Blue with Black Dots (The Caprice Trilogy Book 2)

by Cole Reid

  “The purpose of Uni is to graduate,” said Liza, “Not hang around shagging professors. But in the case of Professor Spice, you could make an exception.”

  “That could be your retirement,” said Shane.

  “No argument there,” said Liza, “ With a government pension, I’ll need a sugar daddy to tide me over.”

  “See that Georgia,” said Shane, “This is what you have to look forward to as far as an intelligence career. You’ll turn forty. They’ll deem you medically unfit for fieldwork. They’ll give you a watch and a desk, where you’ll do research and lust after distinguished British professors.”

  “Nonsense,” said Liza, “You’ll lust after more than just professors.” Georgia laughed. It caught on with Liza.

  “Not to spoil the fun,” said Shane, “But fundamentals are in order.”

  “We’ll get to that,” said Liza.

  “Sooner is better than later,” said Shane.

  “I agree,” said Georgia, “Let’s talk about it now.”

  “Ok,” said Shane, “Your direct manager is Mark Miller. He works as a fund manager at Conactive Partners in London. He’s actually a partner in the firm. They’re a medium-sized money manager for upper-class clients. He’s actually met Owen Spice when Mr. Spice was shopping for jobs at the end of his parliamentary tenure.”

  “What position was he up for at Conactive?” asked Georgia.

  “He wanted to be a sector analyst for agriculture,” said Shane.

  “Naturally,” said Liza.

  “I see what you did there,” said Georgia, “Clever.”

  “Thank you, Dear,” said Liza.

  “You’ll fly to London first and meet up with Mark Miller under the auspices of applying for a student internship,” said Shane, “You’re going to be operating under your own name, Georgia Noya Standing. The reason is that we’re not actually looking to take the document we’re just gonna find it, photograph it and leave it be. Everything about your interaction with him will be as real as possible. You’ll plant the relationship, water it, then cut it, as soon as you get what we’re going for. This is an easy first effort for you. You don’t have to tell so many untruths. Lies are things you get caught in. Getting caught is not a way of life in this industry, if you catch my drift. They’ve no doubt put this all before you already.”

  “They have,” said Georgia, “Am I already enrolled at Strathclyde?”

  “No,” said Shane.

  “Why not?” asked Georgia.

  “Novelty,” said Shane.

  “What novelty?” asked Georgia.

  “Our psychologists say that he will be more likely to notice you, if you come in later,” said Shane, “He will get used to the group and we’ll send you in the last day of late registration, which is three weeks later. We want to make sure you’re the last person enrolled in his class, a standout.”

  “When does enrollment start?” asked Georgia.

  “They’re taking students for regular enrollment now up until a week before the beginning of classes, which is Tuesday, September 7th,” said Shane, “After that, they take late enrollment students but only as transfers. So you’ll be in London until the end of September. We’ve enrolled you at Middlesex University Business School in London. They start a week earlier on the 31st of August. You’ll be there before transferring to Strathclyde. You won’t need an excuse to transfer but if you do, we suggest you cite the expense of living in London or make something up.”

  “When do I leave?” asked Georgia.

  “Day after tomorrow,” said Liza, “That’s so if anything changes suddenly, we’ll have time to brief you before you fly out. Otherwise we’ll turn things over to Mark Miller in London.”

  “Is there anything else?” asked Georgia.

  “Your hotel assignment until you fly out,” said Liza, “You’re staying at the Virginian Seaside Suites. It’s two blocks from the beach. I suggest you enjoy it before you fly out. You’ll be flying under your British Passport.”

  “And my ticket?” said Georgia.

  “We never have anything relate back to us here at the office,” said Shane, “We don’t want you to come out of the office here have your purse snatched and then your plane ticket is in there so your name and destination could relate back to this office. That’s a paper trail and we don’t play paper games. There’s no sign against our building. Nothing leads here. Your ticket has been pre-paid at the ticket counter at Dulles International. It’s under your name so it will be waiting on you. And remember your hotel is the Virginian Seaside Suites. A letter has been left for you at the front desk. It will have your details on what to do when you get to London. And that’s pretty much it.”

  “Is there anything else that I would be best off knowing now?” asked Georgia.

  “Yes,” said Liza, “The beach is two blocks from your hotel.”

  •••

  The flight from Dulles to Heathrow was seven and a half hours, long enough for Georgia to think about Professor Owen Spice. It was her first assignment. There was one small thing that made her feel better about it. It was her country as well. She was working for American intelligence but she was working on British soil. She had cousins and grandparents living in Britain. She visited most summers. It was an operation but it had the feeling of a homecoming. She never had the traditional English upbringing. The same was true of her American upbringing. Step Down wasn’t exactly the same as spying against a foreign government. Her passport had the Lion and the Unicorn. It didn’t feel like a project; it felt more like a prank. She was back in England but it was all in jest. She told herself she wouldn’t take it seriously. If she did, it would be entirely unfair. There were researchers and analysts and lip-readers. She had a pre-packaged assignment prepared by all of them. Owen Spice was a man who steered in one direction, toward safety. It was the definition of unfair.

  She traveled without checking luggage. She grabbed a cab and headed to a hotel outside London in Dorking, Surrey. It was a housing row converted to cottages. They were brick on the outside and wood on the inside. It was enough. Georgia had her own kitchen with appliances. There was a toaster oven and a percolator. The fridge was empty but there were cups and freeze-dried coffee in the cupboard. There was also tea. But Georgia had no exact timeline. She didn’t know how long she would have to wait before meeting Mark Miller. She was supposed to be contacted between two distinct times 8:00pm and 6:00am. The uncertain part was what she should do in between. But she remembered Liza’s advice, find a bright spot. It was still summer and the weather was British warm. She enjoyed the alone time. No mission at hand, not yet. She had to avoid thoughts of calling her cousin, Linda, her favorite. Linda was 50 miles away in Reading.

  All the training in the world wasn’t equal to the first experience. There was a certain focus required that she had to be reminded of. It was more true during the downtime. Thinking about her proximity to her family wasn’t assigned. And it didn’t help. But she did it. She saw she was having trouble. She couldn’t shuffle away from family. They were there, in her thoughts. She wondered if it’d become a problem later. She figured coffee could take her mind off of them and the rest. She double-brewed it. It wasn’t premium but it was fresh. The irony was she didn’t know who was taking care of her. She didn’t know whose idea it was to put her in the cottage in Dorking, but she liked it. She doubted it was Director Witt’s idea. He seemed overly-prioritized with saving money. But the cottage was quintessential England. It wasn’t a multi-starred hotel in Central London. There was no butler. But that was the point. It was her own space. For how long, she didn’t know. She sat with her coffee warming her hands. She nestled on the short sofa. Her thoughts ran forward. She thought about Mr. Owen Spice and the word, Honey Trap. Then she thought about her extended family, not her blood, the other Peers. She thought about the girls first because she felt they could relate. The initial feelings were quite warm. She enjoyed being part of a team. And she liked her girls and her boys. The separat
ion cooled her down. Sitting alone in her cottage she thought a lot about the others. It was one of many effects of being alone. On a populated planet, the merit of being alone was always something to cross the mind. She missed her girls. They were trained and fed by the US government. But she didn’t know how fair it was to make them prostitutes for sake of information. She knew in the eyes of the Agency it wasn’t serious. She had no idea what the other girls were doing but her assignment wasn’t risky according to the dossier. The boys were asked to risk their lives. The girls were asked to risk themselves. Georgia saw it as unfair. She was just too far along to think about it too much. It was 7:14pm. She wanted to get her bearings by going for a jog. She told herself she could find a store, so she would know where to buy food. After over an hour of sitting, the cabin fever infected her. She had polyester shorts but no shoes fit for running. She went for a walk instead. There was a half-acre grass field that lay in front of the manor. She had to cross it before she met the sidewalk. The area was quaint and peaceful. She liked it, even though the sky was overcast. There were cars but no traffic. She found a neighborhood grocery story down the street and around the corner. The building was old brick, an old warehouse. But the façade was new. She bought bread, eggs, mayonnaise and water. Coffee and tea she had. She walked back with her grocery sack looking like any other resident. It felt like home. Britain was home, of sorts. The idea came to mind that she could stay as long as she wanted, technically. She was a citizen. She refocused herself. She had been trained on how to think and it wasn’t worth thinking about. She wasn’t going to be staying in this quiet little neighborhood in Dorking. That was the way it was. She reminded herself of the words often repeated by Director Witt, discipline is a serial killer of bad habits. The words came back to her subconsciously, right when she needed them. She was at work, on the clock. But she saw that she wasn’t the only agent in play. Director Witt’s personality was also in the game because he had schooled them all so well.

  It was an egg sandwich on toasted bread for dinner, then sleep. She wasn’t inclined to stay up reading any of the lifestyle magazines that were stacked on the coffee table in front of the sofa. It would have been in character but not in kind. She wasn’t really a carefree university student. She was just pretending to be. But an agent needed a clear thought palate and sleep was a prerequisite. She slept but it wasn’t the good kind. It was uneasy, not the kind she wanted—eyes closed but ears open. The phone was supposed to ring at some point before 6:00am. She would have to get all her sleeping done before that. She did, waking up at fourteen after four. She didn’t know how she was going back to sleep. But she didn’t want sleep back. Her dreams were filled with a handsome stranger, Professor Owen Spice. It wasn’t a good thing. In a game with ever-changing rules, thoughts paid little dividends compared to observations. She knew nothing about Owen Spice. Or she did, but her knowledge was from a textbook on him that was privately published by the Agency. But despite the extreme use of resources, the Agency hadn’t done the one thing that would have been most helpful for Georgia, girl talk.

  Chapter Five Girl Talk

  The Agency hadn’t bothered to look up any of Owen Spice’s former relationships. They left a man in charge of building the profile on Owen Spice, leaving Georgia to do the real work. None of Spice’s exes would share intimate details about him with Shane Dunn, but they might have with a woman. Even a one-night stand would have held some cheap crayons to add color to the Agency’s black-and-white picture of Owen Spice. But the Agency didn’t think like that. She knew everything about what kind of man he was but nothing about what kind of male. It bothered her, mostly because she wasn’t at liberty to cut things off. The relationship had to be maintained indefinitely. She had to recover the document first. It was her first assignment and she wanted to make a good impression. She had to find that document. There was no opining on or thinking about. She lied in bed awake and thinking about Professor Owen Spice. She thought it would be very nice to know how he was as a lover. She would be given a file on everything she had already been told. But his political record was past tense. What good would it do? Was he an Alpha? Was he aggressive with the women in his life? There hadn’t been so many. What did that mean? Was he gay? His marriage had been for political appearances, to a certain extent. Was he gentle? Did he not have so many women in his life because there already was one? Was it his mother? Or did he have enough feminine psyche to live without a feminine touch for long periods. Was his masculine energy balanced by a strong feminine side? It was entirely possible. It was how he mapped the landscape of his political career, like a married couple putting on a good appearance for the public. He was like a husband who talked so well with his wife when others were watching and a woman who didn’t overtly flirt with other men while her husband was around. It was a united front that didn’t betray itself in public. Private was a different matter. Georgia began to think that Owen Spice was that type. The rare type. The balanced type. Equal parts masculine and feminine, not overly aggressive but firm. Every so often there were men and women who came like that, perfectly perforated down the center—half and half.

  It made Georgia curious, very curious. Because she was the same. Her body was feminine, from any angle. Her official inflection points according to her Agency profile were 38D-28-36, at five-feet and six-inches tall. But internally she wasn’t consistent. She had no ovaries; no uterus. She had child-bearing hips but they were an empty promise. Her breasts were big but to feed missing children. She had chosen at the age of seventeen not to live with the phantom pains of no reproductive organs. It was different than missing limbs. The world treated her as able-bodied, not handicapped. She realized that was the stereotype, so she played it up. She was able-bodied, but even more so. She didn’t ovulate, didn’t bleed and her hormones didn’t fluctuate. It gave her an inner stillness that would always be there, a masculine-like center—nothing moved. No child would ever grown insider her, it was all still. She got used to it. It was how she withstood Yvette’s initial disdain of her. She remained still. She couldn’t be sure but she felt it was the same way with Owen Spice. He seemed to move toward stillness. He hadn’t had a political career designed to foster a legacy. The idea of a legacy was an emotional one, choosing to act memorably over rationally. He did what he thought would appease his constituents. It wasn’t cowardice; that was an emotion. It was representation, a principle. Georgia thought about Owen Spice as she tried to stop herself, there was no stopping it. But the phone in the cottage rang. It was 5:02am. Georgia easily found the receiver in the dark.

  “Hello,” said Georgia.

  “That was quick for this time of morning,” said the voice on the other end, “I’m guessing you were already awake.”

  “I was,” said Georgia, “Well your application is in and we’ve reviewed it. We’d like to schedule an interview with you today at our offices in London. We’ll take lunch together. How does that sound?”

  “Just what I was hoping to hear,” said Georgia, “Where are your offices located?”

  “Our offices are in City of London,” said the voice, “Let me give you the address.” Georgia wrote down the address and meeting time. She decided it was time to get up. Breakfast was the same as dinner, an egg sandwich, protein, carbs and fat—fuel to burn. Coffee substituted for tea. She went to the main office to ask the easiest way to get from Dorking to Central London. She made it by rail. A train left every half hour from Dorking to Central London. The voice on the phone told her 12:30pm. She arrived in the city at 10:38am. She had two hours to kill. She passed a cinema with the idea that she could see a film. If the film ran too long she could leave early. She decided it better to find the building before deciding on how to kill time.

  The building was off Newgate St., nearest St. Paul’s underground station. It contrasted the Romanesque buildings in the area. It was perfect geometry, no arches or reliefs, all modern brick and glass. Confident, Georgia walked away to find something to do. There was a bookshop
around the corner from Paternoster Square. Georgia went in. She browsed but she didn’t buy. At 12:02pm, she headed back toward the building off Newgate St., with directions to head to the third floor. She took the stairs, not the elevator. Stairs were less problematic. The third floor had a large foyer where the elevator would have let her out. As a consequence, the office space was reduced. There were two sides, east and west. The west side door was made of solid wood. The east side door was wood with glass panel. The panel had etching spelling out Conactive Partners, Ltd. The design was so standard looking for a financial services company, it made Georgia wonder if the entire firm was a CIA veneer or just Mark Miller.

  The office had an electronic communicator on the outside. Georgia buzzed. A female voice greeted her with the company name and line. Georgia gave her name, her real name, and her 12:30pm appointment with Mr. Mark Miller. The woman took a moment to check the details before buzzing Georgia through. There was no one on the other side of the door. Georgia could hear the heels of a woman’s shoes approaching from the right. The woman rounded the corner and came toward Georgia. She was tall. She shook Georgia’s hand, introducing herself as Phyllis. Phyllis led Georgia around the corner to the third office on the left, in the corner. She knocked on the already open door.