Picture by Sherri Palm at her home in Northern Wisconsin.
Ozymandias (1818) by Percy Byssie Shelly
This sonnet by Shelly just proves that words survive human rulers. Poetry/romantic perfectly turned phrases, will always remain. Even when rulers destroyed each others written words some survived. Preserved by someone who loved the words.
In this Petrarchan sonnet it is divided normally into 2 parts; question, formed by the first half, the octet, answers, normally follow in the second half, the sestet. In Ozymandias however, the octet paints an image, the sestet comments ironically.
The image of legs and a grinning face of a broken statue surrounded by a vast wasteland of desert sand speaks volumes to the reader. The writer paints the picture of the toppled statue that did not survive the ravages of time or change, but the words the author paints the scene with do. We don't have the desert but sometimes the snow can make the same statement. As with this picture by amateur photographer Sherrie Palm, a picture is truly worth a thousand words. Poets and writers create these pictures in words. The best of both worlds. http://www.billiewilliams.com
Are you ready for the twist - The ending you never saw coming? A really well-done suspenseful read for sure. Please leave a comment for David Snowdon. Thank you so much David for writing this for our reading pleasure.
========================== Final installment of A Payment From Heaven, by David Snowdon
The phone started to ring and Suzi Dangerfield, dashed towards the phone and grabbed the receiver. “Hello,” she said cautiously, her heart thumping as she answered the phone.
“Hello, darling,” she said cheerfully, a dazzling smile appearing on her face as she recognised her son’s voice. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. It was a payment from heaven, mum.”
“Well done,” she said, as she continued to smile.
“There’s going to be another one in twenty-fours hours.”
“Lovely,” said Suzi, as she held onto the phone. “Nice work, Chris.”
“One for you and one for me.”
“Good boy,” smiled Suzi. “He wouldn’t have given us the money if we had asked for it.”
“I know. Look, mum, I’ve got to go. I’ll give you a call when I’ve got it.”
“Okay,” she said. “Take care, Chris. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” And the line went dead.
Still smiling happily, she replaced the receiver, walked over to the sofa and sat down. ~*~ Thirty minutes later, as she relaxed on the sofa, the doorbell rang. Wondering who it was, a frown appearing on her pretty face, she got to her feet and walked towards the door to the living-room.She got to the front door and opened it. As she opened the door, Detective Sergeant Cliff Wheeldon stared at her. A plain clothed detective stood behind him and also stared at her.
“Evening, Mrs Dangerfield,” said Wheeldon. “Detective Sergeant Cliff Wheeldon and Detective Constable Ian Dainty from the Epsom police station. I was here this afternoon.” He showed her his warrant card.
“Evening, Officer,” she said, as she glanced at his warrant card and stared at him. “I remember. What can I do for you?”
“Can we come in?”
Suzi stared at him. “What’s it regarding?”
“Can we come?” said Wheeldon, repeating his question and meeting her stare.
“Sure,” she said, letting them into the house. They followed her into the living-room. Then she faced them. “Tell me, Officer. What’s it regarding?”
“Where is your husband?” said Wheeldon, watching her closely.
“He’s not in,” she said.
Wheeldon regarded her. “I’m sorry to tell you this. Your son was intercepted at Putney pier with a briefcase full of money. £100,000.”
Suzi felt her heart skipped a beat. “Oh, my God! We thought he’d been kidnapped!”
“Your husband didn’t mention that earlier,” said Wheeldon.
“He was sworn to secrecy,” said Suzi rapidly. “They said they would kill him if we called the police.”
“Did they?” said Wheeldon.
“Yes,” said Suzi, feeling very nervous.
“When will your husband be back?” asked Dainty.
“I don’t know,” said Suzi.
Wheeldon stared at her. “Your husband withdrew £100,000 from the bank today, and that was the exact amount that was found on your son when we arrested him. Can you explain that, Mrs Dangerfield?”
“What do you mean?” snapped Suzi, her eyes flashing angrily as she glared at him. Wheeldon smiled at her.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, Mrs Dangerfield, but I planted a bug when I was here this afternoon. This house has been under surveillance for the past couple of hours.”
“I thought that was illegal,” said Suzi, as her heart thumped furiously.
“We intercepted the phone call that you just had with your son,” continued Wheeldon. “You’re under arrest, Mrs Dangerfield.”
“What’s going?” snapped Dangerfield, suddenly walking into the living-room, a puzzled expression on his face as he stared at Wheeldon.
“I’m afraid you’ve been played for a sucker, Mr Dangerfield,” said Wheeldon. “Your wife and son engineered the fake kidnap.”
Dangerfield was shocked as he looked from the officer to his wife. He couldn’t believe his ears.
Klawitter was an angel in disguise, he thought, as he gaped at his wife, a shocked expression on his face. If it wasn’t for him, they would have got away with it.
Written by David Snowdon ================== David thank you so much for your fun story! I will post my interview with David again tomorrow if you would like to know more about the man and his Genius Mind.
He remained in the car and waited. Ten minutes later, his phone started to ring. Dangerfield answered the phone immediately. “John Dangerfield, speaking.”
There was a pause. Then the person started to speak. “John, it’s Stan.”
Dangerfield was very disappointed as he recognised his friend’s voice, and suddenly noticed his number on his mobile phone. He was so sure it was the kidnappers, he didn’t check the number before he answered the call. “Hello, Stan.”
“Life is good,” said Dangerfield, realising that every second he spent on the phone was crucial. “Listen, Stan, I’m very busy at the moment. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay. I just called to say hello.”
“I appreciate that,” said Dangerfield, determined to end the call. “Thanks for calling, Stan. Speak to you later.”
“Speak to you later, mate.” They ended the call.
Fifteen minutes later, his phone rang again. “John Dangerfield,” he said, as he answered the call immediately.
“Listen carefully, Dangerfield.” He recognised the kidnapper’s voice. “I’m not going to repeat myself. There’s a white yacht moored at the pier. Leave the money in the yacht and drive away.” And he ended the call.
Dangerfield remained in the luxurious car for a few seconds, his heart thumping rapidly against his ribs. Then he opened the boot from within the car and slid out of the car.
As he slid out of the car, he removed the briefcase from the boot, closed the boot and started to walk towards the pier. As he got to the pier, he noticed a white yacht moored at the pier, and he started to walk towards it. He left the money inside the yacht, walked back towards the car in the semi-darkness and got into the car. Then he started the engine and drove along the road.
Twelve minutes later, a tall, shadowy figure emerged from the shadows, got into the yacht and sent the yacht shooting across the Thames.
“It’s me, darling,” said Dangerfield, as he drove along the road and his wife answered the phone.
“How’s it going?” she sounded very anxious.
“I’ve just paid the ransom,” said Dangerfield.
“Have they set him free?”
“I don’t know,” said Dangerfield. “They told me to leave the money in a yacht, and I did it. But anyway, I’m on my way home.”
She started to say something, but Dangerfield cut her short. “Listen, darling, I can’t talk now. I’ll see you when I get home.” And he ended the call.
A few minutes later, as he drove along the road, his mobile phone started to ring. “John Dangerfield,” he said cautiously, realising it was an anonymous call.
“We’ve got the money.” He recognised the kidnapper’s voice. “Thanks for being so reasonable.”
Dangerfield breathed a sigh of relief. “Have you released my son?”
“He’ll be free to go,” said the kidnapper, after a pause. “But only if you follow the rest of our instructions.”
“What do you mean?” said Dangerfield, his heart beginning to thump.
“We want another one hundred thousand in twenty-four hours.”
“Are you crazy?” yelled Dangerfield, as his heart skipped a beat. “I’ve just paid you a hundred thousand pounds.”
“You heard me,” said the kidnapper. “And keep your voice down.”
“I can’t raise that kind of money in twenty-four hours again,” Protested Dangerfield.
“Twenty-four hours,” snapped the kidnapper. And the line went dead.
As Dangerfield drove along the road, his heart thumping furiously, his mind darting around like a wild animal, he started to call his wife, then he stopped. He wasn’t too sure how she would react if he told her the latest news over the phone. It would be a lot better if he broke it to her gently in person when he returned to the house.
But as he continued to drive, he dreaded the very moment that he would have to do that. What an ordeal! In addition to that, he now had to raise another one hundred thousand within twenty-fours hours, or else… He couldn’t even bear to think of what the outcome would be if he failed to pay. (to be continued)
“That’s the reason why we shouldn’t go to the police,” said Dangerfield, as his mobile phone started to ring. He removed his mobile from his inner jacket pocket, glanced at it and swiftly answered the call. “John Dangerfield, speaking.”
There was a pause. Then someone started to speak. “Have you got the money?”
Dangerfield recognised the harsh, working class, London accent. He pictured the guy to be in his 40’s. “Yes.”
“That’s right,” said Dangerfield.
“Lovely,” said the guy. “Start driving down the A3 towards Central London at eight. You’ll get further instructions from there.”
“I want to speak to my son,” said Dangerfield, as Suzi stared at him, an anxious expression on her face.
“Hold the line, mate.”
There was a brief delay, then someone started to speak. “Dad? It’s me.”
Dangerfield recognised the voice. “Hello, Chris. Are you all right?” There was a note of concern in his voice.
“I’m fine, dad. Please pay the ransom. They won’t hurt me if you pay.”
“No problem, son,” said Dangerfield, seething with anger. “I’m going to pay the ransom tonight.”
“Is mum there?”
“Yes,” said Dangerfield, glancing at his wife. “We’re here together.”
“We’ll speak to you at eight,” said the kidnapper, suddenly interfering. “And remember, no cops and no tricks or your son is going to die.” He ended the call.
“What did they say?” said Suzi, looking very concerned.
“They want me to pay the ransom tonight,” said Dangerfield, as he put his phone back into his inner jacket pocket.
“Is Chris all right?”
Dangerfield hesitated as he stared at her. “He sounded all right. They won’t hurt him unless we call the cops.”
“If anything happens to that boy, I’ll kill myself,” snapped Suzi, as tears began to stream down her face.
“Don’t talk like that, darling,” said Dangerfield, moving away from her, and heading towards the liquor cabinet. He urgently needed a drink.
Detective Chief Inspector Sean Rigby was tall, dark and handsome with dark brown hair and in his late 40’s. Today he wore an immaculate, dark brown suit with a white shirt and a dark brown tie.
As he sat behind his desk in the Epsom police station, working on his computer, he heard a knock on the door. “Come in,” he said, looking up from his computer.
The door to his office slid open and Detective Sergeant Cliff Wheeldon walked into his office. “Hello, Cliff,” said Rigby, as Wheeldon walked into his office.
“Hello, sir,” said Wheeldon, walking towards his desk.
“How did it go?” asked Rigby, as Wheeldon got to his desk and paused. He spoke with a home county accent.
“He said he needed the money for a business deal,” said Wheeldon. “But when Jefferies enquired about the business deal, he became aggressive and asked us to leave.” Rigby stared at him.
“When a man as important as John Dangerfield, suddenly withdraws a hundred thousand in cash on two hours notice, I smell a rat. Being the CEO of a major food processing firm with an annual revenue of £2.2 billion makes him a prime target for blackmail. But if he said he isn’t being blackmailed, we’ll just have to leave him alone.” “I think he’s hiding something,” said Wheeldon. “I think he is being blackmailed and we should keep an eye on him.”
“Maybe he is,” said Rigby. “But if he said he’s all right, we’ll just have to leave him alone.”
Wheeldon looked very disappointed.
“I still think we should keep an eye on him, sir.”
“Let’s leave it at that,” said Rigby, cutting him short. “It’s his money and we’ll just have to wait until he comes to us.”
“Okay, sir,” said Wheeldon, turning around and heading towards the door.
Dangerfield drove the Bentley along the A3 motorway towards Central London at 20.02pm. Daylight had come to an end and darkness had slowly arrived. There wasn’t a lot of traffic on the A3 and as he drove, a thoughtful expression on his face, his mind was busy.
He was thinking about his son. He loved his son very much and he couldn’t wait to have him back. The £100,000 that he was about to part with meant nothing to him. Money was immaterial when it came to his son. And all he could think about was his son’s safety. His thoughts shifted to his wife. She had suddenly become a nervous wreck and it broke his heart to see her like that.
As he continued to drive, his mobile phone started to ring, and Dangerfield, who had connected his mobile to his Navman for hands-free access, answered the call immediately.
“John Dangerfield, speaking.”
“Are you alone?”
Dangerfield recognised the kidnapper’s voice as it came through the speakers. “Yes.”
“Head towards Twickenham. When you get there, stay in the car and you’ll get further instructions.”
“Okay,” said Dangerfield, as he continued to drive.
“And remember, no cops and no tricks or you’ll never see your son alive again.”
“Do you have to keep repeating that?” snapped Dangerfield, suddenly losing his temper.
The kidnapper ended the call.
Dangerfield continued to drive towards Central London at 50 miles an hour. He was heading in the right direction and he was glad that he didn’t have to make a detour. But why had they asked him to go to Twickenham? He was expecting to leave the ransom near the A3.
As he drove, he glanced into his rear-view mirror to see if he was being followed, but all he could see was the distant headlights of a few approaching vehicles, and they were too far away to be following him.
His mind suddenly drifted to Klawitter. That idiot could have had his son killed, he thought.
Thirty minutes later, he got to Twickenham, and as he approached the station, his mobile started to ring.
“John Dangerfield,” he said, answering the phone immediately.
“Are you there?” The kidnapper’s voice came clearly through the speakers.
“Yes,” said Dangerfield, as he pulled up outside the station.
“Good man.” There was a pause. Then the kidnapper continued to talk. “Head towards Hampton Court pier. When you get there, stay in the car and you’ll get further instructions.”
“Okay,” said Dangerfield, as he drove away from the station. The kidnapper ended the call.
Twenty-three minutes later, he arrived at Hampton Court pier, parked near the waterfront and stopped the engine.
This isn't it, but the style is...Picking up where David Snowdon left off yesterday with Payment From Heaven...
“Detective Sergeant Cliff Wheeldon,” said the man, flashing his police warrant card. “And this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Paul Jefferies. We’re from the Epsom police station, and we’d like to speak to you about a certain matter. Can we come in?”
He spoke with a London accent.
“What’s it regarding?” said Dangerfield, frowning at him.
“Can we come in?” said Wheeldon, repeating the question.
“If you insist,” said Dangerfield, reluctantly letting them in after hesitating.
“This is my wife,” he said, as he led them into the well-furnished, living-room. Suzi Dangerfield was standing around in the living-room, a curious expression on her face as she watched the police officers follow her husband into the living-room.
“Hello, Mrs Dangerfield,” said Wheeldon, as Jefferies nodded at her.
“Hello,” said Suzi.
“They’re from the Epsom police station,” said Dangerfield.
Suzi nodded understandingly as she looked from one officer to the other. “What can I do for you?” said Dangerfield, staring at Wheeldon as they all stood around in the living-room.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” said Wheeldon, realising that Dangerfield hadn’t offered them a seat, and from the look of things, he wasn’t going to. “It’s regarding a certain matter. We received a phone call from your bank manager, who was very concerned that you suddenly withdrew £100,000 with two hours notice today.”
“So?” said Dangerfield, frowning at him.
“It’s very unusual to withdraw that kind of money at such short notice, Mr Dangerfield,” said Wheeldon. “Why did you withdraw the money?”
Dangerfield stared at him. “I needed it for a business deal.”
“We thought you were being blackmailed,” said Wheeldon.
Dangerfield laughed as he stared at him. “What could have given you that impression, Officer?”
“Just a hunch,” said Wheeldon, shrugging his shoulders.
“Well I’ve got some advice for you,” said Dangerfield. “Don’t jump to conclusions, Officer. It doesn’t pay.”
“What business deal was that, Mr Dangerfield?” said Jefferies, speaking for the first time.
“Don’t be impertinent, Officer,” snapped Dangerfield, his eyes flashing with anger. “That’s none of your business.”
The two police officers stared at him. Wheeldon had a feeling that Dangerfield was hiding something. “Sorry to turn up like this,” said Wheeldon, after a pause. “We called the office earlier, and we were told that you had left for the day.”
“Next time I’d prefer a phone call,” said Dangerfield. “Please don’t turn up like this again.”
“We can’t always call,” said Wheeldon. “Sometimes, we have to show up. Your bank manager was right to call us and we had to act on the information.”
“If there’s nothing else,” said Dangerfield, “I’ve got to go. I’m very busy.” “Thanks for your time,” said Wheeldon.
“You’re very welcome,” said Dangerfield. Dangerfield followed the officers towards the door, while Suzi watched them leave. “Thanks for calling in,” said Dangerfield, as the two police officers walked out of the front door into the sunshine.
“Have a good day,” said Wheeldon.
Dangerfield closed the door behind them and returned to the living-room. As he entered the living-room, seething with anger, his wife stared at him. “That bloody bank manager,” snapped Dangerfield, as he went towards the phone. “I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”
Dangerfield reached the phone, grabbed it and dialled a number. As he waited, he heard the phone ringing at the other end. It rang a few times, then someone answered the phone.
“Lakeside bank,” said a young female voice at the other end.
“I’d like to speak to the manager,” said Dangerfield. “Cyril Klawitter, please.”
“Mr Klawitter’s in a meeting,” said the girl. “Can I take a message, sir?”
“I don’t care if he’s in a meeting with the board of directors,” snapped Dangerfield. “It’s urgent. Can you get him?”
“May I know who’s calling?” said the girl.
“It’s John Dangerfield.”
“Hold the line, sir.”
There was a moments delay, then Klawitter was on the line. “Cyril Klawitter.”
“Cyril, it’s John Dangerfield.”
“Hello, John,” said Klawitter breezily. “How’s it going?”
“That was very unprofessional, Cyril,” snapped Dangerfield. “Why did you call the police?”
“I was concerned,” said Klawitter defensively. “I thought you were being blackmailed, John.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Dangerfield angrily. “And how about client confidentiality? Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“I consider you to be a friend, John,” said Klawitter.
“If this happens again,” said Dangerfield, cutting him short, “you will lose the account.”
And he ended the call.
“That Cyril Klawitter’s an idiot,” said Dangerfield, as he dropped the receiver and stared at his wife.
“Maybe we should go to the police,” said Suzi, staring at him with frightened eyes. “He’s our only child, John.”
Cyril Klawitter sat behind his impressive-looking desk in his well-furnished and fully air-conditioned office, and stared across the desk at his client. Klawitter was the branch manager of the Lakeside bank in Mayfair, and at 52, he was short and plump with light brown hair and inquisitive-looking blue eyes. Today he wore a black suit with light blue shirt and a black tie, and he was looking very smart.
“It’s all there,” said Klawitter in his posh accent. “£100,000 in £50 notes.” John Dangerfield glanced at the briefcase and gave a nod of approval.
At 56, he was tall, dark and handsome with dark brown hair and intelligent-looking brown eyes. He wore an immaculate, tailor-made, dark blue suit that fitted him like a second skin.
“Thanks, Cyril. You’re the best bank manager in the world.”
“Would you like to count it?” said Klawitter.
“I trust you,” said Dangerfield, in a posh accent. “I’m sure it’s correct.” “Sure?” said Klawitter, as he stared at him.
“You’re always right,” said Dangerfield. “There’s no need for that.”
“Okay,” said Klawitter, shrugging his shoulders as the two men stared at each other. “I know it’s none of my business,” continued Klawitter, after a pause, “but is there any specific reason why you need this kind of money at such short notice?” Dangerfield smiled at him.
“You’re right, Cyril, it’s none of your business.”
“You’re one of my best clients, John,” said Klawitter, “and I like to know about my clients financial affairs.”
“Never mind, Cyril,” said Dangerfield, getting to his feet and grabbing the briefcase. “I’m gonna disappear. I’m in for a hectic day.”
He walked towards the door, and Klawitter followed him, a puzzled expression on his face.
“Thanks for your help, Cyril,” said Dangerfield, with a dry smile as the two men shook hands at the door. “You’re very kind.”
“No problem at all,” said Klawitter. “If you need any further assistance, give me a call.”
“Will do,” said Dangerfield, as he opened the door.
Dangerfield drove the lustrous, black Bentley along the A3 motorway towards Surrey at a steady 50 miles an hour. The car was fully air-conditioned and fully loaded, and every little luxury had been catered for. In fact, the manufacturer had worked overtime on the extras.
It was a nice, sunny, September afternoon, and as he drove, his mind was busy. Dangerfield was the CEO of Casterton PLC, a major food processing firm, and he was a multi-millionaire.
What a predicament! He thought, as he continued to drive. It was two- thirty in the afternoon and the traffic was light.
Twenty minutes later, he cruised onto the driveway of his exquisite, detached house in an exclusive part of Epsom and pulled up beside a silver Mercedes C220. Carrying the briefcase, he let himself into the well-furnished house and closed the door behind him.
As he entered the house, a beautiful, blonde woman emerged from the living-room and stared at him.
At 53, Suzi Dangerfield was tall and gracious with a nice, curvy figure and lovely blue eyes. She was a beautiful woman and most people thought she was in her early forties. Today she was wearing a white frock.
“Have you got the money?” she said, as she stood in front of her husband in the corridor, a worried expression on her face as her eyes moved from his face to the black briefcase he was holding and back to his face.
She spoke with a very posh accent.
“Yes,” said Dangerfield, as he stared at her. “It’s all here.” The doorbell rang sharply, and they stared at each other.
“Are you expecting anyone?” said Dangerfield, frowning at her.
“I’m not,” she said, frowning back at him.
“Take this into the living-room,” said Dangerfield, handing her the briefcase. “I’ll see who it is.”
She took the briefcase and went into the living-room, and Dangerfield moved towards the door and opened it.
As he opened the door, a tall, good-looking man with light brown hair, and shrewd, brown eyes, wearing a dark blue suit stared at him.
Another man was standing behind him.
“Hello,” said Dangerfield, as they stared at each other.
“Mr John Dangerfield?” asked the man.
“That’s right,” said Dangerfield cautiously, a frown on his face as he glanced at the other man, then focused on the man in front of him. (to be continued) http://www.Mind-of-a-Genius.com
David Snowdon- Is a very quiet and private person. What made him write a book about international espionage?
My first attraction to espionage was the James Bond films I saw as a child. In 1984, I wrote my first espionage thriller. Twenty-three years later, I decided to do it again. Thus, The Mind of a Genius, was born.
Your name suggests things to me. Could it be that it suggests cover up, as we are covered in yet another blanket of snow this winter. Snowed under, comes to mind. Your book seems to be a fascinating take on the international intrigue that fuels a major portion of our television viewing of late. Does David Snowdon try to snow us? Does he try to make us see things where there is nothing to see, or do you think you parallel reality?
I wouldn’t try to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes. I deal with reality. You can fool some of the people some of the time. But you can’t fool all of the people all of the time. An author who desperately tries to fool his readers into seeing something that doesn’t exist will definitely not be around for long, because the readers can see through that.
James Bond started the craze and it hasn’t ended that fascination with the word of the spy. The adventurous incredible romantic hero. Tell us a bit about your book, Mind of a Genius.
Special Agent Jason Clay from the MI4 is hired to find a secret formula that was invented by famous British scientist, Malcolm Prince. It was a formula that could change the world, and the CIA, the Denmark Intelligence, the Australian intelligence and many other very determined individuals were also very interested in that formula. The competition is fierce; these guys will stop at nothing to get their hands on that formula. And the action moves from London, to Copenhagen, Hong Kong and Australia.
Genius is an incredible fine-hair-line away from insanity in my mind. Do you believe there is some separation, some life-style, that makes one man a genius and incredibly adept at living a life of exemplary deeds and someone who is off the wall adventurous to the point of madness, who could still be called genius for his life work.
As far as I’m concerned, a genius is a person who is extremely intelligent, with outstanding abilities in a certain subject and who displays a remarkable amount of intelligence in the invention of an original piece of work. While I agree that a person who is extremely adventurous to the point of insanity could still be called a genius if he invents an original work. I don’t agree that genius is a fine-hair-line away from insanity, as you can be a genius and still be a perfectly normal individual. According to the experts, genius can materialize in childhood or later on in life.
Some say Hitler was a genius. Napoleon was classified genius by others. What differentiates between genius and incredibly blatant, in-your-face deceit or trickery? Is there a difference between evil genius and the dictionary definition of genius in your mind?
There’s a major distinction between genius and deceit. As I previously said, a genius a person with outstanding abilities in a certain subject which could be science or arts, and who has invented an original work. Deceit on the other hand is completely different from genius and could come in the form of a fake invention or stealing original ideas and trying to take the credit. And that cannot be defined as genius. Napoleon was considered a genius by some because of his achievements such as the Napoleonic code. I’m not an expert on the topic, but I do believe that there is a distinction between evil genius and genius in your mind. Evil genius is something to do with deceit. But the dictionary definition refers to the mind of a genius.
What is there about espionage that holds you by the edge of your imagination, why do you explore it in this fashion?
Over the years, I’ve written two espionage thrillers, but that doesn’t mean that espionage holds me by the edge of my imagination. I have a regular interest like many other people in espionage films and spy fiction, but I’m definitely not a fanatic. The books that I’ve written cover a wide-range of topics. And espionage happens to be one of them.
What do you hope your readers will see or learn from Mind of a Genius if anything?
International espionage and many other things.
In one of my novels I based it in South Africa – for me, a land of intrigue. You have your characters string of incidents lead from London to Copenhagen, Hong Kong to Australia- Have you visited these places? They do always seem to play a part in international spy stories. What makes them your cities of choice for your story?
I live in London, and I’ve been to all of the other countries in the book. So the descriptions of countries are accurate. If you want your book to be realistic, you have to visit the countries you’ve included in your book. I’m not saying that you can’t write about countries you haven’t been to, but it’s always better to know the countries. I decided to use those countries because they’re interesting places that would make good locales in the book.
Is there some place our readers can find out more about you and your book? Where can we order copies of it? Can readers email you with questions or comments about your book? Where?