什么叫血管瘤

My recent novel, The Xanotek Stratagem, is now available to download free of charge at www.chasenoble.com.

Please select 'Insight' from the navigation bar, and then select the relevant front cover icon.

As a taster, here is an extract from the opening few pages.

百度 与往届不同，除了主赛道外，今年增设“青年红色筑梦之旅”赛道，旨在推动大学生创新创业团队到各自对接的县、乡、村和农户，从质量兴农、绿色兴农、科技兴农、电商兴农、教育兴农等多个方面开展帮扶工作，推动当地社会经济建设，助力精准扶贫和乡村振兴。

It was as if the battery in a child’s toy had just sputtered its last.

After sixteen intense hours, exhilaration had turned to exhaustion. The day spent arguing and conjecturing was finally taking its toll. Jeremy Barker glanced at his watch with exaggerated surprise. Marcelle Williams and Adrienne Dodier, who had been engaged in a heated debate about the prospects for the global economy, waved away the waiter offering to replenish their glasses. Chad Spillane tapped the edge of the oak table with his knuckles. In the corner of the room, the Victorian longcase clock lingered on the final note as it completed its elaborate midnight chiming sequence. Chronologically as well as emotionally, the first day had run its course.

Barker coughed audibly, clearing his throat to signify he had some post-prandial comments to share. Briefly, he thanked the group, the six men and three women, for their “fulsome input” and “honest thoughts”. His bony right hand was in perpetual motion as he spoke, running his fingers through the thinning hair around his temples, pushing at the reading glasses that were balancing on the tip of his nose, and fiddling with a lapel pin badge in the shape of the logo from the 1980s cult series Blackadder. High above, dark shadow obscured the top half of Gainsborough’s portrait of the Duke of Argyll, but the Duke’s eyes pierced through the blackness, undimmed by the gloom.

“In particular,” he said, turning to the individual seated on his immediate right. “I’m sure we can agree Craig Richards’ contribution has been invaluable.”

Across the table, Dodier nodded aggressively.

Barker then turned his remarks to the day ahead. In a pointed and mischievous tone, he said he was looking forward to another “early start” and “packed agenda”, phrases which cued an outbreak of nervous smiles.

“I’m not sure exactly what Craig has in store for us. But I’ve no doubt whatsoever about one thing. The journey won’t be dull.”

Barker coughed again, out of habit not infection, gathered up his papers, straightened his jacket, and rose to leave the room. For him, as for most of the group, the day’s proceedings were now concluded. Even Daniel Fricke finally abandoned his attempts to digest the amorphous mass he’d created by blending his three mini-deserts into one concoction. It was time for the party to make the short walk along the narrow stone corridor that connected the Malkin Castle banqueting hall with the keep, which had been converted around thirty years ago into guest accommodation. And then to rest and recharge in the comfort of its world renowned luxury.

For Craig Richards, however, work had barely begun.

The strategist had exuded a relaxed charm ever since taking his seat. Two of his dining companions, including Spillane, remembered him from his monthly Management Tomorrow column, back in the 1990s. The goatee remained, clipped as in the masthead photograph; his light blue eyes still as piercing. And not a single grey strand was detectable amidst his ample chestnut hair to mark the passage of time.

On the surface, Craig seemed to be loosening up, unwinding after the exertions of the day had now passed. His conversation was light-hearted and unthreatening. He had engaged every participant in delightful repartee, enquiring casually of their family circumstances, and sharing inoffensive anecdotes from his long and colourful career. But a scrupulous observer might look beyond these superficial signals. Craig’s posture was always a few degrees more erect than his companions’. He blinked less often. His gaze was more focused. And during momentary breaks in the exchanges, he would tense up, clasping together his hands, taking advantage of the fleeting seconds to filter out the surrounding distractions and undertake vital mental processing. For Craig, all material, however inconsequential, was potential evidence, to be analysed, sifted and weighed.

As the group dispersed, Craig contemplated the hours ahead. Since the break-up of his marriage, he had more than ever revelled in the magnificent period when the rest of the world slept. With the night at its darkest and most silent, he often felt consumed with an electrifying thrill. He tingled with the euphoria of making discoveries and connections while others were out cold. Like an outlaw sneaking past dozing, oblivious guards to execute the perfect heist, there was something exotic about breaking through while everyone else lies comatose.

Before departing, Craig swapped courtesies with Barker, Spillane and Dodier, and crossed the room to acknowledge another member of the party, a wiry silverhaired businessman from Tokyo. Nobuyuki Hino had flown into the country by private jet two days previously, especially for the occasion. Hino leant forward, his skeletal fingers pressing into the back of Richards’ hand and he shook it forcefully.

“A very interesting day,” he said, expressing each word with precision. “Much to consider.”

The majority of guest rooms were on the far side of the keep, up a restored spiral staircase. As they ascended, Craig lagged behind his companions. He paused to peer through a narrow arrow slit and survey the surrounding Norfolk countryside, allowing his imagination to wander. He transported himself half a millennium back in time, into the body of a medieval archer defending the last bastion from insurgents and marauders. Strategy, capability, motivation, execution – all coalescing in the perfect moment at which the bow is raised and drawn, and the arrow released, to soar through the still air, and skewer with a satisfying bullseye the scalp of an enemy. Precious the modern day plan whose success can be so emphatically judged.

At the top of the stairwell, Craig took his room key from his inside pocket. The key was unmistakable in its size and weight, befitting the grandeur of the location; he had been conscious of its presence for most of the evening. Not for Malkin Castle the plastic card keys popular with nondescript hotel chains, that need simply to be waved across a tiny panel to release the lock. The wrought iron key in Richards’ hand was serious business. It required conscious will to force it into the keyhole and twist. The pins resisted gamely, and then released with a thump, causing the stud-encrusted door to swing open under its own enormous weight.

Inside his stateroom, Craig readied himself for the task. He was now in his element, surrounded by information and insights from numerous sources. A few hours beforehand, when he had checked in, the room could have been lifted from the centrespread of an upmarket lifestyle magazine, bathed in an opulent purple and gold hue which cascaded from the elegant damask wallpaper with its frenzy of gilded peacocks. Dead centre had been an imposing antique four-poster bed, bedecked with hand-embroidered, pure linen sheets smelling of lavender oils, and a shimmering thick velvet quilt. To the near side had stood a Chippendale camelback sofa, with a tight, serpentine back and high rolled arms, almost submerged in scatter cushions, next to a well-stocked walnut drinks cabinet. And across by the window had been a nineteenth century rolltop desk, complete with traditional rotary telephone, blotter and fountain pen, from which one could gaze across the castle courtyard as one composed correspondence. All lit by a menagerie of side lamps, floor lamps, table lamps and a commanding cut-glass chandelier.

For Craig, lavish soft furnishings were as welcome as radio static. They interfered with the clarity and rigour of his thinking. During a break in the afternoon session, he had sneaked a moment to rearrange the room in a manner more conducive to his state of mind. Pillows and cushions had been tossed into a heap in the corner, alongside the superfluous lamps, and the mattress had been pulled off the bed, and now leant against the wall in the manner of a mutated flip chart. Over the next fifteen minutes, Richards plastered both mattress and wall with almost a hundred separate pieces of paper until it was a kaleidoscope of analysis – extracts from reports on polymer technology, meeting notes, personnel profiles, and bullet point summaries of the key issues which he and Marcelle, his adviser and confidante, had made at the end of every session since the early morning kickoff.

At the centre of his kaleidoscope, he attached to the wall a Financial Times cutting from twelve months beforehand, with the headline: “Barker returns to Japan for additional fund raising.”

When Craig had finished creating his display, the designer wallpaper, once so domineering was barely detectable beneath the maze of foolscap sheets and post-it notes. He took a pace backwards to survey his work, and stood, arms crossed, studying the contents. Occasionally, he moved a piece of paper from one area of the wall to another. When he was finally satisfied with the organisation of the materials, he took from his case a ball of coloured string, which he cut into different lengths and used it to highlight links between different areas of his display, in particular a page torn from a classified Ministry of Defence report on troop deployment. He checked the time on his mobile phone, and grimaced to see the background setting had somehow defaulted to a photograph of Patricia and their daughter Natalie, taken in a different era, an era when contact between them did not require lawyers. With a swipe of his finger, the photograph was erased, and the background returned to a generic pale azure. Almost one o’clock, time to start mapping out the programme for the second day with Barker and his team.

The next hour would be crucial to a successful outcome for the event. Craig always felt a frisson of excitement when he reached this stage, and in addition now felt a slight moistening at the nape of his neck as a couple of beads of sweat bubbled out from a pore. He needed to be fully alert; nothing could be overlooked if he was to justify Hino’s trust. There was no margin for casual error or misjudged conclusions.

Craig was particular about the environment that best released his creative imagination. The lights needed to be slightly dimmed; an eighteenth century symphony needed to be playing in the background (today, he had chosen Haydn’s Maria Theresia). And one thing more. In his en-suite bathroom, Craig draped a towel across the floor tiles, and knelt down next to the basin. Briskly, he wiped some tissue across the glass surface of the vanity cabinet to ensure it was dry, and then tipped out two hundred milligrams of white powder, which he inspected carefully, removing a small section where the particles had clumped together. Using a hand mirror, he arranged the powder into two lines, each a few inches in length, and continued adjusting the contours of the lines in pursuit of perfection, long past the point of practical effect. The product was remarkably fine. The lines glowed with beckoning purity, and seemed to dance like desert sand dunes in a light breeze. Finally, he used a cut straw to ingest the cocaine, yelping uncontrollably and wide-eyed as the drug was sharply absorbed through the lining of his sinuses.

The effect was like an adrenaline surge; every moment of time came alive with power and significance. For a moment, Craig imagined he was an Olympic sprinter, revelling in the adoration of the spectators, lifting his arms in the middle of an eighty thousand seat stadium as every man, woman and child in the crowd rose to their feet in thunderous applause. He was the renowned Craig Richards, no less, the Usain Bolt of the corporate strategy world. As he plotted and schemed, the multitudes gazed on, expectant, dazzled, overawed.

Pumped up from his ingestion, Craig brushed the residue of powder into the sink, and headed back into the stateroom to contemplate his kaleidoscopic display. But as he turned the corner, a sixth sense told him something was amiss, moments before his ears caught the light drubbing on fingers against fabric, and his eyes made out a darkened figure seated on the camelback.

“How the…” began Craig.

“Be quiet and sit down,” said the stranger, motioning towards an exposed section of hard wood floor.

“Who are you? What are you doing?”

“I’m not going to ask again. Be quiet. Sit down.”

Craig ignored this entreaty and instead marched toward the rolltop desk. He had overcome his initial astonishment at the intrusion, and was now intent on seeing the perpetrator ejected with menaces from the premises. Grabbing the receiver, he was about to dial the receptionist, when the stranger rose purposely from the sofa. He was pointing a Browning 9mm pistol directly at Craig’s temple.

“It’s got a suppressor. So I suggest you forget about playing the hero, and do as I say. Which is to sit down,” he said.

Craig returned the receiver to its cradle, and raised his hands to indicate compliance with the instructions. Finally, at the third time of asking, he sat cross-legged on the floor.

“I’m pleased we have an understanding,” said the stranger. “Head shots can be so messy.”

“What’s this all about?” asked Craig, cautiously.

“All this nonsense you’ve been taping to the wall,” said the stranger, looking across the room. “It all looks very elaborate. And I suppose you brainiacs need to do your stuff to justify your fees. But from now on, it’s not your way any longer. From this point, you’ll be doing what I say.”

At which point the stranger eased the stopper from the whisky decanter, and poured himself a generous measure of 25 year old single malt Macallan.

... Continues ...