We visited the falls in winter, just after Christmas when it was all but frozen.
The weather was freezing, it was snowing, and very icy to walk anywhere near the falls
Getting photos is a matter of how much you want to risk your safety.
I know I slipped and fell a number of times on the ice just below the snowy surface in pursuit of the perfect photograph. Alas, I don’t think I succeeded.
The mist was generated from both the waterfall and the low cloud. It was impossible not to get wet just watching the falls.
Of course, unlike the braver people, you could not get me into one of the boats that headed towards the falls. I suspect there might be icebergs and wasn’t going to tempt the fate of another Titanic, even on a lesser scale. The water would be freezing.
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
“Silly question, what were you doing in the hotel with this ‘operative’?”
Yes, it sounded odd the moment I said it, and, if it was the other way around, I’d be thinking the same.
“We joined forces, thinking we were in danger, at the time, not knowing that she was working with Dobbin. I discovered that later, by chance. She doesn’t know I know.”
“And she’ll be waiting at the hotel?”
“Dobbin wants the USB. She believes we’re collaborating, after telling me she works for MI5, on a different mission involving O’Connell. She had apparently been undercover as a fellow resident at the block where O’Connell had a flat, and a cat. The cat, of course, had no idea his owner was a secret agent. The flat was sparsely furnished and didn’t look lived in, so it may have been a safe house.”
“Wheels within wheels.”
“That’s the nature of the job. Lies, lies, and more lies, nothing is as it seems, and trust no one.”
“Including you?”
“Including me, but keep an open mind, and try not to shoot me. I’m as all at sea as you are. And, just to be clear, I’m not sure I believe Quigley that the information is lost. People like him, and especially his contact, if he was a journalist, tend to have two copies, just in case. And the explosion might have killed the messenger, but not the information. Lesson number one, anything is possible, nothing is impossible, and the truth, it really is stranger than fiction.”
“Great.”
A half-hour later I’d parked the car in a parking lot near Charing Cross station. The plan, if it could be called that, was for me to go back to the room, and for Jennifer to remain in the foyer, and wait. If anything went wrong she was to leave and wait for a call. For all intents and purposes, no one knew of her, except perhaps for Severin and Maury, but I wasn’t expecting them to be lurking in the hotel foyer, waiting for me.
As for Dobbin, that was a different story. It would depend on how impatient he was in getting information on the whereabouts of the USB, and whether he trusted Jan to find out.
I’d soon find out.
The elevator had three others in it, all of who had disembarked floors below mine. As the last stepped out and the doors closed, it allayed fears of being attacked before I reached the room.
As the doors closed behind me, the silence of the hallway was working on my nerves, until a few steps towards my room I could hear the hissing of an air conditioning intake, and suddenly the starting up of a vacuum cleaner back in the direction I’d just come.
A cleaner or….
Remember the training for going into confined spaces…
The room was at the end of the passage, a corner room, with two exits after exiting the front door. I thought about knocking, but, it was my room too, so I used the key and went in.
Lying tied up on the bed was a very dead Maury, three shots to the heart.
And, over the sound of my heart beating very loudly, I could hear the sound of people out in the corridor, followed by pounding on the door.
Then, “Police.”
A second or two after that the door crashed open and six men came into the room, brandishing weapons and shouting for me to get on the floor and show my hands or I would be shot,”
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.
We flew out of an unnamed base in an unmarked aircraft, heading for Africa. It would be my second visit. The first didn’t quite go as expected, but there was a chance of redemption this time around.
I was the only one who had been there before, other than our two-faced guide, Jacobi, who by now would be working out how he could double-cross us and save his skin. I had no illusions about a man who would turn in his own mother if he had to.
We were going to need a plan b and a plan c going in with him because I had no doubt plan a had already been sent to the relevant people, who were awaiting our imminent arrival with bated breath. Pity we would not be landing anywhere near that location.
In fact, none of us would know where we would be dropped, until minutes before it happened. Security, this time, was going to be formidable. Lallo explained why it was a matter of need to know, and all I had to say was, I didn’t need to know. I suspect Monroe knew, but she was the sort who could keep a secret.
As for the rest of the team, they were a motley crew, but within the group, there was an odd sort of camaraderie between them. Perhaps Lallo had told them that if they stepped out of line, Monroe would shoot them.
Aside from the passengers in the C47 transport, there was a pack for each of us, and enough weapons to start a war. Since we would not be calling at any recognisable airport, I doubted we would be having any customs or immigration problems. No one was travelling with any identification papers. It was that sort of mission.
Bamfield met me at the airport before we took off. Monroe had come over and told me there was a visitor in one of the rooms, the one with Operations crookedly glued to the door. She opened the door, ushered me in, then stepped back out closing the door after her.
Mental note: the door to that room would not withstand a good kick.
There was a table, two chairs, and one of them had Bamfield sitting, looking up expectantly when I entered the room. His eyes beckoned me to the other chair, so, after a look around the room, nothing else other than the table and chairs were in the room I casually made my way to the chair and sat.
We glared at each other over the tabletop.
”I’m guessing this is the last place you expected to be?”
“You have a funny way of issuing invitations?”
“Would you have come along if I asked you politely.”
“Probably not.”
Another minute’s silence while he looked for the words that would be anything other than an apology for coercing me into a corner. I’d come to realise that Bamfield was far from the sort of officer I’d first thought him to be.
An excuse could be made that because he needed to find people to do a particularly dangerous and covert operation, nothing was off the table, including blackmail, in order to get the job done. How he was justifying it using armed services personnel was anyone’s guess, but it would have been kicked higher up the food chain before approval was given.
These operations weren’t just conceived by military commanders, just the CIA on a good day, allowing the armed services to tag along. But make no mistake, this would be a CIA operation, and the CIA to take the credit if it worked out, and the army would take a hit if it didn’t. Either way, it would never reach the newspapers.
“You don’t need me to tell you how important this is, and that we’ve only got one shot at it. If you get caught, any of you, we cannot acknowledge you, so you will be on your own. Your team will obey orders. Monroe is there to maintain discipline if it’s needed.”
“So she’ll be shooting first and asking questions later?”
“Something like that. She’s a tough officer, and worthy of your respect.”
“And the rest?”
“Good soldiers who just got into trouble. They’re being given an opportunity for redemption, and this mission will count towards lessening their sentences. At any rate, Monroe will have your back.”
Good to know.
“You’ll be going to a new destination, after stopping over in northern Uganda. We’ve arranged for the plane to land at a disused airstrip when you’ll be met by Colonel Chiswick. He’ll be arranging you and your teams travel arrangements from there. I can’t tell you any more at this time for security reasons.”
“I have only one question.”
“Only one?”
“There is another 999 but I figure none of those will get answered. It was the same question I asked the last time, who are these people we’re supposed to be rescuing?”
A long and thoughtful look. Could he trust me?
“Two CIA operatives, meddling in DRC affairs without authorisation. They were originally sent to clean up the child soldier problem but somehow got in the middle of the war between government forces and rebels, if you could call them that. They’re mostly militia groups, and the situation was too fractured for them to do much good. Problem is, they made promises, and now we have to bail them out.”
“Another CIA stuff up then.”
“It had good intentions, but in Africa, good intentions are often mistaken for something else entirely. This is, however, one other possible problem you may have to deal with.”
Of course, there always was. Nothing covert operations was involved in didn’t have a wrinkle or three.
“Good or bad?”
He shrugged. “They might not want to go with you. We now suspect they may have had something to do with the last fiasco, and it wasn’t entirely Jacobi’s fault. But, that doesn’t necessarily mean he might not be working with them. You’ll be travelling with a small fortune in diamonds as payment for their release, but it may not necessarily be what it seems. I tell you this, so you don’t get any surprises.”
“Good to know, but I suspect there’s more to the story that you’re not telling me. I’m sure Monroe will keep you in the loop.”
I stood.
Was I expecting a handshake or a good luck, maybe, but I don’t think that was his style? He was probably used to sending men to senseless deaths, so another few would stir his conscience. I shrugged, and walked out of the room, not looking back.
It is hard sometimes to keep the lid on what might be called justification of your position in a company where there are many naysayers, and little support from those who are supposed to be working together towards a single conclusion.
Not work against you, or to have their own agenda, not only in furthering their career on the back of your mistakes but take the credit for all your hard work.
Every company has them.
I’ve worked in a few where this has happened, but the deciding factor of whether they’re successful or not is when they have to stand on their own two feet when the source of their reputed good work suddenly is unavailable, and the shit hits the proverbial fan.
What is it called? Art imitates life.
Benton is the proverbial leader who takes credit, but when it comes to the crunch, can’t pull the rabbit out of the hat.
I guess in writing this little piece, I was subconsciously getting back at someone from a real, but now distant, past.
Perhaps there might be a little more about one of the places I worked cropping up from time to time.
It’s not so much writing about what you know, but writing about what happened, and what you might have wanted to happen. Invariably it never did, because these credit takers are a cunning lot, and sometimes lay the foundations for getting out from under when there is a disaster.
Unfortunately, I’ve been there too.
It’s called cutting your nose off to spite your face.
Be that as it may, I let this little vent run and see where it goes.
It was my responsibility since I’d recommended it and then won the support of management over his objections, and following that it had become a point of continual contention, a petty war neither of us was going to win.
I tried to keep the joy out of my voice. He’d also vetoed my recommendation for a full-time network engineer as my alternative, making my job become single point sensitive. There was no one to replace me if anything went wrong.
“Sounds like you’re having fun.” I had to work hard to keep the amusement out of my tone.
“Fun nothing.” His tone was reaching that exasperation point. “There is no one else.”
“Why did you approve my holiday if I can’t have one?” I’d stretch his patience just a little more.
“You promised me the network was stable.”
“It is, and has been for the last six months. I’ve said so in my last six-monthly reports. You have been reading them, haven’t you?”
Silence. It said all I needed to know.
I had a choice sentence to deliver, but an ignominious thought popped into my head. He could probably use this against me, and would if I gave him the opportunity. Perhaps I should shelve my differences with him for this morning.
Aside from that, there was a shooting, and we didn’t get one of those every day. Not that it would probably amount to very much. During the previous week, the office grapevine had been working overtime on the rumor Richardson was having a relationship with one of the ladies in the Accounts department. It was just the sort of scandal the data entry staff thrived on.
A shooting and a network failure. I didn’t know which was worse. Perhaps if it was Benton they’d shot, there might be some justice…
I decided not to argue with him. “Give me an hour.”
“Half. Aitchison wants to see you.”
Werner Aitchison was head of Internal Security and a man who took his job seriously. Enough, that is, to annoy my staff, and me. He was ex-military intelligence, so ‘they’ said, but he appeared to me like a man out of his depth in this new age of communications. Computers had proliferated in our company over the last few years, and the technology to go with them spiraling out of control.
We dealt in billions via financial transactions processed on computers, computers which, we were told often enough, was insecure, and easily taken control of outside their environment. Aitchison was paranoid, and rightly so, but he had a strange way of going about his business. He and I had butted heads on many occasions, and we may have had our disagreements, but we were good friends and colleagues outside work.
Just in case Benton was accusing me, I said, as sincerely as I could, “I didn’t do it.”
“Of that, I have no doubt. He has requested a meeting with you at 10 am. You will be there.”
“I said I would come in to look at the problem. I didn’t say I was staying.”
“Let me know when you get in.” That was it. No ifs. No buts. Just a simple, ‘Let me know…’
I seriously considered ignoring him, but somewhere within me, there was that odd sense of loyalty. Not to Benton, not to the Company, but to someone else, the man who had given me the job in the first place, who had given me every opportunity.
We visited the falls in winter, just after Christmas when it was all but frozen.
The weather was freezing, it was snowing, and very icy to walk anywhere near the falls
Getting photos is a matter of how much you want to risk your safety.
I know I slipped and fell a number of times on the ice just below the snowy surface in pursuit of the perfect photograph. Alas, I don’t think I succeeded.
The mist was generated from both the waterfall and the low cloud. It was impossible not to get wet just watching the falls.
Of course, unlike the braver people, you could not get me into one of the boats that headed towards the falls. I suspect there might be icebergs and wasn’t going to tempt the fate of another Titanic, even on a lesser scale. The water would be freezing.
Across a crowded dance floor, your eyes meet, and then that tingling sensation down your spine.
A girl who could be a princess, who might be a princess in any other lifetime, and a girl who might just outshine Annabel.
And then the moment is gone, and I could not be sure if it really happened.
“You seem preoccupied.” The almost whispered voice beside me belonged to Annabel, who had mysteriously disappeared and as mysteriously reappeared by my side.
“Just checking who are the pretenders and who are the aspirants.”
Annabel and her parents had a thing about people, who had money, who didn’t, who aspired to be part of society, and those who thought they were. It was a complication I didn’t need.
“Does it matter?”
Interesting observation, who was this girl, and what have you done with Annabel? I turned slightly to observe what some might call my girlfriend, but I was never quite sure what I was to her. Perfect in almost everything, I noticed one slight flaw, no two, a smudge in her make and hastily applied lipstick.
Did it have something to do with her mysterious disappearance?
“Perhaps not. We can be gracious no matter what the circumstances.” A moment, closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, as if preparing for a death-defying leap into an abyss. Then, with an enthusiasm I certainly didn’t feel myself, she said, “Let’s mingle.”
Being with Annabel could be an experience in itself, the way she carried herself, the way she radiated warmth and humility, and then sometimes when in high dudgeon, you wanted to be anywhere else. Today, she shone. I could see the write-up in the social pages of tomorrow’s newspaper, exactly where she wanted to be. Relevant.
I knew the drill, as consort, to be one pace back and one to the side, being aloof but not aloof, on hand to provide the comment that complimented Annabel’s narrative.
I had suggested that we might take to the dance floor, once around the floor to make an impression, but Annabel, being 3 inches shorter than me in heels, was reluctant. Not because she couldn’t dance, well, that’s not exactly true, it wasn’t one of her strong points, but there were more pressing things to do. She didn’t say what they were.
To her equals she was all smiles and politeness, to the aspirants she was gracious, to the pretenders, short but sweet. In political parlance, we would be pressing the flesh. In any political arena, I suspect, she would excel.
Then, suddenly, we chanced upon Mr. And Mrs. Upton, and their son Roderick. I’d seen them once before, at Annabel’s parent’s house when I had been invited to dinner and had noticed, in front of him she was quite animated. This time her expression changed, and it was one I’d seen before, one I thought was exclusively for me.
I was wrong.
Although that look disappeared as quickly as it came, and she had reverted to the usual greeting, she did take Roderick’s hand when she was re-introduced, and while to all others it seemed like the second time she had met him, I could see it was not.
He looked uncomfortable, and, as he made a slight movement, I could see a smudge of makeup on his lower jaw, and lipstick on his collar, in a place that would not normally be seen. It was simply a quirk of fate.
By the time I’d processed what I’d seen, we were meeting the next person.
The princess.
“Miss Annabel McCallister, I presume?”
Annabel, suddenly, seemed flustered. She usually knew everyone at these affairs, to the extent I thought she had a bio specially researched for her, but the princess apparently was not on the list.
“You have me at a disadvantage. Whom might you be?” The tone was slightly brittle, the cheeks slightly reddened, and she was annoyed and embarrassed. Someone’s head will roll for this.
“Frances Williams, or the Boston Williams.” An offered hand, taken and then released. When Frances saw her puzzled look, she added, “I belong to the distant branch who live across the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. Crumbling castles, and once upon a time, tea plantations.”
And then I committed the ultimate crime, I spoke. “Surely you do not live in a crumbling castle?”
Annabel scowled, Frances laughed, “Oh, no. Daddy’s spending a few million to fill the cracks so it isn’t as draughty.”
Interview killed stone dead. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Frances. Perhaps our paths might cross again.” In which I read, I hope they do not.
Frances was a girl who could play Annabel at her own game, and quite likely she would win.
We did the obligatory waltz, her strongest dance, and it was one of fluid motion and great concentration, in order to shrug off the Frances factor. After that, she said she needed a few moments to get some air, and it was probably perverse of me to think that finally, someone had bested her.
I had no interest in further mingling and found a quiet corner in which to view the proceedings and contemplate where the princess had disappeared to.
Apparently not as far away as I thought. “You saw it, didn’t you?”
I guess I could feign ignorance, but the princess was all-knowing and all-seeing, and now beside me, close enough for another tingling sensation in my spine from the timbre of her voice.
“A tryst with Roderick, I suspect.”
“Handsome lad, cheeky grin, just enough nervousness that someone would suspect they’d been shagging.”
I turned to look at the amused expression. “Who are you, really. You’re definitely not one of the Boston Williams.”
“No. They’re too stuffy for me. My real name is Cherie, not French, but I can speak it if you like?”
“Probably not. Mine is schoolboy at best. How did you get in here?”
“A rather enterprising waiter, and a hundred dollar note. Most of these twits wouldn’t know the real thing even if they fell over it.”
“An attention-seeking journalist then?” She would not be the first, to try to see how the so-called other half lives.
“Perish the thought. I just love these affairs, the people, the atmosphere, the food, and the drink. And meeting people like you, a contradiction in every sense. You don’t want to be here, and yet here you are. You don’t want to be with her, and yet you are. Duty? Obligation?”
“All of the above.”
“And now you know she’s having a dalliance.”
“What rich and famous couple are monogamous? You read the papers, its musical beds. It comes down to how much pride you want to swallow for the sake of family, business, and appearances.”
She shook her head. “That’s not you. Humor me, come to the Cafe Delacrat tomorrow, 10:00 am. We’ll chat.”
I took Annabel home, and it was like nothing had happened, and she was not seeing anyone else. The girl, if nothing else, was a consummate actress, and had I not seen the evidence, I would still think I was the only person for her. But she was inordinately happy, and I had not been able to do that for her for a long time.
Perhaps it was time to move on.
I nearly decided to stay in bed and not go to the Cafe Delacrat, but the thought of seeing the princess once more was the compelling argument to go.
When I got there, a few minutes before the hour, she was not there, and I thought to myself, I had been tricked. That thought magnified when it came to a few minutes after when the waiter brought out the latte. The coffee aroma was good, so it would not be a wasted visit.
And, like the princess she was, she arrived late. Dressed in a yellow summery dress with flowers, red shoes and handbag, and the obligatory scarf and sunglasses, she looked movie star stunning. She sat down, and the waiter was there before she finished squirming into the seat.
“I’ll have what he’s having.”
“Latte.” He probably knew, but I wasn’t leaving anything to chance.
“I didn’t see you arrive, otherwise…”
“Very few people do.”
“By the way, you look amazing.”
“What? This old thing. It’s been sitting in the back of the closet since I last visited San Gimignano. Have you traveled?”
“Yes.”
“Man of few words. Compliments women. Apologetic. That girl is not for you.”
“And you might be?” I was wondering what her motives were.
“Me? No. Too old, a bit of a lush, certainly not monogamous, and frankly, you could do a lot better. In fact, you deserve better.”
“Then…”
She was watching the other side of the road, the front entrance to a rather pricy hotel in fact, as a taxi stopped and two passengers got out. When it drove off, I could see a man and a woman, and when I looked closer, I saw it was Annabel and Roderick, holding hands and looking very much in love, as they literally bounced into the hotel. No baggage, 10:00 am, no prizes for guessing why they were there.
“How did you know?”
She shrugged. “I know she is not the one for you. So, if you had but one wish, who would you wish for? I’m sure, over time, there has been a girl who stole your heart. We all have one, in my case, probably two, or three.”
Who was this woman, my fairy godmother?”
Yes, she inspired me to think, and closed my eyes to go back to a time in university when I ran into this amazing girl who spent far too much time helping others than to worry about herself. We spent a lot of time together, and yet we were not together in that sense, as much as I wanted to be. I sense though it was not the time or the place for her, and, after two years, she simply disappeared.
“Miranda Moore.”
I hadn’t realized I’d said her name out loud.
“Yes?”
I opened my eyes and looked up to see the very girl, a few years older but no less attractive than she was then, apparently a waitress at that cafe.
“Peter?”
“Miranda? Wow. I’ve been looking for you, high and low. What happened?”
“My mother died and I had to go home. It’s been a few years of hell, but, like you say, wow. Looking for me, you say?”
“High and low.”
“And now you’ve found me?”
“I’m not letting you disappear on me again. Can we…”
“I finish at noon. Come back then, and I’m yours. God, it’s so nice to see you again.”
We are now up to the part where we introduce Isobel properly and find out why such a talented person is drifting in the doldrums of Rupert’s private detective agency.
Aside from being a once high-flying legal eagle, she is also a computer hacker, or perhaps that’s what she evolved into in a devil finds work for idle hands type person.
This hacking is going to be useful, but it’s also going to bring problems, especially when she starts tracking down Zoe.
And, it seemed she had struck up a dark online relationship with another hacker with the handle Tzar. What are the odds he is Russian?
She’s digging for information, and Tzar helps, and, suddenly it appears, briefly, then is gone, with a warning. Stop digging.
And if she doesn’t.
People were coming for her.
Meanwhile, in the basement, Zoe has had enough time to devise a mask that might stave of the effects of the gas long enough to affect an escape.
And, it almost works, the mask that is.
She manages to get past all of the guards, but Romanov is waiting.
He doesn’t kill her, but he does give her some information, then leaves. He knows how dangerous she can be, especially when wounded.
…
Today’s writing, with Isobel trawling the dark web, 2,583 words, for a total of 8,871.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
Even now, I still believe he is here with us, in spirit, though sometimes I swear I hear him coming down the passage, or is sitting on the floor, behind me in the office, waiting to hear the next piece of writing and offer his often sage comments.
But, no. When I turn around he’s not there, and I stop, for a moment or two, and remember.
…
This was Chester.
For a few days, we have been monitoring Chester.
He hasn’t been talkative, in fact, I have been mistaking his usual taciturn nature in the mornings for what it really was.
A total lack of interest in anything.
He did not come down in the morning. OK, so, sometimes he cracks a hissy fit and totally ignores me.
But, this is different.
After a few days he returns and gives me the benefit of his wisdom.
Today, he hasn’t shown at all, so I went looking for him.
He was in his usual hiding spot, lying down. I give him a pat, he opes his eyes and looks at me. This is a cat who is not well.
I pick him up, and there’s no immediate fight back. He doesn’t normally like to be carried anywhere. Today, he’s putty in my hands.
I call the vet. She can fit him in now if I run. I’m running.
He goes into his carry basket without a fight. OK, now I know something is definitely wrong.
There’s not a sound between home and the clinic. Usually, he screams the place down, trying to get him into the carrier, and then makes as much noise as possible when driving.
Today there is nothing, not even a whimper.
The vet comes out. She has been seeing him for the last ten years and they are well acquainted.
We see her every six months. Without fail, for shots and stuff.
I take him out of the carrier and he lies down on the metal bench.
She looks at him, then picks him up.
She weighs him.
He’s lost two kilos, and that’s a lot for a cat.
I can see it’s bad news.
It is.
He’s 19 years old, long past the average life expectancy.
To keep him alive now would be inhumane. He has, apparently, reached the end of his life, and has lost the desire to eat or to do anything. There was nothing I could have done to prevent it.
She says, it just happens.
It will be quick and it will be painless.
I can see in his eyes that it’s what he wants.
I said goodbye, went outside and sat in the car, and cried.
There’s going to be a lot more tears before this day is out.
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.
…
The folder had half a dozen single-page sheets with a photo attached to each with a standard-issue army paper clip. There was no top secret in pale red ink diagonally scribed across any of the pages which somehow diminished the exercise.
I guessed this was the hand-picked team selected for me to take on our suicide mission. It didn’t have the officer overseeing the mission, or the go-between Jacobi. Not exactly a useful man to have along in a firefight, because he would be too busy working out who would pay the most if or when he survived.
It still astonished me that we hired people like Jacobi, fully knowing that they would sell out their own mother if the price was right. I was going to reserve one bullet in my gun to execute him the moment he even looked the wrong way.
Trust him, I did not.
Nor any 0f the six members of that hand-picked team.
Sergeant Barnes. Tall, wide, deadly, that last attribute courtesy of a line in his resume that said he killed three soldiers of the army we were supposed to be training and supporting. No meaningful reason was given as to why he did, only that he’d just finished serving a five-year sentence, cut short by a month so he could join this force. Hand to hand combat, and a handy man to have if you’ve got a handheld rocket launcher handy.
Private Williamson. Had been a Corporal, but considered that too much of a burden, having men look up to him, and having to give orders. He decided to go AWOL instead. Used to be a butcher before signing on to see the world, and as described very handy with a knife. Refused to use a gun, and refused orders too, which was the reason why he was in the stockade, with his friend, the next man on the list.
Private Shurl. If we needed a man who excelled at sword fighting, he was our man. A very accomplished swordsman, but I doubt we were going to need a man of his talents because enemy swordsmen seemed only to exist in the old movies. I guess Lallo was expecting the three musketeers or something. Other than that, he was a useful radioman and would be handling the communications once we were on the ground in enemy territory.
Corporal Stark. His claim to fame was reading maps. He was also an expert on the ground in the country whose borders we were about to violate. He lived in the country for several years with his wife, who came from there, and who’d been killed by the dictator in a case of mistaken identity. Stark would have to be carefully managed.
Staff Sergeant Mobley. A man who had been up and down in ranks for a long time, suggesting a bad attitude, his latest bout leaving him fresh from a stint in the stockade. He had no valid reason to be in on this disaster and yet had volunteered. That took courage, to apply for a suicide mission with little hope of return. I suspect he had an agenda that no one else knew about.
And, lastly
Lieutenant Lesley Davies. A woman marine, no longer a lieutenant but just another soldier who obviously didn’t understand the concept of taking one step back when everyone else steps in another direction. It didn’t say what it was she did wrong, but my guess there were a few men out there frightened of meeting her on a dark night. Some women are dainty, some women are large, and then there’s Davies, a powerhouse that could be dangerous if out of control.
Out of all of that team, she was the one who interested me the most.
There was a knock on the door, interrupting my thoughts. I called out, “Enter”, surprised the person outside hadn’t just shoved their way into the room.
The door opened, Monroe walked in and closed the door behind her.
“Let me guess,” I said. “You’re running point.”
“And save your sorry ass from those recruits. Not a brain between the lot of them, and we need people who can think, given the nature of the forthcoming exercise. The brains trust has decided the rescue team reports to us. I didn’t ask for it by the way. This is one of Lallo’s sick jokes.”
Maybe he had a problem with her too and was hoping she wasn’t coming back.
“You and me both,” I said.
She threw another folder on the table. “Operational orders, wheels up at 0600 tomorrow. Make sure you get a hearty meal before we leave, it might be your last for a while.”
I shrugged.
“Suit yourself.” She went back to the door, gave me a curious look, and left.
I opened the file and looked at the one piece of paper in it. It was marked Top Secret in red diagonally across the page, probably specially done by Lallo to make me feel important. It had departure time, the weather, the flight time, how long the stopover would be before going on to the target.
Tightly planned, no room for missing connections, though this was the army, not an airline taking us, no room for errors. New intel said that we had five days before the prisoners were to be executed.
So after that rather undramatic ‘off with the fairies’ moment, it’s time to come back to earth. Holiday or not, there’s always something that can go wrong.
Even when you’ve been told to take some vacation days, and reluctantly stayed home. The notion that vacation meant going away somewhere doesn’t enter Bill’s mind.
Perhaps he’s like a lot of workaholics, using their job as an excuse to forget about life outside work.
Maybe he was hoping something would go wrong. Maybe he had considered manufacturing a problem so that he would have to go back.
Maybe not, but that was the sort of employee he was, not one that could willingly take a day away, just in case.
Like now.
I’d almost managed to doze off again when the phone rang.
I jumped to its equally shrill sound cutting through the silence. It had to be a wrong number because no one at work would call me, and I didn’t have many friends, so I let it ring out. As far as I could remember, it was only the third time it had rung since I’d moved in, four years ago.
Blissful silence. I looked at the bedside clock. 7 am. Who called anyone at that hour?
It rang again.
Ignore it, I thought. If it was anyone, it would be someone from the office. I’d told them all not to call me, not unless the building was burning down and they were all trapped in it.
And even then, I’d have to think about it.
Burying my head under the pillow didn’t shut out the insistent ringing, compelling me to answer. Almost reluctantly I rolled back, pulled the telephone out from under the bed, and lifted the receiver to my ear.
“Bill?”
It was Carl Benton, my immediate superior; an insipid, loathsome, irritating little man, the last person I would want to speak to. He’d insisted I take this leave, that the office could survive without me, adding in his most condescending manner that I needed the break.
I slammed the receiver down in anger. It was a forlorn gesture. Seconds later, it rang again.
“I seem to remember you were the one to tell me to go on holiday, that I needed a holiday. I’m off the roster. It can’t be that important. Call someone else.” I wasn’t going to give him the opportunity to speak. Not this morning. I was not in the mood to listen to that squeaky, falsetto voice of his, one that always turned into a whine when he didn’t get his way.
And hung up again.
Not that it would do any good. I knew that even if I was in Tibet, he would still call. Then I realized it was too early for him to be in the office, and if he was, he would have been dragged out of bed and put in a position where if he didn’t produce results, they might realize just how incompetent he was.
At last, my holiday had some meaning and smiled to myself. I’d make the bastard sweat.
He left it a few minutes before he rang again. And I let it ring out. I could see the expression on his face, bewilderment, changing slowly into suffused anger. How dare I ignore him!
Another five minutes, then the phone began its shrill insistence again. Before it rang again, I’d moved it from the floor to the bed. I counted the rings, to ten, and then picked up the receiver.
“Bill? Don’t hang up.” Almost pleading.
“Why? You said I should go, away from work, away from the phones, away to recharge my batteries, I believe you said.”
“That was Friday. This is Monday. You’re needed. Richardson has been found shot dead by his desk. All hell has broken loose!” Benton rarely used adjectives, so I assumed when he said all hell had broken loose, it meant something had happened he couldn’t fix. His flowery language and telegram style had momentarily distracted my attention from Richardson’s fate.
Harold Richardson was an accountant, rather stuffy, but good at his job. I’d spoken to him probably twice in as many years, and he didn’t strike me as the sort who would kill himself. So why did I think that? Benton had only said he was shot.
Benton’s voice went up an octave, a sure sign he was going into meltdown. “It’s a circus down here. Jennifer is missing, Giles is not in yet, the network is down, and that bunch of nincompoops you call support staff are running around the office like headless chooks.”
It all came out in a nonstop sentence, followed by a gasp for air. It gave me time to sift the facts. Jennifer, my sometime assistant, and responsible for data entry and accounts maintenance, was not there, which in itself was unusual, because she kept longer hours than me, Peter Giles, my youthful assistant, just out of university and still being beaten into shape was not in, and that was usual, so it could only mean one thing.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 