Excerpt: The Prague Connection
Sturm and the Russians were standing by the refreshments, drinking coffee and chatting in the basement intelligence center before the meeting started. The previous day’s snacks had been replaced with international pastries in glass-topped cake stands: Belgian craquelin brioche, Danish kanelbulle, Lisbon tarts, Italian pasticciotto, and American cornbread. Brandt scanned the offerings, then touched his squishy middle and turned away.
After introductions, Lena Averin smiled and walked up to Brandt. “In those jeans and black turtleneck, you remind me of Steve Jobs. I met him at a Zurich conference. An interesting man.”
“I liked his style, simple and effective. Eliminates wardrobe worry,” replied Brandt. “Unfortunately, I’m dumber and a lot poorer.”
“But you’re taller. And your blue eyes sparkle more than his brown.”
“Wouldn’t know. Steve and I never met.”
Her smile turned sultry. “The curl around your ears is engaging. Very tempting to women.”
Lena was becoming scary. “So I’ve been told.”
Her hair was a statement. Forget the PhD. A playful look for a professor, a deep red French ombre that gave way to blonde ends styled in a twisted, tangled, layered look. She favored black jeans with expensive labels that could have been specially tailored for her Playmate curves. A classic white shirt with corset-style lacing at the waist emphasized her bust. Metallic silver high-fashion sneakers bred in Paris. A short Versace scarf tied close to her neck that matched her gray-blue eyes finished the look—edgy, sexy, like a supermodel who could explain quantum theory.
“I like turtlenecks on men. It’s a virile, confident look.” Her tongue slid along her lower lip.
“It’s all I wear. My sister says I’m compensating for a long list of inadequacies.”
“I bet you drive a Porsche.”
“Uber mostly. But there’s a ten-year-old Saab that balks at starting and a Land Rover the agency loans me for missions.”
Moky spoke up. “Anti-Russian missions, I believe.”
While Brandt’s tone carried the bass of a TV news anchor, Moky’s voice was the high side of midrange, harsh, brassy, harpy-like. He tried to hide a scowl that was building under a forced smile over Lena’s flirting. “Moscow graciously allowed NATO to bring you in to be our guide and cover.”
“And to help us with the locks,” Lena said.
Brandt tried to hold back his surprise. Locks on nukes again? Neither Deke nor Grayson had mentioned that his training and experience would be needed. Locks on nuclear weapons were what got him dragged into the CIA initially. Keeping the nuclear arsenal safe from jihadists, anarchists, and nutjobs who believed a few mushroom clouds could fix everything was his Army job. He left that all behind when he and Anne moved to the Bay Area and opened the travel business. After Anne’s death, Deke had convinced him to be the bait to locate a missing warhead with the lock still on. The Bosniaks who had the weapon never forgave him for destroying their plan and were still out for revenge.
Deke shifted his weight as if standing at attention. “Brandt solves two problems. We need an expert travel guide to keep the locals from asking questions . . . one who can be discreet and who knows the devices. He might be a little rusty with locks, but he’ll get the job done.”
Lena’s head wobbled approval. “I’m sure he will.”
Lena had an earthiness that gave her intelligence a stylized, sensual quality. Brandt could imagine her starting a party in a garden shed or attending a Lincoln Center gala, but he wasn’t so confident about the locks. The twenty-plus years that had passed convinced him if they needed his help with a lock, they were in trouble. He had forgotten what a SADM lock even looked like.
As everyone sat down, Deke asked Moky, “Major, how did all this happen?”
Moky attempted to minimize the dilemma. “Moscow considers it an inventory problem. Thankfully, Lena has the information to correct it. Originally, they stored them from Estonia to the Ukraine. With perestroika, a few anti-reform KGB sensed the end coming and began gathering them up.” He paused as if uncertain how much to divulge, then turned toward Gleb, who pretended not to notice. “Those that were not returned to Russia, we believe were hidden by these criminals among our satellite friends.”
Brandt thought Gleb was the one to worry about. Russia dominated Olympic wrestling, and Gleb looked part of the team. He had a barrel chest, and his shoulder muscles made his neck disappear. His murky gray eyes were like a cobra’s, ominous from birth. He soaked up every word as if prying into the team’s private thoughts like a determined shrink. He had yet to utter a word, satisfied to let Moky grapple with the Americans.
“What’s with the locks?” Brandt said.
Lena did an about-face. The playgirl professor was gone. Mensa scientist took her place. “We need to know if these weapons have been compromised and are capable of detonation. I have an instrument to measure the tritium level, so we’ll learn if it’s been replaced. The locks need to come off for the gauge to work. If it’s been refreshed, then Petrov has been able to remove the locks and rearm the weapons. I’m sure you understand what that could mean.”
Brandt did. Small, armed backpack nukes in the hands of the son of a KGB superpatriot could disturb sleep world leaders’ sleep for a long time. The urgency of the Russians that led them to ask for help made sense.
“Since the locks are copies of the ones your Army uses, new security will have to be installed for transport back to Russia,” Moky said.
There was something peculiar in his face that Brandt couldn’t identify.
Gleb bent down and lifted a box. The dark stubble on his unshaven face spread across the top of his plain head like a burr. He extracted a three-inch-long cylinder with a combination dial at one end. “These are the replacements,”
The man can speak, thought Brandt. If pit bulls could talk, they would sound like Gleb. “You have the combination for the old locks, right?”
Moky shifted his eyes away. “Moscow is working on that.”
Brandt reached toward the cylinder. “May I?”
“Of course.”
The SADM locks began to come back to him. The replacement lock in his hand was bigger than he remembered. He twisted the dial, testing its specificity, looking for clear, obvious clicks on numbers. It was like a spinning wheel, no obvious clicks making it very difficult to pick. He looked for the small slot where a lockpick tool might be inserted but failed to find one. The Russians weren’t taking any chances with the new locks. Without the combination, no lockpicking, no entry.
“What about Petrov?” Deke asked. “Have you found him?”
“We believe he’s still here in Europe,” Moky said.
Tig looked around the table. “I dunno. We look like a bunch of spies complete with a decoy.”
“Don’t worry about that. There’ll be one more on the team tomorrow,” Sturm said. “He’ll make a difference.”
***
Midmorning, they walked out to a landscaped courtyard to escape the dismal confinement of the basement for some sunlight. A coffee bar allowed access from a patio. NATO staff personnel sat on benches underneath Japanese maple and kousa dogwoods. Moky lit a cigarette.
Lena grabbed Brandt by the arm and pulled him out of range of the others, the flourish to her walk seductive, her face evasive. In a nightclub, she could pass for an arousing twenty-six; in a physics lab, a white-coated professor of thirty-nine. She handed him a lighter for her cigarette. Unlike creamy-skinned Russian women, Lena was tan, beach tan, typical of oligarch wives and mistresses. Brandt lit her cigarette and watched her exhale toward a budding maple, then smile.
“Please forgive my flirtation. I don’t mean to be taken serious. Moky and I have an unfortunate history. I don’t want him thinking it can be renewed. I thought if I showed an interest in you, he would realize he has no place in my life. I’m afraid I went too far. Please forgive me.”
“So I’m not virile and confident?”
“Of course you are, but I haven’t slept with you, and I made the mistake of sleeping with him when I was young and foolish.”
“I’ll bet vodka was involved.”
“Sober would not have been possible.”
“Not a great start for a collaborative mission.”
Lena shrugged. “We’re Russians. We do things differently.”
“That’s what the French say.”
“Your man Tig, is he military?”
“Something like that.”
“I don’t think he and Gleb will get along.”
A buzzer sounded, and office staff lined up at the doors to return to their cell-like cubicles—proof that Pavlov was on to something. Moky kept glancing toward Lena as she smoked and talked with Brandt. Finally, he stuffed his cigarette in a container, glared at Brandt with brutish insecurity, and stomped back inside. Brandt noticed the parts of Moky’s face that caught his attention earlier. Along with a stout chin at the end of a firm jaw and a forehead that sloped like a ramp, Moky had an eye bulging out of a smaller socket, making it look oversized, like the eye on a Muppet.
The discussion resumed with a roadblock, a big one for NATO. Moky wanted to bring in Russian trucks as soon as the weapons were found, without waiting for the civilian-disguised NATO escort. “Since they belonged to the Russian people, they should be under Russian control,” he argued. Grayson refused. The bickering continued through a working lunch of baguette sandwiches and puff pastries.
Brandt let his attention drift through lunch while they argued. He saw the squabble from a different angle, like two kids with hickory sticks banging at a piñata to see who would be first to the prizes. How would two countries who were satisfied to be in constant conflict come together for a common goal with nuclear weapons at stake? An unnatural coupling of interests, like one of his sister’s therapy groups. Gleb and Tig were warriors, too much alike to put competition aside. Grayson and Moky would be good at pretending to cooperate. When trouble with one of the host nations arose, a test would come. Lena . . . well, Lena was Lena. Too intelligent to be called free spirited, with a vein flowing with indifference and a frivolous past she was trying to leave behind. He had the sense that politics bored her. She was both above it and below it. A complicated woman. Yet he grasped something below the surface driving her. NATO credited her vigilance for discovering the threat. What had made her keep digging until she put it all together? Whatever it was brought Lena to a different level.
About his place on the team, he wasn’t certain. Babysitter, tour guide, and go-fer. Water boy seemed to fit best.
By late afternoon, Deke had had enough. Back-and-forth, ping-pong arguments that went nowhere were for political talk shows. He broke the logjam by threatening to pull out of the mission and let the host countries know there were Russian nukes inside their borders.
“I see,” Moky said with a smile cold enough to form ice. “If that’s the way it has to be, let us proceed.”
A cooling-off period was in order.
“It’s late. We can pick up again in the morning,” Sturm said.
“I’ve had enough of this basement dungeon,” Lena said. “Let’s find a café or bar.”
Grayson stood. “I know a place.”
The black Audi behind them was unnoticed all the way there.
Excerpted from The Prague Connection by Will Steadman, ©2021
The Regency Decade: 1814 Part 2: Peace at Last
Catherine Kullmann
The Napoleonic wars were over. On 5 April 1814, despatches arrived in London via Antwerp announcing the fall of Paris to the Allied armies. The news spread rapidly, carried by the stage and mail coachmen. Church bells rang and the populace poured onto the streets to celebrate. Soon premises all over Britain were illuminated, their windows displaying transparencies depicting the fall of the Corsican tyrant and celebrating peace and victory. On 9 April, the Times reported that Napoleon had abdicated. In subsequent negotiations, he was exiled to the island of Elba over which he was given sovereignty while his wife Marie Louise was made Duchess of Parma, Placentia and Guastalla. Napoleon was to receive an income of 2 million francs a year, and members of the Bonaparte family were promised pensions to be paid by the French government. He would return ‘with the violets’ i.e. in the Spring, he promised, and the modest flower became a symbol for the deposed Emperor. In this little engraving of a bunch of violets, the silhouettes (here outlined in blue) of Napoleon, Marie Louise and their young son were hidden.
On 20 April, fifty-nine-year-old Louis XVIII, brother of the guillotined Louis XVI, who had lived in exile since 1791, and in England since 1808, set out for London. He was met at the Abercorn Arms in Stanmore, some ten miles from the city, by a large delegation led by the Prince Regent and escorted in state in a procession led by one hundred Gentlemen on horseback and including six royal carriages, in the second of which sat the King and the Prince Regent. Onlookers along the route cheered the royal party, displaying laurels and white ribbons as they passed. Finally, the procession reached Grillon’s Hotel where the king was to lodge. On 23 April, hostilities were suspended between Great Britain and France and on the 24th the King set sail for France.
The Regent's domestic troubles continued, the populace siding with his estranged wife, the Princess of Wales. On 2 June, his daughter and heir, eighteen-year-old Princess Charlotte, was formally presented to her grandmother, the Queen, by the Tsar’s sister, the Grand Duchess of Oldenburgh. On his way to the Drawing-room, the Prince was beset by ‘the most dismal yells, groans and hisses’ so that the horses were put to their full speed to carry him through this ‘ungracious scene’. It was hoped that the princess would make a match of it with the Hereditary Prince of Orange but she refused, to her father’s wrath and the entertainment of the cartoonists of the day. Here he threatens his daughter's ladies while, on the right, the princess makes her escape to seek refuge with her mother. Advice and counsel was sought on all sides and public uproar only averted when she agreed, at five a.m. the following morning, to return to her home at Warwick House, but not before she signed a minute witnessed by the Duke of Sussex and the future Lord Brougham that she was resolved not to marry the Prince of Orange.
Some days later, the victorious Allied Sovereigns—the Emperor of Russia and the King of Prussia—accompanied by Major-General Blücher and other military luminaries, made a state visit to England. There followed almost three weeks of festivities. In between levées, royal visits and dinners, and nightly balls, they went to Ascot races. rode in the Park, went by water to view the dockyard and arsenal at Woolwich, had degrees conferred upon them in Oxford, saw the charity children at St. Pauls, visited Chelsea Hospital, attended a boxing exhibition by the most celebrated pugilists of the day, were escorted by one hundred Yeomen of the Guard to a banquet given by the City of London at the Guildhall, attended a Grand (Military) Review in Hyde Park and finally left for Portsmouth where there was a Naval Review in their honour. Here they were joined by the Duke of Wellington who had just arrived back in England after five years spent in pursuit of Napoleon.
The sovereigns left England on 27 June. The next day, in an unprecedented ceremony, the Duke of Wellington appeared in the House of Lords for the first time since being elevated to the peerage in August 1809, where the clerks read his patents as baron and viscount, earl, marquis, and lastly as duke. Peace had formally been proclaimed on 20 June and on 7 July the Prince Regent proceeded to St Paul’s Cathedral for a thanksgiving service. He was much hissed both going and coming. Despite this, he arranged for a Grand Jubilee to be held on 1 August to mark both the peace and the centenary of the accession of King George I, founder of the Hanoverian dynasty in England. The elaborate festivities included two balloon ascents, a ‘Naumachia’ or mini naval combat on the Serpentine in Hyde Park between an English and a French Fleet, and grand fireworks from a castle or fortress especially erected in Green Park for the purpose. After the fireworks there followed ‘the Grand Metamorphosis of the Fortress into the Temple of Concord’.
On 9 August, the Princess of Wales who had not been invited to any of these celebrations, left England for the Continent, ‘weary of the petty persecutions and slights she had to undergo’.
7 July also saw the anonymous publication of a new novel, Waverley or ‘Tis Sixty Years Since. Set during the Jacobite uprising of 1745, it proved an instant success, the first edition of one thousand copies being followed in the same year by two further editions, together comprising four thousand copies. Waverley is frequently regarded as being the first historical novel in the western tradition. It was soon rumoured to be by the Scottish poet Walter Scott, but he insisted on preserving his anonymity, publishing succeeding novels as ‘by the Author of Waverley”. Eventually, although not a series or sequels, these became known as the Waverley novels.
Another publication later that year was The Life of Napoleon, a Hudibrastic Poem by Doctor Syntax that demonised the fallen emperor in mock celebratory verses. In this illustration, a parody of Fuseli’s Nightmare, the young Napoleon dreams of future glory.
Across the Atlantic, meanwhile, the war continued with the British army reinforced by a contingent lately arrived from France. On 24 August they attacked the Americans at Bladensburg, later entering Washington, as Harry Smith recorded in his memoirs ‘for the barbarous purpose of destroying the city’. He continued, ‘Admiral Cockburn would have burnt the whole but [General] Ross would only consent to the burning of the public buildings. I have no objection to burn arsenals, dockyards, frigates, buildings, stores, barracks etc., but well do I remember that fresh from the Duke’s humane warfare in the South of France, we were horrified at the order to burn the elegant Houses of Parliament and the President’s House.’
Harry, to his great delight, was sent home with despatches, making the crossing from the Chesapeake to Spithead in only twenty-one days. It was seven years since he had set foot in England, but uppermost in his mind was the reunion with his wife, Juana, from whom he had parted the previous May.
On 24 December the Treaty of Ghent was signed, formally ending the war between the United Kingdom and the United States. However, it took some time for the news to reach the combatting armies. On 8 January 1815, the British attacked New Orleans and were defeated, but some hostilities continued until mid-February when both sides had ratified the Treaty.
How to Use Twitter Better
This is my second post on Twitter for beginning author marketers for Books Go Social.
Last month, I gave you some Tips on using Twitter.
I confess to NOT using Twitter much yet except I periodically purchase promos for my books from Books Go Social which sends tweets of it to 750,000 (or so) people.
I have no time to troll Twitter. I go there only when I see a special note from someone I want to hear from on a topic of interest. I’m alerted to many of those on my Email feed.
I DO investigate others’ Tweets on the days I am reposting tweets of promos, my own, and from Books Go Social, and to help promote fellow writers.
Then I take some time to check any new followers and reciprocate or ask some people to follow me and begin to follow new people. I also retweet other people’s notices if appropriate. Especially authors and more particularly, authors in the genres I write in (historical fiction and self-knowledge in the self-development arena).
I should probably do more than this but so far for me, it has been a question of time.
This piece references a report by Grub Street from a conference in Boston called Muse & the Marketplace where authors, agents, and editors hosted talks and panels on craft, the publishing process, and book promotion strategies.
Much of this advice is excerpted from their conference with their permission and course citation. “We are excited to share some of these tips with our readers who couldn’t attend, and hope you find these takeaways useful.”
How to use Twitter more effectively
Twitter can seem like an overwhelming platform at times, but it’s a great way to connect with readers and participate in the writing community — and it can even help you do research for your next book. Author Mitali Perkins shared some excellent pro tips for making the most of Twitter as an author:
- Optimize your header image. Include some of your published books, or the book you’re working on now, so people correlate your books with you.
- List your location. Even if you choose a state or broad region, this can help event coordinators know you live nearby when looking for speakers” if that is a possibility for you.
- Pin a tweet. Choose a tweet that you want to use as a banner tweet at the top of your profile.”
This could be a tweet including links to purchase your new release. A specific current tweet lends itself better for reposting than a general one.
“Create a Twitter Moment for each book launch. Create a hashtag for your book to follow the conversation and add individual tweets about your new book to this Twitter Moment.”
This is a great idea. It is more specific than a normal promo and it will have more direct impact, especially regarding other people retweeting your current offering.
- “Build Twitter Lists. Lists let you follow subsegments of the community — this can also be a great research tool. For example, you can create lists for comparable authors, editors in your genre, art historians, and so on.”
Another good idea. I have not done that yet myself, but I am going to. It is also smart to list those authors in your genre(s) with whom you might be able to do cross promotions.
- “Take regular breaks. Set periods in the morning and at night when you aren’t connected and take regular hiatuses from the platform when necessary. You can also mute words and phrases to protect yourself from content you don’t want to see.”
It is wise on Twitter and Facebook to space your promos throughout the day if possible, otherwise they all jam up together, and only those on-line see them.
Twitter can be complicated, and it changes frequently. I hope these tips help you.
Frank Daley writes fiction and nonfiction in Waterloo, Ontario, Canada. Get his short, paranormal urban-legend story here, free. https://goo.gl/SrCUxe
How A Love Charm Ensnared An Emperor
In The Sign of The Blood, two of the main characters, Juliana, a slave, and Sybellina, a Roman priestess, compete for the attention of Constantine, son of the Emperor of the West, a young man destined to become Constantine the Great.
As the book opens Constantine is about to inherit his father's title and can have almost any woman he wants. He is 34 years old and a Roman Tribune, a senior military officer serving at the front lines. Household slaves will be available to him as well as the daughters of the wealthy.
How could a woman who wants his love, succeed?
The first thing I had to set aside as I wrote this story, was the idea that love was simply a matter of attraction or suitability. For most people living at that time, 306 A.D., the gods interfered and had to be placated, and humans could both read the future and influence it through spells, charms, and potions.
Often, such charms or spells were a way for people to imagine that they had a chance with someone, to give them the confidence to seduce someone, or to keep someone they already had.
If we think about how we pray to be loved, wear rings to signify relationship status, and spray ourselves with perfume to attract, we are not that far away from the mindset of spells, charms, and potions, though we like to fool ourselves that we are all very modern and rational in the age of the iPhone.
What you may not have done, however, is what Sybellina does in The Sign of the Blood. As one of the last priestesses of the slowly dying imperial cult, she is both a spy and an assassin, the 2nd and 3rd oldest professions. She is also a skilled practitioner in the arts of divination and dark magic. Anyone who has read the astrology predictions for their star sign can understand the attraction of knowing where you are headed, especially in times of danger. It really can make you strive harder if you believe in your destiny.
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But to steal the heart of an emperor's son who can have a different woman every hour, the challenge is extreme.
And it calls for extreme measures. Something involving blood and human flesh. Something that requires a sacrifice, to represent the sacrifice you would be willing to make to achieve your aim. A spell and a charm and a potion strong enough to make anyone believe in their destiny.
That could work, yes? It could certainly give you the confidence to make your move.
If you think I'm making this up, click through to The Greek Magical Papyri which include love spells and hocus-pocus meant to inspire confidence. If you believe in positive thinking you will understand the benefits of self-belief in everything, including matters of the heart.
Codex with magic spells, 5-6thC A.D. Museo Archeologico, Milan. Wikimedia Commons.
And if you want to know what was written on these charms or chanted as the blood flowed, remember your Virgil who said we could. “… tear love's cure-all from the forehead of a foal.”
Or consider the level of desire evident from the Louvre Doll curse tablet, “…do not allow her to eat, drink, hold out, venture out, or find sleep.”
I am sure you wouldn't use such tactics on the object of your affection, but if the future of an empire was at stake, you never know. And this was at a time when Christianity was being persecuted into annihilation and death loomed every day.
If you think I'm stretching things about the ancients belief in magic, have you read The Apology, where this Roman author states, “magical operations were indispensable scientific experiments.”
And before you dismiss all this as nonsense, consider these questions:
Did you ever feel, when you met a stranger, that you would meet again or had know them before?
And what would you do to hold onto the love of your life?
If you want to read what Sybellina does to get her wish to come true and how she enchanted Constantine, and how Juliana strikes back, you will have to buy The Sign of The Blood.
Laurence O'Bryan is the author of the puzzle series novels and now, The Sign of The Blood, the first novel in a new series set during the bloody and turbulent late Roman Empire.
Twitter Retweet Tips
Social media promotion is necessary, time-consuming, and confusing. Automated posting systems can be expensive. So, we're relegated mostly to doing it ourselves.
There are many platforms, and you can't do them all. Pick 3 and concentrate on them.
Most people use Facebook, Twitter, and one other platform.
CREATE A TWEET
You create a promotional Tweet which should contain your cover image, some promotional copy, a short blurb consisting of an attention-getting line or two, and maybe a CTA.
TRY THESE.
a phrase
a question
something funny
something dramatic
something provocative
an excerpt from a review
a curious fact about the book
Fine, now what?
You can't sit there and post that Tweet 50 times in a row. The people who happen to be ON Twitter at the time will want to do bad things to you. You are bombarding them, spamming them. You have to post several times a day, at different times and with only a few repeats of the same tweet.
If you try posting the same tweet repeatedly (even more than once sometimes), Twitter will say “You have already posted that tweet.” In other words, STOP!
So, what can you do?
You can have a friend retweet your post at a different time of day if they also post a comment. It is difficult for people to come up with a relevant comment. Your friends might not be writers or know your book. It is also time-consuming, and they have to do it hours after the original has been posted. Better if you write the comments do it and send forward them to your pal.
It is best to use the same comment only 4 or 5 retweets before switching to the next comment. day
HERE’S A TWITTER RETWEET TIP
Write 15-20 comment blubs for your book. You can use the same image and call to action but change the copy.
Then you, a VA, or a friend, can retweet your original Tweet.
NOW, find the retweets that your friend posted when they first retweeted your original post.
Then, comment on their retweet and send it off again.
Retweet the retweet.
That is, take one of your comments and insert it (on your friend’s retweet when the prompt rises up.
Click the heart button or the ‘Like” button too–or both if they have not been used by you. (Others may do this too.)
Now you have three times the value of your original tweet.
If you purchase a week-long Twitter promo package from Books Go Social or another similar service, you can find their tweets for your book on Twitter and comment on them too.
Now, you'll have multiple retweets based on your (or BGS's) original tweet. Much more power and reach for your efforts.
If you write your comments ahead, this will not take much time and be considerably less frustrating.
