by Cole Reid
“Mr. Miller,” said Phyllis, “Here is Georgia Standing, your lunch appointment.”
“Of course,” said Mark, “Come in Georgia. So glad to meet you. Phyllis would you close the door for us.” Phyllis left, closing the door behind her. Mark Miller came around his desk to shake Georgia’s hand. He was older than Georgia expected, early fifties. His voice sounded young over the phone. It was hard to decide in person. She had to match his voice with the image in front of her. His hair was all there but it was completely white. His skin was something red. His eyes were blue and serious. But his tone was friendly. He was a go-to guy and he carried the message in his swagger. Whatever his position in the Agency, he was good at it. It was the reason the Agency had him where they did, the capital city of one of the United States’ closest allies. He had to be good with know-how. As casual as he was, he was a double-agent on friendly soil. He was in less physical danger than a double-agent in Moscow, but the Agency was more concerned about the political dangers of someone like Mark Miller. An uncovered agent in Moscow would be executed and it would be over with. An uncovered agent in London would keep his head but be at the head of a scandal that would take as long to repair as it would to forget. Georgia didn’t know how many Mark Millers were working in the UK but it was the one in front of her that seemed most high.
“Have a seat Georgia,” said Mark, walking back around his desk. He fished in his pocket for a set of keys. He unlocked a bottom drawer and pulled out a folder with string tie. He bent over the desk to hand the folder to Georgia. She held her hand out to accept it.
“A bit of bedtime reading,” said Mark, “That’s the UK version of what they gave you back at Norfolk. It’s all public record on Mr. Owen Spice, everything from his school entry to his parliament days. There’s probably more in there than Mr. Spice remembers. I think the hard part will be pretending like you haven’t studied up on the man when you meet him. He should have a talent for guessing who knows what, as a former MP.”
“What did you think of him?” asked Georgia, “I’m told you met him.”
“I did,” said Mark, “I did. He’s exceptional in his ability to restrain himself from trying to seem exceptional. The man was a great contact though. He returned calls personally. From all I can say, he was a very nice person. Almost boring.”
“What do you think about the paperwork that we’re after?” asked Georgia.
“You mean do I think he’s actually in possession of what he’s believed to be in possession of,” said Mark. Georgia nodded.
“You know he’s a history guru,” said Mark, “He interviewed here and toured our offices so we met and had lunch on two separate occassions. He talked a lot of history when we asked him about certain market trends, which to be honest, shows quite a bit of tact. Can you guess why?” Georgia stared at the wall for a moment before looking back at Mark.
“The only thing that comes to mind,” said Georgia, “Is that it’s a sort of safe ground. History is already written so if you’re well-versed in it you can speak freely about it and you’re primarily untouchable.”
“Very good,” said Mark, “In this business, granted I’m not talking about the finance industry, having a fact in your pocket that can be verified is like having a golden nugget. As you get older, the lack of inaccuracies and flatout lies is what you’re drawn to. I think Spice realizes that. Not that he’s trying to be anyone’s best friend but his knowledge of history gives him a knowledge of what’s true. Anyone is much more likely to be endeared to someone who lays down steady fact after steady fact instead of so much bullocks it becomes a load of bullocks.”
“From everything I’ve been briefed about Owen Spice,” said Georgia, “He’s a very smart man.”
“He is smart,” said Mark, “Which is why you should be careful. But don’t worry about too much. The thing that makes him smart is defining his area of competence. In fact, that’s what makes all people smart, knowing what they don’t know. And that’s the lucky part for you. Mr. Spice doesn’t include women in his circle of competence. He actually said as much, when we were at lunch.”
“That explains much,” said Georgia.
“It does,” said Mark, “But forget what I said earlier about him being boring. He’s really not. But in an age of peace signs and pop colours, he’s actually quite tame, in a charming way.”
“That’s refreshing,” said Georgia.
“It is,” said Mark, “In fact, I noticed a subtlety that I wanted to share with you.”
“Please share,” said Georgia.
“All his relationships were ended on some technicality,” said Mark, “He was genuinely liked by the women in his life, the ones we know about. Even with his wife, they ended on mutual terms. She didn’t relish the spotlight and he didn’t avoid it. He wasn’t so hungry for attention; it’s just that he understood it came with his job as MP. He wasn’t quite ready to leave his job so he justifiably agreed to end things with his wife to let her continue on without him. Classy move if you ask me.”
“I would agree,” said Georgia, “So he was married from ’63 to ’66 and his next relationship was with Nita Harris, one of his students.”
“As far as we know,” said Mark, “Those were his only confirmed relationships. He’s quite close to a Daily Telegraph reporter…”
“Ruby Hall,” said Georgia.
“You’re down on your details,” said Mark, “Which brings me back to knowing the facts. That’s why he seems to have this love of history. It’s a love of facts. That’s why we were interested in having him manage a fund here. We thought a deep knowledge of history and knowledge of the agricultural industry would get us decent returns. But he opted for a less stressful life, that of university professor. And I do believe I’ve stumbled upon the best evidence that he is, indeed, in possession of the documents.”
“What exact evidence is that?” asked Georgia.
“The fact that he chose a lower-paying professorship in Glasgow over a much better paid management job here in London,” said Mark.
“Are you talking about his love of history?” asked Georgia.
“In part,” said Mark, “But call it a love of being accurate or a love of sitting atop the right set of facts. We’re money-managers; we’re never atop anything. The markets move. That’s the job. We can’t go to our clients like that though. We can’t just show up and tell them markets move. We have to tell them we’re quite sure we know where it’s moving and how it moves. We issue a prospectus but that’s a fallacy. If we really knew that kind of thing we’d definitely keep it as proprietary. And we wouldn’t hire ourselves out. Owen understood that. He very much likes to know what side of the line he’s on. It’s how he kept his constituents happy and didn’t step on any toes. He kept himself on the right side of the line at all times.”
“What does that mean for the document?” asked Georgia.
“Well he kept it for that reason,” said Mark, “It’s not so much just about having a historical document, which it is of course. But my guess is he kept the document just to keep a record of what was said. Especially, what he said. It gets hard to remember your position or what you said as years go by. I think he kept it just to know what he had advocated; what side of the line he was on. Words can be twisted against you, even secret words. They even try to whitewash history. There are some these days who are even trying to deny the Holocaust. That makes concentration camp records of supreme historical importance. This document is also of extreme historical importance because the meeting itself can be denied.”
“But if he did keep it,” said Georgia, “What would he plan to do with it in the end?”
“I can’t speak for the man,” said Mark, “But I’d expect him to keep it till old age and then toss it, when he felt nothing in it was of value any more. When he’s seventy years old and none of what we are doing now matters. Then that meeting at Putrajaya couldn’t hurt anyone, even if they did find out about it. Or he could donate it to National Archives. There�
��s a lot he could do.”
“Are you hungry at all?” asked Georgia.
“I am,” said Mark, “In fact, I was about to invite you to lunch.”
“I was about to invite you,” said Georgia.
“Hungry, huh,” said Mark.
“A bit,” said Georgia.
“Ok,” said Mark, “First put the file in your purse and keep up with it. Ok, let’s go. My favorite restaurant is here in City of London. They’re expensive but the best restaurants are definitely here. They’re the best out of any city.”
Chapter Six Any City
Georgia spent the next few weeks at the cottage as instructed by Mark. He made sure she had enough money to buy clothes and necessities before she moved in her city house-share near Sunny Hill Park. It was August 24th, a week before she would begin her studies at Middlesex University. She had three housemates but a single room. She didn’t mingle or go to school opening parties. She told other students her parents weren’t rich and she didn’t want to waste their money so she spent time in her room alone, studying. It was true. However, the way she said it was meant to make other students believe she was studying from her books. But she was studying the professor, Owen Spice.
When the third week of school came she put in her request to withdraw from all her class rosters. There was a mandatory interview with students who withdrew for non-medical reasons. She gave the counselor the excuse she was given. She couldn’t afford the expense of London. But she added the fact that she was homesick and had trouble making friends. The latter was true, not that it bothered her. But spending her nights in her room pouring over the fact sheets about Owen Spice made her seem social awkward. She was at Middlesex for an entirely different reason.
She didn’t meet that reason until eight days later. She packed up everything she had into two suitcases, taking the train to Glasgow. The ride was five hours. She sipped tea then water but she didn’t eat at all. She could have used the calories but she didn’t feel the need. Her mind was preoccupied. There was no more training or briefing. She was facing a live scenario. She wasn’t studying Owen Spice. She was engaging him. He went from subject to objective in five hours—from London to Glasgow.
Georgia had to carry her suitcases herself. There were classified items in each. She didn’t want to entrust anyone else with handling them, even if they didn’t know what they were handling. It was her first assignment. She wasn’t as relaxed as if it had been one of many. She hadn’t slept or eaten on the train ride. It would have helped her with the physicality of having to carry the two filled suitcases. She had to carry them from the High Street Railway Station to the rented student flat. Strathclyde campus was only a few blocks from the High Street Station but her flat was on the far side of the campus. There was a bus stop adjacent to the rail station but she was a student, in mind and in practice. To save money, it made sense to carry her suitcases but energy was the problem. Hers was low. She made it to the building. It was the stairs that were the challenge. Her apartment was on the third floor of a building with no elevator and narrowish stairs. Georgia had to climb the stairs with one suitcase in front of her and one behind. She made it to her room on the third floor but she was exhausted. Without the physical mandates of the Agency, it would have been impossible. Her figure belied how much muscle she had added during the last year.
Her room was small and slightly rectangle, a bit longer than it was wide. There was one bed and one desk with one lamp. It was typical for a student. It was ideal for student relationships, privacy—no roommate. She didn’t have time to unpack. The time of day and way she spent the hours before made a nap the primary objective. She slept the way she slept at home. It was that flawless sleep. She had already been registered for her classes. The Agency had taken care of that. She only had to show up. For the first time since she signed a contract with the US government, her role was the easy part. She woke up at 8:41pm. She logged a little over four hours sleep. She sat up in her bed and took her time to pretend to know where she was. Then she finally knew. Scotland. Glasgow. University of Strathclyde. It came into clearer resolution as she shook off the sleep.
She was hungry. She didn’t know how much she could eat. She was sure it was more than the snacks she had in her suitcases, the ones she left untouched on the ride over. She walked back downstairs to the ground floor where three young men were gathered. She walked passed them noticing the motion of their heads in her direction as she passed. Georgia walked out onto Cathedral Street, the same street of the Business School campus. She figured if the campus was in one direction food would be in the opposite direction. She paid attention to as many details as she could on her way to get food. She tried to remember as many details as she could. You had to be trained on the type of item association to recall so many details. But you got used to it. After being trained to do it, it became like people-watching—habit-forming. It was like a game. In fact they used to play memory games as training. She walked passed Central College, crossed the street and headed down Hanover toward George Square. She found a fast food place serving burgers and fries. She loaded up on calories. It was late but she needed as many as she could get. She finished eating and walked back to her student apartment checking if all details matched what she remembered.
•••
The lecture hall resembled the floor of Parliament. There was a back row with two sides facing each other. The difference was the set up was more natural. There weren’t straight rows. The rows curved. Its resemblance of Parliament was for the same reason. Parliament was designed to promote parlance. The room was in the business school but it was still meant to promote debate amongst certain topics. Georgia didn’t know what to expect. She didn’t even have her textbooks. The class began at 8:30am. She hadn’t had time to drop by the book exchange to get her books. Her books, like her registration, had been pre-ordered and paid for. For the moment, the only job she had was to sit in her chair and let Professor Owen Spice walk in. He was on time. He walked in at 8:28am with a long herringbone jacket and brown suit pants. The professor’s lectern was on the bottom level, while the seats for students were in raised rows. Georgia sat on the third of five rows by design. The third row was roughly eye-level with the tall professor. Sitting in the chair made her uncomfortable. It wasn’t work at all but there was so much work behind it. She had arrived early to make sure she could get a seat on the third row. She was advised that she would stand out most in the professor’s mind, if she were at the exact spot where he looked, every time he looked up. It wasn’t meant to help her grades but help her chances. It reminded her how many hands were at work on Step Down—so many against one. The professor went through role call in a matter of fact way. Georgia’s name was at the bottom, outside of alphabetical order. When the professor came to the name. There was an awkward pause. Even after three weeks, the professor was used to a certain length to his role call. One more name left him slightly out of sync. He was forced to look up when he said the name, Georgia Standing.
Georgia raised her hand at the name. It seemed the strategy worked. It gave her confidence not in herself but in the Agency. Georgia was three weeks newer than all other students. It was a gamble that paid off. No one else enrolled in Professor Spice’s class late or at the last minute. It forced him to look up and search for her. Raising her hand narrowed his search. He found her and stared at her long enough to catch the face but not long enough to be awkward. Professor Spice quickly regained his sync. He went back to his text. He didn’t take time to reintroduce himself for Georgia’s sake. He started things off. He began his lesson with a story. It was a story from his days as an MP. It was a story about insolvency. He said the company wouldn’t mind him telling the story because the company no longer existed. Its insolvency led to its bankruptcy. The professor showed good sportsmanship. He didn’t reveal the name of the company. The story was filled with British humor. Most of the students laughed. Georgia wasn’t in the laughing mood. But she was surprised at how much British h
umor she understood. She was raised by British parents but she wasn’t raised in Britain. Still, the cultures weren’t so dissimilar. After his story, the professor opened the floor to comments about what he said. He asked a few questions just going around the room. Then he turned to the reading. His manner was relaxed. He took volunteers, if no volunteer, then he selected a name from his role. He wasn’t big on the Socratic method. He was a traditional British lecturer. He liked to talk. Liza was right. He was good at it. Most students cared. Some didn’t. Most in the room sat with eyes fixed on the tall man waxing eloquently, almost poetically, about structuring a corporate bankruptcy. A few, a handful, were somewhat immune to his enviable voice and practiced speech pattern. They scribbled furiously into spiraled notebooks, trying to use shorthand where they could. They were given a pause and chance to reflect with the words, I’ll tell you another story. Professor Spice was prudent. He looked at his watch periodically to make sure he wasn’t too long-winded. It was the sharp training of an MP to be entertaining, while getting a point across. He focused only on the details that pertained to how a company could find itself insolvent and whether or not bankruptcy was a solution.
Everyone in the room, except the scribblers, could guess there was more to his stories. But he was artful. He tap-danced only on the high notes. The details weren’t everything but they were enough. The lecture lasted two and a quarter hours but the time went by like a good song on repeat. The listeners tried to hear everything, seemingly unable to get enough. After the class, Georgia made first contact. She was told that following up the initial surprise of having a new student in his class would help cement her image in his mind. She was reinforced by wearing a similar style as his wife wore, when they were still married; when he was still a Member of Parliament. But he didn’t notice her dress, not consciously. It was a blue floral dress, yellow flowers against blue background. It was still summer. Scottish summers weren’t the warmest. She threw a white crocheted sweater over top and covered her feet with brown knee-high boots. She wore a bra with no blouse. Her bra was white and contrasted her blue dress. The straps of her white bra competed with the straps of her dress for attention. Both could be seen through the gaps in her crocheted sweater. The boots with their elongated heals made her seem taller and more mature for her age. Every little bit helped because the reality was a full foot between Georgia’s eyeline and the professors. Even with high-heeled boots, she was forced to look up at his somewhat salty hair and somehow tanned skin. He wasn’t the Cary Grant that Georgia said she would do anything to be next to. But he wasn’t so far off. He wasn’t tanned for Virginia but he was tan for Glasgow. His eyes were soft and blue. His look was classy but he pulled it off modestly. Had he added a tie to his white shirt, it would have been too much. Georgia thought he looked like Cary Grant with a reversal of fortune. Instead of being orphaned in England and adopted by the United States, Professor Owen Spice seemed much like an American well-intended and not meaning to offend British sensibilities. He wasn’t so serious as would be a classic Englishman, but he wasn’t as laid back as Georgia, in her see-through sweater and wind-catching skirt. He portrayed that worldliness of all sensibilities. The only distinct feature that kept Georgia from indulging completely in her Cary Grant image was the eyes. They were blue not brown. But otherwise he looked a lot like the esteemed Mr. Grant. He was taller though, perhaps too tall to be a leading man. But Georgia made the remark in her head that leading men of Hollywood got shorter as filming technology got better. A man didn’t have to be tall. He could look tall. Professor Spice did both.