The Players

Sadie Louise Fenwick, 

Thomas's doting Aunt. Thomas's Dad's older Sister. A widow and a respected Art dealer. Her work takes her all over the world.

                                                    TT

'Saunders took another grateful drag at his cigarette, crushed the life out of it in the tiny glass ashtray beside him and smiled at the lady.

            She was tall and slim, maybe in her mid-forties. More athletic than one would call lanky. She had dark hair and even darker, smoky blue eyes. Her thin lips were shaded in a murky red lipstick, and she wore pearl earrings, only visible because her hair had been pulled back into a severe bun. She wore a beret style hat and long thin taupe colored coat that came down to her ankles. She had arrived ten minutes ago in an old Bentley; Saunders hadn’t noticed the model. She had stormed in through the door behind him and immediately started making demands.

            Typical country estate-type thought the Commander. Throwing about a lot of money, making demands and the like.'

Excerpt from

Chapter 28 (Wheel of Misfortune)

Leader of the East London Motorbike Club, The Danger Squad.

The curly red headed Cockney rider, always a helping hand.

                                               TT

‘Alfie Bean at your service, squire,’ the boy said, bowing facetiously. ‘And this lot of raggedy looking filth is the Danger Squad.’

‘Yeah,’ a voice from the crowd of motorcyclists yelled, ‘the death-defying danger squad.’

The whole place erupted into cheers and laughter. ‘Ooh-rah the danger squad! Ooh-rah the danger squad!’

‘And who might you be then, me old son?’ Alfie asked.

‘Thomas Trilby and this is my friend Charlie Greene.’ Thomas pointed towards Chubs who was having some difficulty unbuttoning Granddad’s old tweed jacket. ‘Thanks for helping us, sorry to have been a bother,’ Thomas added.

‘Yeah well, you’d likely have done yourself a mischief with them lot of bleeders.’ Alfie said, as he walked over and sat on Old Molly. ‘She’s not a bad looking old Bullet, this one, is she?’ he said, standing Old Molly up, feeling her weight. ‘A nasty bunch of bikers indeed, the old Death Wheelers, they’d have had your guts for garters, mate.’

‘I suppose you’re a nicer b-bunch of bikers, are you?’ said Chubs.

‘Bikers?’ Alfie said, some of the other riders gasped, as if Chubs had two heads. ‘Typical,’ Alfie continued, obviously annoyed. ‘Bloody typical, we are not bikers, we are motorcycle enthusiasts.’ He said, getting off the Enfield and striding back over to where Chubs was now standing next to Thomas.

‘Same thing, ain’t it?’ Chubs said, rather gingerly.

‘No, it is not the same thing! Not even close. Tell them the difference Beanstalk.’ Alfie pointed to a tall, gangly, spotty-faced boy in a leather jacket that looked as if it were about two sizes too small for his awkward, lanky frame.

‘We are motorcycle enthusiasts, true to our belief and love of the open road and the oneness of man and machine.’ Beanstalk said. His bony hand placed over his heart as if he were singing Rule, Britannia!

There were cheers and wolf whistles from the growing group of onlookers that had gathered to listen to the boys.'

Excerpt from

Chapter 16 (The Death Defying, Danger Squad)

Agent of the Sureté, the feared French, secret Police.

                                               TT

‘Bon, just so Monsieur, that is what everyone was supposed to think. I assure you that Monsieur LeBlanc is safe and sound back at my headquarters in Paris. As I say my name is Pillion, I am with the Sureté; it is how do I say, like your MI6, bon, the French Secret Police.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Thomas. ‘You mean like a spy?’

‘Bon,’ Pillion replied. ‘Just so.’

‘But what could you possibly want with me?’ Thomas sat up straight and leaned forward, his fear giving way to excitement and curiosity. ‘This obviously has something to do with Vargo and the Red Bratva doesn’t it Monsieur Pillion?’

‘My young friend, all will be revealed in due time.’ Pillion looked at the Rolex on his wrist and continued. ‘I am here as I say, to make the exchange of the information, bon?’ He gave a rather elegant tilt of his head as he spoke.

‘My story, Monsieur Trilby, begins in a casino in Paris three weeks ago.’ Thomas sat completely consumed by the story that Monsieur Pillion was reciting, his heart rate back to normal, and with no more fear of the well-tailored Frenchman. The whole thing now excited Thomas: the thought of a spy sitting across from him intrigued his curious mind.'

Excerpt from

Chapter 13 ( Le Visiteur)

Head of one of the most violent criminal organizations in the world.

Russia's Red Bratva Organizatsiya.

                                                    TT

‘So, tell us Mr. Trilby, how does a simpleton from a small town in England, intend on thwarting my Organizatsiya?’ Kozlov grinned maliciously. 

            ‘You don’t know anything about me, or my town,’ said Thomas as he stared Kozlov in the eye defiantly.

            ‘Aha,’ Kozlov exclaimed. ‘But you are wrong Mr. Trilby. I know everything about you and your, how do you English put it? – your little piss-ant town.’

            Kozlov kicked his chair from behind him and began pacing the deck.

            ‘Let me see,’ he said, thoughtfully rubbing at his chin, as if he were in deep concentration. ‘Your Mother and Father, Jill and Albert are musicians – yes? Currently entertaining a constant flow of decadent westerners in Ibiza – yes? Your grandfather retired Corporal Freddy Trilby nearly expired during our little heist. You have an aunt, a widower I believe, by the name of Sadie Fenwick, who’s an art dealer. You are modestly educated at Amery Hill School, and you have a handful of close friends, which I might add has been lessened by one recently.’     He smiled and put his hands on Sir Frederick’s shoulders. ‘Does that about sum up your pathetic little life, Mr. Trilby?’

                ‘Well,’ said Thomas, ‘you’ve a nerve calling me pathetic. I’m not surprised that your little organization’s shipping company is only number-two in Europe, after all you were number-two to your older brother.’

            Kozlov’s eyes widened, and all hint of humour left his face.

Excerpt from

Chapter 23 (Dinner with Devils)

Commander in the S.A.S, Englands Special Air Service division of the British Army.

                                      TT

'Commander Saunders looked at the tired faces around the smoky, make-shift situation room; each face seemed to have the same questioning, needy look about it. He really despised being questioned or given orders by civilians, especially women.

            He looked at the school picture of the missing boy in question that lay on the table in front of him in the center of a Scotland Yard dossier marked Eyes Only. He took a filter-less cigarette from his metal case, lit it with a match and marveled at a lungful of the smooth Turkish blend.

            Damned, Scotland Yard. He thought. Bloody load of plodding coppers. Taking me off a long overdue fortnight’s leave and dragging me down to Hampshire to play bloody babysitter for some snot-nosed little pratt, who’s gone and got himself into trouble with some Commie villains.

            Saunders felt a simple missing person’s case, was beneath an officer of his rank. This was simple Police work. Surely the Yard could manage it? Perhaps not these country bumpkins, but certainly the Yard. Lazy buggers… I mean, why not leave it to the Germans? How hard could it be? Let the local Polizei in Bremen find the little bugger. I mean for Christ’s sake, why drag me into all this? It’s no place for the SAS.'

Excerpt from

Chapter 28 (Wheel of Misfortune)