File X: Unclassifiable

Well, well, well. It’s been a while.

I’d like to write a little about where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing, but some things are best kept secret until the right time – suffice it to say, I’m back, and the chances of my suddenly coming into a rather significant sum of money (and therefore my chances of a breakout literary success when I spend it via this rather interesting publishing web-company I’ve been researching) have just taken quite the springboard.

How come? Get a load of this:


I am Barr. Koffi Frank Jaja by name and iam writing you in respect of my deceased client Late Mr.F.N.Knoetz, who died On the 21st of April 2000 along with his entire family on car a accident,without keeping any WILL .

And i have been trying to locate any family member of his family to assist in repartrating the fund he deposited in AFRICAN DEVELOPMENT BANK Lome-Togo in West Africa valued USD$14million but failed.

Please send me these information below through my private email address so that i can give you the full details concerning the claim because as it stands now,this claim depends in the same last name you are bearing with my late client.


I am looking forward to hearing from you soon and please excuse me if this is an embrassment to you..OK

God bless you.

Best Regards.

Barr.Koffi Frank Jaja Esq.

Private email to reach me confidentially : koffijaja(at)

Well. Or should I say, will. I was a little put off by his too-familiar greeting – no-one calls me “dear” except Mother – but after that everything started looking better and better (although I have no desire to be gilded, either with gold or mere alloys). Anyway, after bouncing a few emails back and forth my deposit is in the post, and I literally can’t wait to hear how much $14 million dollars is in good old British sterling. I’ll keep you posted.


The court case has been put on hold apparently, which happens to be really good timing as I have a wedding to go to shortly. While I must now leave my loyal readership to go over the transcripts looking for legal loopholes, I would also like to draw the general attention to a rather stunning discovery.

Have a look at this.

Now, I want to make it very clear that – NO, PLEASE – PLEASE – my creation, Don Brawn, is not based upon this person or any other person, living or dead, and any similarity between this Don Brawn and my Don Brawn – or indeed myself – is entirely coincidental.


Fuck. Cheese it!

Erm. I’m not sure if I’ll be…

Because, there’s something bothering me…

See, the thing is… I keep getting new Manilas.

And I don’t like it.

I mean, I volunteered for the first one, the old one, The Da Vinci Code. I was on-board for that. And the current one, Valhalla Rising – well, I took that on for the challenge and, true, based on what I know now maybe I wasn’t fully prepared, but I went into it with my eyes open.


About a month ago Angels & Demons arrived. Well, I think I’ve established my bravery by now, but one thing at a time, eh? Then, three weeks ago, there was something new. Something called Seven Ancient Wonders, by something called a Matthew Reilly. And I ask myself, what’s going on here? Even if, in all honesty, none of these were really surprises. You know. I asked for all this.

But now. Yesterday, in fact. Something else.

Something… awful.

Medusa, the new Clive Cussler novel, something I did not ask for, which I genuinely did not seek out, and which I would not seek out even if you paid me –

It’s here.

How is this happening? Why? More to the point…Who? I mean, the next bloody Dan Brown novel comes out soon. Is this a warning? Because I’m scared.

It’s almost as if it’s… watching me.

I think I need to get out of here. I’m going to lie low for a bit.

Until things cool off.


I know: it’s been quite a while since I continued the epic undertaking that is at hand. My recent infirmity has resulted in a hasty departure for regions unknown, which is to say, the torturous bureaucracy of public health care; and, due to a criminal lack of foresight on my part, I left the odious tome in question at home.

This meant I’ve had to read something worthwhile instead, Hugo Wilcken’s Colony, which, not to put too fine a point on it, was bloody good. “Joseph Conrad meets David Lynch”, if you like that kind of ham-fisted summarising. Anyway, between the agonising stones in my kidneys and the nuggets of characterful stimulation hiding behind Colony‘s sadly rather pitiful cover, I’ve just about had my fill of man pearls for the time being. Nevertheless, I feel like I’m somehow letting everyone down not delving into genuine thriller territory for so long, so I thought I’d grace you with a little Don Brawn to tide you over. You can thank me at the book signing.

Don Brawn slowly lifted the hem of his shirt, revealing and unclasping the little strap at the top of his holster that kept the gun safely in even during the rough and tumble that had come before. He carefully teased her into his dry but anxious palm, comforted by the familiar grip, polished to familiarity by the long years of faithful use. He judged her heft: just three bullets left. But I only need one.

Squinting between the pipes, Brawn could see the black military boots of his adversary as he turned on the spot, searching. For him. Now the heel. Now the instep. Now the toe, or rather the matt-painted steel toe-cap. Don Brawn craned lower, so by dropping his eye-line he could actually look upwards more effectively and see different parts of the enemy’s body. Blood on the right thigh – Brawn smiled, grimly. He thought they’d winged him. Now he knew.

“Why don’t you come out, Mister Brawn?” Baron Lucius Arrowhead was nothing if not self-confident. As his silvery, snaky voice whispered across the silence Brawn felt himself bristling in spite of himself. “There’s nowhere for you to go, now. I know every inch of this castle. Even the grounds outside couldn’t hide you forever.”

“Your wife found a place, Arrowhead,” Brawn countered, preparing to move. “That’s not all she did – or said,” he added, wondering if he could provoke him into a mistake. “Baron by name, but barren by nature.” Brawn scurried sideways, slipping fluidly between the larger ducts to safety as a hail of bullets rained through the space he had only moments before been occupying.

“Agent… Don… Brawn.” Arrowhead was, for the first time, flushed with rage – but there was an edge to his fury. A dangerous edge. “Yes, it is true. You have penetrated more than my lair… plundered more than my plans… but, my dear foe, I knew of Marion’s betrayal before you spoke.”

Don Brawn felt his skin grow cold as Arrowhead’s pale composure quickly returned. “So, you’ve taken her once… Do you mean to take her again? To take her with you, when you no doubt escape? Be my guest – I think she’s ready.” He sneered, contemptuously. “I’m certain, in fact, that she’s waiting for you. In the grounds…

“Beneath her high balcony.”

Don Brawn realised his hands were shaking with anger. “You swine!” he growled. Arrowhead bared his remaining teeth in a foul grin of ghastly menace.

“There’s no place in this world for herpes, Brawn,” he crowed, his eagle eye flicking with hawkish intensity as he focused on a tiny movement in the shadows. “Not… any… more.” And he leveled his weapon.

from The Candid Voice, a Don Brawn thriller, by Cliff Knoetz

There. Hopefully that will keep the wolves from the door for a little while yet. You damned wolves.

Resound agent Don Brawn woke to find it, waiting for him, relentlessly. Where did it come from? Who was responsible? And, most importantly, why?

~ from Vindicated Echo, a Don Brawn thriller, by Cliff Knoetz

These are the kinds of questions with which I might begin the first sequel to my first Don Brawn epic, which I’ll be calling Vindicated Echo. The title in itself is highly appropriate, since the success of the first book will already be the vindication of the second, which in the metaphor is the echo in question.

Doubly appropriate opening lines, in fact, as only today I discovered, relentlessly waiting for me, a new Manila envelope containing Dan Brown’s creationist propaganda novel Angels & Demons, which I understand from a blog I read recently has been made into a film. I think I’ll hold off on starting it until I’ve gotten Cussler out of the way, though. There’s only so much one man can do at one time, and besides my ring is still tender. I’ll just add a little more from the ongoing efforts.

Brawn eyed it as he shook flakes from the box of cereal into his bowl, beside the smaller bowl of the spoon and his mug of instant black coffee. He didn’t drink percolated any more, not after the tragic events that ended his adventures with Marie-Anne almost a year ago; a candid voice that would never again be raised in laughter or desire once more. Don wiped away a tear and poured milk from the bottle.

~ from Vindicated Echo, a Don Brawn thriller, by Cliff Knoetz

I realise I really need to get the first one finished, I can’t sit on this stuff for ever.

I realise I have important work to do here, but some things outweigh even the breathtakingly significant task at hand – and so I would like to take a moment to underline the dazzling courage of one Al Kitching, a vital moral leader of our times and the man behind the epic ongoing contemporary cultural analysis that is These Glory Days, who is shortly to attempt to upstage Lawrence Oates by actually surviving outdoors for a week in the heart of the antarctic – and one can make a donation at that very link.

In truth, I may be exaggerating the scale of his endeavour slightly, but what is certain is that the cause he acts in support of, The Anthony Nolan Trust, is a worthy one; and further, two lithograph prints by Matisse are to be charitably auctioned, with the winning bid added to his contribution. For more auction related details, see here.

May I, Cliff Knoetz, a humble best-seller waiting in the wings of literary history, and my creation, Agent Don Brawn, a fictional hero in Al Kitching’s actual mould, wish him all the best?

Yes. We both may.

Chapter 327

He knew it would take some getting used to, but Robert Langdon-Magdalene was not a man to shirk a difficult task just because it was a heavy burden. All he could do now was search, search like he’d never searched before, and hope he still had time.

And then he found what he had been searching for.

He recognised the shape, the beautiful regularity of its arcing profile, hiding and yet revealed by the smooth edge of the velvet sheet draping it from sight at the back of the storeroom. He scrambled over the crates and cases, undignified in his excitement but uncaring, until he had it in his hands at least.

He gently, reverently, pulled the velvet cover away to unveil its sheening surface, feeling its shimmering trill hum beneath his fingertips. It almost took his breath away.

But there was no time for that now.

Langdon-Magdalene turned and ran.

He wove through the warren of corridors like a fish, that unseen maze hidden within that great structure, beneath those great sail-like things billowing at the Australian sky, reflected Orange on the harbour waters in the tangerine glow of the Sydney dusk. He broke through into that vast room, and the sound washed over him like the waves in the bay themselves – too late? No.

Robert reared back – and threw. Away, it spun, up, high over the heads of the stunned audience, out, out, towards the ranks of skilled artists bringing this awesome moment to its stunning conclusion. And – at the last moment – from the last line of the Orchestra, Sophie’s hand reached up to grasp it, and bring it sweeping down to strike its twin, again and again, in the crashing crescendo of the 1812 Overture – widely acknowledged by music experts the world over to be the greatest master-work of the composer Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky.

As the massive crowd rose to their feet as one to applaud, and as Sophie’s brilliant smile flew out to him across them all, Robert Langdon-Magdalene fell to his knees, tears running down his cheeks in ecstasy.

The Lost Cymbal.


Wow. What a marathon of a chapter that is. But what an ending.

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