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To Parts Unknown

John A. Miller

Ref. No. 709005hf
Length 62,500 words

Summary

Dispatched to Singapore during the darkest days of WWII, George Adams didn’t expect the Japanese to arrive on the same day. And when Lady Jane Carrington Smythe requests assistance, he embarks on an adventure unimaginable only a day before.

Adams recruits an enigmatic Frenchman, Thomas Montclair, to arrange their escape. Together, they chase their dreams and elude their nightmares, seeking safety in the war-torn Pacific.

Months pass as they leapfrog locations, evading both personal disasters and the enemy. Eventually they reach the sanctity of Australia where they find that those placed on pedestals are rarely what they seem.

From The Book

TO PARTS UNKNOWN

TO PARTS UNKNOWN

Chapter 1

Singapore

February 7, 1942

I was greeted by the shrill howl of air-raid sirens on my first afternoon in Singapore. Even though I knew the city was in danger, I still wasn’t expecting a Japanese attack on the day of my arrival. I stared skyward, searching for enemy aircraft, as the streets filled with panicked people, shoving and pushing as they rushed for safety.

The door to a nearby shop burst open. A butcher, dressed in a blood-stained apron, led two women carrying their freshly wrapped meat into the street. They started running toward a park, where the distant entrance to a bomb shelter was clearly identified.

I considered following them, but thought I still had time to reach the shelter at my hotel, two blocks away. I started down Orchard Road, racing across the cobblestones. People scattered in all directions, and the farther I ran the emptier the streets became. The few automobiles that had been on the street were now parked haphazardly, some with their doors ajar, abandoned by owners who left to seek safety. Even the stray cats that wandered the sidewalks had suddenly vanished.

I heard the drone of enemy aircraft, the sound of their engines increasing from a buzz to a roar. Seconds later bombs exploded in a distant but deafening blast. Again, I looked to the heavens, which were marred by only a few cottony clouds, but no planes were visible.

When I reached Trafalgar Street, an explosion rocked the boulevard. The force from the blast knocked me off my feet, and I slid across the road while the ground shook beneath me. I turned to see the Malay Towers, a four-story apartment building, burst into fragments. The face of the structure crumbled to the ground, falling forward in slow motion. I covered my head with my arms while bricks and splinters of timber rained from the sky. With one wall torn from its companions and lying in a heap on the road, I could see the sagging floors of each succeeding level bending precariously. Fire raged from the structure, and the flames licked the sky and blackened the horizon with thick smoke.

I staggered to my feet, scraped and dazed but unhurt. My nostrils stung from the acrid stench of gunpowder, and I choked on the dust and smoke. I started running, planes now visible as they swooped down upon the city unopposed.

As I neared the Victoria Hotel, a Japanese plane descended toward me. It flew so low I could see the pilot in the cockpit, his face hidden behind a pig-like mask.

I kept running, my limbs weary and my lungs burning. The hotel was barely a hundred feet away. An elderly solider stood in the bomb shelter’s entrance, protected by sandbags stacked around the doorway.

“Hurry, mate!” he yelled.

The rapid report of a machine gun sounded and bullets burrowed into the street. I felt the sting of stone shards biting my legs. The firing continued, raking the wall of an adjacent bakery and shattering the shop window, sending pieces of glass onto the display of pastries, but avoiding me. I reached the shelter, winded but safe.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t make it!” the solider said. “Best get you downstairs. Come on, I’ll lend a hand.”

“Thanks,” I gasped. “I’m a bit shaken. That was terrifying.”

“You’re very fortunate.” He took hold of my arm and guided me to the basement steps. “It was a narrow escape.”

“Yes, it was. I should have used a closer shelter. I didn’t think the attack would come so swiftly.”

“No matter,” he replied. “You’re safe now.”

He helped me down the staircase and led me to a fortified section of the basement. I collapsed on the floor in a seated position, my back resting against a sturdy column.

“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate your help.”

“That’s what we’re here for,” he replied before returning to his post.

I closed my eyes, thankful to be alive, and struggled to catch my breath. Once I had calmed myself, I checked for injuries. My left elbow was scraped, but not bleeding. And although my trousers were torn at both knees, when I rolled up my pant legs I found only a few welts from slivers of cobblestone. I was shaken, but not hurt.

I surveyed the musty bomb shelter as my breathing slowed to a more regular rate. The basement was cramped, just over six feet high and covering the same area as the hotel. Sandbags lay against the outer walls, and additional braces of wood and steel supported the ceiling. A hundred guests and employees were scattered about, chatting idly in small groups and anxiously waiting for the bombing to cease.

I recognized a handful of people, having seen them in London, or in newspapers or magazines. Sir Jonathan Bramwell, a noted member of Parliament, was the most distinguished, and when his gaze met mine I nodded a greeting.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bramwell,” I said. “What brings you to Singapore?”

“A military fact-finder,” he replied. Even though he recognized me, he wasn’t sure who I was. “His Majesty’s government sent several members of Parliament to study conditions here.”

“I’m George Adams, with the London Times. Would you like to chat?”

He frowned. “Maybe another time.”

“Of course,” I said. “I’ll look forward to it. Enjoy your stay.”

“I shall,” he replied. “If the Japanese let me.”

I let the opportunity for an interview pass. There would be other chances. I was too shaken to be effective anyway. The enemy had almost killed me.

I reflected on recent Japanese successes in Southeast Asia. Their advance down the Malay Peninsula had spread like the lava of a spewing volcano, consuming all that lay in its path. Now Singapore, the formidable island fortress, lie in wait.

I opened my diary and entered an account of the air raid under the date February 7, 1942. I wrote profusely and in a descriptive fashion, both to provide material for my newspaper articles and to allow reconstruction of daily events for a book I hoped to write after the war. I was so engrossed in recounting the day’s events that I neglected to see the gentleman who sat down beside me.

“Would you like some?” he asked.

I looked at the half-empty bottle of gin. I wasn’t much of a drinker, but it was just what I needed to sooth my nerves. “Maybe I will,” I said. My hand trembled as I reached for it. I took a swig, choking on the fiery liquid, before returning the bottle.

He was about forty years old, a good dozen years my senior, and the lines of life had just begun to etch the weathered skin of his face. His eyes, which were a sparkling blue, were his most striking feature. A three-day growth of beard shadowed his face, and a yachting cap topped an uncombed mop of brown hair. His dress was casual, chosen for comfort rather than style, and he puffed on a pipe that emitted a pleasant cherry aroma.

“I’m Thomas Montclair,” he said. He thrust his hand forward, shaking mine firmly.

“George Adams,” I replied.

“Are you a novelist,” he asked, motioning to my diary, “or is that your last will and testament?”

I laughed. “I’m a journalist. I keep detailed notes.”

“Are you staying here at the hotel?”

“Yes, I arrived from London this morning.”

“Why would you ever come to Singapore?” he asked.

“I volunteered,” I said. “It’s a tremendous career opportunity. In London, I wrote articles about community events, with some political commentary. Nothing very important. Now I can write about the war as an eyewitness on the front lines.”

“You weren’t interested in becoming a soldier?” he asked with arched eyebrows.

I pointed to the thick glasses resting on my nose.

“You weren’t accepted?”

I shook my head. “No. But I’m not much of a fighter anyway. It worked out for the best. I’ll make more of a contribution as a reporter.”

“Probably so,” he said. He took a sip from the bottle. “Many of the hotel’s guests are English,” he continued. “And most meet in the bar each evening for drinks and conversation. I suggest you come, also.”

“I will,” I said. “Maybe tonight.”

“Good,” he replied. “You’ll find it entertaining, I’m sure.”

“I know you’re not English, but I don’t recognize your accent.”

“You’re right. I’m not.” He then smiled. “I’m a citizen of the seven seas.”

His evasive reply confused me and I looked at him curiously.

“But I’m of French ancestry,” he added.

“Have you been in Singapore long?”

He shrugged. “I lose track of time.”

He wasn’t inclined to elaborate, so I changed the subject. “I suppose this is one of the safest places to be.”

“In the bomb shelter?”

“No,” I replied, “in Singapore.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s known as Fortress Singapore in England,” I informed him. “Its defenses are impregnable. That’s why I said we’ll be safe here.”

Montclair was silent for a moment. When he did speak he seemed reluctant to do so, almost as if he was about to expose a painful revelation.

“Mr. Adams,” he said, “I’m afraid that Fortress Singapore is actually a myth, developed as a propaganda ploy to boost morale. In truth, the British are on the verge of the worst defeat in their history. Except for the loss of the American colonies.”

“I think you’re mistaken,” I said. “And so does all of Britain.”

“No, I assure you I am not. It is true that the southern side of the island, where the city of Singapore itself is located, is well defended. The problem is that the guns point toward the ocean.”

His ignorance surprised me. “But Singapore is an island, Mr. Montclair. The attack will have to come from the sea.”

“In the strictest sense you are correct,” he admitted. “But the Japanese have massed a large force on the Malay Peninsula to the north. At that point only the Strait of Johore, a thousand-yard strip of water, separates the island from the mainland. Many rivers of the world are wider.”

“But that is the same route the British took when they retreated to Singapore,” I reminded him. “I’m sure it’s well defended.”

“No, it really isn’t,” he said. “Some artillery, but not much more.”

“And why not?” I asked. “Why wouldn’t we defend an obvious weakness?”

“Because the Japanese could just as easily occupy Ubin Island in the northeast, and attack from there.”

I looked at him strangely. “How do you know all of this?”

“You’ll enjoy Singapore,” he said. “It’s a fascinating city. A bit warm, but you’ll get used to it. I was in New Delhi before I came here. It was very hot there. I - ”

“Mr. Montclair, what does the northern sector of the island look like?

“It’s mostly marsh,” he replied.

“And would you know what defensive measures, other than the placement of some artillery, have been taken?”

He studied me for a moment and then replied. “Little has been done to defend that area of the island. If you don’t believe me I’ll take you there.”

I sipped more gin and digested his logic. “When do you think the attack will be launched, if it comes at all?”

“It will come any day now.”

I considered the detailed data he seemed to possess. It didn’t make sense to me.

“How would you have access to all of this information?”

He shrugged. “I talk to people.”

“And the situation is that desperate? At least in your opinion?”

“I’m certainly not an expert,” he said tersely.

“Do the residents of the island share your view of its defenses?”

“A few do,” he said. “But most hope for a miracle.”

“Maybe I’ll offer your opinion in my first article from Singapore,” I said.

“You’re more than welcome to.”

“I want the story to be the best one I’ve ever written. I want to prove to everyone that I earned the right to come here.”

He didn’t comment, but instead pointed toward the street. “The bombing has ceased.”

The sirens signaling the end of the attack sounded, and we made our way to the entrance.

“Maybe we can continue our discussion this evening,” he said cheerfully while we climbed the steps.

“Yes, of course.” We opened the door and rays of sunlight streamed into the dimly lit basement. “I would like that.”

We stepped outside and saw the broad avenue littered with wreckage: brick, stone, wood, and glass. Destroyed furniture was strewn about, lying beside uprooted palm trees. A few dogs sniffed through the wreckage while a dozen British and colonial soldiers managed the chaos.

A path had already been cleared through the clogged roadway, permitting emergency vehicles to pass. A horse-drawn wagon used as a makeshift ambulance contained five injured, and others were being led to it. About twenty volunteers had assembled to help, and I watched while four men, Montclair among them, raced to a burning apartment building to aid those fighting the fire.

“Can I help?” I asked a soldier.

“Absolutely,” he replied. “Start clearing rubble from the road.”

I worked beside the other volunteers, collecting debris and placing it in piles along the side of the street. The fire in the nearby building was quickly brought under control, and shortly thereafter I saw Montclair emerge from the lower floor of the smoldering structure with an elderly woman cradled in his arms. The onlookers cheered while he carried her to an ambulance where a medic administered first aid. He then turned and raced back into the building, followed by two firemen. I don’t know how badly the woman was injured, but I do know she would have perished if he hadn’t rescued her.

Twilight dusted the horizon when my comrades and I finished clearing the road and organizing the debris so it could be hauled away. The remaining rubble marked where a building once stood.

I hadn’t seen Montclair in more than an hour. I assumed he had already gone, so I went to my room and lingered in a hot bath, a just reward for a long and tiring day.

CHAPTER 2

I strolled into the hotel lounge at 9 PM that evening. As I had expected given the impeccable reputation of the hotel, it was a spacious room with an elegant décor. Ornate moldings bathed in cream-colored paint framed the ceiling and divided the wall at its center. The upper portion of the room was wrapped in mauve, striped wallpaper, while the lower half was whitewashed planking. The outside wall held a series of twelve-pane windows, some of which were cracked or broken from the recent bombing and haphazardly patched to keep out insects. Those still intact offered a generous view of Orchard Road and were accented by Malaysian draperies.

An empty stage with closed curtains depicting Asian landscapes ran the length of the room. I guessed that the war had borrowed many of the city’s best performers, but I could envision happier times when a crowded room enjoyed fine food and the area’s finest productions. Now only the scratchy sounds from a phonograph could be heard, playing the year’s most popular songs.

Perpendicular to the stage and jutting into the room was a horseshoe-shaped mahogany bar. Twenty people of various nationalities were scattered around its circumference, while a busy bartender manned the center. A bare dance floor occupied the area before the stage, while the remainder of the room was filled with small tables. Some faced the windows, where you could watch the pedestrians on the boulevard beyond, but the rest were scattered about the dance floor. The majority were occupied, some by elegantly dressed men and women of society’s elite, others by the more mundane.

Tucked into a corner near the entrance, I saw two familiar faces. I strolled across the room to greet them.

“Mr. Bramwell, it’s nice to see you again,” I said with a nod. “And Miss Goodwin. What brings you to Singapore?”

“Hello, Mr. Adams,” Bramwell said. He was annoyed to see me. “I trust you survived the bombing intact.”

“Yes, I did. How is your military investigation going?”

“It continues,” he replied. “Are you here for the same purpose?”

“I am,” I replied. “But from a journalistic perspective.” I noted the embarrassed smile of Alice Goodwin, a popular Scottish harpist. I wondered what the married Bramwell was doing with an attractive musician who was twenty years his junior.

“Does that mean I won’t have you pestering me in London?” Bramwell asked.

I grinned. “Not in the immediate future. Although I don’t know how long I’ll be assigned here.”

“Hopefully not too long,” he said darkly.

“Miss Goodwin, I am a great admirer of your music.”

“Thank you, Mr. Adams. And I certainly count you as one of my fans. I appreciate your review of my London concert in November. You were very complimentary.”

“You deserve all the praise you receive, Miss Goodwin,” I said. “I don’t write many music reviews, but I was so taken by your performance that I made an exception.”

I noticed Bramwell’s eyes pleading for discretion. I would honor his request. I did the same for other public officials.

“I certainly hope you enjoy your stay here,” I then said. I cast Bramwell a discernable nod.

“We’ll see you in London,” he replied, looking somewhat relieved.

“It was nice to see you again, Mr. Adams,” Alice said.

I turned and walked toward the bar. My attention was drawn to a stunning woman in a blue evening gown walking toward a tiny table. She was well built, her body the type that could hardly pass without your eyes following it, and I couldn’t help but stare at her. A mane of yellow hair cascaded upon her shoulders, while the creamy skin of her flawless face surrounded eyes as bright and blue as the warmest tropical sea.

Her regal appearance gave no hint to her ancestry, but I assumed from her behavior and carriage that she was European. I continued to glance at her while I walked to the bar. She looked familiar, and was perhaps a public figure, but I couldn’t place her.

I saw Montclair seated at the bar, but with a different appearance. Gone were the rumpled clothes and yachting cap, replaced by a black suit and tie with a white silk shirt. I thought the transformation peculiar but I would learn, as our friendship progressed, that one never knew how he would present himself. He might dress like a polished prince one day, yet resemble a homeless tramp twenty-four hours later.

“Mr. Adams,” he called. “I’m glad you could come.”

“Good evening, Mr. Montclair.”

“I told you there would be an interesting assortment of people here.”

“Yes, I see that.” I gazed around the room. “Tell me, do you know who that attractive lady in the blue evening gown is?”

He looked at her for a moment. “No,” he said, slowly shaking his head. “But I have seen her here the past few evenings. Maybe she recently arrived in Singapore. Why? Do you find her interesting?”

“Somewhat,” I admitted.

“She seems a bit pretentious to me. Probably a conceited aristocrat.”

I laughed. “Some aristocrats are very nice people.”

“I agree,” he said. “And this is the type of hotel that attracts them. Are you enjoying your stay?”

“Yes, it’s marvelous,” I said. “What fabulous service. And the building is beautiful.”

“It’s an excellent example of British Colonial architecture,” he remarked. “I especially enjoy the Doric columns that grace the front entrance.”

“This whole area has beautiful buildings,” I noted. “I’m impressed with the city. It’s very different from London.”

“This area, which is known as Queenstown, is one of the older sections,” he said. “Many of the residents here are European, British mostly.”

The evening passed rapidly. Montclair was as comfortable discussing philosophy as he was horse racing, and he had an obvious thirst to learn the unknown. I was amazed by his intelligence, and he repeatedly offered fact and statistic to support unconventional viewpoints.

I also noticed that he flirted openly with several women, not caring if they were escorted or not. Since it was hardly consistent with the modest manner in which I was raised, I found his behavior embarrassing, but exciting.

“Do you know many of the women here?” I asked.

“A few. The lady in the sleeveless dress is an art critic here in Singapore. And the woman with the red hair is married to a local bank president. She has a passionate interest in French history. I’ve had many discussions with her.”

“I bet you have,” I observed slyly.

It was after midnight when I prepared to depart. Montclair seemed determined to remain at the bar until it closed, which I would later learn was his custom. Most of the other guests stayed also, laughing and joking and trying to forget that hours before we had sat in the basement while bombs exploded above us.

“Good night, Thomas,” I said. “I had a fabulous time.”

“I did also. Until tomorrow, my friend.”

I made my way across the dance floor, glancing at the patrons. Just as I left the lounge, I felt someone lightly tap my shoulder.

“Mr. Adams?”

I turned to find the blonde in the blue evening gown who I had admired earlier. “Yes, I’m George Adams.”

“I’m Lady Jane Carrington Smythe,” she announced.

My eyes widened, and I was surprised I hadn’t recognized her before. The Smythe family had been entrenched in Ulster for centuries. Her father, the Earl of Carncastle, spent the past thirty years as a political advisor in India, helping the crown to govern the colony. She spent most of her life in New Delhi while her family maintained a dominant voice in England’s oversight of the subcontinent, usually to satisfy their own inclinations.

“Lady Smythe,” I said with a formal bow, “I am honored to meet you.” I noticed a distant look in her eyes, as if her thoughts were elsewhere. “Is something wrong?”

She surveyed the area and, when satisfied we were alone, she looked at me with a caged expression in her eyes. “Mr. Adams,” she whispered, her hand clutching my arm. “I need your help desperately.”

CHAPTER 3

“What’s wrong?” I asked. I lightly placed my hands on her shoulders.

A slight mist glazed her eyes. She bit her lip and turned away. “Come with me.” She led me to the lobby.

We moved past the walls of Italian marble and around a group of broad-leafed plants. A secluded leather sofa was hidden by the shrubbery, and it was here that she chose to sit.

The room was deserted except for the clerk manning the registration desk. He yawned while he read a newspaper through half-lens glasses. He occasionally peeked over the frame to gaze about the room, but seemed to have little interest in us, assuming he noticed us at all.

I was puzzled by her behavior, and her apparent need for secrecy only heightened my curiosity. I leaned forward, giving her both my undivided attention and the respect her social position demanded.

“I understand that you’re a reporter, Mr. Adams,” she said softly.

“Yes, I am.”

“And I’ve been told that journalists have a network of global contacts. That’s why I need you to help me.”

“What would you like me to do, Lady Smythe?”

“I must leave Singapore within a week.”

“You don’t need my help for that,” I said. “A woman of your status should have no problem arranging transportation.”

“I’m aware of that,” she said. An annoyed frown curled her lips. “And that would be a suitable solution should this be an ordinary situation.”

“And this is not an ordinary situation?”

“No, it is not.”

“May I ask why not?”

She thought for a moment, glanced about the room, and whispered a guarded reply. “No one knows I’m in Singapore.”

At the risk of sounding ridiculous, and taking the chance that she might be offended, I cautiously leaned forward. With the utmost seriousness, I asked the obvious question. “Why don’t you tell them?”

My question produced a fiery stare. “I obviously asked the wrong person for help,” she said. She grabbed her purse and started to leave.

“Please, don’t go.” I lightly touched her arm. “Maybe I don’t understand your problem.”

She slowly settled back on the sofa. “You should be more compassionate, Mr. Adams. My situation is extremely delicate.”

“I’m sorry,” I offered. “Maybe if you explain?”

She eyed me a moment more and then continued. “Mr. Adams, if any representative of the British government knew that I had entered an endangered city, both undetected and unprotected, it would be the ruination of more than one man’s career. And I would be forcibly evacuated.”

“But Lady Smythe, isn’t that what you want?”

“It is not!” She turned to see if the clerk at the counter was listening. When satisfied he wasn’t, she continued. “If discovered, I would be evacuated to British territory. We both understand I could easily leave Singapore without your assistance should I choose to go to India or Britain. The problem is, Mr. Adams, that I want to go to Batavia.”

“Can’t you ask the authorities to take you to Batavia?” I asked.

“My father would never permit it,” she replied.

Now I understood. Part of the problem was her destination, the rest was her father. Although for a woman who neared thirty years of age, I would think her father’s demands would be secondary. “So you have to leave Singapore, not only protected from the Japanese, but undetected by the British.”

“Exactly.”

“Batavia may be as dangerous as Singapore,” I advised. “Especially given the Japanese plans for Pacific conquest. They’ve already invaded Borneo. Rumors are rampant that Java is next.”

“I don’t care about the Japanese.”

“Then why do you want to leave Singapore?”

She was silent for a moment. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, she continued. “Do you know Sir Gregory Millburne?” she asked, surprising me with a question unrelated to the conversation.

I thought for a moment. “Isn’t he a professor at Oxford or Cambridge or something like that?”

She smiled. “Yes he is. A geologist. And world renowned. We’re also engaged to be married.”

She reached into her handbag and withdrew a piece of paper, thrusting it into my hand. “I received this yesterday.”

BALIKPAPAN, BORNEO

DEAREST JANE,

THE JAPANESE ARE SURROUNDING US. I AM HASTILY PREPARING MY DEPARTURE. MEET ME AT THE HOTEL DUNCAN, IN BATAVIA, ON FEB. 13. PLEASE BE CAREFUL.

ETERNALLY YOURS,

GREGORY

Now I understood her motive. She was a woman in love, trying desperately to reach her fiancé. Without her father’s approval.

“Why is he in Borneo?” I asked.

“He’s an absolute genius,” she explained. “As one would expect from an Oxford professor. He recently developed an innovative method of petroleum extraction. He’s been working with the Dutch, improving the yield of their oil wells. I’m sure the Japanese would find him extremely useful.”

“So you must reach Batavia without your father, or anyone who might know your father, realizing it,” I concluded. “Then you can meet your fiancé. Assuming he escapes, of course.”

I regretted my statement as soon as I made it. She hadn’t considered his capture. Her eyes widened and her face paled.

“I need a drink,” she announced. She stood and turned toward the bar.

“A marvelous idea,” I agreed. I certainly didn’t need any more alcohol, but I did want to accommodate her.

We returned to the taproom and found the same faces we had left ten minutes before. We sat at the bar and I ordered a gin while she had a glass of white wine. Montclair sat directly across from us, talking to an Asian gentleman whose head was shaved. His friend was dressed impeccably, and I assumed he was one of the city’s businessmen.

“How will you reach Batavia?” I asked.

“That’s why I asked for your help,” she reminded me. “You have the necessary contacts to arrange everything. It should be easy for a reporter to orchestrate such a simple journey.”

“We only have a week,” I noted. “That doesn’t give us much time.”

“I’m quite aware of that, Mr. Adams,” she said. “Now, are you going to help me or am I wasting my time?”

“No, I’ll help you,” I replied. Her plight offered tremendous journalistic opportunities. I could already envision the articles it would spawn.

I considered my alternatives. I could persuade Sir Jonathan Bramwell to assist, especially if I overlooked his affair with Alice Goodwin. Or I could try to make arrangements through the London Times.

“Who will take us to Batavia?” she asked, interrupting my thoughts.

“Us?”

“You don’t think I’d make such a dangerous journey alone, do you?”

“No, of course not,” I replied. I knew she was right. She couldn’t go alone. She needed protection. Not that I was the one to provide it.

“Who will you find to help us?”

I had to think of something. I didn’t want her to change her mind. She didn’t realize I was an inexperienced journalist that had no global contacts. And I didn’t want her to figure it out.

I was about to admit that I needed more time when my eyes met Montclair. He smiled broadly, nodded a greeting, and motioned discreetly to Lady Smythe. As soon as I saw him I realized the answer lay before me.

“‘Who will help us?’ you ask.” I smiled and pointed at Montclair. “That gentleman across the bar.”

About The Author

John A. Miller has studied people and places from many planes of existence and all facets of his imagination. Day or night might find him tickling the keys of his computer, changing fantasy to reality, or walking the streets of the universe, seeking adventure and exploring the unknown.

Copyright 2007-2008, John A. Miller (Expires September 3, 2009)

To request information on this author or a manuscript contact the listed agent or e-mail: dbooth@authorlink.com

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