Blue with Black Dots (The Caprice Trilogy Book 2)

by Cole Reid

  “D’accord,” said Simone, “Bienvenue ma fille. But the one thing I need you to do is focus.”

  “To focus on what?” said Georgia.

  “The sound of my voice,” said Simone, “I can’t counsel your ego. I need it out of the way.” Georgia nodded her head.

  “I’m on board,” said Georgia, “You’re the captain of the ship. Where the ship goes I go. C’est simple.” It’s simple.

  “C’est simple,” said Simone. Simone took a fork to her wedge of cassata cake. Georgia didn’t. Simone ate as Georgia watched her. Simone kissed the tips of her right hand before opening her fingers.

  “Magnifique,” said Simone. Georgia understood the message. Try the cake. She ate more slowly than Simone. She chewed slowly as well. She had never tried cassata cake before. It wasn’t as sweet as it looked. It was more than half chocolate, even the aftertaste. The cassata was mysterious and well travelled. It had the kind of flavor that said it was original. It wasn’t a family recipe, at least not entirely. It had been resized to fit a new generation. It tasted of cinnamon and ginger, which left Georgia’s mouth tickled. The recipe spoke of a long accented history. Georgia realized the reason Simone saved the conversation for the cassata cake. It was hers, another way of revealing herself. Her retainers had prepared the goose. They were under orders. Simone herself had done the dessert, a labor of love. The cassata reflected her freedom to choose, the reason why the cake tasted so vibrant, so young. She had only gained freedom recently, when she became Le Poq. As Le Poq, she set the objectives—baked the cakes.

  “What do you think?” asked Simone.

  “It’s spicy,” said Georgia. Simone laughed, her original laugh. The one that meant she was enjoying herself.

  “I spice most things,” said Simone, “You probably do too.”

  “I’m in no position to deny that,” said Georgia.

  “True,” said Simone, “Do you like it?”

  “I like it because it’s different,” said Georgia.

  “It is different,” said Simone, “That’s also true with the way we do things in France.”

  “You spy, we spy, how is it so different?” asked Georgia.

  “We don’t wholesale,” said Simone, “We can’t reach that kind of scale we never will. We don’t even try. That’s why I say we pick up after the Americans. Some of the deals we go after, your agency overlooks by definition. There’s a point in spending your budget. A smaller budget means smaller targets.”

  “What type of targets?” said Georgia.

  “Say a truck driver in Nikolsk, working at a mine,” said Simone.

  “What’s Nikolsk?” asked Georgia.

  “A mining town in Kazakhstan,” said Simone, “Let’s say that truck driver tells you one day he’s given time off because his truck is being used by someone else. And he sees his truck traveling south along with other trucks. We know and he knows only the Communist Party of Kazakhstan could have the entire mining operation redirect the usage of its equipment, so it must be something of serious importance to the state—in a state-planned economy.”

  “Was it?” asked Georgia.

  “C’etait merveilleux,” said Simone, “Toutament merveilleux.” It was marvelous, totally marvelous.

  “What was it?” asked Georgia.

  “The Cosmodrome,” said Simone, “The Soviet Space City. They were keeping it a secret to keep the Americans out. We didn’t ask your agency if they knew anything. We stayed online with that part of the world by tapping on the back door. The KGB knows the Americans are targeting Soviet politicians and military officials. They pay attention to the politicians who have access to information sensitive enough for the Americans to go after. But a truck driver, that’s a different pitch for playing. And the benefit for us is our tactics get overlooked. Your agency is trying to pull intel off the umpire at Wimbledon. We talk to the janitor at the practice hall, blocks away. And the difference is the cameras aren’t rolling. No one is paying attention to what we do, like a janitor. If we pay the day worker a few extra dollars a month, it inflates the bubble of his salary by a large margin. But no one realizes it because no one recognizes what it looks like when a truck driver or a janitor is making a bit of extra money. But a politician, he puts a fur on his wife and a more expensive one on his mistress to keep her mouth shut. Or he gets his mistress an apartment so he can standardize their relationship and see her more freely. To be honest I don’t know what a truck driver does with a bit of extra money. Eat more meat I suppose.”

  “Drink more beer,” said Georgia, “Vodka probably, it’s the Eastern Bloc.” Simone gave another laugh, a quick one. She had all but finished her cake. Georgia was only halfway done.

  “I want to show you something,” said Simone, “I want you to understand the magnitude of what I’m dealing with.”

  “Is there time for me to finish my cassata?” asked Georgia.

  “Of course,” said Simone, “You should not let the best cake outside Paris get wasted.” Georgia didn’t hurry to finish; it wasn’t befitting. She had time. Georgia finished her cake giving herself time to savor the bitter chocolate but the spice challenged the bitterness. Simone gave Georgia time for all flavors to hit their mark.

  “Come with me,” said Simone. Georgia followed Simone out the side entrance to the dining room. There was a stairway directly in front of them but instead of going in the direction of the stairway, Simone went left down the dark hallway. There was a light switch but Simone walked passed it. Simone knew the hallway. Georgia didn’t. She tried to stay close to Simone who didn’t make any movement toward the light switch. The hallway was long, but walking in the relative darkness made it seem longer and disorienting. Despite the dark, Georgia could feel the slope. The floor was gently moving them downward. She could hear the sound of Simone’s shoes against the sloping floor. With more darkness, she had to follow the sound before long. There was a handrail on the right side. Georgia could tell by the sound of a hand scraping against the rail. Something changed when the hallway ended. There was a rheostat control. Georgia could tell by the ever-increasing light, not in the hallway but from the silhouette of a half-round door. An archaic iron door pull was attached to the door. Georgia could make out the shape in the slices of light coming from the other side of the door. Simone used two hands to pull open the heavy door. The light flew into the hallway. Georgia closed her eyes before the photons tore through her iris. When she was ready, she opened her eyes. Simone had already passed through the door and ventured out of sight. Georgia stepped through the door finding herself in a red brick tunnel. It was a wine cellar without wine. The space had been converted. They were standing in an antechamber. Georgia saw a new door had been installed—a glass door. A fogged glass wall had been cut to fit the round shape of the tunnel. A single door was cut in the middle to allow access to the room on the other side. Simone walked straight toward the door without explaining anything. She opened the glass door letting it stay open. She walked into the next room slowly as if she were trying to be silent. The door was left open allowing Georgia to follow Simone in.

  From inside, Georgia could see what the wine cellar had become, a hospital. The room was long enough to accommodate a surgery room and an examination room. There was also a hospital bed. The bed wasn’t empty.

  “The doctor says he’ll need a bit of convalescence but he will live,” said Simone, “Whether he’ll return to form, well that’s more psychological.” Georgia walked toward the bed to see a face that played with her. The face was lined with a breathing tube and pale. But she recognized him. It was the man from the train to Le Havre, the one who boarded at Rouen—the one she noticed. He made Georgia suspicious enough to assemble her gun. There was something out of place about him. Now, he looked harmless.

  “He was shot in the chest three times, they removed part of his left lung,” said Simone, “It was very torn. The force of the bullets knocked him down and he sustained further injuries. Broken wrist from how he landed. His h
ead had a big impact with the concrete when he fell down. He came as close to death as it gets in this business without a legitimate funeral.”

  “The man in the hospital,” said Georgia, “I thought it was Hagan. It was a decoy?”

  “Do we leave our people behind?” said Simone, “There was no one in the hospital. It was a play to the press. He was found near the train station in Le Havre. That we let the reporters chew on, but you don’t think I could afford to put him in a normal hospital? Like I explained before, we are small; we can’t afford damage to our reputation. Likewise, we can’t afford to give an assassin a second try at our people. He’s working for us now. If the assassin failed once, that means he failed. We won’t give him a second try.”

  “Who is this man?” asked Georgia.

  “He is the one I told you about,” said Simone, “The Soviet agent who was apart of the swap with Director Witt. We had to take him in and give him work.”

  “What work did you find for a blown Russian mole?” asked Georgia, “Especially one of Arthur Witt’s?”

  “I sent him to Le Havre to talk to you,” said Simone, “He was supposed to bring you in before your whoever fellow agent murdered you. As much as we know you are the last one.”

  “But why would you send him?” asked Georgia.

  “Who else would you have believed on short notice?” asked Simone, “He’s a Soviet déclassé. I told you a story about Arthur Witt and that he’s a traitor to your agency and has killed your fellow agents and is trying to kill you to cover stolen funds projects of his that should not have existed. Then I tell you he launched Project Full House as a clever way to cover his illegal projects with a legal one and that you were marked for death from the moment you were chosen for Full House. All the brutal training and sleep-deprived lessons were to make Full House seem absolutely legitimate when in reality you were a pawn being played with elaborate efficiency. Would you have believed me when I asked you to help me find a way to deal with Arthur Witt for mutual benefit?”

  “What reason would I have to believe him?” asked Georgia.

  “If anything,” said Simone, “He could show you his golf ball.”

  “Which is under his armpit,” said Georgia.

  “Yes,” said Simone, “And it protrudes in a small way. You can feel it’s there.”

  “You sent him to bring me in,” said Georgia, “You think that would’ve worked.”

  “It was delicate,” said Simone, “I know you carry a Browning 1955. And with your training, I didn’t want any of my people to get shot, so I sent someone I didn’t have much use for. It was delicate. I couldn’t have you shoot one of my people and if you ran back to Arthur Witt he’d shoot you. But the real question is who shot him?” Simone turned her eyes to look at the man lying in the bed.

  “How did the shooter know he was in Le Havre?” asked Georgia.

  “How did he know?” said Simone, “We believe he was following you. Who set you up with your flat in Paris?”

  “Director Witt,” said Georgia, “But it was a common flat. The Agency uses it when it needs it.”

  “And Arthur Witt needed it,” said Simone, “Because he needed to know where you were at all times.”

  “Then why wouldn’t he have me killed there?” asked Georgia.

  “A CIA operative killed in a CIA flat?” said Simone, “Do you think that’s the kind of attention Arthur Witt is trying to attract? Think for yourself Agent Georgia Standing. Full House had the sole purpose to hide Arthur Witt’s side projects funded with stolen CIA money. If there were a murder in a CIA flat, the CIA would have gone through it with a microscope. There’s a difference when a project is sanctioned or unsanctioned. Full House was sanctioned but if you were found as a bloody mess on the floor of a CIA flat in Paris, then you’re no longer an asset to the CIA neither is the flat. The Agency would have wanted to know how that happened. An investigation into Full House could have lead back to Witt’s other dealings. He wouldn’t have done it that way. It’s the reason he had you followed.”

  “I didn’t feel followed,” said Georgia.

  “That’s because the shooter kept a distance,” said Simone, “You would recognize him. They had to get you in a place with fewer eyes. There are too many spies in Paris, CIA or otherwise. They wanted to get rid of you and make it clean. But the shooter found another target.”

  “Him?” said Georgia.

  “Your shooter decided to make it a two for one trip,” said Simone, “He knew the identity of the other mole and there’s only one person who could have given him that information.”

  “Arthur Witt,” said Georgia.

  “I sent him to Le Havre to keep you alive,” said Simone, “He did. But not in a way he or I expected.”

  “Those bullets were meant for me,” said Georgia.

  “You’ve known the man,” said Simone, “Now you know his signature.”

  “Him?” said Georgia looking at the man in the bed.

  “No,” said Simone, “Arthur Witt.”

  “The shooter would have gotten you,” said Simone, “But he was diverted, distracted.”

  “I left Le Havre the same day,” said Georgia.

  “That decision likely spared you several bullets,” said Simone, “Most likely.” Georgia did something unique to human beings. She reflected on her own mortality. Realizing how close to death she had come, made her realize her youth guaranteed nothing. She could live a long life if she wanted to, if she stayed many moves ahead. But she wasn’t guaranteed the next several decades because she was young and healthy. She had to stay healthy, which meant staying alive.

  “You and I didn’t end up in a hospital bed,” said Simone, “But we are also victims. This is what I mean for you to see.”

  “See what?” said Georgia.

  “The body count,” said Simone.

  “Which is?” said Georgia. Simone pointed to Georgia then pointed to the man lying in the hospital bed, before pointing to herself.

  “One, two, three,” said Simone, “Three vicitms, all the result of Director Arthur Witt’s activity. This is what I want you to understand before I tell you what we have to do, what we’re going to do.”

  “I’m a victim because Witt sent someone to kill me,” said Georgia, “He’s a victim because Witt did almost kill him. But how are you a victim Simone Gagnon?”

  “You only have bullets to fear,” said Simone, “I fear the barrel.”

  “What barrel is that?” asked Georgia.

  “The barrel I’m over,” said Simone, “The barrel Witt has below me while he’s holding me prostrate by one leg. He has my son, my secret. Le Poq can’t be over a barrel. Le Poq can’t be blackmailed. Whether the barrel of a gun or the barrel of blackmail, we are three being threatened. And France herself is threatened if I am so compromised. I woudn’t have facilitated the swap between KGB and CIA, except for Witt’s blackmail.”

  “Wouldn’t it make sense to quit?” said Georgia.

  “I told you Le Poq chooses his successor,” said Simone, “I haven’t found mine yet. Besides there’s a better way, if I can get you to see it my way.”

  “And your proposal?” said Georgia, “You want to kill him.”

  “Not like you think,” said Simone, “I want to render him powerless, make him as good as dead. Then we can kill him or he may even do the deal himself. When I’m done with him he won’t have much reason to continue forward with the path he’s on.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Georgia.

  “Because Witt is not the only one who does his homework,” said Simone, “He spied on me—made me spy on him. He found out about my past and I looked into his. And found that he’s a pretty boy. Prettier than you and I combined. He’s had a charmed life, very charmed.”

  “And what does that mean to you?” asked Georgia.

  “It’s what it means to us,” said Simone.

  “What does it mean to us?” asked Georgia.

  “It means he’s a cat,” said S
imone, “And we have the string. He’s like my father’s friends. They were used to the good life, always. They had it from the beginning. They lacked imagination to what they would do with an enemy like the Nazis. Imagine if all the enemies you’ve had in your life had less means than you. Imagine if you only knew fighting from the high ground. You would think you know fighting. You would think you know how to measure out your attack against your enemies. That’s the way it is in France. The upper class always goes to the best schools and ends up with the best position, companies and government. There are some who try to rise up the ranks in parliament, but they are only allowed to go so far up. Some aren’t allowed to go up at all. It all depends on what these kids want to allow. And they are just kids. Their lifestyle doesn’t allow for maturing. Over the years and over so many thoughts, I blamed immaturity for my father’s betrayal. His friends just never understood friendship. It’s a very mature concept. Spoiled kids grown into spoiled adults cannot fully understand deep concepts. Their minds don’t have the recesses. Everything is sunny on the surface. There is such a thing as true friendship and true loyalty but it will always be lost on them or they will be lost to it. They break character easily, like they did with my father. And that’s why they betrayed him to the Nazis. They broke character. They were all friends but my father was the only Jew. They didn’t know how to deal with an enemy as powerful as the Nazis. So they broke all character. They were no longer the upper class holding the keys, standing at the gates of access. They were the ones trying to climb the ladder. To climb you have to be lean. You can’t carry too much weight, so they dropped my father into the hands of the Nazis. That was all they could understand to do. That was the value of their friendship, as they understood it.”