Writing for pleasure and sharing stories with friends has been a fascinating pastime for some thirty years. Other interests vary from a lifelong passion for philately, to on-going genealogical research, and attempts to keep one – and latterly two – large gardens looking interesting.

Favourite reads include the detective novels of Margery Allingham and D. L. Sayers, the mediaeval whodunnits of Ellis Peters and the Cold War espionage thrillers of Anthony Price.

William Ashton, retained as a gardener by Edward Hillier, discovers his new master to be a detached and driven man. Over the years, as travail and tragedy bring them closer together, he understands that they have more in common than he first realised, but the affection they feel for one another will be sorely tested by boundaries both of class and of rigid Victorian morality. Like the private garden behind the high walls their love must flourish only in the strictest secrecy – or else it will not do so at all.

102,000 words/380 pages
£5.00

Publication 1 May 2012
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SAMPLE TEXT

In the midst of Nature run riot wandered Hillier, making his way through the grass, unaware for the moment of the presence of his gardener. Ashton did not seek to remind him, finding he took pleasure in watching his employer. To Ashton’s eyes he seemed in harmony with his surroundings, and the gardener saw no reason to disturb the pleasant interlude. Hillier turned and caught sight of Ashton where he stood amidst the green foliage by the half-opened door and hastened back to him, an aura of intense, suppressed emotion about him.

“I have not stood in this garden for many years,” Hillier began, clearly needing to explain. “It is very pleasant to walk here again.” He surveyed the overgrown state. “I am afraid it is going to be more work than I realised. I should have spoken to you before everything started to grow, but I have been so busy elsewhere.”

It was a pity, reflected Ashton somewhat gloomily, that his employer had not mentioned the work sooner. He supposed the lawyer would want him to clear it all. That, however, was what he was paid to do, he reminded himself again firmly. If he found Hillier’s manner towards him more that of an equal than anything else, he did not consider it further.

As if reading Ashton’s thoughts, Hillier went on, “I wish this place to be cleared – only a little, you understand. You need not return it to its formal state. I prefer it to be left a little – untidy.” He was not looking at Ashton as he spoke, his gaze intent upon his surroundings.

“Very well, sir,” replied Ashton, accepting the eccentricities of the well-to-do without demur, “but the work would be done faster if there was more than me to do it. It’d take two of us far less time to clear the garden; then you’d have it nice for the rest of the summer.” He supposed this was Hillier’s aim. “Be pleasant for you and Mrs Hillier to walk in.”

The lawyer’s attention was caught; he turned to stare at Ashton. “Obviously I have not made myself clear. I want you alone to work in this garden. Only you. No-one else will be allowed entrance.” He turned away, once more looking around him, then swung back to face his employee, his tone becoming fierce. “I will not have anyone else in here, do you understand? I hold the only key there is to the door. I will have a copy made and you shall have that other key. You must keep it safe, and lock the door behind you when you are in here.”

Some surprise must have shown on Ashton’s face, however well he tried to conceal the emotion, for the lawyer added, “I need somewhere I can walk in peace, knowing that no-one will disturb me.” And to Ashton’s amazement he began to explain.

“When I was a child, Will, I came here to escape from my everyday world. The property belonged then to a Mr Elswood, an elderly gentleman, and on his death, for he had no immediate family, it was purchased by a Mr Crichton, from whom I bought it many years later at the time of my marriage.” A fleeting expression, almost of pain, passed across his face. “Neither owner was in residence very often and we youngsters wandered at will through the park. I dare say we were trespassing, but we were never caught. I found this place and climbed one of the trees near the wall to see over, and determined there and then it should be my own special garden. I think it must have been built originally as a pleasure garden. It was overgrown even then – a boy’s delight.” He laughed quietly, his grey eyes sparkling with gentle humour. “I was small enough in those days for the branches of the tree to take my weight. It was over there.” He indicated toward the far side of the enclosure. “It has been cut down long since, but then I was quite able to scramble onto the wall and down through the bushes on the inner side. I spent endless hours of enjoyment here, thirty or so years ago; it was an escape from the reality of my life.” He gazed for a moment longer at the overgrown foliage before turning to look at Ashton. “Tell me, Will, have you met my aunt?”

It was such a switch of topic in this unlikeliest of unlikely conversations, that Ashton blinked. He had not seen Miss Hillier, but had heard more than enough about her from Curtis to make him determined to avoid her if at all possible, for by all accounts she sounded a redoubtable lady. “No, sir.”

“Dear Aunt Ursula,” Hillier said softly, half to himself, “I must have been a trial to her. You see, Ashton, she brought me up from babyhood, and I owe her everything. But she ordered my life like clockwork and it was a relief, sometimes, to escape.” He half turned away and fell silent.

The gardener could do nothing but stand in mute silence. He could not reach out to this man the way he wished to, not even as one friend offering understanding to another. He had no right to do so, even though Hillier had spoken with such candour to him, a virtual stranger, and one not of his own standing.

Hillier turned back to him, his self-control regained. “There is little more to tell. I grew too tall and heavy for the branches to support me safely, and then I went away to finish my schooling at Rugby. I didn’t see the garden again till after I had bought the property, and then … I had no wish to do anything about it … until now.

“It is all arranged, Will, I have spoken to Josiah Curtis, and he will see that you have time to do this work for me.”

Ashton found his voice. “Why me, sir? Anyone could have cleared the place for you long ago.”

The owner of Pennerton Manor paused for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to answer. Finally he replied, “You will not be a disturbance to me,” and gave the gardener a smile of friendship that silenced Ashton completely.

I started to write stories when I was nine or ten, and haven’t stopped ever since. I published a novel and other fiction and non-fiction. But the internet changed everything, because I discovered there’s a lot more women (and quite a few men) interested in reading and writing m/m stories.

And so Ravages happened!

Click here for author’s blog

Stefan is a working-class man – or would be, if there was any work! – when he meets Adri and they begin an affair. Married with children, Stefan resists this development in a society where homosexuality is legal but scarcely tolerated. Nor does he understand when Adri warns him about the territorial ambitions of Hitler’s Germany, which their country will be unable to oppose. In a daily battle against guilt, poverty and other, more tangible enemies, Stefan and Adri struggle to hold on to a love which should never have existed at all – but which may be the only thing helping them to survive.

58,000 words/220 pages
£3.75

Publication 1 May 2012
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SAMPLE TEXT

They had made a habit of waiting for each other after getting their stamp, and after a few days it was as if it had always been this way: the control stamps, the looking for work, the cups of coffee at Stefan’s home and the hand-rolled cigarettes they shared.

Four weeks had gone by but that was just time, and Stefan didn’t think much about how easily the days and weeks had passed. That night was no different from so many other nights. They had strolled through the neighbourhood before it was time for Adri to go home. It didn’t mean anything that Stefan dropped his keys when he wanted to open the front door. It was only logical that they reached out at the same time to retrieve the fallen object and, when their hands touched, it was fully by accident. And yet, for a few seconds that must have lasted an eternity, they were frozen in the shock of recognition – until Stefan quickly grabbed the keys and stood upright again.

“It’s me, girl,” he called upstairs to Marije, because that was what he always did. He knew he was supposed to double-lock the door for the night but somehow he had forgotten even this simple routine. The touch of Adri’s fingers had burned a sign into his hand. Not until there was a knock on the door was he able to move again, and before he could say anything the other man was inside with him. In the dark, cramped entry to his home, where his wife was waiting upstairs for him to kiss his children goodnight, he was being kissed by a man.

“Oh God … oh God … What did I do …?” Adri sounded as shocked as Stefan felt.

“I don’t want to scare my wife and children, so I’ll keep my voice down and I won’t hit you, but I never want to see you at my door again.” Stefan pushed the door open. “Get out.”

That night Marije told him she had missed her time of the month.

He felt like himself again when he caught Adri’s gaze, waiting in line for another job neither of them would get, and turned away. It was easy as anything. A man kissing another man? Why would any normal, healthy bloke want to do such a sickening thing? He remembered how he had walked through the park last summer, with Marije, during one of those rare moments the kids were all at grandma’s for a few hours in the afternoon. It was almost like it had been when they were engaged and had a bit of money and so much free time on a Sunday they didn’t know what to do with it. There had been this man, if you could call it that, dressed just a bit too colourfully and moving in a way that would only look attractive on a young woman. The creature had looked Stefan straight in the eye, and winked at him.

“Doesn’t it make you sick to the stomach?” he had hissed.

Marije had pulled at his jacket. “Don’t say a thing like that. That man surely doesn’t mean to hurt us. Perhaps he can’t help being that way.”

“Why should I have to even see dirt like that in our park? Or are you saying it’s normal, for men to be like that?”

“Perhaps not normal, no …” she had admitted, after some hesitation.

“So you’re agreeing with me.”

“But that’s no reason to judge that poor man so harshly. I can’t imagine anyone choosing to be that way, to be without a loving family, with no respect from anyone.”

“Respect?”

“Please, Stefan, opoe Doffer didn’t offer to look after the little ones so that we could have a fight. When was the last time it was just the two of us? Let’s enjoy it, yes?”

He left the memories for what they were, when he saw Adri walk away without looking over his shoulder even once. He didn’t dare move until the other man had turned a corner, too afraid he would run after him, too afraid he would be spineless and weak.

No one should misinterpret his situation. He worked hard on the days he had a job, and stood for hours in line to hear, “sorry, man, nothing today”, only to do the exact same thing the next day and the next. He never neglected any of the tasks at home that a man shouldn’t leave to his wife, mother or daughter, and he paid more attention to Selle and Wilfred because Marije was too sick to run after two lively boys. He felt his urges night after night, but he didn’t press her to allow him the use of her body. And, when she nodded her consent, he was extra careful with her because of the new child growing inside her – but also for a reason he hardly dared to face.

I have been writing fiction for almost thirty years, mostly for the enjoyment of myself and my friends, but writing is my love and my vocation, so of course that’s where my dreams and ambitions are. In the meantime, technical writing helps to pay the mortgage, while I also have fun with web design, reading, watching movies and television, knitting, and imbibing espresso.

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by Julie Bozza

Three young boys on a collision course: Albert Sterne – isolated, driven and fiercely intellectual; Fletcher Ash – bright, dedicated and with a strong sense of justice; John Garrett – hurt, marginalised and determined to do to the world exactly what the world has done to him. The eleven short stories in this companion volume continue and expand on the lives of the characters from the same author’s outstandingly popular THE DEFINITIVE ALBERT J. STERNE, which should preferably be read first.

61,000 words/236 pages
£3.75

Publication 1 February 2012
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“If you read The Definitive Albert J. Sterne, this collection is a must read. If you didn’t, I wholeheartedly recommend both books… “
Guest reviewer Lady M at Jessewave 20 February 2012
 

SAMPLE TEXT

Albert’s early childhood was mostly vague impressions. The love between his parents, and their love for Albert, was strong and constant and inviolate. But none of them were ever very demon­strative, there were never any displays of sentiment. The love was simply there as the foundation of everything they did, all the choices they made, the way they kept company only with each other, the scrupulous care taken to ensure that Albert had everything he needed to grow into everything he could be.

There were hazy moments he could remember. Albert, curled up in his father’s lap, listening to Rebecca’s calm voice tell the story of an old friend, long dead; Miles as rapt as the boy. The three of them being polite at some obscure relative’s after­noon tea, then mischievously sharing their boredom with each other through grimaces and raised eye­brows behind the woman’s back – they had gone home and read all evening, happy in their shared silence. Both of his parents a little giddy, someone having talked them into a fine restaurant on their twelfth wedding anniversary, dressing in their usual dull clothes – but Miles had bought Rebecca a silk scarf. The dark green of it picked out the reddish tint to her brown hair, which she left loose for once. Her eyes had glowed.

Late that night, she clutched the scarf in her dead hand and wouldn’t let it go.

When theorizing, the cops fastened on the poor of the soup kitchen with all the determination of the unimaginative – his parents had, it seemed, raised the resentment of some street bum, with their un-Christian wealth and their patronizing airs. And if not one of the down-and-outs, then it must have been a robber surprised at their unexpected return to the apartment, panicking into violence.

Years later Albert, with studies in forensics and criminal psychology and an FBI career behind him, would find sounder theories. It was more likely that their murderer was a person Rebecca and Miles knew well, or perhaps they had been carefully selected by someone falling into the broad category of psychopath. Few murders were random or motiveless in 1952, and very few surprised robbers or resentful bums had the resources for quite that much blood-spilling. Besides which, he and old Aunt Rose had discovered the bodies an hour or two later, and there had been nothing missing from the apartment, nothing disturbed except by the viol­ence. One of the neighbors had heard a scuffle, a cry of protest – but Miles had been knocked uncon­scious and Rebecca had her throat slit too quickly for much of a fight.

Albert had never believed in a God he was not even allowed to name. Rebecca and Miles had done all their good works in honor of the Holy One, and for humanity. But Albert had never felt their reli­gious faith, had never seen anything in their hearts but a pure love for him and a saddened love for troubled humanity. The simple rituals of their reli­gion were only dusted off when in company. Perhaps they doubted, in the face of all the world had become, and inadvertently hid their faith as well as their doubts from their son.

There was a gentle joke that Rebecca sometimes shared with Miles and Albert, when they came across someone hopelessly muddled with religion: “He needs his faith and reason reconciled,” Rebecca would lament with a mock sigh. “Albert, fetch our Guide of the Perplexed.”

It had been years before Albert had realized with some disappointment that the title wasn’t born of his parents’ wry and wistful humor. There was indeed such a book, written in the Middle Ages, purporting to list the thirteen principles of faith of a good Jew.

The wake for Rebecca and Miles was a quiet, understated affair. Albert was expected to sit through hours on a bench, the closed caskets on a dais before him. They were lying there, his dead parents, in wood boxes. Macabre. There was mater­ial draped over the coffins; one piece a plain red clashing with the polished maple, the other a muddy green, and a small cluster of cream-colored flowers on each. The room itself was plain; unorna­mented benches, off-white walls, and glass in the windows that filtered out the warmth of the sun­light. Uninspired organ music drifted through speakers tucked away high in the corners, repeat­ing the same tunes every forty-three minutes.

What must have been hundreds of people filed through over the long hours of the day. There was a handful of the poor and homeless, uncomfortable but determined to show respect. And a host of distant relatives, doing the right thing by their kin. Then there were the immigrants and the children, the businessmen and the politicians. The social workers and the doctors. Tens and hundreds of mourners.

But none of them cried. They signed the book, stood before the coffins for a while, wandered over to speak to their acquaintances in whispers, patted Albert on the head as if he could be dismissed that easily – then left as soon as their consciences set them free. They all wore the little round hat, the yarmulke; most of them, unused to the custom, hav­ing been handed one at the door. Some of the Jewish faithful had a torn ribbon pinned to their lapels to symbolize the rending of cloth – but they wore it as if it were a decoration rather than an expression of grief. Most of the people, whatever their beliefs, wore dark clothes.

Albert quickly grew to hate the hushed voices, the muted tone of the whole thing. Except for the somber clothes, this wasn’t what his parents were truly about. Yes, they might have appeared to these people as quiet and sober and dispassionate. It may have been assumed they were devoted to the One God and Torah, the One Law. They might be thought to be facing Judgment now, after the death of their earthly bodies. But none of this reflected the Rebecca and Miles he had known.

As the morning stretched into afternoon, Albert wondered which of his parents was in which box. It seemed right, somehow, for his mother to be in the one with the green shroud over it. For a while, as he kicked his feet in small precise arcs, he thought over this instinct. Until he remembered the night they died. He looked up and found Aunt Rose standing a few feet away with one of the funeral home attendants.

“Does she still have the scarf?” he asked her.

Writing has been an important part of my life for more years than I care to remember, and I daily thank The Powers That Be for the invention of the computer and the world wide web.

Click here for author’s blog

by Chris Quinton

Robert Rees, full-time librarian, part-time art restorer, is called in to finish a commission when his father goes into hospital – a pair of Elizabethan portraits on oak panelling, Adam Courtney and Ann Darcy. Trouble is, there’s more interest in the paintings than Rob ever bargained for; a lot of people want to get their hands on such priceless treasures, and they’re not always particular about their methods. Just as well he’s got his brother’s mysterious friend Fox on hand to look out for him, then, isn’t it? Or, for that matter … is it?

52,000 words/200 pages
£3.75

Publication 1 February 2012
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“This story has it all – intelligent writing, exciting adventure and suspense and two interesting protagonists.”
Review by Sirius at Jessewave, 3 March 2012

“Chris Quinton outdid herself with this sexy, funny mystery … “
Review by Tom at A Bear On Books, 19 April 2012

“Fox Hunt is a delightful, sexy read and I highly recommend it.”
Review by Gabbi at Top2Bottom Reviews, 27 April 2012

SAMPLE TEXT

There were two motorbikes parked by the workshop when I pulled in off the lane. Mike’s Kawasaki and another, bigger, beast in black and chrome. As I got out of the car, my brother came running from the workshop, his face white in the swathe of light from the open door.

“Rob!” he yelled. “Ann’s gone!”

“Yes,” I said calmly. “Mr B has her and we have his money. Or rather, Dad does. Why the panic? Did you think she’d been nicked?”

“Bee?”

“As in Baverstock.” I peered more closely at him. “Mike? Are you okay? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine.” His smile seemed a bit forced. “Just a bit hung over, and finding her gone was a jolt.”

“I’ll bet. Too much imagination, Stud.”

“Huh!” Then he seemed to remember something, and the smile was turned up to full wattage. “Rob, come and meet an old pal who’s going to solve a problem for us.”

“Oh?” I said. “I wasn’t aware we have a problem. Apart from Dad.”

“Exactly. I meant what I said, you know. Those paintings could well be hot, and Baverstock may or may not know it. Then there’s Dad’s fall which might not have been an accident or even a fall. So-”

“Mike, you’re not making much sense.”

“Yes, I am. I don’t like the idea of you being here alone, or the panel when we’re both away seeing Dad, so – ”

“I am perfectly capable of looking after myself!” I snapped. “Will you stop equating gay with limp wrists! I’m not a fainting waif and I’m no pushover! It wasn’t me who ducked out of Karate classes because they interfered with my love life!” I had a green belt in Shotokan Karate, hardly Bruce Lee material, but it kept me fit.

“So,” Mike continued, ignoring me, “I’ve arranged a backup bodyguard.”
“What?” I scowled. “Who? Uncle Joe? What could he do? Huff distillery-breath on them?” It began to rain heavily, which did not improve my temper.

“Fox,” he said brightly. “He owes me a favour, so I asked him to stay for a while. Until Adam’s finished and gone back to Baverstock.”

“Oh. Did you.” Fox? What kind of name was that? If he was one of Mike’s friends, he probably smelled like one and was as house-trained; a spotty would-be biker with delusions of style. Or the real deal. This was Mike’s idea of being a responsible adult? My nerves had been stretched raw from the moment I received Lisa’s phone call telling me about Dad, and this was the last straw. I had a choice between anger or anger with violence, and the first swept over me before the second could get a toe in the door. Besides, satisfying though it might be, punching Mike’s lights out would get us nowhere. “Nice of you to consult me first,” I snapped. “You can tell your old pal Fox his company is not required, so he can jump on his toy bike and pedal off back where he came from!”

“Don’t be hasty, Rob! Just stop and think for a – ”

“I have, and foxes are superfluous to requirements!”

” – moment. He can sleep in my room – ”

“No! Of all the arrogant, stupid, selfish – if you’re so concerned about me and the bloody panel, why don’t you and Donna move in here? Hmm? Thought of that, Stud? So hop it, both of you!”

I spun on my heel and stalked into the cottage, slamming the door behind me. It was old, of solid oak, and slammed very satisfactorily. After a short pause, a bike fired up and roared away.

One bike. A sharp tattoo of brass on brass rattled in my ears as someone played a tune on the lion-and-ring knocker. I jerked the door open, smiling with all my teeth. “Fox,” I said, not feeling the need to moderate my words with Mike’s strange friends. “On your bike.” The figure on my unwelcome mat was clothed head to foot in dripping wet motorcycle gear – black leather topped off by one of those black full-face visored helmets that looked like a leftover from the Star Wars epics. He took off his gloves, and then his helmet, and ran his hand through his matted hair.

“Robert Rees,” he said. His voice was quiet, deepish and slightly husky, and started a slow curl of warmth through my blood. “Can I come in?”

In the light spilling from the room I could see he was pale, the almost transparent pallor that goes with naturally auburn hair. His was not just red, it was a copper mane that came past his collar in heavy waves. The warmth became a pulse of interest, and I flattened it quickly. I’d been dateless far too long, obviously. He was about my age as far as I could tell, just under six feet tall and looked as if he’d escaped from a Hollywood Brat Pack: all lean grace and cheekbones and thin high-bridged nose, and a gold ring in one earlobe. He also had a chin with a jut to it that begged to be introduced to a fist. He looked like fire and ice. He looked like trouble. ‘Can I come in?’ Who was he trying to kid? Not a chance …

The impulse sort of faded away and, “Yes,” I heard myself say. I was moving aside to let him walk past me before I fully realised what I was doing. His eyes were very green and as our gazes met, he smiled. The conviction I was imagining things edged into my mind and took over. This biker lout was no more trouble than Mike. A pest and a pain in the backside, but that was all.

“Thanks,” he said. “Mike told me to say he’s sorry he upset you, but he is worried.”

“Huh. I’ll wring his neck when I get hold of him, but it’s not your fault. You can stay for a day or so, I suppose.” I shut the door on the night. I felt oddly disconnected from my irritation with Mike and my unwanted guest, and couldn’t recall why he was unwanted, just that he was. The beginnings of a headache twinged behind my eyes. “Have you got any gear?”

“Yes, on the bike.”

“Bring it in, then. There’s another tarp in the workshop if you want to cover yours up. You look as if you could do with a hot drink. Coffee?”

“Thanks. Black, no sugar.”

“Go on, then. And wipe your feet!”

By the time I’d put the kettle on, he was back, panniers draped over one shoulder, hair straggling wetly over his face. He dropped the panniers and held out a hand to me. “Thanks for the hospitality,” he said and I wondered if he was being sarcastic. “I am house-trained, I promise.”

That got a bit close to reading my thoughts and I could feel my colour rising. “So I should hope,” I snipped, shaking hands automatically. His paw was narrow and long-fingered and chilled, the grip firm without being a power play. I glanced down at our joined hands.

On the first finger of his right hand was what looked to be an antique gold ring, the armorial design on the bezel worn close to obliteration. Hmm. So the Brat Packer was wearing a fancy ring. That didn’t quite go with the image. I wondered briefly where he got it from, then it fuzzed and slipped from my mind. “Furniture isn’t improved by being dripped on,” I said sternly, determined to play the bitch to remind him he was here under sufferance, and if it sounded more bitch-queen, then tough. It might even scare him off. “These are the house rules and if you don’t like them you know what you can do about it. Since you’re the resident Doberman, you can sleep on the sofa in the living room. It’s a lot closer to the workshop than Mike’s attic. You can also do the cooking and washing-up for both of us while you’re here, so I can spend more time on Dad’s work. Do you have any problems with that?”

“No, Rob,” he said meekly. Too mealy-mouthed, by half.

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It’s 1976, the Cold War is still at its coldest, and retired agent John Dashwood is persuaded to return to supervise one last mission. However nothing at Ghost Station is quite the way he remembers it and everybody seems to have something to hide – including his two valued colleagues, Rick Wentworth and Harry Tilney, and his enigmatic boss Sir Charles Grandison. When operational necessity requires Dashwood to send Rick and Harry into a dangerous situation, the boundaries between friend and enemy begin to blur and he’s left isolated and wondering which of his so-called allies he can really trust.

65,000 words/262 pages
£3.75

Publication 1 November 2011
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“An exciting and fun spy thriller, which had me on the edge of my seat…”
Review by Sirius at Jessewave 19 November 2011

SAMPLE TEXT

“Rick, tell me what you know.”

“Not much. A missing American in Germany, that’s all we’ve been told.”

“Well, in that case, picture the scene. A road a short distance inside the border with East Germany; Colonel Joseph Zebulon, in uniform, is being driven from A to B in a British staff car in broad daylight, unes­corted. Couple of hours later the car’s sitting empty at the side of the road, no sign of a struggle, no fingerprints that can’t be iden­tified and eliminated. For no apparent reason the car stopped, the colonel and his driver – ” Dashwood handed them pictures of the two men ” – just seem to have got out and vanished. Comments?”

“Armed roadblock?” asked Harry Tilney.

“No.” Wentworth’s response was im­patient. “The driver would have been trained to keep going. Presumably they had bullet-proof glass?”

“The best,” returned Dashwood. “There’s no sign of a shot being fired, no damage to the car or anything else in the vicinity.”

“The driver was in on it,” said Bertram. “Must have been.”

“We’ll get to him in a minute. Anything else?”

Wentworth pursed his lips. “What time of day did it happen?”

“Early afternoon. Returning from lunch with the local British commander.”

“Why was he unescorted so close to the border?”

“Precisely what I’ve been asking.” Dashwood flipped the file until he came to a page thickly covered with heavy black type. “Joseph Zebulon, colonel in the US Army – on their Strategic Staff until about six weeks ago, when there was a fire at a research facility and he was suspected of having started it.”

“So he’s a nutter?” queried Tilney.

“Possibly. Personal details – he’s forty-one, single, from Portland, Oregon. Parents dead, married sister still lives there, no other rel­atives.”

“Girlfriends?” Tilney was looking for any­thing to make the vanished Zebulon seem halfway human. “Boyfriends?”

“Neither – although the latter consid­erably more likely, according to his file.”

“So what does he do for fun?” Bertram asked, uncomprehending.

“Gets himself kidnapped by East Germans, apparently. His area of special­isation is missiles, propulsion of. Details aren’t in the file.” Dashwood sounded dis­appointed.

“The driver?”

“Standard issue, West Essex Regiment; they’re in the area working-up for the Summer Exercise. Ogden, Stephen Ronald, Corporal – inevitably known as ‘Stan’. Twenty-eight years old, married, one son, wife and child in a quarter at Bulford; she hasn’t been informed of his disappearance yet. Nothing unusual on his record.”

“What do you reckon, boss?” Tilney was inspecting his right thumbnail as if expect­ing to find the solution printed there.

“Looks like a defection, doesn’t it? If Zebulon was starting fires, maybe he intended to go over; it’s not as if he had any close ties in the States any more, is it? But then, how do we account for the driver? They’d never set eyes on one another before yesterday, so it’s unlikely they planned it between them. The question is, did Ogden go willingly or was he kidnapped – and is he still alive and if so what can we do about getting him back? I’m aware that’s four questions,” Dashwood added wryly. “What I’m trying to say is, Ogden’s our priority.”

“The driver?”

“The driver. The Americans will be launch­ing their own investigation to find their man – I’ll clarify the details before you leave, if I can – but for now I want you to concentrate on Ogden. He may be only a driver, but he’s a member of the British Armed Forces believed kidnapped by an enemy power and we need to do everything we can to get him back. We’re making dip­lomatic overtures, of course, but the circum­stances are unusual enough to require a couple of experienced operatives available in the area. So I’m going to task you independently of any other initiative. Rick, Harry, you’re off to Frankfurt on the first available flight in the morning – Desk Officer Northern Europe will arrange the booking. That’s the uh … ?”

“The 08.20 flight,” supplied Tilney without a pause.

“Of course. Let me know if there are any problems with your arrangements. Tom, I intend to hold you back to assist at this end; Harry, you’re on immediate recall until absolutely the last moment. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Dashwood glanced across and found Bertram, too, acknowledging orders. “Rick – stay behind for a word. Thank you, Harry, and good luck. Tom – if there’s no work you should be doing at the moment, bugger off to bed and I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yes, sir. Buggering off now, sir.” Bertram sketched a comical Benny Hill-type salute and retreated rapidly.

Dashwood waited until the younger men had left the room, then rounded the desk again and broke out the cigarettes he had found in the drawer.

“You do realise those are mine?” Wentworth asked wryly.

“They were; I’ve confiscated them.” Dashwood offered him a light, then lit his own cigarette and blew smoke towards a ceiling that apparently received such treat­ment often. When he lowered his eyes he found Wentworth watching him.

“Rick, this is supposed to be your job. Grandison wants you for director. He told me so himself.”

“He’s told me, too, but he doesn’t seem able to get it through Committee.”

“I have an idea this may be his last throw of the dice,” said Dashwood. “If the oper­ation goes well, you’ll get all the credit and probably the promotion too; if it goes badly, I’ll be the one who takes the blame.”

Wentworth nodded. “A bit obvious, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. Too bloody obvious, per­haps, but it’s a win-win situation for Grandison whichever way you look at it. Anyway I intend to assume, until I discover otherwise, that the situation in Germany is exactly as we’ve been told – only for God’s sake check and double-check everything, you’ll be a long way from home. Be extremely vigilant.”

“I will.”

It hardly needed saying. For eighteen months, while Dashwood had been SO1 and Wentworth SO2, they had worked together on any number of sensitive assign­ments and a sort of telepathy had evolved between them. The same, Dashwood supposed, that Wentworth and Tilney now enjoyed, and that Tilney and Bertram were beginning to develop. It was a vital attribute for the work they did; agents unable to communicate with one another on a sub-textual level were effectively blind and deaf to one another’s needs. That was probably why so many of their marriages failed, now that he came to think about it. They expected their spouses to develop instincts similar to those of their partners, and the spouses were rarely inter­ested enough to make the effort. That, he supposed, together with the fact that agents had to be undiscriminating about their sexuality. It was good to know, though, despite the amount of time they had been apart, that a morsel of his connection to Rick Wentworth still remained.

“I want you to understand I’m not taking over. This is your job; I’m only here to smooth the path for you.”

Wentworth’s head tilted as he regarded him carefully. “Who is Zebulon?” he asked, as though what had gone before was utterly irrelevant.

“At the moment, I have no idea – but I doubt he’s what he’s supposed to be. Bait, perhaps, intended to trap them into over-reaching.”

“Them? Which ‘them’ did you have in mind?”

“That’s what you and Harry are going to have to find out.”

Wentworth shrugged. “Is it true you were getting a blow-job when Tom came to collect you?”

“Absolutely. The boy had the most incredibly talented mouth. Shame I never got to try the other end.”

“So you think you were set up, do you?”

“Almost certainly. I’ll have to look into that while you’re away. Boy’s got a file, though.”

Wentworth’s eyebrows climbed. “What are we getting into here, John?”

“Nothing we can’t get out of, I feel sure.” But Dashwood didn’t sound entirely convinced.