Baklava

By Wolf Sherman

Baklava

Foreword

Allesandra, a Greek Intelligence member, has her hands full trying to track down the world's most wanted anarchist, who'd been wrecking utter havoc on a global scale, and who'd decided on a cat-and-mouse game with the top minds in the intelligence world.

"The Horsemen". Fascinated, she turned her attention back to glimpse the foreword of the two-inch book that she had clasped, and flipped onwards past the three-page index, to chapter one again - after absorbing the gory and unsettling front cover. "No wonder it was banned" Allesandra whispered. The glossy cover depicted a peculiarly sinister oil painting, that would be utterly blasphemous in religious circles. An upright and worn looking Bible - to the left of the image, was leaning against a tattered looking Torah, which in turn, had leant against the nearest of four wild horses - at a precarious angle - seemingly riding out of a smouldering crater. To the right, a Koran had been leaning inward against the fourth wild-eyed horse - creating the impression that holy manuscripts were all kept upright, only by these wild horses, which were about to dart away, sending the holy manuscripts plummeting into the orange smouldering crater. "Missing From Nicea" was written in what was supposed to be blood, gushing from the bottom of the Bible, over towards the headquarters of the World Bank.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wolf Sherman
• Release date: Mar 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370986163

Wolf Sherman

Biography - Wolf ShermanWolf was born in 1970, grew up in Pretoria and after school joined the South African Police in 1988. During 1993 he was transferred to Johannesburg. During his colourfully interesting police career he was attached to several specialist divisions that include the anti-vehicle theft unit, organised-crime-and-political-investigations unit, and the East-Rand Murder & Robbery unit. After his police career he successfully applied his experience in the corporate financial world as insurance investigator and financial planner.Wolf is 48-years of age, have been blessed with three daughters, and is an avid blood and blood platelet donor. He fills his time by weaving his unusual life experience and keen interest in religion, metaphysics, war and political research and that of his love for food and classical music - into his poetry, fictional short stories, and novels.“A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies, said Jojen. The man who never reads lives only one.” - George R.R. Martin, A Dance with Dragons.I'm always curious to listen when people talk about which book - ever - they'd first read. For me it was “The Man Called Noon” that was published in 1970. I suppose that it goes without saying the 1973 film directed by Peter Collinson - of the same name - as the 1970 Louis L'Amour novel, was quite a hit in the day.I was always in love with the books in which storytellers extended an invitation right from the word go, and pulled me in into a different world. The next early love for me growing up were bookshops and libraries. But I'd consider libraries had the first place. My love for both novels and short stories grew over the years, but somehow short stories found me more often. In part, I think because one can sponge it up in a single sitting, and move on to the next world, so to speak.On the topic of short stories, the storytellers in this instance tell how they see it - but being forced far quicker to relay that. I have no doubt that any short story can be stretched out and pinned down to become a novel - if one wanted to. Obviously there is no set length that a short story has to subscribe to, but I'd imagine anything from five-thousand to twenty-five-or-so-thousand words is adequate to save someone, murder a few people, get some revenge, use most of the rope in your boot, discard the spade when you're done, and go in hiding till the whole thing blows over. Of course, if there's a body to begin with... Which really stems from poor planning - I have always thought - in a story. Naturally. Of course, we also need to fall in love at some point and give our whole heart to someone special. It makes for a more balanced killer. In a story. Naturally.Look me up on:Pinterest @ Wolf Sherman BooksInstagram: @Wolf_ShermanTwitter: @WolfSherman2

Book preview

Baklava

Copyright © All rights reserved - Wolf Sherman. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [e-mail]

Thank you for your support of the author’s rights. Although this is a fictional work, some locations, organisations and events are factual. The characters and times in the storyline are fictional - therefore, all resemblances to actual people present or past are purely coincidental.

Foreword

Looking back today, had I been honest, climate change activism is probably a good example of how it all started and points a finger at how nothing ever is quite what it seems. At least for me - that's how life greeted me. Define irony? Someone at the unit had once asked while looking at the chaos on my desk. I really can't recall who it was. I'm sure my mind decided to block that out too. Like much that had happened in those final days. My answer? Well, it's the art of not wanting to be seen dead - walking or taking the bus or carpool - to remain advertising the snazzy (carbon-friendly) cars we drive and stuff we'd purchased when we went to the mall - while we support consumerism. But hate the plastic straws (more than the plastic bottles of mineral water - from the tap of someone we'd not met) and the pollution that factories cause. Or maybe it's the art of the masses seemingly approving or violent acts (only when the corporates who run government stole even more of our taxes and our pensions than what we'd usually allow them - when we voted and had them mandated to do so) wanting a corporate obstructionism - of sorts - but still wanting mass production to remain - so it won't threaten consumerism. Humans. Fascinating creatures. The alienation of humans from nature, while they fight to save the forests. Irony, hypocrisy, and infinite idiocy.

Pushing back in vain against the eternal clock as we eventually have to stand back and admire the wrinkles we've been collecting, unforgiving TIME with its persistent steadiness counts down for us with its typical indifferent ticks. Since our arrival, we've been doing what seemingly passes for ambition. Toiling, while secretly we share a hope that there is actually a route off and away from this highway to nowhere to a place where we'll matter and where all that we'd been enduring, will somehow eventually make sense. Even that we all serve a higher purpose. I, do at least. It's possibly a product of my ego if I had to be honest. So I never dwell on that for very long. I mean, that it's all my ego. I hope that we're somehow special and that any moment now something will announce that it's time to fulfil our purpose here. But like most, while we take comfort in this and hug the idea tight - like we're brand-new lovers, we are in no way certain of this until fate calls us. Till then, we'll remain someone's project I suppose. Someone's recipe - if you will. Maybe. And like a renowned recipe, it's all about attention to detail - from attentive preparation, right through to a particular flair for a spectacular presentation. Only, we're nothing more than an ingredient. For now at least. A sprinkle of this or a pinch of that - at most, and along the way, we might get tested and poked and sometimes burnt.

Prologue

"The