Investigation of crimes don’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was very careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rules out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective Inspector Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her Sargeant was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be a very bad boy. Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then we saw each about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
It’s been quite some years since we were in Vienna, and I remember it was a very pleasant experience, and the copious notes and photographs I took have aided in the writing of this chapter.
There is no doubting the zeal Worthington will put into the capture or assassination of Zoe, if and when she is discovered, and John would be horrified if he knew he was being used in such a manner.
At times it is going to be a bit like reading an Eric Ambler thriller, going to the hotel, getting information from concierges, and then tracking her movements. Money, as always, speaks one language, pay enough and you will find out what you want to know.
We know Zoe is languishing in a basement somewhere in Bratislava.
John is about to find out that is where she went, but searching for someone in Bratislava is going to be completely different from searching for someone in Austria.
The same rules don’t apply in Hungary.
…
As for our visit, we stayed in the Hilton Vienna Park, though the park had a different name then. It wax also when we have our first authentic Vienna Schnitzel and sampled Austrian cherries.
From there we took the train to Schonbrunn Palace, with its extensive gardens and maze, and the impressive architecture, old rooms and paintings, and at the end, so many sets of crockery.
There was also a kitchen nearby that made Apple Strudel, where we watched it being made and then had a slice to taste afterward.
We also went to a Wiener Palace which served a large and varied number of sausages.
Unfortunately, there were no music recitals or orchestral events at the time of our visit.
…
Today’s writing, sampling the best Vienna had to offer, 2,731 words, for a total of 28,973.
The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.
My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.
Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.
So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.
So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.
I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.
And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.
There was motivation. I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample. I was going to give them the re-worked short story. Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’
Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.
But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself. We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.
One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.
It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected. I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.
I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.
Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.
The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party. I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble. No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.
Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?
But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.
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.
At the end of the discussion, which began to get quite heated, I was escorted from the room and taken to another interrogation room.
Fresh from his intimidatory success with Jacobi, Lallo was, no doubt, going to try and press on his advantage with me though I was not quite sure what it was he thought I could help him with, other than to dissuade him from his current plan.
I had to wait an hour in that small, stuffy room considering the possibilities. Surely he wasn’t expecting me to join his band of merry men.
When he finally came, he arrived with a folder and two bottles of cold water, one of which he gave to me before he sat down.
I took a sip of water out of the bottle, after checking the seal hadn’t been broken. I still didn’t trust him, and with good reason considering the trick he’d played on me.
“Now, I’m sure you saw and heard everything that happened with Jacobi.”
I nodded.
“He’s the reason your mission failed. He met the other team on the ground and was supposed to lead them to the building where the targets were hiding. Instead, he told the Government forces, Bahti, the plan for their rescue and their location. It was a double-cross brought on by greed.”
“It always is. But he’s more than likely right about the fate of the two prisoners.”
“Half dead, yes, pressed into working on a prison farm, but neither has been cracked yet. After the last attempt at rescuing them, we cultivated new agents on the ground. Their advice has led to us being able to formulate a new attempt to rescue them.”
Had they asked my opinion long before the first attempt, I would have told them to have more than one source, and particularly if they were paying handsomely for information. It was always an opportunity for double-cross.
There still was, but I don’t think that eventuality was factored into Lallo’s thinking.
“Who’s the fool you have in mind to lead this disaster.”
“You.”
Good thing I’d braced myself for the bad news, and it came as no surprise. In that hour of considering possibilities, they all seemed to come back to one person. I was the only one left who’d been there, if only for a few hours.
It had also given me time to work on an excuse not to go.
“I don’t think so…”
Lallo put his hand up to stop me. My protestations might have worked on a reasonable man, but Lallo wasn’t reasonable.
“Well, you, too, have a choice. Stay and be court marshalled for your failure to follow orders in the last attempt or redeem yourself and volunteer to lead the next.”
“I did nothing wrong the last time.”
“Not according to the investigation I’ve just completed, the one that I intend to submit to the JAG if you are unwilling to follow orders.”
And there it was. All the time I’d been in Lallo’s hands he had been compiling a feasible case against me, just so that I could be induced to do his bidding. I was stupid not to connect the dots long before this and shut my mouth. Everything I had denied, was the same evidence he could use against me.
n typical military-style, someone had to shoulder the blame for the previous mess.
And to be given a choice, one that made me as expendable as Jacobi, was, as far as Lallo was concerned, a masterstroke.
If I went and was killed in action, he would have a scapegoat he needed. If I didn’t go, I would be court marshalled and thrown in a cell for the rest of my life. And if I went, and succeeded, he would become the golden boy in the intelligence services, and the same fate as any other scenario would befall me. It was lose-lose.
“You’re not throwing out any bones?”
“Don’t have to. But you get to pick the team you want to go with you.” He tossed a file across the table to me, and I opened it. Several pages, with photos attached.
A who’s who of the military types that spent more time in the stockade than on the battlefield. Men who would do anything to stay out, men who had nothing to lose. Men who were expendable.
“You’re kidding?” I looked up at him, but his expression told me he wasn’t.
“Are you sure any of these will obey orders?”
“You have my assurance they will. We’re sending an observer, just to make sure everyone stays on mission. You have three days to pick a team of four men, establish command, and prepare to leave.”
Something else I thought about in that hour, other than it was probably the last time I would have for reflection, was that it would have been better to die in the helicopter crash.
I waited until he left the room before I reopen the file.
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.
At the end of the discussion, which began to get quite heated, I was escorted from the room and taken to another interrogation room.
Fresh from his intimidatory success with Jacobi, Lallo was, no doubt, going to try and press on his advantage with me though I was not quite sure what it was he thought I could help him with, other than to dissuade him from his current plan.
I had to wait an hour in that small, stuffy room considering the possibilities. Surely he wasn’t expecting me to join his band of merry men.
When he finally came, he arrived with a folder and two bottles of cold water, one of which he gave to me before he sat down.
I took a sip of water out of the bottle, after checking the seal hadn’t been broken. I still didn’t trust him, and with good reason considering the trick he’d played on me.
“Now, I’m sure you saw and heard everything that happened with Jacobi.”
I nodded.
“He’s the reason your mission failed. He met the other team on the ground and was supposed to lead them to the building where the targets were hiding. Instead, he told the Government forces, Bahti, the plan for their rescue and their location. It was a double-cross brought on by greed.”
“It always is. But he’s more than likely right about the fate of the two prisoners.”
“Half dead, yes, pressed into working on a prison farm, but neither has been cracked yet. After the last attempt at rescuing them, we cultivated new agents on the ground. Their advice has led to us being able to formulate a new attempt to rescue them.”
Had they asked my opinion long before the first attempt, I would have told them to have more than one source, and particularly if they were paying handsomely for information. It was always an opportunity for double-cross.
There still was, but I don’t think that eventuality was factored into Lallo’s thinking.
“Who’s the fool you have in mind to lead this disaster.”
“You.”
Good thing I’d braced myself for the bad news, and it came as no surprise. In that hour of considering possibilities, they all seemed to come back to one person. I was the only one left who’d been there, if only for a few hours.
It had also given me time to work on an excuse not to go.
“I don’t think so…”
Lallo put his hand up to stop me. My protestations might have worked on a reasonable man, but Lallo wasn’t reasonable.
“Well, you, too, have a choice. Stay and be court marshalled for your failure to follow orders in the last attempt or redeem yourself and volunteer to lead the next.”
“I did nothing wrong the last time.”
“Not according to the investigation I’ve just completed, the one that I intend to submit to the JAG if you are unwilling to follow orders.”
And there it was. All the time I’d been in Lallo’s hands he had been compiling a feasible case against me, just so that I could be induced to do his bidding. I was stupid not to connect the dots long before this and shut my mouth. Everything I had denied, was the same evidence he could use against me.
n typical military-style, someone had to shoulder the blame for the previous mess.
And to be given a choice, one that made me as expendable as Jacobi, was, as far as Lallo was concerned, a masterstroke.
If I went and was killed in action, he would have a scapegoat he needed. If I didn’t go, I would be court marshalled and thrown in a cell for the rest of my life. And if I went, and succeeded, he would become the golden boy in the intelligence services, and the same fate as any other scenario would befall me. It was lose-lose.
“You’re not throwing out any bones?”
“Don’t have to. But you get to pick the team you want to go with you.” He tossed a file across the table to me, and I opened it. Several pages, with photos attached.
A who’s who of the military types that spent more time in the stockade than on the battlefield. Men who would do anything to stay out, men who had nothing to lose. Men who were expendable.
“You’re kidding?” I looked up at him, but his expression told me he wasn’t.
“Are you sure any of these will obey orders?”
“You have my assurance they will. We’re sending an observer, just to make sure everyone stays on mission. You have three days to pick a team of four men, establish command, and prepare to leave.”
Something else I thought about in that hour, other than it was probably the last time I would have for reflection, was that it would have been better to die in the helicopter crash.
I waited until he left the room before I reopen the file.
That tangled web being woven by Sebastian’s boss, Worthington, is getting more sticky by the moment. After reading the John is not given any other option other than to get on a plane and head off to Zoe’s last known location, with Worthington peering over his shoulder waiting to pounce.
Sebastian knows something is up, because he has people watching John and knows he’s on the move, strategically calling the moment John leaves Worthington’s office.
John is getting into spy mode, and lies to Sebastian, not for the first time, and it was something he was going to have to get used to.
Meanwhile, Zoe comes face to face with Romanov, and it’s not the person she thought he was, and hardly the sort she would associate with Alistair’s mother or top KGB.
But he had got her profile and has taken all the necessary countermeasures so that she does not escape, or if she does, will not get very far.
There’s torture but no answers, she’s been here before, and in-between time to consider her options.
This might be a more interesting situation to get out of.
…
Today’s writing, with Zoe languishing in a dungeon once again black and blue, 3,989 words, for a total of 26,242.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in.
I had to wonder if Lallo had already called the number on the phone he had handed Jacobi, and then considered, if that was the case, there would be no need for Jacobi to call anyone. Or Lallo had got an answer, just not the answer he was expecting.
Jacobi looked at the phone, and I got the impression he was weighing his options. The first was how long Lallo would hold him in custody. That I think we could both assumed to be forever if necessary. There was, no doubt, a cell at a black site with his name on it already. The second, if he did call his contact, would that contact co-operate, though it was hard what it was Lallo was expecting Jacobi’s co-operation for.
But there was no doubt Lallo had a plan.
Jacobi took a moment to consider any further options I hadn’t thought of, and then made the call. We were only going to get one side of the call.
A raised eyebrow indicated Jacobi had an answer on the other end.
“It’s me.”
Why did everyone say it’s me when asked to identify themselves, or as in the case announce themselves?
“No. An unfortunate set of circumstances, and a gross breach of our agreement. I am supposed to have autonomy of operations at home. These bumbling idiots may have blown my cover.”
Somehow, the fact he was sitting in a small room told me his cover was more than likely a myth. If this was our supposed point man in the failed operation I’d been on, then I could see why it cost a lot of good men their lives.
He had been playing both sides of the fence and sold us out.
“You would have to ask them.”
A moment later he handed the phone to Lallo. “Prepare to die,” was all Jacobi said.
It didn’t move Lallo in the slightest,
He took the phone and asked, “Whom am I speaking to?”
The expression change told me that it was most likely none of his business.
“This man is responsible for the deaths of a good many men.” A minute’s silence, then, “I doubt that would be the case considering the number of phones and their credentials. He had been playing you, and perhaps many others.”
The silence was a lot longer, but the expressions changing by the minute told me that Lallo was not going to get what he wanted.
“No, that is not going to happen, not in the circumstances you describe. I will be sending him back, yes, but for another mission. I think it’s time you realized he’s been feeding you false intel for some time.” Silence again, then, “By the time you do, he will no longer be here, there. I’m sorry.”
He disconnected the call and put the phone back in the plastic evidence bag.
Then he sat, and gave Jacobi a long, hard stare.
No effect.
“What is happening,” Jacobi finally asked.
“You’re going home.”
“Good. I expect once I get back there you will leave me alone.”
“On the contrary, Mr Jacobi, you will not be going back alone. In fact, I’m sending you back with my team, and we are going to extract the same people you were supposed to help us extract the last time.”
“I had nothing to do with that. It was simply your incompetence.”
“Be that as it may, you will do as I ask.”
“You are a fool. Why would I do anything for you, and especially since they are both probably dead now, or, if not, past the point of saving.”
“You will then want to hope that isn’t the case, simply because if they are, then three members of your family will be executed. You can say goodbye to them before you leave, or tell them you will see them again, it’s your choice.”
Lallo, it seems, was no fool, and had ensured he had the necessary leverage. There was no mistaking the shock on Jacobi’s face.
“You lie.”
Lallo got up from his seat and knocked on the door. It opened and two men brought in a large screen connected to a computer on a trolley. They moved it to the vacant wall and left. Lallo pressed several keys and a picture came up on the screen. A woman and two small children, and judging from the expression on Jacobi’s face, exactly who he was hoping he would not see.
There were two hooded soldiers either side with guns loosely pointing in their direction.
“One word from me, and they will be shot. Considering the treachery you have perpetrated, it’s taking a great deal of restraint for me not to give the order to kill them.”
He took a few seconds to regain his composure. “This serves no purpose,” Jacobi said in a rising pitch, “your people are most likely dead. It has been a long time.”
“I don’t think so. We have word from a different source, a more reliable source, that they are still alive. Barely, but alive, serving a life sentence for treason. And helping the General with information. All you need to do is get a small team of mine in and assist them to effect an escape. They come home alive and, well, your family lives. They don’t come back alive, well, I don’t think that’s an option, is it?”
Jacobi was in an invidious position of being damned if he did help us, or damned if he didn’t. Either way, it didn’t guarantee his co-operation or assistance. Painted into a corner, sometimes people like Jacobi chose the easy road, sacrificing everything to stay alive. No doubt, until this predicament, he was well in favour with Bahti, and from what I’d heard, Bahti was not a man to cross. There was a graveyard in the prison that was full of the remains of his enemies. And people who were once his friends.
I knew firsthand what it was like to be between the proverbial rock and a hard place, and unfortunately, there was no upside. No doubt the team leader of this new folly would have orders to shoot Jacobi once his work was done. Lallo would not be able to leave a man in his position alive because of what he knew.
And from my perspective, I felt sorry for the team Lallo had selected to go on what could quite possibly be another suicide mission.
The thing is, we had all been taken in, and no one, well, there was one person who had an inkling, but I didn’t take her seriously, simply because it was the girl who cried wolf once too often.
And, consequently, the ramifications could have been very serious.
Was that the price for deciding to take people at face value, that we would eventually discover their true nature before it was too late?
I’d lived in a house full of people who trusted no one, and who was always prepared to believe the worst in people.
My parents trusted no one and consequently suffered relatively lonely lives.
My sister, Davina, was not so bad but underlying every decision that was to do with people, she would have them investigated within an inch of their lives, and that too, had been very costly for her, especially when they found out. It ended three marriages and estranged two of her three children.
As for me, I made the decision not to be like them, and it had served me well. By and large, everyone I knew and had dealings with was fine. But even with this happy-go-lucky attitude, I still found it difficult to find what one might call the woman of my dreams.
That’s why, when Helen appeared one night at a party I’d only just decided to go to at the last minute, I thought my luck had changed.
How do you ‘run into’ the one? Was it an accidental bump, excuse me, and then a lingering look as she sashays off, or is it reaching for the same glass of champagne, with the consequent touching of hands?
There are an infinite variety of ‘first’ moments, moments that left lingering thoughts of ‘who was that woman?”
There is that thought, could it have been a contrivance to get my attention? If it was, it did.
It was a large banquet hall, and there were plenty of places to hide, and I wasn’t particularly interested in staying until our paths crossed. But was my curiosity enough to make a move?
To begin with, it was not.
I shrugged it off as a one-off moment, something to remember from an unremarkable gala that proved, once I arrived, why I had been hesitating in the first place.
Old people displaying their wealth, young people flirting with the rich and famous. I was, perhaps, a little rich, but definitely not famous, hence the reason why a bevy of eligible girls was not beating a path to my door.
There were three others of my ilk there who fitted that bill and willingly took the heat for me. One, Augustus, last name unpronounceable, had that Latin, dark, sultry look going, sauntered over after he had witnessed the ‘meeting’.
“I see you’ve met Helen?”
“She stole my drink.”
“All part of the plan, Ian. She just tossed away another of the pretenders, and if you play your cards right, you might be the next.”
“Pretender?”
His smirk was imprinted on his face and never changed, amused, or annoyed. “You know you can be such a prat sometimes.”
It had been said, more than once. “Do I want to play my cards right?”
“She is interested in a mysterious way. I asked her out, but she seemed disinterested, and as you know, I only ask once. Aside from that, we want to know who she is, really.”
“And you think she’ll tell me?”
“You’re not a player, Ian, and have that perfect aloofness thing going, one that can drive a certain type of girl crazy. I think she’s one of them.”
“Then how do I find her?”
He shook his head. “That’s not how this will be played. She has to come to you. Aloof, remember, Ian, aloof. Now, I must be off. Say hello to Davina for me will you?”
He’d seen her crossing the room and had no interest in sparring with her. For some reason, she just didn’t like him. Or was that because he spurned her? I never could get an answer from her.
Aloof.
I could do aloof, though I was not sure how that would seem interesting to a woman like her.
Aside from my belief that as beautiful as her would be remotely interested in me, aside perhaps from the family wealth that one day I would inheritance s point Davina took great pains to remind me.
And that was something I wasn’t looking forward to.
There was an art to mingling at these affairs, on one hand, the obligatory meet and greet of our contemporaries, deference to our peers, letting them know we were upholding the proper values, and respect as was warranted by our position, and on the other, a casual greeting to those who were on the fringe of our society.
I’d learn the lessons from Davina when she deemed it I was ready, but the truth is, no matter what age you are, you’re never ready for this.
There was a third category, those that came up to you, wishing to make an acquaintance, whether it was for publicity, or for prestige, it was impossible to tell, then and there, sometimes it was a matter of reading the social pages to find out how your name gad been taken in vain.
I preferred not to talk to any of them unless it was absolutely necessary.
Or someone you knew brought them to you, which then, out of deference to them, sometimes put you on the spot.
Nnn chose that path, selecting another person who was known to me, Alison Burkwater, a rare, unbiased reporter, to slip in under the radar.
Not realizing I was the eventual target, I watched them stroll through the crowded floor, stopping momentarily for an introduction, or a polite exchange, Alison gathering information for her next article before they headed in my direction.
I was with one of my father’s oldest friends, Jacob, his wife, Mary, and one of their three daughters, Amy, whom I knew would be pleased if we were together, but fate seemed to keep us apart.
I watched Helen, almost entranced by the fluid motion she moved, reminding me of a cat just before it pounced on unsuspecting prey until she was standing in front of me, unaware that Alison was speaking.
“This is Helen Dunbar, over from England, checking us Americans out as the British do.”
She then introduced each of us, leaving me till last, deliberately.
Each had a comment, or a question, so when it came to me, I asked, “Holiday or business?”
In my experience, they usually said both, but if she was here, it was business, making contacts, getting a feel for the market. Perhaps even at this age, I’d become cynical
“Both.”
Suspicion confirmed. “But I hear you are an unofficial tour guide, and I am in need of someone to show me this great city.”
Flattery, no doubt. And a smile from Alison, a nod to the time when she had written a bad piece about the city, and I took the trouble to prove otherwise.
To one side I heard Jacob excuse himself, and the others left with him. Alison’s job done, she left us together. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Davina deep in conversation with the family’s head of security.
Davina had so little faith in me.
“Perhaps that might be a topic we could discuss over coffee later?”
“Tonight?”
“Unless you’re otherwise engaged?”
“No.”
There was a slight exodus from the main hall, an indication that unusual for a gala like this, there would be dancing. It was a pet pastime of the host, an orchestra had been commissioned, and it was to be a nod to the old days.
“Do you dance,” I asked?
“It was part of my finishing school curriculum that nearly finished me in more ways than one. Long story, but yes.”
“Would you like to lead a poor boy around the floor and make him look good?”
She smiled. “I know you are pulling my leg, but I’ll bite.” She held out her hand, “Take me away before I change my mind “
Dancing was a social etiquette that was forced on me, and I was, for a long time, dreadful at it. It was only in my last year of middle school that a girl by the name of Wendy Whiles took the nervous bumbler with two left feet onto something that might make Fred Astaire proud.
She also introduced me to other more interesting things teenagers did, albeit in the comfort of a very expensive hotel suite, rather than in the back of a car. I thought I’d loved her, but she was not interested in wealth and fame, and I didn’t blame her, though I still insisted someone paid her a large sum of money to break off whatever we didn’t have going.
All her lessons paid off, and I found myself almost floating on air as we waltzed around the floor deftly avoiding the others brave enough to take to the dance floor.
“Do you do this often,” she asked, not long into the routine.
“No.”
“You dance well.”
“Only when I’m not talking. Arthur Murray didn’t include how to handle chatty girls on the dance floor.”
Any other girl I was sure would have been insulted. I could be like that sometimes. I called it being blunt.
“A new experience then.”
“Can’t count and talk at the same time?”
“And yet you dance so well.”
“Flattery will get you only so far.”
We finished in silence, and I thought I had ruined my opportunity, though for what was questionable. I should have been content to dance with one of the most beautiful girls at the ball.
She took my hand as we left the dance floor and headed toward the bar. That walk felt natural, holding hands, and the feeling there was a connection between us. She had not forced it, I had not looked for it, it had just happened.
She drank club soda. She said she didn’t drink alcohol, and it seemed logical. She was effervescent enough without any aids, unlike some of my friends who needed drugs and copious quantities of alcohol to get into a ‘groove’. I could take it or leave it and did the latter.
We picked a quiet corner.
“Why are you really here?” I asked. Start with the hard questions first.
“Sometime told me about this rich, handsome, bored young man who hates galas, and the mating rituals that go with them.”
“And yet here you are?”
“Secretly,” she whispered, “my real name is Rapunzel, I escaped from a tower, and am here to rescue anyone who needs rescuing. Do you need rescuing?”
I did, but I did not want to incur Davina’s wrath. And then I thought about the possibility, that she might just be bait for something more sinister. It was improbable, but Davina had impressed on me that there were a lot of nasty people in the world, and sometimes it was hard to see through the facades.
If she was evil, then it came beautifully gift wrapped.
“Rescue does involve a rather full-on security detail as well, and, the filling out of paperwork that would take till dawn to do.”
“I assume then, that weedy little man pretending to have a quiet drink over there is one of them.”
She nodded in his direction, and I recognized him instantly. “Warren. Dangerous as a cut snake. Even I keep my distance from him.”
Another glance, impassive expression, it would be interesting what she was thinking at that moment.
“So, what do you do for fun?”
“An occasional waltz with the most beautiful girl at the gala.”
“And…?”
“My life is ruled by responsibility. If you’re looking for fun, there are six other very eligible young men here that will be happy to fete you, and indulge your wildest dreams?”
“Aren’t you the least bit curious?” There was an invitation there, for what, I suspect would be whatever I wanted, but Davina’s voice was well and truly planted in my head. If it’s too good to be true…
I smiled wanly and finished my drink. “That is a luxury that I can only dream about. Thank you for the few brief moments of possibilities.”
Not an hour later, from a distance, I saw two men in civilian suits escorting her out of the building. There was no disguising their true identities, ex-military, or military police.
Odd for a girl that looked like her to be involved with such people.
A few minutes later Davina appeared beside me. “I could have told you that girl was trouble.”
“Looking at her, I thought the exact opposite.”
“You need to be more careful.”
“Warren was there. I’m sure he could handle her. I made sure I was in a position where if trouble came it would have to pass him, and I have the taser in my pocket. What was her crime.”
“None apparently. Some high-ranking Generals’ daughter out for a lark. Now come back and talk to Amy.”
Having discovered that the person who had ordered the contract on her head had a code name of Romanov, and was last known to be in Bratislava, Zoe heads off to track the person down. She suspects it is one of the groups she had trained with at one point, but it could be anyone.
Back home, John discovers who Sebastian’s boss is, having been whisked away by limousine to an undisclosed location, where he is told that Zoe/Natasha and a host of other identities is not the person he thinks she is, and is told that it would be in his best interests to tell them where she is.
John gets to read a very illuminating file on her, which in turn does not put the fear of God into him as was hoped, but makes him more determined than ever to find her.
Wilt the help of the new investigator friends Rupert and a reluctant Isobel.
This story is a tangled web of pursuers who all have different agendas, people who are highly skilled in tracking and killing.
John needs to find her more than ever because of whom he believes is the one who wants her dead.
Sebastian is about to be caught up in a situation he never envisaged, his desire to find and recruit her, to tell her to stay away from John, and ordered by his boss to capture her for interrogation.
…
Today’s writing, with John facing off against Sebastian’s boss, 4,192 words, for a total of 22,247.
“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.
When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.
From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.
There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.
Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.
Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?
Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?
Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 