly rare to find.  So thank you.”

“And yet, I sense a but.”

“The but is a man named Antoine Gascon.”

I could see the flicker of recognition and the attempt to hide that tell.

“He died five years ago.  A grubby little man who forged Egyptian trinkets to sell on the black market for extortionate sums to gullible fools.”

“He was murdered, you know.  I investigated his death because I didn’t believe he had died accidentally.  Turns out the toxicology report the police received wasn’t the real report.”

“Not my concern.”

“Not right now, but it will be.  Six years ago, a week before his untimely death, he and I sat down and had an extensive interview.  He showed me his workshop and the trial-and-error artifacts he created for you.  Just so you know, there are numerous copies of this interview in the hands of various people who will make that information public under certain circumstances.”

“No one would believe it, because, as I said, he has been proved to be a liar and a cheat.”

“That may be, but when he told you he destroyed all the prototypes and moulds, and I know you or your son, he didn’t specifically say, was there when he did, the fact is he kept two, both of which you generously donated to the museum.  When he made those, he made two identical artifacts, which experts will discover when they do a thorough examination.  The location of them is in the recorded interview.  Now you can keep up the charade, or we can do a deal. I’m not interested in making a mockery out of archaeology, but I do want something that will be very easy for you to grant.  If that happens, then you won’t be reading about a certain scurrilous archaeologist.”

I could see he was wrestling with the idea of just bluffing me and sticking to his original story so that no one would believe Antoine.  Had he not shown me the two artifacts, I would have done the same in his place.  I would have liked to be able to read his mind.

After a small sign, whether of defeat, or pragmatism, he said, “And what guarantee do I get in return.”

“If you leave Elizabeth and her dig alone, the interview never sees the light of day.  I don’t care what you do, just don’t destroy her one chance.  You can join her, but it is her dig and her glory.  You have yours and you can keep it.  As I said, it’s in the best interests of everyone that the status quo remains.  It’s up to you.  We’re leaving for her dig site in a few hours.  If she chooses to go where you set up your circus, they should be informed that it is her project and that they are working for her.  Your collaboration will be appreciated.  Your son, just keep him under control, he wasn’t particularly nice earlier.”  I stood.

“Is that all?  I assume you will not be destroying those tapes?”

“No.  Just in case you change your mind in the future, or, if anything happens to you, your son decides to go off the reservation.  What I’m asking for is no skin off your nose.  We don’t have to be friends, but it would help if you simply played nice.”

“I’ll think about it.”

I shrugged.  “Don’t think too long.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

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