Tag: Thoughts

Sayings: Flogging a dead horse

This wouldn’t be so apt if it didn’t bring back a raft of bad memories, those days I used to go to the races, and back all of the wrong horses.

I had a knack, you see, of picking horses that fell over, or came dead last.

Perhaps that’s another of those sayings, dead last, with a very obvious meaning.  Dead!  Last!

But…

In the modern vernacular, flogging a dead horse is like spending further time on something in which the outcome is already classed as a complete waste of time.

However…

Back in the old days, the dead horse referred to the first month’s wages when working aboard a ship, usually paid for before you stepped on board the ship.  At the end of the first month, the theoretical dead horse was tossed overboard symbolically, and thereafter you were paid.

It still didn’t make sense to me that someone would tell me I was flogging a dead horse, until I realized, one day, the lesson to be learned was never to get paid in advance.

 

Searching for locations: Niagara Falls, Canada

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

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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.

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The mist was generated from both the waterfall and the low cloud.  It was impossible not to get wet just watching the falls.

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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.

Oh, what a war! A review of 1917

It is hard to comprehend the scale and the effect the war to end all wars had on the men and women who fought in it.

Certainly, in the European sector, it was a nightmare in the trenches.

We Australians are no strangers to wars and have answered the call, first from the mother country, England, from the Boar war, through to world war two, and latterly the USA as a post-war ally.

But this is not about us.

This is about two ordinary men, two soldiers who are given a job, some think impossible.

They have to go over the top, through no man’s land, through enemy-held territory, ie, behind enemy lines, to warn another group of soldiers not to attack the front line in their sector, as it is a well-disguised trap the Germans have set.  What was it called, a strategic withdrawal by the Germans?

From the moment they went over the top, and out into the bleakest of landscapes, we spend all of the time waiting for something bad to happen.

And it does.

And your heart is literally in your mouth the whole time, just waiting for the next setback.

There are moments where the unrelenting suspense is broken by poignancy, revealing the depth of comradeship needed just to survive, and in an instant, how quickly that can disappear.

Then there is the scenes of a French town in ruins, and some who are barely existing there.  How could they with endless bombardment by a merciless enemy?  It shows the difference between the British and the Germans, one merciful, but often paying a very dear price for being so, and the other merciless in the extreme.

And then we reach an almost surreal end, where it felt like I’d been holding my breath for nearly two hours, and, at the same time, it didn’t feel all that long since it started.

It was an uplifting end after fighting against insurmountable odds.  If only half of what we saw was true then it’s surprising any man or woman came back from that war sane.

I give it a well deserved 5 stars.

 

The cinema of my dreams – It’s a treasure hunt – Episode 55

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

After a night with Nadia

…

Was it a revelation to discover there was a side to Nadia that I would never have suspected?  All those years of being terrified of her, and her brother, had hidden it, from me and probably a lot of others.

Perhaps she hadn’t known any better, and that time away from her parents and family had opened her eyes to another world, one where you didn’t have to be the scariest person in the room.

I was going to wait until she went to sleep, but she asked me to join her on the top of the bed and then snuggled into my back.  At first, I was terrified, of what, I was not sure, but after a while, realizing I was not going to get away at a reasonable hour, I relaxed, and overcome with tiredness, fell asleep.

When I woke, she was on the other side of the bed, changed out of her clothes and into demure pajamas.  Had she been waiting for me to wake?

“You have a contented look about you when you’re asleep,” she said.  She was facing me, awake but a certain weariness had come over her.

“My father used to call it the sleep of the just.  I never quite knew what that meant.  I try not to have dreams or nightmares.  Please tell me you haven’t lain there watching me.  That would be far too creepy.”

“Just for a bit.  I’m not used to being with a man, even if there’s nothing happening.  Which is good, by the way.  I want us to remain friends, and soon as something else starts, that’s where it all ends..”

Obviously, she had been thinking about stuff, like all girls seem to do, making a simple friendship into something a lot more complicated, and the last thing I needed was complicated.  Or Vince knocking on my door.

“I’ve got a few hours before I have to go to work, and I was going to visit a few churches.”

“Why?”

“It might help to track down the Ormiston relations and see what they’ve got to say about the treasure.”

She sat up, a more serious expression taking over.  “You think there’s more to the story.”

“What story?”

“Well, it’s obvious you know about Boggs’s grandfather and old man Ormiston, the chap who owned all the land from the mountains to the sea, at one point in time.  It’s where we bought our property at Patterson’s Reach.  It’s a dump of a place that smells because of oil shale and gas leaks.  There’s a fault line through the middle of it and makes all the land near it unsellable.  The people who negotiated the deal with Ormiston were cheated, or so it goes, so there’s no love lost between the families.”

Interesting, and probably why Patterson’s Reach was an undeveloped backwater.  No residential or commercial zoning.

“Good to know, and definitely a reason to stay away.”

“You want coffee?” She asked, changing the subject.  “I had some sent up earlier.”

Which sent an alarm bell off in my head.  What if the room service person saw me in her room?  It wouldn’t take much for him to tell her father, or worse, Vince.

“He didn’t see you if that’s what you’re thinking.”

My mother said I had an expressive face.

“We have to keep this thing, whatever we have, under wraps, otherwise Bogg’s might get upset, and at the moment he’s not very happy with me.”

“Because of me?”

“Partly, but more because I have to work, and I’m no longer at his beck and call.”

“Then you’d better get up so we can trawl the churches.  I could do with a religious refresher.  We’re Roman Catholic by the way, and my father doesn’t believe in mixed marriages.”

“I’m not converting, nor are we getting married.”

“Pity.  I reckon I’d make a good wife.”  And then she laughed.  “You should see your face.”

Right.  Sometimes it was hard to know when she was joking.  But just the same, it would never work.

I shrugged.  “You could do a little better than a warehouse clerk.”

“Sometimes it’s not what you are, but how you make a person feel, and right now, I feel happy.  But, as you say, I could do a lot better.”

Oddly, after hearing that, I felt a little disappointed.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 13

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Am I working for anyone now?

 

So, there I was, walking along the street, hands in pockets, trying to look like my whole world hadn’t come crashing down on me when a car pulled over to the side of the road.

I may have been down in the dumps but not that far that I wasn’t still aware of what was going on around me, the training had been that good, so I hung back a little from the curb and waited to see if was me they were after, or just some lucky rich person being dropped off.

And ready to disappear into the crowd, not that there was one, but there were three exits available and within momentary reach if necessary.

I watched the rear window go down slowly then saw a familiar face.

Nobbin.

“Get in Mr Jackson.  We have more to talk about.”

I hesitated like anyone with the training I had would, as any person with common sense would too, I guess.

“It’s perfectly safe, I assure you.”  He sounded reassuring.

A glance into the car showed only him and the driver, who was getting out of the car.  I watched him come around to the curbside and put his hand on the door handle.

“Sir,” he said.

He opened the door.  Nobbin had moved to the other side.

I shrugged, then got in.  A thought: how many people had got into cars such as this, and were never seen again?”

It was not a statistic that reached any of the newspapers.  Only the end result, a body washed down the Thames, with no indication of who it was, or where they came from, and no identification, or means of identification available.

The door closed, the driver went back to the front of the car, and then gently eased the car out into the traffic.

“I’m sorry for the theatrics surrounding this meeting, but it is necessary.  I’m sure you were told of the need for secrecy in this matter, and I’m just reinforcing that.”

“Just who are you?  And, for that matter, those people back in that building?  Or, if it’s not too hard to wrap your head around, who the hell have I been working for?”

“Good questions, all.  At least now I can speak freely.  As you can, Mr Jackson.”

“Except I have no idea who’s side you’re on, I’m on, or anyone for that matter.  This is not what I signed up for.”

“Well, to put some perspective on your situation, Mr Jackson, you were not supposed to live to tell about it.  It was an operation that was created with one purpose in mind, to find an agent named

William O’Connor, and kill him.  And everyone in the team assigned to the task.”

“By Severin and Maury?  If so, why didn’t they kill me in the alley along with this O’Connor?”

“That is a mystery to all of us.”

“And those people back in the room.  Who the hell were they?”

“Operations.  Trying to find out how a sub-section could be created and function within their purview and not be detected.  That’s what it was, run by two agents who had been expelled a few months back, but who were clever enough to work around all of the safeguards, recruit four agents, and then go after the man who caused the end of their careers.”

“Simple, it seems.”

“Very.  And, if it had not been for you, we would never have known who or why.”

“Perhaps we should be thankful there was an explosion then, otherwise we’d all be dead.”

“Or not, because as far as I know, that was part of the operation, designed to take the target, you and the surveillance member behind you.  It only did a third the job.  It didn’t go off at the critical moment.  No one was seriously hurt, by the way.”

“The policeman?”

“Critical but stable.  He’ll survive.”

“The police who were accusing me of being the bomber?”

“Our people trying to delay you, so our man could get away.  Seems they trained you better than we expected.  Did O’Connor say anything to you?”

“There wasn’t much time before I found him, and Severin shot him.”

“Anything at all?”

“He knew who I was.”

“Then he knew the whole team, and who was running it.”

“He killed two of them.”

“In self-defence.  They were not only surveillance but also assassins.  Different training before they joined your group.”

I had thought there was something odd about them.

“Anything else,” he asked again.

“Yes.  He said to tell you he found something he should, and that the evidence is…  And that’s when he was shot.  He didn’t tell me where it was.”

“He didn’t have to.  We had set up three prearranged drop sites, so it must be in one of those.  Here’s my card.”

He handed me a white card with a name and a phone number.  The name was not Nobbin.

“If this Severin contacts you again, call me.  I am available any hour of the day or night on that number.”

“If he doesn’t?”

“Then you will hear from me in the not too distant future.  The fact you’re a survivor tells me you are resourceful and have the makings of a good agent, one I can use in my department.”

“And those others back at the office?”

“You won’t hear from them again.”

The car stopped outside an underground staircase.

“This is your stop, Mr Jackson.  Thank you for your co-operation.”

Perhaps my career wasn’t in tatters.  I got out of the car, and watched it leave before heading for the underground, his card safely tucked away in my pocket.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

“Call me!” – a short story

You know what it’s like on Monday morning, especially if it’s very cold and the double glazing is failing miserably to keep the cold out.

It was warm under three blankets thick sheets and a doona, and I didn’t want to get up.

It doesn’t help if in the last few months, the dream job you once had turned into a drudge, and there was any number of reasons to stay home rather than go into the office. Once, that was trying to find an excuse to stay home because you’d rather go to work.

That was a long time ago or felt like it.

My cell phone vibrated; an incoming message, or more likely a reminder. I reached out into the icy wasteland that was the distance from under the covers to my phone on the bedside table. It was very cold out there, and for a moment I regretted that impulse to check.

It was a reminder; I had a meeting at HR with the manager. I had thought I might be eligible for redundancy since the company was in the throes of a cost-cutting exercise. Once I might have been apprehensive, but now, given my recent change in department and responsibility, I was kind of hoping now that it was.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Time to get up sleepy head. You have a meeting to go to, not one to be late.”

It felt strange to wake up with someone else in the bed. My luck in that department hadn’t been all that hood lately, but something changed, and at the usual Friday night after-work drinks at the pub, I ran into one of the PA’s I’d seen around, one who was curious to meet me as much as I was to meet her.

One thing had led to another and when I asked her if she wanted to drop in on the way home, she did.

“I’d prefer not to. I can think of better things to do.”

“So, could I but that’s not the point. Five more minutes, then I’m pushing you out.”

She snuggled into my back, and I could feel the warmth of her body, and having the exact opposite effect than she intended. But she was right. It was important, and I had to go. But, in the meantime, it was four more minutes and counting.

When you get a call from the head of HR it usually means one of two things, a promotion, or those two dreaded words, ‘you’re fired’, though not usually said with the same dramatic effect.

This year had already been calamitous enough getting sidelined from Mergers and Acquisitions because I’d been usurped. That was the word I was going with, but it was to a certain extent, my fault. I took my eye off the ball and allowed someone else to make their case.

Of course, it helped that the person was connected to all the right people in the company, and, with the change in Chairman, it was also a matter of removing some of the people who were appointed by the previous incumbent.

I and four of my equivalent managers had been usurped and moved to places where they would have less impact. I had finished up in sales and marketing, and to be quite honest, it was such a step-down, I had already decided to leave when the opportunity presented itself.

My assistant manager, who had already put in his resignation, was working out his final two weeks. I told him to take leave until the contract expired, but he was more dedicated than that. He had got in before me and was sitting at his desk a cup of coffee in his hand and another on the desk.

“How many days?”

“Six and counting. What about you? You should be out canvassing. There are at least three other places I know would be waiting to hear from you.”

“It’s still in the consideration phase.”

“You’re likely to get the chop anyway, with this thing you have with Sharkey.”

Sharkey was the HR manager.

You know something I don’t?” I picked up the coffee, removed the lid, and took in the aroma.
“They’re downsizing. Broadham had decided to go on a cost-cutting exercise, and instead of the suggested efficiencies we put up last year, they’re going with people. I don’t think he quite gets it.”

“You mean my replacement doesn’t know anything about efficiency. He makes a good yes man though, telling Broadham exactly what he wants to hear.”

Broadham, the new Chairman, never did understand that people appointed to important positions needed to have the relevant qualifications and experience. My replacement had neither. That was when the employees loyal to the previous Chairman had started leaving.

We had called it death, whilst Broadham had called it natural attrition. He didn’t quite understand that so far, over 300 years of experience had left, and as much again was in the process of leaving.

“Are you going to tell Sharky you’re leaving?”

“I’ll wait and see what he has to say. I think he knows the ship is sinking.”

There wasn’t much I didn’t know about the current state of the company, and with the departures, I knew it was only a matter of time. Sharky was a good man, but he couldn’t stem the tide.

He also knew the vagaries of profits and share prices, and we had been watching the share price, and the market itself. It was teetering, and in the last few months, parcels of shares were being unloaded, not a lot at one time, but a steady trickle.

That told me that Broadham and his cronies were cashing in while the going was good, and quite possibly were about to steer the ship onto the rocks. The question was who was buying, and that, after some hard research I found to be certain board members. Why, I suspected, was to increase their holdings and leverage, but I don’t think they quite realized that there would be nothing left but worthless stock certificates.

It was evidence, when I finally left, that I would pass on to the relevant authorities.

In the meantime, I had a meeting to go to.

“Best of luck,” my assistant muttered as I passed his desk.

“If I don’t return, I will have been escorted from the building. If that happens, call me.”

It had happened before. When people were sacked, they were escorted to their office, allowed to pack their belongings, and were then escorted to the front door. It would be an ignominious end to an illustrious career, or so I’d been told by the girl who was no doubt still asleep in my bed.

She had heard the whispers.

The walk to the lift, the traversing of the four floors to the executive level, and then to the outer office where Sharkey’s PA sat took all of three minutes. I had hoped it would be longer.

“He’s waiting for you,” she said, “go on in.”

I knocked on the door, then went in, closing it behind me. “Now, sir, what on earth could you want to see me about?

© Charles Heath 2021

Sayings: Before you can say Jack Robinson

Once upon a time, you could have told me Jack Robinson was a jack in the box, the name meant nothing to me.

Not until Phryne Fisher came along, a rather brilliant 1920s private detective series set in the back streets of Melbourne, as well as more salubrious houses of the rich and famous.
In this series, there is a policeman, a foil for her detective moments, and a love interest that is always just beyond her grasp, a man by the name of Inspector Jack Robinson.

How coincidental.

But…

As for the saying, before you can say Jack Robinson…

It has nothing to do with Phryne Fishers Inspector.

Instead,

There is one story of a politician, Jack Robinson, in the late eighteenth century who was accused of bribery on the floor of the house of commons in England. His accuser was another MP who was asked to name the culprit, and thereby coined the term, ‘I could name him as soon as I could say Jack Robinson’.

The second was a Jack Robinson, the hero of a story written in the nineteenth century who came home to find his intended wife married to another, and to assuage the pain of it was back to the sea, ‘afore you could say Jack Robinson’.

I’m sure there’s a ton of other saying that could be attached to the name, but these seem to be the accepted reason for the term ‘before you can say Jack Robinson’.

The cinema of my dreams – It’s a treasure hunt – Episode 56

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

Our local area had six churches.  We really only needed two, the catholic church, a big, imposing stone structure that was almost a mini cathedral, showing the wealth and influence of the church, commanding the best location.

The other, a protestant church, a very old, simple wooden structure that had been on its less salubrious site, once belonging to the missionaries who inhabited the land with the first settlers, before the Pope saw an opportunity, and moved in.

Nadia and her family were catholic.  So were the Benderby’s.

My family was protestant, well, not really churchgoers at all, which was a contradictory standpoint because nearly everyone else in the area were devout worshippers.  I remembered my father’s comments, when he was alive, watching all the sheep going to be fleeced every Sunday at the big church on the hill.

To me, the devoutness of the Benderby’s and Cossatino’s seemed at odds with their profession, as most of their activities were sins against God, and proving my father’s point.  I never saw the point of it, but nevertheless, my mother dragged me to church, in my younger days, every other Sunday just in case my soul needed saving.

Now, standing in the graveyard beside the imposing but badly in need of repairs catholic citadel, I felt a shiver go through me.  Mid-morning, there was a cool breeze at odds with the warmth of the sun beating down from a cloudless sky.

“You feel that?” I asked Nadia.

She was in a very summery dress and sun hat, looking at a group of gravestones belonging to the Archer family, going back over a hundred years.

“Ghosts, perhaps?  I hadn’t realized Mrs. Archer had died.”

“You’ve been away.  A lot has happened in the last year or so.”

“I liked her.  She used to look after Vince and me when we were kids.  He used to terrorize her.”

Somehow that didn’t surprise me.  It was rumored Vince was given a gun when he was five years old and his father taught him how to use it.  Once, he was caught bringing it to school.  Now, given the number of school shootings, it hardly registered back then other than a rebuke from the headmaster.

A half-hour later, after surveying a graveyard that had a lot of the areas most prominent people buried there, I came across an almost disintegrated stone that marked the final resting place of Friedrich Ormiston, the son of Heinrich who died in 1976, the same year as Friedrich which was an odd coincidence.

A little further investigation showed there was another Heinrich who died in 1899, and another Friedrich, who died in 1924. It showed there had been Ormiston’s around these parts for over 150 years.  A little further away there were two more gravestones, more recent, belonging to Wendy and Alan, both of whom died within a year of each other 5 years ago.

I took notes on each of the Ormiston’s, their birth dates and death dates, so I could possibly look them up in the parish records, and the local newspaper office, The Jefferson Leader, a publication that was still produced to this day, and it’s current editor, once an old friend from school who had expansive aspirations in the world of journalism and ended up back home tending to the paper his great, great grandfather started.

It seemed a lot of us from that generation couldn’t escape the clutches of our town or families.

“You’d think there’d be a mausoleum or something.”  Nadia had come up from behind and startled me.

“Perhaps the treasure quests took all the money.  Besides, after you’re dead, you don’t really care where you finish up.”

“You’ve seen the monument our family has.  I’m not looking forward to finishing up there.”

I’d seen it, on the other side of the graveyard, along with a dozen others, all in a row, like a row of houses in the more affluent part of the town.  The Cossatino’s were larger than life in death too.

“I hope the bed is comfortable, you’re going to be there a long time.”

She gave me one of her ‘if looks could kill’, the smiled, perhaps deciding it was my feeble attempt at humor.

“I take it we’re finished.  I think I’m beginning to believe there really are ghosts here.” 

I saw her shiver, and then I felt it, a cold rush of air, and what might have been a hand on my shoulder.

“I think it’s time to leave.”  I shut the notebook, put it in my pocket.

She did not need to be asked twice.  Curiously, as we made our way towards the gate, I thought I saw the priest looking at us from the front doorway of the church, but when I looked back there was no one there.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 12

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Was I working for a ghost?

 

I sat in that room for an hour.

I had no doubt someone was on the other side of the mirrored wall, watching me, analysing my body language.  I hoped I hadn’t given any indication that Nobbin was a name that I recognised, or knew, but I was still new to this game, and as much as I tried to perfect it, I still didn’t think I had a poker face.

More than likely I had a ‘tell’.

There was something else I had to worry about, and that was what approach this Dobbin would take.  For instance, did he know that I had met up with the man in the alley, and stretching that big if, did he know who the man in the alley was, and was he one of ours.

Of course, that was another problem I had, and that was recognising who ‘ours’ were.  It seems the people I knew, were not the same people who were really running the place.

Or, paradoxically, were these people, interlopers, trying to get intel on the group I was supposedly working for.  But they hadn’t disavowed me, so I must be working for someone they approved or knew of.

An hour and a half, and I was beginning to think this might be another game by my previous interrogators.  I was glad not to be on the other side of the mirror, trying to work out what I was ‘telling;’ them.  Once, I’d got up and stared directly into the mirror, thinking I might be able to see who was behind it.  I also thought of tapping it to see if I could get a reaction.

And, in fact, I was about to do that very thing when Nobbin walked through the door and closed it behind him.

I saw him do a quick check of the room, from the floor to the roof, and stopping briefly at the mirror, before sitting down.

“We probably have an audience for this discussion,” I said, inclining my head towards the mirror.

“You might be right, but I did ask for a clean slate, and if anyone is considering recording or viewing this interview, there will be dire consequences.”  Looking at the mirror, he added, “I made that very clear at the highest level.”

He then looked back at me.  “Your name, I believe, is Sam Jackson?”

“Yes.”  My current working name, that is.  Once deployed to the field we started using aliases, and my first and current alias was Sam Jackson.  But how they made the passport look old and used for that legend was interesting, yet not a question anyone would answer.

“You were recently assigned to a surveillance team, for this man.”

He’d brought a folder with him and pulled out a photograph of the man I’d cornered in the alley.

“Is that him?”

Was there a right or wrong answer here?

“Yes.”

“Who was leading this operation?”

“A man named Severin.”

“Describe him.

I did.

It evoked no reaction.  Nobbin had a poker face.  In fact, I was beginning to think it was etched in stone.

“Do you know who he is?” I asked.

“No.  But we will find out.  Thank you for your time.”

He stood, gave me one last look, and left the room.

I waited a minute, and then followed him out, where a security officer was waiting to escort me out of the building.

On the steps outside, security pass returned, I wondered if that was then end of my tenure with that organisation.  Or whether I actually had any tenure in the first place.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 11

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Just the person to see next

 

I couldn’t imagine what those details were.  But if it was a setup, it was a very elaborate one, by people who knew our systems and procedures.  Naturally, the first thought that sprang to mind, someone who was working here, or used to.

Then I had another thought, what if none of us was meant to survive the operation, and hat we had been selected specifically because we were new to field operations.  At the briefing, we had been told this was simple surveillance, observe and report, nothing more.

Usually we had one experienced member and three new team members, the experienced member was there to continue on the job training and evaluation.  What worried me was that an experienced member could be taken out apparently as easy as the others.

And my money was not on the guy I’d cornered.  Of course, I could be wrong, and no doubt circumstantial evidence would go a long way towards proving that, but in my estimation, a cornered man like he was, with a thirst and talent for killing, would not have hesitated to kill me before I’d got three words out.

I believed him.  He was scared and, now that I thought about it, confused.  That was anything but the m.o. of a conscienceless killer.

The wrinkle that hadn’t been accounted for was the explosion.  No one could have predicted that, or its effect on the operation.  It might well have saved him, except that I didn’t play by the rules and reconnected with him.  Maybe he had felt safe after taking out the others, and assuming I’d been taken down by the explosion.

Except, if I didn’t think he did the killing, who did, and why?  Severin?  Just who the hell is this Severin?  There’s been no indication he wasn’t one of us.

I was pondering that question when the woman returned and sat down again.  This time her stare wasn’t quite as glacial.

“Describe this Severin.”

She opened her notebook, and had her pencil ready.  Odd that she should be taking notes in pencil.

I described him.  Five feet eight inches tall, 250 pounds, thinning black hair, making him anywhere between 35 and 50, though I thought he was mid-forties.  He wore a tweed suit, rather an odd choice for the climate, and had the aroma of cigarette smoke hanging about him.

Every free moment I saw him, he had a cigarette, so I thought he was quite possibly a chain smoker, and from that, perhaps a man with bad nerves, or who worried a lot.  Now I knew he was not one of us, that could be interpreted as thinking he might get caught.

But he was confident, and outgoing, which meant he was quite sure he wouldn’t get caught, and that meant, quite possibly there was someone within our department that was working for or with him and had covered his comings and goings.  Either that or he had a universal passcode key to come and go as he pleased.

When I finished the description I could see a flicker of recognition.  IT was possible she knew who he might be, and if so, I was betting she knew him by another name.  I asked if that was the case.

“You know who this man is, don’t you?”

The stern reproving look returned.  “What makes you think that?”

“I read faces.  Yours is not a poker face.”

“Well, that disappoints me because I like to play poker.  Perhaps the people I play with have a different view.”

“I’m usually a good judge of character.”

“It’s let you down this time.”  She stood.  “Before you go, one of the supervisors here would like a word with you.  His name is Nobbin.  He works out of another office and is coming here directly.  After that, you’re free to go.”

She didn’t wait to say goodbye, and I was glad I managed to keep a straight face long enough.

Nobbin.  Just the man I wanted to see.

 

© Charles Heath 2019