LETTERS FROM THE ATTIC

Real life inspiration behind the Jack Rogan Mysteries series

Gabriel Farago

Second Edition

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Copyright 2016 © Gabriel Farago

All rights reserved

The right of Gabriel Farago to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 (for example, fair dealing for the purposes of study, research, criticism or review) no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Also by Gabriel Farago

The Forgotten Painting

The Kimberley Secret

The Postmaster of Treblinka

The Empress Holds the Key

The Disappearance of Anna Popov

The Hidden Genes of Professor K

Professor K: The Final Quest

The Curious Case of the Missing Head

The Lost Symphony

The Death Mask Murders

Table of Contents

Title Page

Claim Your Free Novella

A Note from the Attic

From Budapest to the Blue Mountains; a writer’s journey

The key to the Attic

Coming home for Christmas; 24 December 1956

The Major and the Photograph in the Window

The Boy Scout and the Pope

The Woodcutter, the Bear, and the King

My Little Book of Inspiration

Grumpy and the Chateaubriand

Neptune and the Bombe Alaska

The Bar Fridge, Grimm Friday, and my First Brief

Charlotte and the Brothers Grimm

Winston and the fire warden

Inspiration Rock

The Officer and the Monk

Warrior Monks, a Heretic King and a French Priest

The Lucius Diaries; Akhenaten, Moses, and the Exodus

It was all Dan Brown’s Fault ...

More Books by the Author

The Empress Holds the Key

The Disappearance of Anna Popov

The Hidden Genes of Professor K

Professor K: The Final Quest

The Curious Case of the Missing Head

The Lost Symphony

The Death Mask Murders

Jack Rogan Mysteries Box Set Books 1–4

About the Author

Connect with the Author

A Note from the Attic

What goes on in the mind of a thriller writer? Where do authors draw their inspiration from? Becoming a writer doesn’t happen in a vacuum. It is a journey in itself that provides the material for the stories, and the rich tapestry of characters and settings that bring those stories so vividly to life.

This collection of short stories was inspired by the blog on my website and provides a glimpse into the world and creative process that shapes my work. Most of these stories relate to my debut novel, The Empress Holds the Key published in 2013, and will help you understand the journey of the book, and perhaps demystify the arcane craft of creative writing.

Gabriel Farago

Leura, Blue Mountains, Australia

From Budapest to the Blue Mountains;
a writer’s journey

As a lawyer with a passion for history and archaeology, I had to wait many years before I could pursue another passion – writing – in earnest. However, my love of books and storytelling started long before that.

I remember as a young boy reading biographies and history books with a torch under the bed covers, and then writing stories about archaeologists and explorers the next day, instead of doing homework. While I regularly got into trouble for this, I believe we can only do well in our endeavours if we are passionate about the things we love; for me, writing has become a passion.

I was born in Budapest, and grew up in post-War Europe. After fleeing Hungary with my parents during the Revolution in 1956, I attended school in Austria before arriving in Australia as a teenager. Through my travels I have become multi-lingual and now feel ‘at home’ in different countries and diverse cultures.

I hold degrees in literature and law, speak several languages and take my research and authenticity very seriously. Inquisitive by nature, I have studied Egyptology and learned to read the hieroglyphs. I travel extensively and visit all of the locations mentioned in my books.

To create a seamless storyline, I try to weave fact and fiction together, blurring the boundaries between the two, so that the reader is never quite sure where one ends, and the other begins. This is of course quite deliberate as it creates the illusion of authenticity and reality in a work that is pure fiction. A successful work of fiction is a balancing act: reality must rub shoulders with imagination in a way that is both entertaining and plausible!

My home is now in the Blue Mountains in Australia, just outside Sydney, where we are surrounded by a World Heritage National Park.

The beauty and solitude of this unique environment give me inspiration and the energy to weave my thoughts and ideas into stories that will in turn, I sincerely hope, entertain and inspire my readers.

The key to the Attic

I can still remember my tenth birthday most vividly. It was the day I was given the key to my grandfather’s attic. The key was certainly impressive: heavy, intricate and huge, like the key of a castle gate, I thought at the time. And in some ways it was just that. It opened the door to a magic world.

The attic in my grandfather’s hunting lodge in Austria was a wonderland; especially for a young boy. Just to get to it was an adventure. You could only reach it by way of a narrow set of winding stairs that always creaked.

Once you made it to the top, you were met by a low, wood-panelled door with solid, wrought iron hinges. The door was usually locked, and the huge key resided in grandpa’s study, in the bottom drawer of his beloved desk; until it became mine that is.

The attic, a narrow, rectangular room at the very top of the spacious house where a maze of massive exposed wooden beams held up a steep roof, became my secret world. It was a place where I could dream and let my imagination run free. And there was certainly a lot to stimulate my imagination – books mainly, hundreds of them – and a few fascinating objects to enchant a curious boy. Welcome to my grandfather’s private world.

There were no shelves or bookcases; the books were all in old trunks covered in cobwebs. As a career soldier – a high-ranking officer in the Austro-Hungarian army – my grandfather travelled a lot. He was stationed in various parts of the Empire, often for years, and his most treasured possessions travelled with him in those trunks.

A leather chair – armrests worn and faded – faced a dormer window with a splendid view down into the garden. Next to it was a wooden table with intricately carved legs. On its polished top lived two very special objects: my grandfather’s wonderful old typewriter, and a gramophone. And, I almost forgot, his reading glasses in a flat metal case and a silver pocket-watch.

The typewriter with its many moving parts became an item of great fascination. I experimented for hours, pressing the keys, watching the ribbon move and the spools turn, always waiting for the little bell to ring, until one of my aunts took pity on me and actually showed me how it worked.

Sadly, I never met my grandfather – he died many years before I was born – but in that attic I believe I got to know him through his books and his music. I became a voracious reader. After school, I headed straight to the attic. Not to do homework, but to read. It was my introduction to the wonderful world of books, a passion that has never left me, and which today, more than ever, guides my life. I believe this was my grandfather’s legacy; a gift to the grandson he never met: literature and music.

I still have that typewriter and that gramophone, and I still have the key to my grandfather’s attic and his reading glasses and his watch. Memory links us to the past. Without memory we are rudderless, adrift in the turbulent sea of life without compass or anchor. Special objects are little memory-triggers that can conjure up thoughts and ideas hidden in the recesses of our minds. They are little souvenirs of life’s stops along the journey.

I am surrounded by memories up here in my own attic in the Blue Mountains on the other side of the world. I still type the occasional page on that typewriter, and listen to an old, scratched Caruso record or two on the gramophone. They give me a great sense of peace and joy, and most importantly, inspiration to do what I love most: writing.

Coming home for Christmas;
24 December 1956

Winter came early to Austria in 1956. The mountains were hiding in dense fog and a thick blanket of snow covered the countryside. The branches of the pine trees groaned under the heavy load and almost touched the frozen ground.

Russian tanks rolling through Budapest had crushed the Hungarian Revolution that had erupted in October a few months earlier. The streets were littered with the bodies of freedom fighters who had laid down their lives for a dream.

The little boy shovelling snow in his grandparents’ garden was one of the lucky ones. He and his mother had managed to escape the bloodbath by crossing the border into Austria before the iron curtain descended with brutal efficiency, sealing off the troubled country. The boy’s father, however – a freedom fighter – had remained behind, helping to hide, and care for the wounded.

‘You must leave now, before it’s too late!’ he had told his young wife. ‘Your parents are in Austria waiting for you. You have a home to go to in the West! There is nothing left for us here. I will join you later; promise. Go!’ That had happened in early November.

This will be a sad Christmas, thought the young woman, watching her son play in the snow outside. At least he’s safe. She hadn’t heard from her husband, nor did she know if he was still alive. The horror stories that had leaked out through the Red Cross spoke of summary executions, chaos, hunger and despair; the wages of defeat of a humbled nation that had dared to demand freedom, and lost.

The little boy pushed the wooden shovel along the path at the bottom of the garden when something caught his eye: a dark shape at the gate. Squinting through the snow falling all around him like sparkling tufts of cottonwool, he could see a man wearing a slouch hat and a long coat watching him; motionless and silent. The boy dropped the shovel and walked slowly towards the gate. With each step came recognition, hesitantly at first, but growing stronger and more certain.

‘Daddy?’ whispered the boy, his eyes wide with disbelief and wonder. The man put down his little brown suitcase and took off his hat.

‘Daddy!’ shrieked the boy as he flew into his father’s outstretched arms. It was an embrace neither of them would forget.

Of course the little boy in the story was me. It had taken my father three weeks to walk from the smoking ruins of Budapest to my grandparents’ home in Austria. Hiding in abandoned stables and chicken coops along the way, and living off the kindness of farmers prepared to risk all to help a fugitive, he finally crossed the border into Austria at night during a snow storm. I remember his swollen feet looked terrible and he was frightfully thin and very weak. But none of that mattered; he had come home for Christmas.

A couple of years later, in high school, we were asked to write a short story about an event that changed our lives. This was my story. The teacher entered it in a little competition run by the local paper. The story won a prize. It was my first step towards becoming a writer.

The Major and the photograph in the window

Ask any serious storyteller if he can remember the first story he told in public. I’m sure he can, most vividly. I certainly remember mine.

It happened at school in Austria many years ago. I must have been about 10 or 11 at the time. Before sending us home for the day, our teacher told us that we would all have to tell a little story to the class the next day. Instead of being intimidated by this, I was actually very excited. I had been telling stories to my grandmother and my two great aunts who were living with us, for years. I remember when they got tired of listening to me, I would tell stories to Lumpi, our dachshund, who was usually asleep by the fire. So, the most difficult thing for me was not to think of a story I could tell in class, but which one to choose. I settled on the one about the Major and the photograph, one of my favourites.

When the teacher called us – one by one – to the blackboard the next day, I could hardly wait for my turn. This is the story I told the class:

It happened in Prague on a warm Sunday morning in the spring of 1904. The dashing young officer – a major in the Austro-Hungarian army – had just arrived by train from Budapest. Looking very dapper in his uniform as he crossed the Charles Bridge, he was on his way up to the castle to meet a friend.

Not only the young women promenading on the bridge, but even the haughty matrons hurrying to church turned their heads as he walked past. When he left the bridge and entered the Little Quarter, something caught his eye in the shop window of a well-known photographer. The major stopped, lit a cigarette, and looked at the photograph displayed on an easel in the window. It was a portrait of a young woman sitting on a chaise lounge. She looks like a Greek goddess, he thought, fascinated by the striking woman in the photograph. The officer stood there for a long while, oblivious of the throng of the passers-by giving him curious looks.

The major returned to the studio on Monday morning and asked to speak to the photographer who had taken the picture he had so admired the day before.

‘Can you tell me who that young woman is in the photograph over there?’ he asked, pointing to the picture in the window. At first, the photographer was evasive, and didn’t want to provide any information. The major insisted. In those days, one didn’t refuse a request made by a senior officer in the Austro-Hungarian army. Rolling his eyes, the photographer relented with a shrug, reached under the counter, and opened his appointment book.

‘The young lady is the daughter of a prominent doctor,’ he said. ‘The photograph was taken in the family home here in Prague a month ago.’

‘May I have a name and an address, please?’ asked the officer.

‘The family lives near Bertramka ...’

‘The villa where Mozart composed the overture to Don Giovanni a few hours before its premiere?’ interrupted the major.

‘That’s the one. The doctor lives next door.’

‘I know where it is.’

The major called on the doctor the next day, introduced himself and described the curious incident with the photograph in the window.

‘I can’t quite explain it, but something about the young lady has affected me deeply ...’ he told the doctor. ‘Is she here? Would it be possible to meet her?’

‘Yes,’ said the doctor, smiling, ‘come.’ He took the major to an open window overlooking a beautiful garden at the back of the house, and pointed to a young woman of about 18, sitting on a bench with a book in her lap. Looking up, she waved to her father. When her eyes turned to the handsome stranger in the uniform standing next to him, her heart missed a beat.

Three months later, the major and the young woman were married. That’s how my grandfather met my grandmother.

The Boy Scout and the Pope

I still remember that sunny spring afternoon very well. We were living in my grandfather’s hunting lodge in Austria at the time, and school had finished early that day. Our little group of six keen Hungarian boy scouts was meeting in the stone cottage by the old mill. Our leader had a surprise for us: a jamboree at Lake Como in Italy during the summer holidays, and all of us would go! After the excitement had died down a little, he told us there was more. We had been invited by the Vatican to come to Rome after the jamboree for an audience with the Pope! The Jesuits running our school had arranged the trip.

The jamboree was a huge success. Cooking on open fires, sleeping in tents, swimming in the beautiful lake, and meeting other scouts from all over Europe, was a wonderful adventure for a twelve-year-old boy. However, the best was yet to come: Rome.

A monsignor wearing a funny hat met us at the railway station and took us to our lodgings – a Franciscan monastery near the Vatican. Our audience with His Holiness, Pope John XXIII, was scheduled for 10 am the next day.

Walking up the huge marble staircase leading to the audience chamber – heart pounding with excitement like a drum as we passed armed Swiss Guards in outrageous costumes – was an unforgettable experience. Of course we were not alone; there were at least 100 other guests from around the world making their way up the stairs to meet the Pontiff.

Looking smart in our freshly laundered and pressed scout uniforms, we lined up behind our leader at our designated spot, and waited for the Pontiff to arrive. Moments later, the doors opened, and His Holiness entered. A hush fell upon the audience chamber as all eyes turned towards the small, frail-looking old man dressed all in white, walking slowly down the carpet; a remarkable presence had arrived, radiating an aura that sent tingles down your spine. It filled every corner of the large chamber and became stronger as the little man came closer. Instead of walking past our group, he stopped, and addressed our scout leader. Speaking fluent German, the Pontiff told our leader that he wanted to meet us.

One by one, we were asked to step forward and introduce ourselves. His Holiness seemed to know all about us. He knew that we were children of Hungarian refugees who had escaped during the Revolution, and now attended a Jesuit school in Austria. When my turn came, I froze. I kept staring at my shoes, unable to move. Then I felt something touching my head and looked up. The Pontiff had placed his hand on my head and was looking at me. I cannot quite explain it, but something strange happened at that moment which I have never forgotten. All apprehension fell away, and a feeling of tremendous peace and joy welled up inside me. I cannot remember the questions he asked me, but I do remember that I had no trouble finding the answers.

Many years later, in Egypt, while doing research for The Empress Holds the Key I met an Ethiopian holy man. He was blind, with a face creased like old parchment, but when he touched my hand, memories of my meeting with the Pope as a boy came flooding back with alarming clarity. I had the same feeling, only this time, I knew what it was: what passed from the old man to me when his hand touched mine, was love. It was an inspirational moment that I’ve tried to capture in the book.

My keen interest in the Vatican, the Scriptures, and Church history began during that memorable trip to Rome. A fascination with the prophet Moses and the Ten Commandments date back to the same time. I remember standing in front of Michelangelo’s famous statue of Moses with horns in the church of San Pietro in Vincoli, finding it difficult to believe that someone had actually carved it out of marble. It seemed impossible. Impressions and experiences gained in our youth can leave a significant mark which, stored deep within the hidden recesses of our mind, can bubble to the surface in unexpected ways years later.

The woodcutter, the bear, and the king

I’m often asked: ‘What’s the meaning of that crest on the cover of your books?’ Well, it’s my family crest, and it has quite a history. Let me tell you about it.

The exact year has been lost, but it was around the 1460s. Hungary was a wild and dangerous place in the fifteenth century. Matthias Corvinus – Hungary’s young king – was in a lot of trouble; his kingdom was under attack. The Turks were expanding their empire by pushing relentlessly westward into Europe.

During one of his campaigns against marauding Turks, the king became separated from his retainers in the heat of battle. Thirsty and exhausted, he stopped by a stream in a dense forest to rest. He dismounted, took off his armour and knelt down to drink. That’s when a bear attacked him from behind. Taken by surprise, the king was unable to reach for his sword. Vulnerable and defenceless, he was certain he was about to be torn apart by the ferocious beast. Fate, however, had something else in mind ...

A woodcutter working nearby heard the commotion and ran towards the stream. He found a man pinned to the ground by a bear towering above him. Before the bear could deliver the fatal blow, the woodcutter picked up the king’s sword and killed the beast.

As a reward for saving the king’s life, he was granted land and was eventually elevated into the nobility. The crest commemorates this: it shows the woodcutter – my ancestor – sword drawn, standing on a dead bear. This wonderful story has been handed down in our family from generation to generation together with a signet ring, which I wear.

Traditionally, the seal was attached to documents – especially title deeds and correspondence – by way of authentication, just like a signature. It’s now part of my books.

We all yearn to know who we are and where we come from. Exploring our past helps us answer these questions.

My Little Book of Inspiration

My Little Book of Inspiration has been with me for a long time. I bought it in the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul many years ago. What is it? Well, it’s a little leather-bound notebook with replaceable pages. It’s a cross between a diary, notepad, and sketchbook, I suppose. But it’s a lot more than that: it’s a companion, a trusted friend who guards valuable information for me. I use it to jot down ideas, impressions, names and places, even words or phrases I come across in the most unexpected ways.

Early in my career as a young barrister, my mentor – an eminent QC – taught me something important I’ve never forgotten: ‘If you want to remember things later, write them down straight away,’ I can still hear him lecture me, ‘because your memory will play tricks on you. And when that happens, it’s gone forever.’ For an inquisitive author like me who relies on interesting little snippets, that would be tragic.

I’ve lost the little book several times, but somehow, it found its way back to me on each occasion. I remember once leaving it in a felucca sailing down the Nile. I was doing research for The Empress Holds the Key in Egypt. I thought it had gone for good that time, but a young deckhand tracked me down, brought it to our camp the next day, and returned it to me with great flourish.

And then there was this unforgettable occasion in the Kimberley in Western Australia a couple of years ago. I was writing The Disappearance of Anna Popov. My Aboriginal guide took me to a remote cave to look at some ancient rock art, when the little book slipped out of my backpack and fell straight down into a deep gorge below. Fortunately, it didn’t fall into the water, but landed on a sandbank full of crocodiles sunning themselves. My guide had to retrieve the little book with a long stick while I distracted the curious reptiles by throwing pebbles at them from above.

Over the years, the little book got soaked countless times, was spat on by a camel, chewed by a donkey, singed around the edges in a campfire and run over by a bus. But somehow, it seems indestructible and doesn’t want to leave me. We’ve become inseparable, and now I couldn’t be without it.

Grumpy and the Chateaubriand

I often sit up in my attic leafing through one of my early little books of inspiration. I’ve kept them all, you see, and they’ve served me well. Not only are they a treasure-trove of memories, they’ve provided valuable inspiration and material for my books and characters.

The need to write comes from within. It starts early – it did so with me – and never leaves you. I’ve also learnt very early on to write things down straight away, and make a note of an idea or an observation that one day could be turned into a story.

As it happens, the entry in front of me reaches back to my early student days. It’s a short sketch of a wonderful incident that I developed many years later into a short story.

I had just left school and was looking for a casual job before university started. The obvious choice was hospitality. A new five star hotel had just opened in Sydney and was hiring casual staff. I applied. Start at the top, I thought; nothing to lose. To my surprise, despite my lack of experience and tender age – I had left school only two weeks before – I was accepted and placed into the care of a senior waiter for ‘training’. His name was Albert, but everyone called him ‘Grumpy’. Why that was so, I was soon to find out.

Grumpy wasn’t really grumpy, well, most of the time he wasn’t. He was only grumpy when he was sober, which wasn’t often. A feisty Scot in his late 50s, with a striking shock of white hair neatly parted in the middle, Grumpy was a waiter of the old school and a tough task master; everything had to be perfect. He was head waiter in the exclusive, fine dining room of the hotel, and I became his assistant.

During my first week in the job I wasn’t allowed to even set foot in the dining room. I was in training. I had lessons in napkin folding, glass polishing, table setting and most challenging of all, silver service. Picking up grapes with the tips of a spoon and a fork delicately held in one hand wasn’t exactly my forte, but I was determined to make a fist of it. I learnt how to clear tables, carry half a dozen plates and assorted cutlery neatly stacked up one arm, and juggle coffee cups without spilling a drop. We had daily uniform inspections, and I was shown how to tie my bow tie the old fashioned way. I became the sorcerer’s apprentice learning the ropes, and I was enjoying it. Then came that fateful evening neither Grumpy nor I, nor anyone else who was present for that matter, would ever forget.

‘You’re doing well, lad,’ said Grumpy, obviously pleased with my progress. ‘Tonight, you’ll come into the dining room with me. It’s a good night because it will be very quiet.’ With that I followed Grumpy into the magnificent dining room and he took me on a tour of his domain.

The ambience was elegant and classy. Discreet lighting, soft colours, potted palms and crisp white tablecloths gave the room intimacy and warmth. A trio was playing smooth jazz, and only a handful of tables were still occupied. The experienced floor staff was quietly going about their business, and Grumpy explained the layout of the dining room, pointed out the table numbers, and explained where the plates and cutlery were kept and so on. Soon the dining room was empty, and the waiters were beginning to reset the tables for lunch the next day.

‘We can relax now,’ said Grumpy loosening his bow tie. He winked at the barman, who handed him a large glass of what looked like Coke. As I was to find out later, this was a nightly ritual, only it wasn’t Coke, but a water glass full of whisky with a dash of Coke. Like most seasoned alcoholics, Grumpy hid his little demons well. He never looked drunk, or slurred his speech. His hand was always steady and his manners impeccable. Yet he consumed amazing quantities of liquor every night, but only after the last diner had left the room.

‘You can start folding napkins,’ said Grumpy, pointing to the cupboard where the linen was kept. He put his empty glass on the bar and gave the bartender a nod; the glass was immediately refilled.

I had carefully folded a dozen or so napkins under the watchful eye of my mentor enjoying himself at the bar, when the lift doors opened and a group of noisy, elderly American tourists burst into the empty dining room. They had just arrived from LA and were obviously after some dinner.

Technically, the dining room was still open. Grumpy slid off the bar stool, adjusted his bowtie, and turned instantly into the consummate host. Seating his unexpected guests, and quietly barking orders at the disappointed staff, who saw an early night turning into a late one, he handed out menus, took drink orders and joked with the guests asking for dinner recommendations. In short, Grumpy was in full flight. He even took one of the larger tables next to the bar under his wing, because suddenly, we were short staffed. Groups of 30 unexpected guests arriving all at once without a reservation just didn’t happen in Grumpy’s fine dining room.

‘You stand over there,’ he said hurrying past me. ‘Hold your hands behind your back and watch what I’m doing. Don’t say anything, don’t touch anything; just watch and learn.’ I did as I was told.

Grumpy served the entrees and then cleared the table with great flair. He was a pleasure to watch. ‘This is excellent experience for you,’ he said next time he walked past. ‘They’ve all ordered Chateaubriand. I’ll carve it at the table. Get the trolley!’

I had something to do. I was part of the team! I got the carving trolley with the wooden chopping block on top from the kitchen and parked it next to the table. ‘Now step back and watch,’ said Grumpy. ‘I’m getting the steak.’ I returned to my place by the bar – hands behind my back – and watched.

Moments later, Grumpy arrived carrying a large silver platter with a magnificent piece of beef in the middle. The guests ahh-ed in admiration and watched Grumpy go to work with the carving knife. He carved the steak on the chopping block with great dexterity perfected by decades of practice, and then carefully placed the slices of beef in the middle of the silver platter next to the vegetables. Looking in my direction, he winked at me, reached for the serving spoon and fork and, balancing the large platter on his left arm, began to serve.

Always serve from the left, I remembered him telling me, and go around the table anti-clockwise. Start with the meat, then the vegetables. Not too much, mind you, and keep an eye on colour; beans, carrots, then the spuds with a little parsley on top to make the plate look appetising and interesting. And work quickly, to keep the food warm.

With years of experience behind every well-practised move, Grumpy performed like a well-oiled machine. One day, I’ll be like him, I thought, watching in admiration as Grumpy quickly worked his way around the table of six.

At first, I didn’t see it because he had his back turned to me and the lights had been dimmed. Suddenly, however, all the diners sitting at Grumpy’s table had fallen silent and were staring at something in front of them. Grumpy had just finished serving his last customer and was facing in my direction. That’s when I saw it.

Even the most hardened alcoholic can’t completely control the effect two water glasses full of Chivas Regal have on an empty stomach. Whilst Grumpy’s body was functioning perfectly on autopilot, his brain had temporarily retired from making rational decisions. Grumpy had done everything by the book, except for one thing: he forgot to put the dinner plates on the table before serving the splendid fare!

A large hotel is like a village, full of gossip and quite unforgiving. The story of Grumpy’s spectacular disaster and astronomical dry cleaning bill went around the hotel corridors faster than the fire alarm. Chateaubriand a la tablecloth became the toast of the kitchen and was spoken of for years.

Sadly, Grumpy left the hotel soon thereafter. Finger pointing, ridicule, and sniggering behind his back had made it impossible for him to hold his head up high. The hotel lost a marvellous character, and I lost my mentor and a friend.

Neptune and the Bombe Alaska

Working in swish hotels and restaurants during my university years turned out well for me. During the day, I was the full-time student haunting lecture theatres and libraries. In the evening, I transformed myself. I exchanged my t-shirt, joggers and jeans for my black trousers, polished shoes and tailored waistcoat and entered the world of culinary delights for the well-heeled.

The hours were good, the tips not bad, and the meals free. What more could a student want? This was fine, except for the long university holidays. I got itchy feet then, and wanted to travel. If only I could find a way to combine my night job with a little globetrotting. The opportunity to do just that came along quite unexpectedly one evening; a bit like a bolt out of the blue.

One of the regulars in the restaurant I was working in at the time turned out to be an executive with P&O. He was very interested in my studies, and somehow the travel dilemma came up in conversation. He solved it with one phone call. The solution? Cruise ships. I was offered a job as a steward during the university holidays.

Two days later, I presented myself to the purser on one of the luxury liners docking in Sydney. I was going to sea! It was the beginning of an exciting adventure that lasted several years and provided wonderful material for my stories and books. As they say, truth is often stranger than fiction, and life on board a large cruise ship can be just that, and a lot more.

The adventure started the moment I stepped on board. As I was soon to find out, I had entered a very different world. The purser, a very busy man, spent less than three minutes with me. ‘This is your cabin,’ he said pointing to a cross on a confusing floor plan. ‘Collect your uniform from the laundry – here;’ another cross. ‘You start work at 5:30 pm in the dining room – here;’ a large cross. ‘Report to the head steward; Tony Bonnici. Any questions?’ I could think of a few, but decided, wisely, that this wasn’t a good time to ask. ‘Welcome on board,’ said the purser, obviously pleased by my submissive silence, as he patted me on the back. ‘Good luck!’ The way he said ‘good luck’ definitely sounded like I could do with some. I was right.

I had no idea that the ship had so many decks below water. I’m sure my allocated cabin was just above the propellers somewhere deep down in the bowels of the ship. It took me ages to find, but I had finally made it down to the right deck and was looking for cabin 42 – my new home – when I saw it.

The shock of white hair and the swagger were unmistakable. The man walking along the corridor in front of me dressed in a stunning crisp white uniform with heavy gold braiding and epaulettes was none other than Grumpy, my long lost friend and mentor from my first job in hospitality. ‘Excuse me sir, I’m looking for cabin 42’, I said from behind.

The little man stopped, turned around, and looked at me with eyes widening in disbelief. ‘What are you doing here, laddie?’ he said in his heavy Scottish accent.

‘Just signed up, and about to report for duty to a Mr Bonnici,’ I replied, ‘if I can find this bloody cabin of mine.’ Grumpy put his arms around me and patted me on the back. It was a spontaneous gesture of affection by a man I had once held in high regard, but who had been humiliated by a silly mistake. Ridicule can ruin a reputation faster than a rape conviction.

‘You’re coming with me, laddie,’ he said, ‘I need chaps like you.’

‘Are you the captain?’ I joked.

‘Something like that; in my domain.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘The first class dining room, of course; come.’

Half an hour later, I was settling into my new cabin – four decks higher up – and was admiring my splendid new uniform in the mirror. Working in first class, I thought, you beauty! I could hardly wait to start my shift. Grumpy, my old-new boss, had arranged it all with a click of his fingers. It felt like old times and I couldn’t believe my luck. However, it was the lull before the storm, literally speaking.

There’s only one word to describe sailing out of Sydney Harbour at sunset - spectacular! While the passengers lining the decks outside watched the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House glide past, I was preparing my new workstation in the splendid dining room. Grumpy had given me an excellent table of well-heeled VIPs to look after.

He ruled his domain like an emperor. Barking orders in all directions, he was obviously used to being obeyed. There were so many staff that the dining room looked full even without the guests.

‘You look after your table laddie, and they’ll look after you,’ he said to me. ‘They are all millionaires on a trip around the world; more money than sense. I know you can do silver service perfectly. After all, you had good training – right? And you won’t let me down, which is more than I can say about the Italians over there. Never get into a fight with them, laddie,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘One of them got beaten up badly last night; you are taking his place. Over there, next to the Captain’s table.’ Oh shit, I thought, but it was too late to protest. Grumpy had already turned away.

Many new passengers had joined the ship in Sydney and we were preparing for a special gala dinner to welcome them on board. The menu was mind-boggling and the selection of wines unbelievable. I was too busy to feel nervous. However, Grumpy had warned me about the American actress sitting next to the Purser on my table. ‘She’s very demanding, laddie. Used to being fussed over, and quite prickly,’ he said. ‘Always serve her first, call her madam, and give her your best smile. Here she comes now – look.’

Well past her prime and dressed in a tight-fitting black evening gown that should only have been worn by a woman half her age, the lady in question swept into the packed dining room. Turning heads for all the wrong reasons, and followed by her much older, short, bald and beaming, billionaire husband, she slowly made her way to the table. Tall and very skinny – obviously the result of years of strategic starvation – she looked more like a well-dressed scarecrow than a diva commanding adulation. Her stunning hairdo was a work of art obviously held together by copious quantities of hairspray that made it look like a bleached-blond halo made of polished concrete. She wore so much jewellery that one had to wonder how such slender wrists and swan-like neck could possibly cope with so many gems and so much gold. However, most disconcerting of all – at least for me having to lean over to serve her – was her cleavage ...

Leaving little to the imagination, her huge, surgically-enhanced breasts almost burst out of her dress. She ate very little, but drank a lot – Martinis mostly – and smiled all the time. It was one of those permanent one-facelift-too-many smiles that make you cringe every time she beamed in your direction. She was without doubt the most amazing looking 60-something I had ever come across. Yet fate would soon bring us a little closer together in a way I could never have imagined. And I can blame it all on Neptune ...

The seas between Australia and New Zealand are notorious; they can be very rough. Neptune must have had a serious disagreement with the mermaids that evening, because the sea began to boil soon after we had cleared away the main course and were preparing for the highlight of the evening – dessert.

Despite excellent stabilisers, the ship began to roll quite heavily. Some of the diners actually became ill and had to leave the table, but not my actress. She never stopped talking – mostly about films nobody had ever heard of – and her rasping, southern drawl dominated the conversation at the table.

‘Now listen carefully,’ said Grumpy, addressing us in the kitchen. ‘The dessert is Bombe Alaska,’ he announced, ‘and will be served in a special way. This is how we’ll do it ...’

I must pause here and explain what this spectacular dessert is made of. Essentially, it’s a gooey ball of meringue with an ice cream and sponge centre. It is decorated with raspberries and has sparklers on top for effect which are lit before serving, one huge platter per table.

Grumpy was in his element. He was arranging the dessert presentation with military precision. The lights were dimmed, the sparklers lit and the orchestra gave as a dramatic drum roll entry. We were on our way.

My silver tray was so heavy that I had to rest it on my shoulders to be able carry it with one hand. By now, the ship was rolling alarmingly and it was quite difficult to walk in a straight line. I had almost reached my table and was about to lean over and put down the tray when suddenly the ship lurched sideways. My Bombe Alaska didn’t like this and continued to move stubbornly forward. It became airborne and for an instant turned into the real thing – a projectile. It missed the actress’ concrete halo by a whisker before landing on the table directly in front of her. Then it did what every good bomb is supposed to do: it exploded. Spectacularly!

For a moment there was stunned silence, then the lights went back on revealing the full extent of the disaster. At first I couldn’t believe my eyes. How one dish could cause so much havoc was difficult to comprehend.

Meringue and ice cream appeared to have reached every corner of the table. None of the diners had been spared, but somehow, the actress seemed to have borne the full brunt of the explosion. A large chunk of meringue with the sparkler still going strongly had embedded itself in her hairdo, making it sag in the middle. Melting ice cream was sliding down her neck and disappeared into her cleavage on a happy journey to God knows where. The whole left side of her face was a sticky mess of goo with strands of hair plastered across her forehead. That’s when she began to scream hysterically. Unfortunately, devoted hubby sitting next to her was unable to come to her rescue, but at least he was no longer bald. He now wore a toupee of raspberry covered sponge. Unable to see, he was furiously wiping his face in a vain attempt to dig the quashed raspberries out of his burning eyes.

Still in shock I looked around: barely a table had been spared. The extent of the mess was unbelievable. The elegant dining room had turned into a disaster zone. Needless to say, this made me feel a little better; at least I wasn’t alone ...

So ended my first day at sea. It was the beginning of a wonderful adventure with many memorable experiences to come.

The bar fridge, Grimm Friday,
and my first brief

In time I finished my law degree and, after countless applications, tedious interviews by imperious floor clerks and intimidating Silks who let you wait for hours, I finally received the phone call I had been dreaming about for weeks: I had been accepted to work on a good floor of criminal specialists!

The day a young barrister moves into his chambers is a day he never forgets. I certainly remember mine. It was chaotic. The removalists were late, they scratched the lift, swore at the floor clerk, and if that wasn’t enough, the furniture didn’t fit into the room. But somehow, after a lot of imaginative jiggling, we managed to cram it all in. Just. To get to my desk, I had to squeeze past the old Chesterfield and the two matching leather chairs I had bought at auction. The lot I had been bidding on included a carved cocktail cabinet I really didn’t want, but had to take because it was a job lot. The cabinet’s the problem, I thought, looking at my crowded room. I’ll get rid of it. Little did I know that this cocktail cabinet which, unbeknown to me at the time, contained a small bar fridge, would shape my future legal career.

I don’t quite remember how it got out, but soon after I settled into my chambers, word spread that I had a bar fridge in my room. This was quite a rarity at the time, and mine was the only one on the floor apart from the fridge in the floor kitchen, which was strictly off limits. Then, one afternoon, our head of chambers – a senior QC with a fearsome reputation – came to see me.

‘They tell me you have a fridge in your room, is that correct?’ he asked me, a stern look on his face. At first I thought I had done something wrong and broken some unwritten rule. Perhaps fridges were not allowed in rooms. I opened my cocktail cabinet and timidly showed him my empty fridge.

‘Splendid! You don’t mind if I keep a couple of bottles in here, do you?’

‘Of course not,’ I replied, relieved.

‘Nice furniture,’ said the QC, running his hand along the studded back of my faded green Chesterfield on his way out.

The next day, a case of French champagne was delivered to my room. The floor clerk put two bottles into my fridge, and wrote the QC’s name on the case, which he then placed on the bottom shelf of my almost empty bookcase. When I returned from court a few days later, I found a further case of champagne and two cases of wine with different names scribbled on top in my bookcase, which by now was rapidly filling up with grog.

The real surprise, however, came at the end of the week. I had spent the whole day in a Magistrate’s Court in the suburbs with a hopeless bail application, and didn’t make it back to chambers until late in the afternoon. As I walked towards my room, tired and disappointed – my application had been refused – I noticed that the door to my room was wide open. Coming closer, I could hear raucous laughter and saw clouds of cigarette smoke drifting out of my room into the corridor.

‘What’s going on in there?’ I asked the floor clerk standing in the doorway.

‘Grimm Friday.’

‘What?’

Ignoring my question, which obviously didn’t warrant an answer, the clerk turned on his heels and hurried away.

When I walked into my room, I was greeted by three rather jovial senior members of the floor – all Silks – in a state of advanced inebriation. Two of them were sitting on the Chesterfield, and one sat in my chair with his feet on my desk; solicitors I had met before occupied the two leather armchairs.

‘Where’ve you been? Get a glass,’ said our fearsome head of chambers, pointing to a half empty bottle of champagne on my desk. ‘We’ve decided to have Grimm Friday in your room; you don’t mind, do you?’

What the hell is he talking about? I asked myself, but wisely held my tongue. ‘Of course not,’ I said instead, trying to appear nonchalant, and poured myself a glass of bubbly.

After the last of my self-invited guests finally staggered a little unsteadily out of my room two hours later, and I began to clean up, I found my desk diary under two empty bottles. The diary was open, and something had been scribbled on next week’s entry page in a tiny, spidery handwriting, which I recognised as that of our head of chambers:

My junior is jammed. Trial starts on Tuesday; estimate, two weeks. Private brief. Noticed you are free; instructing solicitor happy with my recommendation. Conference arranged for Monday morning, 8 am. See you then. Marcus.

I had to read the entry three times before it began to sink in. A brief, I thought. A two-week trial! Real work! Money! I began to laugh. Noticed you are free; what a joke. My diary was empty!

As for Grimm Friday ... read on ...

Charlotte and the Brothers Grimm

Charlotte had attitude and flair. Discreetly gay, but highly intelligent with a wicked sense of humour and a unique dress sense that made eyebrows rise in astonishment and admiration, she was ideally suited to work on our floor. Few young women in her position would have lasted more than a week in our stressful environment dominated by eccentric, demanding males, working under pressure in almost monastic isolation.

As I was soon to find out, everyone called her Tom-Tom. Why? She was the bush telegraph of the floor. If you wanted to know the inside story about something, or someone, you asked Tom-Tom. The accuracy of the information she came up with was astonishing, her network of informers formidable, and her uncanny insights amazing. So, when I wanted to get to the bottom of Grimm Friday, I knew exactly what to do. The opportunity presented itself soon enough.

I arrived quite early on that Monday morning, but Tom-Tom was already at her desk. As the personal assistant of our head of chambers and two other senior barristers, she had her work cut out.

‘You’re early; good,’ she said, reaching under her desk. ‘Came in this morning. Your brief; here. Conference in Marcus’ room, 8 am sharp.’ With that, she pushed a large ring binder across her desk towards me. ‘Better get stuck into it.’

‘By the way, I wanted to ask you something, Charlotte ...’ I said.

‘Call me Tom-Tom; I hate Charlotte. Fucking terrible name.’

‘What’s Grimm Friday?’

Shaking her head, Tom-Tom just looked at me with her huge eyes accentuated by breathtaking green eye shadow and almost theatrical makeup. ‘You don’t know?’

‘No idea.’

‘Buy me lunch and I’ll tell you.’

‘You’re on.’

Like any good PA, Tom-Tom was well organised. She had booked a table in a small bistro nearby. Looking stunning in her tight-fitting black dress, pink designer scarf and dazzlingly high red stilettos, she was waiting for me at the lift at 12:45 pm sharp, as arranged.

‘Champagne?’ I asked, after the waiter – who appeared to know her well – had shown us to a table by the window. I suspected that Tom-Tom liked to be seen. Fortunately for me, I remembered that she was partial to champagne, lots of it.

‘I like your style,’ she said. ‘Not bad for a baby barrister.’

I ordered a bottle of the good stuff. We were off to an excellent start.

‘Grimm Friday. Everyone seems to know what it means, except me. And having apparently hosted one in my room last week – albeit in absentia – I would really like to know too. Reasonable, don’t you think?’ I said, coming straight to the point.

‘Tradition,’ said Tom-Tom, taking a sip of champagne.

‘I don’t follow.’

‘You’ve heard of the Brothers Grimm?’

‘Sure. German storytellers; eighteenth century. Hansel and Gretel, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty ...’

‘Correct. Grimm Friday has quite a story of its own ...’

‘Tell me.’

Tom-Tom held up her empty glass. She was obviously enjoying herself.

‘I see, you want me to suffer a little longer,’ I said, reaching for the bottle.

‘Not at all. Just teasing the new boy on the block.’

‘Doing a great job ...’ I mumbled.

‘Did you say something?’

I shook my head.

‘Well, here it goes. Once upon a time, there were these three friends.’

To do this story justice, I must pause here. It’s very late, and I’m sitting in my attic thinking about Tom-Tom. It must be the music; I’m listening to jazz. Tom-Tom loved jazz. She was without doubt one of the most complex, and fascinating women I’ve met. Not only did she help me in my legal career, but she knew about my writing aspirations. I used to experiment with short stories at the time – this was almost 30 years ago – which I used to show her. She never made fun of this. On the contrary, she became my best critic, supporter, and years later, fan. I owe her a lot.

Strange how music, more than almost anything else, can trigger memories of people long gone, and bridge the yawning gap of time.

But back to the lunch.

‘Once upon a time, there were these three friends,’ she said, leaning back in her chair. ‘Thick as thieves they were, and all three considered themselves raconteurs par excellence. Then one evening, after copious quantities of wine had been consumed, a question arose: Who was the best?’

‘Like in mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?’ I interrupted.

‘A bit like that. It was agreed that there was only one way to settle this – a competition. And that is exactly what happened. A dinner was arranged in an exclusive club not far from here. As you would have guessed by now, the three friends were barristers on our floor.’

‘When did all this happen?’ I interrupted.

‘About 20 years ago. The idea was that each of the competitors would tell a story after dinner which would then be voted on.’

‘By whom?’

‘Their peers, of course. The whole floor was invited, and a couple of judges too.’

‘What happened?’

Tom-Tom held up her empty glass again, which I quickly refilled.

‘Well, with the passage of time, things have become a little murky, but apparently it all ended in a draw.’

‘How come?’

‘Because each of the stories was so good, it was impossible to declare a winner.’

‘That was it?’

‘Not quite. A floor tradition was born. From then on, the three competitors became known as the Brothers Grimm, and because such a good time was had by all, it was decided to have a storytelling dinner on the first Friday of every month and call it – you guessed it – Grimm Friday.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘No. Tradition, remember? There are always three Brothers Grimm on the floor. They hold their positions for one year. After that, the positions are declared vacant, and a competition is held to elect three new ones. Anyone can apply. Over the years, things have become a bit more relaxed. Grimm Friday can be a casual lunch, or a get-together in one of the rooms, or impromptu drinks in a bar, but always on a Friday.’

‘You’re not serious. This sounds like boarding school stuff!’

‘You know what barristers are like; you’re one of them!’ she said, giving me a reproachful look. I knew she had me there.

‘Who are the current three?’ I asked, changing direction.

‘Marcus, Cyril and Edgar.’

‘The barristers you’re working for. They were in my room on Friday ... I see ...’

‘Yes. They’ve held their positions for the last four years.’

‘No challengers? Are they that good?’

Tom-Tom shrugged, a mischievous smile creasing the corners of her mouth. ‘You’ll find out ...’

Grimm Friday was a great tradition. It became part of my life for many years, and certainly spurred me on to become a better storyteller and writer. It has been the source of some wonderful material, which I’ve used extensively in my books. Whenever we told a Grimm Friday story, we would introduce it like this: Once upon a Friday ...

Over the years, Tom-Tom and I became good mates. She was full of surprises. Her sparkling personality, quirky friends – mainly theatre types – and inquisitive mind, made being with her always fun and entertaining. Sadly, a great tragedy cut short her young life.

Tom-Tom became the inspiration for one of the central characters in my second book – The Disappearance of Anna Popov. But that’s another story for another time.

Winston and the fire warden

To have your case adjourned on Monday morning after having worked through the entire weekend with little or no sleep, is every barrister’s nightmare. Sadly, that was exactly what happened to me on this occasion. I was staring down the barrel of a week without work. Bugger! Disappointed, I walked back to my chambers.

When I opened the door to my room, I noticed that the small portable TV that I kept on top of my drinks cabinet to watch the cricket was on. That’s strange, I thought, walking over to the cabinet to turn off the TV. Before I could reach for the switch, I heard a strange growl. Looking over my shoulder, I saw a small dog, eyes bulging with disapproval, staring at me. At first I didn’t trust my eyes, but when I turned around to face the strange visitor, there was no denying it: there was a dog sitting on my Chesterfield, watching television. Quite small, but feisty with a head that was a little too big, tiny ears, and a squashed nose that suggested that he liked to chase parked cars, he was snorting and making other obviously hostile noises. When I tried to reach for the switch again to turn off the TV, the growl became louder, and the hairs on his back began to bristle. Realising that confrontation wasn’t an option, I began to slowly back away towards the door.

Tom-Tom was busy as usual. She excelled at multitasking. I waited until she came up for air after answering several calls at the same time, before stating my case.

‘There’s a dog in my room watching television,’ I said calmly. Tom-Tom stared at me, just as the dog had done moments before.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. ‘You’re supposed to be in court!’

‘I wish I was; adjournment.’

‘Shit! Come with me and not a word to anyone.’ With that, Tom-Tom got up, and hurried down the corridor towards my room. ‘Cyril’s wife came in half an hour ago with that wretched dog, Winston. She was on her way to the dentist and wanted to leave Winston with Cyril for an hour. He’s in court, so she left him with me!’

‘And you parked him in my room and turned on the TV to entertain him. Is that it?’ I said.

Tom-Tom looked at me sheepishly and shrugged. ‘He likes television. You’ve got to keep him in there until she gets back.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘Name your price.’

‘I should be in court running a case; instead, I’m back in my room doggy-sitting?’

‘What’s that?’ said Tom-Tom, pointing to the open door of my room. ‘You left your door open? Jesus!’

Winston was gone.

Tom-Tom was becoming hysterical. ‘You let him out!’ she shouted.

‘Calm down; he couldn’t have gone far. Let’s find him. You go that way, I’ll try the other side.’

A barrister’s floor on Monday morning is pandemonium. The reception area was full of instructing solicitors and their anxious clients – standing room only – and the floor clerk was trying to answer a dozen questions at the same time. Thankfully, the dog wasn’t there. Relieved, I hurried past. As I turned the corner, I just caught a glimpse of a curly tail disappearing into one of the rooms to my left.

Looking frantic, Tom-Tom came running towards me from the opposite direction. ‘Have you seen him?’ she asked.

‘He’s just gone into Clive’s room,’ I said, pointing to an open door. Coming closer, we could hear voices.

‘My God. Lady Ashburton is in there with her solicitor; important conference. Do something!’

‘What exactly did you have in mind?’

‘You’re the barrister; improvise!’

‘It’s not my dog.’

‘It’s our problem.’

‘Oh no. It’s your problem.’

‘You owe me.’

That was true. Tom-Tom surely knew when to call in favours. I went down on one knee, pretending to tie my shoelaces and, keeping my head down, I peered around the corner through the open door into the room. What I saw wasn’t encouraging.

Lady Ashburton sat on a chair facing Clive’s desk with her back turned towards me. Her solicitor sat next to her. Clive sat behind his desk, facing the door. Thankfully, he was reading something and didn’t look in my direction. The really disturbing bit, however, was lurking under Lady Ashburton’s chair directly in front of me.

‘Can you see him?’ whispered Tom-Tom anxiously.

‘I can, but it’s not looking good,’ I said, standing up.

‘What’s he doing?’

‘He’s chewing the strap of Lady Ashburton’s handbag.’

‘Oh my God! No one noticed?’

‘No. Not yet.’

‘What are we going to do?’

‘I have an idea; come.’

I mainly said that to comfort Tom-Tom. However, something had crossed my mind, but I needed a little more time to work out the details. It was a daring plan.

‘You’re the fire warden-right?’ I asked.

‘I am,’ said Tom-Tom.

‘Get your helmet and a blanket. I’ll give Clive a call. We’ll meet in my room. Hurry!’

I picked up the phone and called Clive. ‘It’s Gabriel, Clive. Don’t hang up!’ I said. ‘I know you’re in conference, but this is urgent; trust me. We have a crisis ...’ I explained the situation to Clive the best I could. To his credit, he didn’t panic, nor did he lose his cool. After all, barristers are supposed to be able to deal with pressure, and Clive rose to the occasion.

‘Can you see him?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he mumbled, ‘it’s just as you said.’

‘Still chewing?’

‘Yes, I think so. He looks happy.’

‘Good. Now, listen carefully, this is what we are going to do ...’

‘So far so good,’ I said to Tom-Tom as she burst into my room with a blanket and fire helmet under her arm. ‘Put your helmet on and come with me. I’ve just spoken to Clive; he knows.’

‘What are we going to do?’

‘Improvise. We’ll pretend the fire alarm’s gone off somewhere in the building, and we have to assemble at the lifts as a precaution. I’ll distract Lady Ashburton and the solicitor and usher them out of the room with Clive, and you throw the blanket over the dog and subdue the beast; easy.’

‘You’re out of your mind!’

‘You have a better idea? Let’s hear it.’

‘Clive’s in on this?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Here goes my job!’

‘Bullshit! Just think of it as a fire drill; piece of cake.’

‘How can you joke at a time like this?’

‘Let’s go.’

Tom-Tom’s red cashmere jumper certainly looked the part, but the fire helmet, which was several sizes too big, gave her an almost comical look. The stilettos are a bit of a worry, I thought watching Tom-Tom strut down the corridor like a starlet in some crazy Broadway show.

‘Here we go,’ I said, taking a deep breath, ‘let the show begin.’ With that, we burst into Clive’s room.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ I said, ‘we have an emergency!’

‘Fire alarm,’ said Tom-Tom, bending down looking for Winston.

‘We must leave the room at once,’ I said, pulling Lady Ashburton out of the chair. She was a frail creature in her late seventies, and I almost lifted her off her feet.

‘How exciting,’ said Lady Ashburton, holding on to my arm.

Lady Ashburton’s solicitor, an elderly, reserved man I had met before, just looked at us in amazement, but didn’t move.

‘Clive, take Mr Barlow to the lifts; we may have to evacuate. Quickly!’

I was almost at the door with Lady Ashburton in tow, when I heard it; a muffled growl. Looking over my shoulder I saw Tom-Tom kneeling on the floor. She had thrown the blanket over Winston and was trying to pull the strap of Lady Ashburton’s handbag out of his locked jaws. Not surprisingly, Winston refused to co-operate and put up a fight.

‘What’s that?’ said Barlow, pointing to Tom-Tom who was trying to subdue Winston as he struggled like crazy under the blanket.

‘A firebug? She’s the fire warden,’ said Clive calmly. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

I thought we had almost made it, when Lady Ashburton stopped in her tracks and began to panic. ‘My handbag; where’s my handbag?’ she shouted. ‘I don’t go anywhere without my handbag!’

‘Don’t you worry, I’ll go back and get it,’ said Clive. He winked at me, turned on his heels, and saved the day.

‘He’s such a lovely young man,’ said Lady Ashburton, linking arms with me. ‘Do you think the firemen are on their way?’

Moments later, Tom-Tom appeared. Breathless and a little worse for wear, but otherwise in control, she declared the emergency over. When she turned around, I noticed a long tear on the right sleeve of her jumper. ‘False alarm,’ she said, patting Lady Ashburton reassuringly on the arm.

‘No firemen?’ said Lady Ashburton, obviously disappointed.

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘What a pity.’

‘Where is he?’ I asked, taking Tom-Tom aside.

‘Your mate Winston?’ she said, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

‘He’s not my mate.’

‘Back in your room, of course, watching television. Silly question.’

Barristers are supposed to be in the business of making speeches. However, one of the most difficult speeches I remember having to make was a eulogy a few years later.

After a short but devastating illness, Tom-Tom passed away, and her partner asked me to give the eulogy. Instead of following the traditional path, I decided to tell the story of Winston and the fire warden, because it allowed me to talk about Tom-Tom the way I remembered her: intelligent, vivacious, generous to a fault, and with a sense of humour that never deserted her. As tears of sadness were banished by laughter and the funeral turned into a celebration of her short, but brilliant life, I knew that I had chosen the right path.

A good barrister never asks a question without knowing the answer. Being a good writer is all about choices. I’ve struggled for years to reconcile the two.

Inspiration Rock

Ask any writer and he’ll tell you that writing is a solitary, often agonisingly frustrating occupation; especially fiction. Just consider this: every character, every scene, every piece of action, every conversation, is a product of your imagination. Often this can be very draining, and a little time out is needed to refresh the mind.

But how is this to be done? Well, every writer has a different technique. Mine? I visit my inspiration rock. What on earth is that? I hear you ask.

My inspiration rock is a spectacular sculpture created by the elements. Polished by wind and rain, cracked by fire and ice, it has resided for eons just below my house here in the Blue Mountains. I visit the rock often. To reach it, all I have to do is to get up from my desk in the attic, walk out the front door and follow a narrow path through a dense rain forest to the edge of the escarpment. The view from there is breathtaking.

Over the years, the rock has become a good friend. A small piece of it, which must have broken off a long time ago, is right here on my desk and I use it as a paperweight. When I travel, this piece of rock, which is millions of years old, travels with me. It goes where I go and it has served me well.

Just imagine what this ancient piece of rock would have witnessed over the millennia. Volcanic eruptions and earthquakes so violent that the earth trembled with fear, followed by floods, raging bush fires and incredible storms destroying everything in their path. For a while it would have been buried under the sea, before being lifted up again by more eruptions just to be exposed to the relentless elements once more. There it would have watched dinosaurs lumber past and seen giant birds circle above. It would have seen the sunlight disappear behind thick curtains of ash turning days into long nights lasting weeks at a time.

And what of human history? Aborigines have roamed these ancient lands for thousands of years. Perhaps this was once a sacred site? Looking at this remarkable rock it isn’t difficult to imagine that this may well have been so. Its extraordinary shape and prominent position high above the valley inspires both awe and respect.

When I wrestle with my writing demons or struggle to find the right words, I visit the rock and somehow it speaks to me. Often I sit for hours in its hollow and listen ...

Then, inspired and refreshed, I return to my attic, and continue to write ...

The officer and the Monk

Buried deep down in one of my grandfather’s old army trunks – covered in cobwebs and almost hidden behind wooden beams in the back of the attic – I made a surprising discovery. I found his journals, a little mouldy and difficult to read, but otherwise intact. The tiny, spidery handwriting, the faded ink, and the badly creased pages made them almost illegible. Not surprisingly, I pushed them aside. They were of little interest to a ten year old boy. It would be many years before I opened them again and began to delve into my grandfather’s hidden world.

However, at the very bottom of the trunk, I found something else which turned out to be far more interesting to me at the time. At first, I didn’t pay any attention to the rusty tin, the size of a shoebox. But when I opened it, I discovered something extraordinary: postcards, dozens of them, neatly tied together with string.

All the postcards were addressed to my grandfather and had been sent from Egypt by someone called Lucius. I spent the next couple of hours sitting on the dusty floor looking at the pictures – mainly drawings – of temple ruins, colossal statues of strange gods and boats with triangular sails crossing the Nile. There were also pictures of camels, palm trees, hippos, crocodiles and turbaned men in long flowing robes. Images of a different, distant, exotic place – Egypt. These postcards were my first contact with an ancient culture that has fascinated me ever since.

After the excitement of my discovery had died down a little, I carried my new find down to the kitchen to show his daughters – my aunts – who lived with us at the time. The kitchen was their domain and these two fabulous cooks ruled it with iron-fisted military precision. I was responsible for the firewood and lighting the fire in the huge stove every morning at first light.

I put the tin on the kitchen table, opened it, and said, ‘Look what I found in Grandpa’s trunk.’ Aunt Frieda came over and looked inside the tin.

‘You found his postcards,’ she said, smiling. ‘From Egypt. I had no idea he had kept them.’

‘Who is Lucius?’ I said, holding up one of the postcards and pointing to the signature on the back.

‘Father Lucius was your grandfather’s closest friend,’ said Aunt Rosa. She opened the oven door and looked inside. There are certain things you never forget. The mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked bread that filled our kitchen every time Aunt Rosa baked bread was one of them. ‘He was a Franciscan monk,’ she said. ‘He lived in Egypt for many years. Your grandfather visited him there once. They spent a few months together exploring the monuments of ancient Egypt. Come to think of it, your grandfather brought back many exotic things from that trip,’ said Aunt Frieda. ‘Perhaps they too are in those trunks?’

I ran up the stairs back to the attic and began to rummage through the other trunks. At first I found only books; many of them about Egypt. But then I found the real treasure – strange artefacts: scarabs, small stone statues and many etchings and lithographs.

It soon became apparent that my grandfather had been quite a scholar with some surprising interests, especially for a career soldier serving in the Austro-Hungarian Army. When I eventually opened his journals again many years later, most of what I read made no sense. The concepts and ideas, the many references and quotes, simply just went over my head. The breakthrough came when I discovered that a particular set of quotes was in fact an extract from a book in his library right here in the attic! It was like opening a window to let in sunshine and fresh air. After that, everything began to fall into place.

The book in question was a history of a fascinating order of notorious warrior-monks, the Knights Templar. As I was soon to discover, the Templars and their secrets, was one of the three main topics addressed in the journals. The other two dealt with the pharaoh Akhenaten – the heretic king of Ancient Egypt – and a French priest who lived in the nineteenth century.

At first, these topics appeared unrelated. However, as I began to delve deeper into the journals, I discovered that this was far from so. What brought them all together was another extraordinary discovery. One of the leather-bound journals at the bottom of the trunk which I assumed belonged to my grandfather, didn't belong to him at all. It was the diary of his best friend, Father Lucius!

The two learned friends had collaborated for years to unravel an extraordinary mystery. This mystery involving the Templars, the pharaoh Akhenaten and a French priest inspired me to write The Empress Holds the Key.

However, to prepare the way, I needed to learn more about the Templars and Akhenaten.

Warrior monks, a heretic king
and a French priest

As I immersed myself into my grandfather’s writings, it soon became apparent that he and his close friend, Father Lucius – a Franciscan monk – collaborated for years trying to solve a great mystery; the sudden disappearance of a significant religious artefact from the pages of history. It all began with the Knights Templar.

In 1119, nine French knights, the founding fathers of the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon – the Templars – travelled to Jerusalem. They were welcomed by King Baldwin who used the Al-Aqsa Mosque as his own palace, and given permission to establish their headquarters on the Temple Mount. The knights also asked the king for permission to occupy part of the mosque for their own use. Curiously, this extraordinary request was granted. For the next seven years, the knights remained in Jerusalem and rarely left the mosque. What were they doing there? Father Lucius, a biblical scholar and amateur archaeologist, was intrigued by this. He was convinced that the Templars were looking for something by literally digging up the past. Did they find what they were looking for? Apparently not. Why? Because according to Father Lucius, they were looking for something that was no longer there. This was one of the two reasons Father Lucius was so interested in the Templars. The second was their sudden demise.

The order only lasted for just under two hundred years. During that time, the Templars had become incredibly wealthy and influential. However, in 1307, King Philip the Fair of France ordered the mass arrest of the Templars. Torture, imprisonment and executions on a large scale followed. This was sanctioned by the Pope himself who took a personal interest in the destruction of the order. Why this sudden fall from grace? What were the true reasons behind this extraordinary campaign by church and state to discredit and eradicate such a powerful and prestigious order? Over the years, many theories have been advanced to explain these events. However, Father Lucius had his own theory, and it had nothing to do with mainstream scholarship.

Father Lucius spent many years in Egypt. During this time, my grandfather and his friend corresponded regularly, and dealt with this subject in great detail. Their theories and conclusions were astonishing to say the least, and it was a wonderful joy to work with these theories and my own imagination when crafting The Empress Holds the Key.

The Lucius Diaries; Akhenaten, Moses, and the Exodus

Help to unravel my grandfather’s journals came from an unexpected quarter; the Lucius Diaries. I found these diaries tucked away in the corner of one of my grandfather’s campaign chests. At first, I didn’t realise their importance because they were written in Latin. However, a number of years later, my Jesuit education came to the rescue – years of Latin drudgery finally paid off! I was able to translate the text, and what I discovered was quite extraordinary! In fact, the diaries provided the key to understanding the many – often perplexing – topics and ideas jotted down in my grandfather’s journals.

The main subject of interest to Father Lucius was Akhenaten, the heretic king of ancient Egypt who lived in the fourteenth century BC. Akhenaten was also known as the pharaoh Amenhotep IV. He was the father of Tutankhamun and the husband of Queen Nefertiti, the most beautiful woman in ancient Egypt. He later changed his name to Akhenaten, abandoned the old capital, Thebes, and built a new one, Akhetaten. His heresy? Abolishing the gods. How, and why?

Legend has it that it all began with a vision. Apparently, the god Aten revealed himself to the pharaoh as light; the sun disk between two mountains. Akhenaten interpreted this as a sign from god, Aten, to bring about change, change of a most fundamental kind. For the first time in recorded history, Akhenaten declared that there was only one god – Aten – thereby introducing something quite radical, alien, frightening even: monotheism – the concept of a single, all-powerful god. Father Lucius was fascinated by this and the fact that Akhenaten lived just before the time of Moses and the Exodus.

He was convinced that there was a connection between Akhenaten and Moses, and he spent several years in Egypt investigating this and gathering evidence. Slowly, the pieces of an extraordinary puzzle began to fall into place.

Apparently, my grandfather and his friend corresponded for years dealing with this subject, but unfortunately, only a few letters survived. It wasn’t until I was able to decipher the diaries that it all began to make sense.

After Akhenaten died he was erased from the pages of history. Images of the heretic king were destroyed, his name was chiselled out of all inscriptions, his capital, Akhetaten, abandoned. The priests returned to power and restored the ancient gods to their rightful place. In their world there was no place for monotheism.

Aten was toppled and disappeared, or did he? Father Lucius was convinced that the cult of Aten survived by going underground, and that there was an important link between this cult, Moses, and the Exodus. This was a fascinating idea with far reaching implications. The ‘what if’ questions in the Lucius diaries and my grandfather’s journals were tantalising, the theories challenging, and the conclusions quite breathtaking. Years later, they inspired me to study Egyptology, learn to read the hieroglyphs and travel to Egypt.

A serious writer needs a good story before he can begin writing a book. A good story has to be inspirational and unique. It has to be able to ignite curiosity and spark the imagination. Fact and fiction must rub shoulders with imagination in a way that is so convincing that the reader is never quite sure where one ends, and the other begins. To me, the Lucius diaries and my grandfather’s journals did just that. The result? The Empress Holds the Key.

It was all Dan Brown’s fault ...

Now that the The Empress Holds the Key has been published, friends keep asking me why I haven't released the book earlier. Well, there's quite a story behind this I would like to share with you.

As you now know, the ideas that have inspired the book reach all the way back to my childhood days and an early fascination with the Templars, the Vatican, and Egypt. I've spoken about the treasures in my grandfather's attic before. At first, the many ideas and questions addressed in his journals didn't make much sense to me, and I put them aside for many years. And then, as often happens in life, I returned to those journals many years later as an adult with an inquisitive mind and began to look at them through very different eyes. I travelled to Egypt, began to study Egyptology, and learnt to read the hieroglyphs.

The Empress Holds the Key, a big book, took more than ten years to write. I was still practising law at the time and writing was strictly confined to the midnight hour. Not an easy task when you have to be in court in the morning arguing complex cases and addressing juries.

Finally, the manuscript was submitted to a high-profile publishing house and, to my great delight, the publisher expressed serious interest in the book. Rigorous editing followed and I thought, rather naively as it turned out, that publication was just around the corner. I was wrong. Editing and negotiating dragged on for months, and when I finally decided to bring matters to a head, I was told that the publisher had changed his mind and no longer wanted to proceed! Why? Blame it on Dan Brown and the Da Vinci Code, I was told.

Needless to say, not only was I terribly disappointed, but I was totally perplexed; I didn't understand! I think after my many phone calls the editor I had worked with for months took pity on me and, over a cup of coffee, explained the situation: Dan Brown's phenomenal success with the Da Vinci Code – which had just been released at the time – had made the publication of my book very risky.

‘How so?’ I asked.

‘Because The Empress Holds the Key also touches on some of the big questions and topics Dan Brown has addressed in his book,’ explained the editor.

‘But my book is very different, and I started to write it many years ago ... long before the Da Vinci Code began to annoy the Vatican,’ I argued.

I was getting nowhere. Simply put, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. So, my story was put back on the shelf for a number of years, and I went on to write other books.

However, encouraged by my literary friends, I decided to revisit The Empress Holds the Key and have another look at it. I liked what I found. Finally, The Empress Holds the Key was published in 2013. Please read on for a free sample of the book. I hope you enjoy it ...

There are journey people, and there are destination people. I’m a journeyman who listens to the lessons of the past, keeps a firm eye on the destination, but enjoys the journey. The past is just a memory, the future but an expectation; the only thing real is the present.

Gabriel Farago

More Books by the Author

The Empress Holds the key

The Disappearance of Anna Popov

The Hidden Genes of Professor K

Professor K: The Final Quest

The Curious Case of the Missing Head

The Lost Symphony

The Death Mask Murders

Jack Rogan Mysteries Series Box Set Books 1-4

In 2013, I released my first adventure thriller – The Empress Holds the Key.

The Empress Holds the Key

A disturbing, edge-of-your-seat historical mystery thriller

Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 1

Dark secrets. A holy relic. An ancient quest reignited.

Jack Rogan’s discovery of a disturbing old photograph in the ashes of a rural Australian cottage draws the journalist into a dangerous hunt with the ultimate stakes.

The tangled web of clues – including hoards of Nazi gold, hidden Swiss bank accounts, and a long-forgotten mass grave – implicate wealthy banker Sir Eric Newman and lead to a trial with shocking revelations.

A holy relic mysteriously erased from the pages of history is suddenly up for grabs to those willing to sacrifice everything to find it. Rogan and his companions must follow historical leads through ancient Egypt to the Crusades and the Knights Templar to uncover a secret that could destroy the foundations of the Catholic Church and challenge the history of Christianity itself.

Will Rogan succeed in bringing the dark mystery into the light, or will the powers desperately working against him ensure the ancient truths remain buried forever?

The Empress Holds the Key is now available on Amazon

Encouraged by the reception of The Empress Holds the Key, I released my next thriller – The Disappearance of Anna Popov – in 2014.

The Disappearance of Anna Popov

A dark, page-turning psychological thriller

Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 2

A mysterious disappearance. An outlaw biker gang. One dangerous investigation.

Journalist Jack Rogan cannot resist a good mystery. When he stumbles across a clue about the tragic disappearance of two girls from Alice Springs years earlier, he’s determined to investigate.

Joining forces with his New York literary agent, a retired Aboriginal police officer, and Cassandra, an enigmatic psychic, Rogan enters the dangerous and dark world of an outlaw bikies gang ruled by an evil and enigmatic master.

Entangled in a web of violence, superstition and fear, Rogan and his friends follow the trail of the missing girls into the remote Dreamtime-wilderness of Outback Australia – where they must face even greater threats.

Cassandra hides a secret agenda and uses her occult powers to facilitate an epic showdown where the loser faces death and oblivion.

Will Rogan succeed in finding the truth, or will the forces of evil prevail, taking even more lives with them?

The Disappearance of Anna Popov is now available on Amazon

My next book, The Hidden Genes of Professor K, was released in 2016. Here’s a short sample to pique your interest:

The Hidden Genes of Professor K

A dark, disturbing and nail-biting medical thriller

Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 3

“Outstanding Thriller” of 2017

Independent Author Network Book of the Year Awards

A medical breakthrough. A greedy pharmaceutical magnate. A brutal double-murder. One tangled web of lies.

When convicted killer Maurice Landru reaches out from a Paris prison and asks for help to prove his innocence, celebrated author Jack Rogan cannot resist. Drawn into a web of hidden clues pointing to an ancient mystery, Jack decides to investigate.

But powerful forces will stop at nothing to possess the research, unwittingly plunging Delacroix into a treacherous world of unbridled ambition and greed.

Desperate and alone, she turns to celebrated author and journalist Jack Rogan.

Rogan must help Delacroix while also assisting famous rock star Isis in the seemingly unrelated investigation into the brutal murder of her parents.

With the support of Isis’s resourceful PA, a former police officer, a tireless campaigner for the destitute and forgotten, and a gifted boy with psychic powers, Rogan exposes a complex web of fiercely guarded secrets and heinous crimes of the past that can ruin them all and change history.

Will the dreams of a visionary scientist with the power to change the future of medicine fall into the wrong hands, or will his genius benefit mankind and prevent untold misery and suffering for generations to come?

The Hidden Genes of Professor K is now available on Amazon

My next book, Professor K: The Final Quest, was released in October 2018. Here’s a short sample to pique your interest.

Professor K: The Final Quest

An action-packed historical medical mystery

Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 4

Gold Medal Winner in the Fiction - Thriller - Medical genre!

2019 Readers’ Favorite Annual Book Award Contest

A desperate plea from the Vatican. A kidnapped chef. An ambitious mob boss. One perilous game.

When Professor Alexandra Delacroix is called in to find a cure for the dying pope, she follows clues left by her mentor and friend, the late Professor K, which lead her on a breathtaking search through historical secrets, some of them deadly.

Her old friend Jack Rogan must step in to assist while also searching for kidnapped Top Chef Europe winner, Lorenza da Baggio.

He joins forces with his young friend and gifted psychic, Tristan, a dedicated mafia hunting prosecutor, a fearless young police officer, and an enigmatic Egyptian detective on a perilous hunt for a notorious IS terrorist.

Together, they stand off with the head of a powerful Mafia family in Florence and uncover a network of corruption and heinous crimes reaching to the very top.

Will Rogan and his friends succeed in finding Lorenza and curing the pope, or will the dark forces swirling around them prevail in their sinister plots?

Professor K: The Final Quest is now available on Amazon

My next book, The Curious Case of the Missing Head, was released in November 2019. Here’s a short sample to pique your interest.

The Curious Case of the Missing Head

A gripping medical thriller

Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 5

Gold Medal Winner in the Fiction Thriller - Conspiracy Thrillers Category

2020 Readers’ Favorite Annual Book Awards Contest

“Outstanding Thriller/Suspense” of 2020

Independent Author Network Book of the Year Awards

A headless body on a boat. An international conspiracy. Can he survive a controversial scientific discovery?

Esteemed Australian journalist Jack Rogan is on a mission to solve the disappearance of his mother in the 70s. But when a friend needs help rescuing a kidnapped world-renowned astrophysicist, he doesn’t hesitate. Struggling with more questions than answers, his investigation leads them aboard a hellish hospital ship, where instead of finding the kidnap victim, he’s confronted with a decapitated corpse.

As the search intensifies, Jack bumps up against diabolical cartels with hidden agendas. And when his research reveals dubious experiments, a criminal on death row, and a shocking revelation about his mother’s fate, he must uncover how it’s all linked.

Can Jack unravel the twisted connections and catch the scientist’s killer, or will the next obituary published be his own?

The Curious Case of the Missing Head is the fifth standalone novel in the page-turning Jack Rogan Mysteries series. If you like meticulous theoretical science, exponentially increasing intensity, and astonishing surprises, then you’ll love Gabriel Farago’s hair-raising medical thriller.

The Curious Case of the Missing Head is now available on Amazon

My sixth book, The Lost Symphony, was released in November 2020. Here’s a short sample to pique your interest.

The Lost Symphony

A historical mystery thriller

Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 6

Gold Medal Winner in the Fiction - Mystery - Historical Category

2021 Readers’ Favorite Annual Book Awards Contest

“Outstanding Mystery” of 2021

Independent Author Network Book of the Year Awards

A murdered tsarina. A lost musical masterpiece. A stolen Russian icon. Can Jack honour a promise made a long time ago, and solve an age-old mystery?

When acclaimed Australian journalist and author Jack Rogan inherits an old music box with a curious letter hidden inside, he decides to investigate. As he delves deeper into a murky past of secrets and violence, he soon discovers that he’s not the only one interested in solving the puzzle.

Frieda Malenkova, a ruthless art dealer, and Victor Sokolov, a Russian billionaire with a dark past, will stop at nothing to achieve their deep desires and foil Jack’s valiant struggle to uncover the truth.

Joining forces with Mademoiselle Darrieux, a flamboyant Paris socialite, and Claude Dupree, a retired French police officer, Jack enters a dangerous world of unbridled ambition, murder and greed that threatens to destroy him.

On a perilous journey that takes him deep into Russia, Jack follows a tortuous path of discovery, disappointment and betrayal that brings him face to face with his destiny.

Will Jack unravel the hidden clues left behind by a desperate empress? Can he save the precious legacy of a genius before it’s too late, and return a holy icon revered by generations to where it belongs?

The Lost Symphony is the sixth standalone novel in the page-turning Jack Rogan Mysteries series. If you enjoy historical mysteries based on meticulous research, fascinating characters, and edge-of-your seat excitement, then you'll love Gabriel Farago's latest action-thriller.

The Lost Symphony is now available on Amazon and major retailers

Apple Books, Kobo, Barnes & Noble

My seventh book, The Death Mask Murders, was released in December 2021. Here’s a short sample to pique your interest.

The Death Mask Murders

A historical mystery crime thriller

Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 7

Seven brutal murders. A cursed Inca burial mask. A lost treasure. One deadly game.

When convicted killer Maurice Landru reaches out from a Paris prison and asks for help to prove his innocence, celebrated author Jack Rogan cannot resist. Drawn into a web of hidden clues pointing to an ancient mystery, Jack decides to investigate.

Joining forces with Francesca Bartolli, a glamorous criminal profiler, Mademoiselle Darrieux, an eccentric Paris socialite, and Claude Dupree, a retired French police officer, Jack enters a dangerous world of depraved cyber-gambling where the stakes are high, and the players will stop at nothing to satisfy their dark desires.

Following his ‘breadcrumbs of destiny’, Jack soon comes up against an evil genius who terminates his enemies without mercy and is prepared to risk all to win.

On a perilous journey littered with violence and death, Jack uncovers dark secrets of a murky past of ruthless conquistadors, bloodthirsty pirates and shipwrecked priests, all pointing to a fabulous treasure, waiting to be discovered.

Can Jack expose the mastermind behind the horrific murders and retrieve the legendary treasure before it falls into the wrong hands, or will the forces of darkness overwhelm him and destroy everything he believes in?

The Death Mask Murders is Book 7 in the Jack Rogan Mysteries Series for the thinking reader and culturally curious, and can also be enjoyed as a standalone novel.

The Death Mask Murders is now available on Amazon and major retailers

Apple Books, Barnes & Noble, Kobo

Jack Rogan Mysteries Box Set Books 1–4

The Jack Rogan Mysteries Box Set is now available on Amazon

About the Author

Gabriel Farago is the USA TODAY bestselling and multi-award-winning Australian author of the Jack Rogan Mysteries series for the thinking reader.

As a lawyer with a passion for history and archaeology, Gabriel Farago had to wait for many years before being able to pursue another passion – writing – in earnest. However, his love of books and storytelling started long before that.

‘I remember as a young boy reading biographies and history books with a torch under the bed covers,’ he recalls, ‘and then writing stories about archaeologists and explorers the next day, instead of doing homework. While I regularly got into trouble for this, I believe we can only do well in our endeavours if we are passionate about the things we love. For me, writing has become a passion.’

Born in Budapest, Gabriel grew up in post-war Europe and, after fleeing Hungary with his parents during the Revolution in 1956, he went to school in Austria before arriving in Australia as a teenager. This allowed him to become multi-lingual and feel ‘at home’ in different countries and diverse cultures.

Shaped by a long legal career and experiences spanning several decades and continents, his is a mature voice that speaks in many tongues. Gabriel holds degrees in literature and law, speaks several languages and takes research and authenticity very seriously. Inquisitive by nature, he studied Egyptology and learned to read the hieroglyphs. He travels extensively and visits all of the locations mentioned in his books.

‘I try to weave fact and fiction into a seamless storyline,’ he explains. ‘By blurring the boundaries between the two, the reader is never quite sure where one ends, and the other begins. This is of course quite deliberate as it creates the illusion of authenticity and reality in a work that is pure fiction. A successful work of fiction is a balancing act: reality must rub shoulders with imagination in a way that is both entertaining and plausible.’

Gabriel lives just outside Sydney, Australia, in the Blue Mountains, surrounded by a World Heritage National Park. ‘The beauty and solitude of this unique environment,’ he points out, ‘gives me the inspiration and energy to weave my thoughts and ideas into stories that in turn, I sincerely hope, will entertain and inspire my readers.’

Gabriel Farago

Author's Note

I hope you enjoyed reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it. I’d be very grateful if you’d post a short review on Amazon. Your support really does make a difference.

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Gabriel Farago

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* I’m delighted to tell you that The Forgotten Painting has just received two major literary awards in the US. It was awarded the Gold Medal by Readers’ Favorite in the Short Stories and Novellas category and was named the ‘Outstanding Novella’ of 2018 by the IAN Book of the Year Awards.