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…
This is Chester.
Not everything is fine in la-la-land, as he now calls it.
Not happy that I didn’t tell him about the second week of child invasion.
He should consider himself lucky that the school week started on Tuesday, and only one was staying home to do schoolwork.
The other has been able to return to the classroom.
One less tormentor, I heard him mutter as he slinked past the room where the homeschooler was working.
But a more sinister problem had arisen.
He’s stopped eating his food. I first thought this was part of a two-week standoff, where he cuts his nose off to spite his face.
This is not the first time we’ve been through this.
So, just to see if it is a fit of pique, I get him his absolute favorite food. Fresh Atlantic Salmon cut into small pieces just the way he likes it.
Yes, the aroma reaches him in his hiding spot, along with the call-out that I’d bought him salmon, but when he goes to the bowl, he takes a sniff, or two, then wanders away.
That tangled web being woven by Sebastian’s boss, Worthington, is getting more sticky by the moment. After reading the John is not given any other option other than to get on a plane and head off to Zoe’s last known location, with Worthington peering over his shoulder waiting to pounce.
Sebastian knows something is up, because he has people watching John and knows he’s on the move, strategically calling the moment John leaves Worthington’s office.
John is getting into spy mode, and lies to Sebastian, not for the first time, and it was something he was going to have to get used to.
Meanwhile, Zoe comes face to face with Romanov, and it’s not the person she thought he was, and hardly the sort she would associate with Alistair’s mother or top KGB.
But he had got her profile and has taken all the necessary countermeasures so that she does not escape, or if she does, will not get very far.
There’s torture but no answers, she’s been here before, and in-between time to consider her options.
This might be a more interesting situation to get out of.
…
Today’s writing, with Zoe languishing in a dungeon once again black and blue, 3,989 words, for a total of 26,242.
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.
I had to wonder if Lallo had already called the number on the phone he had handed Jacobi, and then considered, if that was the case, there would be no need for Jacobi to call anyone. Or Lallo had got an answer, just not the answer he was expecting.
Jacobi looked at the phone, and I got the impression he was weighing his options. The first was how long Lallo would hold him in custody. That I think we could both assumed to be forever if necessary. There was, no doubt, a cell at a black site with his name on it already. The second, if he did call his contact, would that contact co-operate, though it was hard what it was Lallo was expecting Jacobi’s co-operation for.
But there was no doubt Lallo had a plan.
Jacobi took a moment to consider any further options I hadn’t thought of, and then made the call. We were only going to get one side of the call.
A raised eyebrow indicated Jacobi had an answer on the other end.
“It’s me.”
Why did everyone say it’s me when asked to identify themselves, or as in the case announce themselves?
“No. An unfortunate set of circumstances, and a gross breach of our agreement. I am supposed to have autonomy of operations at home. These bumbling idiots may have blown my cover.”
Somehow, the fact he was sitting in a small room told me his cover was more than likely a myth. If this was our supposed point man in the failed operation I’d been on, then I could see why it cost a lot of good men their lives.
He had been playing both sides of the fence and sold us out.
“You would have to ask them.”
A moment later he handed the phone to Lallo. “Prepare to die,” was all Jacobi said.
It didn’t move Lallo in the slightest,
He took the phone and asked, “Whom am I speaking to?”
The expression change told me that it was most likely none of his business.
“This man is responsible for the deaths of a good many men.” A minute’s silence, then, “I doubt that would be the case considering the number of phones and their credentials. He had been playing you, and perhaps many others.”
The silence was a lot longer, but the expressions changing by the minute told me that Lallo was not going to get what he wanted.
“No, that is not going to happen, not in the circumstances you describe. I will be sending him back, yes, but for another mission. I think it’s time you realized he’s been feeding you false intel for some time.” Silence again, then, “By the time you do, he will no longer be here, there. I’m sorry.”
He disconnected the call and put the phone back in the plastic evidence bag.
Then he sat, and gave Jacobi a long, hard stare.
No effect.
“What is happening,” Jacobi finally asked.
“You’re going home.”
“Good. I expect once I get back there you will leave me alone.”
“On the contrary, Mr Jacobi, you will not be going back alone. In fact, I’m sending you back with my team, and we are going to extract the same people you were supposed to help us extract the last time.”
“I had nothing to do with that. It was simply your incompetence.”
“Be that as it may, you will do as I ask.”
“You are a fool. Why would I do anything for you, and especially since they are both probably dead now, or, if not, past the point of saving.”
“You will then want to hope that isn’t the case, simply because if they are, then three members of your family will be executed. You can say goodbye to them before you leave, or tell them you will see them again, it’s your choice.”
Lallo, it seems, was no fool, and had ensured he had the necessary leverage. There was no mistaking the shock on Jacobi’s face.
“You lie.”
Lallo got up from his seat and knocked on the door. It opened and two men brought in a large screen connected to a computer on a trolley. They moved it to the vacant wall and left. Lallo pressed several keys and a picture came up on the screen. A woman and two small children, and judging from the expression on Jacobi’s face, exactly who he was hoping he would not see.
There were two hooded soldiers either side with guns loosely pointing in their direction.
“One word from me, and they will be shot. Considering the treachery you have perpetrated, it’s taking a great deal of restraint for me not to give the order to kill them.”
He took a few seconds to regain his composure. “This serves no purpose,” Jacobi said in a rising pitch, “your people are most likely dead. It has been a long time.”
“I don’t think so. We have word from a different source, a more reliable source, that they are still alive. Barely, but alive, serving a life sentence for treason. And helping the General with information. All you need to do is get a small team of mine in and assist them to effect an escape. They come home alive and, well, your family lives. They don’t come back alive, well, I don’t think that’s an option, is it?”
Jacobi was in an invidious position of being damned if he did help us, or damned if he didn’t. Either way, it didn’t guarantee his co-operation or assistance. Painted into a corner, sometimes people like Jacobi chose the easy road, sacrificing everything to stay alive. No doubt, until this predicament, he was well in favour with Bahti, and from what I’d heard, Bahti was not a man to cross. There was a graveyard in the prison that was full of the remains of his enemies. And people who were once his friends.
I knew firsthand what it was like to be between the proverbial rock and a hard place, and unfortunately, there was no upside. No doubt the team leader of this new folly would have orders to shoot Jacobi once his work was done. Lallo would not be able to leave a man in his position alive because of what he knew.
And from my perspective, I felt sorry for the team Lallo had selected to go on what could quite possibly be another suicide mission.
The thing is, we had all been taken in, and no one, well, there was one person who had an inkling, but I didn’t take her seriously, simply because it was the girl who cried wolf once too often.
And, consequently, the ramifications could have been very serious.
Was that the price for deciding to take people at face value, that we would eventually discover their true nature before it was too late?
I’d lived in a house full of people who trusted no one, and who was always prepared to believe the worst in people.
My parents trusted no one and consequently suffered relatively lonely lives.
My sister, Davina, was not so bad but underlying every decision that was to do with people, she would have them investigated within an inch of their lives, and that too, had been very costly for her, especially when they found out. It ended three marriages and estranged two of her three children.
As for me, I made the decision not to be like them, and it had served me well. By and large, everyone I knew and had dealings with was fine. But even with this happy-go-lucky attitude, I still found it difficult to find what one might call the woman of my dreams.
That’s why, when Helen appeared one night at a party I’d only just decided to go to at the last minute, I thought my luck had changed.
How do you ‘run into’ the one? Was it an accidental bump, excuse me, and then a lingering look as she sashays off, or is it reaching for the same glass of champagne, with the consequent touching of hands?
There are an infinite variety of ‘first’ moments, moments that left lingering thoughts of ‘who was that woman?”
There is that thought, could it have been a contrivance to get my attention? If it was, it did.
It was a large banquet hall, and there were plenty of places to hide, and I wasn’t particularly interested in staying until our paths crossed. But was my curiosity enough to make a move?
To begin with, it was not.
I shrugged it off as a one-off moment, something to remember from an unremarkable gala that proved, once I arrived, why I had been hesitating in the first place.
Old people displaying their wealth, young people flirting with the rich and famous. I was, perhaps, a little rich, but definitely not famous, hence the reason why a bevy of eligible girls was not beating a path to my door.
There were three others of my ilk there who fitted that bill and willingly took the heat for me. One, Augustus, last name unpronounceable, had that Latin, dark, sultry look going, sauntered over after he had witnessed the ‘meeting’.
“I see you’ve met Helen?”
“She stole my drink.”
“All part of the plan, Ian. She just tossed away another of the pretenders, and if you play your cards right, you might be the next.”
“Pretender?”
His smirk was imprinted on his face and never changed, amused, or annoyed. “You know you can be such a prat sometimes.”
It had been said, more than once. “Do I want to play my cards right?”
“She is interested in a mysterious way. I asked her out, but she seemed disinterested, and as you know, I only ask once. Aside from that, we want to know who she is, really.”
“And you think she’ll tell me?”
“You’re not a player, Ian, and have that perfect aloofness thing going, one that can drive a certain type of girl crazy. I think she’s one of them.”
“Then how do I find her?”
He shook his head. “That’s not how this will be played. She has to come to you. Aloof, remember, Ian, aloof. Now, I must be off. Say hello to Davina for me will you?”
He’d seen her crossing the room and had no interest in sparring with her. For some reason, she just didn’t like him. Or was that because he spurned her? I never could get an answer from her.
Aloof.
I could do aloof, though I was not sure how that would seem interesting to a woman like her.
Aside from my belief that as beautiful as her would be remotely interested in me, aside perhaps from the family wealth that one day I would inheritance s point Davina took great pains to remind me.
And that was something I wasn’t looking forward to.
There was an art to mingling at these affairs, on one hand, the obligatory meet and greet of our contemporaries, deference to our peers, letting them know we were upholding the proper values, and respect as was warranted by our position, and on the other, a casual greeting to those who were on the fringe of our society.
I’d learn the lessons from Davina when she deemed it I was ready, but the truth is, no matter what age you are, you’re never ready for this.
There was a third category, those that came up to you, wishing to make an acquaintance, whether it was for publicity, or for prestige, it was impossible to tell, then and there, sometimes it was a matter of reading the social pages to find out how your name gad been taken in vain.
I preferred not to talk to any of them unless it was absolutely necessary.
Or someone you knew brought them to you, which then, out of deference to them, sometimes put you on the spot.
Nnn chose that path, selecting another person who was known to me, Alison Burkwater, a rare, unbiased reporter, to slip in under the radar.
Not realizing I was the eventual target, I watched them stroll through the crowded floor, stopping momentarily for an introduction, or a polite exchange, Alison gathering information for her next article before they headed in my direction.
I was with one of my father’s oldest friends, Jacob, his wife, Mary, and one of their three daughters, Amy, whom I knew would be pleased if we were together, but fate seemed to keep us apart.
I watched Helen, almost entranced by the fluid motion she moved, reminding me of a cat just before it pounced on unsuspecting prey until she was standing in front of me, unaware that Alison was speaking.
“This is Helen Dunbar, over from England, checking us Americans out as the British do.”
She then introduced each of us, leaving me till last, deliberately.
Each had a comment, or a question, so when it came to me, I asked, “Holiday or business?”
In my experience, they usually said both, but if she was here, it was business, making contacts, getting a feel for the market. Perhaps even at this age, I’d become cynical
“Both.”
Suspicion confirmed. “But I hear you are an unofficial tour guide, and I am in need of someone to show me this great city.”
Flattery, no doubt. And a smile from Alison, a nod to the time when she had written a bad piece about the city, and I took the trouble to prove otherwise.
To one side I heard Jacob excuse himself, and the others left with him. Alison’s job done, she left us together. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Davina deep in conversation with the family’s head of security.
Davina had so little faith in me.
“Perhaps that might be a topic we could discuss over coffee later?”
“Tonight?”
“Unless you’re otherwise engaged?”
“No.”
There was a slight exodus from the main hall, an indication that unusual for a gala like this, there would be dancing. It was a pet pastime of the host, an orchestra had been commissioned, and it was to be a nod to the old days.
“Do you dance,” I asked?
“It was part of my finishing school curriculum that nearly finished me in more ways than one. Long story, but yes.”
“Would you like to lead a poor boy around the floor and make him look good?”
She smiled. “I know you are pulling my leg, but I’ll bite.” She held out her hand, “Take me away before I change my mind “
Dancing was a social etiquette that was forced on me, and I was, for a long time, dreadful at it. It was only in my last year of middle school that a girl by the name of Wendy Whiles took the nervous bumbler with two left feet onto something that might make Fred Astaire proud.
She also introduced me to other more interesting things teenagers did, albeit in the comfort of a very expensive hotel suite, rather than in the back of a car. I thought I’d loved her, but she was not interested in wealth and fame, and I didn’t blame her, though I still insisted someone paid her a large sum of money to break off whatever we didn’t have going.
All her lessons paid off, and I found myself almost floating on air as we waltzed around the floor deftly avoiding the others brave enough to take to the dance floor.
“Do you do this often,” she asked, not long into the routine.
“No.”
“You dance well.”
“Only when I’m not talking. Arthur Murray didn’t include how to handle chatty girls on the dance floor.”
Any other girl I was sure would have been insulted. I could be like that sometimes. I called it being blunt.
“A new experience then.”
“Can’t count and talk at the same time?”
“And yet you dance so well.”
“Flattery will get you only so far.”
We finished in silence, and I thought I had ruined my opportunity, though for what was questionable. I should have been content to dance with one of the most beautiful girls at the ball.
She took my hand as we left the dance floor and headed toward the bar. That walk felt natural, holding hands, and the feeling there was a connection between us. She had not forced it, I had not looked for it, it had just happened.
She drank club soda. She said she didn’t drink alcohol, and it seemed logical. She was effervescent enough without any aids, unlike some of my friends who needed drugs and copious quantities of alcohol to get into a ‘groove’. I could take it or leave it and did the latter.
We picked a quiet corner.
“Why are you really here?” I asked. Start with the hard questions first.
“Sometime told me about this rich, handsome, bored young man who hates galas, and the mating rituals that go with them.”
“And yet here you are?”
“Secretly,” she whispered, “my real name is Rapunzel, I escaped from a tower, and am here to rescue anyone who needs rescuing. Do you need rescuing?”
I did, but I did not want to incur Davina’s wrath. And then I thought about the possibility, that she might just be bait for something more sinister. It was improbable, but Davina had impressed on me that there were a lot of nasty people in the world, and sometimes it was hard to see through the facades.
If she was evil, then it came beautifully gift wrapped.
“Rescue does involve a rather full-on security detail as well, and, the filling out of paperwork that would take till dawn to do.”
“I assume then, that weedy little man pretending to have a quiet drink over there is one of them.”
She nodded in his direction, and I recognized him instantly. “Warren. Dangerous as a cut snake. Even I keep my distance from him.”
Another glance, impassive expression, it would be interesting what she was thinking at that moment.
“So, what do you do for fun?”
“An occasional waltz with the most beautiful girl at the gala.”
“And…?”
“My life is ruled by responsibility. If you’re looking for fun, there are six other very eligible young men here that will be happy to fete you, and indulge your wildest dreams?”
“Aren’t you the least bit curious?” There was an invitation there, for what, I suspect would be whatever I wanted, but Davina’s voice was well and truly planted in my head. If it’s too good to be true…
I smiled wanly and finished my drink. “That is a luxury that I can only dream about. Thank you for the few brief moments of possibilities.”
Not an hour later, from a distance, I saw two men in civilian suits escorting her out of the building. There was no disguising their true identities, ex-military, or military police.
Odd for a girl that looked like her to be involved with such people.
A few minutes later Davina appeared beside me. “I could have told you that girl was trouble.”
“Looking at her, I thought the exact opposite.”
“You need to be more careful.”
“Warren was there. I’m sure he could handle her. I made sure I was in a position where if trouble came it would have to pass him, and I have the taser in my pocket. What was her crime.”
“None apparently. Some high-ranking Generals’ daughter out for a lark. Now come back and talk to Amy.”
Having discovered that the person who had ordered the contract on her head had a code name of Romanov, and was last known to be in Bratislava, Zoe heads off to track the person down. She suspects it is one of the groups she had trained with at one point, but it could be anyone.
Back home, John discovers who Sebastian’s boss is, having been whisked away by limousine to an undisclosed location, where he is told that Zoe/Natasha and a host of other identities is not the person he thinks she is, and is told that it would be in his best interests to tell them where she is.
John gets to read a very illuminating file on her, which in turn does not put the fear of God into him as was hoped, but makes him more determined than ever to find her.
Wilt the help of the new investigator friends Rupert and a reluctant Isobel.
This story is a tangled web of pursuers who all have different agendas, people who are highly skilled in tracking and killing.
John needs to find her more than ever because of whom he believes is the one who wants her dead.
Sebastian is about to be caught up in a situation he never envisaged, his desire to find and recruit her, to tell her to stay away from John, and ordered by his boss to capture her for interrogation.
…
Today’s writing, with John facing off against Sebastian’s boss, 4,192 words, for a total of 22,247.
“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.
When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.
From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.
There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.
Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.
Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?
Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?
Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?
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.
…
I was escorted to a small room that adjoined the interview room, and I was separated from the main event by a one-way mirror.
It was a cliché, but not surprising.
The interrogation room was much the same as an office, with a table, two chairs, and on the side, a cabinet, closed up, an interesting addition to what might be called a boring room.
It was currently empty, and I was the only one in this small room, sitting at a counter, looking in. In front of me was a stack of writing pads, pens and pencils. I wondered if I was the only party that was about to observe Lallo and the new arrival.
Five minutes passed before the door to the room next door opened and a hooded man was led in. His hands were cuffed, and his legs had chains, standard prisoner gear.
From the man’s manner and body language, it appeared to me as though he was surprised he was being treated so badly, and was not forcefully resistant, but wasn’t making it easy for his captors.
He was asked to sit, and when he didn’t he was forced to sit, with some force, and then his hands were locked onto the metal bar at the table. His legs were locked to a lower bar. A precaution in case he decided to attack his interrogator.
One thing I knew for sure, this man would not give up information willingly.
Once he was secured, one guard took up station inside the door, and the other left. That’s when Lallo made his appearance. He came in, put a file on the desk, nodded to the guard who remove3d the hood, and then he sat.
I’d expected to see Lallo in full uniform. He was not. He was, if anything, dressed casually. The man on the other side was in a cream suit, very crumpled and slightly stained as if he had not changed during the entire journey from capture to this room.
No doubt part of his conditioning.
“Mr Jacobi, that is your name isn’t it?”
The man stared at him sullenly. I got the impression he was usually the one asking the questions, not the other way around.
The man lifted his head and stared straight at Lallo. It was not a look I’d want to be on the end of, but Lallo, I suspect, had been on the end of a lot worse. And a closer inspection of his face, and features, I noticed that someone had already started the harsher form of interrogation.
“You know this already. I am an employee of the United States Government, your Government, and you will regret treating me like this.”
“That may be so, but you have failed to define what part of the Government it is you work for. Is it the CIA?”
Another withering stare, followed by, “You people are so incompetent, the left-hand does not know what the right hand is doing. I require a telephone so that I can contact my liaison, and this farce will stop, and you will be reprimanded very severely.”
“I seriously doubt anyone knows you are missing yet. Maybe after a week or so, but we know you keep to yourself, and very few people know your business, a situation, I assure you, benefits us more than it benefits you. So I will assume you are Jacobi.”
There was a knock on the door, and Monroe came in with a small box, handed it to Lallo, and then left again.
Lallo looked in the box, then pulled out a plastic evidence bag with a mobile phone in it, and put it on the table. “This is the phone you use to call General Bahti, your contact inside the current government. It seems it is not registered with a telephone network in your country, but another, shall we say neutral, country.
He reached into the box and pulled out another plastic evidence bag also with mobile phone in it. “This phone,” he held it up, “is the one you use to talk to the, shall we call them the local resistance. It’s so much nicer than calling them rebels.”
The man’s eyes followed each bag from the box to the table. He was almost expressionless.
Then Lallo pulled out another bag, with another phone, “This is the phone which you make and receive calls from your American contact. It is what we call a burner phone, and was given to you, we think, on a recent visit to this country, by that contact. I am assuming this is the person you wish to call and who will stop this farce.”
If Lallo was expecting the man to break down there and then, he was sadly mistaken. There was little if any movement in his expression, perhaps just enough for Lallo to assume he’d got the men behind the phones correct. That he was basically unmoved at Lallo’s revelations told me this man had a resolve Lallo was going to find hard to shake.
Lallo took the third phone out of the evidence bag and pushed it across the table towards the man. “You can call your contact now, and you can tell him I would like to speak to him.”
It’s always a given that whatever city you stay in unless it’s overnight, you go on a tour and see the sights.
Even when you’re staying a short distance from the city, you may make the effort to catch a train or bus, then get on the hop on hop off tour. There’s always one in just about every city you visit.
Vancouver was no exception.
Except…
We arrived in the rain, went to sleep while the rain came down, woke up to the rain, and a heavy dose of jet lag or perhaps it was more that we had spent 24 and a half hours traveling from Brisbane to Vancouver via Shanghai.
We had an excellent view out the window of our room looking towards the shopping mall, and the steady falling rain.
I felt sorry watching the construction workers on the building site that was the main vista we had to look at.
It could have been worse. Endless mountains with snow on them.
What to do. Venture out in the rain and go on the tour, on pop over to the shopping mall and pick up a few boxing day bargains, no, sorry, boxing week bargains.
We have had some experience going on hop on hop off tours in open-top buses in the rain. And the last time was not a pleasant experience, even though we learned a valuable lesson, not to stand in front of a cannon and yell ‘fire’. Apparently, that’s how Admiral Nelson lost his arm.
But…
The shopping mall won.
We’d wait and see if the weather improved. Hang on, isn’t Vancouver near Seattle and doesn’t it rain 300 days of the year?
Not holding my breath.
I feel sorry for the construction workers again. Still raining, still cold, and still no reason to get out of bed.
Day 2 in Vancouver turned out to be the same as day 1.
Hang on, there’s a development.
We’re on the 16th floor and up at those lofty heights, we can see not only the rain but intermingled with it a few flakes of snow.
Whilst we procrastinate about what we’re going to do, the snowflakes increase into small flurries.
Yep, we’re off to the mall again and go for a walk in the snow.
On the way back we drop into the Boston Pizza, which has a sports bar and there you can sit, drink, eat, and watch the ice hockey, or whatever sort is going at the time.
Today it’s a junior ice hockey tournament, but Canada was not playing. Just the same, a long cold beer and ice hockey? How close to heaven is that?
I can now cross that off the bucket list.
Day 3, we’re going on a great rail journey, well, we are going to get the train to the city and collect the rental car, a car on the booking form that was supposedly a Jeep Grand Cherokee or similar.
Of course, ‘or similar’ are the words to be feared here because in truth the rental company can throw anything at you, so long as it matches the brief, three people and three large suitcases.
And, you guessed it…
The ‘or similar’ got us a Fort Flex.
Sounded like some place where exhausted soldiers were fending of the Indians in a last ditch battle.
Perhaps one or two too many American movies I think.
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…
This is Chester
Still hiding away.
Like any wise, old, skeptical cat, he’s not believing the good news.
We do not have a COVID 19 case in our house. Of course, we had to wait an agonizing 24 hours before we got the good news by phone.
It shows that our testing labs are getting through the tests, of which I heard in the news there were about 4,000, with only 10 or so new cases countrywide.
Queensland had none overnight, so if our case had been positive, we would have been in the news for al; the wrong reasons.
So, after broadcasting the news, that is, walking up and down the passage saying it was safe to come out, there’s still no sign of him.
But…
I have a cunning plan.
I bought a can of his absolute favorite food.
Come dinner time I’m putting it out.
Of course, food trumps fear every time.
He walks past me on his way to the tasty treats, the tail movements indicating he is not a happy cat.
The things I have to suffer at the hands of you humans, he mutters.
So, I say casually, we have guests for dinner.
He stops, turns his head in that dismissive manner of his.
What else can you do to me?
COVID 19, Grandchildren, I suppose you’re going to let me outside.
Do you want to go outside?
With COVID 19 lurking on every corner?
It’s under control.
Right. I’ve been watching TV. You do realize there’s good news and fake news, and there’s more of the latter than the former.
So, he’s going with the confuse the poor human with blather.
It’s working. I say, Go back into hiding. I was quite enjoying the silence.
After dinner, he says, ending the conversation with the angry tail swish. Yes, we are not amused.
McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.
He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.
There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.
This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.
I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.
In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.
The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.
With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.
A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.
“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.
He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.
“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.
While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.
“What’s the current situation?”
“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”
He looked in my direction.
“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.
“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”
McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.
“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”
It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.
The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.
In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.
I was hoping for the latter.
I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.
“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.
“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”
I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”
He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”
Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.
Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.
A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.
Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.
It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.
The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.
It was nerves more than the cold.
I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.
It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.
It added to the tension.
My plan was still to enter by the back door.
We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.
The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.
He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.
A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”
She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.
“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.
Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.
The fear factor increased exponentially.
I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?
Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.
At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.
To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.
We needed a distraction.
As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.
They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.
By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.
I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.
I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.
But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.
It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.
I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 