The Mosaic Swallow E-Book

Hendrik Hoitinga

• Herausgeber: novum pro Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Deutsch

Seitenzahl: 501

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Follow tales from the past, get into adventures of the present, and find out if romance flourishes as you rejoin some of the characters from "The Item" in search of a Titian painting, Spanish gold and the history of an ornate wooden box.

Leseprobe

Imprint

All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved.

© 2023 novum publishing

ISBN print edition:978-3-99131-993-1

ISBN e-book: 978-3-99131-994-8

Editor:René Nel

Cover images:Sebastiankiek, Winterling, Thatsaphon Saengnarongrat,Cover design, layout & typesetting: novum publishing

www.novum-publishing.co.uk

BOOK 1 – The Searcher

Dedication & Acknowledgments

For Peter;

That road trip back in ’73,

Though 50 years ago it be,

Still stirs the memory!

Thanks to;

Gilly, my wife, for her love, patience and understanding.

Margaret Alison, for her friendship, inspiration and encouragement.

Author’s favourite passage of Scripture;

‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart,

And lean not on your own understanding.

In all your ways acknowledge Him,

And He shall direct your paths’.

Proverbs 3; 5-6

And again a big thank you to Novum Publishing.

PROLOGUE; Toronto Airport, Canada

Sunday 19th May 2019

Alison Hudson apologised as she bumped into the man.

He smiled, was about to make some sort of witty remark, but she had turned and was gone. He watched as she reached a nearby departure gate and noted that she was heading for Halifax. He himself turned and walked along to his gate, unlike the lady who was in a rush and who’s face, he now recalled, registered stress, he was in no rush. Plenty of time to get to his next flight, Seattle. He had ordered a car and would drive to his destination in Oregon from there, staying overnight in Portland.

Myrtle Creek, Oregon, USA, Monday 20th May;

“Who are you?” The tone of her voice was challenging. As he was walking up the pathway, the door had opened and she had come out. She now stood on the porch. Her stance defiant. Even though he was still at some distance, he could see her eyes were focused and glaring. There was a determination that clearly flowed from her. A determination that suggested strongly that she was not to be crossed. He frowned slightly, but kept walking towards her, wondering who she was. Smiling as he drew closer he then stopped, three feet away from the bottom of three steps that led onto the porch.

“Hi, I am Thomas Klaassen, and who might you be?”

“Saw your car stop outside,” she answered, indicating the vehicle he had arrived in moments ago. “If your selling, I ain’t buying. Better you leave,” she finished, her eyes never once wavering. He looked into those eyes, a very deep blue, kept the smile on his face and reached into his jacket pocket. She was wary of his movement, but stood still and firm.

He took out a bunch of keys. “Here, catch these keys” then threw the bunch at her. Her reflexes were quick, she caught them deftly with her right hand, her eyes only very briefly leaving the man that had come up the path.

“One of those, fits the front door,” he said “I’ll step back a bit, let you try,” and keeping eye contact with her, took two steps back, all the while still smiling at her. She held his gaze for a bit longer, then looked at the keys in her hand. She selected one, then, throwing him another glance, turned and inserted the key in the lock. The key slid in smoothly and as she turned it, the tumblers worked. She took the key out again and turned to face him.

He stayed where he was; studied her. This was an unexpected turn of events.

Who was she? He guessed she would be in her mid-twenties, around five foot four, though scruffily dressed in jeans and a t-shirt that bore the name of a football team, revealing a rather scrawny figure, he was in no doubt that it wouldn’t be wise to mess with her.

“Robert was a good friend of mine,” he said, deciding to stay where he was, hopefully putting her at ease.

“How come you’ve these keys?” she asked, glancing down at the bunch in her hand.

“I had a letter from Robert, shortly before he died,”he answered, then moved towards her again.“I have the keys; picked them up this morning because he has given me this house.” Reaching the bottom step, he looked up at her, “So, the question is now, who are you, and what are you doing, in my house?” Thomas held out his hand as he mounted the first step. She threw the bunch back. He caught it.

“Claire,” she said, her faced slightly flushed now, her stance more relaxed and he noted her eyes had softened. “I … I live here.”

“How about we go inside. I really would like a coffee, and you can tell me your connection to Robert.”

She led the way inside, through the hallway, then turned to the right into the front room, which, through an archway, led to the dining room at the back and then, turning left, through to what was a modest, kitchen. He had closed the front door behind him and followed her, relieved that he had gained her trust, at least a little.

She turned, having grabbed the ready brewed coffee and retrieved a mug from a nearby tray, pouring the liquid, she asked, “How do you have it?”

“As it comes, no sugar, thanks.”

“Are you … are you going to sell the house?” she asked, her voice no longer defensive but quiet, pushing the mug towards him, then pouring one for herself.

“I don’t really know, to be honest. I received the letter from Robert, via his solicitor. It was a shock to find out he had written it only a few days before he passed. The letter, giving the name and address of the solicitor where to collect the keys, is somewhat cryptic, but that wasn’t a surprise, knowing his condition. How long have you lived here then?”

Thomas took hold of his mug and took a careful sip.

“Three years. He saved my life you know. Said I could live here. I do the housecleaning and the cooking. Did have a job for a while across the road at the gas station, but it closed, about six months ago.” She paused, then went on, “I could do the same, you know …”

He noticed her look of concern, then decided he would like to have a look around the house.

“Show me the house, please,” he asked her.

Placing her mug on the kitchen counter, she said, “Okay.” Thomas could see that the house was indeed very tidy, and clean. It had a second lounge on the ground floor, as well as a toilet off the entrance hall. Upstairs were four rooms. She first showed him the master, explaining she had fully cleaned the bedding and had taken all Robert’s clothes, as per instructions, to a local church. She then showed the room in which she slept. Again it was tidy and clean and had a cheerful look about it. The third room was a guest room with two single beds and the fourth was locked with a numbered keypad.

Thomas looked at Claire, questioning with his eyes.

“I don’t touch this room,” she said, pressing the combination on the pad. “It’s where Robert worked. He gave me the code for the door only a few days before he died.”

She opened the door and stood aside.

Thomas took it all in. It was a big room. It had two large desks, one by the window and the second at a ninety degree angle to it. There was a leather high-backed chair and Thomas could see by the marks on the carpet that Robert would obviously wheel from one desk to the other. Two walls were lined with six bookcases, then there was a couch with room for two, and a low coffee table separating the couch from a large and comfortable looking leather chair. Furthermore, as well as a desk lamp on each solid wooden desk, there was a standard lamp next to the coffee table and the last item Thomas noticed as he scanned the room, was a small refrigerator. Then, taking in more details he saw that on one of the desks stood a large monitor in front of which was a keyboard and on the other desk numerous trays and folders, a printer and a laptop.

“Wow” he said softly. Then, still taking it all in, he said, “I recall a sentence in the letter he wrote to me,”turning to look at the young blonde woman next to him, “it said, ‘Find case 1988, and look’.”

“This is what he does,” Claire said. “This is how he saved me. He found me, it’s what he does, he finds people.” Then, as an afterthought, she said, “he never mentioned you.”

Thomas said nothing, taking it all in as he stepped further into the room. He knew how his friend was, knew that this was precisely how his mind worked.

“I was his best friend, at school,” he answered, still looking around the room and at the many books on the shelves,“many years ago. We kept in touch, but not so much over the past few years. I moved to Sweden.”

“I guess that’s why you weren’t at the funeral?” Claire asked. Thomas looked at her; answered“I was away. Long haul flights, Shanghai, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Melbourne, Sydney. By the time I got home, there was a letter from the solicitor, which contained the letter from Robert. I left home immediately, flew across yesterday, drove down from Seattle and I went to the graveyard last evening … sorry I missed the funeral.”

Claire nodded an understanding,

“They called him ‘The Searcher’,” she said.

THE PRESENT; Myrtle Creek, Oregon, USA

Sunday 26th May 2019

Thomas stood on the front porch. A quiet morning in a quiet town. Sipping his first coffee of the day he reflected on these past days. The letter from Robert had been quite a shock. Over the years he had kept in touch, usually once a month, just a quick call, a quick chat. Robert wasn’t much for chatting, this he knew.

But in those brief conversations, he had never mentioned what he was really up to.

Thomas had assumed, as Robert had on occasions said he was really into history that it was general history that he had been referring to.

What he had really been doing for the past two decades, since early 2000, according to Claire, had been delving into the history of missing people cases.

Six days ago, when he had first arrived, had met Claire, and been shown around the house he had inherited, he had been blown away by Robert’s room with all the shelves and shelves of folders and books. Later that day, upon another look at, and investigation of, this room where, according to Claire, Robert spent practically all day every day, he noticed the sign that was placed on one of the two large desks.‘Search Engine’ it simply stated. In the evening, having spent time in talking with Claire, she told him that over the years Robert had successfully tracked, traced and found more than thirty-five missing people. She also explained that Robert would not take on any cases where the person had been missing for less than a year. She, however, didn’t elaborate on her own story of how she had been found.

That evening Thomas made up his mind. Robert had asked him, in that letter, to look at a case. It was time for a change. This was the opportunity. Staying the night, he had left the following day to head back to Stockholm in Sweden, to his apartment there. He was a pilot for the Swedish Airline SAS. He informed his boss of important family business he had to attend to and so resigned.

Thomas then organised a firm to pack his belongings and an agency to place his apartment up for sale arriving back at the house in the town of Myrtle Creek, just under two hundred miles away from Portland, his home town, where he had met Robert at high school, on the Saturday. On his return he had again contacted Robert’s solicitor in nearby Roseburg and had been able to finalise the paperwork, despite it being late afternoon on a Saturday. He also then discovered that, not only had Robert given him the house, but there was a substantial amount of funds coming his way. Claire was very happy to be staying and keeping house for him. She was a nice young lady and he looked forwards to the day when she felt that she could tell him her story.

Thomas, now forty-four, was single. Piloting jets all around Europe, he had spent his younger years with an attitude of work hard and play hard, conquests on his mind with a string of fair maidens scattered throughout western Europe. This was while working for a Spanish Airline. There had been a time though that he thought he had found the one. Someone to create a stable life with. But, as he had played with the heart strings of many women, she played with his. One day she was gone.

Taking stock of himself that day, he resigned, left Madrid and looked for a new job, a new home, a new him. Landed up in Stockholm. The birthplace of his great-grandfather and mother.

He heard the door behind him open and turned to see Claire coming out.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered, finishing his drink. Then looking at her, said, “I was once again looking for a new direction – a new start. Robert has given me one, I’m going to look at case 1988 as he asked me to. First though, breakfast.”

“You must have been a very good friend,”Claire said, expertly preparing an omelette for Thomas, “I mean, to give you a house and all.”

“Do you have any idea about his sister?”Thomas asked, “I believe she went to San Francisco many years ago, but, then disappeared? Is that why he started this search activity?”

Claire placed the omelette in front of Thomas, “No, I think his sister moved away to San Francisco in 2009. I also know that he wasn’t close to her. He started looking for missing people, around the turn of the century, maybe it was a New Year’s resolution. I don’t know. He was, well you know I guess, he was not very good at talking, he was caring, but, well, you know, lived in his own little world really, what is it that he had?”

“A type of Asperger’s Syndrome,” Thomas answered, tucking in to his breakfast. “He wasn’t diagnosed until he went to high school. He was always very good at focusing on certain things, good at maths, a logical mind, but lacking in social skills. It meant he was an easy target for bullying. I liked him, thought he was a great character. We got on well.”

He was about to reflect on the day they met, when Claire broke into his thoughts, “I’ll need to get some groceries and other stuff. Also, perhaps you can tell me what you would like to eat, so that …”

“Claire,” Thomas interrupted, “I appreciate your willingness, doing the housework, the cleaning that’s plenty, getting groceries and stuff, all good, but you don’t have to cook. Well, apart from these omelettes, which taste great, but, you know, I can look after myself. Want to look after myself. Cook for you sometimes. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that, well as far as I’m concerned, this is your house as much as is it mine, okay?”

Claire, nodded. Not knowing what to say, she smiled and nodded, fearing that if she were to try and talk that she would burst into tears.

Armed with his second coffee of the day, Thomas went upstairs and into the room he now referred to as,‘The search engine’, and sat at the desk by the window.

The case that Robert had mentioned in his letter was in a folder on the desk clearly labelled at the top right-hand corner with the title; Case 1988.

It was there, ready for him. It had been there when he had first entered this room and had been overwhelmed by the bookcases full of folders and books and had not even taken in the very file that lay in plain sight.

Robert had obviously been aware of an illness that would bring an end to his life. The way he had written the letter, confirmed that.

Giving the combination of this room to Claire a few days earlier, also confirmed that. It was also obvious, for whatever reason that this case was particularly important. Sitting down in the comfy leather desk chair, Thomas placed the mug on a coaster, then reached over and took hold of the file, opening it.

He began to read.

Outside someone was watching, observed the young woman leaving the house and getting into her battered VW Passant station car and set off in the direction of town. The figure then exited the car, strolled over to where the car belonging to Thomas Klaassen was parked, quickly ducked down and placed a gadget of sorts next to the exhaust pipe, stood upright and walked on, almost in a fluid motion, then turned, crossed the street, double backed to where their car was and got back in. The ignition turned the engine on and the car moved away.

THE PAST; Period 1 – Part 1

The year 1814 – Colombia

With snorts and heavy breathing, the four horses stopped almost simultaneously.

The four men, perspiring as much as their horses, looked down from the hill upon which they had arrived with sighs of relief. Below lay the river. The Sumapaz river.

Water for the horses, a little bit a shade from some low shrubs and rocky outcrops. The leader, a man named Philippe Castagnet, looked across to his companions and smiled broadly, then set his horse in motion, slowly stepping down the hill towards the river, whose sounds reached their ears. The horses too, smelled and heard it, their ears turning towards the sound. With an occasional snort the four dark brown coloured horses stepped almost in single file, and upon reaching the river’s edge, the riders dismounted, with an effort took the saddles and saddlebags off and led the animals to the edge, choosing a spot where they would be able to safely drink.

Philippe and the others then set about filling their water flasks with fresh and cool water, also splashing themselves. The evening was coming. The light was fading.

The horses, having had their fill of the water, wandered around and began to graze on the light covering of some type of pampas grass.

They had been riding all day. Sometimes just at a walk, but often a light trot. Resting briefly only three times prior to their arrival at the river’s edge.

They would set up camp here. Philippe stood and looked at the flowing water and looked at a map in his hand.

They were doing well and he was pleased. They would cross the river in the morning and tackle the next stage of their journey.

All carefully planned. All worked out in the finest detail …

… It had been a couple of hours before dawn when they had quietly slipped out of the city of Bogota. The streets were quiet. Though there had been tension in the region, and there had been some unrest and even skirmishes, the last couple of days had been relatively calm. The four riders, going just by the light of the half moon and stars, left the city behind. It was cold in the night air and the horses, perhaps sensing the need for quietness, seemed to be tiptoeing along the dirt road out of town. Each man had a roll, containing a blanket, clothes and provisions, tied just behind the saddle, and each man had a set of saddlebags. So began their journey that brought them to this point …

… The saddles had been placed on the ground and the saddlebags were draped over several rocks. Two of the men had fetched dry wood, a third was preparing a pot of strong coffee that soon would be heated by the fire. Philippe turned, tucked the map away and looked at the four saddles and the sets of saddlebags.

They had done it. Al they needed to do now, was to travel a further distance of close to three hundred miles, hopefully, over the next six days.

A fire was soon lit and the night fell quickly. Their faces shone dimly by the light of the flames. The sound of the river flowing and the occasional snort of a horse could be heard along with the gentle crackling of the fire.

Earlier that day

Jose de Garagoa stood on the balcony of his hacienda. Hands in pockets, he stared out over his land. Three miles away was Bogota city. His wife of 12 years wisely kept silent as she knew her husband was not in a good mood. In fact, he was angry. First he had learned that four of his horses had been stolen. Fine horses, cavalry horses that he and his team of rebels had liberated from the Spanish some months ago. Stolen from under his nose.

That wasn’t the worst of it. A rider had arrived from the city earlier in the morning, had come galloping up the long road leading to the house, only moments after Jose had learned of the stolen horses. The Patron, as he was locally known, had a house in the city, set right amongst other larger buildings in the main street. Here he kept acquired treasure, paintings, artefacts, jewellery.

He also kept a mistress there.

The rider, sweating from the ride and flushed with worry as to what his master would say, haltingly stuttered out the news. The house had been broken into and the Patron’s study had been burgled. The chest, containing gold coins, had been forced open, the contents gone.

After a verbal explosion, Jose had gathered some of the men and barked out his commands, to find out what exactly had happened, how it had happened, who had been so brazen in doing so and most importantly, where had they gone? He had not once considered the welfare of his mistress.

That had been nearly two hours ago. It was now a little after midday. His wife, Dacha, sat quietly in the cane chair. Inwardly she was amused at his distress.

He had spent more time in his house in the city these past months. She knew he had a mistress there. Wondered if she might be involved in whatever had happened, wouldn’t that be amusing, she thought to herself, and had to concentrate hard not to smile.

It was more than an hour later that two of his men rode up to the house and reported. Not much information. There had been four men, most likely Spanish, who had left the city in the early hours of the morning, heading north.

It appeared they had only broken into the house to gain entry to his study and had taken the coins, obviously knowing that they were there. Nothing else was touched or taken. Apparently his mistress hadn’t even been woken, had slept through the whole thing. By nightfall there had been no further reports as to the whereabouts of these four men.

The following day Philippe and his men had once again set off before the sun had fully risen, had carefully crossed the river and were on their way to a town some forty miles away, Girardot. Though traversing through a terrain that was known to receive much rain throughout the year, it remained dry.

The going was good and stopping briefly only once, they came to a farm just north of the town just after midday and made straight for the large barn.

The doors opened and a man came out.

Pleased to see him, the riders dismounted and there were handshakes and hugs all around. Inside the barn were six horses.

Meanwhile, to the south of the city of Bogota, Caprice dismounted and studied the ground.

She cursed under her breath and showed her fury to the ranch hand who was sat on his horse, looking down at her, waiting instructions from the fiery tempered daughter of the Patron. She stood up and looked at the sky.

Rain was coming.

Taking another look at the tracks she’d found, she drew a conclusion, standing up, she voiced her findings to the young ranch hand,“They doubled back, left the city heading north, but, as these tracks tell us,” she said, looking down, “they are in fact heading south.”

Caprice swore again, and scowled up at the young man she had ordered to accompany her as she mounted the horse. She had already told the young lad that one of the four horses that had been stolen had been hers. A fine animal.

Moreover, she knew that as her horse had been separate from the other three, it had been carefully chosen. She knew who had taken it.

When she heard the commotion yesterday morning, she confessed to her father that she’d been having a dalliance with a Spanish guy, Philippe. Told him she had been leading him on, teasing him and flirting with him. She knew that it must have been him. Later in the day, she told her father she would take a ranch hand with her the next morning. She would track them down, she was very fond of her horse.

He had understood.

She turned her horse around, and headed back to the hacienda. She would need provisions and a spare horse, as well as a weapon. She would take her father’s long barrelled shotgun and extra ammunition. She knew how to use it.

“I will hunt you down Philippe,” she said, spurring the horse underneath her into a trot. The ranch hand struggling to keep up with the pace.

THE PRESENT; Myrtle Creek

Still Sunday 26th May

Case file 1988 contained several documents. There was a newspaper article, a police report, a weather report, then several sheets type written by Robert. There were a dozen or so photographs and two computer discs.

Settling himself on the couch, mug of coffee on the small table beside him, Thomas, having flicked through the contents of the folder, then commenced reading in the sequence Robert had placed the information. The newspaper article first.

‘Tornado sweeps through archaeological dig. Four dead, 17 injured’was the headline.

Thomas checked the date: 1988, hence the name of the case file he surmised, and read the article. He was only just starting to read the police report, when there was a ‘ding’.

Curious, he got up and went over to the desk and noticed that there was a cell phone-like piece of equipment attached to the main computer.

This was lit and the screen had just one word on it. ‘Message’.

Figuring that as it was connected to the main, what Robert called his ‘search engine’ Thomas fired up the computer, knowing, by instructions left, the password. Entering this he saw the big screen lit up, showing a background picture of an idyllic beach scene with palm trees. The picture disappeared as another screen came to view.

‘Message Board’ showed in big letters as the heading. Below it an icon was flashing beside the symbol of a bell. Thomas moved the mouse and clicked.

Immediately a message came on the screen.

Thomas read it, read it again, sat back, then read it again, before getting up, leaving the room and calling out for Claire.

Moments later he returned, Claire in tow, and gestured to the screen.

Claire glanced at Thomas, then sat herself in the chair and read the message.

‘Robert, urgent, probable abduction, female, depart Plymouth Mon noon, arrival Bilbao Tue 1.30. Company J. Inverno.

Send help’.

DP.

Claire looked up at Thomas.

“Do you know what this is about?” he asked her, but before she could formulate an answer, he went on to say,“I thought Robert only looked into cases that were over a year old, so what is this? Who is DP, and what does it mean, ‘send help?’”

Thomas, perhaps not really expecting an answer, began to pace the room.

Claire stood up from the desk chair, waited until he stopped pacing, and caught her eye, gave her his attention. She then spoke.

“Robert does … did, the searching, he would be in here every day, usually all of the day. It was his life. When, … when I was rescued, it was the police who freed me, but there was someone else, a woman. She did not say who she was, but told me about Robert and how his investigation led to my rescue.

“Determined to find out who this Robert was, I searched, asked around and found him, knocked on his door, and, well, stayed. Anyway, Robert must have connections all over, helpers I suppose.

“This DP must be one of them. As for sending help, I have no idea who you might call. Looking at the time mentioned,” Claire said, again looking at the screen, “it seems there is little. Plymouth, I think, must be in the UK and I know that Bilbao is in Spain …”

“Yes,” Thomas agreed, “and looking at the schedule, it has to be a boat, a ferry perhaps. Claire, could you possibly search for the quickest way I can get to Bilbao, preferably before Tuesday?”

“I will investigate and check out the Plymouth – Bilbao connection and this company, J. Inverno.”

“Of course,” Claire answered, saying as she exited through the door, “A woman is in danger. We must do something.”

“We must do something”, Thomas whispered as he tried to get his head around all that was happening. Obviously, whoever this DP is doesn’t know about Robert’s death. A reply to his urgent e-mail was also needed.

‘DP, Robert passed. Will follow up on request. Stand by. TK’,he typed on the screen below the message and pressed reply.

As the incoming message had been brief and somewhat cryptic, Thomas felt it best to do likewise. Not much later he found out that there was a ferry service between Plymouth and Bilbao, and had just found details of a trucking company, based in Santander, called J. Inverno., when Claire called from downstairs.

Thomas went down. She had placed her laptop, actually a spare one Robert had given her, on the dining room table, notepad and pen by her side and looked slightly flushed and pleased with herself as she began to tell him what she had found.

He looked at his watch when she had finished speaking, “That leaves me little time. I’ll get my credit card. We’ll book this. Well done!”

Forty minutes later Thomas got into his car, waved to Claire on the porch and set off, destination, Portland airport. From there he was booked on an evening flight to Atlanta. He would overnight in a hotel near the airport and was scheduled to fly out just after 4 pm the following day. The flight would arrive in Bilbao a little after 8 am, Tuesday morning.

The ferry was due to arrive at 1.30 pm, giving him probably around three hours to disembark, go through customs and hire a car. As long as the flight was on time that should be time enough.

The instruction he had received from Robert, with regards to logging into his computer system, he left with Claire. There had been no reply from DP.

Thomas asked Claire to update him should another message from DP come in, then he’d packed a suitcase, wondering what it is he hoped to do once in Bilbao.

Forty minutes into his journey, the car that had been parked in his street, was five cars behind and now maintaining that distance between them.

THE PAST; Period 1 – Part 2

The year 1814 – Colombia

There was rain in the air. But that was fine, knowing the severity of a downpour in these regions, it would wash out their tracks. Philippe was again pleased with the progress they were making now that there were five of them on fresh horses, and with a spare horse as well. It had taken them a little longer than anticipated, to find a good place to cross the Magdalena River. Had it rained earlier, it would have been even more difficult, but once on the other side the pace was good and they were eating up the miles.

The destination on this third day was Cajamarca, some sixty miles to the south west.

Philippe led the team, set the pace, sometimes a short jog, a short run, then back to a walking pace before once again going to a trot. The horses were fit; the ground was easy. He spoke little. Sometimes he would hear his men chatting, laughing at times, then there were miles and miles of just silence. Horse and man, each with their own thoughts. The fit horses easily carrying the rider and the weight of the gold in the saddlebags. It began to rain, very lightly.

Philippe knew that by now the pursuit, for he was sure that the Patron, Jose, would not let this go without some sort of effort to capture them, would likely have picked up their trail. How far would they go, he wondered, as he once more broke into a trot, his men following suit.

At a little over six foot, he was of sturdy build, with dark hair, bronzed skin, brown eyes and a smile that made many a fair maiden blush. He thought of the lovely Caprice.

Caprice: she would make sure that she would be among a team that Jose would send, He was sure of that. She would find the barn, would find her horse, would find the note he left her. They had some good times together, riding, dining and dancing. Making love.

Yes, he was sure that a team would be chasing them. He was also sure that once they tracked them for a distance, they would likely figure out where they were headed.

But they had a big head start, and with fresh horses, this next stage would no doubt see them even further ahead. Still, as the rain began to fall more heavily, he acknowledged that they still had many miles to cover and it wouldn’t be entirely impossible for the Patron to send a solo rider to head for their final destination and gather some men to form a team to apprehend them.

He shoved the negative thoughts from his mind. For now they were well on their way and what’s more, at the pace they were going, it would be highly unlikely anyone could overtake them. Furthermore there was a team of six men preparing things ahead of their arrival, which would hopefully be in three days’ time.

Philippe once more slowed to a walk and thought about the need to stop for a meal, a drink and a rest, particularly for the horses.

It was also raining as the team of five men and one woman, reached the outskirts of the town of Girardot.

Caprice, a good tracker, seeing the spoor leading to the north of the town instructed the young ranch hand who had been with her the day before, to stay with her and for the rest of the men to go into the town and ask around. She would follow the track to the north.

The men, an assortment of labourers in the employ of the Patron, followed her orders and rode away, hoping at least for some shelter and some food as they had been riding now for a day and a half, much of it through the night.

Caprice followed the tracks and fifteen minutes later saw the large barn.

Setting her horse into a gallop, she reached it in no time, dismounted and taking the rifle from its sheath, approached the barn doors.

She could hear the noise of horses inside and opened one of the large doors.

Four horses. Among them, her own. There was no one around.

Putting the rifle down, she approached her own horse, speaking to him, rubbing his face, patting his neck as she cast an eye over the animal.

He was calm, as were the other horses, They had feed and drink available.

Walking around her horse, checking him all over, she then noticed a piece of paper, folded and stuck into a slit in the wooden box that made up the stall.

The young ranch hand had also entered the barn by now and saw the Patron’s daughter as she retrieved a piece of paper.

Taking it, unfolding it, and reading it, Caprice cursed.

Then, she led her horse outside and began to unsaddle the horse that she’d been riding, she spoke aloud. “I will hunt you down Philippe!”

This to the amusement of the young man who carefully hid his smile.

THE PRESENT; Somewhere over the Atlantic

Monday 27th May

Booking first class not only allowed Thomas the security of a seat on this flight to Bilbao, but also afford him the luxury of space as he opened his laptop to commence his search. Though having purchased these flights on his own credit card, he thought about the funds that Robert had left him. Not one to spend much on himself as his life was all in that room, the funds, mainly given by grateful families, grew into a substantial amount.

Thomas had slept surprisingly well, had arranged a late check out and left for the airport at 2 pm. He was used to flying, had flown many hours with a Spanish airline before working for the Swedish airline. He knew Bilbao a little, but had never stayed overnight there.

The first thing he began to arrange, after take-off and a nice dinner, was to book himself a car for when he arrived. Next was to do some further research on the freight company based in Santander, J. Inverno, and during the flight he discovered that it now belonged to a woman, a Miss Juliette Inverno, who had inherited it from her father.

They had a fleet of ten trucks and regularly transported goods to and from the United Kingdom, Germany and Denmark.

He sent an e-mail to Claire, asking if she had any more communications from this mysterious DP. Then, already over half way on the journey, he sat back as the jet crossed the skies over the Atlantic Ocean, and thought about his friend, Robert.

You’re quite the man Robert, finding all those missing people. How did this come about, Thomas wondered, and thought back to when he first met him …

… Lincoln High School, in the North-West district of Portland. The year 1990. Thomas had arrived as a new pupil as his folks had moved from a different part of the city. It was his first day, first lunch in the school’s canteen. Sitting at a table he noticed a couple of lads prompting another boy to “Do it – go on.”

The boy, gangly, not very tall, with quite ruffled brown hair and brown eyes, after some more goading, got up and headed for a group of three girls who occupied a table.

They were the only ones at that table, despite there being room for five more. Thomas watched, and, through conversations he’d already had during his first morning, knew that these were the ABC girls, their speciality, bullying.

He noted the two lads who had prompted this guy, whose name he would soon discover, was Robert, were watching in amusement.

Robert approached the three girls, and addressed the one in the middle, this being Barbara, as they always sat or walked in the same formation, Alison, Barbara and Cynthia, hence their reputation as the ABC girls.

Thomas took a bite of his sandwich and watched, as it seemed, did many others for there was a hushed silence. What followed had not been very nice. After Robert had asked the girl in the middle, Barbara, if she would like to go to the school dance with him, which was in two weeks’ time, the three of them began to berate and belittle him with a flow of unkind words audible to everyone.

It was Thomas who moved first and walked over to where Robert, now quite flushed with embarrassment, stood frozen to the spot.

“Come on, leave them to it. They get their kicks from belittling others, but they are nothing more than cowards.” Thomas looked each of them in the eye, then steering Robert away, turned to look at the trio once more and said, “Your amusement today, will one day turn to sorrow …”

A stewardess broke into his reminiscing asking if he would like another coffee.

Two rows behind Thomas, the person that had placed a gadget under his car, sat quietly, enjoying a glass of wine. The powerful jet engines droned on, pushing the craft towards the European continent as daylight began to fade.

THE PAST; Period 1 – Part 3

The year 1814 – Buenaventura

In a tavern near the waterfront, Henry Hopkins slowly sipped the lukewarm beer as daylight began to fade. It had been another hot day. The tavern was only half full. The situation in Colombia had been tense for some time, with Creole fighting Creole. The Spanish were on the back foot and there was talk about Simon Bolivar and his army gaining much ground in the region.

Henry, who had been unable to speak a word of Spanish upon his arrival in South America, landing in Caracas in 1803 and travelled on to Colombia. Now, nearly eleven years later, – spoke it fluently.

He had been working in a silver mine that lay between Bogota and Cartagena and during that time had rarely set foot in either the current capital or the large seaport.

Recently he had picked up on the various battles that were raging in the region, and figured that the time was right to move on, head further south, maybe even into Peru. He sipped some more of the local brew.

Standing only around five foot six, he was sturdily built and those who knew him, would not cross him. Though a very likeable man, he certainly wasn’t one to be hassled.

Buenaventura.

He and his team of four men had located stables on the edge of town and had stalled their horses and three wagons there. It had been early afternoon when Henry headed into the city leaving the men to rest up and guard their horses and equipment. They had already travelled many miles through some rugged terrain and were grateful for a rest and a bed to sleep in, which had been sourced shortly after their arrival.

Henry sipped some more beer and thought back …

… bringing to mind that sea journey that brought him to the South American continent; remembering how he had been so sunburned and had purchased several large brimmed hats at the ports trading post. This had been in Caracas, Venezuela. From there another journey by ship to Cartagena and then onwards to the mines which he had heard about. Upon his arrival at the mine, all those years ago, it had quickly become obvious that Henry had a vast amount of knowledge, which he had gained working in the tin mines of Cornwall. He was soon made into a team leader with a group of nearly two dozen under his control.

It was also during this time that he met fellow Cornishman, Richard Trevithick, a pioneer in the area of steam. Henry spent some time with him. They were an interesting looking pair with Henry a sturdy five foot six and Richard standing six foot two. They bonded well and quickly, and Henry purchased two steam pumps from this brilliant inventor, with the intention of using them in the future, already thinking about setting up his own business.

Then recently, feeling more and more that it was time to move on, he had the idea to head for Ecuador, having sourced some knowledge on mines near the city of Quito …

… Looking out over the harbour, the oncoming dusk creating a soft glimmer on the water, he was pleased that he had decided to move on.

Ecuador was not that far away now. He was pleased with the team of men he had picked. These four had been part of his team for the past three years.

They were hard working, reliable and trustworthy. When Henry had spoken about his plan, they had unanimously agreed and were enthusiastic about this adventure.

Henry finished his beer, got up and left the tavern, looked out over the ocean and wondered about the events of a little earlier.

There had a been a commotion in the city, at the harbour front. In fact, there had been a gun shot and much shouting.

Then, as he had been walking along the waterfront, in search of a tavern to quench his thirst he saw the ship. It had left its moorings and was sailing out of the port. A small two-master, the sails already set and catching the wind. She was fast, Henry observed. He watched for a moment or two, then resumed his walk to later hear about what had happened when a group of men entered the tavern, excitedly chatting away.

The Spanish had for a time kept a stronghold in Bogota, not only housing a garrison there but it was also where they minted the silver and gold coins to pay the soldiers and purchase goods. A local uprising and a strong force of Creole had sent the Spanish retreating to the north. From the conversation, Henry learned that apparently this stronghold was ransacked and destroyed and a local and powerful landlord, the ‘Patron’, a certain Jose de Garagoa had found a chest of gold coins, which he promptly confiscated.

Now it appeared that it was this chest of gold that had now been stolen back by a group of Spanish soldiers. This according to a lone rider, who had traversed the country to warn the port authorities of this theft. However, the warning had been in vain. The robbers had easily overpowered the two men who had tried, somewhat reluctantly, to stop them. One them firing a shot that had been well wide of the mark.

As he walked back towards the stables, Henry thought about this occurrence and figured it must have taken quite some planning for it to be stolen from Bogota, at least three hundred miles away, transported to this port, a ship waiting and heading to who knew where. Henry smiled as he reflected on the account the men in the tavern had given of this commotion, and of the fact that the port authorities had quickly launched a small vessel in pursuit. Though what they thought they might accomplish against a ship armed with four cannons, was beyond him. They would have no chance however, to even catch up. The much faster schooner was well away. Henry couldn’t wait to tell his men of this event.

They would spend the night here, pick up fresh supplies then head towards Quito in Ecuador, over five hundred miles away.

The schooner, aptly named ‘Flecha’ meaning arrow, was indeed, well away.

Philippe was pleased and standing on the deck near the stern watched the land disappearing in the distance.

He had expected that there might be some resistance; figured that somehow word might have reached the city of the Spanish horsemen heading their way with stolen treasure. The single rider, on a horse that was lathered in sweat, had arrived only moments before they were all set to board the schooner. Though the young man had begun to shout some sort of warning, as he dismounted, he practically collapsed to ground with extreme fatigue.

The resistance was weak and futile. An elderly man with a rifle, picking up on what the young rider had shouted, had tried to persuade them to stop, aided by a port authority man, but these two were quickly overpowered once the man had fired his rifle.

Both men were then – pushed off the dock into a small fishing vessel.

By the time they had extricated themselves, the schooner was away.

They scrambled to get a vessel into a pursuit, but were quickly resigned to the fact it would never catch the fleeing schooner.

Philippe smiled, thinking how well they had done …

… They had safely reached Cajamarca on the third day, and had then ridden just over sixty-five miles on the fourth day to reach the town of Zarzal. Day five saw the team ride, carefree, through the countryside on a hot and sunny day to arrive in Buga in the late afternoon. On the sixth day they crossed another big river, this one the Cauca River.

It had taken them a while to find a suitable place to cross as it had rained the previous evening, but once on the other side they made up some ground and reached the outskirts of Buenaventura in the early evening, another day’s journey of around sixty-five miles. On the seventh day, after waiting until mid-afternoon and a suitable tide, they rode into town, arrived at the dock, unpacked, dealt with the port authorities and set sail, leaving the city of Buenaventura, its name meaning ‘good fortune’, behind in their wake.

Well, certainly good fortune for them. After a very brief hiccup in the proceedings, mission accomplished …

… Philippe briefly thought about Caprice, then turned and headed for his cabin, where, the gold coins were now safely put into a strongbox.

Eight hundred of them.

In order to distribute the weight evenly, they had carefully counted a hundred coins into each side of the saddlebags, thus each man carried two hundred, a weight of around 100 pounds. Four of them, a total of eight hundred coins, minted in Bogota around 1770. These were Charles III coins, with the inscriptionIN-UTROQ-FELIX – AUSPICE – DEOaround the edge. Philippe was in no doubt that these would hold and likely increase in value.

They were heading north for Mexico. And as the sun set the seas were calm and a soft breeze was assisting the schooner to slide smoothly through the water of the Pacific Ocean.

THE PRESENT; Myrtle Creek

Monday 27th May

Armed with a fresh bottle of still water,Claire went upstairs, punched in the code and entered the room. She switched on the lights, placed her bottle on the desk and fired up the computer. It was a little after 8am.

She had woken at 7.30, decided to get up straight away, showered and dressed, and then went downstairs to fix herself some breakfast. Typing in the security code Claire sat back for a moment and thought of her changed circumstances.

When she finally tracked down the man responsible for her rescue and knocked on his door, he had been welcoming and friendly. Her decision to stay and be the housekeeper had been accepted and she felt safe, secure and happy for the first time in a long time. But although Robert was a nice man, he was very much living in his own world, practically living in the room she was now in. When Thomas had asked how it came about that Robert came to do this, came to search for missing people and successfully so, she didn’t know.

It was different now. Thomas was so different.

She had been a little in awe when he had said he would go and answer the call of ‘Send help’.

Claire was determined to be more than she was before, more than Robert had allowed her to be, always adamantly saying this was his role in life and that he would do so, alone. His attitude in that didn’t take away the fact that she thought the world of him. After all, if it hadn’t been for him …

The screen came to life, the scene of the beach and palm trees and a very blue sea.

It was different now, Thomas asked for her help, and she would certainly help. Moreover, she was also determined to find out more about Robert, even hopefully find her own case amongst his files. There was no new message, nothing from the mysterious DP. Thomas was flying into a situation. She needed to help, in some way, in this, probable abduction?

Claire set about to do research to, in some way, assist Thomas.

She began by searching what Robert had on his ‘Search Engine’ computer.

In particular she was aiming to find out who this DP might be. The message had been so cryptic, so short, probable abduction? Wasn’t he sure? A female? Who was she? She would check the newspapers from England for any possible news on that.

Meanwhile some 440 miles to the south, in San Francisco

It was Memorial Day.

Millie Parker stood with her arms folded and looked out over the vast Pacific Ocean. A soft breeze was gently tugging at her hair. Her eyes were moist and there was a frown on her forehead as she thought of the many events that ran, randomly, through her mind. Not too far behind her was a wooden bench, one she had sat on, over thirty years ago, as a twenty-one-year old, sitting between her grandparents, her mother’s parents, well, step-parents, as they had adopted her from her mother’s sister. She had been crying then, for her mother had been killed in a tornado in New Mexico.

Millie stood quite still, trying hard to reassemble all her thoughts into some form of logical pattern. Being Memorial Day, a nation remembering the fallen throughout the wars, she felt it appropriate to come here. Her grandparents were long gone now, buried here also, in this cemetery on a hillside to the north of the city.

In fact, her father had arranged it so that they lay either side of her mother. Her father was now in his mid-eighties; had never been the same man since his wife, her mother, Emily, had died.

He sold the mining company in Harris back in 2009 and had moved here to be close to her, his only daughter.

Millie took in a deep breath, flicked some of her brunette hair away from her face and reflected on her own life …

… She had gone off to Milan, as planned, at her father’s insistence as he moved to Canada, to the town of Harris where he took over the company mining business. She spent two years studying fashion and tailoring. Had then fallen in love with a likeable rogue as she travelled back to America. Lived together with him in Miami, where he was from, but three years later had left him behind and moved back to San Francisco. Having also studied art and literature and finding no success in establishing a career in fashion, she applied for, and was accepted, as a teacher in a fashionable and elite girls school.

Hearing some people behind her, she turned and smiled at them as they walked by, then turned once more to face the sea, remembering when her father had stood on this very spot that day. Where had the years gone.

The breeze coming in from the ocean was pleasant on her face and she again pulled some hair away from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear.

Taking another deep breath, she reached inside the handbag that was slung across her shoulder and retrieved a letter.

She had received it ten days ago, but had only found and opened it yesterday, after coming back from a short holiday. She drew the note from the envelope and read it again. It was very short, somewhat cryptic, it read;About your mother’s death in 1988, can you help with some information I am looking for?Regards, Robert Pentegrass.

Then there was a contact e-mail address.

Millie put the letter back.

Robert Pentegrass, Pentegrass, she knew that name, but couldn’t think from where.

Making a decision, she retrieved her phone, rechecked the contact e-mail address on the letter and sent a message.

In Myrtle Creek a ‘ding’ alerted Claire of an incoming message.

Millie put her phone back into her handbag.

She again began to wonder what this might be about and again, as she looked out over the ocean, many other thoughts began to mingle in her mind.

Once more reassembling those thoughts into some form of pattern she fixed her thoughts on her great-grandfather. Thinking of the history about him that she knew, his name was Carlos and he had arrived by ship from Acapulco and settled here back in 1924.

THE PAST; Period 2

The year 1823 – Acapulco, Mexico

Philippe Castagnet walked into the store on the waterfront, nodded a friendly hello to the young man who was behind a counter arranging a number of fish hooks into a wooden display box, and had a look around.

Zoltina Huanca asked if could be of any help and came around the counter to greet his customer.

“I am in need of some fishing equipment, and, I believe you hire out your vessel?”

Nine years. It had been nine years ago when Philippe had traversed practically the breadth of Colombia with the gold. Nine years since he and his men had successfully reached Buenaventura and had set sail for Acapulco. All had gone well, smooth sailing, a buoyant crew in a joyous mood, until a day out of their destination. In the evening before their arrival the weather turned, the sun had set and the wind increased. The sun and its light, had given way, to darkness. The seas changed, and within minutes the wind rushed at them. They had not even time to lower the sails.

The waves dramatically increasing in height and power, the sails ripped to shreds, the schooner floundered and was pushed by the wind and waves onto the shoreline. There was nothing anyone could do. At the mercy of nature the ship was swept closer and closer to the shore. A rocky shore.

The men held on to what they could, soon seeing the white of the froth on the wave tops as they rolled against the rocks. There was nothing to do, but get ready to abandon ship when the moment presented itself.

Nine years ago.

“Yes, it is the one directly opposite,’ Zoltina said, pointing.

Philippe looked through the window of the store, he had spotted the vessel before entering, wondering if that was indeed the boat he could hire.

It would do very well.

“Yes that will do fine,” he said, turning his attention to the fishing equipment that lined the walls. Twenty five minutes later he had agreed a price for the hire of the boat and had purchased what he needed.

Nine years!

As he left the store, thanking the young man who, after some friendly chatter and bartering, he had discovered was originally from Peru, and indeed a very knowledgeable and likeable young man, Philippe headed for the tavern not far from the dockside where they were waiting. All this time had passed.

Taking another quick look at the vessel he had just hired from the young man who’s grandson would, nearly a hundred years later, travel to San Francisco, Philippe walked back into the town centre, thinking back to that fateful day …

… So destructive had that quick storm been. He recalls jumping ship, when he gave the word to do so,shouting the command and watching his men, through the rain make the jump before he did so himself, he remembers shivering as the water had not only been seething, but cold. It was like a cauldron. He was sure at the time that he was going to die.

After what seemed like forever, but was likely no more than minutes, he was first struck against some rocks, then swept onto the beach itself. When he opened his eyes, he realised that he was breathing, he realised that he was alive. He was in pain, a lot of pain. All down one side. He was bleeding.

Making an effort to sit up, he managed, but it was very dark all around.

The wind had subsided and the sea was calm, he could hear the waves gently lapping onto the shore. His eyes slowly adjusted and the clouds broke to reveal a few stars. He carefully felt along his body, where the pain was, the left side of his chest was partly laid bare, his clothes having been shredded and he recalled his crash against the rocks.

Part of his trouser leg was also torn, he felt blood, both on his chest and his left leg, but grimacing as he tried to get up, he knew that nothing was broken.

To his relief, the leather skin water bottle, the same one that had served him well on his horseback journey from Bogota, was intact.

He opened it and drank, but then immediately felt dizzy. He managed to screw the lid back on the water bottle as he sat on the sand and then his eyes rolled upwards as he passed out.

Some time later, he opened his eyes, blinking several times, and noticed dawn was breaking, he sat up and saw that the sea was calm and the sky was clear. He made an effort and stood up, waited until he felt steady on his feet, then straightened up, relieved that he felt stronger.