CLANDESTINE OPERATIONS FROM MALTA - Book review

 

Clandestine operations from Malta and the French Resistance connection in Tunisia is a fascinating book by Frederick Galea, Platon Alexiades and Adrien Abraham, published by Wise Owl Publications in 2023.

It does what it says in the title, complete with many black and white photographs, and covers the period 1938 to 1943 in considerable detail.

In the Second World War Malta was vital to the Allied effort, serving as a staging post for espionage and submarines against the Axis forces in North Africa, Sicily and Italy. That was why, at great cost in lives, convoys were sent to bolster the islands during the terrible air onslaught by the Italian and German forces.

Many vital clandestine missions were undertaken, among them beach reconnaissance of Italy and Sicily – the latter for Operation Husky (a secret protected by Operation Mincemeat no less), sabotage of railways and bridges and factories, intelligence gathering, anti-shipping with underwater chariots, commando raids, extraction of agents, and diversions. These efforts, notably by the agents in Tunisia (who were in contact with Malta) aided the detection and destruction of Axis shipping, thus denying important replenishment supplies for Rommel et al.

The beach reconnaissance efforts impressed Lord Mountbatten and led to the creation of Combined Operations Pilotage Parties (COPP) – they trained at a secret base on Hayling Island, Portsmouth. They used chariots and folding boats (folbots) that could be easily transported by submarine and get through the boats’ forward hatches.

Agents were flown from Malta to Tunisia to set up a French Resistance network. Every flight was fraught with tension and suspense.

Remarkably, planes took off from Mildenhall in Suffolk, flying through the night and, after covering nearly 1,600 miles, much of it over occupied France – to deliver sabotage units, such as X Troop to Malta. For example, in February 1941 X Troop flew from Malta in six Whitworth Whitleys and parachuted into the Genestra area and seriously damaged an aqueduct; inconveniencing the Italian troops and locals and affecting morale.

The authors quote witnesses to many of the events; sources are provided at the back of the book.

Many of the agents and other personnel involved in transporting them received honours post-war – some posthumously.

MALTA: BLITZED BUT NOT BEATEN

Philip Vella’s comprehensive account of the Second World War siege of Malta was published in 1985; my copy was the third edition, 1989. In the 1970s a group of Maltese enthusiasts formed The National War Museum Association and over the years they have collected and collated documents, photographs, first-hand reports, interviews and eye-witness testimonies about the Battle for Malta. This large-format book is a result of those endeavours.

Besides relating in detail from the outset of hostilities, it also contains almost a hundred pages of appendices recording convoys, daily rations, buildings destroyed or damaged, honours and awards. There are also dozens of illustrations, maps and black-and-white photographs. It is a treasure-trove for any writer or student of history.

In the summer of 1939, when it seemed that war was imminent, the Admiralty pressed to strengthen the island against air attack by installing 122 heavy AA guns, 60 light AA guns and 24 searchlights. Inertia hampered this process. On June 10, 1940 Mussolini declared war on Britain and France. Malta was in the firing line and by this time the islands only had 34 heavy anti-aircraft guns and 8 Bofors; the number of searchlights was up to strength, however.

‘... Malta’s loss would have denied the Allies of a staging post to the Middle East, jeopardised the fate of the British Army fighting in North Africa, and turned the Mediterranean into an Axis lake’ (p163).

The air-raid sirens sounded to warn of the first raid on June 11, 1940. ‘... ten Savoia Marchetti 79s crossed the 60 mile channel on their way to their target Hal Far airfield’ (p6). Other targets were the dockyard and forts. There were seven bombing sorties that first day, with no planes lost on either side.

That year, Malta suffered 211 air raids. Succeeding years increased in number, 963 and 2,031 for 1941 and 1942 respectively. The devastation was horrendous (as many photographs attest); ‘the Royal Opera House was demolished along with several other buildings in Valletta on April 7, 1942’ (p111); the ruins of the opera house are still there, concrete yet mute testimony to the siege. Two days after that, a bomb penetrated the dome of Mosta Church but instead of exploding merely bounced among the congregation. In the first weeks of 1942 ‘the number of unexploded bombs from heavy daylight raids by German aircraft rose from 6 to 143 per week’ (p128).

Civilians sought refuge in ‘the old railway tunnels in Valletta and Floriana, as well as in the Hypogeum, a prehistoric underground burial place, and also the Catacombs at Rabat’ (p15).

The Royal Malta Artillery recruited ‘a motley crowd of clerks and farmers, shop assistants and masons, intellectuals and illiterates’ (p34). In fact, as early as September 1938, ‘3,000 volunteers enrolled in the Women’s Auxiliary Reserve set up by Lady Bonham-Carter, the wife of the then Governor of Malta’ (p73). The native RMA and the Royal Artillery raised a curtain of flame that was fearful to behold... Captured German pilots admitted that they had been unnerved by it. It probably saved the Island from devastation, saved many a British warship... Remarkable was the stoicism of the civilians’ (p173).

Supplies came by seagoing convoy, the first in September 1940 from Alexandria. Subsequent convoys sailed from Gibraltar as well. Freight was also transported by RN submarines, among them HM Submarines Porpoise, Rorqual, Cachalot, Osiris and Otus [While in SM drafting in the 1970s I sent men to submarines that bore these names, but newer boats of the Porpoise and Oberon class, launched 1958 to the 1960s]. Submarines based in Malta attacked German convoys destined for Rommel’s Afrika Korps, sending to the bottom of the sea some 400,000 tons of supplies. In April 1942 HM Submarine Upholder was lost on her twenty-fifth patrol.

Shortages meant that improvisation was the order of the day; ‘men found fig and vine leaves a substitute, albeit a distasteful one, for tobacco... women made coats from blankets and dresses from curtains’ (p77). By September 1941 the only unrationed items were bread, pasta, cheese, rice and tea. At this stage of the war, the Enigma codes had been cracked and warnings of imminent attacks on convoys could be countered. ‘Cigarette-smokers took a deep breath when, on October 30, 1942, after many months of enforced abstinence, an issue of 30 cigarettes a week was introduced on a ration basis, to be increased to 50 with effect from January 15, 1943’ (p172).

‘Radar... is regarded as one of the main contributors to Malta’s defeat of the enemy. Radio Direction Finding was first brought to Malta in Marsh 1939 when the Air ministry Experimental Station was set up at Dingli Cliffs, one of the highest spots on the Island’ (p83).

Allied aircraft were transported by convoy but many were lost during the air-raids on Ta’ Qali, Hal Far and Luqa airfields. ‘In answer to the 200-240 daily Axis sorties, Malta could seldom muster more than six fighters at one time’ (p101).

In September, 1942, even while conflict still raged, the King presented the George Cross to the Island Fortress and its people, acknowledging the ‘gallant service’ the Maltese people had already rendered in the fight for freedom (p120). On June 20, 1943 the King visited the Island, ‘sailing through a hostile sea, with enemy air bases a mere 60 miles away’ (p184). He was given a rapturous reception by civilians and the armed forces; he toured much of the Island all day, witnessing the destruction and speaking to the Maltese. Prime Minister Churchill visited the Island on November 17 for two days and President Roosevelt arrived on December 8 and presented the people with a citation concerning their ‘valorous service above and beyond the call of duty’ (p197).

With the retreat of the Germans from Italy in 1944, few air-raids occurred and none resulted in any further damage or deaths. The last alert sounded on August 28.

‘... looking back across the years, serving at Malta in spite of the hardships, hunger and the constant presence of danger and death, is curiously one of these parts of one’s life, which if given the chance, one would do all over again’ – Leo Nomis, an American pilot flying from Ta’Qali (p154).

CHILL OF THE SHADOW - Press release

 If you like Stephen King's vampire novels, then you might like this!

This cross-genre thriller is set in present-day Malta and has echoes from pre-history and also the eighteenth century Knights of Malta.

Malta may be an island of sun and sand, but there’s a dark side to it too. It all started when some fishermen pulled a corpse out of the sea... Or maybe it was five years ago, in the cave of Ghar Dalam?

Spellman, an American black magician, has designs on a handpicked bunch of Maltese politicians, bending their will to his master’s. A few sacrifices, that’s all it takes. And he’s helped by Zondadari, a rather nasty vampire.

Maltese-American investigative journalist Maria Caruana’s in denial. She can’t believe Count Zondadari is a vampire. She won’t admit it. Such creatures don’t exist, surely? She won’t admit she’s in love with him, either...

Detective Sergeant Attard doesn’t like caves or anything remotely supernatural. Now he teams up with Maria to unravel the mysterious disappearance of young pregnant women. They’re also helped by the priest, Father Joseph.

And there are caves, supernatural deaths and a haunting exorcism.

Just what every holiday island needs, really.

Where there is light, there is shadow…

Paperback and e-book on Amazon:

Amazon UK: https://tinyurl.com/3crnaxfn

Amazon US: https://tinyurl.com/ymb8sn45

Excerpts: 

His body aching in every bone, Zondadari straightened in the front pew and rubbed his strained eyes. Recovery from each transformation was the same: excruciating.

He remembered his pains with a shiver; then gulped the revitalizing warm blood from the church’s golden chalice and licked red dribbles from fleshy lips.

Ever so slowly, the draught would do its arcane work and heal the agonizing ache and give him new life. Not for the first time, Zondadari cursed Theresa. Still, there were compensations: and blood-lusting Desiree was just one of many.

He turned in the high-backed wooden seat to eye Father Pont, sprawled lifeless at the base of the choir stalls. The fool’s vacant eyes reflected no beatitude at abruptly and prematurely meeting his Maker and perhaps because of this they stared at him accusingly. And with good reason. The poor man’s heart must have stopped for a fleeting second as he saw a cloud of bats swoop down from the belfry. Father Pont’s eyes were almost extended on stalks as he viewed the creatures in front of him clustering together, as if purposefully forming into a seemingly pain-racked leather-clad man. Suffused with agonizing pain, the man glared and then smiled, grabbing the nearest piece of silver to hand. The priest stayed rooted to the stone flags, an easy target. No wonder his eyes stared accusingly.

Zondadari shrugged. Even after all these years, he wondered how he could have been taken in by such an empty religion. Of course, in those distant days, superstition reigned supreme.

Standing, he hung the plastic crucifix round his neck.

In a moment he would drag the dead priest down to the catacombs to join his ancient brethren. With great will-power, Zondadari refrained from draining the blood from the priest; he would return for the rest later, a cool libation, after which the body would molder and become sacred dust.

Taking his time – of which he had plenty – he donned the dead priest’s round-brimmed hat. He paused to check his reflection in the shining silver ciborium, its rim smeared with blood and hair where he had clubbed the kappillan.

He lifted his head, accentuating the line of his aquiline nose. His steely grey eyes shone mischievously. Quite the local vicar, he mused, but he still preferred to see himself in his ancient knight’s helmet.

Licking the silver clean, he smiled. Today, he would have a little amusement.

***

Zondadari swore. Despite his efforts, he had succumbed to the hunger. As if viewing through a gauze screen, he pictured the events of the last hour – inviting the attractive tourist to the villa, plying her with rich food and wine. She was pretty in a simple way, awed by the decorations and furnishings – material signifiers of wealth, of no consequence to him. He sought power, in all its forms, not possessions. She was intrigued by the scar on his cheek: like so many of her age, there was a morbid fascination with gore and death; they dressed in black, the Gothic fashion, draping themselves in funereal leather, silk and chiffon. Perhaps they fancied they were immortal? The young often did, until they grew older or became diseased. He laughed at the thought and his pulse raced again as he remembered her gauche invitation for him to seduce her.

She was only partially mesmerized as his teeth chewed and tore at her supple and elastic neck and into the meaty sterno-mastoid muscle. He found the shock of comprehension on her face most pleasurable. The carotid artery gushed forcefully into the roof of his mouth and he almost choked on the girl’s life-blood. Applying skillful pressure, he stemmed the cascade and savoured the taste. It was exquisite.

Even half-asleep, she had tried to fight, to scream away the living – or rather, dying – nightmare, but to no avail. The anticoagulant in his saliva kept the blood flowing until he was sated.

Soon, she slithered into that warm darkness between life and death. It was so long since Therese had sucked him down into those beauteous shadowy depths; the difference was, she then fed him her own blood and made him like her. Normally, victims were used simply to supply blood to re-energize his body. It was a long time since he had brought his own woman back from the dead, to serve him and feed her own blood-lust. At one time it might have been tempting to have a harem of female vampires, but their excessive need for continual sustenance – human blood – would have meant their discovery and ultimate hounding to death. He’d managed to survive simply because over the years he was able to curb his hunger and find substitutes that still gave him the vitality of undead life.

It was weak moments like this when he hated himself. He didn’t like giving in to the hunger. He had promised David Bugeja, after all. Still, it was too late now. He eyed the naked woman sprawled on the moonlit parquet floor. He might as well drain her. It would be a shame to let all that good blood go to waste – especially as it was still warm.

***

Selena was halfway down the stairs, whip held threateningly. “Being flayed alive isn’t a nice way to end your journalistic career, but it’s probably what you deserve!”

Biting her lip, her heart hammering, Maria thundered, “How dare you attack me and break into my home!”

“Maybe I don’t like your writing style?” Laughing, Selena lashed out with the whip.

The vicious strip of leather cut Maria’s left wrist, ripped her jacket and sliced into her shoulder; the sudden pain made her drop the damned phone on the hard tiles, where it shattered. She winced, a hand covering her bloody wrist, and staggered to one side, against the wall. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the fallen coat-stand, coat and umbrella. Repressing the fear of more pain from the whip, she lunged and snatched the umbrella’s wooden handle.

Again Selena’s whip snapped but Maria pressed the umbrella’s button and it opened, deflecting the leather thong. Through a rent in the umbrella’s fabric she saw Selena scream and stamp her foot.

Grimly, Maria charged forward, the umbrella’s metal skeleton deflecting the next whiplash as she approached.

Selena started to back off up the stairs, onto the landing.

Maria heard police sirens outside, getting nearer.

Clearly, Selena heard them as well and moved more hurriedly up the stairs.

With a swift lucky flourish, Maria closed the umbrella and trapped the whip in its folds. She quickly grabbed the length of leather and yanked, pulling the whip from the woman’s hand.

“Oh, hell!” Selena snapped.

“You’ve got some explaining to do!” Maria said but she was ignored and Selena turned and ran up the stairs.

Maria was exultant; she had the madwoman on the run! She discarded both whip and umbrella and followed, her bare feet slapping on the marble steps.

There was a door at the top and it was swinging open as Maria got there. She emerged on the roof solarium, its concrete surface glaring, reflecting the intense sunlight. Shielding her eyes, she noticed Selena was crossing over a low dividing wall to next door where two lines of washing fluttered in the strong breeze.

Below, police car sirens sounded, and then stopped as cars screeched to a halt in the narrow street.

Selena glanced back at Maria.

“You can’t get away, Selena – give yourself up!” Maria called, still chasing her. “The police are here now!”

Scowling, Selena turned and stumbled straight into a fluttering still-damp sheet.

Maria saw her chance and leapt for the pole and untied the washing line. Working on instinct and the adrenalin rush of unfamiliar fear, in an instant she had encircled the sheet-covered madwoman with the clothesline.

Her words muffled and defiant, Selena shouted, “Rot in Hell!” Then, struggling to get free, she stumbled backwards and toppled over the roof balustrade.

Maria grabbed for the line, shrieking, “Selena!” But she was too late…

Below, Attard pulled up his car behind a stationary karozzin. He got out and looked up at the sound of Maria’s voice. He saw the sheet-enshrouded figure fall headfirst, the washing line twisted around the torso and legs.

Selena swung once, and then bashed against the building’s whitewashed wall.

He winced on hearing the cracking of her skull-bone, the sound not unlike a melon bursting.

The black horse whinnied, as if smelling blood and death, and reared up between the shafts of the karozzin.

Swiftly, the white sheet enveloping the woman’s head turned red, while her corpse continued to swing like some grotesque pendulum from Poe’s fevered imagination.

***

Part amused, part amazed, Maria said, “Why so many mirrors?”

“Every fifty years or so, I go through a collecting phase. In the 1820s, it was mirrors...”

She started. “Your reflection–”

“Yes, what about it?”

“You have one!”

Zondadari laughed, the sound echoing. “A myth. Some laws of physics can’t be broken by the supernatural.”

She hugged him close. “Garlic – does it repel you?”

“Only if I hadn’t eaten it at the same meal as you.”

“Your skin – you mentioned barrier creams. Does that mean–?”

“No, sunlight won’t turn me into a pile of dust. It will age my skin, though.” He stroked his chin and grinned. “And as this skin has to last me quite a few centuries, I’d rather it didn’t suffer too much. I’m more fortunate than those sufferers of porphyria, who are confined to a life of darkness; anything stronger than a 40-watt lamp and the skin will shrink under scalding blisters. Necrosis of the skin is not uncommon. Acute varieties of the ailment can be very painful.”

“That rings a bell. I think it’s treated with blood. In fact, wasn’t porphyria used as a scientific explanation to support the existence of vampires?”

He nodded. “A pint or two of haeme can ease the symptoms. Yes, haeme as in haemoglobin.” He smiled. “Of course, there’s no basis in fact that porphyria is in any way related to vampirism.”

She couldn’t resist an exasperated, “Are any of the stories true about vampires?”

“Some.”

NO PRISONERS - book excerpts

 

NO PRISONERS

When Leon Cazador discovers the body of a fellow investigator who was working with the British National Crime Agency to infiltrate a pedophile group that uses the pursuit of golf as a cover for their organized abuses, he refuses to chalk it up to coincidence. Seeking justice for his fallen friend, Leon is presented with another missing person’s case. But this one is decidedly different. Diving deeper, Leon finds himself one step closer to uncovering the deadly pedophile ring that took down his comrade. Finding missing persons is all in a day’s work for Leon. But can he fight his ultimate nightmare in a race against time to save a group of innocent children and exact revenge on their abusers?

Amazon UK: https://tinyurl.com/3bmf9ukm

Amazon US: https://tinyurl.com/yz8b63fu

1.

“But you can’t tell me about it,’ Leon said. A statement, not a question.

“I’d like to – you know, unburden myself. The luxury of catharsis. But no, I’ll leave you out of it. Just breaking bread with you helps, even if I don’t divulge any details. I tell you what, though – I’ll never look at golf in the same way again!”

And with that cryptic remark he seemed to cheer up and they had finished the bottle of red.

If only he had quit the job, Leon reflected. Instead, the poor guy had quit this mortal coil. (p5)

2.

Carlota Diaz had high cheekbones which flushed at sight of him. She was twenty-four yet had a mature head on relatively young shoulders, which had served her well in the police – until she was shot in the leg by an escaping felon. Afterwards she’d been offered a desk job but she decided to resign instead. Leon made her a better offer.

She limped up to him, her warm and smooth hands clasping his. “I waited in for you.”

“Thank you. There was no need.” He gently released her hold and shut the door. He was pleased to see her. She was always full of life, a beacon of hope in the gray world he tended to inhabit.

They had a good relationship, despite the difference in their ages; God, it didn’t bear thinking about: he was thirty years older! His heart held a special place for her, but they had not taken it further than the occasional kiss. That age difference inhibited him. (p10)

3.

Wanda stood up at the head of the table and explained: “You all may not appreciate that this is a fairly radical venture. For too long paedophiles have been shunned by society. You’re probably aware that in the bad old days homosexuals were ostracized, hated and hounded, and yet, nowadays, they are widely regarded as ordinary, healthy people, no more ‘ill’ than people who are left-handed. It really is time that paedophilia should perhaps gain similar acceptance.”

“I can’t see that happening any time soon,” moaned Curtis. “I’m no youngster and I fear it won’t happen in my lifetime.”

“Oh, don’t be so pessimistic,” countered Nige. “What PG is doing is quite exciting! The fervent following of a popular sport – what could be more innocuous and acceptable, eh?” (p93) 

4.

From the office safe he took out his Astra A-100 automatic snug in its black leather shoulder holster, and dumped it on his desk.

Then he opened the closet in the corner. He removed his shirt, bunched it in a roll and gave his underarms a swift wipe with it then dropped it in the wastebasket. From the closet he took a black silk long-sleeved shirt and put it on , kicked off his shoes, unbelted his pants and replaced them with a black pair of cargo pants.

Carlota was unfazed. The first time he’d needed to change in a hurry, he’d asked her to go into her office. She’d complied but halfway through changing she’d entered with an urgent phone-call. “Don’t worry,” she’d said, “nudity is no big deal.” So this wasn’t the first time he’d undressed in front of her. Nor would it be the last, he suspected.

He selected a pair of black rock hopper neoprene shoes and fastened them.

She delved into a filing cabinet and handed him two magazines for the gun.

He distributed them in the various pants pockets so they wouldn’t make a noise knocking against each other. Finally, he pocketed two pairs of latex gloves and a set of wire-cutters.

“I guess you’re ready to go?” she said, stroking his cheek. (p111)

5.

Victims don’t stop being victims once they’re dead, Leon thought, facing the sick individual. “I’m not going to shoot you,” he said.

Andrés let out a sigh of relief and hastily crossed himself. Hypocrite.

Instead, Leon kicked Andrés between the legs, putting as much power and anger he could muster into the movement. The contact was immensely satisfying.

Andrés yelped and bent forward, wobbling with his pants round his ankles, trying to retain his balance while intent on clutching his damaged manhood. Next instant, Leon deployed the ninja Fudo-ken, the clenched fist slamming full into the bastard’s nose, shattering the bone structure. While the bone and cartilage probably wouldn’t penetrate this sick person’s brain, the blow would undoubtedly cause subdural hematoma which was bound to deny the brain adequate blood flow. As a result, a biochemical cascade was in all likelihood happening right now as Leon dispassionately watched. Brain cell death was imminent. No great loss to humanity. (p121)

6.

Myriad stars and a full moon shone in the deep blue night sky and reflected in the waters of Marsaskala Bay. Other reflections, from the odd occupied moored boat and buildings, bars and restaurants, diminished the magical effect. Dressed in their gray-and-black wetsuits and wearing their buoyancy compensators, an air tank each, and neoprene gloves and footwear, Leon and Carlota carried the rest of their scuba gear down to the rocky shore. Here, in the light of the moon they did their pre-dive checks on each other – air switched on, all quick-releases and straps secure, visible and within reach, and contents gauges showed “full”. Then they put on their fins and face-masks and swam a short distance into the wide bay and then submerged. (p184)

 

7.

The far door opened and a man walked in carrying a full bottle of vodka. Replenishment time. He saw them immediately. He was right-handed and the bottle was in his right hand. He fumbled. Instead of dropping the bottle – which would have smashed on the tile floor – he grabbed it with his left hand, clutching it to his chest, then reached for the revolver in his shoulder-holster.

Leon fired once. His bullet went through the vodka bottle, shattering it, soaking the man, and penetrated his chest, the vodka doubtless anaesthetizing the wound in the process. Not that it would do any good. He collapsed noisily to the floor amidst the shards of glass and liquor, dead.

“No prisoners,” Carlota whispered behind him. (p189)

 

 

 

 

 

 

LAST WRITES FOR HALLOWEEN WEEK!

Here’s a page-turning vampire thriller for those dark nights. Set in modern-day Malta. Don't believe the hype - believe the reviewers.

CHILL OF THE SHADOW

Amazon UK Paperback: https://tinyurl.com/yh72dfb9 

Amazon UK Kindle: https://tinyurl.com/2p8mnnut

Review Extracts:

1)     1. The story carefully unfolds into a complex, and chilling tail not exactly for the light-hearted. Maria Caruana, an investigative journalist and police Sergeant Francis, investigate the disappearance of young pregnant women. They put their lives on the line to learn whether or not black magic is alive on the Maltese islands. A startling find as Maria watches her father Dr Nicholas Caruana, a police pathologist, do an autopsy pulls her into the forces of good versus evil. Some people make good out of bad, but Bryson Spellman takes his bitterness to the dark side. Zondadari, a vampire, and Bonello a politician, and his right hand man, Grech are just a few he sucks into his evil plan. Maria’s search for answers takes her to Zondadari. He has a hold over her from the moment she sets eyes on him, and even as she wonders if she loves him, she fears that he is a vampire. The dark forces gather, and then the story breaks wide open and reveals the depth of evil that has befallen the beautiful tourist island of Malta. This is a rather deep story with some X-rated parts that I feel should be placed as a warning...

2)     2. I'll never look at bats in quite the same way again… has a strong structure and is full of rich writing and action. The plot has page turning twists and the main characters are likeable, especially the female lead. I hadn't read a vampire book in a while and was reminded of how intensely gruesome they can be. While this one has its squeamish moments it's not atypical for the genre, and I can't help liking a well written book! The Malta setting was perfect, making this a great escape read.

3)      3. From the beginning, his plausible and complex characters lure the reader deeper into his yarn. In particular, Maria and Michael are hypnotic, compelling, and seductive. The desire to learn more about these romantic and dashing figures makes this book a true page-turner.

4)     4.  ...a fast paced, intelligent read that kept my pulse pounding until the last page. Vampires are certainly enjoying a revival, but Morton’s take is entirely fresh…. 

5)      5. I visited Malta many years ago and Morton’s description is spot on. In fact his research is so exact that half-forgotten memories soon came flooding back and I found myself walking those ancient streets once again. A dark and classical tale with excellent twists that will keep readers enthralled.

NO PRISONERS - 2nd Leon Cazador thriller

 

NO PRISONERS - LEON CAZADOR thriller #2 published 23 August 2022

Inside track:

The beginning of the first chapter of No Prisoners started as a proposed short story entitled ‘Golf Lynx’ – like many stories based on Leon Cazador’s cases, this title was a play on words. Leon finds a body in a golf course sand bunker. The ending was more or less envisaged as well. Inevitably, when I was asked to write a second Leon Cazador novel, I immediately opted for these scenes to be incorporated. So all I had to do then was plot and write the (considerable) middle!

If a series of novels was going to work it was clear that Leon needed a personal assistant or secretary, a sounding-board, someone who could become his sidekick. Some years ago he had worked with an undercover cop Carlota Diaz. She seemed like a likely candidate.

Carlota Diaz had high cheekbones which flushed at sight of him. Her chestnut-colored eyes shone as she rose from her reception desk. Tall and attractive, she was from northern Spain with the fair coloring from her Celtic ancestors. Her strawberry blonde hair was tied back in a chignon. She wore a fetching white poplin top and a lacy black bra was visible through the material. Her black skirt hugged a narrow waist and broad hips. He’d made a point of memorizing her birthday from her CV; she was twenty-four yet had a mature head on relatively young shoulders, which had served her well in the police – until she was shot in the leg by an escaping felon. Afterwards she’d been offered a desk job but she decided to resign instead. Leon made her a better offer.

She sidled round the desk and limped up to him, her warm and smooth hands clasping his. “I waited in for you.”

“Thank you. There was no need.” He gently released her hold and shut the door. He was pleased to see her. She was always full of life, a beacon of hope in the gray world he tended to inhabit.

They had a good relationship, despite the difference in their ages; God, it didn’t bear thinking about: he was thirty-two years older! His heart held a special place for her, but they had not taken it further than the occasional kiss. That age difference inhibited him.

For this book and the next, then, Carlota plays a prominent role.

The storyline for the intended short story had been about pedophiles, a particularly nasty group of individuals. Though Leon had no children, he had a niece, so would have dreaded her falling into the clutches of such people. As he becomes sucked into this dark world he declares to Carlota that he had no intention of taking any prisoners: that’s how strongly he felt.

Excerpts from No Prisoners

Surprisingly, quite a few investigators were hired by Spanish families to keep an eye on their teenage sons and daughters. The rise in street crime and drug use was an ever-present worry for responsible parents. If the kids were sucked into crime, the shame could be devastating to the family; and the future for the kids was going to be bleak.

Villains view undercover cops with extreme malice and drastic prejudice. Though not always while undercover using one of his aliases, Leon acknowledged he would be dealing with individuals who would kill. Those who had killed or were happy to order a murder.

Now, the Paseo Vistalegre is attractive and modern, but it wasn’t too long ago that it looked as though it had recently suffered its own little earthquake. Then a mindless vandal deprived the statue band of their trumpet:  I know where I’d like to stick the instrument if I ever found the culprit, Leon thought. However, the band had now been re-sited and a new trumpet restored. Never let the senseless idiots win.

Leon wasn’t surprised. Spain had an unfortunate reputation for domestic abuse; officials postulated that many men cannot handle women’s new-found independence, which to Leon seemed odd since freedom for women began decades ago, when the old regime died with Franco in 1975. Yet denuncias for domestic violence in the Alicante province alone had tripled in the last ten years... Leon tried to keep clear of those cases. Basic adultery – by either party – was fair game and less dangerous than many of his other capers; it helped create the illusion that such work paid the bills. He was careful about where his considerable wealth actually stemmed from, since it had been illegal. In truth, he didn’t trust himself where domestic violence was concerned. Usually the culprit was the man – and Leon knew he’d been tempted on those rare occasions when he’d been involved to teach the bully a severe lesson, which could have put him in court or even get his license revoked. He detested bullies of all shades.

From the closet Leon took a black silk long-sleeved shirt and put it on . He kicked off his shoes, unbelted his pants and replaced them with a black pair of cargo pants. Carlota was unfazed. The first time he’d needed to change in a hurry, he’d asked her to go into her office. She’d complied but halfway through changing she’d entered with an urgent phone-call. “Don’t worry,” she’d said, “nudity is no big deal.” So this wasn’t the first time he’d undressed in front of her. Nor would it be the last, he suspected. He shrugged into his shoulder holster, checked the Astra and then the Colt in his ankle holster. He selected a pair of black rock hopper neoprene shoes from a closet shelf and fastened them. She delved into a filing cabinet and handed him two magazines for each gun.

Myriad stars and a full moon shone in the deep blue night sky and reflected in the waters of Marsaskala Bay. Other reflections, from the odd occupied moored boat and buildings, bars and restaurants, diminished the magical effect. Dressed in their gray-and-black wetsuits and wearing their buoyancy compensators, an air tank each, and neoprene gloves and footwear, Leon and Carlota carried the rest of their scuba gear down to the rocky shore. Here, in the light of the moon they did their pre-dive checks on each other – air switched on, all quick-releases and straps secure, visible and within reach, and contents gauges showed “full”. Then they put on their fins and face-masks and swam a short distance into the wide bay and then submerged. 

Cazador considers the perpetrators of some crimes deserve only one fate, and that means no prisoners!

Vampires and black magic are not just for Halloween!

 CHILL OF THE SHADOW

Zondadari never ceased to be filled with dread anticipation before the transformation.

            In the privacy of his secluded Maltese villa he stood on the stone balcony, dressed in black leather, his shoulders draped with a cloak of the same colour and material. Very theatrical, but appropriate. As the pains filled his chest and raked across his back, he hunched forward, his fingers grasping the stone hand-rail for support. Mediterranean fir-pine trees cast their deep velvet shadows onto the balcony, concealing most of the pale yellow moon. Shadows were his friend.

            Slowly the organic material of his clothing pressed against him, even into him, taking on the contours of his large muscular body. A straying wild bird flew over and shrilled and then darted away quickly, discouraged by the unholy smell that emanated from him during his change.

            One day, he feared, his heart wouldn’t hold out against the battering it took.

            Coherent thought shimmered. He started seeing double; then multiples of everything. Disoriented, he lowered himself down on one knee. It would be a few minutes more before he would be able to control the numerous images.

            Small gaping flesh-red mouths, with razor-sharp teeth, appeared on the surface of his body. Disproportionately large furry ears flicked out at all angles and black beady eyes glistened all over him, like a constellation of the devil.

            Five minutes of harrowing pain passed and already he was separating, literally coming apart. With an unpleasant sucking sound, dark shapes peeled off from the form that had been a man. But he was a man no longer.

            With a flick of thin yet deceptively strong leathery wings, the freed bats broke away from each other and landed on the balustrade.

            The shape-shifting was complete. His mind was the sum of these forty-six creatures. He could see through the eyes of a single animal or perceive separate images through all of them. They did his bidding – because they were him in every sense. Every sense.

            The hunger was upon him again.

            As one, the bats flew up into the night sky

***

CHILL OF THE SHADOW

This cross-genre thriller is set in present-day Malta and has echoes from pre-history and also the eighteenth century Knights of Malta.

Malta may be an island of sun and sand, but there’s a dark side to it too. It all started when some fishermen pulled a corpse out of the sea... Or maybe it was five years ago, in the cave of Ghar Dalam…

Spellman, an American black magician, has designs on a handpicked bunch of Maltese politicians, bending their will to his master’s. A few sacrifices, that’s all it takes. And he’s helped by Zondadari, a rather nasty vampire.

Maltese-American investigative journalist Maria Caruana’s in denial. She can’t believe Count Zondadari is a vampire. She won’t admit it. Such creatures don’t exist, surely? She won’t admit she’s in love with him, either...

Detective Sergeant Attard doesn’t like caves or anything remotely supernatural. Now he teams up with Maria to unravel the mysterious disappearance of young pregnant women. They’re also helped by the priest, Father Joseph.

And there are caves, supernatural deaths and a haunting exorcism. Just what every holiday island needs, really.

Where there is light, there is shadow…

Some reviews extracts:

Kay Lesley Reeves (Spain)

I'll never look at bats in quite the same way again. An original twist on vampire legend with a hint of tongue-in-the-cheek humour.

Mr M. C. Iles (UK)

I visited Malta many years ago and Morton’s description is spot on. In fact his research is so exact that half-forgotten memories soon came flooding back and I found myself walking those ancient streets once again. A dark and classical tale with excellent twists that will keep readers enthralled.

Angela M.

… has a strong structure and is full of rich writing and action. The plot has page turning twists and the main characters are likeable, especially the female lead. I hadn't read a vampire book in a while and was reminded of how intensely gruesome they can be. While this one has its squeamish moments it's not atypical for the genre, and I can't help liking a well written book! The Malta setting was perfect, making this a great escape read.

E. B. Sullivan (California, US)

Set in picturesque Malta (the book) offers the reader a refreshing twist on the popular vampire genre. Mr. Morton weaves a story with multiple surprises. From the beginning, his plausible and complex characters lure the reader deeper into his yarn. In particular, Maria and Michael are hypnotic, compelling, and seductive. The desire to learn more about these romantic and dashing figures makes this book a true page-turner.

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