Harry is a nice guy.
He’s not going through a mid-life crisis. He’s basically been retired early.
But he’s not ready to retire. The Agency have screwed him over.
He’s resolved to his new position. But he’s far from spent.
He’s been underestimated.
And soon he’ll be set loose. His old instincts for survival will kick in.
He’s been crossed. No problems. He was part of the problem. The spymaster culture had spat him out. And when his Russian friend is killed, he has to question his allegiance to his own paymasters.
He’s debonair. He’s a pansy in the eyes of the new guard in the Russian department of the Agency.
Harry’s just lost his wife. He’s lost his career. But he hasn’t lost hope. He’s been underestimated. And he’s been duped. But that’s when Harry comes to his own. He’s lost in the wilderness of espionage. And this is where he thrives.
Old killer instincts, adrenaline and a sense of justice guide him through the foggy streets of Vienna. He’s a killer on the prowl.
‘Only when my back is against the wall.’
And then he relishes in the role of the predator.
‘But I’m not a predator.’
You are a product of your times.
Ok, the hunted hunting the hunter.
I like that.
‘And I’ll have some fun as well.’
He’s coming back to life. He’s doing what he was trained for. He’s back in his old haunts. And he’s thriving. He’s back, in his element.
‘I’m doing what I was trained for.’
A natural borne killer?
‘No, a well-trained killer who can distinguish between good and bad. I still have a moral compass to guide my actions.’
The magnetic north has moved to sunny Spain. Harry is back.
‘Well I had no real choice about it.’
You did. But you felt that your new paymasters were worth it.
‘Sasha did get my blood rising.’
Altruism too, I like that.
Now tell me about that Spanish crumpet? Big Bazooks, hay?
‘Lady of leisure. Big tits, the whole shoot and match.’
And who has that disk, you know, the old computer disk?
‘The Israelis will have it soon. Things are going to pan out the way they do.’
I feel you want blood. I bet I know who is next?
‘You got it. Just finish the damn book before I have to kill you.’
I’m really getting a good impression when I read Harry’s Rules.
‘I’m happy for you. I could do with more fans like you.’
You seem to have the product. It’s a shame you don’t plug it more.
‘I’m too busy living out the fantasize of the man I always wanted to be.’
I suspect you are being modest. You have been in the wilderness for too long.
‘I could tell you stories. Other stories.’
I’m looking forward to them. But if the CIA don’t give the go ahead, we might not be reading about Harry’s espionage exploits in Paris of the 1980s.
‘Yes, it’s called The Dove.’
Did you ever run into Hemingway on your journeys?
‘And Henry Miller and Scott Fitzgerald. They have haunted my words to this day.’
I feel you might have run into the author of Darkness at Noon.
‘I may have paid him a visit. Arthur Koestler has died with everything else that existed before the internet.’
Not if you keep up writing novels like you do. There’s still nostalgic readers like myself.
‘I got pissed with Arthur. For a little man, he could hold his booze well. He was telling me about the French resistance. He was an agent of justice and put his neck on the line a few times to get the truth out.’
I heard that George Orwell got a bullet in the neck too.
‘We lost many good men. And I won’t see it again. If I can save a few good lives, I’ll willingly put my neck out for the cause.’
The cold war never ended, did it?
‘I’m writing about current Russia. It’s not hard to join the dots. I know I won’t be getting a Christmas card from Putin.’
You won’t. You have exposed his cronies for what they are.
‘Thieves, very sophisticated thieves.’
Your book is a Movable Feast.
‘It’s my tribute to Hemingway. We could have done with more men like him in the Agency. Problem was, you can’t trust a writer. In one way or another, they’ll leak the truth through good fiction.’
And the whoring and the boozing?
‘Fucking a big titted Spanish at 30 000 feet. Yep, I try and keep it real for perverts like yourself.’
Thanks for this fictitious dialogue. I wish you all the best with Harry’s Rule.
‘You are welcome.’ Harry pulls out his Glock. ‘ Here son. Use it judiciously. Eliminate the enemy without compunction.’
Thanks Harry. It’s really not necessary. I’m sorry to have book hopped. I’ll stick to Vanya Vetto books. He has lots of big titted Asians.
‘So do I but they are European. And I’m flattered you’d want to jump into my novel. I heard about your sexploits when you jumped an Inspector Tay novel.’
I’m glad someone had bothered to read it. You have eclectic reading tastes, Harry. By the way, the book is called Sweet Smelling Water.
He walked into the night. Just like that, a silhouette of a figure in a trench coat shrouded by fog in a medieval city. I really need to read more of Michael R. Davison. I was transported back to a medieval city in Mexico. It could have been Oaxaca in Central Mexico.
That’s Harry, always on assignment in exotic locations, enlightening us and hopefully running into some stunning broad along the way.
‘Mexico City… it was back in 1968, during the Olympics. Man, do I have a story for you.’
Then Harry vanished, into the long night. The sun would rise again. And I hoped Harry was safe, somewhere, planning his next assignment.
‘But I really need to get home. My dog misses me.’
Virginia was a good a place as any. I just hope Harry gets back alive. And if he does, then someone is in very big trouble.
Who let the dogs out? I can hear that song, loud and clear. And I can see that fat prick running for his life in the forest. He’s life is going to end with a lead bullet. And the Agency is going to thank Harry for it.
Or it may pan out another way…just never take anything for granted in a potboiler like this. Michael R. Davison. is the master of twists and turns as Harry makes those slow motion moves, I can even see the bullet suspended in the air, as he dives and ducks for safety.
‘It had happened so fast, like a conjuring trick.’
That’s right Harry, you are the master of it.