Tag: Thrillers

The A to Z Challenge – J is for – “Just a little thing I forgot to mention…”

It was our once-a-year ritual.

Pick a mountain, and hike over it.  The harder the trail, the better it was.

There were five from the original group of eight, from thirty years ago, brought together by the first Gulf War, and kept together as support for each other as we tried, and sometimes failed, to reintegrate into civilian life.

It had saved me.

It had not for Benny, Jack, and Roland, and as hard as they tried, and as hard as we tried to save them, it was as sad as it was tragic, not only for us but for those they left behind.

Over the years we added, and lost, new recruits.

This year there would be six, the original five, and a new recruit, a woman that Wally had recommended, and though there were no rules barring women, it just never seemed to be a potential candidate. 

Until now.  Josephine or Jo had seen service in Iraq and was known to Justin, who worked off and on in a veteran’s hospital as a counselor.  He could see the signs of a deteriorating soul and asked her if she would like to join a bunch of fools tackling a trail sensible people would leave alone.

A girl joining five guys in the forest, I could see how that might look, especially when he told me.  Both of us were surprised when she agreed to come along.  The only hitch, she would be coming with me to base camp.

I just hoped it was not another pathetic attempt on his part to matchmake.  In all that time, since returning, I had not had a successful, or long-term relationship, simply because I didn’t want to share the burden.

The others were more successful in varying degrees, but rarely mentioned it when we got together.  I was happy for them, but it was not for me.

Josephine arrived, precisely at the time she said she would, in a vintage Mustang that sounded like it had a V8.  Josephine was once a mechanic, and according to Justin, had rebuilt the car from the ground up after finding it in a hayloft.

It looked brand new,

I was out front tossing stuff into an SUV when she pulled into the drive.  From there I watched her extricate herself from the driver’s seat, a tall thin girl with long blonde hair, and that Scandinavian look about her.

Nothing about what I saw in front of me screamed battle veteran.

“Ken, I presume?”

I was not sure whether we should shake hands, hug, or what.  Instead, I just stood back and nodded.

“Josephine, or Jo?”

“My real name is Betty, but I hate it, so either will do.”

How do you break the ice with what appeared to be an ice maiden?

“Justin said you were looking for some excitement.  I’d hardly call our little group exciting, but you never know.  There might be a few bears to wrestle.

“I hope not.”

“Don’t worry.  These bears are not all that dangerous if you leave them alone.  Have you heard of the expression, ‘don’t poke the bear’.  Very apt in this case.  Want to toss your kit in the back?  I’ll get off the driveway and you can park your car in the garage.  Nice car, by the way.   Always wanted one, could never afford it.  Still, a man can have dreams.”

She smiled, but I think my prattling was a sign of being nervous in her presence, a common complaint of mine.  I just never did understand how to talk to women about normal stuff.

I wondered, for a moment, if the bears were all we would have to worry about, because as we were going inside, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a large black SUV parked just down from the front of my house, window down and a man, smoking a cigar, looking directly into my yard.

It was not the first time, I’d been in a few scrapes and on the end of some surveillance, but this felt different.

I guess I’d soon find out.

…

It was a two-day trip and we would be stopping in Iowa City on the way.  There was a light conversation for the first half-hour, as we both realized, we were not conversationalists.  Perhaps if we had more in common.

But the silence that fell over the cabin was not an uneasy one.  She closed her eyes and appeared to sleep.  I drew the straw to drive the first leg, she the second.

I’d not noticed the black SUV, but that didn’t mean it was not somewhere behind us.  I deliberately parked around the back of the diner, then told her I needed to look at the engine to check if we were leaking oil, which it did sometimes, and watched her go inside.

I knew surveillance tactics.  Put a tracker on the car, and then you can follow at leisure.

I felt around all the spots a tracker could be hidden, and after almost believing there wasn’t one, I found it, tucked under the driver’s side door in a slot meant for the car jack, then attached it to another car.

Black SUV would be out there somewhere.  It was moot whether he would fall for the trick.

Jo was sitting in a booth with two cups of coffee.

“I hope you like fried chicken.”

“My favorite, but then, anything fried is my favorite.”

She smiled, but I could see the sadness.  I wonder what had happened to her, but I was sensible enough to know not to tug at that string.

“Up for the next leg?”

“Yep, but it’s going to be a little more sedate than I’m used to.  Unless, of course, you want to get there early.”

“No, slow and steady is fine with me.”

How do you keep an eye on what’s behind you without looking like you’re keeping an eye on what’s behind you?

Jo never looked in the rear vision mirror, except if she was changing lanes, or passing another vehicle.  Other than that, she looked to me like she was pouring her whole soul into the job at hand.

It wasn’t until we were almost to Iowa city before I thought I saw the black SUV and then lost it as she turned to go into the motel.  On the way, I changed the reservation for two adjoining rooms, and dinner to be brought in.  I used the excuse that it would be better not to go out, that way we could get an early night, and start the next morning.

I wanted to be the first at the base camp so I could bring her up to speed on how things worked.  And the quirks of the rest of the hikers.

Then, after dining in her room, I left her with a six-pack and some awful TV show.

Back in my room, I dug out my laptop and did a search on her name, on the off chance the internet might yield some answers.

There were a lot of Josephine Littleton’s oddly enough, and over 15,000 hits.  I had to scroll six pages before a single line caught my attention.  Local Deputy Sherriff has assault charges dropped.

A click on the URL led me to a newspaper article, the Rio Grande Sun, dated six months ago, with a photo of a man in a Deputy’s uniform, who looked something like the man in the SUV, and a woman that was definitely Jo.

Married before she went to the war when she came back, he found it difficult to handle her and like most spouses who have no understanding of the problem, react.  Some leave, after trying to reconcile the spouse they now had versus the one before and failing, very few resort to more direct action. Deputy Grady reportedly assaulted her.  Her word against his, and against the law in a small county where they would close ranks, she had only one option.

Drop the charges or leave.  She left, no doubt hoping to get away from him, but he would have contacts, and no trouble tracing her.  Did she know he was following her?

It might be a subject for conversation tomorrow.

I was woken by the sound of a thump, something hitting the wall between our rooms, and raised voices.

I got the adjoining rooms just in case I needed to get in to see her if she was having the nightmares we all had.  I unlocked the door and stepped into the room.

There was a man on the floor, groaning, and Jo, in pajamas, sitting on the end of the bed, tears flowing down her face.  There were also red welts on both cheeks, from being slapped.

The man looked up at me.  “Walk away.  This is none of your business.”

I glared down at him.  “Too late, I’ve seen your face, Deputy Grady.  Now it is my business.”

I looked at Jo.  “Are you alright?”

She shook her head, no.

“What happened here?”

Grady rolled over and stood up, flexing his body as if to tease out the aches and pains.  I assumed it was he who hit the wall.

“We were having a conversation, and she unaccountably shoved me into the wall.”

“Before or after you hit her.”

She raised her head and looked at me.  “Leave, like he said.  There’s nothing you can do for me.”

“Save yourself a whole world of pain, too,” Grady added, with the sort of gloating tone only a small-town cop could do so well.  The big man in a small world.

“I’m not leaving until I get the truth, Grady.  But I will give you a little information for free.  Be thankful you can get up off the floor.  I know something about the pain Jo is going through.  You don’t, you could never understand.  When you assaulted her, she could have retaliated, but instead, she cared enough about you to leave before she did.  Right now, you just got the reprieve of your life.  To be honest, I expected to see you slit from groin to throat and your heart tossed in the trash can, and she would have done that eyes closed and without a second thought.”

I was laying in on a bit thick, but this fool really didn’t know how lucky he was.  When I lashed out, I hurt five people, badly, and I hadn’t realized what I was doing until Justin told me to stop.

Jo looked at him, the look of surprise on his face, then me, then back to Grady.

“You never understood, and you didn’t care.  Get the fuck out of my life, and don’t come back, or I will kill you.”

He glared at her.

“What the hell is wrong with you?  We were fine until you went away.  I told you not to go.  You didn’t have to go.”

“You were smothering me.  You, your mother, and that awful sister.  I thought a few months away would clear my head.  It did far worse than that, and I need help, not you.”

“You were fucked in the head before you went away.  God, to think I wasted my time trying to make something out of your pathetic life.”

He looked at me.  “You’re welcome to her.  I’m done.”

He picked up his cap off the floor and jammed it on his head, then headed for the door.  I opened it for him.  “Don’t let me see you again, or you will feel the full force of the US military machine rolling right over the top of you.”

“Fuck you too, asshole.”

I closed the door after him and leaned against it.

She looked at me.  “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.  I’ve been there and done a lot worse.  But I think you just took the first step on a long road to recovery, you admitted you need help.”

“I did, and you have no idea how that feels.”

There were still two bottles of beer left so I opened them and handed one to her.  “Here’s to the first day of the rest of your life.”

© Charles Heath 2022

NaNoWriMo – April 2022 – Day 12

First Dig Two Graves, the second Zoe thriller.

…

Today we are in Vienna, at the hotel that Zoe was staying trying to get information out of the hotel staff. This leads to a contact on a riverboat that goes from Vienna to Bratislava in Slovakia.

Yes, we’re off to Bratislava, chasing Zoe down.

In the background we have the shadowy Worthington, pulling endless strings, gathering information on her whereabouts for John. He had deduced that if John can find her, she will pause long enough for Worthington’s hit team to get there.

John does not realize he has ulterior motives, but, then John doesn’t fully understand the spy business.

John also tasks his newfound private investigators to track her down, and Isobel doesn’t disappoint.

Then, a photo of her from Worthington arrives, she is discovered, and, as you can surmise, all hell breaks loose.

I’ve always wanted to go to Bratislava, ever since I saw it in a James Bond movie. That showed it had trams, and I’m one of those people who love trams, trains, buses, anything that reeks travel.

I would also like to hop a boat and travel up the river, perhaps from Vienna to Bratislava, or beyond.

One day.

…

Today’s writing, with John desperately trying to find Zoe, 2,525 words, for a total of 36,812.

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 32

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

We flew out of an unnamed base in an unmarked aircraft, heading for Africa.  It would be my second visit.  The first didn’t quite go as expected, but there was a chance of redemption this time around.

I was the only one who had been there before, other than our two-faced guide, Jacobi, who by now would be working out how he could double-cross us and save his skin.  I had no illusions about a man who would turn in his own mother if he had to.

We were going to need a plan b and a plan c going in with him because I had no doubt plan a had already been sent to the relevant people, who were awaiting our imminent arrival with bated breath.  Pity we would not be landing anywhere near that location.

In fact, none of us would know where we would be dropped, until minutes before it happened.  Security, this time, was going to be formidable.  Lallo explained why it was a matter of need to know, and all I had to say was, I didn’t need to know.  I suspect Monroe knew, but she was the sort who could keep a secret.

As for the rest of the team, they were a motley crew, but within the group, there was an odd sort of camaraderie between them.  Perhaps Lallo had told them that if they stepped out of line, Monroe would shoot them.

Aside from the passengers in the C47 transport, there was a pack for each of us, and enough weapons to start a war.  Since we would not be calling at any recognisable airport, I doubted we would be having any customs or immigration problems.  No one was travelling with any identification papers.  It was that sort of mission.

Bamfield met me at the airport before we took off.  Monroe had come over and told me there was a visitor in one of the rooms, the one with Operations crookedly glued to the door.  She opened the door, ushered me in, then stepped back out closing the door after her.

Mental note: the door to that room would not withstand a good kick.

There was a table, two chairs, and one of them had Bamfield sitting, looking up expectantly when I entered the room.  His eyes beckoned me to the other chair, so, after a look around the room, nothing else other than the table and chairs were in the room I casually made my way to the chair and sat.

We glared at each other over the tabletop.

”I’m guessing this is the last place you expected to be?”

“You have a funny way of issuing invitations?”

“Would you have come along if I asked you politely.”

“Probably not.”

Another minute’s silence while he looked for the words that would be anything other than an apology for coercing me into a corner.  I’d come to realise that Bamfield was far from the sort of officer I’d first thought him to be.

An excuse could be made that because he needed to find people to do a particularly dangerous and covert operation, nothing was off the table, including blackmail, in order to get the job done.  How he was justifying it using armed services personnel was anyone’s guess, but it would have been kicked higher up the food chain before approval was given.

These operations weren’t just conceived by military commanders, just the CIA on a good day, allowing the armed services to tag along.  But make no mistake, this would be a CIA operation, and the CIA to take the credit if it worked out, and the army would take a hit if it didn’t.  Either way, it would never reach the newspapers.

“You don’t need me to tell you how important this is, and that we’ve only got one shot at it.  If you get caught, any of you, we cannot acknowledge you, so you will be on your own. Your team will obey orders.  Monroe is there to maintain discipline if it’s needed.”

“So she’ll be shooting first and asking questions later?”

“Something like that.  She’s a tough officer, and worthy of your respect.”

“And the rest?”

“Good soldiers who just got into trouble.  They’re being given an opportunity for redemption, and this mission will count towards lessening their sentences.  At any rate, Monroe will have your back.”

Good to know.

“You’ll be going to a new destination, after stopping over in northern Uganda.  We’ve arranged for the plane to land at a disused airstrip when you’ll be met by Colonel Chiswick.  He’ll be arranging you and your teams travel arrangements from there.  I can’t tell you any more at this time for security reasons.”

“I have only one question.”

“Only one?”

“There is another 999 but I figure none of those will get answered.  It was the same question I asked the last time, who are these people we’re supposed to be rescuing?”

A long and thoughtful look.  Could he trust me?

“Two CIA operatives, meddling in DRC affairs without authorisation.  They were originally sent to clean up the child soldier problem but somehow got in the middle of the war between government forces and rebels, if you could call them that.  They’re mostly militia groups, and the situation was too fractured for them to do much good.  Problem is, they made promises, and now we have to bail them out.”

“Another CIA stuff up then.”

“It had good intentions, but in Africa, good intentions are often mistaken for something else entirely.  This is, however, one other possible problem you may have to deal with.”

Of course, there always was.  Nothing covert operations was involved in didn’t have a wrinkle or three.

“Good or bad?”

He shrugged.  “They might not want to go with you.  We now suspect they may have had something to do with the last fiasco, and it wasn’t entirely Jacobi’s fault.  But, that doesn’t necessarily mean he might not be working with them.  You’ll be travelling with a small fortune in diamonds as payment for their release, but it may not necessarily be what it seems.  I tell you this, so you don’t get any surprises.”

“Good to know, but I suspect there’s more to the story that you’re not telling me.  I’m sure Monroe will keep you in the loop.”

I stood.

Was I expecting a handshake or a good luck, maybe, but I don’t think that was his style?  He was probably used to sending men to senseless deaths, so another few would stir his conscience.  I shrugged, and walked out of the room, not looking back.

…

© Charles Heath 2019

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 32

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

We flew out of an unnamed base in an unmarked aircraft, heading for Africa.  It would be my second visit.  The first didn’t quite go as expected, but there was a chance of redemption this time around.

I was the only one who had been there before, other than our two-faced guide, Jacobi, who by now would be working out how he could double-cross us and save his skin.  I had no illusions about a man who would turn in his own mother if he had to.

We were going to need a plan b and a plan c going in with him because I had no doubt plan a had already been sent to the relevant people, who were awaiting our imminent arrival with bated breath.  Pity we would not be landing anywhere near that location.

In fact, none of us would know where we would be dropped, until minutes before it happened.  Security, this time, was going to be formidable.  Lallo explained why it was a matter of need to know, and all I had to say was, I didn’t need to know.  I suspect Monroe knew, but she was the sort who could keep a secret.

As for the rest of the team, they were a motley crew, but within the group, there was an odd sort of camaraderie between them.  Perhaps Lallo had told them that if they stepped out of line, Monroe would shoot them.

Aside from the passengers in the C47 transport, there was a pack for each of us, and enough weapons to start a war.  Since we would not be calling at any recognisable airport, I doubted we would be having any customs or immigration problems.  No one was travelling with any identification papers.  It was that sort of mission.

Bamfield met me at the airport before we took off.  Monroe had come over and told me there was a visitor in one of the rooms, the one with Operations crookedly glued to the door.  She opened the door, ushered me in, then stepped back out closing the door after her.

Mental note: the door to that room would not withstand a good kick.

There was a table, two chairs, and one of them had Bamfield sitting, looking up expectantly when I entered the room.  His eyes beckoned me to the other chair, so, after a look around the room, nothing else other than the table and chairs were in the room I casually made my way to the chair and sat.

We glared at each other over the tabletop.

”I’m guessing this is the last place you expected to be?”

“You have a funny way of issuing invitations?”

“Would you have come along if I asked you politely.”

“Probably not.”

Another minute’s silence while he looked for the words that would be anything other than an apology for coercing me into a corner.  I’d come to realise that Bamfield was far from the sort of officer I’d first thought him to be.

An excuse could be made that because he needed to find people to do a particularly dangerous and covert operation, nothing was off the table, including blackmail, in order to get the job done.  How he was justifying it using armed services personnel was anyone’s guess, but it would have been kicked higher up the food chain before approval was given.

These operations weren’t just conceived by military commanders, just the CIA on a good day, allowing the armed services to tag along.  But make no mistake, this would be a CIA operation, and the CIA to take the credit if it worked out, and the army would take a hit if it didn’t.  Either way, it would never reach the newspapers.

“You don’t need me to tell you how important this is, and that we’ve only got one shot at it.  If you get caught, any of you, we cannot acknowledge you, so you will be on your own. Your team will obey orders.  Monroe is there to maintain discipline if it’s needed.”

“So she’ll be shooting first and asking questions later?”

“Something like that.  She’s a tough officer, and worthy of your respect.”

“And the rest?”

“Good soldiers who just got into trouble.  They’re being given an opportunity for redemption, and this mission will count towards lessening their sentences.  At any rate, Monroe will have your back.”

Good to know.

“You’ll be going to a new destination, after stopping over in northern Uganda.  We’ve arranged for the plane to land at a disused airstrip when you’ll be met by Colonel Chiswick.  He’ll be arranging you and your teams travel arrangements from there.  I can’t tell you any more at this time for security reasons.”

“I have only one question.”

“Only one?”

“There is another 999 but I figure none of those will get answered.  It was the same question I asked the last time, who are these people we’re supposed to be rescuing?”

A long and thoughtful look.  Could he trust me?

“Two CIA operatives, meddling in DRC affairs without authorisation.  They were originally sent to clean up the child soldier problem but somehow got in the middle of the war between government forces and rebels, if you could call them that.  They’re mostly militia groups, and the situation was too fractured for them to do much good.  Problem is, they made promises, and now we have to bail them out.”

“Another CIA stuff up then.”

“It had good intentions, but in Africa, good intentions are often mistaken for something else entirely.  This is, however, one other possible problem you may have to deal with.”

Of course, there always was.  Nothing covert operations was involved in didn’t have a wrinkle or three.

“Good or bad?”

He shrugged.  “They might not want to go with you.  We now suspect they may have had something to do with the last fiasco, and it wasn’t entirely Jacobi’s fault.  But, that doesn’t necessarily mean he might not be working with them.  You’ll be travelling with a small fortune in diamonds as payment for their release, but it may not necessarily be what it seems.  I tell you this, so you don’t get any surprises.”

“Good to know, but I suspect there’s more to the story that you’re not telling me.  I’m sure Monroe will keep you in the loop.”

I stood.

Was I expecting a handshake or a good luck, maybe, but I don’t think that was his style?  He was probably used to sending men to senseless deaths, so another few would stir his conscience.  I shrugged, and walked out of the room, not looking back.

…

© Charles Heath 2019

The A to Z Challenge – I is for – “If you had but one wish”

It was one of those moments.

Across a crowded dance floor, your eyes meet, and then that tingling sensation down your spine.

A girl who could be a princess, who might be a princess in any other lifetime, and a girl who might just outshine Annabel.

And then the moment is gone, and I could not be sure if it really happened.

“You seem preoccupied.”  The almost whispered voice beside me belonged to Annabel, who had mysteriously disappeared and as mysteriously reappeared by my side.

“Just checking who are the pretenders and who are the aspirants.”

Annabel and her parents had a thing about people, who had money, who didn’t, who aspired to be part of society, and those who thought they were.  It was a complication I didn’t need.

“Does it matter?”

Interesting observation, who was this girl, and what have you done with Annabel?  I turned slightly to observe what some might call my girlfriend, but I was never quite sure what I was to her.  Perfect in almost everything, I noticed one slight flaw, no two, a smudge in her make and hastily applied lipstick.

Did it have something to do with her mysterious disappearance?

“Perhaps not.  We can be gracious no matter what the circumstances.”  A moment, closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, as if preparing for a death-defying leap into an abyss.  Then, with an enthusiasm I certainly didn’t feel myself, she said, “Let’s mingle.”

Being with Annabel could be an experience in itself, the way she carried herself, the way she radiated warmth and humility, and then sometimes when in high dudgeon, you wanted to be anywhere else.  Today, she shone.  I could see the write-up in the social pages of tomorrow’s newspaper, exactly where she wanted to be.  Relevant.

I knew the drill, as consort, to be one pace back and one to the side, being aloof but not aloof, on hand to provide the comment that complimented Annabel’s narrative.

I had suggested that we might take to the dance floor, once around the floor to make an impression, but Annabel, being 3 inches shorter than me in heels, was reluctant.  Not because she couldn’t dance, well, that’s not exactly true, it wasn’t one of her strong points, but there were more pressing things to do.  She didn’t say what they were.

To her equals she was all smiles and politeness, to the aspirants she was gracious, to the pretenders, short but sweet.  In political parlance, we would be pressing the flesh.  In any political arena, I suspect, she would excel.

Then, suddenly, we chanced upon Mr. And Mrs. Upton, and their son Roderick.  I’d seen them once before, at Annabel’s parent’s house when I had been invited to dinner and had noticed, in front of him she was quite animated.  This time her expression changed, and it was one I’d seen before, one I thought was exclusively for me.

I was wrong.

Although that look disappeared as quickly as it came, and she had reverted to the usual greeting, she did take Roderick’s hand when she was re-introduced, and while to all others it seemed like the second time she had met him, I could see it was not.

He looked uncomfortable, and, as he made a slight movement, I could see a smudge of makeup on his lower jaw, and lipstick on his collar, in a place that would not normally be seen.  It was simply a quirk of fate.

By the time I’d processed what I’d seen, we were meeting the next person.

The princess.

“Miss Annabel McCallister, I presume?”

Annabel, suddenly, seemed flustered.  She usually knew everyone at these affairs, to the extent I thought she had a bio specially researched for her, but the princess apparently was not on the list.

“You have me at a disadvantage.  Whom might you be?”  The tone was slightly brittle, the cheeks slightly reddened, and she was annoyed and embarrassed.  Someone’s head will roll for this.

“Frances Williams, or the Boston Williams.”  An offered hand, taken and then released.  When Frances saw her puzzled look, she added, “I belong to the distant branch who live across the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.  Crumbling castles, and once upon a time, tea plantations.”

And then I committed the ultimate crime, I spoke.  “Surely you do not live in a crumbling castle?”

Annabel scowled, Frances laughed, “Oh, no.  Daddy’s spending a few million to fill the cracks so it isn’t as draughty.”

Interview killed stone dead.  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Frances.  Perhaps our paths might cross again.”  In which I read, I hope they do not.

Frances was a girl who could play Annabel at her own game, and quite likely she would win.

We did the obligatory waltz, her strongest dance, and it was one of fluid motion and great concentration, in order to shrug off the Frances factor.  After that, she said she needed a few moments to get some air, and it was probably perverse of me to think that finally, someone had bested her.

I had no interest in further mingling and found a quiet corner in which to view the proceedings and contemplate where the princess had disappeared to.

Apparently not as far away as I thought.  “You saw it, didn’t you?”

I guess I could feign ignorance, but the princess was all-knowing and all-seeing, and now beside me, close enough for another tingling sensation in my spine from the timbre of her voice.

“A tryst with Roderick, I suspect.”

“Handsome lad, cheeky grin, just enough nervousness that someone would suspect they’d been shagging.”

I turned to look at the amused expression.  “Who are you, really.  You’re definitely not one of the Boston Williams.”

“No.  They’re too stuffy for me.  My real name is Cherie, not French, but I can speak it if you like?”

“Probably not.  Mine is schoolboy at best.  How did you get in here?”

“A rather enterprising waiter, and a hundred dollar note.  Most of these twits wouldn’t know the real thing even if they fell over it.”

“An attention-seeking journalist then?”  She would not be the first, to try to see how the so-called other half lives.

“Perish the thought.  I just love these affairs, the people, the atmosphere, the food, and the drink.  And meeting people like you, a contradiction in every sense.  You don’t want to be here, and yet here you are.  You don’t want to be with her, and yet you are.  Duty?  Obligation?”

“All of the above.”

“And now you know she’s having a dalliance.”

“What rich and famous couple are monogamous?  You read the papers, its musical beds.  It comes down to how much pride you want to swallow for the sake of family, business, and appearances.”

She shook her head.  “That’s not you.  Humor me, come to the Cafe Delacrat tomorrow, 10:00 am.  We’ll chat.”

I took Annabel home, and it was like nothing had happened, and she was not seeing anyone else.  The girl, if nothing else, was a consummate actress, and had I not seen the evidence, I would still think I was the only person for her.  But she was inordinately happy, and I had not been able to do that for her for a long time. 

Perhaps it was time to move on.

I nearly decided to stay in bed and not go to the Cafe Delacrat, but the thought of seeing the princess once more was the compelling argument to go. 

When I got there, a few minutes before the hour, she was not there, and I thought to myself, I had been tricked.  That thought magnified when it came to a few minutes after when the waiter brought out the latte.  The coffee aroma was good, so it would not be a wasted visit.

And, like the princess she was, she arrived late.  Dressed in a yellow summery dress with flowers, red shoes and handbag, and the obligatory scarf and sunglasses, she looked movie star stunning.  She sat down, and the waiter was there before she finished squirming into the seat.

“I’ll have what he’s having.”

“Latte.”  He probably knew, but I wasn’t leaving anything to chance.

“I didn’t see you arrive, otherwise…”

“Very few people do.”

“By the way, you look amazing.”

“What?  This old thing.  It’s been sitting in the back of the closet since I last visited San Gimignano.  Have you traveled?”

“Yes.”

“Man of few words.  Compliments women.  Apologetic.  That girl is not for you.”

“And you might be?”  I was wondering what her motives were.

“Me?  No.  Too old, a bit of a lush, certainly not monogamous, and frankly, you could do a lot better.  In fact, you deserve better.”

“Then…”

She was watching the other side of the road, the front entrance to a rather pricy hotel in fact, as a taxi stopped and two passengers got out.  When it drove off, I could see a man and a woman, and when I looked closer, I saw it was Annabel and Roderick, holding hands and looking very much in love, as they literally bounced into the hotel.  No baggage, 10:00 am, no prizes for guessing why they were there.

“How did you know?”

She shrugged.  “I know she is not the one for you.  So, if you had but one wish, who would you wish for?  I’m sure, over time, there has been a girl who stole your heart.  We all have one, in my case, probably two, or three.”

Who was this woman, my fairy godmother?”

Yes, she inspired me to think, and closed my eyes to go back to a time in university when I ran into this amazing girl who spent far too much time helping others than to worry about herself.  We spent a lot of time together, and yet we were not together in that sense, as much as I wanted to be.  I sense though it was not the time or the place for her, and, after two years, she simply disappeared.

“Miranda Moore.”

I hadn’t realized I’d said her name out loud.

“Yes?”

I opened my eyes and looked up to see the very girl, a few years older but no less attractive than she was then, apparently a waitress at that cafe.

“Peter?”

“Miranda?  Wow.  I’ve been looking for you, high and low.  What happened?”

“My mother died and I had to go home.  It’s been a few years of hell, but, like you say, wow.  Looking for me, you say?”

“High and low.”

“And now you’ve found me?”

“I’m not letting you disappear on me again.  Can we…”

“I finish at noon.  Come back then, and I’m yours.  God, it’s so nice to see you again.”

© Charles Heath 2022

NaNoWriMo – April 2022 – Day 11

First Dig Two Graves, the second Zoe thriller.

…

We are now up to the part where we introduce Isobel properly and find out why such a talented person is drifting in the doldrums of Rupert’s private detective agency.

Aside from being a once high-flying legal eagle, she is also a computer hacker, or perhaps that’s what she evolved into in a devil finds work for idle hands type person.

This hacking is going to be useful, but it’s also going to bring problems, especially when she starts tracking down Zoe.

And, it seemed she had struck up a dark online relationship with another hacker with the handle Tzar.  What are the odds he is Russian?

She’s digging for information, and Tzar helps, and, suddenly it appears, briefly, then is gone, with a warning.  Stop digging.

And if she doesn’t.

People were coming for her.

Meanwhile, in the basement, Zoe has had enough time to devise a mask that might stave of the effects of the gas long enough to affect an escape.

And, it almost works, the mask that is.

She manages to get past all of the guards, but Romanov is waiting.

He doesn’t kill her, but he does give her some information, then leaves.  He knows how dangerous she can be, especially when wounded.

…

Today’s writing, with Isobel trawling the dark web, 2,583 words, for a total of 8,871.

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 31

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

…

The folder had half a dozen single-page sheets with a photo attached to each with a standard-issue army paper clip.  There was no top secret in pale red ink diagonally scribed across any of the pages which somehow diminished the exercise.

I guessed this was the hand-picked team selected for me to take on our suicide mission.  It didn’t have the officer overseeing the mission, or the go-between Jacobi.  Not exactly a useful man to have along in a firefight, because he would be too busy working out who would pay the most if or when he survived.

It still astonished me that we hired people like Jacobi, fully knowing that they would sell out their own mother if the price was right.  I was going to reserve one bullet in my gun to execute him the moment he even looked the wrong way.

Trust him, I did not.

Nor any 0f the six members of that hand-picked team.

Sergeant Barnes.  Tall, wide, deadly, that last attribute courtesy of a line in his resume that said he killed three soldiers of the army we were supposed to be training and supporting.  No meaningful reason was given as to why he did, only that he’d just finished serving a five-year sentence, cut short by a month so he could join this force.  Hand to hand combat, and a handy man to have if you’ve got a handheld rocket launcher handy.

Private Williamson.  Had been a Corporal, but considered that too much of a burden, having men look up to him, and having to give orders.  He decided to go AWOL instead.  Used to be a butcher before signing on to see the world, and as described very handy with a knife.  Refused to use a gun, and refused orders too, which was the reason why he was in the stockade, with his friend, the next man on the list.

Private Shurl.  If we needed a man who excelled at sword fighting, he was our man.  A very accomplished swordsman, but I doubt we were going to need a man of his talents because enemy swordsmen seemed only to exist in the old movies.  I guess Lallo was expecting the three musketeers or something.  Other than that, he was a useful radioman and would be handling the communications once we were on the ground in enemy territory.

Corporal Stark.  His claim to fame was reading maps.  He was also an expert on the ground in the country whose borders we were about to violate.  He lived in the country for several years with his wife, who came from there, and who’d been killed by the dictator in a case of mistaken identity.  Stark would have to be carefully managed.

Staff Sergeant Mobley.  A man who had been up and down in ranks for a long time, suggesting a bad attitude, his latest bout leaving him fresh from a stint in the stockade.  He had no valid reason to be in on this disaster and yet had volunteered.  That took courage, to apply for a suicide mission with little hope of return.  I suspect he had an agenda that no one else knew about.

And, lastly

Lieutenant Lesley Davies.  A woman marine, no longer a lieutenant but just another soldier who obviously didn’t understand the concept of taking one step back when everyone else steps in another direction.  It didn’t say what it was she did wrong, but my guess there were a few men out there frightened of meeting her on a dark night.  Some women are dainty, some women are large, and then there’s Davies, a powerhouse that could be dangerous if out of control.

Out of all of that team, she was the one who interested me the most.

There was a knock on the door, interrupting my thoughts.  I called out, “Enter”, surprised the person outside hadn’t just shoved their way into the room.

The door opened, Monroe walked in and closed the door behind her.

“Let me guess,” I said.  “You’re running point.”

“And save your sorry ass from those recruits.  Not a brain between the lot of them, and we need people who can think, given the nature of the forthcoming exercise.  The brains trust has decided the rescue team reports to us.  I didn’t ask for it by the way.  This is one of Lallo’s sick jokes.”

Maybe he had a problem with her too and was hoping she wasn’t coming back.

“You and me both,” I said.

She threw another folder on the table.  “Operational orders, wheels up at 0600 tomorrow.  Make sure you get a hearty meal before we leave, it might be your last for a while.”

I shrugged. 

“Suit yourself.”  She went back to the door, gave me a curious look, and left.

I opened the file and looked at the one piece of paper in it.  It was marked Top Secret in red diagonally across the page, probably specially done by Lallo to make me feel important.  It had departure time, the weather, the flight time, how long the stopover would be before going on to the target.

Tightly planned, no room for missing connections, though this was the army, not an airline taking us, no room for errors.  New intel said that we had five days before the prisoners were to be executed.

No pressure then.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

Writing about writing a book – Day 28

So after that rather undramatic ‘off with the fairies’ moment, it’s time to come back to earth.  Holiday or not, there’s always something that can go wrong.

Even when you’ve been told to take some vacation days, and reluctantly stayed home.  The notion that vacation meant going away somewhere doesn’t enter Bill’s mind.

Perhaps he’s like a lot of workaholics, using their job as an excuse to forget about life outside work.

Maybe he was hoping something would go wrong.  Maybe he had considered manufacturing a problem so that he would have to go back.

Maybe not, but that was the sort of employee he was, not one that could willingly take a day away, just in case.

Like now.

 

I’d almost managed to doze off again when the phone rang.

I jumped to its equally shrill sound cutting through the silence.  It had to be a wrong number because no one at work would call me, and I didn’t have many friends, so I let it ring out.  As far as I could remember, it was only the third time it had rung since I’d moved in, four years ago.

Blissful silence.  I looked at the bedside clock.  7 am.  Who called anyone at that hour?

It rang again.

Ignore it, I thought.  If it was anyone, it would be someone from the office.  I’d told them all not to call me, not unless the building was burning down and they were all trapped in it.

And even then, I’d have to think about it.

Burying my head under the pillow didn’t shut out the insistent ringing, compelling me to answer.  Almost reluctantly I rolled back, pulled the telephone out from under the bed, and lifted the receiver to my ear.

“Bill?”

It was Carl Benton, my immediate superior; an insipid, loathsome, irritating little man, the last person I would want to speak to.  He’d insisted I take this leave, that the office could survive without me, adding in his most condescending manner that I needed the break.

I slammed the receiver down in anger.  It was a forlorn gesture.  Seconds later, it rang again.

“I seem to remember you were the one to tell me to go on holiday, that I needed a holiday.  I’m off the roster.  It can’t be that important.  Call someone else.”  I wasn’t going to give him the opportunity to speak.  Not this morning.  I was not in the mood to listen to that squeaky, falsetto voice of his, one that always turned into a whine when he didn’t get his way.

And hung up again.

Not that it would do any good.  I knew that even if I was in Tibet, he would still call.  Then I realized it was too early for him to be in the office, and if he was, he would have been dragged out of bed and put in a position where if he didn’t produce results, they might realize just how incompetent he was.

At last, my holiday had some meaning and smiled to myself.  I’d make the bastard sweat.

He left it a few minutes before he rang again.  And I let it ring out.  I could see the expression on his face, bewilderment, changing slowly into suffused anger.  How dare I ignore him!

Another five minutes, then the phone began its shrill insistence again.  Before it rang again, I’d moved it from the floor to the bed.  I counted the rings, to ten, and then picked up the receiver.

“Bill?  Don’t hang up.”  Almost pleading.

“Why?  You said I should go, away from work, away from the phones, away to recharge my batteries, I believe you said.”

“That was Friday.  This is Monday. You’re needed.  Richardson has been found shot dead by his desk.  All hell has broken loose!”  Benton rarely used adjectives, so I assumed when he said all hell had broken loose, it meant something had happened he couldn’t fix.  His flowery language and telegram style had momentarily distracted my attention from Richardson’s fate.

Harold Richardson was an accountant, rather stuffy, but good at his job.  I’d spoken to him probably twice in as many years, and he didn’t strike me as the sort who would kill himself.  So why did I think that?  Benton had only said he was shot.

Benton’s voice went up an octave, a sure sign he was going into meltdown.  “It’s a circus down here.  Jennifer is missing, Giles is not in yet, the network is down, and that bunch of nincompoops you call support staff are running around the office like headless chooks.”

It all came out in a nonstop sentence, followed by a gasp for air.  It gave me time to sift the facts.  Jennifer, my sometime assistant, and responsible for data entry and accounts maintenance, was not there, which in itself was unusual, because she kept longer hours than me, Peter Giles, my youthful assistant, just out of university and still being beaten into shape was not in, and that was usual, so it could only mean one thing.

The network was down.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

 

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

Read an extract tomorrow.

The A to Z Challenge – H is for – “Have you any idea…?”

Most children, when they turn 18, or 21, get a car as a present for their birthday.  In fact, I had been hoping, in my case, they would buy me a Ferrari, or at the very least, an Alfa Romeo, blue to match my older sister’s red.

Hope is a horrible thing to hang on to.

Instead, I got a seat at the table.

Not an actual seat but joined the other 7 family members that comprised the management group for the family-run business.  One would retire to make way for new blood, as they called it.

“This is how it works and has done for a hundred years.  In your case, you will be replacing Grandma Gwen.  You will be given an area to manage, and you will be expected to work hard, and set an example to your employees.  There will be no partying, no staying home when you feel like it, and definitely no getting into trouble.  And for the first three years, you will sit, be quiet, listen and learn.  One day, down the track, you will become the CEO.”

“If we’re still in business.”  It didn’t take much to see that the company was struggling, as indeed many others were in the same industry, cheap imports and changing tastes taking a huge toll.

But we had been making exclusive and distinctive furniture for a long, long time, and discerning people who wanted a reminder of an elegant past still bought it.  Part of my training, before I got that seat, was to learn the trade, and like all members of my family, could build a chair from start to finish.

It was part of the mantra, lead by example.

…

On the second day in my new role as manager, I arrived at the office, grandma Gwen was throwing the last of 50 years’ worth of stuff into three large boxes.

It was no surprise that she was resentful at being ousted to make way for me, not that she needed the money, but because even approaching 90, the last thing she wanted to do was retire.

I got the cold stare when she saw me, and, on her way out, a parting shot, “Don’t get comfortable, sonny, they’ll be closing the doors in three months, even sooner.  Your father hasn’t a clue how to run the place.”

Out on the factory floor, the eight specialist workers didn’t exactly give her the goodbye I expected, showing that she didn’t have their respect.  The foreman, Gary, the man who had shown me the intricacies of the work, opened and closed the door for her, shrugged, and headed back to the office.

The others went back to work.

When he came into the office, his expression changed from disappointment to amusement.  He had said, years ago when I was very young, I’d be sitting in that office one.

Now I was there, though the chair, plush and comfortable when new about 50 years ago, was now as old and tired as the office’s previous owner, was hardly a selling point for the job.

“Told you you’d be sitting in that chair one day.  That day is here.”

“Maybe not for long, though.”

“Don’t pay no mind to Gwenny.  She and your father never got along.  She wanted to sell the business 20 years ago when it was worth something, but your Dad wanted to keep the worker’s jobs.  It’ll be a different story in a few years, once we’ve all gone.  No one wants to be an artisan anymore.  And wires, it’s all about furniture in boxes, all veneer and plastic, and a two tear life.”

“Shouldn’t we get a slice of the veneer and plastic market?”

“Can’t beat the overseas factories at their own game.  The trick is to diversify, but to do that we’d need to retool, and repurpose factory space and that costs money, big money.”

With all that stuff I learned at University, economics, management, and design, it might have been better to have taken the medical path, but I had been convinced to lay the groundwork to take over the company one day.

Back then, it wasn’t a possibility the company would not go on forever.  It seemed odd to me that my father hadn’t said anything about the situation Gary knew so well.  Did he not listen to those who knew most?

“So, what’s the solution?”

“That depends on you.”

This was not the job I signed up for.

What did I know about furniture?

It didn’t matter.

It was about manufacturing in a world economy, and the point was, that we could not compete.  Like the car industry, there was nothing but foreign imports and rebadged imported items made overseas.

So what was my role?

I was sure that every conclusion I had come to, everyone else around the table was painfully aware of too.  A short discussion with my elder sister confirmed it.

It was like being aboard the Titanic and watching it sink firsthand.

That seat at the table was in an ancient wood-paneled room with a huge table that seated 24, a table and matching chairs reputedly hand made by the first owner of the company, my so-many times great grandfather, Erich.

The room reeked of wood polish, the mustiness of age, and a deep vein of tradition.  Paintings on the walls were of every CEO the company had, and the first time I was in that room was the unveiling of my father’s portrait.

It was like stepping into a time warp.

Alison, my father’s PA was just finishing up setting the table for the meeting that morning.  She had Bern around for a long time, so long I could remember her when I was a child.

She looked over as I stepped into the room.

“You’re just a little early.”

“Just making sure I know where I’m going.”

“Are you nervous?”

“No.  It won’t be much different from sitting down to a family dinner, only a few less than normal, and I suspect there won’t be too many anecdotes.”

“It can be quite serious, but your father prefers to keep it light, and short.  Your grandfather on the other hand loved to torture the numbers with long-winded speeches and religious tracts.”

Small mercy then.

“Where do I sit?”

“Down the end in the listen and don’t speak seat.  It’s where all new members sit for the first year.”

That was twice I’d been told.

There were eight family members, the seven others I knew well, some better than others.  I’d seen arguments, words said that were better unsaid, accusations, and compliments.  I’d seen them at their best and at their worst.

It would be interesting to see how they got along in this room.

It started with an introduction and mild applause at my anointment to the ‘board’.

Then the captain of the Titanic my father as the current CEO, read out the agenda.

No icebergs expected, just plain sailing.

I sat, and I listened.  It was easy to see why it was plain sailing.  The family had made its wealth generations ago when our products were in high demand, and we had been living off the wealth generated by astute investment managers.

But even so, the business could not keep going the way it was without being an ever-decreasing drain on resources.

We needed a plan for the future.

“Now, if there’s no more business…”  My father looked around the table, his expression telling everyone there was no more business, and stopped at me.

Was that my cue?

“I’m sorry, but I can’t sit here and pretend this place isn’t going to hell in a handbasket.”

“It may or it may not be, but that is none of your concern.”

The tone more than suggested that I should stop, right now.  Of course, if I had the sense expected of me I would have, but if I was going to make a contribution, I might as well start now.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on here?  We need a plan for the future, we need to be doing something.”

All eyes were on me.

I’d never seen my father so angry.  At that moment I thought I’d pushed it a little too hard.  To be honest I don’t know what came over me.

He glared at me for a full minute.  Then as if a thought came to me that moment, there was a slight change in expression.

“Then, I have a proposition for you.  I want you to work on this plan you say we need to have, what you think will be best for the company, and the family, for everyone, for the future.  I believe everyone here will agree on something, as you say, that needs to be done.”

There were nods all around the table.

Then, looking directly at me, he said, “if there is nothing else.  Good.  Our business is done.”

© Charles Heath 2022