Snakes and Ladders: The Intricacies of Evil

By Roger Weston

Just when he thought the worst was behind him, Cameron Walker is about to learn that life is about to get even more complicated and dangerous.

After the traumatic events of his last fateful assignment, listed in the intelligence files as the Backgammon Syndrome, he's now confronted with a new game a deadly game Snakes and Ladders!

Is this just a game of chance, where the players fate hangs on the roll of the dice, or is it much more insidious? The strategies used are far from apparent, and Walker must now determine how the game is to be played. The search for Zelie de Blanco and her organization of evil continues. In his hunt for Jocastas killers, hes up against enemies so dangerous, Walkers thrown off his own game in the process. His foes are stronger, more secretive, and dangerously more ambitious than hes dealt with before.

Their goal is nothing less than the destruction of the worlds economy.

Now, with the stakes higher than ever, Walker must also face the truth. Why did he fail? And is it justice he seeksor simply brutal revenge? Even he must question the legitimacy of the incompetence charges leveled against him. And when he gets to the core of the matter and learns who and what he really is, he must decide to rise above or fall victim to that reality.

Nothing is as it seems in the new thriller from Roger Weston, the sequel to The Backgammon Syndrome.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491721025

Roger Weston

Roger Weston, now a full-time writer and artist, has worked as a farmer, restaurateur, teacher, and educational motivator. He studied English, psychology, and education at New Zealand’s Massey University. He is the author of two poetry anthologies and three novels. He lives in Dunedin in New Zealand’s South Island.

Book preview

Contents

Foreword

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Epilogue

Thanks to my Partner

Betty-Anne

and my friend

Bernard Thornton

In these darkest of times, when the prospect of death seems to surround every fibre of the mind, the soul, no sound is heard, but rain upon the window pane, the roof. The firelight into which you stare is not bright nor warm, and the games we play while we wait, and while the time away, do nothing for the hunger within, the hunger for revenge and retribution!

Do not wait

for the morning light

do not wait for fear

wandering the night

do not wait for me

to cry

do not wait for my tears

do not wait

for my love

you can find it

seek

even in the

darkest place

replace the fears

of being alone

desolate

dead!

Just be!

CAMERON FLYNN WALKER Age 41: Former Intelligence Agent and Profiler. One of the most different and dissident of a dysfunctional Unit! The SSIB based in the South Pacific in New Zealand. But Walker would not lie down and be dissolved into nothingness. Disposed of by a hierarchy of disloyal agents and Government Officials, he’d been betrayed and almost killed by a former Ally – Agent and Lover. Was he just seeking Utu—revenge? – Or beneath, was it justification of who and what he was, had been, and would be again?

His methods – unorthodox – his ability extreme – his reputation in tatters. He devised and plotted the new path and worked with many of the World’s most powerful Intelligence Agencies to achieve his, and the Free worlds aims. But was it really this that drove him? – To uncover the huge corruption, that was beginning infiltrate Governments, and to take over the most powerful business organisations in Europe and the Pacific rim? Or did he just want to make Zelie Francoise de Blanco pay! – Provide his retribution, for the Murder of Jocasta Miller his teenage lover, who later, through extraordinary circumstances, became his undercover partner! And with him, stood in de Blanco’s way, her path to her goal and greed. But there was more, that drove him, so much more to the complicated dark path ahead of him

ZELIE FRANCOISE DE BLANCO Age 42: Cameron Walker’s worst nightmare! Or so she thought, but it was in fact, the opposite! Walker was hers? The deep heated hatred she had for him was like a constant taste of bitter bile in her mouth!

After Jessica Maclaren had introduced them at a Canadian Diplomatic function in Ottawa, nearly ten years before, she had seen – as she always did – an opportunity! To exploit, to control, to over come, to be powerful, and rich! She would use this who she thought an inept agent, to her greatest advantage! But her theory regarding him, and his ability was far from the mark.

Zelie had disposed of him. She’d shot him, several times, and shot the brains out of his red haired partner, leaving them both for dead.

But always, in the back of her mind, as she progressed towards her goal, even as she used and abused others, men and women, there was a nagging – a nagging that Cameron Walker had meant more to her than she cared to belief.

She’d never ever discovered his true feelings – but now they did not matter a damn! He was dead! As were others who could have stood in her way. Or so she thought!

JESSICA JEAN MACLAREN Age 39: Walker’s most trusted friend and colleague – yet separated in their work for years because of their personal relationship. Jessica is the one person who Cameron must seek, find, rely on, to find the map with the right road and directions to Zelie. But Jessica is an extreme agent, and answers to no-one. Her strength is in her ability to see through any subterfuge – any smoke screen. Yet, even she is shocked, bewildered, to realise she in not the invincible Agent and undercover operative she thought she was. Through past and present episodes related to Zelie, her former associates and contemporary – Jessica finds a web of deceit and lies, she thought would be impossible for anyone to conceal! But they had—until she and Cameron board an Aircraft—destination—Hawaii. Now back working with Walker she finds she is involved in seeking out of an organisation more powerful more ruthless than any in the Free worlds Intelligence agencies could have believe existed!

CAROLINE ANA BLACKWARD Aged 37: Beautiful, devious, mysterious! A woman who could be anything – or anyone she wished to portray. She had been one of Cameron’s most trusted colleagues. But, was she now? Who really is she? Whose Organisation does she really work for? Is her undercover work for SSIB really what it appears? Her dark past is beginning to haunt her. As she comes back into Cameron’s life and work, there are secrets which she hopes will stay locked in the deep chest of memories. But will she be able to keep them there?

MARIANNA AANJAY HOFFMAN Age 47: Born Thailand of Dutch and Indonesian parents – often referred to as Mai Tai, after her Father’s version of his favourite cocktail – very strong, very pungent, the name became the sweet and sour sting in her personality! Who is she? – Why is she? – Where is she? – What was her agenda?—and what is her connection with Cameron Walker? Is she, as Intelligence agencies believe, really the most powerful, most organised, Arms and Drug dealer? – The broker of deceit, with incredible political influence – controlled by the huge financial backing of the biggest Conglomerate of Cartels, hidden within wider Asia, South America and Europe? Is she hiding behind multiple identities? Business smoke screens? Or, is she now the brains, the Director, behind a new, world wide complex Intelligence organisation, that has been designed to take on, and destroy the other power brokers of evil!? Is she manipulating Walker, his methods, his ideals, his loyal colleagues? Does she have as she has always had, in all her endeavours a deep insatiable determination to succeed, to work with others of similar determination – to destabilise and control? Is she as dangerous as she has her fathers name for her – and her middle name – Aanjay – Unconquerable?

DREAMS and MEMORIES?

‘I don’t understand! – Why – why is it each time I throw the dice I must move!’ The voice, plaintive. ‘Yes, I know – well – I sort of know and understand. But why must I move where it tells me? When I do what the numbers tell me, I’m swallowed by those ugly beasts, those snakes! – Long ugly—slippery – so mean and unfair! Yuk, I HATE them!’ Why can’t I move to where I want me to be?

The boy shivered, as he pointed. ‘Horrible snake thing! I want to climb ladders – I do climb ladders, but the next thing I’m eaten—again! Then spat out of its bottom – it’s horrible! I have to throw the damned dice again and again and then – again – I get nowhere, I hate this game!’ The voice vehement, angry tears welled in his eyes.

‘It is hard to understand, but don’t think I’m any better at this game than you, I am not. Can’t you see? I get eaten and spat out, just as much, I suffer the same fates as you. I’ve often thought I’m where I want to be, need to be – close to the end – ready to win, then the snake is there – waiting, he’s always waiting, for just one small mistake, and I’m swallowed, eaten, just like you! Only – only—,’ His eyes locked onto the small face, with love and longing. The longing, as the boy – to understand, the love – a lonely hoping thought. ‘Only, I’ve already tried far more, far harder, and despite what you see, what you have—what we appear to be and to have – is not! Appearances are deceiving. One day you may understand. There are many ladders to climb, many snakes waiting. It’s a choice. Whether to continue to try to climb, risk the snakes wide devouring mouth – or do nothing – remain at the bottom of the ladder and stare, wonder what’s at the top.’ His voice trailed off, there was silence in the room. Across the board wide eyes stared up at him.

‘But, I don’t understand what you mean? You have won, you’ve climbed the ladders, beaten the snakes – you have so much, you give so much – to all of us. You did win, you are so clever so skilful! I want to be like you – and win!’

‘Such thoughts, such ideas, such praise! Not deserved. – If it were so simple, just to climb, climb and win – climb – beat the opposition, but there’s also the effort, the pain, the tears. Not understanding rules, for whoever makes the rules so many times wins. When I play again – I may not win, and, I may not understand the way a new game might be played.’ The lines around the man’s eyes and mouth deepened. ‘Ah yes – if it were so simple, we could beat the dice and the snake, and the ladders would be easy, but that is not the way it is.’

The man stretched and stood. ‘It’s time for sleep, for dreams. Let them be of success and good things. Not dark things, no snakes, but ladders, yes, the ladders of life to be climbed, and they can be climbed another day.’

The boy walked ahead, head bowed. They left the warm fires glow.

Later, he returned to the warm room. He threw a few logs into the lowering embers, then lay back on the soft cushions of the old deep chair.

An hour passed, he drank two glasses of wine. He stared into the dying flames, his mind turned back to the game. The snakes – the ladders – the roll of the dice – the role it had played in the games surrounding his life. But they had not, been games. He delved into the deep dark chasms of his mind – the blank areas—the gaps – the years taken from him. The subsequent results of his failures, the shattering death of friends, of lovers! So much blood!

He’d felt the bullets entering him as he lay in the soaking rain, washing his blood – their blood into the gravely ground. The pain, the blurred vision – the blurred vision – the pain.

Deep emotional images surfaced frequently. Tentacled monsters from the dark recesses of the lake of his life. Far worse in it’s consequences, far worse than the snake at the top of ladder… . Now a Monopoly Board was waiting. New counters—new dice—waiting.

He stood for a moment by the hearth, watching the flames in the grate die, then he crept slowly up the stairs to his bed, sliding in beside the sleeping form. He lay himself close to her long silky slender body, inhaling her scents. Feeling her skin caress his.

She moved against him, nuzzling his neck, muttering soft words. Her long fingers crept across to his stomach, down between his legs.

‘You are tense again tonight! You need some TLC, for various interesting parts! Her lips sort his, as his hands began their exploration of her body, her nipples hardening against his chest, as her wetness flowed between her legs. Their lovemaking was gentle, yet passionate, filled with fire, yet cool, at times almost detached, then to flow peacefully as a meadow stream, to build again and again to wild heights – the peaks of perfection, the melding their entwined movement could bring.

he woke, drenched in sweat, his eyes on fire. His dreams had returned, with frightening clarity, without warning or reason! They passed as they always did, sometimes as quickly as they came – but not as if they’d never been – scenes remained burned into his mind.

He lay still in the deep darkness, his mind searching, into the black void, the aloneness. There was no one to turn to – no-one in the bed beside him – the cold perspiration, the imaginings, the images, the panic, the terrified mind, the attacks of fear, uncertainty!

He slid the from the crumpled sheets he stepped away from the bed and staggered drunkenly to the window. He stared into the blackness, the sweating, the shaking, the deep vibrations of fear began again. The house, silent around him, empty, dark, so dark. He was alone.

The man rested his head on the cold glass and remembered. – The Hospital – the blood, the death – premonitions – coincidences?

Names – faces – places — Anna, looming above him, as she lowered her slim peach pale body down onto his, "was she part of them? – Were all he’d ever met known part of the conspiracy created to destroy him?". The silent creeping ethereal haunting! Jessica; Anna; Virginia; Zelie; Jocasta; Samantha; Barney; Richard; Bernard; MacFarlane, and so many more! – The names, the places, the reasons, now muddled, confused and confusing – everything out of any order or sequence — then — other times – other places, so many! He’d never seen them – only heard – the voices – over and over and over repeating – repeating! What?

Jocasta running, running, running—the rain… the rain… her mouth open… her screams, she was trying to – but too late!—The warnings cut from her, as bullets smashed her – she fell—she bled – so much blood… . so much blood!

He felt tears begin to course down his cheeks. His head began to swim! Shaking – he slid slowly to the floor, his arms hugging tightly around his naked body.

The shrill of the telephone smashed into his brain – snapping him out of the dream! He stood, and came away from the window, back from his dark churning mind! – He looked across the room to the bed, a hand snaked out from under the sheets, and lifted the receiver.

To The Games

we play

to the rules

we make

the moves to and fro

across the board

with each dice roll

teach us the simple

the complex

what do we do

how – why—what

and so ever

do they matter

to which we see

the snakes to writhe

the ladder rungs to

crumble—break

toss us into forests of fear

jungles of hate

streams of tears—death laughs

devours swallows—later

to spit the dry bones?

New games!

better ply to the mind

with hope

a tonic of sweeter wines

to quench dry throat

perhaps a bigger board

spread upon the floor

a harder game

to Monopolise?

More greed for gain

may now maintain?

To inter-grain

with another’s brain

and so to refrain

from seeking

a monogamous

monopoly?

Foreword

Rain pounded down heavy, driven by the shrieking gale winds across the harbour, but it did not drown out everything in that place that night.

The sound of gun shots – the piecing, puncturing of his flesh – deep searing pain, oozing blood – his blood flowing into the cold muddied puddles where he lay! Blood torn flesh and pain!

Then, more blood, deadly blood – bone, brain tissue, torn from the head the shoulders of the running screaming girl—Jocasta! The stream of death! Bullets from the heavy Colt! Tearing – shredding flesh, the blood splattering out as her body fell!

It was a weapon he’d never known her to use! WHY!

Fear! What is this fear? His hands trembled, the thick file – pages upon pages of reports and verbose rhetoric fell from his hands, spilling to the floor. Words burning into his brain! – The fear of failure – failure – failure – incompetence utter incompetence! Yet the words hadn’t been written in the way he’d interpreted – it was his deep inner churning pain and dissatisfaction with himself, his lack of final control, burning his inner soul. These were feelings he dreaded he would never over come – never conquer! The bête noire – the horror of the nightmare – and the reality issuing from them – or was it the other way?

Would he never be able to solve the deep set questions – the ‘WHY’S’?

Each word etched multiple emotions into him! Every possible piece of pain, mental and physical – paralysing—scolding, twisting his brain and skin into scars so deep they would never be removed, no surgery or counselling – no therapy – nothing would remove the sight of the bullets entering the girl – her blood splattering – his own blood too, rushing from his body, mingling with the rain spattered mud. It wasn’t the pain of his wounds, it was the incredible shock of sudden violent death! His Jocasta! – The little red haired girl on the small secluded beach all those years ago! They all became twisted—caught in the net of violence and evil of the world of International Intelligence.

The fear of the game – Backgammon, reared, seared and smeared the blood and death of so many – infiltrating every fibre of his mind and body – his life since that night felt the numbness smothering him in the choking fog of failure! But Backgammon is only a game! What came after the night of watching that game innocently played by Pub patrons was not!

But was he really the failure he was portrayed to be?

In 2007 ‘Special’ Agent Cameron Walker was suspended from his position with the SSIB, the Special Security Intelligence Bureau. He had been working as a Psychological Profiler, and undercover agent, in various and varied areas of the Department of Intelligence for twelve years. He’d not only dealt with espionage, working alongside the CIA and MI6, but also Internal and External Affairs Departments, regarding the infiltration of foreign Cartels into the Fiscal affairs of the Government and large business Corporations. He had been regarded by the majority of SSIB, as one of the best, although not the most orthodox of agents. This to many, explained his success, to others, his failure. The majority of his critics, were of course the least effective in the Bureau, a particularly dissatisfied intellectual faction.

Walker had been working as a Psychological Profiler with various areas of this of ‘Intelligence’, for twelve years. He’d not only dealt with espionage affairs, working alongside the CIA and MI6, but also Internal and External Departments, over matters related to the infiltration of foreign Cartels, into the Fiscal affairs of the Government and very large business Corporations.

The fact his last mission had been a complete tragic failure, had not helped his position.

However, the type of facade he was able to create, was part of the reason for most of his resounding successes. Though—the nature, and the method of operations surrounding some, were very heavily questioned, and the some continually wondered as to Walker’s effectiveness.

The SSIB Senior echelon, those recognising Cameron’s abilities, were constantly wanting more from him. More results, more incisive progress – less – what they termed unfortunate misinterpretations of their requirements. It was around this time the Press became very interested in one of Walkers cases.

No-one knew where the leak had originated, though there were suspicions. However—none of the affairs of the Bureau, or this incident were ever made known to the public.

It was well known, since the MacFarlane/de Blanco—Franklin/de Blanco episodes, followed by the murder of Jocasta Miller, the Bureau had been unhappy with Walker’s methods. Nothing had gone according to their plan. They’d expected a final, complete and satisfactory conclusion. This had not occurred.

The dismantling of their organisation that he’d been investigating for a considerable time, their arrests, prosecution and incarceration had been the Prime aim, the ultimate desire of the Bureau. Walker had failed them, and himself. His personal tragedy was not considered important.

Intervention by Agent Jessica MacLaren, was the only factor preventing Walker from being removed permanently. A word within some sections of the SSIB, meant exactly that, permanently!

Maclaren, had introduced him to Zelie de Blanco, at a Diplomatic function in Ottawa, Canada. It was MacLaren, who’d changed the direction of Walker’s Career. It was also known by the Bureau, they had been involved in a three year relationship – in their work, and personal life. This had lead them into extreme danger – far beyond what most personnel caught in the espionage trap would have normally experienced. Neither had regretted their involvement in their work – or their personal play and when both associations concluded, not of their choice, they’d accepted new roles without question. It was the nature of the beast. But that was now over ten years ago.

Cameron understood the psychological risks of reopening his case. The trauma he’d suffered mentally and physically, left extremely deep scars, but he knew scars heal, and bandages that disguise the deep wounds no matter where they were—could be removed. Yet, Walker had – through various means, some devious, some practical and open, had wanted to pursue what had gone before, the reasons for the wounds. He’d written a file and made detailed notes during his recuperation. He’d reviewed and examined every detail of the whole failed affair. He’d named the file – The Backgammon Syndrome. Cameron chose the name for two reasons.

The first was he had a deep understanding of the game, the ramifications, of making the wrong move at the throw of the dice. Secondly because he’d explained the game to Jocasta after they’d watched it played one night in a Hotel where they’d been staying. It was a reminder of two facets of the work they’d been assigned to, and had failed to complete.

It was much later, when he’d sufficiently recovered from his wounds, he was considered to have been unfit for any return to active duty and was deemed (in Department memos) to have suffered a severe nervous breakdown. He was hospitalised in an Institution that dealt with his type of case and isolated in a specific secure unit. Media interest was quashed.

He disappeared completely from public or private life, of any description for more than two years, until he was eventually discharged. He was allowed to return to the ‘safe house’ where he had his initial reunion with the Miller girl. He had no idea where he’d been, or for how long.

But he did know, a very large part of his life had been altered, and he needed to know why. He knew where he could find the answers and how he would go about using them.

Cameron began analysing every detail of the notes he’d written when he’d been on his previous disastrous assignment in this town before. He rewrote old, added new, scratched out, scribbling margin notes – he read and re-read. He searched his mind continually for clues to what had happened and why! He was determined to bring finality to the nightmares—of that last night, and the past. He searched back months – years—There must be something – there must be a reason! He repeated the phrase over and over, as he researched deep into the depths of the night.

Self doubt repeatedly dogged him!

The next time he played any games he would manipulate the rules, to his way, his advantage, and he would win – at any cost, no matter what it was! Board games from the past unfolded, they’d spread interwoven patterns – had they mutated? Or melded – melted, fused into one conglomerate – of huge confusing complications? He thought back to Backgammon the game! Had those points thrusting out across the soft fabric of the box, become the Snakes – the Ladders of the Devil’s evil Intricacies? And who was the Devil?—Or was it she the Devil’s disciple? Had they seen it best to move, morph into a square to take a Chance? Would they pass go, collect a reward?—Or go to Jail? No! They would move on and build Empires. Organisations to destroy others dreams of ever holding even just some of the cards – they would be—The Monopoly They would monopolise! Zelie!

Sometime later – unexpected—there was the introduction of the new player! – Unexpected? Someone with information, many new fresh contacts? Contacts, who could assist in tracking de Blanco, MacFarlane, Franklin, Johnstone, others with connections? The ideas, the questions this new contact raised, seemed to good to be true! Particularly when he looked at the man’s list of credentials – his achievements? How this person had suddenly appeared—been placed at Walker’s disposal seemed too fortuitous, but exceptionally puzzling!

Cameron was apprehensive! The tasks set by the Bureau, to be monitored by MacLaren, seemed too complex. The contacts with new agents, and new Extremists, appeared too far fetched even for his lateral approach to his work.

He was to meet within the next week, and would be taken to where his last mission had its disastrous bloody ending. Then from there – would the new journey, the next game of chance evolve? But all that mattered was he found Zelie de Blanco! – Once, his companion, partner and lover – now his most feared adversary, his enemy! – Find her, destroy her, and anyone who walked with her!

Chapter One

Cameron woke early, just on the first light. More accurately – he’d been woken early. His brain in turmoil. The recurring dreams had returned. They went on through the night. Despite the number of times that they woke him, despite the number of times that he got up and roamed the house, despite the considerable number of brandies, his effort to ease the tension of every muscle in his body, he would slump back down into his bed, as soon as sleep returned – so would the dreams! Then as soon as sleep returned – so would the dreams.

There was always the cold, always the rain sweeping in, smashing into him, soaking him. Then the killings. Death—drenching him in blood. Water, sea spray, winds howling, sand scraping, rocks tearing. Waves crashing destroying the land, the shoreline. Later, the mouth agape, cries and screams, then silence, as the girl’s head exploded from the hail of bullets, Zelie’s bullets, and her derisive laughter echoing off the cliffs. Zelie standing over the body – Zelie!

Cameron’s eyes flashed open, the fifth time that night. He felt cold sweat trickling from his face, down his neck to the pillows, though his body felt on fire, he was shivering violently. Bile rose in his throat, he swallowed back the bitter burning. He stared at the lightening of the darkness through the window on the far side of the room, and tried to calm himself. But the fear grew, he ran to the bathroom, his body heaved and racked for several minutes as he vomited into the toilet. When there was nothing left but bitter dribble on his chin, he sank to the tiled floor resting his back on the cold wall, tears coursed down his cheeks. All the resentments of his life, in his mind, and the vile taste in his tortured throat accentuated his deep sadness.

It had been months since he had the last dream. After that particular occasion and hours of working with his Government appointed Psychiatrist, he had blanked them out. At least that is what he thought he had done. It was though more likely to have been a combination of several other factors. Refusing to continue with the program of the prescribed drugs, and a personal effort, when realising that counselling was a complete waste of his time and money, his own and the Governments.

This Counsellor, who had offered a load of old rubbish as advice, committed suicide. He had discovered that his partner, of the last five years, was involved with at least three others, perhaps even more, and at least one of them was a woman. The fact that he had also been diagnosed with HIV possibly had a bearing on the Psychiatrists actions.

Cameron, however, until the he heard about the man’s death, had been too preoccupied with himself. His sometimes naïve nature had been enough to smother outside interference, he hadn’t even noticed the man was gay! He had shrugged it off with the comment, that ‘he was glad that he was only his shrink and not his surgeon!’ Then apologised for his insensitivity, but he hadn’t ever liked the man at all.

An amount of calm returned, the sweating and shaking stopped. He continued to breath deeply for several minutes until his clouded vision returned to normal, then he swung his legs out of the bed and padded naked across to where his robe hung behind the door. As he passed the mirror he stopped and indulged in a little self admiration. His wounds had healed well, and his physical shape and fitness were, after the months of rehab training, returning to an acceptable level.

‘It’s a shame my brain hasn’t got into the act as well! I must give it more exercise!’ Cameron frowned and muttered as he looked into the reflective glass. He shrugged into the robe and went down to the stairs to the kitchen, filled the electric jug, turned it on, then went into the living room.

The room was still quite dark, the sunrise had only just begun its creep out of the sea. The house, tucked into the lee of the headland, had to wait before the rays would spread over it. The first shafts of bright light had however, begun to sparkle on the mirror waters of the estuary.

Cameron walked over to his desk. He leant on the top and stared down at the typed letter, reading it for what seemed the hundredth time over the last months, and for that many times he had allowed it to twist and disturb his mind.

Beside it, was a hand written note. Cameron looked from one to the other and was about to pick up the hand written memo when the kettle shrilled from the kitchen. It snapped him, for the moment out of the thoughts that the two letters engendered. He went back to the kitchen and switched off the jug, spooned instant coffee and two sugars into a large mug poured the boiled water in and made the drink, he returned to the window.

For several minutes he stirred the brown liquid, as he stared out the window at the brightening morning. The sun that was now above the rocky hill at the back of the house. Cameron had likes and dislikes about that mound of rock, it sheltered the place from the easterly, but it also held back the morning warmth. After several mouthfuls of the hot liquid he turned back to the desk and picked up the note and the letter. He folded them carefully – neatly together, pushed them into the pocket of his robe and walked out the front door onto the veranda. He sat on the iron bench seat, it was messy, covered with dust and cobwebs.

‘Must clean the bloody thing, and buy a black dressing gown.’ Cameron smiled at his stupidity, the inconsequential thought—and at his continual talking to himself – a habit from when he was young, never left him.

The sun was now just creeping around enough to reach his perch, he leant back to enjoy the coffee and one of the best parts of the day, the calmness and quiet, save the water birds calls. He watched their morning antics, feeding, chasing, flying low over the sheet of clear water, their movements reflected in the mirror surface, he thought about the papers in his pocket.

Cameron swallowed the last of the drink and placed the mug onto the seat beside him. For ten minutes Cameron sat looking out at the still morning, then he pulled the letters from his pocket and shuffled and smoothed the paper between his fingers, bringing the typed letter to the top. He skimmed it again.

‘Why I do this I am beginning to wonder – it’s about time I stopped, as the damn thing is completely imprinted in my mind!.’ He sighed and refolded it, then took the hand written memo. Reading it carefully twice, and smiled a rye smile. ‘Is this really a good idea, what the hell is it going to achieve? It’s taken me so many bloody months to get the arrangements this far, and that has been damned hard work, initially I admit I got very little co-operation, not that I expected it. But that has changed – I wonder why? Oh shut up and go and get yourself organised you stupid mumbling prick!’

Walker pushed himself off the bench, and picked up his coffee mug. As he straightened he could feel the stiffness from his wounds invading if he sat too long. The reminder brought him back to focus as to why he had made these arrangements. He shrugged off the thought of the damage that had been done, both physically and mentally, and strode into the house – his resolve had returned.

Cameron deposited the letters in the top draw of his desk, closing and locking it. He took the empty mug into the kitchen and put it in the sink, then went upstairs and into the bathroom. He showered, then surveyed the three weeks growth of beard. He had decided to grow it again, but to keep it trim, it was now looking quite healthy, he picked up the razor and shaped it on his cheeks and removed the growth on his neck. He re-surveyed his appearance and rejected the image. He began again, completely removing the beard. Then collected scissors from the draw and cut off the tail. ‘That was then – this is now. It’s possibly, where I could be’ his laugh cynical – ‘be recognised!’ He dressed in jeans, T shirt, and a woollen bush shirt, then pulled on soft leather boots. He sorted out some personal items, more casual clothing and underwear throwing them into a small backpack, in another case, he put a selection of better clothing including a dark suit, two dress shirts one white the other black, he returned to the living area.

The room was now accepting the sun and was warmed from the coolness of the early morning. Cameron went into the hallway and opened the large cupboard under the stairs. He took out two long plastic cylinders and carried them over to the desk in the bay window. Leaning them against the wall by the bags, he opened the bottom drawer and took out a small automatic pistol, checked the clip, pulled out two spares, a document folder, a small leather wallet, and finally what looked like a pager. He pushed them into the smaller bag, under the clothing.

‘I suppose that’s it, I don’t need a lot of stuff, I may be back in a few days. It may be – never. I’m not quite sure what – or who—I’m going to encounter.’ He spoke quietly, talking to himself, almost as if he were trying to convince himself that he was to take this course that he had decided to embark on. He stared out the window at the perfect morning. The thrumping of the Iroquois, broke the stillness. Cutting into his thoughts. He went back to the hall cupboard and pulled down a switch next to the power meters. Cameron closed the door, the flickering frown began to crease his face.

Cameron gathered his gear and walked out of the house, locked the front door, then to the garage and locked that too. He set off on the short walk around the path on the edge of the estuary to the flat clear grass park.

‘It’s still early, there’s no-one around.’ Still talking aloud, ‘Mind you, the chopper may change that, they can be an inquisitive lot, pleasant enough – and they haven’t bothered me over the months – which may be part of the fact, that I talk to myself. God—what a fucking ‘Wally! I’m doing it again! I’m sounding like the bloke in that novel, The Domino Coincidence I read. Maybe I caught it off him!’ Cameron ambled onto the park. Over the glassy water he looked towards the band trees. The aircraft wasn’t, but the sound grew louder.

Helicopters had always been a passion; usually he loved the excitement they generated, the feeling of power in such a fragile environment. Except today, Cameron felt none of it. This journey didn’t contain the romantic notions others he had previously given him.

The weather was perfect, no cloud, no wind, the sea azure, clear, the waves only a ripple. Sun streamed across the river mouth, bathing the hills in a golden glow. A perfect morning, for a not perfect task. He watched as the machine came over the tops of the pine plantation, the blades swirled the tops and then the surface of the still water, sending out erratic patterns and flurries of spray.

Cameron had been waiting for this day for nearly a year. It had taken him a considerable amount of time, energy, money, and calling in of a few favours, to even be able to get to this stage. He’d originally just asked his contact for just a ride in an Iroquois. He wanted to have a look at the coastline, the small hamlets that dotted. It had to appear very non-specific until he was able to speak to the right people.

It was as if the request was from a little boy, to his father.—‘Please Dad, can’t you arrange it, you know, with Uncle Roland? He knows that man in the Army—he would love to help.’

‘Why not just an ordinary one?’ Would be the reply.

‘Because.’ Would be his answer. ‘Just because, I’m always being teased because of the stories I tell, about you and Uncle. The kids never believe me, and I want to be able to show them.’ It was in fact ‘an almost true story’ – almost.

There hadn’t been the same helicopters then, not here, as they were now. Then, it was different, and it was all fantasy. But today, it wasn’t. Now there were other reasons, and other equipment that the machine had, and he needed to see. And now, there was no fantasy, just cold hard reality. A reality that Cameron had for nearly all that last year, pushed into the darker recess’s of his mind. It was today that they had to emerge and see daylight again, he had to start rebuilding.

As the chopper came swinging in over the water, then hovering before lowering to the park. Walker recalled the last time he had heard the air chomping sound of rotor blades, the cold sweat of fear broke out on his brow. It was those events that had brought about the need for this journey, to return to that place, attempt to lay some of the ghosts of those moments that continued to haunt his days, and nights. Nights, fraught by dreams, recurring dreams of death.

The machine landed, the blades slowed, almost stopping, the door slid back and two uniformed men jumped down, ducked under the flicking rotors, they jogged over to him. The men were of similar height, but their build, and age was not. The man on the left was older, grey haired with bright blue keen eyes, his companion, swarthy, dark skinned, with thick black hair and a moustache. As they came up to Cameron the older man held out his hand in greeting.

‘Mr. Walker, good to see you. It’s been a long time coming! I see you’re all organised, hope we haven’t kept you long.’ He turned to the other officer, he didn’t introduce him. ‘Grab his gear Colin, let’s get under way, we don’t want to be seen by too many at this time of the morning, they may think we’re terrorists.’ He laughed and patted Cameron on the shoulder. ‘And with what happened the last time you were in the vicinity that we are headed to, they may have cause to believe it.’

Cameron grinned sardonically. ‘You may be right, but I don’t really want to be noticed at all, so we have to get in and get out, not that it’s exactly a commando raid, but I am sure that you get my drift.’

A comment by the grey haired man were lost in the roar of the motor, but Cameron thought that it must have been humorous by the wide smile on the man’s face. They put on their headsets and strapped themselves in, as the chopper lifted off the ground and banked to the north. As it skimmed across the estuary he glanced back at the receding sight of the village, and the last glimpse of his house.

The machine flew low and hugged the water just off the line of the coast. The wave tops seemed only inches below the body of the helicopter and they could see almost every crevice and crinkle of the coastline. Faces appeared at windows of farm houses and holiday cottages as the low flying chopper flashed past.

‘We have a car waiting for you, about ten kilometres south, thought it may be better if after we do several fly overs, you drove into town, did what you want to do, then contact us as to your next move may be. Do you think you will be long at this? By long I mean hours or a day or what – you gave me no indication. We will have to get this thing back before it’s missed, it’s supposed to be in for an overhaul – and they do seem to be quite conspicuous by their absence, when they are not where they are supposed to be. We have also put the equipment that you requested in the trunk of the car, you weren’t exactly specific as to why you wanted it, but I can imagine – want to fill me in a bit more now we are under way?’ The man’s voice had both the qualities of command and culture.

Cameron looked across at him, and then glanced at the other man seated behind him. He was staring out over the rushing scene below. The look was not lost on the Senior Officer.

‘Don’t worry about Colin, my Aide is well versed in what we’re doing, and some of the information that you have given me, most I have delved into myself. You can speak freely – and I think we need a bit more detail. I am putting all our tails on the line – so to speak.’

Lieutenant Colonel Malcolm Dreaver, hadn’t been Cameron’s original contact. But Dreaver, for some reason, decided to take an intense, close interest. Cameron didn’t know when he had first spoken to him, or that he had been involved with British Naval Intelligence before moving to this country, transferring from the Commander in a Naval Division, to the Air force. This man had appeared on the scene, several weeks after he’d made his initial enquiry, with his previous Department for help. Now he had a considerable amount of knowledge of who he was, why he was, and what he did. What he wasn’t so sure about was why he was now so interested in ‘Cameron’s Cause’.

‘I am still quite vague as to why you’ve involved yourself in this affair, even this bit of reconnaissance. I was really only calling in a favour – my need to find out some of what happened and why. I don’t know that I am really going about it the right way, but it seems after all that happened to at least be a starting point. Start to look where it finished.’ Cameron frowned deeply as he spoke – yelling despite the intercom directions – into the microphone

‘Yes, that does, the way you put it sounds vague, but don’t be vague as to why I’m here. Just suffice to say that I’m also in need of information. I will explain more another time, and that wont be in the too distant future. Go and find out if there’s anything to be found out, then we’ll meet again. I wont come back with the chopper, that’s if you need it. If you don’t, send a message, also what your intentions are. That is, whether or not you will return to your house. You know if you don’t, you know what we’ll do.’

Cameron didn’t answer until the aircraft came around the pine topped peninsular and swept over the small sheltered harbour dotted with its fishing boats. The wharves and breakwater were deserted apart from flocks of birds, Gulls and Shags.

The view took him completely by surprise, it wasn’t anything like what his memory had stored—he gasped and swore. Cold sweat broke out, on his face and neck, the muscles in his back tensed and bunched, cramping, shivers ran through him.

Beside Cameron the Officer took note of his reactions, and put his hand across and gripped his shoulder. His voice came through the phones into Cameron’s head.

‘I expected that you may feel that way. It’s a fair reaction, I wouldn’t have thought less. I’ve been in similar situations – but I’m afraid, I’ve seen and experienced far worse. But then, a lot led up to that, didn’t it.’ It wasn’t a question, it was a statement, the man obviously knew far more of Cameron’s situation than he’d anticipated.

The pilot brought his machine down low, coming in across the stone breakwater, circled around the inner harbour, then banked away over the steep cliffs of the old quarry. The few people that were in the area ducked for cover as he swooped up over the top of the pine plantation and headed south.

Ten kilometres back down the coast, a car was waiting for Cameron.

Chapter Two

Zelie de Blanco stood at the window of their suite. The snow storm had kept them trapped in the lodge for the past four days, was moving away at last. The sky was slowly clearing. Predictions of another front would bring even more severe storms within the next twenty four to thirty six hours. She pondered several scenarios – each with specific aims.

The Mt.Waddington district, was the home to the highest Mountain in British Columbia, scenery was spectacular, the district sparsely populated. The resort Zelie had chosen, was remote, and wasn’t the most popular tourist destination. Often, even in early winter, it was snowed in for long periods. Compared to the Mountain itself, just on the edge of the Columbian Plateau, under 2000 metres, one wouldn’t expect these extremes. Zelie had chosen it specifically, because of it’s unusual features.

Here, despite this, the accommodation was excellent, the food and service well above average expected in a small unfashionable Lodge, this made it, considering all the circumstances, including the weather, bearable.

Zelie turned and looked across the room. Nicholas Franklin was on the bed, lying back on a pile of pillows reading a magazine. Although it was only mid-morning a bottle of Bollinger sat half empty on the side table with the remnants of their breakfast. She observed him without his knowing, so deep was his absorption in whatever he was studying. She walked across to the other side of the bed and picked up her glass, she drained the last of the bubbling liquid then she sat down, lay back across the quilt, and propped herself on her pile of feather pillows, she swung her long elegant legs up, curling them in behind, resting on her elbow, she looked at him. He didn’t look up from his reading.

‘You’re becoming an extremely boring bastard, did you know that Nicholas? I might have to do something about it, I can’t be bored all the time like this, you don’t even talk to me! Is that because I’m so bloody boring too? I can’t help the snow – besides it keeps us out of the way. No-one is going to be looking for us in this place – or this country for that matter. When are we going to move on?’

She waited for a reaction.

Nicholas’s eyes didn’t move from the magazine. He didn’t answer her, just reached out, picked up the bottle of Bollinger and refilled his glass, not asking if she wanted any.

Her mind turned to the whys and wherefores of their being there, and the path they had taken. She had become increasingly wary – and weary of this man.

When she’d destroyed MacFarlane’s organisation, and taken over, Zelie had brought his half brother, Nicholas, into help control it, alongside herself. She felt Nicholas Franklin would become and ally, in more ways than just business. She’d been attracted to his urbane charm and aristocratic good looks for some time.

In their earlier association, the first year or so, she had no doubt of his efficiency, and what seemed a close loyal bond between them. But lately, his drive for success, power and money, had become greedy and arrogant. He’d become disdainful of her, and what she’d achieved. Zelie wouldn’t tolerate it. It was through her they’d been able get this far in their endeavours. She had provided all the inside information required to set up the Syndicate.

She’d also used her considerable abilities and contacts, to infiltrate the devious worlds of the white and blue collar criminal, the graft and corruption within Governments circles, even to the depths of the Security Intelligence Services – and to destroy Cameron Walker. She was now in a position of power to rise to greater heights of control of so many commodity markets! She wasn’t about to let any arrogant bastard get in her way. Though she had become Franklin’s lover, long before they’d taken over the power from Thornten and MacFarlane, and while she’d enjoyed many of the experiences, and his peculiarities in bed, she had tired of him in that respect quite quickly. But for the sake of her goals, her ambitions, she had kept up an elaborate charade. Unfortunately, apart from a very short unsatisfactory fling with Bill Gowan, who’d assisted in turning Jocasta, there’d been little opportunity for her to indulge in practices she preferred. There’d been no way she had been able to get close to the girl, – and with what she’d to do later, that was probably fortunate.

Zelie propped herself up on the bed and sipped her Champagne. She wondered what was going through his mind. It was plain he felt very much the same about her, as she about him. She watched as he drained his glass, and refilled it. The bottle now was empty, as was the conversation between them. It had been ten minutes since they’d spoken. The silences were becoming more frequent, longer.

It was in the end, it was broken by Franklin’s desire! – Not for Zelie, but more wine. ‘There’s another in the fridge, would you like to open it? There’s a good girl – and then you can have some more too, if you like.’ Nicholas Franklin’s tone was obsequious and condescending, then. ‘No, I think I’ll wait. I’m going to have a shower, possibly—maybe after, a nap, before we go down to lunch.’ He slid off the bed, looked at his watch before he placed it on the dressing table. He dropped his silk robe and padded naked to the bathroom.

‘Thought you might like a glimpse of the body you seem to have tired of my dear – might rekindle some of the passion we once had – not.’ Cynicism dripped from Franklin’s voice as he disappeared through the door. He closed it quietly.

Zelie listened to the continuous splashing, coming from the shower, and Nicholas’s off key singing! Her nerves jangled. She got up, went to the fridge and took out a bottle of champagne. As she opened it, poured another glass, and she reflected on how tired she was of this wine. But it was his desire, he liked it, she didn’t want an argument about it. It wasn’t worth the trouble, with she was planning, it didn’t matter. She went to the window and sipped the wine. As she stared at the cold stark landscape, a twisted smile appeared on her lips. She knew how bored he was, as was she. Despite small efforts – but efforts all the same to try to find what they had, had. The gap between them had grown wider.

It was time to move, in more ways than one. With the weather, showing signs of clearing – the moment may well be right for Zelie’s next manoeuvre to further her power, and tighten her control.

She went quietly to the bathroom door and listened. The shower was still running. She knew he took considerable time with his personal hygiene. She went and picked up the phone, it was time to make contact. New phases, plans to be instituted. She dialled eight numbers, after three rings, she cut the connection, then immediately pressed re-dial. The call this time was answered immediately.

‘It’s time for some changes I gather. I know you wouldn’t have called otherwise. What do you plan to do, now the novelty has worn off – I would assume you have a strategy.’ The voice was deep, well modulated, very English.

‘Yes it has, and you knew it would. Although you didn’t think of a time frame, you knew that it would only be a matter of months after the last operation. You must have known me far too long, and too well.’ Zelie smiled. She certainly knew just how well Charles Johnstone understood her. ‘We’ve been snowed in for over a week, things are getting a bit tense, but now it seems to be lifting, the snow, not the tension. I have an idea, but you will just have to trust I can carry it out, as I haven’t the time to tell you. Nicholas is in the shower, and I have just heard it turn off. I will contact you as soon as I can. There will be a number of things that I’ll be needing.’ She cut the connection, then pressed the room service number, replaced the receiver gently onto the cradle, refilled her glass, and walked softly back to the window, staring at the white landscape and sipping the wine.

Zelie rested her forehead on the cool glass. She listened to the sounds from the bathroom behind her. The toilet was flushed, the taps on the basin turned on. Her mind was capable of picking up many different sounds and movement. She’d been trained by experts, and had also trained herself over the years to be more than aware of her surroundings, and what was happening within them – this ability had saved her life more than once!

Moving away from the white scene, she went back to the bed, picking up the bottle on the way. She sank back onto the pile of pillows, filled her glass, looked at the clock by the bed, and watched the bathroom door. Cautiously she opened the drawer of the cabinet. From her cosmetic bag she took a tiny packet, and shook its contents into her glass.

Her mind mulled over the choices that she’d placed in the different pigeon holes of her mind. She would have to be careful in what she chose. It would have to be fine-tuned, perfected, as much as anything with an element of chance, could be perfected. Whichever one was to be the trump card, she would have to make sure not to shuffle the pack too much. Her adversary was an expert at being able to recognise slight of hand. She also knew that she would have to change, for awhile, her attitude to the man. But, that may not have to be for long. Besides—the tolerance both ways had worn thin, the act may be seen through. The sounds in the bathroom changed, she saw the handle of the door begin to turn. Zelie slid down on the pillows, opened the neck of her gown to her waist, and flicked her legs to expose her long silky thighs.

As Nicholas Franklin came back into the room, she picked up the novel she’d been reading from the bedside table. He looked at Zelie. he took in the position of the book, the way she’d draped herself over the bed. He had a bath sheet wrapped around his waist. He looked clean, refreshed.

Zelie put the book down. Her eyes roamed over his body, as she took another drink of the bubbling wine, then placed the glass on the table. She turned towards him, the robe fell open. Her lightly tanned skin glowed against the white silk.

‘Come and have some more of this delicious nectar with me Nicholas,’ she reached for the bottle, and held it towards him, exposing more of her exquisite body. She knew, despite the antagonism between them, when she wanted him, and showed it, he couldn’t resist her. He came and sat on the bed beside her. She refilled his glass.

‘So, to what do I owe this? Was it the sight of me as I went to the bathroom, or the sight of me returning, or are you just—feeling – the need?’ Nicholas lifted the glass to his lips, as his left hand began to stroke the inside of her thigh.

She pushed her gown open further and reached across and pulled the towel away from him.

Nicholas stretched over her and put his glass on the cabinet by the bed, next to hers.

As he leant back she reached up and put both her hands behind his neck, pulling his lips to hers, twisting to roll his body on top of her. She opened her legs wide and he immediately slipped deep into her warm wetness.

It was not lovemaking, there was no gentle play, no preludes, it was pure animal lust, a passion, laced with locked up emotions – but emotions that had no connection to affection. It would only satisfy physical, and a mental need to attach to dominance, needs that were in both of them.

When it was over Nicholas Franklin rolled off her, away onto the other side of the bed. Zelie picked up her wine, turning to him, handing him her glass. ‘Thank you my tall handsome man, I needed that, just as much as you,—perhaps more?—You are still as wonderful, and adept in your lovemaking as ever.’ It was with great effort she tried to keep her sarcasm to herself.

Nicholas Franklin smiled, preening at the compliment, as she turned back and picked up the other glass of wine. She lifted it in a toast, touching the rim of the flute he held, the glass that had been hers. ‘To the future—may it be as fruitful as this wine.’ She smiled through the glass at him as they both drank. He did not missed her tone of voice, he knew they were nearing the end of their relationship – personal and business, he had plans of his own.

Shrugging herself off the bed, Zelie wandered to the window. She looked back at the man lying naked, drinking the sparkling liquid. She felt his hot sticky wet, mingled with her own between her legs. She began to feel the revulsion she had for him, and while she knew she’d used him, she also knew he’d only used her for relief, a release of the tension between them.

Franklin drained the glass and began to reach over the bed to retrieve the bottle. She watched and smirked as she saw his eyes glaze over. Nicholas didn’t reach it, and slumped unconscious onto the rumpled sheets.

‘That should keep him quiet for an hour or so, enough time for me to talk with Charles, to make arrangements. The only thing he may remember, and it’s a may, is the shower and the shag, and that’s doubtful. Still, the enforced sleep will do him no harm.’ She walked passed the bed and pulled the cover, up over the man’s unconscious form, then went into the bathroom. She needed to shower and wash away the last twenty minutes.

Zelie emerged ten minutes later, wrapped in a large soft black gown. She stopped in the doorway, and as she dried her hair, she inspected the still form of Nicholas Franklin. When she had finished, she brushed it straight, settled at the writing desk and picked up the phone. She went through the same procedure as before.

‘So,’ the voice of Charles Johnstone came through, ‘you have some time to yourself. Has our friend gone out for a walk or is he down in the bar?’

‘Neither, he’s fast asleep, poor boy, couldn’t hack the pace of a bit of hanky panky, or the laced wine – which is probably much more significant.’ Zelie wanted to laugh, but knew Charles and Nicholas had been friends, as well as business associates. They went back many years. It was just Johnstone’s greed, for power, money, and her, that had changed his allegiance. He was no better than Franklin. ‘But that happened to them all didn’t it?’ She mused.

‘We don’t want to take too long over this Zelie. What are you are going