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“Vengeance Weapon”

(Book I of “The Blake Grey series” trilogy)

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Camp-X Vengeance Weapon

Mr. Hodgson and Mr. Longfield deliver a whirlwind world tour involving espionage, deceit, and intrigue. They not only stir the imagination with the actual locations in which dramatic events were shaped or played out, but have again created a memorable cast of characters who range across the human spectrum from valiant, principled and courageous to unscrupulous, corrupt, and treasonous, whether friend of foe. It is not only enjoyable to read, but exciting to experience the role Canada’s masters of secret warfare played in the prelude to events which, if unchecked, would have turned the tide against the Allies and plunged the world into a chillingly - possible second Dark Age, ruled by tyranny and evil, during the madness of World War II.

Chris Janusitis, Producer
Rogers Television Durham - Oshawa, Ontario, Canada

Excerpts from the book:

Camp-X Vengeance Weapon

Le Chateau Frontenac Hotel, Quebec City, Quebec Canada
8 August 1943


“Now, tell me, candidly. What might be so urgent that you’ve asked to meet before the conference, and, I might add, without the presence of the Canadian Prime Minister?” inquired Roosevelt. “No skullduggery afoot or slight intended against our host, I presume?”

“No, none, I assure you, Franklin. A drink perhaps? Possibly your assistant, Mr.…?”

“Sorry. David Tomlinson, may I present Winston Churchill and Sir Willson Cunnington,” Roosevelt offered. “David, please dial room service and have them send up an attendant. Thank you.”

“Not necessary, Franklin,” interjected the British prime Minister. “This hostelry is particularly well-supplied. In fact, I was about to ask if Mr. Tomlinson would be kind enough to play barkeep, after which, we can get down to private discussions.”


“Cheers! Franklin, I cannot apologise for the secrecy,” continued Churchill. “I have received information of the most sensitive nature which, I judged, must be conveyed to you in person. Only two others, as well as Sir Will and I, are privy to it.”
Watching while the three cars proceeded down the road, Private McDonald slowly walked back into the guardhouse. “Hey Maloney!” Private Maloney was seated with his feet up on the table and a magazine in his hands.

“Ya, what is it?” Maloney asked without looking up.


“Jesus, Mac, who was it? The King and Queen of England?”

“Close!” Mac fell silent, as though in a trance.

“Mac? Mac, hey, wake up!” Maloney joked, snapping his fingers. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” laughed Maloney. “Come on Mac! Mac, you’re starting to scare me. Seriously.” Untangling his legs, Maloney arose, dropping his magazine on the floor and approached his friend and comrade. “Talk to me, boy!”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Mac muttered.

“What wouldn’t I believe?”

“You just wouldn’t believe me,” Mac flatly insisted.

“Okay, Mac, why don’t you try me on?" Maloney urged. “And I promise not to report you to the CO as a candidate for the loony bin. Just kiddin’, about not reporting you, that is!”

Mac smile faintly at his friend’s humour. “Okay, if you insist. As I was taking the guy’s papers, I had a good look at the passengers in the back of the first car.”

“So, what did you see?”

“I saw, I saw… Prime Minister Churchill and President Roosevelt sittin’ there calm as cucumbers, in the rear seat.”

“What? That’s it; I’ve got a mind to report you to the Colonel, for sure this time. I’ve had your la-di-dah stories up to here. Next, you’ll be reporting that little green Martians are flying in for appointments with the Colonel. Get a grip, man!” Maloney stormed out, to wander down the laneway mumbling to himself.
Bienvenue à Casablanca

‘Welcome to Casablanca! My Lord, it must be one hundred degrees!’ Squinting through his port window into the brilliant afternoon sun, Blake noted that the leaves of the palm trees surrounding the terminal building were a motley brownish-green and not the emerald hued fronds that he had expected. He was interested to see that the workers unloading the baggage from a plane which had landed earlier were clad in body-covering, loose-fitting white gowns toped with a round red cap: a fez, ‘With little tassels just like the Shriner’s,’ he mused. ‘Wonder if they have any religious significance? This must be where the fez originated; I recall reading there’s a city of Fez in Morocco. Will find out.’

Blake’s deliberations were interrupted by a terse announcement instructing all passengers to deplane immediately and proceed without delay to the terminal building, to present themselves at La Douane, Customs, with passports and supporting documentation ready for inspection. He wasn’t overly concerned about his papers, or his cover story for that matter, as his documents had been produced in Station M at Casa Loma and elsewhere in Toronto, by the finest forgers in the world, and then forwarded by a BSO courier in a diplomatic pouch via Bermuda to his room at the Savoy Hotel in London. His cover had been worked out, revised, refined, and then rehearsed ad nauseam, he thought, before he left Camp-X.

Strolling through the terminal doors, Blake got into line to await his turn to be checked through Customs. Gazing around at the sumptuous décor of the old building, he was intrigued that the large ceiling fans were barely revolving. ‘No wonder it’s so damn hot in here. How can they possibly be of any use in this suffocating heat? What’s going on?’

A scuffle had broken out at the front of the line involving two burly gendarmes and a distraught man in a tan suit who they appeared to be attempting to restrain. Seconds later, ‘tan suit’ was lying spread-eagled on the marble floor, two service revolvers to his temple, protesting loudly that he was a Swiss diplomat, all interspersed with his cursing of France and Morocco in French, Italian and Arabic, Blake surmised, ‘Good take down boys! Jesus, maybe that’s Jacques,’ he reflected.

As if prearranged, the Prefect of Police appeared to order curtly, “Take him away.”

Blake felt the sweat beginning on his brow. ‘Careful Blake, don’t blow it now.’ When he reached the front of the line he complied immediately with the surly Customs Agent’s demand, “Papiers, passeport, s’il vous plâit, monsieur.”
“Let me get you a towel, Angelique.” Holding onto the edge of the tub, Blake attempted to stand up, but without success. Sinking back into the water, he mumbled, “Whew, that Ch Chablis certainly packs a w wallop! Remind me n next time…”

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