tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45356384264849809642024-02-19T23:17:42.899-08:00The Book Stops HereFrom the desks of authors, literary agents, publishers, editors, and book reviewers. Books start with us, but end with you, and here we discuss anything and everything between.Peter Hogenkamphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14277849942178361707noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4535638426484980964.post-66671625315085269062023-04-16T06:28:00.006-07:002023-12-24T05:11:54.762-08:00<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: red;">FROM THE NOVELLA, </span></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: red;"><i>TO LOVE AGAIN</i></span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">A love story<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">by <o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">A. J. Kerns<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Bend, Oregon—Late Spring<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">A stack of short stories lay on the left side of Alicia Redmond’s vintage oak desk. She’d found the antique desk a year ago at a local auction and bought it for a song. It had drawers on the right side, which in the first week she crammed to the brim with papers, notebooks, and writing paraphernalia.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">As an assistant professor at the local community college, she had edited and made suggestions on nine of her student’s submissions. Eight to go and the class was tomorrow. Mike Monroe’s story sat on top of the pile. She debated placing it on the bottom, maybe to leave it for last so she could give it more attention later. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Now, why was that?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Years back, in high school, when she was a freshman, and he was a senior and a star on the football team, she had carried a secret crush. However, the gap in their ages and the distance in circle of friends prevented any chance of friendship. Even making the cheerleading squad didn’t help a casual encounter with him. Then he graduated and went into the army. Why didn’t he go to college? She wondered. He was so smart.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">She fingered the latest draft of the short story he had submitted and was still puzzled. A romance? A nostalgic looking back at a lost love. Was this the same man who wrote that grim war novel, full of violent energy? Oh well, she thought, we all have many sides, facets to our being.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Mike certainly was handsome; tall, with dark hair, blue eyes, and that curious smile of his. Rugged would be the descriptive characteristic she’d use if writing a story about him. Never married. No doubt he’d had a few love affairs and what about that fun glint in his eye and the way two of those women in class vied to sit next to him?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">She leaned back and placed her pen marker on his story. Once again, the time back at that high school spring dance came to mind. Bright lights, loud music, and students laughing and dancing. She had stood alone, arms crossed, watching everyone having fun. Then she overheard the comment from her classmates aimed in her direction, “Look at little skinny over there.” Bad enough to be unaccepted in any of the groups, let alone having to put up with that. She had started for the door when then he was there, saying something like, “Hey, good-looking, you’re not leaving. Let’s dance before you go.” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">She hadn’t time to say no, and he took her onto the dance floor and twirled her around three times. The music changed to slow dance, and they were touching. In no time he drew her closer, awkwardly at first. The he told her dress was pretty and the rest of their dance she didn’t quite remember. Every spring when she smelled the orange blossoms, memories of the night returned. The evening was the high point of her social high school, even after returning home she’d found her grandmother’s locket was missing. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">The clock on the mantle chimed, three o’clock. No more time to work on Mike’s story. Time to pick up Zoe from junior high. She hoped her daughter’s day went well.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">A single parent’s tasks never seemed to end. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">A J Kerns is a pen name for Arthur Kerns. Following his service as a U.S. Navy officer, Arthur Kerns joined the FBI with a career in counterintelligence and counterterrorism. On retirement, he became a consultant with the Director of Central Intelligence and the Department of State, which took him to over sixty-five countries. His short stories have appeared in several award-winning anthologies, recently in the Sisters in Crime, So West: Lady Killers. Diversion Books, Inc published his Hayden Stone thriller series, first, The Riviera Contract, and followed by The African Contract and The Yemen Contract. His latest thriller, Days of the Hunters, was published in March 2020. He has completed A Suitable Spy a WW II spy novel set in Latin America, that is with his agent. He is working on a whimsical FBI novel taking place in Hollywood.</span></i><i style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">He is represented by Elizabeth Kracht of the Kimberley Cameron and Associates, Tiburon, California.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i><o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i>This </i></span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); font-size: 14px;"><i>excerpt</i></span></span><span style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i> from Three Dances was written with the Hallmark Channel in mind.</i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Website: www.arthurkerns.com</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">email: crick1938@aol.com</span></i><span style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.2px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p>Arthur Kernshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04508116600447109226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4535638426484980964.post-61400729337182642052023-04-14T06:48:00.002-07:002023-04-14T13:13:57.448-07:00<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: red;">FROM THE NOVEL <i>A SUITABLE SPY</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: red;">THE FBI AGAINST THE NAZIS IN ARGENTINA</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">by</span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Arthur Kerns</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">On the Rio de la Plata off Buenos Aires—April 1941</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Under a star-dotted, moonless sky the steel mass breached, pushing away the black water. The hum of diesel motors flushed the raucous sea gulls floating on the estuary. Hatches on the forward and aft decks of the U-boat popped open and dark-garbed seamen scrambled out onto the wet surface. They hurried to ready the two four-inch deck guns. Others manned the machine guns, balancing themselves as the submarine rolled in the gentle swells.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> The Italian U-boat captain, Filippo Archinto, pulled himself out of the conning tower’s hatch and welcomed the fresh air. Two officers followed him. The three raised their binoculars and scanned the horizon. On the starboard horizon, the long thin line of Buenos Aires city lights provided a backdrop to spot any nearby watercraft.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Pascal, Archinto’s first officer, pointed to a small boat with running lights two hundred yards away. “That fishing boat. Is that the one?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Signal it.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Using a red-lens flashlight, Pascal blinked the prearranged signal to the boat. They waited for a response. A few moments later, recognition flashes, two shorts, three long, came from the boat. Archinto listened to the boat’s motor throttle down as it approached the submarine.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Any sign of a trap, shoot!” Archinto yelled down to his men.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> In the darkness, the outline of the fishing boat came into view the closer it neared. The fishermen aboard threw fenders out to prevent the boat from banging the sides of the submarine. Arid fumes from the fishing boat’s aging diesel drifted across the deck of the submarine.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Have you met this German, Herr Lauser?” Pascal asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Archinto sighed. “I haven’t, but I suspect he’s the typical arrogant Gestapo asshole.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Why are we doing this? Taking one of that shit’s prisoners aboard to deliver to our supply ship?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Orders, Pascal. Orders.” Archinto shouted to the fishing boat’s captain to extinguish his running lights.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> A German-accented voice shouted from the boat in Italian, “Have your crew help us carry this man aboard.” A stocky man in a long black leather trench coat threw a fascist salute and then lost his balance in the pitching boat.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “And a <i>Buona Sera</i> to you,” Pascal yelled back. “Who are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “<i>Hauptsturmfuhrer</i> Bruno Lauser.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Let’s climb down and get this over with,” Archinto moaned.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> The boarders dumped the bound captive on the deck. Archinto shone a light on the man’s face. His mouth was taped, and from his bloody face it was apparent they had tortured him. He was unconscious but breathing. When Archinto touched the man’s chest he cried out.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Captain Archinto, how soon will you meet up with your supply ship?” Lauser asked, now standing next to him.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Lauser had a pasty face with a mole on his chin. He was short on formalities. Archinto matched the Nazi’s attitude. “Not for two weeks. This man requires medical attention. We don’t have a doctor aboard my U-boat.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “No matter if he lives. For our records, he was sent back to Berlin.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “What’s his name?” Archinto asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “You need not know that.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Archinto wanted to push the Gestapo man off into the sea but held back. “For the <i>record</i>, I must have his name for the logbook. My superiors will expect it. Who is he? A Jew?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> The bound captive body lying on the deck convulsed. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “A renegade priest. A dangerous enemy of the Reich.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Pascal grasped Archinto’s arm. “My God! A priest dying on our boat.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Lauser,” spat Archinto. “How could a priest be of danger to your Reich?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “This priest, a German national refused to tell us where two Jewish scientists were. The Jews are needed back in the homeland. That’s all you need to know.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Options raced through Archinto’s mind. He could take the priest aboard, possibly heal him, and have his superiors release the man. Somehow, he knew that wouldn’t happen. They would acquiesce to the German demands.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Take this unfortunate man off my boat and leave,” Archinto ordered. “Now.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “You are not serious.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “I won’t have a priest dying on my U-boat. My crew is superstitious. We have enough problems. On this Utalian submarine, we bury ships, not priests.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Lauser did not move. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Archinto turned and made for the conning tower. He called back, “We dive in two minutes. Get off, or you will get wet.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Buenos Aires—The Next Morning</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">In the windowed office of the port police headquarters overlooking the Plata, Sergeant Facundo Alvarez studied the prices of the American stocks listed in <i>El Pampero</i>. He chewed on his breakfast of three tostadas smeared with peach jam. He took a sip of his hot <i>café con leche.</i> The listed prices of his shares of the American company General Motors were doing well.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Corporeal Ciano sauntered in, asked if he could borrow a cigarette, and flopped in a chair across from Alvarez. He jiggled a single page report. “This morning we pulled a floating body out of the water,” he said, “out beyond the breakwater.” He helped himself to one of his boss’s cigarettes, lit it, adding to the smell of nicotine in the room.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Sergeant Alvarez shrugged and kept reading the stock quotes. “Male or female?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “A man. He had a rope tied around his neck. Face badly beaten up. We found no identification on him until we took off his shoes. This fell out.” He slid a silver medallion across the desk.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Alvarez sighed, laid down his paper, and examined the coin-like object. One side had a cross; the opposite had engraved the name Frederick Schuler, SJ. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Shit.” The initials SJ meant he was a Jesuit.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> “Who should we notify?” Pascal asked. “The archbishop or the Jesuits?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Alvarez held up his hand. “We do this delicately.” He thought a moment. “Photograph the body and give me the photos. I will handle this through proper channels.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> When the corporeal left, he swung back and forth in his chair, rolling the medallion in his fingers. Probably the priest’s mother gave it to him. He sighed. If he handled this correctly with the Jesuits, he might befriend a very influential cleric or two who, in the future, would owe him. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> He thought for a moment. His brother who went to a Jesuit school would be the first person he’d call. He had the right connections.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Alvarez folded the newspaper and set it aside, then thought of the American Mr. Jones. The man was a stockbroker who favored him with General Motors stock shares for providing him with information on the mineral shipments to Portugal that everyone knew ended up in Germany. This might interest him, as this American was curious about many things. Who knew? This tidbit might be worth some Ford Motor shares. Diversify, Jones kept telling him.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> What about the diplomat from the German embassy? Commander von der Molk reminded Alvarez of the American. His way of asking probing questions about the marine traffic going to and from Montevideo. How like the American in his thinking. He paid in Deutschmarks, which were easy to exchange. Perhaps he would pay in stock shares of the German firm, Bayer. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> Both men struck him as cut from the same cloth. Spies.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Following his U.S. Navy service, Arthur Kerns joined the FBI with a career in counterintelligence and counterterrorism. On retirement, he became a consultant with the Director of Central Intelligence and the Department of State, which took him to o ver sixty-five countries. His short stories have appeared in several award-winning anthologies, recently in the Sisters in Crime, So West: Lady Killers. Diversion Books, Inc published his Hayden Stone thriller series, first, The Riviera Contract, and followed by The African Contract and The Yemen Contract. His latest thriller, Days of the Hunters, was published in March 2020. He has completed a WW II spy novel set in Latin America, that is with his agent. He is working on a whimsical FBI novel taking place in Hollywood and a romantic novella.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Website: www.arthurkerns.com</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><i style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">email: crick1938@aol.com</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times Roman"; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Arthur Kernshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04508116600447109226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4535638426484980964.post-48096196569333414172022-03-07T09:36:00.003-08:002023-10-20T07:40:14.057-07:00<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Where Ideas Come to a Writer<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">By<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Arthur Kerns</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“Where do you come up with ideas for your books?” Writers get that question a lot. My usual response is they pop up while showering, shaving, or working out in the gym. Rarely do they come to me when sitting down and trying to come up with an idea. Most writers will recall attending a creative writing class and have the teacher hand out an assignment, like “Give me a one-page story on a boy falls off his bicycle.” At least then you had a start to a story idea and could go with it. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">The idea for my first published novel, <i>The Riviera Contract</i>, came from the Alfred Hitchcock film, <i>To Catch a Thief</i>. I’ve watched the film numerous times and still become entranced with the gorgeous scenery, the filming, and the dialogue of Cary Grant and Grace Kelly. The film sparked the idea of writing a spy novel based on the French Riviera with a cast of beautiful, interesting, and nasty characters. Almost two years later Diversion Press published the novel.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg9DlNe91qDgeTFBrcrvT0GaMtB9FuW_8Ilh3CANXaxGm65DVgencsoF_yusSAsGodZW9PPm7GcnPlRxp2Y5gVfk6YzuDhpieorbvwx4P3_RAVKUrlHTpjXfmQqvZdDt7ujjGJ2VcouqHyJ-Cj1YEuyg4jvUd90iO90nTz7CNRu6eEQai-H_3avXPsb=s1813" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1813" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg9DlNe91qDgeTFBrcrvT0GaMtB9FuW_8Ilh3CANXaxGm65DVgencsoF_yusSAsGodZW9PPm7GcnPlRxp2Y5gVfk6YzuDhpieorbvwx4P3_RAVKUrlHTpjXfmQqvZdDt7ujjGJ2VcouqHyJ-Cj1YEuyg4jvUd90iO90nTz7CNRu6eEQai-H_3avXPsb=s320" width="212" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">The inspiration for the manuscript now with my agent,</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">A Suitable Spy</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">, came from coming across an old FBI file. When I was an agent assigned to FBI Headquarters doing analysis of old spy cases I found a non-classified history of FBI espionage activities in Latin America during WWII. The program was ordered by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt who feared Nazi incursion in South America. Very few, including fellow agents, were aware such a program had existed. The idea popped in mind; what an interesting background for an old-fashioned espionage novel.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">If the story is accepted by a publisher, one of the first things they’ll ask, have you a sequel? I thought about it for a while. The time frame would be in early 1942, the United States is at war, and my spy protagonist is sent from Argentina to Europe. However, where in Europe and under what conditions? Then I saw a photo on Instagram of an actor I know. Autumn Reeser recently was filming in Bulgaria and was relaxing after hours at a sidewalk café. The picture was intriguing. A mysterious aura about it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhhOGKAynNdM_Kqy6qTNns5RLO16uB_O0rEfGEpqEMsI5EREdHw3XJp4u0Dz_SDUTXjLBM7Z96f-Wvm0ctAyXTWFBepLat-Ys934qmhi0nQcrbuIK2tLXz034PcQtUQKh9cS8bPx_cJszXYA5-YrcwQpEr2IIpw23OqBDEKUSu-QJ2TgFvwJ8pV_uMu=s635" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="635" data-original-width="629" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhhOGKAynNdM_Kqy6qTNns5RLO16uB_O0rEfGEpqEMsI5EREdHw3XJp4u0Dz_SDUTXjLBM7Z96f-Wvm0ctAyXTWFBepLat-Ys934qmhi0nQcrbuIK2tLXz034PcQtUQKh9cS8bPx_cJszXYA5-YrcwQpEr2IIpw23OqBDEKUSu-QJ2TgFvwJ8pV_uMu=s320" width="317" /></a></div><br /><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">She wore a man’s tweed jacket, obviously lent to her to ward off the night chill. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">She wore red lipstick, red nail polish, and was drinking red wine.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">She wore an enigmatic smile that could be interpreted as, I want to know you better, or I want your secrets. Maybe both. Either way, the young American spy sitting across from her was in trouble. The beginnings of a sequel, <i>A Seasoned Spy.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24pt; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">Following his U.S. Navy service, Arthur Kerns joined the FBI with a career in counterintelligence and counterterrorism. On retirement, he became a consultant with the Director of Central Intelligence and the Department of State, which took him to o ver sixty-five countries. His short stories have appeared in several award-winning anthologies, recently in the Sisters in Crime, So West: Lady Killers. Diversion Books, Inc published his Hayden Stone thriller series, first, The Riviera Contract, and followed by The African Contract and The Yemen Contract. His latest thriller, Days of the Hunters, was published in March 2020. His WW II spy novel "A Suitable Spy" set in Latin America is with his </span></span><span style="font-size: 14.000001px;">agent. </span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">.</span></span></span></i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Website: www.arthurkerns.com</span></i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 24pt; margin: 0in;"><i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">email: crick1938@aol.com</span></i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 26.666664px;"> <br /></span></p>Arthur Kernshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04508116600447109226noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4535638426484980964.post-91214938997522851942019-12-08T18:28:00.000-08:002023-04-10T06:03:32.194-07:00Lost Excerpts from The Yemen Contract<div style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">All writers lament how publishers cut sections and scenes from their manuscript, prose you are positive was just fantastic. Ah, those lost darlings. In The Yemen Contract, a spy thriller featuring CIA operative Hayden Stone and his friend Contessa Lucinda, I wrote a few scenes describing the country of Eritrea, a fascinating country on the Red Sea across from Yemen and Saudi Arabia. It is not on everyone’s vacation bucket list so I wanted to let my reader know I saw and experienced. My editor did not think these scenes moved the story and<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="pwa-mark">were cut</span>. So here they are out of the dustbin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">Contessa Lucinda and Hayden Stone ambled along the tidy streets of the capitol city, Asmara, stopping now and then to look into shops to examine the foods, clothes, jewelry, and curios. Lucinda’s bodyguard, Marcello, maintained a discreet distance. One shop along Liberty Avenue sold crude ivory carvings, which so soured Stone he barged out and stood on the sidewalk, watching the people pass by, most offering polite smiles. A few minutes later, Lucinda came out and leaned against him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> He fumed. “I get pissed when I see ivory taken from a butchered elephant only to end up a piece of crap in a tourist shop.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> “What’s<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="pwa-mark">really</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>wrong with you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> “The stitches in my leg are bothering me. Maybe we can take a car.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> Lucinda patted him on the arm and then went over to Marcello. When she returned, she said she told Marcello they were taking a cab. He could follow if he thought it necessary. “Meanwhile, my dear, I will assume the role of architectural guide.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> Stone arranged with the driver for an hour's ride around the city, which Stone<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="pwa-mark">had come to admire</span>. An old Africa hand, this was one country where he needn’t keep his guard up. The people here were neat, looked you in the eye with dignity, and weren’t reluctant to offer a handshake. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> Lucinda impressed him with her knowledge of the architectural schools of Art Deco, Cubist, and Futurist. “Rationalism was Mussolini’s favorite,” she said. “A group of architects led it in the thirties from Milan called <i>Gruppo Seven</i>. One of my cousins belonged to it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> Stone touched her arm. “Let’s see if we can get out of this bird watching trip up country tomorrow. Maybe hang around Asmara until I go back to Yemen.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> “Patience told me that Ambassador Bunting wants to get you alone and discuss some things.” She smiled. “Besides, it will be fun. We will see something new . . . and learn a few things.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">The road became winding and rough. They passed scatterings of tidy villages with one-story house fronts painted in pale blues, others in aquamarine.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="pwa-mark">Some were painted</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>beige and had doors and shutters a dark shade of blue. Here and there were remnants of the war with Ethiopia, burned-out tanks, and rusting trucks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> They reached the top of an escarpment and the embassy driver pulled to the side of the road. The fertile landscape below was a marked change from the arid country they had left behind.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="pwa-mark">The deep canyon was terraced</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>along both sides. Farmland lay on the floor of the gorge. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">The driver eased them down the switchbacks onto the valley below. Eventually, they saw their destination. In the distance, on a rise above cultivated fields, a collection of white buildings sat among tall trees. The settlement turned out to be not an active monastery, but a state-owned farm, built in the nineteen-thirties by an Italian settler. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> The farm had a church with a tall steeple, holding a bronzed-colored bell. “I guess that’s where someone got the idea this was a monastery,” Stone said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> “I have a feeling it was at one time,” Lucinda said. “The government probably wants to avoid controversy by not admitting they took over a religious building.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> When the two<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="pwa-mark">were shown</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>their rooms, Stone laughed, “Now I believe you. This was definitely a religious building. This room reminds me of a monk’s cell.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> The accommodations were spotless and very ascetic: pale green walls, two single iron-framed beds with thin grey blankets. The shower in the corner comprised a showerhead and a hole in the floor. No curtain. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> Stone stared at the two small beds. “How many nights are we staying here, dear?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> “Hayden, consider this a religious experience.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> After a dinner of pasta noodles floating in a watery acidic tomato sauce, yougurt, and a leaf salad no one touched, the four walked the grounds. They met few people, only birds singing at dusk. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> Stone remarked, “I wonder how the facility can<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="pwa-mark">be kept</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>in such good condition with so few people. Look, they prune the citrus trees, the bougainvillea trimmed,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="pwa-mark">the grass is cut</span>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> “They probably do the work during the week and have weekends off,” Ambassador Bunting said. “Then again, many of the young men are off at the Ethiopian front.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> “It is so peaceful here,” Patience said. “Hard to imagine war could erupt at any moment.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> Stone thought about the ruined Russian T-34 tanks, along with other damaged military vehicles they’d seen on the road on their way to the farm. “These interludes of peace are a blessing.” He thought about the day’s birding in the valley. “<span class="pwa-mark">Good</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>that we had a guide today to steer us away from the minefields.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> At Stone’s words the others became quiet. Lucinda gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> The next morning being Sunday, Stone asked at breakfast if mass would<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="pwa-mark">be held</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>in the church. The kitchen staff, while offering only fresh bread and an orange drink called <i>Fanta</i>, informed him<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="pwa-mark">that</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>they held church services only on Christmas and Easter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> Afterward, he and Lucinda found the church door open and entered, going into the bright white painted interior decorated with Coptic images and carvings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> “My father would have felt at home here,” Lucinda mused. “He was Egyptian and a practicing Copt before he married my Italian mother.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> Stone went to the votive candle stand and lit two candles. One for his family; the other for his ancestors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> “Hayden, I never saw you do that before.” She took the burning wick from Stone and with her delicate hand lit two of her own candles. As they walked back to their room to pack for the return to Asmara, she put her arm through his and held on tight. “You continually surprise me. You are a very complicated man.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Arthur Kerns joined the FBI with a career in counterintelligence and counterterrorism. On retirement, he became a consultant with the Intelligence Community and the Department of State, which took him to over sixty-five countries. His short stories have appeared in a number of award-winning anthologies, recently in the Sisters in Crime, So West: Lady Killers. Diversion Books, Inc published his Hayden Stone thriller series, first, <i>The Riviera Contract</i>, and followed by <i>The African Contract and The Yemen Contract</i>. Early next year his new thriller, <i>Days of the Hunters</i>, <i>Murder, Mystery, and Romance in Tuscany</i> will be published.</div>
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Website: www.arthurkerns.com</div>
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Arthur Kernshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04508116600447109226noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4535638426484980964.post-51419351880488013902017-02-01T13:04:00.000-08:002023-04-10T06:11:17.575-07:00<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: #e69138;">CONAKRY
BUSINESS TIPS 101</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<o:p>by</o:p></div>
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<o:p><span style="color: #e69138;">Arthur Kerns</span></o:p></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This is an excerpt
from my West African travel journal, early June 2000.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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June in the West African country of Guinea means rain,
especially along the coast. The rain comes like a wall of water, with wind and
black clouds that horizontally bend palm trees and snap the hardwoods. These
storms are sudden, cling to the ground, and last longer than storms I’ve
experienced in the United States. The streets flood and anyone not in a high
riding four-wheel drive is at risk. It’s best to stay put and sit out the gale.
Unfortunately, this may take a whole day. However, that doesn’t really matter;
there’s not much to do here, even on a nice day.</div>
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I’m staying at the Hotel Camayenne in the capital city of
Conakry. I asked a number of people, Americans and locals, what Camayenne
means. I receive mixtures of puzzlement: why would I ask such a question, gee I
would not have ever thought of asking that, but I’ll ask around and get back to
you with the answer. Since Sabena Air owns the hotel, my Guinean friend
suggested that it was the name of the corporate director’s wife. Later, I
learned that it is name of the peninsula where we’re located.</div>
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The hotel is an island of civilization, very small, very
vulnerable. Outside is the real Guinea. Across the street impoverished
tradesmen, refugees from Sierra Leone and Liberia meander back and forth; hawking
singsong fashion tribal masks, statues, and assorted gewgaws. There is an
especially decrepit three-story apartment house across from the hotel that I
must get a picture of. It encapsulates the town’s atmosphere: mold on the
unpainted façade, rusty railings, clothes hanging from broken windows, trash
all about the balconies and grounds.</div>
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Last night, after a rain, my Guinean friend and I were
smoking cigars by the hotel pool overlooking the steel gray ocean. The tide was
high and there was a full pale lifeless moon. A moist salty breeze came in from
the sea. </div>
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A young, thin man approached our table and I assumed he was
taking drink orders. He wasn’t. He was a merchant, a trader in tribal masks, a
refugee from Sierra Leone, who had conducted business with my friend a few days
before. He had a mask in a bag that he selling; the same mask he tried to sell
the day before to my friend, unsuccessfully. He was making another pitch in his
Leonean English, not Guinean French.</div>
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My friend told him, no, he was still not going to purchase
the mask. It was too large. It would not fit on his wall with the other masks.
It was too expensive. He had inquired of other Sierra Leoneans, creoles, who
knew masks who said that the price was too expensive for the quality. The young
man countered, but it was his only mask, the only one in his personal
inventory. He worked at a stall across from the hotel. This was to be a private
deal, between the two of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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He continued, “It’s a good price.” He looked into the bag. I
could not see the mask. My friend said, “It’s not a good price. It’s not a good
quality mask. I don’t want it.” </div>
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The young man stared. “You will not give me the money?” </div>
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My friend shook his head. “No. We’re talking business now.
You do not have a good mask.”</div>
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The young man was a soft-spoken fellow, with fine facial
features. He had the sad eyes of a recent refugee from a bad place. “Why do you
not give me the money,” he asked again. He was barely audible. </div>
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My friend sighed, and then proceeded to give him some
business advice. The mask is not thin enough. The wood must be thin for a mask
to be of value. The wood must be hard, hard wood that was dry before carving.
The young man reached into the black bag and felt the unseen mask. He stared at
a space in the air between my friend and me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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“Do you remember the other day, when I was looking at your
masks? I was feeling them. Running my hands, my fingers along the sides, feeling
the carves, how deep they were, if the carved lines ended into points. None of
the masks I felt were of good quality. I know good quality Sierra Leonean
masks. I lived in Sierra Leone. I know. Your mask there,” he pointed to the
bag, “is of lower quality.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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The young man squirmed in the chair and spoke quickly and
quietly, “This is a good quality.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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“No, it’s not.” </div>
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A long pause. My cigar was good and burning even and cool.
The damp breeze, now with the fetid smell of the tropics, made my shirt limp.</div>
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“Look,” my friend said. “You want to make a lot of money on
this one mask. You want to sell it for 100K guineas, when it is worth only 25,
maybe 30. It cost you how much?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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No answer, except for some shoulder and arm movements.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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“It cost you 10K, right?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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A big smile, “No. No.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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“10K or maybe 15K guineas,” my friend continued. “So make a
profit of 10K for this one, the sell five more masks, at this good price to the
tourists. Sell more at less profit. That adds up. Don’t wait for one big sale
that may never come. Sell a lot for a little profit for each one.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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A long silence. He was staring in the air again. “You will
give me the money, yes?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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“No. I told you, I’m not giving you any money. This is
business.”</div>
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As my cigar burned down, the exchange continued. The same
words, the same business lesson offered, the same resistance. I never saw the
mask that was never sold. </div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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We were joined, uninvited, by the young man’s boss, the
proprietor of the stall across the street. The new guy had energy, while the
young man just sank back into his chair, holding the bag with the mask nobody
wanted at any price. </div>
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The new guy starts with the buzzwords. “Knowledge is power.
Power is life.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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My friend knew him from the day before. “We’re talking
business,” he says, then goes on to repeat the same theme given to the young
man, who I doubt wanted to hear it again. After a few minutes, the new guy
says, “You are a philosopher.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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My friend says, “No, I talk business.” He then shifts the
topic. “What are you wearing,” he asks the new guy. “Around your neck?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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It is a large tooth-like brass pendant hanging from his neck
on a brown leather string. The new guy says something about it being a totem
from his village. My friend says, “Make those things, about five of them, to
sell at about 10K a piece. Those Sabena airline flight attendants over there
will buy them just like that.” He snaps his finger. </div>
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The new guy is speechless, and then mutters, “10K? We sell
good masks for 100K.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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“No,” my friend says, “You <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">try</i> to sell masks at 100K. You can sell many of those pendants to
women and make a little on each one and make more money. Build a business.” </div>
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<br /></div>
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The new guy doesn’t like the drift of this conversation and
heads back to pitching the masks. My friend, however, is unmovable. My cigar
has gone out and I feel raindrops. It’s time to retire for the evening. My
headache has come either from the malaria medicine or the conversation. I say
goodnight to the three men, none who notice I’m leaving, and pass by the blonde
Sabena hostesses. Those pendants would look good on them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back in my room with the screeching air-conditioner going
full blast, I review the day’s events. Think I’ll leave out Guinean business
practices in my daily report to Washington.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #414141; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Arthur Kerns is a retired FBI supervisory special agent
with a career in counterintelligence and counterterrorism. A past president of
the Arizona chapter of the Association of Former Intelligence Officers, his
award-winning short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies. He is a book
reviewer for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Washington Independent
Review of Books</i>. Diversion Books, Inc. NY, NY published his espionage
thrillers, <i>The Riviera Contract</i>, <i>The African Contract and</i> <i>The
Yemen Contract</i>.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">See more in author’s website, <a href="http://www.arthurkerns.com/"><span style="color: #420278;">www.arthurkerns.com</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Arthur Kernshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04508116600447109226noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4535638426484980964.post-51294979454294525312016-10-22T15:39:00.000-07:002023-04-10T06:11:37.279-07:00BATS OVER BAMAKO<div style="text-align: center;">
by Arthur Kerns</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This is an excerpt
from my West African travel journal and dated May 28, 2000. I had just learned
that my flight to Timbuktu by bush plane was canceled because a foot-wide crack
appeared on the runway. Even the ex-pat Russian pilots wouldn’t chance a
landing.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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In May it gets hot in Bamako, the capital city of Mali. A
cool 105 degrees in the shade, but if we have a good rain, not only is the air
refreshed, but also the temperature drops to a comfortable level. The scent of
blossoms mixes with the dusty air to give a distinctive scent. The land is
semi-arid, not quite like Arizona, more Southern California.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The people smile a lot and speak French with a pleasing
accent. The women wear beautiful, bright flowing caftans with twirled turbans on
their heads. Men and women balance baskets, boxes, and large bottles on their
heads as they move along the streets with a fluid, easy grace. Even though
there are city sidewalks, most locals prefer to walk along the edge of the
streets, side-stepping the litter. Perhaps this practice is left over from
their village days when they walked their country roads.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Outside the window of my French colonial hotel that has seen
better days, the streets of Bamako are a mix between paved for the main
thoroughfares and dirt for the side and minor streets. The rainy season makes
travel a slog along the dirt streets.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Flowering trees provide a splash of color to this city.
Buildings are salmon-colored and bright white minarets stand out against the
green foliage. Small shops and stalls line the streets; with enthusiastic
people selling all matter of goods. It seems that every block has a street
lined with rows of stalls on both sides. The city of Bamako has been described
as one big market. </div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh76TwwyLpIu5Rs3PTYfAYfwqsF3gqw2mukfiH7CAWRQL6GSvIOQ5c992rlcwSUl_Jzzhm41WWLWZQyepM8un189xXShENn74WzKenTQMMhw7oq57PBykUeR7ldtu7cZYc09ZlTZSTvQT8/s1600/EPSON043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh76TwwyLpIu5Rs3PTYfAYfwqsF3gqw2mukfiH7CAWRQL6GSvIOQ5c992rlcwSUl_Jzzhm41WWLWZQyepM8un189xXShENn74WzKenTQMMhw7oq57PBykUeR7ldtu7cZYc09ZlTZSTvQT8/s320/EPSON043.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Soirées in Bamako are interesting and telling of the living experience
here. They are held on outdoor patios when possible. I suppose, just to
accommodate the number of guests. When they are official functions, coats and
ties are in order. I went to one without a jacket and felt out of place. The
local guests appear more comfortable opting to add a splash of native attire.
However, we all visibly perspired, from the combination of heat and alcohol. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Like most cocktail parties, it's hard to remember the names
of all the people you meet. Even more so when you are dealing with foreign
diplomats with unfamiliar names and accents. The conversation begins with
something that you two can latch onto, like a sport, a hobby; the weather is
always a good initial start but is dropped quickly for some other topic. The
main goal is to act interested in what this person is saying. In turn, you must
stay witty or touch on the profound while gathering the information you want.
When the well runs dry you move on. Another very important thing is to keep
track of the food that's being passed around on trays. On rare occasions, you
can actually discover something that resembles what you find at home, or even
tastes familiar. Still, one must be careful. The next day that interesting hors
d'oeuvre may come back to visit you.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here body odor is quite noticeable. Bathing for some people
is lower on the lists of necessities: finding food or seeking safety being
higher on the list of life’s concerns. Nevertheless, the odor is still there,
surprising you as you walk out the door of your hotel room, or pass a table in
a bar or restaurant. It lingers like perfume. You can leave your hotel room and
walk down the hallway and suddenly; there it is, hanging invisibly in the air
around you. The lasting presence of someone who passed ten, twenty minutes,
perhaps a half-hour before. Sort of like passing by a bar stool where a
Frenchman had smoked a Gauloises. </div>
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During the day I’d drop by my hotel room and realize that
someone had recently been in the room. Not the cleaning staff, someone else. I
advised the security officer at the embassy and she said, don’t worry, no one
is trying to steal anything. You are a strange person from America and they
find what you wear, read, and possess interesting. You are a curiosity.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dominant flying creature in downtown Bamako is the Fruit
Bat. This sucker is immense, with a wingspan of at least five feet. A few doves
fly around, resembling the American white wing dove, but bats prevail. They
swarm in groups mostly in the morning and evenings seemingly with no apparent
destination. When they do land, they hang upside down from trees lining the
streets, chirping like birds. They crawl from branch to branch, eating mangos.
Some bats hang alone, but the majority gathers in tight, dark, furry pods
consisting of three to eight bats. </div>
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They have light gray backs, black wings, and buff-yellow
patches on the chest. Red tongues hang out between small pointed white teeth. A
frightful presence even if you don’t have a hangover.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I write, I hear a gunshot outside the window. Peering
out, I see a group of ten or so youngsters standing in the middle of the
street. One of the boys has fired a single-shot shotgun. A bat hits the street,
flaps a moment, and then lies still. In the tree above, the bats scream and
flap off in all directions. The boys run over and retrieve the dead animal and
stuff it in a black sack. Bamako bush meat.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Appaloosa Bar in Bamako is a main center of ex-pat
social life, especially on Wednesday night. It is along an unpaved lane next to
a series of other restaurants, one a popular Thai establishment, run by a
pleasant Belgian and his Thai wife. The Appaloosa is clean, has a number of
booths and tables and sports flags and other totems of national identification
that patrons donated to the establishment. The music is American, seventies-on
rock, played not too loudly and gives a visitor like me a mellow feeling. The
beer is cold and good. There are a lot of Americans, but mostly French and
other nationals who, if they don’t have some good stories to tell—they
certainly look like they do—will make them up. A comfortable hangout for spies.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://www.arthurkerns.com/"><span style="color: #1f3f74; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Arthur Kerns</span></a></span><span style="color: #414141; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"> is
a retired FBI supervisory special agent with a career in counterintelligence
and counterterrorism. A past president of the Arizona chapter of the
Association of Former Intelligence Officers (AFIO) his award-winning short
fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies. He is a book reviewer for the
Washington Independent Review of Books. Diversion Books, Inc. NY published his
espionage thrillers, <i>The Riviera Contract</i>, <i>The African Contract
and</i> <i>The Yemen Contract</i>.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">See more in author’s website, <a href="http://www.arthurkerns.com/"><span style="color: #420278;">www.arthurkerns.com</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Arthur Kernshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04508116600447109226noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4535638426484980964.post-69298902786201834972014-12-20T06:50:00.000-08:002023-04-10T06:01:53.788-07:00DOES THE UPCOMING HOLIDAY SEASON DISTURB THE WRITING PROCESS?<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
by </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Arthur Kerns</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before my knees gave out, I ran on a regular basis at a certain
time of day. If I skipped my run, for the rest of the day I walked around
having a nagging feeling that something was missing in life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Same thing with writing. I have to write every day at a
certain time or I get very antsy. When something or someone causes a change in
my program, irritation sets in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now when the holidays arrive one is faced with all sorts of
disruptions. Visitors, family, relatives arrive and demand attention—right when
you’ve had a great breakthrough in that manuscript. Sure you need a break from
the routine now and then to regroup and reboot, but aggravation still sets in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then there’s the situation when you go on an extended trip
to celebrate the holidays. Frustration begins simmering under the surface.
Should I take my computer, or notebook, or my rewrites? What will everyone think
of me when I barge in with all my paraphernalia then look for a quiet place to
work?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now if you try to explain all this to a non-writer
invariably you’ll be accused of selfishness, then thrown an incredulous look,
or worse hear the expression, “Oh, you writers.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Yes, there are times when situations during the holidays
inspire a story, perhaps a comedy or a murder. However, does it become a great
catalyst for the next story? Usually not for me, but then again there was that
time when we traveled to New York City for Christmas and . . .</div>
Arthur Kernshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04508116600447109226noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4535638426484980964.post-85714331910627204212014-10-10T11:02:00.000-07:002023-04-10T06:02:09.876-07:00Today’s Ebola Crisis in Fiction <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.4in;">
by</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.4in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.4in;">
Arthur Kerns</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .4in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .4in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .4in;">
Unfortunately,
at times reality mirrors fiction. As the story of the Ebola crisis develops in
the news, I went back to the scene in my thriller, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Riviera Contract</i>, published in year 2013. Hayden Stone’s companion
CIA case officer Sandra Harrington tells him that the terrorists intend to
spread the Ebola virus throughout major US cities. You may find the following
excerpt interesting if not unnerving:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .4in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .4in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .4in;">
Stone recalled images of the village of Mnemdo, on the border of Sudan
and the Congo. Three years before. His team hadn’t needed map coordinates to
find the sad collection of huts; they’d just headed toward the circling
vultures. He remembered standing in the center of the village and feeling the
eerie silence broken only by the scavengers arguing over the corpses scattered
on the hard-baked ground. The three CIA technicians, one still barely alive,
lay in a low-hanging thatched hut. Blood flowed from all their orifices: even,
it seemed, from the sockets of their eyes. Before the last man died, they
watched him go through mental and physical convulsions. He had pleaded for them
to shoot him. Instead, they’d waited for him to die, and then burned the
village and all the bodies.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .4in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .4in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .4in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .4in;">
“I understand it’s bad shit. No cure, right?” Sandra asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .4in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .4in;">
“So far, no. In Africa, some say it’s bad Juju. Even the scientists don’t
know where it originates, only that if a person touches or eats a piece of
contaminated bush meat, say a chimp, they can catch the virus.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .4in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .4in;">
“What are the chances they’ll spill some of it?” Sandra said, more to
herself. “Best for the French to wait for those biohazard people.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .4in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .4in;">
“Handling Ebola is tricky. <span style="color: black;">All research is done
in a maximum biological containment setup known as Biosafety Level Four.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .4in; mso-pagination: none; text-indent: .4in;">
<span style="color: black;">She studied him. “You know a lot about it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">“I was
exposed to it, so I learned all I could.” Stone thought for a moment. “The way
I see it, Hassan plans to ship the virus to the States and then spread it. God
knows how. Can you imagine the number of deaths? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Horrible</i> deaths? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .4in;">
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUEtirjA2WOWahpmJDuihPS3PCwXUnDQcd-5zci3-nDM5ix8TOFaV1XcmnGmrlYg9rr21bvbi7X1boaj2oJOqaiSRpT-0zmaPmkpWpYb_bWTcm3APD2xhj665P7lTrMxeKg-mPyRVKzMU/s1600/AK_TRC_bcard-FRONT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUEtirjA2WOWahpmJDuihPS3PCwXUnDQcd-5zci3-nDM5ix8TOFaV1XcmnGmrlYg9rr21bvbi7X1boaj2oJOqaiSRpT-0zmaPmkpWpYb_bWTcm3APD2xhj665P7lTrMxeKg-mPyRVKzMU/s1600/AK_TRC_bcard-FRONT.jpg" height="320" width="187" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
Arthur Kernshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04508116600447109226noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4535638426484980964.post-76128932546097219342014-06-11T06:00:00.002-07:002023-04-10T06:01:41.583-07:00AFRICA CAN BE A DANGEROUS PLACE<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">AFRICA CAN BE A DANGEROUS PLACE<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">ASK THE PEOPLE WHO LIVE THERE<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Art Kerns</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While doing research for my latest novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The African Contract,</i> I ran across an
entry in one of my travel journals. It recorded a visit to a friend’s village
miles away from the nearest African city. Strolling among the homes, Dingane
introduced me to his relatives and friends, while giving me a history of the
region.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
asked about health services and he told me they were limited. “Malaria, is the
main illness,” he said. “Then there is dengue and Yellow fever, but there are
other concerns.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
other problems do the people have here” I expected to hear about bandits, rogue
soldiers, or corrupt officials.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dingane
smiled and gave his hand gesture that meant the answer would not be coming quick
and simple. “Your people travel here to see Africa’s wildlife. You take photos,
enjoy seeing them, and then leave. We are happy you come and enjoy them, but we
must stay and live with them.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
group of children ran up and interrupted him. They laughed and wanted to touch
me, the foreign visitor. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
we were alone again, Dingane continued. “The snakes are always a danger. They
come into our homes, lie in wait on the trails, hang from trees.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Cobras
scare me,” I said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
Black Mamba scares us.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
remembered speaking with a herpetologist who told me the mamba was the one
snake that scared the shit out of him every time he had to remove it from her
cage and measure it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCVsME7CJT0O1Opu5NUKv_qiO7CD_wYPBfQ9bUT8KMJOi6HqURwCCs-VATMbLzXMccWMYZ9AeT3M9UMuUbzxtEnglQs7VgpOcHg0Eg3AJdnTwRaaj_Rbhh2RAs8d0sDmghJjY2BOcgd0Y/s1600/black-mamba-snakes-hd-wallpapers-beautiful-desktop-background-pictures-widescreen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCVsME7CJT0O1Opu5NUKv_qiO7CD_wYPBfQ9bUT8KMJOi6HqURwCCs-VATMbLzXMccWMYZ9AeT3M9UMuUbzxtEnglQs7VgpOcHg0Eg3AJdnTwRaaj_Rbhh2RAs8d0sDmghJjY2BOcgd0Y/s1600/black-mamba-snakes-hd-wallpapers-beautiful-desktop-background-pictures-widescreen.jpg" height="221" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /></div>
<br />
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
I asked him what other animals were problems, expecting him to say the lion or
another cat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWlmeJkPjrV5fxZi4H0gpANqaQbCpMdLX-bfkg1wNb-gzEJBmZsxT9CNlPfzk6O-86dM9e5OvXQROFK9TxY0Jy59q6JqN-a3vhmlpH7ULDCcl0VZbrjdLjP4d7Y8SKDaZQtNIwRWZDFVg/s1600/DSC00128.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWlmeJkPjrV5fxZi4H0gpANqaQbCpMdLX-bfkg1wNb-gzEJBmZsxT9CNlPfzk6O-86dM9e5OvXQROFK9TxY0Jy59q6JqN-a3vhmlpH7ULDCcl0VZbrjdLjP4d7Y8SKDaZQtNIwRWZDFVg/s1600/DSC00128.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not
the cats so much as the hippo.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
I expressed surprise, he went on to explain the hippos comes out of the river
at night and rumble across the landscape trampling everything in their path.
“They knock down homes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
looked around at the flimsy structures and imagined being trampled to death.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
women have to be vigilant when washing the laundry in the river,” he said. “The
crocs surprise them. He went on to say that many a tottler who wandered off
while the mother was distracted was never seen again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
I digested what he told me and wondered what the odds were of me safely walking
alone from where I stood to the nearest city, Dingane took my arm and asked
that I look around.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
did you notice since you’ve been here?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
shrugged.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You
are the oldest person here. The children saw your white hair and gray beard and
wanted to touch you. For good luck.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjPNqjxCG0JLFE7QLIaedvQ6hKpcRviLNyCaO-UgT__zC4n5TFAvOjXhOc7w8DtWglIkWstuCmaVM7dQk6aOcZO8lAR1kQvS_HwfY-DoYNK_atgn4jRfA_QEuk_TmDN6Lgm14EWS7KQNg/s1600/sc0016d482.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjPNqjxCG0JLFE7QLIaedvQ6hKpcRviLNyCaO-UgT__zC4n5TFAvOjXhOc7w8DtWglIkWstuCmaVM7dQk6aOcZO8lAR1kQvS_HwfY-DoYNK_atgn4jRfA_QEuk_TmDN6Lgm14EWS7KQNg/s1600/sc0016d482.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Arthur Kerns is a
retired FBI special agent and past president of the Arizona chapter of the
Association of Former Intelligence Officers (AFIO). His award-winning short
fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies. In March 2013 Diversion Books,
Inc. published his espionage thriller, <i>The Riviera Contract</i> and in May
2014 the sequel, <i>The African Contract</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">You can visit him on
www.arthurkerns.com</span></div>
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Arthur Kernshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04508116600447109226noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4535638426484980964.post-36212500303638981422014-05-28T08:15:00.000-07:002023-04-10T06:00:52.323-07:00A STRANGER READS MY BOOK<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I noticed her
mother first. Stylish and attractive, she was better dressed than most of the
churning mob in the Phoenix airport terminal, waiting for their Memorial Day
weekend flights. She sat six seats away crammed in with other passengers
listening for their boarding calls. An unintelligible announcement barked over
the loudspeaker and she stood, leaned down to a woman in her early twenties,
who I figured was her daughter, and handed her a carry-on bag. The girl
accepted the bag without taking her eyes from the book she held. She continued
to read as the older woman made her way through the aromas of food concessions
to the restroom area.</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">In the seat next
to me, my wife tapped my arm and pointed to a message on her phone. Our son and
his family were meeting us at the Austin, Texas airport.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I glanced back
at the young woman who still intently read her book. What concentration she
had. Amidst all this terminal turmoil, she appeared focused on the pages before
her, repeatedly touching a finger to the lips, then with the same finger
turning a page.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">When she paused
and lifted the book, I saw the cover. It looked very familiar. Looked very much
like the cover of my book. My debut novel. Had some other author used a similar
design? <o:p></o:p>Then I realized
it was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my book</i> this stranger was
reading. I whispered to my wife to look and motioned with my head toward the
young woman.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Don’t you
dare!” my wife said.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“What?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Ask if she
wants it signed.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Never occurred
to me.” I said unconvincingly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The girl
returned to the book, that is my book. I tried to study her expression for some
indication of what she thought about the novel, but saw only focused attention.
She turned the pages at a steady rate so she was into the story—maybe. It
looked like she was about mid-way through the book and I tried to imagine what
scene she was in. Was it an action scene? Too early for the love scene.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The young woman
was a complete stranger. Never saw her in my life. How did she come by the
book? Where did she buy it? At a bookstore or over the Internet? Did a friend
recommend it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The older woman
returned and spoke to the girl while looking at her watch. She pointed to the
book and asked something. I watched to see if I could pick up what the girl
said, but couldn’t detect anything positive or negative. She could have been
talking about the weather.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Stop looking at
her.” My wife nudged me. “Get your things, our plane’s boarding.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I put my laptop
back in the case, found my boarding pass, and then looked back in the direction
of the two women. They were gone. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">And any chance
to know what the young woman thought of my book. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Just as well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Ns6_804jGMEfvwYOOVYhiam5awXgi0PB6ga1UWUXIWfRTWIR_o3yg6OTq-LfHN4Y04OLhIxBbB45jx57-wriDknl-EPnLfAp7v_LI46WhLI3x6knJ44AMKZIIDBUR7ZV39KmKTZeqmA/s1600/IMG_9581c-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Ns6_804jGMEfvwYOOVYhiam5awXgi0PB6ga1UWUXIWfRTWIR_o3yg6OTq-LfHN4Y04OLhIxBbB45jx57-wriDknl-EPnLfAp7v_LI46WhLI3x6knJ44AMKZIIDBUR7ZV39KmKTZeqmA/s1600/IMG_9581c-2.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Arthur Kerns is a
retired FBI special agent and past president of the Arizona chapter of the
Association of Former Intelligence Officers (AFIO). His award-winning short
fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies. Diversion Books, Inc. published
in March 2013 his espionage thriller, <i>The Riviera Contract</i> and this
month the sequel, <i>The African Contract</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">You can visit him on
www.arthurkerns.com</span></div>
Arthur Kernshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04508116600447109226noreply@blogger.com7