by Cole Reid
“In France, we don’t serve our guests water,” said Simone, “We serve our guests wine.” Simone led Georgia through wide den and through an open door. The floor in the den was composed of thin wood panels. There had been a recent renovation. If the floor were as old as the chateau itself, it would have creaked more. Even though Georgia was beginning to enjoy her stay, she knew her duty. She tried to collect as much information as possible, including remembering every detail of Simone’s story.
As they passed through the doorway, it was the smell that came into view first. There was a long dining table fully set for two. A place had been set at opposite ends of the oblong table. The table itself was made of a wood that Georgia didn’t recognize immediately. The wood was as dark as the three bottles of wine that sat in the middle of the table. The wine had been recanted into reusable glass bottles with fastener caps. Georgia guessed why.
“This is merlot from our own vineyard,” said Simone, “I wanted you to see the grapes before trying the wine. It was Papa’s custom.”
“It’s always a treat to enjoy private label,” said Georgia. The comment didn’t escape. Simone took it to heart and was impressed. Georgia realized the wine was poured into empty bottles so she wouldn’t notice the label. If she memorized the label, she could research the vineyard and the history of the chateau and Simone herself. But the wine was served with no label. It was a merlot grown somewhere in the Loire Valley. Simone gave Georgia enough details to be genuine but not enough to do any damage to Simone herself. Even the location was non-specific. Simone admitted they were somewhere in the Loire Valley but that didn’t do much. The official definition of the Loire Valley was open to some historical debate, but the Loire Valley occupied more than 250 kilometers of central France. To be somewhere in the Loire Valley was to be somewhere in the Loire Valley. The walk in the vineyard didn’t shine any light on the location. The surrounding area was just hills, there were no street signs to speak of, just a pink gravel road leading around the property from the other side of the house. Georgia began to think Simone had purposefully kept her dehydrated. It kept her from running. Running in the heat would have dehydrated her even more. Georgia even thought about the name, Chateau Constance. She knew it was difficult to legally change the name of an historic chateau in France. In all likelihood, the original name of the chateau hadn’t changed. Chateau Constance was what Simone liked to call it. A lot of the tension that formed in Georgia’s shoulders from being shackled to the chair was starting to release. She realized one thing that was literally life or death. If Simone was hiding so much information, it was because she intended to keep Georgia alive, even if Georgia refused her proposal.
“Sit where you like,” said Simone, “We’re being waited on by men. Fine wine and fine men to wait on you. There’s nothing more challenging not to enjoy.” Seeing that there were only two places set for eating, Georgia assumed she would share Simone’s company alone.
“Guillame,” said Simone, “Le vin.” The wine. Another one of Simone’s stocky retainers emerged from the kitchen. He was empty-handed. He came from behind Georgia and went straight for the bottles of merlot. He opened the bottle on the left and headed for Georgia. Guillame filled her glass halfway and left it to breathe. He walked the distance of the long table and filled Simone’s glass. Before Guillame finished his pour, Georgia felt a slow-moving current behind her. She looked over her left shoulder to see Cedric and the third retainer carrying a silver platter, so big it took two large men and their patience to carry it. On top of the platter was a goose. The goose was nicely brown and clearly had been roasting for some time. The goose was so large it meant to impress. Georgia didn’t know how long she’d be staying. But given the size of the goose, she knew what would be on the menu for days to come. Guillame retreated to the kitchen and came back with a platter of sliced Brie. Pour Madamoiselle was all he said as he waived the cheese in front of Georgia. Georgia grabbed enough slices for the amount of wine in her glass. Guillame took the platter and displayed it to Simone. Simone took half the cheese that Georgia left. Georgia took another look at her hostess, her stained skin reminded Georgia of Simone’s Iberian roots. Georgia noticed Simone’s glass was more full than her own. Their server had topped Simone off. As Georgia stared at Simone sipping wine and sucking down cheese, she understood Simone’s indulgence. She was taking back stolen years. Georgia thought she understood what motivated Simone. She was trying to reattach her birthright, acting like a blue-blooded French kid, what she used to be. Guillame and the remaining retainer, whom he called Marc, carved the goose. They were nothing if not polite. They served Georgia first, asking her how much she wanted. She asked for two slices. Cedric, who was the runner, came back from the kitchen with a large crystal bowl of plum gravy with pieces of pear floating on top. Cedric asked Georgia if she wanted her gravy on the side or on top of her goose. She chose the side. Simone wanted gravy on top. Bon appétit. And Simone began cutting and chewing at an uncomfortable pace—uncomfortable for Georgia. Simone seemed at home. She was. Simone ate in a way that she wouldn’t have, if her father had lived—if she had stayed and France had always been home. Nothing about the way she ate was proper. It was uncouth but evolved. She knew it and she didn’t care.
She slurped her wine to get enough of a wave to wash down the large chunks of goose she was unabashed about putting in her mouth. Georgia thought about the woman. She lived in a beautiful house in a beautiful part of France. She dined on roasted goose and drank merlot, independent label. But she was a thug. She had Georgia tied to a chair with medieval shackles. She was already in control but had to shackle Georgia to drive home the point. She had well-muscled men running around doing double duty as enforcers and servers. Chateau Constance almost had the feel of a brothel, not a bed and breakfast. Georgia didn’t know if it was supposed to make her feel a certain way but the only thing she felt was curiosity. Her hostess was comfortable with herself, with her loss and her gain. That was unusual. Georgia couldn’t remember meeting someone so steady at equilibrium, especially given her life circumstance. Most people Georgia had ever met had felt they lost too much and gained too little. Simone sipped and chewed in large amounts but equal proportions. No matter what she gained, compared to what she lost, she felt it was equal. Judging by what she had lost, Georgia guessed Simone was a very powerful person. It explained why she seemed so comfortable in her own skin.
“Guillame,” said Simone, “Le vin.” Guillame came from the kitchen and grabbed the open bottle of merlot. He showed the bottle to Georgia who requested a little more wine. He then went to Simone’s side of the table and emptied the bottle in her recently empty glass. Simone told him to bring the platter of cheese to her. The platter sat in the middle of the table with all the cheese that was left. Guillame brought the platter to Simone who took most of what was left. She ordered Guillame to carry the rest to Georgia then go to the kitchen to slice more Brie.
Simone put a piece of cheese on her tongue then drank a quarter of the wine in her glass with one gulp. She smacked as she finished off the piece of cheese in her mouth. She took another gulp of wine.
“Do you know where you are?” asked Simone.
“Chateau Constance, the Loire Valley,” said Georgia, “France.” Simone laughed. She laughed so hard that she had to stop herself by taking another gulp of wine. As she finished swallowing the wine, she couldn’t help herself. She started laughing again, harder the second time. Perhaps out of respect for Georgia or to stop herself from laughing to death, she drank the rest of the wine in her glass. Georgia hadn’t even started on her second round. Simone seemed to detest an empty wine glass in her hand because as soon as she finished her wine…
“Guillame,” said Simone, “Le vin.” Guillame appeared from the kitchen and opened the second bottle or merlot. As customary, he motioned toward Georgia first. Georgia raised her glass to show him her glass was nearly full, then he turned to Simone and topped off her glass before setting the bottle back down and
proceeding back to the kitchen. Simone still chuckled as she sipped. Georgia wasn’t sure whether the laugh was all Simone or whether she was assisted by the merlot. Georgia was smarter than to interrupt Simone’s riot. She left that for Simone to do on her own.
“France,” said Simone, “Oui, we are in France. But my question was a little different. I asked you if you knew where you were.”
“You’re saying I’m not here,” said Georgia.
“I’m saying we are here,” said Simone, holding her wine glass out to the side so she could study Georgia, “You’re in a situation all your own.”
“How’s that?” asked Georgia.
“How is that?” said Simone, taking another gulp of wine, making a slurping noise as it went down.
“Project Full House,” said Simone, “Are you aware it was Arthur Witt’s pet project?”
“You mean Deputy Director Arthur Witt,” said Georgia, “Yes, I am aware it’s his project.”
“Deputy Director,” said Simone, chuckling while gulping more wine, “You revere that man?”
“I respect his position,” said Georgia.
“Once again, that wasn’t my question,” said Simone, taking more wine, “Your agency has taught you well how to dodge questions or ignore them.” Georgia noticed an increasing hostility in Simone. Her motherly instinct seemed overcome by her own personal hardships. Georgia thought she only let it out on people who knew her story, giving them a way of forgiving her.
“Pay very close to my question once again petite fille,” said Simone, “Do you revere Arthur Witt?” Little girl.
“Yes,” said Georgia “I do.” There was more laughter from Simone. It was longer and harder than before. She sat her wine glass down on the table but didn’t take her hand off it. Her head bend down and her body shook as the laugh flowed. She brought her head back up and Georgia could see the redness in her brown complexion. She stopped laughing long enough to bring her wine glass to her mouth. For Simone, the wine functioned as an anti-giggling agent. She could stop herself from laughing long enough to drink. But Georgia remembered her British manners.
“I’m sorry but I don’t see the joke,” said Georgia, “I said I revere the man. That’s it. You’re acting like I said I want to have his babies. Now, that would be funny and I would understand it. He’s sixty-plus years old. But you spoke of your father in the vineyard. Wasn’t that reverence in your voice?” Simone’s face went straight. She spoke without sipping wine.
“You don’t know anything about my father,” said Simone.
“I know what you told me,” said Georgia.
“You don’t know anything about my father,” said Simone.
“Only what you told me,” said Georgia.
“You’re not afraid of me are you, Georgia?” said Simone.
“If you’re going to kill me then get on with it,” said Georgia.
“That wasn’t my question,” said Simone.
“I don’t care,” said Georgia. Simone paused. Her eyes scanned Georgia up and down, like a piece of meat or glass of wine. Ironically, Simone had gone over a minute without her wine glass touching her lips. Her taste for wine turned suddenly into a taste for Georgia. Her eyes looked at Georgia hungrily.
“You’ve got what I had at your age,” said Simone.
“What?” asked Georgia.
“Fight and l’esprit,” said Simone, “I’m sorry but the English word for l’esprit escapes me at the moment. Must be the wine.”
“Wit,” said Georgia.
“What?” said Simone.
“The English word for l’esprit,” said Georgia, “It’s wit.”
“You’re good,” said, Simone taking her first sip of wine in over a minute, “I’m afraid I’m beginning to like you, Agent Georgia Standing. That’s dangerous.”
“Am I in danger?” asked Georgia.
“Oh, you’ve been in danger for a very long time,” said Simone, “But I wasn’t talking about danger for you. I was talking about danger for me.”
“How’s that?” asked Georgia.
“When I’m fond of someone that usually means harm will come their way,” said Simone, “And then I’ll go putting my fat ass in harm’s way trying to protect them. It’s a vice for me. Probably regret. I was fond of my father but couldn’t protect him. That’s why I did what I had to do to get back what was his.” Simone took another gulp of wine then a second to finish off the glass.
“Guillame,” said Simone, “Le vin.” Guillame came in and did his ritual, offering wine to Georgia first then topping off Simone. Georgia looked at her glass, seeing she hadn’t touch it since Guillame’s last trip to the table. She shook her head at Guillame who went and filled Simone’s glass. The wine was beginning to affect Simone. Georgia could see it in the slight slip of her eyes. It wasn’t so much like she was sleeping, more like she was gambling. Her eyes looked like they were working to work.
“You’re wrong,” said Georgia.
“I’m never wrong, Agent Georgia Standing,” said Simone. The word Agent was written the same in English and French. But Simone said it with a French pronunciation.
“Your ass isn’t so fat,” said Georgia. Then came that laugh. This time is was slightly drunken. Saliva flew from Simone’s mouth at the shear force of the laugh, as it came up from her gut. It was the kind of force that was difficult to control. She didn’t control it. She just waited for it to leave, almost two minutes after it came. Georgia couldn’t sit still for two minutes while Simone enjoyed herself. She joined Simone in laughter, as the second minute came around.
“A charmer I see,” said Simone, “Is that what the men like about you? Men are easy. It’s probably les pasteques. Your charm is probably lost on them, but not on me. Not on me. Don’t think Arthur Witt chose you just because of your exam scores. If he likes the look of you, he figures so will other men. But what puzzles me is why he would waste you on Full House.”
“Full House was an elite project,” said Georgia, “If you know about it, you know that much.”
“Full House was a bluff,” said Simone, “You asked me if I want to kill you—No, not me. It’s your revered Deputy Director Arthur Witt.” Georgia was hit by the statement. Her back collided with the back of the chair. Simone seemed a little too drunk for games that didn’t involve drinking.
“What do you mean?” asked Georgia.
“I notice you haven’t really touched your wine,” said Simone, “I was hoping to have you drunk before this part.”
“Before what?” asked Georgia.
“Before telling you what Full House was really for,” said Simone.
“What was it for?” asked Georgia.
“Take a sip of wine Georgia and I’ll tell you another story,” said Simone. Georgia took the requisite sip.
“Full House was one of the best bluffs I’ve seen in le jeux des espions. Full House was a very elaborate prisoner swap. Despite your business in London and despite any of your elaborate training and any of the other agents in the training program, Full House only had one purpose. And that one purpose was to hide an exchange between the CIA and KGB. The whole point of Full House was to hide that exchange and hide money stolen for unsanctioned projects. Unsanctioned projects run by your Deputy Director Arthur Witt.”
“Director Witt was stealing money?” said Georgia, “How do you know?”
“Because I was the facilitator of the exchange,” said Simone, “Witt’s job as counter-intelligence manager meant he was tasked with uncovering moles within the CIA. He found such a mole but didn’t act immediately, which is a crime in and of itself. He let the mole continue to feed secrets to the Soviets. He did it as insurance for his own buried agent. Witt was funding a Soviet intelligence agent with money he had illegally taken off the Agencys’ books. He has been stealing Agency money for years. Witt’s agent contacted him telling him the KGB was on to him. Witt didn’t want the KGB to try to negotiate with anyone else about this particular agent because it could be discovered
that the agent was being finance with stolen funds. So Witt called the KGB directly and used his Ace in the Hole. He told them about the CIA mole he had discovered but not reported. Then he set up a swap—His mole for theirs. That way he could cover himself. I know because the swap was to take place on neutral territory, here in France.”
“That doesn’t explain why Arthur Witt would want to kill me,” said Georgia.
“Just to destroy evidence,” said Simone, “Nothing personal.”
“What evidence do I have that needs to be destroyed?” asked Georgia.
“You potentially know the identity of the mole,” said Simone, “The one Witt is trying to exchange with the Soviets.”
“Who?” asked Georgia.
“I’m not sure but it was one of your colleagues in the Full House program,” said Simone, “One of the boys.”
“There were four boys,” said Georgia.
“And you can identify them,” said Simone.
“Why would that matter?” asked Georgia.