Today, we’re back in Vienna, with Zoe planning their escape. We’re off to the railway station and catching the train. Unfortunately, Worthington is able to track them and knows exactly where they are, and where to direct his hit squad.
And you guessed it, mayhem is about to erupt in the station. But, as Zoe knows all too well, chaos can be her best friend, and they escape.
Sebastian knows something is afoot with Worthington, because all of a sudden, he has disappeared.
That’s good for Sebastian in one sense, he can go ahead with the interrogations of Isobel and Rupert in his quest to find out where John, and ultimately Zoe, is.
But the thing is, they are disinclined to be helpful in any way shape or form, and Isobel in particular, tells him to bring on the torturers.
Weird maybe, but Sebastian knows she’s probably getting a kick out of it.
…
Today’s writing, with Isobel laughing in the face of danger, 1,905 words, for a total of 43,067.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.
An hour later we were stopped by the side of the road, at a point where another road, or, rather, a track headed to the left into the forest.
A short distance before that I noticed a sign, battered and faded, advertising an airport, a sign I thought had been put there as a joke.
Of course, when I remembered the conversation I had with Monroe back on the plane and the fact we had a specialist pilot in our group, it all began to make sense.
Our exit strategy.
I only wished I had internet coverage so I could check the presence of an airport in what looked to be the middle of nowhere.
Only Davies seemed unperturbed.
I had to ask. “Did you know there was an airport here?”
“Of one, used by fly-ins for the Garamba National Park. Not much of an airstrip though, and we don’t exactly have up to the minute details on its surface, but as recently as a week ago a small plane had landed there.”
“Thanks for telling me.”
“All you had to do was ask the right question.”
It seems I didn’t know what the right questions were, what might be called an occupational hazard on a job like this.
Everyone had got out of their cars to stretch their legs and prepare for the next phase of the operation, which was to meet with the kidnappers. I expected Jacobi would be on the sat phone talking to their leader, advising we had arrived.
I went back to Mobley, standing with the Ugandan soldier that had been assigned as his driver, smoking a cigarette. I was surprised he hadn’t joined the others who had gathered ahead of the lead vehicle.
“Nice shooting back there,” I said. It was for a man under pressure to make the shots, and give the rest of us a chance to take care of the others. That no one else got shot was a miracle.
“Just another day at the office.”
“Well, it hasn’t ended yet. I want you to go to the airstrip and get it under surveillance. There is supposed to be an aircraft there, whether for our use or just there so we can steal it I’m not quite sure. But if there’s a plane there, I want you to make sure it doesn’t leave, but as quietly as possible. We should be along later with the packages. I’m going up to tell the Colonel he’ll be joining you. He might not want to, but he’s done enough for us. I don’t want him to make enemies unnecessarily.”
“As you wish. I’ll be along shortly.”
“Good. Make sure your radio is working and on. I need to know if anything goes sideways.”
“It won’t.”
I wish I had his confidence.
A minute later I reached the front of the convoy and saw why there seemed little animation among the group. Monroe had Jacobi on his knees and a gun on the back of his neck.
“This is an interesting development Lieutenant. Is there a problem I should know about?”
“I reckon the weasel sold us out back there. Maybe even called them in to shake us down for one reason or another. Didn’t try too hard to negotiate with the commander.”
No, he hadn’t. And the thought had crossed my mind too. A bit of cash on the side, split with the commander. There didn’t seem to be any intent of the commander’s part to shoot us, so it was a pity we had to kill them all. If they were part of the kidnapper’s operations, things might get a little dangerous.
“Before you kill him,” I said, “Did he tell you how the call to the kidnappers went?”
“Didn’t ask.”
“Perhaps you should.”
Mobley picked that moment to drive up alongside Jacobi and the Lieutenant.
“Problem?” he asked through the window.
“No. We’re practicing our run at the kidnappers.”
He shrugged. I looked over at the Colonel. “Time for you to be moving on. You don’t need to be in on the next part, for plausible deniability. I suspect if the leader of this group sees you, and makes any connection back to the Ugandans, it could cause trouble.”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“Better if you didn’t have to. My man needs help at the airstrip and a man of your authority might just smooth over problems if he needs it.”
“You’re having a plane sent in?”
“I’d like to think so, might even get you home in time for a late supper.” I glared at Jacobi. “How does he get to the airstrip?”
“Normally, through the town, but there’s a track about 200 yards up the road. Go left, follow the road, then turn right at the first fork.”
He stood staring at the ground for a minute, hopefully considering doing as I asked. I was not sure what I was going to do if he didn’t. It was preferable he didn’t come with us.
“OK. You have a point. No need stirring up my Congo friends any more than I already have.”
He went over to Mobley’s car and got in, replacing the Ugandan soldier as a driver.
“See you when we see you,” Mobley said, and the Colonel drove off after a wave.
Back to my other problem.
“You’ve had time to think about your answer, Jacobi, so tell us.”
“An eight-mile drive along the next track, then instead of taking the fork to the airstrip, go left, and drive to you reach the checkpoint.”
“The meeting is on.”
“They’re waiting for us.”
“In more ways than one, I’d say,” Monroe muttered. “He’s outlived his usefulness in my book.”
Ordinarily, I would agree with her, but we still needed him. There might have been an initial negotiation, but it was far from what the end deal would be, and he had to be there to complete it. And if he was leading us into a trap, well, we’d just have to wait and see.
“We still need him, so ease up on the aggression. If he has double-crossed us, you can shoot him. Until then, play nice. But, just as a precaution, you and Stark can bring up the rear, stop about a mile short, and do some recon between there and the checkpoint. If anyone is thinking of sneaking up behind us, I want to know about it.”
Monroe shook her head, then eased the gun away from him. A nod to me.
“He can go with you in the lead car. Davies can come with me and keep driving the car. They’ll be expecting four vehicles.”
“Fair enough.” I turned to Baines, the first time I’d addressed him since getting on the plane at the black site. “You wouldn’t happen to know if there’s a portable rocket launcher among that film equipment, would you?”
“And half a dozen shells. Don’t know how they managed it, but it’s there.”
“Easy to get at?”
“If need be.”
“Good.” I looked around at the rest of the team. “Everyone had time to calm their nerves.”
I’d watched Jacobi drag himself to his feet and try to brush the dust of his clothes. It didn’t help restore what was once quite clean and crisp linen. No one helped him, in fact, if I gave the order to shoot, all of them would. Monroe’s accusation struck a chord with the others.
“We’d better get going,” she said, heading for the last vehicle after being joined by Davies. Out of earshot, she said something to her, and I heard them laughing.
I was not sure what it was about, but as long as it eased the tension in her. She had discovered which car was carrying the diamonds, co-incidentally the car I’d been driving, so we needed a situation so that we could remove the diamonds from the equation when we arrived at the checkpoint. There was no way the kidnappers were going to let us retrieve the package once we got there, and I had no doubt we would be separated from the cars, and the equipment, so that, if possible, the kidnappers could gain the upper hand.
Or that was how I suspected it would go down. It was only a matter of time before I was proved right or wrong.
Everyone else got back into the cars, and with Jacobi sitting in the front with me, I started moving forward.
I wasn’t prepared, not mentally anyway. I never was when going into battle.
So it seems that Aitchison, the latest addition to the story, has reservations about what’s is or isn’t going on. Aitchison is in charge of the security, not only the computer systems, but for everyone, and, of course, the first person the police would go and see.
It’s also time to bring in the CEO, a rather elusive character, but one who will have a great deal to do with our main character for a lot of different reasons. But, for now, all the reader needs to know is that he exists, and is very elusive for one particular reason.
Halligan is just another incidental character, significant only because he is also dead, and where there are multiple deaths, there had to be a conspiracy. Aitchison, of course, is not what he seems, not that we know that yet, but for now, is a man with a problem.
I looked Aitchison directly in the eye, so he would not think I was lying. “Since the last debacle, I rarely see Halligan, and, when I do, I can assure you the last thing he wants to do is ask for favors. My last visit was to set up a laptop on his desk, not connected to the network. Does the CEO know anything about this?”
The CEO was almost the equivalent of the invisible man. No one could remember seeing him in the office, or when he visited the last time and was rumored to be at his Nevada ranch most of the time where he had an office. I remember setting up video conferencing for him a year or so ago, but I don’t think it had even been used. But Aitchison was one of a few who had met him personally.
“I put a call in. He’s at a retreat with the American management team, going through some team-building exercises. I’m waiting for his call, but I think I can safely say he will deny everything, and plead innocence.”
“Has the staff members been questioned?”
“Yes. No one had anything constructive to add. But one other interesting bit of information that did come out of that briefing with the Chief Inspector was that Halligan also attempted to log onto this other network. That’s why I asked you about Halligan.”
Something was not right. Halligan was dumb when it came to computers, and only wanted a computer, not connected to the network. Of course, he needed a networked desktop for email, and sourcing documents, and perhaps the peek at a porn site through the internet, but that was the extent of his involvement. His knowledge of networking was solely based on the background papers I wrote for him when he needed information for meetings and conferences. He even had trouble logging into the network at times, because he kept forgetting his password.
I kept that to myself. Aitchison was probably not interested in anything that would refute his belief of what the situation entailed. He was partially wrong, but that was driven by fear.
“What had Halligan have to say about all of this?”
It was an innocent question, but it drew the sharpest reaction and given a sudden ashen look on his face, the catalyst of his fear. The mere mention of questioning Halligan had caused him to turn white.
“He’s dead too, and conveniently cannot answer any questions. The doctor said it was a heart attack.”
“Dead? Where, when?”
“Early this morning, at home. Apparently, his wife is away, overseas visiting relatives, and neither we nor the police have been able to contact her. I only found out when I tried to call him this morning after the news about Richardson broke, and the police answered the phone.”
He poured a splash of whiskey into the glass and drank it down. If it was to settle his nerves it wasn’t working.
“And you don’t think it was a heart attack?”
“Too convenient, far too convenient, especially so soon after the Richardson thing, and in the light of this other network logon episode. The very two people who allegedly knew about this network both dying of innocent causes? Something is going on here, and we have to get to the bottom of it, before the police, Interpol or any forensic experts, if that’s what they are.”
He poured himself another liberal drink from the bottle and offered me one. I declined. Too early, and my nerves were not yet getting the better of me.
A shiver ran down my spine. I was beginning to buy into his paranoia. It was beginning to look like anyone associated with this secret network found themselves on some sort of hit list. No wonder Aitchison was jumpy. He’d obviously come to the same conclusion I did. He’d been making inquiries, and it might be enough to have his name added to the list.
Telling me about it might just be enough to add my name to that same list. I looked at the whiskey bottle and the glass. It might be time for a nerve steadying drink.
Aitchison was still talking, and I just caught what he was saying, “… it’s your network. People will be asking questions.”
If he was trying to scare me, it was working.
He continued, “The police were rather skeptical when I said we didn’t know the network was in place. I’m to be interviewed next. You shouldn’t be far behind. Forewarned is forearmed.”
He turned to look out at the city. The view was magnificent, despite the wintry weather. After a minute, he said, “At least there is one irrefutable fact. Richardson was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s the only explanation. I don’t believe he was trying to log into anything, but he was the victim of a random key combination or a glitch in the power supply to the system. You’ve seen it happen yourself when the power goes down momentarily and just enough time elapses to trick the computer into thinking it has to log in again. There was a brief power outage last night, during the storm. It might be worth investigating that event, and the effect on our systems.”
That was not a bad assessment, and one I hadn’t thought of.
“Then, there is something else, the Chief Inspector mentioned in passing, and that was one of the employees claims his building pass card had been stolen. Again, convenient, but the police are questioning him, but according to building security, that pass was used last night.”
“The person who killed Richardson?”
“If you put two and two together and get four. The police aren’t saying much, but that’s the inference I’d draw?”
“And the person with the missing card?”
“A janitor, or maintenance worker, not one of our people. He probably has a police record as long as his arm. You should go. And just a thought. If it was a desktop system connected to the in-house network, then one of our servers had to be used as a gateway. Tell me you installed those special log files when I asked you to last week?”
I had been in two minds about implementing that particular request because in part it when against the privacy regulations we had to adhere to. After reading the relevant legislation and taking to a consulting security company who had advised we were well within our rights to do so, in the end, I did. And it had given several positive results immediately after its implementation, proving beneficial in tracking down people using the network incorrectly. I’m glad he remembered it. In the panic, it slipped my mind. “Of course! How do you think I tracked down the troublemaker in Distribution?”
“Good. Start the investigation as soon as you bet back to the floor, but be careful to make sure no one knows about it, or what you are doing. People connected with this seem to be suffering from terminal health problems.”
I stood. I was not sure if I felt suitably inspired.
At that moment, when my expectations were completely trashed, and there was a great deal riding on it, words could not express my disappointment.
Michael had the better end of the deal. Being second-born meant that avoided all of the family’s hopes and expectations that fell on me, that I would carry on the business, as our father had, his father before him, going back six generations.
Without any of the expectations loaded on his shoulders, he got to live a free and easy lifestyle, one with little responsibility, some of which o would have liked to have myself.
Then there was the problem where my father, not quite the businessman as those before him, had made a number of dubious decisions, leading us down the path that almost closed the business down, and had only just found the financing to keep it afloat when he died suddenly.
It left me in charge of what could have been a sinking ship, but, as I unraveled the complexities of the deal he had made, it soon became clear he had made a deal with the devil himself.
And fort eight hours before that missed drop-off, I had finally discovered all of the connections through countless shell companies to arrive at the person from whom he had secured the funding.
Walter Amadeus Winthrop.
A man whom my father had hated because he had stolen away the only woman he had ever loved, a man who was in the business of stealing other people’s companies, ideas, products, and people because he could.
And he wanted our company, simply so he could destroy my father a second time.
There was no doubting the reason why my father had died. He had found out who had supplied the funding.
I had the evidence that linked Winthrop to dirty dealings and promised to get it to the DA’s office by a particular time, but a previous and more pressing appointment meant I couldn’t be in two places at once, so I sent Michael on my place.
It had been time-sensitive and having missed the deadline to tender the documents in court, the case lapsed, and Winthrop, who had been arraigned many times before and got away for lack of evidence, or witnesses, survived yet again.
…
It wasn’t out of the question that Michael had been kidnapped by Winthrop’s people, but I didn’t think it was possible they knew about him, simply because as part of his distancing from the family he had taken our mother’s birth surname.
I rang his cell phone, and it went to his voice mail. That was not really a concern because he rarely answered the phone the first time, especially if I was calling him.
Next, I called his latest girlfriend, not the usual sort of girl he dated, and quite a surprise given her sobriety and work ethic. She was, I thought more than once, the sort of girl I’d like to meet.
“He’s not here. I assume he made it to the meeting?”
“He didn’t.”
“But that can be possible. I went with him until outside the front door of the building. I saw him go in, talk to the reception, and then get taken up in the elevator.”
“Then we have a mystery on our hands. He hasn’t called me to say it’s done, and as usual not answering his phone.”
“That’s just for you. If I call… I’ll call you back.”
I waited for five minutes, then my phone rang. Katherine again.
“He’s not answering for me either, and that is very unusual. Did you talk to others at the meeting?”
“Yes, they just said he didn’t turn up, but I have another thought. Leave it with me.”
A call to the DA’s office sent an assistant down to the front desk, where it was established, that Michael had signed in, and the officer that remembers him could recall the name of or describe the person who came and collected him.
But he had gone there as I’d requested and was beginning to look like Winthrop obviously had someone in the DAs office keeping him informed on what was happening.
Which meant, Winthrop’s people had taken him.
It was a development I hadn’t entirely unexpected.
…
This was my first time on what was known as a superyacht. Really, it was slightly smaller than an ocean liner, and the grand tour showed fifteen staterooms, a dining room, a games room, a ballroom, well a small one, and various other rooms that were as remarkable as they were mysterious.
For a laugh, I said it was missing a library.
I was promptly corrected.
My host, the owner’s daughter, Sylvia, no last name given or asked for, had promised a visit and passing by after picking up the vessel after some repairs, she collected me by helicopter, and took me straight to the ship.
I was taking in some sea sir, trying to make sense of what just happened, and get some sea air.
“You look unhappy, Jake.”
“My brother has gone missing. He was delivering some documents for me and never arrived. While it’s like him not to finish anything he starts, this time I know that, at the very least, he made it to the building.”
“That seems very strange.”
“Not when you factor in who the documents were about.”
I’d told her some of the history over a few drinks, perhaps more than I should.
“I’m sure you’ll discover what happened soon enough. Chef tells me lunch is ready.” She held out her hand, “come, dine with me.”
We went into the dining room and sat. Two waiters in full livery attended us, serving champagne and hors d’oeuvres.
That’s when my phone rang.
And Sylvia said, quietly, “put it on loudspeaker, on the table.”
The tone was insistent and worried me. The call was from Michael’s phone. He was simply calling me back. Just the same, I did as she asked.
I said, “Michael?”
“Is that Jake?”
“Put my father on the phone, Ari.” Sylvia looked as though she knew who it was.
I looked over at the woman I knew as Sylvia. She was supposed to be a representative of another company in the same business we were, and I’d met her at a business conference in Miami, a few months back. That she would turn out to be something else wasn’t the surprise I thought it would be.
It wasn’t long before I began to think I’d been seeing the daughter of the man who I believe killed my father.
“He’s not here.”
“Tell him I’ll sink this tub he sent me to get if he doesn’t get his ass on the phone now.” Not angry but laced with intent.
Silence.
I was going to say something, but I think words failed me. What could I say, if she was a Winthrop, his success in destroying us was complete?
I just sat in silence.
Then, “What are you doing Sylvie?”
I assumed that voice belonged to her father, the infamous Winthrop himself.
“You shouldn’t have let me go to explosives school. Oh, that’s right, you did know. So much you don’t know about me. I’ve wired this yacht Dad, and I will sink it. I’m sure mom will be impressed.”
I heard a sigh. Was he trying to deal with an errant daughter? Was she crazy? She certainly had a lot of talents, piloting helicopters, and making bombs; was there a stint in the military somewhere in her resume.
“What do you want, Sylvie.”
“Stop pissing off my boyfriend.”
“Jake? Have you been dating Jake,”
“In a manner of speaking. Since he hates the family so much and given what you just did, I’m not surprised, and I’ve been trying to figure out a way to tell him. But kidnapping his brother? Not a way to impress him Dad or give me a usable Segway.”
“You do know Jake is helping the authorities put me in jail. That’s not going to happen.”
“I don’t care what your issues are with the authorities, but if you’re worried that the evidence Michael had will have you prosecuted, then you have lied to me, and I told you what would happen if I found out you lied to me.”
“You’re just a child.”
“Whose got a penchant for blowing up things. I’ll start with this boat, then I’ll move on to bigger and better things, like your car collection. I’m thoroughly pissed off myself now.”
Silence.
“What do you really want?”
“Give them their company back. You don’t need it. Get Ari to take Michael home and apologize for making a mistake.”
“And the documents?”
“Burn them for all I care. You’re going to make a very generous investment in their company, and then never bother them again.”
“And the ship?”
“Just hope I’m in a good mood in a few hours’ time after lunch, and Jake doesn’t jump overboard to get away from me.”
“OK. Your mother is waiting for you in Venice. Don’t upset her.”
“Why would I? I’m her favorite.”
The line went dead.
“So, Jake, didn’t I tell you I’d fix everything.”
She had, and I’d foolishly thought no one could handle Winthrop. “Would you sink this ship?”
“Hell yes, just to piss him off. Now, where is lunch? Negotiating makes me hungry. And,” she smiled wickedly, “there’s a stateroom with our name on it. You are coming to Venice?”
I guess it really was a matter of who you know, not what you know.
I’ve been looking back at what’s been written, something you shouldn’t do when trying to get 50,000 words written in 30 days, but I’m ahead of the count, and a little checking is needed, just to make sure everything is running smoothly.
Not that any book written on the fly like this runs smoothly.
There are three themes to this story:
1 – Worthington, now head of the Intelligence agency, seeking revenge for Zoe killing his brother by mistake, a mistake that he caused
2 – Alistair’s mother deploying a collecting of agents, some being Zoe’s colleagues once, to assassinate the woman who assassinated her son
3 – John’s ever-growing fear that Zoe is tired of him, and, after she leaves, and even though she promised to come back, he doesn’t want to wait to find out he’s been dumped.
4 – Sebastian is always lurking in the background, ostensibly to recruit her as an assassin, but really because he’s jealous of John’s good fortune.
Our two intrepid heroes go off to save her in Marseilles where she learns of the identity of who is ostensibly looking for her, and sets her off on a lone hunt for him.
We then deploy two new characters, Rupert and Isobel, who along with John will create a private detective agency, that John uses to locate Zoe by any and all means.
Isobel soon finds out that searching for Zoe on the internet brings risks, both at home and abroad, bringing her in contact with another hacker who seems to know where Zoe’s past is hiding. But can they be trusted?
John heads off to Vienna, after being supplied a file on Zoe, full of information he had not known about her. What he learns in Vienna leads him to Bratislava, when a photo identifying where she suddenly arrives on his phone.
John locates her, she realizes he is being used as bait, and they leave, but not before the hit team almost completes their mission, and leave behind a trail of bodies as they get away, but not without injury.
John gets the answers he is seeking, that if he wants a life of looking over his shoulder, by all means, tag along. She is quite pleased to see him, not so much that he brought ‘friends’ but she might yet get to train him.
Sebastian, feeling left out, grills Isobel and Rupert, gets sidelined by Worthington because anywhere Sebastian goes, trouble follows, and then convinces Isobel that John is in over his head and needs their help.
He’s not wrong because Worthington has dispatched another hit team to the main railway stations in Vienna where John and Zoe are looking to escape, only another shootout occurs as they once again escape when all the station’s exits are not covered.
The story has now reached a point where everyone is converging on Vienna.
Along with another person who Juhn knows, and will least expect to arrive on his doorstep.
…
Today’s writing, with Zoe languishing in a dungeon waiting for a white knight, 3,999 words, for a total of 47,066.
This is the staircase down to the bedroom level of a two-story holiday apartment at the Rosebud Country Club on the Mornington Peninsula in Victoria Australia.
It was the first time we stayed there for a long time.
However…
Innocuous stairs leading downwards to a black hole suggest a great many other things, especially if you left your imagination run wild.
For instance:
What if you are an only child being dropped off by your parents at your creepy grandparent’s place in the middle of the woods. Imagine driving up on a cold, wintry, windy, cloudless dark night, and when you get there, this old rambling mansion looks like the coven for witches.
What if when you get to the door this creepy old man who looks more dead than alive answers the door, and when you step over the threshold you hear what seems to be a high-pitched scream coming from outside the house.
What if, when you are being taken up the staircase, every single wooden step creaks or groans, that at the top of the stairs, every painting you pass, the eyes seem to follow you.
What if, when you explore, against the express wishes of your grandfather, you come across a door that leads down into a basement. There has to be some interesting stuff down there, a torture chamber, a medical laboratory with a half-finished Frankenstein, a workshop with coffins stacked in a corner.
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 next stretch of road was from Aba to Nagero, the gateway to the Garamba National Park. This was a road where we would have to be more careful because it was possible, now we were off the main road, even though it was designated a highway, or perhaps that was a little too optimistic since it had a number N26, which ran into the R240 at a place nominally named Faradje, but did have a place to stay called the Residence Robert Ball.
I guess I missed that.
Beyond Faradje the road was a little more intense, but something else that worried me, there was more scope for us to be ambushed. To be honest, I had expected trouble for the last 100 kilometers, but trucks and people were plentiful enough to keep any surprises away. Now, that element of safety had gone and for quite some distance now we’d been moving slowly, and everyone was on alert.
My fears were not misplaced.
We’d hit a rather rough patch and had to slow down, and coming into a creek crossing the road narrowed, and the trees came down to the side of the road, providing any would-be attacker plenty of cover. I had been considering how I would arrange an ambush when, suddenly the car in front stopped suddenly, and we, caught unawares, slid almost into the back of them.
My other radio crackled, Monroe was reporting in. “Houston, we’ve got a problem.”
A flooded creek that was impassable, or a rockfall. There had been one of each so far, but both had been relatively easy to negotiate.
Then she added, “A gentleman in army gear with a gun. He’s brought a few friends to the party.”
“Real army, or…”
“The or, I think. Some of his ‘men’ are, well, not men.”
A local militia. Ahead I could see several more of the ‘soldiers’ filtering down to cover each of the vehicles until a real soldier stopped near ours, gun aimed and ready to fire.
“Send in our guide and get him to sort the matter out.”
No one was asking us to leave the vehicles yet, so this might but just a ‘request’ for a passing fee. Jacobi had said this might happen once we left the mainstream roads. I had hoped, the Garamba National Park is internationally known, all roads in and out would be ‘protected’. Perhaps that was only for convoys protected by Government troops, a service we had to forego due to the nature of our business.
Five minutes passed, then the next update.
“Jacobi is going now. We’ve finally got past any possible misunderstandings. Good thing he knows the language.”
Mindful of where the soldier covering us was standing and his line of sight into the car, I said into the other radio, “Mobley?”
“Sir?”
“Where are you?”
“About a k behind you.”
“Stop. Park, and approach on foot. We have a small problem, about 10 militiamen have stopped us at a choke point.”
“Done. I will be there shortly. Take them out?”
“Get a position and standby.”
Forward of us little was happening. I could now see Jacobi and the group commander standing to one side of the lead vehicle, talking. Jacobi was gesturing, and the soldier was looking defensive.
Seconds dragged by like they were minutes.
Davies came back to life. “Why have we stopped?”
“Checkpoint.”
“There isn’t meant to be a checkpoint here, is there?”
“No.”
Before we started out Davies had hidden a sidearm under her seat, in a place where I had hoped would not be checked by the border officials. They had made a cursory scan in the front of the car but hadn’t seen it. Now she had reached down and had it in her hand, at the same time making sure she had eye contact with the militiaman on her side of our car.
Our personal detail had doubled in the last minute or so. I had just watched Jacobi return to the lead vehicle, get in, but leave the door open.
The radio crackled again. “They want five thousand US dollars, and we can proceed.”
“We got five thousand.”
“Jacobi says two should do it.”
“Give it a go.”
I watched and waited as it took a few more minutes before Jacobi, with a bulky envelope, got out of the car and walked towards the soldier.
Showing we had money and were willing to hand it over might lead to further demands, particularly if the soldier though he was being disrespected. It all depended on Jacobi’s negotiating skills.
Mobley reported in. He had a position where he could see the men at the head of the convoy.
I spoke into the radio to the others, “Has everyone got a clear shot on their covering guards, just in case this goes sideways.”
“They’re not exactly soldiers,” I heard Barnes say.
“But they’ll shoot to kill you all the same. Unfortunately, we’re on a mission-critical timeline here, and whilst I don’t like it, it’s going to be one of those at all costs decisions.”
A series of ‘ready’ came over the radio.
Several more minutes passed, and more animated conversation between Jacobi and the commander, then Jacobi returned to the car, minus the envelope.
Was it successful?
Monroe. “Seems he wants ten thousand now. Orders?”
“Negotiations are over.”
Several shots rang our, taking down the three men at the front of the convoy in quick succession, the signal for the others to take out their guards almost simultaneously. It was a miracle none of the guards got a shot off, but, then, they were standing a little too close for their own good.
Five minutes later we were back on the road, the militiamen having their arms removed, and removed from sight, just in case anyone came looking for them. It might be a forward group from the kidnappers, looking for some extra cash, or, if the negotiations had dragged on, looking to take the ransom and then demand another when we turned up empty-handed.
Whatever had happened, it was over.
Ten minutes later Mobley had re-joined the convoy behind me.
I had once said that Grand Central Station, in New York, was large enough you could get lost in it. Especially if you were from out of town.
I know, I was from out of town, and though I didn’t quite get lost, back then I had to ask directions to go where I needed to.
It was also an awe-inspiring place, and whenever I had a spare moment, usually at lunchtime, I would go there and just soak in the atmosphere. It was large enough to make a list of places to visit, or find, or get a photograph from some of the more obscure places.
Today, I was just there to work off a temper. Things had gone badly at work, and even though I hadn’t done anything wrong, I still felt bad about it.
I came in the 42nd street entrance and went up to the balcony that overlooked the main concourse. A steady stream of people was coming and going, most purposefully, a few were loitering, and several police officers were attempting to move on a vagrant. It was not the first time.
But one person caught my eye, a young woman who had made a circuit of the hall, looked at nearly every destination board, and appeared to be confused. It was the same as I had felt when I first arrived.
Perhaps I could help.
The problem was, a man approaching a woman from out of left field would have a very creepy vibe to it, so it was probably best left alone.
Another half-hour of watching the world go by, I had finally got past the bad mood and headed back to work. I did a wide sweep of the main concourse, perhaps more for the exercise than anything else, and had reached the clock in the center of the concourse when someone turned suddenly and I crashed into them.
Not badly, like ending up on the floor, but enough for a minor jolt. Of course, it was my fault because I was in another world at that particular moment.
“Oh, I am sorry.” A woman’s voice, very apologetic.
I was momentarily annoyed, then, when I saw who it was, it passed. It was the lost woman I’d seen earlier.
“No. Not your fault, but mine entirely. I have a habit of wandering around with my mind elsewhere.”
Was it fate that we should meet like this?
I noticed she was looking around, much the same as she had before.
“Can I help you?”
“Perhaps you can. There’s supposed to be a bar that dates back to the prohibition era here somewhere. Campbell’s Apartment, or something like that. I was going to ask…”
“Sure. It’s not that hard to find if you know where it is. I’ll take you.”
It made for a good story, especially when I related it to the grandchildren, because the punch line was, “and that’s how I met your grandmother.”
My great grandfather used to say the mark of a man was not how wealthy or wise he was, but by how much respect he garnered.
Well, my great grandfather was wealthy, wise, and also respected … by everyone but his children.
It was an interesting tale, oft-told by my father over the dinner table, when we, his children, would bemoan the fact that he was too hard on us.
Like my great grandfather, our father had also made something of himself, took every opportunity afforded him, and made it a success.
Yes, there were failures, like how our mother couldn’t handle the success and virtually abandoned us because of him, like our first stepmother, who hated children, and for a while, virtually turned him against us, setbacks that were eventually overcome.
To the outside world, we always said everything turned out all right, but the reality of it was completely the opposite. Appearances were just that, appearances.
My eldest brother, John, was out the door as soon as he could escape, and into the military, and from that moment we never really saw him.
Then there was me, Toby, with a name I hated, stuck at home to weather the endless storms, and to look after my youngest sister Ginny, who really didn’t have a care in the world.
I don’t think I ever got to have a childhood.
And lastly, my younger sister, Melanie, the tearaway tomboy troublemaker, a devil in disguise, that was responsible for ten nannies in twelve years.
We were as disparate and different as any group of siblings could get, and that was all because of how, in the end, our father finished up exactly like the man he often disparaged, our great grandfather.
Wealthy, yes, wise, the jury was still out in that one, and respected, yes, by everyone but his children.
And, now, I was looking at the body of the man I called my father, sprawled out on the floor, and it was quite plain to see he was dead.
There was no mistaking the bullet hole in his head, Or the puddle of blood emanating from the back of his head.
Someone, obviously, hated him more than we did.
…
I was surprisingly calm in the face of such a calamity, faring better than Ginny, who was the first to discover him.
She was once subject to bouts of hysteria, and that it had not happened in these circumstances was, in a sense disconcerting. She had reason to hate him more than the rest of us, the reasons for which I had only learned the night before.
She was sitting on the floor, not ten feet from the body, staring at what she had described as the devil incarnate. She had every reason to kill him, in fact, I had wanted to myself when she told me.
And when confronted him and demanded to know the truth, he had laughed at me, telling me that it was just a figment of her imagination.
I had to call the police, but before that, I needed to have a clear idea of where everyone was.
It was a weekend where, for the first time in twenty years, all four siblings were home. It was ostensibly for an announcement regarding the family, read how my father was going to bequeath his worldly possessions in the event of his death.
And I suspect, to tell us about the fact he was dying, the running battle he had with cancer finally getting a stranglehold in his body, and that he had about six weeks to three months left.
Not that he had said anything, I had received an anonymous email from his doctor telling me, that he didn’t believe we should not be kept in the dark. But it was not the news I’d shared with the others, hoping the man himself would.
That secret had died with him.
John and Melanie had both yet to put in an appearance. It had been a late night, and we had all ended up in John’s room, drinking shots of whiskey and talking about how different our lives had been, and how it had been too long apart.
I’d been very drunk at the end and barely made it back to my room before collapsing on the bed. I had no idea what happened to the others.
Ginny didn’t drink, or so she said, but the few drinks she had, had no effect on her. She had Bern in a dark mood and no wonder. She had left all of us in utter silence, devastated at the revelation our father was a monster, the reason why our mother left, unable to do anything to stop him.
She should have taken Ginny with her, but she didn’t, probably saving Melanie from a similar fate.
Threats against his life flew thick and fast, and the once made by John actuary sent a shiver down my spine. He was the only one experienced in killing, and I could totally believe he could kill in cold blood and not even blink.
Had he?
“Fuck!”
Great timing. John just walked into the room, still in his pajamas and looking disheveled, as if he had just fought off a pack of bears.
“This your doing?”
“What? No. Saying and doing are two different things, Toby.” He looked down at Ginny. “Ask her, she had more reason than any of us.”
I was going to, but she seemed in a catatonic state.
“No. I did not, and believe me, I’ve wanted to for many years.”
Ginny, obviously not in a catatonic state.
“Have you called the police,” he asked.
“Not yet.”
“Good. Let’s think about this first. Any sign of a breaking?”
I checked the French windows behind the desk and they were intact and locked. The room, other than the body on the floor was as it always was.
Not a book or paper out of place. The desk was clear. Usually, there was a computer and cell phone on it.
“His laptop is missing. A robbery gone bad?”
“Robbers don’t usually carry guns, let alone be able to shoot so accurately.” He was standing over the body making strange body movements, then, “whoever shot him was behind the desk. He must have heard something and came to investigate.”
If it was any time up to the fifty shots of whiskey, we would have heard a gun going off.
“Silencer?” I said.
“I’m a light sleeper, so I would have heard it. Others too. It screams premeditation. Robbers don’t bring guns with suppressors. If it was a case of being caught unawares, that shot could have gone anywhere. No, whoever was in her was looking for, maybe found, something, and may have made enough noise to get his attention with the intention of killing him.”
“Holy Mary mother of God!”
Melanie just arrived, riveted to the spot, just inside the door.
“I take it you didn’t do it?” John said to her.
“Me? You have to be joking. I wouldn’t know what end of the gun to use.”
Not true, I thought, Melanie was in the gun club at her exclusive school and won various awards for pistol shooting, and we’ll as an expert clay pigeon shooter to boot. But it was school days, a long time ago.
I looked at her pointedly, and I think she realized what my glare implied.
“I think it’s time we called the police,” I said.
“Can’t we just dig a hole and bring him out there somewhere and pretend he’s gone away?”
“A thought, but not practical, unless one of us did it and we need to hide the evidence. Anyone going to own up?”
No one spoke.
“Good. Just remember from this point on, if you have any deep dark secrets, they won’t be for much longer. We will be the prime suspects. Leaving isn’t an option.”
“Let the chips fall where they may. At least the bastard got what he deserved.
I pulled out my phone.
“Last chance.”
John was looking resolute. Melanie was in a state of shock. Ginnie went back to being almost catatonic. I don’t know what I felt, sad, maybe, but with all that had come before, perhaps a sense of relief.
I dialled the number.
“Daisy. No, I’m alright. We have a bit of a problem here. Someone has shot and killed my father. I think you’d better get here.”
“Right. Don’t touch anything and keep the scene clear. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”
I disconnected the call and put the phone back in my pocket.
At that same moment, I had a great overwhelming feeling that one of them did it. I couldn’t see how anyone from the outside could or would.
As John said, let the child fall where they may.
“OK. Daisy wants us out of the room. Let’s go.” I said, helping Ginnie up from the floor
“Daisy? She that girl you were pining over back in elementary school?” John muttered.
“Married her too. Deputy sheriff now, so be a good boy. And don’t think our relationship will make this any easier.”
As I closed the door to the office and turned the key in the lock, I could hear the sirens in the distance.
Today, we’re back in Vienna, with Zoe planning their escape. We’re off to the railway station and catching the train. Unfortunately, Worthington is able to track them and knows exactly where they are, and where to direct his hit squad.
And you guessed it, mayhem is about to erupt in the station. But, as Zoe knows all too well, chaos can be her best friend, and they escape.
Sebastian knows something is afoot with Worthington, because all of a sudden, he has disappeared.
That’s good for Sebastian in one sense, he can go ahead with the interrogations of Isobel and Rupert in his quest to find out where John, and ultimately Zoe, is.
But the thing is, they are disinclined to be helpful in any way shape or form, and Isobel in particular, tells him to bring on the torturers.
Weird maybe, but Sebastian knows she’s probably getting a kick out of it.
…
Today’s writing, with Isobel laughing in the face of danger, 1,905 words, for a total of 43,067.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 