Raking the Sands

By William Paley

A highly intelligent, mature family man is blackmailed by a petty crook seeking access to secret information in The Department, a government institute for combatting international crime, but he deflects attention onto a younger colleague.

A famous film actress attempts to combat the blackmailer’s remorseless persecution of his sister whom he has recruited in order to distract the younger man from his involvement in drug and counterfeit shipments. Romance intrudes but the head of The Department puts business before devotion thereby leading to personal disaster.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Self Publishing Partnership
• Release date: Jan 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781839523625

Book preview

Chapter 1

Charles Martin boarded his usual train in his daily commute to the office reflecting that this sense of movement would be his only exciting time of the day. The Department may well be a bastion of national security against international crime and disturbance but he had become jaded over the years. He was recognised as a highly cultivated and intelligent interpreter of agents reports and had gained a reputation for his assessments which had often led to the country remaining one step ahead of those plotting to do it harm, but opportunities that challenged his brain were not of daily occurrence even though he still occasionally managed to navigate complexities that had defeated others in their interpretation.

Only another seven years of routine before retirement! But seven years was a lifetime. He wanted his student days back: the days studying modern languages, travelling around Europe in the holidays on a very low budget, learning about or, at least, admiring architecture, bringing guide books to life, imagining himself an authority on all things Continental, its histories, culture and languages: Italian and German. He had met so many people in those unforgotten days. Fellow students, mostly, with whom he had visited such interesting places and gathered abundant and cherished memories. But he had chosen a permanent job in government service where he could deploy his language and analytical skills to advantage in the safety of the realm.

He had met Lucia, his attractive Italian wife, who did not pester him with too many questions and had been, and remained, the ideal companion and mother of two children, Lewis and Laura, whose names were a happy compromise between their English and Italian roots, Louis and Lauretta. They were also linguists and each in their last year at university and, he felt sure, would delight in backpacking around Europe; and he was happy at having imparted to them that sense of delighted anticipation in discovering scenes similar to those that had enriched his own youth.

The only reservations he had held through the years were those he harboured concerning his in-laws. They had never said they disliked him. He was sure that they did not, but it was plain that he was not one of them and he did not know how to belong to them. He was a northerner and for all his innate tact and politeness, never seemed able to penetrate that invisible veil of resentment at his seizing their daughter and carrying her off far away to the north. He was convinced that they wished him well both in his home and in theirs but he had wilted at the constant struggle to integrate himself within a family that never seemed to provide the welcome with which he felt he should have been rewarded. As a consequence, he had turned his preference to the contrasts and cultures in the north and felt constantly drawn away to places where he could meet the sort of people he had met before: artists, musicians, teachers and anybody with whom he could engage in exchanging remarks about the gallery he might be visiting or the opera he had just heard. But, even better, somebody who could indulge in an extended conversation about the topic or who was able to compare and contrast it with the opinion of others to which he could also respond.

All he had, now, was a desk job reading other people’s reports and trying to pick out any links that might prove useful in locating the perpetrators of evil. But there was also the tedium of pandering to his wife’s desire to return every few months to the same old place for a few weeks just so that she could be reunited with her family when all she did was to gossip all day with her mother and relatives. Her mother, Senta, had never really warmed to him for not being some nice Italian boy whom she could have regarded as a proper member of the family and not that desk warrior from a far-off northern land; one surrounded by water and a cold fish to match who took no joy in the sun that she preferred and one who went off on trips into Austria almost as soon as he arrived. ‘To practise his German’, he had told her ‘and to study architecture’.

‘As if he could not practise his Italian and study architecture where his wife’s family lived,’ was her scarcely disguised indignation.

He valued the connections that he had firmly established to Lucia’s heritage in that land of history and cathedrals, but much as he delighted in the initial enthusiasm of leaving the office and sharing the enjoyment of his wife, and occasionally of his family, in their trips to Garda, he soon tired of the limitations imposed upon him at the lakeside. It was a beautiful view, the most scenic he had known. It was one that could not be faulted except that, in repeatedly drawing his gaze, its power of attraction had inevitably declined from beautiful to the merely pleasing. It seemed to insist in compelling a silent adoration but lacked the response of that erudite conversation he had enjoyed in the company of artists in which he had found his most rewarding activity in a life of meeting an educated person who could match him in a dialogue of equals –somebody whom he could invite to a restaurant and, perhaps, accompany him on an outing he had planned next day or who would flatter him with a proposal of his own.

Two years before, he had met one such person in Vienna who proved to be a professor of art at Hamburg. They both delighted in each other’s company, finding ever more interests in common, and he had suggested she accompany him to Bayreuth the following season in hope that he could, somehow, procure two tickets in order to cement their friendship.

Fortunately, he had known Heather Wainwright in the select High Desk office for years. She was a single, rather prim woman trusted by the top man, Sir Garrard Finlay, informally known as High Up elsewhere but more familiarly in the office as The Baron, named after Baron Hard Up in Cinderella. Heather’s position as confidential assistant to The Baron lent her an air of worldliness quite at odds with her quiet life alone in her flat, but she enjoyed sharing with Charles her reminiscences of her trips abroad and occasionally hinting slyly at her own little adventures on the Continent.

His long friendship with her had enabled him to deploy the influence of The Department in successfully conjuring two tickets for late summer from the often reluctant Bayreuth box office and he had triumphantly told Ilsa, much against her expectations, of his success which was followed by her delighted confirmation of acceptance. At their next meeting, they were like two newly met teenagers, innocent of the world and elated at the experience to come. He held her hand, she smiled demurely, and, in the renewed blossoming of their lives, they had gained a new maturity as lovers who pledged themselves to meet again.

Charles and Ilsa, consequently, now shared ten days happily in summer and a week in autumn no longer in the loneliness of single rooms but, on each occasion, spending their time together as if they were a honeymoon couple. They were no strangers to galleries, opera houses, concert halls or restaurants but neither were they strangers to the airport that concluded their period of contentment as they took the brief farewells that would insert the long intervals of absence into their lives; absences hardly bearable after those days of wine and roses.

The organisation in which Charles spent his days rejoiced in housing numerous others of great capability: analysts, researchers, linguists, interviewers, all employed in intense, sometimes relaxed, sometimes contemplative positions the purpose of which was to combat the threat that might arise from the ambitions of an underworld seeking gain from whatever nefarious opportunity the world could offer in destabilizing the realm or in disturbing the peace. Its record was reasonably successful even if the battles were often of long duration. Failures were inevitably encountered but they became labelled as unfinished business that, to a disappointed but undaunted staff, were registered as a continuing challenge.

Some of the staff led peripatetic lives in pursuit of shadowy figures in the world of crime. Others undertook assignments contacting those who, with a vanity they hoped would raise their profile, might wish to advertise their business acumen. Others might merely attempt to gain insights from an unguarded word dropped by boastful Napoleons of crime.

Were there ever a visitor to The Department, he or she would not be aware that matters of great importance were under constant study. The office was much like any other; some employees sitting in groups, some with offices of their own, but it would not be easily apparent which purpose any office may serve. Each person had his or her task and pursued it as diligently as any keen worker in any other great enterprise, although some found the necessity for administrative secrecy an annoyance rather than an aid and wondered whether the lack of information was counterproductive or even led to duplication of another’s unknown efforts.

Warren Temple was one of those dedicated to the ethos of The Department who had spent a decade in pursuit of information that an intelligent manager would later peruse for hidden gems. Having become somewhat fatigued by a continual diet of iniquity, however, he emerged from his hotel at the conclusion of his current project heartily glad to have quit his residence of nearly two months and to leave behind all its tedium, all its frustration and all his bottled-up fury at his assignment. As a leading analyst for The Department, he was well regarded and decently remunerated but his engagement schedule offered increasingly reprehensible encounters with repulsive figures from low-life activities. His evenings spent in enforced isolation in hotel restaurants or in the deadly monotony of his room had merely prolonged the days that he had once found exciting, but his feelings had gradually declined through disgust into distress. The few weekends at home had proved the only relief in his present activity, but they had each been clouded by the necessity of having to resume his task when those brief interludes had passed.

His flight from that taint of evil, was not scheduled until midday which had therefore provided him with a sense of freedom that morning in a short walk through the adjoining park, thankful that the first stage of his contract had now concluded. He could breathe a different atmosphere, hear the sounds of the city stirring into life and feel the bonds of service loosen even if they did not fall completely away.

‘I’m finished with this life,’ he thought. ‘That’s the last engagement of that kind that I shall undertake.’ The last sky of summer was clearing in sympathy with his mood but he still had to consolidate his notes in a final report. He would have a day off to think and relax and, then, piece it all together. That would be the easy part and after that, he would tell Hedley that he would take no more business from him even if his main source of income would then dry up.

Warren retrieved his case from the hotel and took his seat in a taxi that had just discharged its passenger. Airport, please, he told the driver who, for the second time that morning, dutifully headed off to the airport where he paid the fare and entered a rather cool departure lounge, booked in and waited for the flight to be announced. ‘One stage nearer to the end of all this interference to a proper life,’ he resolved as, so many times before, boredom descended upon him in the enforced inactivity of waiting for the flight indicator to update. Thankfully, he could draw comfort from his resolution that this would be the last time.

Once airborne, he turned the pages of the same magazine with which he had already become familiar on the outward flight, but this time, without the brooding annoyance at having, later, to return in order to resume his task. The photographs of the coastal scenery depicted therein appealed more greatly to him now that he could relax into the final stage of his assignment, but, in these later months, the scene would be quite different from that depiction of sunlight and warmth obviously captured in a previous summer. He cast it aside but minutes later he looked idly down at the Channel and took it up again. Any wind that might now be raging around those cliffs would blow the cobwebs away and the rain would wash out the past; he could easily afford a few weeks thinking about not very much.

At sight of the familiar scene on exiting the arrivals hall, he decided to take the bus back home. ‘Taxis are for business but I’m finished with that,’ but it was also early in the day and he had nothing to fill the time once he had returned. He congratulated himself, however, that he would, at least, be in his own home. He looked vaguely out of the window as the bus ground its way slowly towards home in Carsten, his mood relaxing as he recalled his relief at a decision that had, somehow, flooded into his brain.

He bought provisions at the local store and walked the last mile past the school playing field, the adjoining park and then across the bridge over the stream to his house. This would be a day for quiet celebration with his favourite pie and a glass of wine. He was confirmed in the thought that the garden needed a little work and almost looked forward to the task. That would fill his day of rest before he tackled the last stage of his assignment.

Several days passed, however, before he was able to feel pleased at the more attractive view of the garden after he had brought it to a somewhat better condition than when he had returned. He had also reviewed most of his notes and could see how he could shape them into a coherent report. Another two weeks saw the finished article which he attached to an email and sent via secure network to Hedley Walton at The Department together with a satisfyingly large invoice for the completed work. ‘That’s the last of that,’ he congratulated himself and recollected the little holiday he had thought might be both a reward and a means of relief although, having finished his report, he felt almost cured already.

He reserved the following week for any questions that Hedley might pose and, meanwhile, found a holiday cottage on the internet that he booked for an end-of-season fortnight starting on the weekend after next, bought a wind and rainproof jacket just in case it would be needed in the middle of October and found an OS map of the area in his collection from years before.

Hedley rang on the following Tuesday to congratulate him on the report. Excellent work, Warren, as usual. High Desk will peruse it for further leads and may want to review it with you, later. No mention of the elusive Tarklit, I notice.

Unfortunately, Blashvek knows how to keep his mouth shut on some things.

Perhaps he is holding back in the hopes of trading information for a reduction in sentence. Meanwhile, I’m expecting another contract soon in which you’ll be interested.

Warren assumed a smile of mock malevolence. I’ve been thinking about how to deploy my talents in future, Hedley, and have come to the conclusion that I ought to seek some other pursuit than that of pandering to wickedness. I might become tainted with it myself if I don’t branch out. I’m going to take a short holiday in order to restore my sanity and probably retire into something else after that.

Hedley had a moment of horror at the possibility of losing his star performer. His immediate reaction, however, was to adopt an attitude of friendly persuasion in an attempt to stave off what sounded like the inevitable consequence of Warren’s announcement. Retire! You are nowhere near forty yet and you have had years of experience in The Department with a splendid record in interview and diagnostic technique. You can’t start a completely different career now, he replied.

Warren felt a slight uncertainty knowing that he would be cutting off a lucrative income stream but he recovered enough to say that he was beginning to suffer from the contagion of low-life criminality and needed a term of convalescence.

Hedley knew when to moderate his tone and assumed a supportive attitude, aware that continued remonstrance could alienate one of his top contributors. He was reluctant to risk entrenching Warren in what might simply be a short period of revulsion at his job and, therefore, attempted to soothe what appeared to be a temporarily troubled mind. I understand. Yes. You have had a few harrowing assignments. They can’t have been pleasant experiences. What holiday do you have in mind, anyway?

A few weeks in some deserted place where I won’t be disturbed by anybody. Tregrolla. It’s somewhere on the southwest coast. I’ll take the time to think or, more probably, not to think about anything. I’m just going to clear my head of everything evil that has clung to me over the years.

Well, good luck. You know you can rely on me for advice if you need it.

Thanks, Hedley. It’s good to know that somebody can help if required, but I hope I’m not beyond self-healing.

Warren had known his friend for over ten years and their partnership had been reinforced by their mutual success. He would not like to lose contact with him but they would have fewer opportunities to meet if he ceased the sort of activities that had brought him to the degree of recognition that his dedication to detail had achieved. But he was adamant in wanting to ditch the career path that had led him into the dark world of criminality and cruelty. He would need a diversion if he were to emerge undisturbed which, thereby, compelled him to think of something else to do even if he had no idea at the moment of what that could be.

Chapter 2

Just one week before returning to the office and the daily grind of an existence that no longer excited him, Charles had taken his most recent farewell of Ilsa at the airport. Having released her from a lingering hug and turned sadly away from the last glimpse of her that had to suffice for several months, he bumped into a man immediately behind him. Terribly sorry. he said automatically, but then straightened up to look him in the face. He froze at the sight of the person he least expected, and least wished, to see; a slightly built man in his mid-thirties who smiled maliciously at him with the quiet confidence of one who had observed an opponent in an indiscretion.

Hello Charles, Falkenfeld said. I hadn’t expected to see you here. What a pleasure to meet you again. And with such a beautiful companion, too.

The man was all smiles but they contained the malevolence of someone unaccustomed to forgo any opportunity for gain. And how is your dear wife? he asked, already adopting his customary, insinuating attitude.

Charles was fully aware of Falkenfeld’s hidden purpose behind that enquiry. I have no wish to discuss her with you. I’m just going to meet her.

You are a very fortunate man, Charles. Two young ladies and a close family, as well. I congratulate you, but I wonder whether your wife has met your latest conquest.

You are quite mistaken in your assumption, Charles replied, desperately trying to think of a plausible reason for Ilsa’s presence. But I have other things to attend to, now. Goodbye.

Don’t let us part so soon, Charles. We should talk of old times. And I would very much like to meet your wife. You must introduce us. It would be such a delight for her to share your holiday souvenirs.

I’ve no interest in discussing her with you. Goodbye.

If you have urgent other matters to attend to, Charles, I have no wish to detain you. A discussion with the family will not be as rewarding as when we are all gathered together but I shall be passing through Garda shortly and I’ll pop in for a brief visit – just to exchange news. But, if you manage to conclude your affairs by then, I shall be very happy to meet you again. I have a little matter of business in which you may be able to assist me.

Charles had a premonition of disaster. He was about to be blackmailed by one of the most detestable, low crooks in Europe. If he gave in, he would have to confess it immediately to High Desk and probably be put out to grass; but would Ilsa still love him, and what could he say to his wife? And low-life crooks would still have a hold over him regardless of what happened.

What sort of business? he asked, despite knowing that that would be the first sign of surrender.

Just a little service, but nothing that would require even a small investment by you. I am quite averse to descending into such sordid matters.

What service? Charles asked, drily.

You know that both our reputations are important to us, Charles. I merely ask that you respect mine as much as I respect yours. In that way, you can continue to be honoured by your family as well as by your colleagues.

What does that mean? Charles asked, casting around in his mind for the threat behind the words but totally baffled at Falkenfeld’s rhetoric except being fully aware of falling into the clutches of evil.

It means that I admire you for your capability in keeping a confidence, Charles. We both have an interest in our retaining absolute faith in each other. A single service, a little piece of information is all I ask. With that, you will be released from all obligation, with no fear that your little peccadilloes will be exposed to publicity.

Charles knew that Falkenfeld’s word was as false as the currency he was printing. You are mistaken as to my connections. I don’t have access to secret information, he blustered.

You have my biography at your fingertips, Charles. Nothing in it can be unknown to me but I have to confess to a little curiosity about it. I want you to lend it to me for my perusal. That is all. Nothing more except, perhaps, to insert a correction should it be required.

I can’t release any classified details to outsiders. Even if it is to the subject, himself, Charles replied as bravely as was possible from his unenviable position.

You may wish for the veracity of the information to undergo a last proof by somebody who knows more than anybody else in the world about it. I recall that your operative was very thorough in our interview but I detected a slight undercurrent of distaste and I merely wish to ensure that he does not impugn my character with unfounded assumptions.

I’m not able to comply with that request. I’m bound by the rules of confidentiality and I have total faith in the analyst concerned, but I am quite unable to accept, let alone endorse, amendments.

Come, now, Charles. There may be no change at all. And remember, he added with a malevolent smile, your young lady and your family?

Charles’s blood ran cold. I have no intention of complying with your request. I can’t do it, he responded, dreading the end of his liaison, the domestic disturbance that would inevitably follow and the consequences for his respectability.

I understand, perfectly, Charles, Falkenfeld replied to Charles’s relief but immediately added, You’ll need time to think about it. I’ll contact you at Garda next week for your decision.

There’s no chance, whatsoever, of a release within a week. I’d have to get back first and then unwind the security classification. I’ll need one month for that.

Charles hoped that his reply would be interpreted as a potential submission to Falkenfeld’s demands but would also give him time to consider his response.

Very well, Charles. But do not impose too much on my patience. I would very much like to meet your dear wife.

He walked away with that malevolent smile lingering upon his lips. Charles, in contrast, with a face turned to stone, watched him until he receded into the crowd. His week with Ilsa had been one of the most delightful times of his life. Now, the sweet sorrow of their parting had been cruelly ripped away. Must he give up all the happiness she had brought him? Would she lose all respect for him? She was the only person in all his fifty-eight years with whom he could speak in any depth of those topics that were of interest to him, and she was the only person who could respond in an intelligent manner that matched his own. They had spent hours at restaurants looking into each other’s eyes smiling and speaking of their day together, and later, those eyes sparkled with their reaffirmation of love. No! He could not give up that joy. But he was about to be unmasked by that low-life crook. He had two children about to leave university, he had been happily married for thirty-one years and his wife was the perfect companion. She would lose all faith in him as a pillar of society with a safe job and a good income. Could he jeopardise all that just to satisfy that egotistical, verminous racketeer? Again, no! But he had led a faultless existence respected by neighbours and colleagues and, now, would be subjected to the shame of everybody’s derision; ruined, with his reputation ground into the dust.

Should he confess to his wife the real reason for his frequent resort to art and architecture? She would explode in a torrent of tears and fall upon her mother for support who, then, would have a genuine reason for despising him and for releasing a string of invective of which only an Italian mother-in-law could be capable. He would be disgraced in the family, perhaps dismissed from his job with all the financial consequences that that would entail. Or, at least, become the black sheep of the family constantly subjected to everybody’s disdain. And Ilsa! What would she think? She would retain her unsullied position as professor of art whereas he would be diminished in her eyes when, until now, they had enjoyed such a beautiful association of harmony and equality that, once damaged, could never be restored.

Or could he oppose outrageous fortune, somehow, and turn the tables on that odious worm? He and his colleague, Hedley, were close enough and both held that petty crook in low esteem. Confessing to Hedley that he had been approached by him would not be a betrayal of his office but a conference held within the confines of The Department on an opportunity to expand their information bank on Falkenfeld’s activities. But he would have to stall for a week or two until he got back to the office and they could consider his options, if any. An obvious strategy would be to engage Warren Temple again, the analyst who had created the report twelve months before. That would be within the rules and one that would deflect attention from himself.

Charles recovered a semblance of normality but remained nervous enough to wonder whether he was being watched by Falkenfeld gloating at him from the anonymity of the crowd. He thought of Ilsa and his family and vowed to resist the disgrace that would otherwise break upon him. He exited the airport and boarded the first bus that came in order to get away from there as quickly as possible and to think of – whom? Ilsa, of course. He loved her. She loved him. They were young lovers. Nothing would part them. But Lucia? He loved her, too. They were happy together, they had a family and they had their memories. He could not be parted from her, either.

A lonely evening spent in the dim auditorium of the Opera House sufficed to keep Charles from sinking too deeply into depression, but, as he returned to the room he had shared with Ilsa for the best nights of his life, he was hardly able to recall the performance with any clarity and sank back hoping to be enveloped in the memory of her presence; but that was now endangered by that ugly apparition from hell. He knew that he could not release any information. If he succumbed, he would be perpetually persecuted for even more revealing data. His last conscious thought, however, was that, whatever the depths to which Falkenfeld could stoop, he would rise above him and emerge triumphant even if it meant risking the destruction of all that was dear to him.

Two days after her return to Hamburg, Ilsa sat with her friend, Anja, on the balcony of her flat overlooking the Alster reminiscing about her time in Vienna. They had known each other since their own student days and had few secrets. It was so lovely. So different from the times when I went on my own. He’s such a wonderful man. So intelligent, so knowledgeable. Speaks three languages including his own. I can’t judge his Italian but his German is quite perfect apart from a very slight English accent. I should have met him thirty years ago. Now, I wonder how I managed to survive without him.

Three languages! You’d better make sure you hold on to him. None of my students are learning two foreign languages. Either English or Spanish is about their limit. What job does he have?

I don’t know the details but he has some sort of managerial position in government. A civil servant of some sort, but we talk art and opera and ballet most of the time when we are not sightseeing together. I hope it lasts. He’s very nearly perfect and, now that we have met, I’d hate to lose him.

Only very nearly?

Ilsa paused and said, very sadly, We don’t talk about it but he’s married with two children at university. He admitted it when I asked. I had a slight conscience about it and foolishly thought I should walk away, but I couldn’t. I’d hate to become an old spinster again, she added, reflectively.

It sounds as if he’s good in the important things, as well.

Ilsa smiled. Yes. And we tell each other how much we love each other. I’ve had a few affairs as you know but I’m fifty-four and had never been in love until we met. So far as I’m concerned, it’s genuine, and I’m sure he feels the same. But I do wonder how long it will last, she added, sadly.

Don’t forget me if he wants a change. I could do with somebody like that even if he is married, Anja told her only half-jokingly.

We shan’t meet again until summer. The next few weeks will be dreadfully lonely.

"Could you go over there? London has plenty