The Well of Tears

By Paul TN Chapman

An ambitious past, an unravelling present.
Prejudice, discrimination, resentment, rebellion.
An Investigator, his Protégé, a King, a Smuggler.
A murder, an arson, a terror attack, a regicide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul TN Chapman
• Release date: Apr 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223871347

Paul TN Chapman

Paul TN Chapman is a freelance writer and authors, living the the US East Coast. He maintains a monthly website of his essays, edits publications, and spends most of his time writing novels.  

Book preview

Prologue

To understand what follows, you must know what came before.

The monarchy of Gaelia came into being early in the 7th Century. Native inhabitants were joined by refugees fleeing religious persecution in their homelands; they were Pagans living among Christian converts. Among the first to arrive, Pagans from Wales named many places and things in their own language. Pagans from other lands and tongues who followed accepted what the Welsh had already established. They were Y Paganaidd, the Pagans; everyone else was Y Brodorian, the Others.

For centuries, they lived together in peace. As soldiers, sailors, craftsmen, tradesmen, artisans and farmers, the Pagans did well, but as artists, poets, musicians, and healers, they excelled and were embraced.

They did their part, too. Attempts by foreign kings to colonize Gaelia in the 9th century were repelled by Gaelian troops, with Pagan warriors fighting fiercely at their side. The invaders were successfully defied and expelled, and Gaelia was once more a place of peace – but now, with a reputation for ferocity.

Hafan, Welsh for Haven, was the first Pagan settlement, nestled in the foothills of the mountain range that spanned the northwest of the country. King after king ruled benevolently, treasuring their native Gaelian and Pagan subjects.

This changed in 1677, when Aodh became king. He cared nothing for his subjects, except as tax payers and arrow fodder. His primary occupations were fighting, feasting, and fornicating. He named the northern mountains for himself, still known today as the Aodh Mountain Range, or sometimes just The Aodhs.

His brother Afan, a fanatical Christian convert, had Aodh assassinated in 1681. Afan replaced his brother’s evil with his own dogmatic insanity.

Malleus Maleficarum, (‘The Witches’ Hammer’) was Afan’s favourite reading. He was convinced of the evils of witchcraft, and began an era of persecution against Pagans, Gipsies, Jews, and many others, people he believed to be occult practitioners. He pursued them, in keeping with the Malleus, through witch hunts and trials, an already-popular practice in Europe and the New World. It only required that 1) the person on trial had used magic for evil purposes (which Afan considered to be any use of magic); 2) the accused was observed engaging in diabolical behaviours, such as having congress with animals, talking to the Devil in one of his guises, or talking to themselves; 3) the trial and punishment proceeded with the permission of God (if God did not approve, it would not happen.)

God evidently approved quite often.

The persecution continued through the reign of Afan’s son Ulric, and ended with his grandson, Aiden.

Aiden recognized that his grandfather’s persecution, and his father’s cowardly adherence to Afan’s example, were based on superstition and ignorance. They weren’t threatened by witchcraft and the presumption of evil – they were threatened by difference. Their doltishness influenced the populace.

Two sisters, Gwena and Gwendolyn, were Pagan healers accused of terrible, occult deeds. They were said to have consorted with the Devil through familiars, to have used potions to poison people who had sought them for healing. They professed being unbaptised Christians who’d learnt their arts through reading the books of their father, a now-deceased healer. They had read the New Testament. Since they were unbaptised, and women, this was considered blasphemy, for which the penalty was death.

The evidence was weak and ambiguous. Aiden knew the women were being victimized by enemies. He was thrilled at this opportunity – he wanted to end witch trials altogether. This was his chance! If Gwena and Gwendolyn agreed to be baptised, and made a confession to a priest, the trial could be avoided and they would be alive and free.

His advisors disagreed. Since his was a parliamentary monarchy, he couldn’t make these decisions on his own. He’d have to petition Parliament to make changes, which would take time, and was not certain of success. As the law stood at present, the Sisters had to be executed in the prescribed manner.

The Sisters were baptised and shriven. Neither admitted to consort with the Devil. Their heads were shaven, their dresses exchanged for sackcloth, and they were tied to two upright birch poles.

As the fires were lit, one called out, ‘Hafan! As ye sow, so shall ye reap!’

Her sister joined her: ‘Be it on the heads of your sons’ and daughters’ sons and daughters!’

The flames roared and Aiden wept.

Despite this failure, Aiden ultimately prevailed. He spent his life working to change the law: religious persecution and discrimination were unlawful. Witchcraft was still illegal, but no longer punishable by ‘faggot and fire.’ The fruits of witchcraft could be prosecuted if they resulted in a crime. Perjury, which had played a role in many of the witch trials, was severely punished.

Wife-beating, child-beating, sex with children, rape, slavery, and many other ‘offenses against the person’ were made capital offenses.

His reforms became known as Aiden’s Reform, and included restructurings of legal procedure – public hearings, trials, sentencing, and capital punishment. He wanted the Law Courts to be instruments of Justice, not sources of entertainment. The Reform is in force today.

The changes in the law were gradually accepted in Parliament. The people were not happy about the laws, especially changes in treatment of witchcraft. Many chose to take matters into their own hands as vigilantes; to pursue, ‘try’ and punish suspects without benefit of law court. Unanswered evil could lead to damnation!

This led to a thirteen-year civil war. Clans and families, Pagans and Brodorians, whole territories were riven and polarised, often because someone had made a false accusation of witchcraft.

An uneasy peace eventually covered the land, but there was still the problem of the Curse.

Hafan was Welsh for Haven. For fear of the ‘curse’, the Hafan Counsel moved to change the village name to Bedd Wiccan, Witches’ Grave, to which King Aiden gave his blessing.

It was his final act.

Aiden had been a century dead when Bedd Wiccan became:

BEDWICK

Present Day

1

The Troubles began in a Bedwick public house called The Hammer. On the edge of the conflict was one witness, a villain who remained in the shadows. His name was Razin.

Almost two metres tall, and 115 kilograms of muscle and hair, he entered The Hammer, attracting only a moment’s attention as he went to the bar and ordered a pitcher of homebrew. He found a table in a dark corner, and watched a football match between the Gaelian Army and Marine teams on the silent, wall-mounted screen. It had been ages since he’d seen a match live.

The Hammer catered to the commoners of Bedwegian society. A patron had to be able to walk a straight line in order to buy a drink (no matter how many had already been had). Many spirits-fuelled debates were held at The Hammer’s tables. Everyone was welcome; clusters of Pagans rubbed shoulders with clusters of Brodorian, and drank in peace. They watched sports on the flat-panel screens and argued over the plays. They had a good time.

On this late-October night, however, a Brodorian delivery man offended a Pagan carpenter with a whimsical remark, something to do with worshiping spirits in the forest. Veneration of woodland spirits was serious to Pagans, and the carpenter was understandably insulted.

The Brodorian didn’t understand how he had offended the Pagan – it was a joke, after all – and bought him a double Belgian ale as an apology. Instead of being mollified, the Pagan’s resentment grew, and voices were raised.

The Pagans were for the Pagans, and old grievances were aired in loud, boozy voices. Before long, both sides were shouting and making threatening gestures. Just as people were about to swing fists and chairs, the pub closed. The crowd drunkenly stumbled into the street to commence battle. The rout lasted five minutes, after which everyone limped home. They’d battled as effectively as angry kittens.

Razin stood in the shadows, amused. He’d arrived in Bedwick the day before, to solve a problem. Anything might be a solution; this might be useful.

Since it was a Pagan who’d begun the fight, the Brodorian owner of The Hammer banned all Pagans for a week.

The following night, the rumble was the main topic of conversation in the pub.

‘I don’t know what they were thinking,’ a House Beer groused. ‘Them Pagan bastards musta forgot Brodorian look out for their own!’

‘Damned straight!’ a Port and Lemon agreed.

‘Y’know, it’s always like that,’ the House Beer continued. ‘Them’s always in here, whingeing how unfair things are and how hard it is to live in Bedwick. If they don’t like it, they should leave!’

‘You couldn’t be more right, buddy!’ said the Port and Lemon drunkenly. ‘Let me buy you another drink, whaddarya havin’?’

‘I’m havin’ what you’re havin’,’ the Beer replied, equally inebriated.

‘Well that’s no help, I’m havin’ what you’re havin’!’ The Port and Lemon summoned the barkeep. ‘Two more,’ he slurred, and fumbled in his pocket for a crumpled 10 quizon mores note. Let the barkeep work it out.

The discussion attracted more drinkers, who became more muddled and concluded that the Pagans had deserved to be banned from the pub because they’d started it! What they really needed was a thumping good lesson, and the crowd at The Hammer were fuelled to do the thumping.

The more they talked, the rowdier they became. A conversation that had begun between two sots turned into a shouting match by twenty drunks. The barkeep was happy because they kept buying drinks. He wasn’t worried about another brawl, because this lot were friends.

‘We should go skin us some Pagans!’ shouted a double-scrumpy.

‘Argh!’ his confreres agreed. 

The revellers drained their glasses and paid up. They left the tavern in staggered (and staggering) groups of two and three.

Razin followed.

The following morning’s newsfeeds contained an item of interest. Small groups leaving The Hammer had encountered small groups leaving The Plough. This second set were thoroughly-sauced Pagans who’d been banned from at The Hammer, and were ‘getting in touch with their Viking heritage’ at an establishment where they were still welcome. A fist-fight ensued, and the police were called to contain the melee. By the time they’d arrived, the mob had dwindled, and half of the men who remained were tending the injuries of the other half.

Razin remained in the shadows, watchful and uninvolved.

Razin was a smuggler, originally from Transnistria. ‘Razin’ was a name he’d adopted after leaving home. It went well with his fierce appearance. Many people knew the stories of Stenka Razin, an exceptionally sinister 17th century Cossack leader. With his large size, his long, coal-black hair and beard that reached halfway down his chest, the Transnistrian Razin roused historic memories, and not a little bit of disquiet.

He had been a child during the Transnistrian/Moldovan War in the 1990s; he’d seen death, devastation, and loss resulting from warfare. When other people might be moved to compassion, Razin was moved to self-preservation. He must never again be poor, afraid, in danger, hungry or cold, regardless of the costs to others.

He exploited people’s weaknesses for his own benefit. He grew up to be a cunning and unprincipled criminal involved in corruption, murder, smuggling, and human trafficking. In this, he was like a significant number of his countrymen. Transnistria was considered a smuggler’s haven. He learnt from the best, then became one of them.

He managed his affairs such that his involvement could never be proved. In a few years, he’d created a network that covered Eastern and central Europe, even reaching into the Middle East. Now, he wanted to extend his enterprise to Gaelia.

Drug smuggling was usually safe. He hired people who employed people who paid other people to smuggle and sell for him. He less often smuggled weapons, since that was riskier; the type of client who bought weapons from him was the type of client to use those same weapons against him.

He trafficked in people, mostly young women, but sometimes young men. He supplied workers for sweatshops and brothels, and dabbled in smuggling people for organ harvesting.

Human trafficking almost paid for itself – even before a ‘commodity’ arrived at her destination, expenses could be recouped en route by putting her to work as a prostitute or drug mule/pusher. The down side was that accidents happened, drug mules died from burst balloons of opium, heroin, or cocaine. Some silly bitch might get herself arrested. She might change her mind and try to escape, and possibly find herself in the hands of the police. Silly bitches babbled.

Organized crime figures paid him lavishly to smuggle a fugitive out of a country, or into a country, or to lose a body. Here again, he employed people who employed people who did the actual work. Safety (his) was his greatest concern.

For the first months of his Gaelian enterprise, his goods had been brought across the Aodhs and further into Gaelia with little difficulty. Then suddenly, shipments and smugglers were being captured, or had to be abandoned. Workers fled, and a few were arrested. New smuggling routes were quickly discovered by authorities.

Gaelian border patrols clamped down on trafficking through the mountains. They were a constant hazard. Razin learnt the Gaelian Home Office, in conjunction with the Gaelian Army, had initiated a scheme to eliminate trafficking along the Aodh range.

Until he could assess the situation, he had to redirect or interrupt business, incurring the wrath of customers and costing him money. Smuggling by way of the southern coast was fraught with risk, and expensive, since much of his business was conducted in the central and northern parts of the country. His spies were few and not well-placed or canny enough. Information was sparse. At present, he owned no corrupt officials in Gaelia law enforcement, and only one or two in government.

He’d have to go to Gaelia himself.

Razin went by ferry to Harbour City, sitting in his plum-coloured RV the entire trip. He didn’t mix with passengers; he didn’t want to be seen. A man his size was hard to miss and easy to remember. As much as possible, he had to avoid the craft’s CCTV – an indelible record of his presence. For entertainment, he turned on the news, and was startled to hear, ‘In the news today, fighting broke out for the second night....’

In wartime, his family had paid close attention to news broadcasts. He’d grown up hearing such introductions as: ‘In the news today, fighting continued in Romanovca....’

‘In the news today, fighting broke out for the second night in Bedwick, Marston District....’ Hearing those words gave him the feeling he’d been transported back in time.

The city name was familiar. He opened a map on his laptop. Bedwick, right in the path of his smuggling route!

Every cloud has a silver lining.

In Bedwick, Razin found a place to set up his RV not far from the centre. He felt daring as he walked into the Constabulary to apply for a camping license. Using a false ID, he paid his fee in cash. On his way out the door, he stuffed his pockets with maps, pamphlets, and tourist guides.

He wandered, taking in the sights. He’d read about Bedwick on the ferry. Now he read the materials he’d appropriated when he’d bought his license. It was late October; Bedwick would soon hold its annual Witches’ Night Festival, locally known as The Burning. He might get a hint of an idea, or perhaps make a useful connexion.

In the mean time, he’d slake his thirst at The Hammer, The Plough, and pubs catering to law enforcement, to pick up helpful gossip.

One of the booklets he picked up was A Brief History of Bedwick, written by someone at The Pagan Aid Society. The author told the story of King Aodh, who’d named a mountain range for himself, and his brother King Afan, who’d killed his brother and persecuted Pagans, introducing Gaelia to long years of witch trials, and fiery executions in the Name of the Lord.

The author wrote glowingly of Afan’s grandson Aiden and his reforms. She included a summary, with occasional quotations, of the Trial of the Two Sisters, Gwena and Gwendolyn. Razin was fascinated; he read the text several times.

When the Trial of the Two Sisters took place, King Aiden presided with every intention of ending this unjust practice. However, the king’s rule was governed by the Constitution of Gaelia, limiting his power. The Sisters were found guilty.

Razin’s attention was rivetted by the tale’s closing:

As the flames grew and danced around them, Gwena screamed, ‘Hafan! As ye sow, so shall ye reap!’

Gwendolyn cried out, ‘On the heads of your sons’ and daughters’ sons and daughters!’

The peasants called it The Curse of the Two Sisters; it was thought further evidence of their guilt.

Scary stuff, if you believed in that sort of thing.

Razin didn’t, but all information might be useful at a future time, and he carefully stored the Bedwick History in his back pocket.

The Burning was celebrated on 31 October, at the Fairgrounds. It was a commemoration of the end of the Witch Trial Period, and included a mock trial ending with burning a ‘witch’ in effigy. It would be an entertaining distraction.

Razin circulated through pubs, starting with The Hammer and The Plough. He wandered the streets, taking in the sights, looking for opportunities. He was casual; he had time.

In the pubs, he picked up bits of information. The Constabulary force was reduced in strength because of the anti-smuggling initiative that had them traipsing through the hills. It was a thankless job; for one thing, the Army thought they were in charge, but it should have been the constables. For another, most of the patrolling was done at night when you could see bugger all, unless the moon were up. The Army had night-vision goggles, but they were a nuisance to use most of the time, and they said the constables didn’t need them. There was talk of bringing in drones equipped with infrared cameras, but it hadn’t happened yet, and really, would it do any good? You’d have to be on top of the smuggler for the intel to be useful!

Razin smiled.

Like all predators, Razin was adept at sniffing out vulnerability. He needed to find someone exploitable, and able to create, or help create, situations that drew police personnel back to the streets of Bedwick, where they were less of a hindrance. Depending on the complexity of his developing plan, he might need more than one dupe.

He sauntered along the High Street and saw a young woman entering a shop. She was tiny – barely five feet tall, weighing as much as a shadow. Her silky blonde hair reached her hips, and her figure was both subtle and delightful. The shop, The Four Elements Herbal Shop, was clearly a Pagan establishment.

It had been ages since he’d had an actual conversation, and he could use some tea! He followed the young woman into the store.

The shop was filled with wooden bins, and wall-mounted cabinets containing drawer after drawer of herb, roots, and other items of interest. The heady combination of scents filled the air, and delighted the Transnistrian. It smelled a little bit like home.

The young woman had taken a place behind the counter. When she heard Razin enter, she smiled brightly, and said, ‘Hi! May I help you?’

2

The Internal Security Executive (ISE) is an arm of the Gaelian Ministry for Law, occupying an ancient municipal building in the heart of Capitol City (referred to simply as The City).

James Sadine sat at his desk in ISE’s Intelligence Operations section, staring out the window of his office at an innocent-looking public park not far away. He was preoccupied and annoyed by a liberty his superiors had taken.

Sadine had been an ISE officer almost from the day he’d finished his National Service, twenty-something years ago. He was more than a glorified cop – he was, by training, an undercover investigator. He operated alone, usually answering only to a case officer. He was aware of the scope of his responsibilities and duties, but wasn’t conceited about them.

He possessed what his niece called his Detective Superpower. He had an uncanny knack for blending into a scene, observing in silence, and coming up with answers faster than anyone else. It was, in fact, a personality trait. In youth, he’d been more outgoing, and gotten into scrapes because he acted before the facts had been revealed. It was his duty to use his personal craftiness, this ‘superpower’ of his, to snare villains, and he enjoyed his duties most of the time.

His ISE superiors seemed to think Sadine hadn’t duties enough. He’d been assigned a trainee, a young woman who had completed studies in Criminology at the University of Areli. She’d served in ISE administration and uniform while taking her degree, and now was being advanced (‘fast-tracked’) to Intelligence Operations. Her name was Lena Baker, she was brilliant, and (Deputy Director Reinhart-Carroll told him with a sly wink) a looker with a past.

So much for operating alone.

Whatever this trainee’s past, Sadine doubted it would rate much more than a raised eyebrow. Many of Sadine’s colleagues had questionable histories. One had been a spy/assassin for Military Intelligence until he was forced to retire; another had been an intelligent criminal who joined the ISE in lieu of ninety years in prison. Still another, with no law enforcement background or training, led the Cybercrimes Division and had an impressive conviction rate. He was self-taught, under the age of thirty, and had hacked Russia’s FSB.

Twice.

Sadine was not a teacher, which was the essence of mentoring. This trainee was being visited on him for an indefinite period without so much as a ‘by your leave.’ He felt doubts, and not a little resentment, about the assignment.

An aide bustled into Sadine’s room with a sealed packet. ‘From the Palace,’ the aide mumbled, bobbing his head in a bow, and left.

Sealed packets from the Palace always came from pompous Sir Arthur Rank, Principle Private Secretary to His Majesty King Leopold III. Sir Arthur was impressed with himself and his title, and looked every bit the part of Principle Private Secretary. In his unkinder moments, Sadine imagined Rank dressed for bed in a three-piece silk pyjama set, complete with waistcoat, watch chain, and eyeglass. Sir Arthur was the quintessential snob, but Sadine had to concede, he was a loyal and hard-working servant to the King.

BY COMMAND OF HIS MAJESTY, LEOPOLD III:

You are to present yourself at the Palace at 1800 today,

to discuss the attached file. Travel to follow.  

Sir Arthur Rank/PPS to His Majesty

Sadine scanned the attached two-page report. It was a summary, uninitialed or signed.

Virginia Hadley-Soames, a former servant of the Crown, had left Their Majesties’ service, and relocated to Bedwick, a city in the far northwest. As representative of Bedwick’s Pagan Aid Society, she’d made a speech at the Witches’ Night Festival at the end of October. She spoke indelicately, and as a result, increased tensions between Pagans and Brodorian in the area.

Two weeks later (earlier today), Hadley-Soames’ body had been discovered in a park near her home in the early hours of the morning. She had been attacked with a farm tool, left at the scene.

Violence between Pagans and Brodorian had increased over the last month. It was the order of the Crown that ISE/Sadine assist Bedwick Constabulary in the investigation. One of Sadine’s tasks was to determine if there were a link between the murder and the unrest.

A conspiracy was suspected. An arrest, or arrests, were expected.

Sadine laid the royal command on his desk and resumed his gaze of the Park. The name Hadley-Soames was vaguely familiar. His reverie was interrupted by his ringing mobile. The caller ID showed a fleur de Lis; the caller was Leopold III, King of Gaelia.

‘James, I just saw the order Sir Arthur sent you,’ the King said in cultured tones. ‘I hope you don’t mind my ringing you up at such short notice. Honestly, that man can be really officious! Rosalyn and I know this Hadley-Soames – so do you. You wrote for her when you were at Sudbury, do you remember? Come to the Private Apartments at six o’clock for a conversation and dinner. I hope that’s not inconvenient for you.’

‘Not at all,’ Sadine assured the King. ‘I’ve been assigned a trainee – I’m waiting for her to arrive. Shall I bring her?’

‘Of course!’

He’d written for her? Of course! Hadley, from the military base in Sudbury!

Way back when...

Sadine had been a cadet, fresh out of university, serving his mandatory National Service at Sudbury Military Base. He had been assigned as aide to Major de Plessy, regular army, bristling with military discipline and rigorous expectation.

Major de Plessy was the Chief Information Officer for Joint Military Operations Base at MOD/Sudbury, and National Service Private Sadine was responsible for writing his speeches, media presentations, and informational documentation. The Major sometimes lent his aide to other officers and officials because the lad had a wonderful talent for writing, and was constantly looking for more to do.

In this way, Sadine had the ‘dubious pleasure’ of working with Virginia Hadley, the new deputy head of MOD/Sudbury Hospital’s Trauma Counselling Department. She was strict about how she was addressed: Miss Hadley, and nothing else. In short order, Sadine forgot her first name, or that she had one.

He worked directly under her for three endless months. He acquitted himself well, and returned to Major de Plessy, eager for more, just please, not with Miss Hadley.

The Major was impressed with his aide’s work ethic and character, and took him under his wing, but time for nurturing was limited. Sadine still had two months of National Service duty when de Plessy left the regular military, after five years of service, and returned to normal life.

It was a week before his own discharge from the Service that Sadine received a summons to the Palace.

It had been kept from everyone that Major de Plessy was the Gaelian Crown Prince, Leopold III. He’d been sent to be educated at the Sorbonne in Paris, then Peterhouse at Cambridge University in England, and had been out of the public eye for several years. On returning to Gaelia, he shaved off his signature whiskers, endured the indignity of a military scalp-sheering, and enlisted in the Army. He was unrecognizable. Only his commanding officer knew who he was, and she knew not to talk.

As soon as Leopold was discharged, he began to regrow his beard and flowing locks. He would miss military life and his anonymity: people had not bowed to him constantly, or smothered him with sycophantic purrings of ‘Your Highness’. He was allowed to drive his own car, a privilege forbidden to royalty for security reasons. He could even walk in the streets unaccompanied, and run out for cigarettes and takeaway Thai by himself.

Answering the summons, Sadine appeared at the Palace, bewildered over the honour. When the Major revealed himself to be Leopold III, Sadine privately recalled all the clever, improper jokes and brusque remarks he’d made during the months they’d worked together, and concluded he’d been invited to the Palace to be shot.

The Prince, however, was amused.

Leopold was to ascend the throne in two years. His father meant to abdicate in his son’s favour – he wanted to enjoy his old age as the Royal Father. He already had plans for fishing in Scotland, and possibly retiring somewhere in the South of France.

Leopold wanted his former aide to use his talents and enjoy a good life. Sadine was a skilled observer, researcher, and communicator. He would make an excellent investigator! Leopold didn’t want to wait until he held the orb and sceptre – he wanted Sadine as an ISE investigator now.

It meant a year’s additional training, and it began as soon as his time in National Service was up. His ISE role was uniquely structured for him. Sadine’s ambition was to be a novelist, and this transpired with ISE’s help. They even facilitated his success, up to a point. He had to write the books, and they had to be good, but ISE made sure the novels were reputably published, establishing Sadine’s authorial bona fides. It was an excellent legend for clandestine law enforcement work.

It fit with his personality. Writing is an isolated and sometimes insular occupation. It isn’t done with friends, and the audience is after-the-fact. Sadine was accustomed to entering a scene and disappearing into the background, the best place from which to observe. He enjoyed being invisible. In a sense, both his professions depended on it.

Several novels and a film adaptation later, ISE Officer James Sadine was financially secure, and during his non-literary periods, led a life of derring-do. As an author, he could go anywhere and ask anything because, as far as the public knew, he was ‘researching a novel.’ As often as not, his research became evidence for the Law Courts. Research for his last novel had shut down an entire crime family in two countries, and the book was a best-seller!

There was an additional chapter to his life before formally joining ISE that he kept secret.

While at university, he’d met and fallen in love with a wonderful, beautiful, intelligent woman named Selene. She encouraged him in his literary explorations, and when he’d graduated, she’d presented her belovéd future ‘novelist’ with a handsome briar pipe and a variety of tobaccos. ‘All writers should smoke pipes,’ she told him, loading the briar for him with its first charge of tobacco. He felt silly, but Selene was insistent, and he smoked several bowls, at the cost of a burnt tongue and the sense that he'd baked his palate.

A day later, there was a tragic explosion....

Selene’s pipe, and many more pipes in addition, became a memorial to the only woman he’d ever love.

Before the current adventure could begin, Sadine had to meet this Lena Baker looker with the past. The more he thought about how he’d been unilaterally stuck with her, the more annoyed he grew. Seniority should have been considered. He hoped he’d keep his tongue and remain courteous. All he had to say was, ‘Good afternoon. Your desk is across the hall.’

When Miss Baker entered his office at four thirty, he struggled to keep from blurting: ‘WOW!’

She was beautiful!

They shook hands, and Sadine motioned to a chair near the window. He