I used Minerva to open Stafford’s desktop as well as all the contents of his phone. For a moment I wondered why I hadn’t tried to do all this sooner. Then I remembered how hard I had been trying to put him out of my head. Also, and, for no good reason at all, I had wanted to try to preserve as pure an image of Stafford as possible in my mind. What I knew of his dealings didn’t help the image. They didn’t necessarily hurt it either, just added an element of uncertainty and distrust. I became increasingly uneasy as I prepared to open his desktop files and go through them. I made sure everything I was doing on my computer was heavily encrypted so nothing I did would have the slightest chance of even inadvertently getting out. I was extremely paranoid about security when it came to clandestine activity online.
Then I took a deep breath and dove in. Opening Stafford’s desktop, I found the usual shortcut icons—shortcuts for web browsers, Windows Media Player, Spotify, Skype, iTunes—and I found a folder marked “Images,” along with folders marked, “Desktop ’08,” “Personal,” “Taxes,” and “Hedge fund & derivatives.” The first folder I went to was “Images.” Inside were more folders with various dates spread over the last four years. Oddly, the images weren’t of Stafford or his family or even travel pictures. They were images of company logos, American and foreign. A lot of it was advertising too. I rapidly flipped through about four hundred images of ads and logos. I thought Stafford must’ve owned some of these companies or part of them and he must’ve been inspired by the advertising or logos of the others or perhaps they were companies he wished to acquire a piece of but had not yet managed to do so.
Next I opened “Personal.” There was nothing in it, waste of time,. “Taxes” similarly yielded an empty folder. One left on the desktop: “Hedge funds & derivatives.” Inside was one image file, which I opened. It was merely a circular, yellow happy face. “Desktop ’08” revealed similar contents to the newer desktop. The file folders were labeled exactly the same. I opened “Images” in “Desktop ’08.” It was completely cleared out. Likewise, “Taxes,” “Hedge funds & derivatives,” “Personal,” and “Images” were empty. Why did he even have a
“Desktop ’08” file if there was nothing in it? I looked for folders and files that might be hidden from view. One new folder came up in the “Images” file on the current desktop. It was called “Blog.” I opened “Blog” and found over 1,500 erotic and light pornographic images and a few pornographic clips downloaded off the internet. I watched one of the clips. A beautiful Asian woman, perfect figure—with what looked and moved like natural large breasts—was arched over backwards, on hands and feet, chest raised up toward the ceiling, as the male porn star came up underneath her and fucked her from below, thrusting almost straight up.
I closed Stafford’s computer out and went into his phone. As I did this, I found myself in the constant grip of a fear that Stafford would knock at the door. More than once I got up and went to the door, peeking out into the hall to make sure he wasn’t there. I wondered if I’d smoked too much AK-47 and Hindu Kush lately, causing a permanent paranoia. Or was I right to be paranoid?
Compounding the feeling of anxiety was the increasing sense of cabin fever I was getting being stuck on an island for so long with no recourse to any form of civilization more than Governor’s Harbour, which itself was so isolated that when I was there it often felt like some remote trading post on Antarctica. I decided I would smoke a bit less, drink an extra glass of wine each night, and perhaps take up meditation to clear up these anxiety problems.
To say I was mostly in the grip of paranoid feelings at this time would be to present a half-truth at best. I was still very much euphoric at the great changes taking place in my life. The irony that I felt so anxious and increasingly trapped at the moment of the greatest turn of luck and freedom from material concerns in my life doesn’t escape me. My newfound willingness to take on life in a new way came at a cost, and there was an emotional disturbance I had not been able to foresee. I now see, looking back, that my ability to live in this new, free way was unleashing some repressed memories, fears, and depression from the past. This venting, along with my secret fears about Stafford, contributed to my anxious state that was at once paranoid and euphoric.
Around this time a new idea was beginning to take shape in my mind. Now that I had achieved further freedom in the way I lived, I required a more solid direction in life in order to maintain these happy feelings surging from the wellsprings of my soul. What I really wanted I couldn’t have, or so I thought at the time. That was to be Savannah’s mother and Stafford’s one lover, if not his wife. This last, I wasn’t ready to admit consciously. Consciously, I believed I didn’t need anyone and wouldn’t permit any thoughts to the contrary. But secretly, deep down, I wanted Isabella’s life. I even began fantasizing, in states of semi-reverie, about how to get it. First, I daydreamed about being a sister wife alongside Isabella. Then I imagined Isabella and Mark getting a divorce that somehow I was the cause of. This was better than having to share him.
Stafford’s phone had five email accounts linked to it, and twenty-three bank accounts. This was what I was looking for. I should be able to figure something out from all these accounts, I thought. I half-imagined myself an FBI counterintelligence agent, looking through the phone of a suspected spy. Somehow it eased the tension, and made me feel less guilty.
The first thing I honed in on in his phone was an app entitled “Notes.” Inside, the most recent (in a series going so far back I would eventually have to scroll through it) was called simply “July 9.” I opened “July 9.”
Chapter 7
Mark Stafford’s Notes
July 9
Today’s meeting was a monumental failure and disaster. None of the promised Zippos had been delivered. The bubblegum sticks promised to be on order since March had not arrived. I called the manufacturer and was told no order was ever placed. I was incensed. Next up: tennis rackets. On the one hand, there were two truckloads of tennis rackets on schedule and paid up in Morocco as promised. The proper papers were received and they were ready to continue en route to the West African states where their imminent arrival was anxiously expected and the attendant pressure was making itself felt on those shores. Horror of horrors, the Borises ordered by the Chinese People’s Liberation Army were reported to me as stolen the same morning of the meeting with the British handlers. Red hornets to Africa: fine. The frogs to Pakistani generals were received a week ahead of schedule. Two good things to fifty bad. Anita Ekbergs to Russian soldiers: half shipment reported missing. In this instance of failure I don’t know whom to distrust. The crooked Swedes, the deliverers, the Russian soldiers, the American handlers, or all of the above? There was missing candy in all these transactions. All sides bitter and accusatory toward all others. On a positive note, the king cobras were being reassembled on arrival in West Africa.
Of all the things that bothered me, it was the Borises. I owed an associate a favor in the Guang Dong region. He had always done right by me and I by him, all the way back to our avalanche days. That was small time. Now he needed a fleet of Borises for his new funding operations. Something for the Party, he said. I had seen the Borises, all fresh and shiny and fully mechanized. Fully operational, when I had ventured out of Moscow on my last trip to Russia. They seemed to breathe and laugh with me as I moved along the lines of them with the old, ex-KGB general. The general laughed with me and I believed I had sincerely made a good impression on the man and we would do further business once these shipped south. Now I firmly believe the fuck stole the Borises and ate the money. “Eating money—they will eat your money,” I could hear Azuka, my old Nigerian business companion, saying years past as he introduced the expression to me. What was Azuka doing now? Probably running a prostitution gang (his passion) while moving avalanche from country to country (his livelihood since time immemorial). He was probably a multi-billionaire now in Naira, if not in dollars. Note to self: call Azuka and find out what he is up to these days. Is he
still slumming it in Lagos or has he moved to Port Harcourt like he always claimed was his dream?
Gerry, the British handler of these operations, explained to me, on the beach amidst the fog, the even foggier operations that had gone on across Europe, in parts of Asia and along West Africa as I wished I’d had a cup of coffee on hand to clarify my thinking on all the issues brought to my attention. Certain things he said in particular stand out in my memory among the plethora of strings of foolish nonsense the scoundrel unleashed on that cool morning.
“Gee, Mark, I say, must we go into it all again…it’s painful to think about all this, so horribly gone wrong as it all has.”
I wanted to kick him in the cojones right then.
“I’ll get on the dog and bone to London straight away and sort out this mess. No I won’t. I’ll fly back and sort it in person. Tell ’em the Tina Turner’s unhappy in the Bahamas. Tell ’em he might be coming himself to sort this mess if it doesn’t get put right within days—within hours.”
His cockney accent made my skin crawl, but not more than the pathetic excuses.
“Got his knickers in a twist. Tell the handlers the Tina Turner Black Magic himself is coming to London in three days. Three days, that is, after my prompt arrival at Heathrow. I’ll be up the apples and pears, on the dog and bone, ’ave the ’andlers at me flat within half-an-hour of the call. E’er’thin’ sorted. Ever’ last thin’.”
I’ve tried to show his speaking, but it doesn’t quite feel right the way I’ve presented it so I’ll leave it out in future. And I’ll leave out the cockney euphemisms. Some of the actual meanings I’m unsure of, but I know Tina Turner means earner or someone with a lot of cash. Dog and bone means phone. Apples and pears, stairs. Gerry’s speaking became more stilted and faster and more jumbled the more he waxed eloquent, the more he saw my patience running out. He probably half-thought he’d die right then and there, thought ole Black Magic would kill him.
I found the new nanny—Sophia Durant, I think her name is—driving away from Spanish Wells as I came back from the meeting place. At first I thought she may have followed me, but later, when I caught up to her, I found out she had been shopping in Spanish Wells. She’s quite an extraordinary young woman. A bit quiet, but interesting to talk to if you can get past the social barriers she throws up. Just listening to her talk, she’s obviously extremely intelligent. Sophia has more than one degree, I believe. She knows a lot about several subjects, including computers and technology in general. And the woman is astonishingly attractive. When I talk to her I have to keep looking away to maintain my train of thought. I get carried away thinking about the things I want to do to her. She’s put a definite spell on me. I’ve got to be sure and pay her closer attention in the future. Perhaps she can help out with more than simply looking after Savannah. She does seem to get on exceptionally well with the baby and seems to have genuine affection for her. Note: remember to have her look at your cloud sharing problems between systems.
As for Sophia’s character, I’ll test her in our coming exchanges and see just how well she may be suited to other positions (no pun) in the business that is me. Also be careful not to allow her to get too close. Make sure to keep some distance between you and her, between meetings and in conversations and so on. (Remember what happened in those relationships with the other help before that did not go so well.) To consider: Sophia may be able to help you increase the activity of the hedge fund and expand your work with derivatives if this truly is an area of interest for her. She probably knows more than you do about it already.
Seeing Anse Lazio this time is even more incredible than the last, the vistas are beyond beautiful and so is the snorkeling. Idea: perhaps you can take Durant down there with you some time. It would be interesting, especially along the coral reefs, and she might really like it. Something to inflame the passions, even if only a little. Swimming in the anse morning and evening really does a lot to take the pressure off business. Off the struggles with people and the fear of the exposure of vital company information. Sometimes all this international trading gets tiresome, especially with the great care that needs to be taken to the details of communication and transport. I just need someone who’s a little more understanding than Isabella to help bear the burdens of the business. If she knew any of the actual details of what goes on at the company I think she’d blow a gasket, possibly have a heart attack. Derivatives trading can be tough indeed, like trading in futures. I’ll trade in my future with her for someone who can be a real partner any day of the week.
I wonder if I wouldn’t feel the same with any woman. The Durant woman makes me curious in this regard. All women are sweet and unassuming when you first meet them, when the infatuation begins, but just as soon it’s all over they are bitchy and complain about everything and think they own you. But perhaps Durant is so intelligent that at least, even when she did become all these things that every woman becomes, she would be bossy in a way that made sense—in order to get practical matters resolved, she would complain about things that are worth complaining about, and she wouldn’t have any ideas about ownership any more than I do. But of course I’m just romanticizing the unknown. Durant is an unknown entity, no matter how much I might want that to change.
Now I’m thinking about the last time I had sex with Isabella. She won’t ever get all the way undressed. Doesn’t like for me to see her belly button. She shouldn’t wonder why I find the whole affair of making love to her such an extraneous thing. I do it probably with as much contempt and disgust as she does. I feel on these grounds alone that I’d be forgiven for whatever other monkey business I might get up to. I’ll have to be sure and delete all these notes later. Once I’m through venting.
I’m going to meet the Durant girl again. With her, the conversation’s never lacking. It’d be interesting to see what she’s like in other departments besides talking. If anything comes of it. I’ll contact her tonight and perhaps we can meet if she’s not busy.
Sophia Durant’s Diary
August 5, Eleuthera Island, Bahamas
Stafford’s notes to self proved more worthwhile than I’d expected. Not only did they go into his intimate thoughts in some detail, but they were also fairly well written. He was expressive and there was an inner life as I had suspected. I didn’t agree with everything he thought and felt, but at least it was honest and somewhat consistent. Of course there were a few things I didn’t understand. Things at the heart of my curiosity that I would have to clarify through a little more serious detective work. All this talk of Zippos, bubblegum sticks, and the other strange phrases I would have to delve into more deeply to figure out. I believed these were what you might call semagrams—words used to cloak the true meaning involved from any readers or listeners other than the person or persons intended to receive the message. For example, James Bond, when talking to M, used semagrams to convey whether or not he had racked up any kills or done anything else during his mission that might jeopardize himself or the mission if outside listeners were to interpret the true meanings behind the words.
Apart from the mystery of the initial paragraphs, I was surprised to see how he thought of me, what things interested him about me and so on. I found his attitude toward Isabella funny in the extreme and I laughed out loud on more than one occasion while reading his private thoughts. On the other hand, I didn’t appreciate the way he thought I put up so-called social barriers, and how he seemed to think of me as some kind of socially stunted introvert. But he did think I’m intelligent. He even mentioned the word infatuation. Things are on the right track.
I closed the MacBook, satisfied for now with what I had seen. I watched a scene toward the end of The Big Sleep as I drifted off while there was still a hint of purple twilight outside. On the whole, my life seemed as confusing and distorted as the plot of the Bogart movie I was watching. Nothing seemed to make sense. It seemed that the glaringly obvious was not at all obvious to me, as though I was the only one lost and confused by what everyone
else in the world saw clearly and simply. There was a sense of frenzied excitement to every aspect of life now I had never before experienced. With this thought I drifted into a contented sleep.
Sophia Durant’s Diary
August 7, Eleuthera Island, Bahamas
I held Savannah in my arms in the golden dawn light. I had a bottle formula she had sucked down two ounces of before smiling and drifting into an easy sleep. She smiled often, a happy baby. I believe this is a great part of my attraction to her—her easygoing, happy nature. That and her exquisite beauty. I felt that she was my own in the times I was with her, even if I was only her nanny. It is difficult to describe the feelings involved other than to say when she is in the room it is brilliant daylight and whenever she is gone it’s forever darkest night. I carried Savannah off to her cradle and set her down to sleep in peace.
I had borrowed Anna’s iPad and was reading some news about private detective work in London. I’d found the article highlighted on an app called Flipboard. It was mostly about suspecting wives tracking adulterous husbands with GPS devices that attached to their cars, but there was one point of interest. In the article I found the name of a company in London that sells spy gear to the general public. Lorraine Electronics of 716 Lea Bridge Road, London. I went to the webpage and read through the Listening and Tracking page and the Sound Recording Systems page. There I found a small Olympus recording device that was ideal for my purposes. I found corresponding miniature microphones that were battery operated, miniscule, and could be scattered about a location, apparently capturing and transmitting crisp sound in a radius of up to thirty feet. I copied the URL and emailed it to myself. Later I ordered the Olympus and a set of tiny microphones in a way that I was sure no one would ever know. It’s true I can rig pretty much any spy device it’s possible to rig through a laptop or mobile phone, but I felt my objective required extra measures, capabilities not available with a smartphone or MacBook. If I was going to subvert Stafford to a place under my thumb then information was king. And the information gathering was becoming like an unquenchable thirst. An addiction.
Paradise - Part Two (The Erotic Adventures of Sophia Durant) Page 3