Blue with Black Dots (The Caprice Trilogy Book 2)

by Cole Reid

  “Put both your arms straight up above your head,” said Georgia, “Roll on your back slowly or I’ll shoot you sure as shit.”

  “I’m not armed,” said the man sliding his hands over the grass above his head.

  “I threw away my gun to avoid suspicion,” said the man, “Isn’t that how we were trained to do?” The man began to slowly roll to his left. When he landed on his back, she could see how dark his face was. His complexion was the same as Simone’s. Georgia squinted to go over his face. It was a slow recognition, partly because his head was clean-shaven, not with a shaver, with a razor. And his skin was darker than any of the boys had been. He was unrecognizable from afar, almost unrecognizable from close. Georgia swallowed.

  “Gigi, please don’t point that thing at me,” he said, “You know I’m not armed. I discarded my weapon. You know that.” Georgia put her head down and stared at his feet.

  “Where were you going, Alan?” asked Georgia.

  “I parked my car about a click down the road,” said Alan.

  “You went through the adjacent property and came up through the vineyard,” said Georgia.

  “Wouldn’t you?” said Alan.

  “You killed all the others, is what I’m told,” said Georgia, “Is that true?”

  “Yeah,” said Alan, “Yvette was first. I’m sorry, Gigi. That was the reason why Witt didn’t want us to know where everyone else was going. So he could keep us apart and then use Paris as the target destination to bring everyone, one-by-one.”

  “He called Yvette and told her you went missing in Paris,” said Georgia, “Because you were both the suit of Hearts, she was responsible for investigating your disappeareance. When she came to Paris looking for you, you killed her.”

  “I said I’m sorry, Gigi,” said Alan.

  “If you were sorry, you wouldn’t have done it,” said Georgia, “The King of Hearts.”

  “Everything was out of my control,” said Alan, “I was supposed to tie everything up and go to Moscow. If it makes a difference, I picked you for last.”

  “Why?” asked Georgia.

  “I liked you,” said Alan, “I told Witt I wanted you for last. It was easier that way, for me.”

  “Did you shoot Simone?” asked Georgia.

  “Yes,” said Alan, “I’m pretty sure she’s dead. Four shots, three shots to the face and neck. Point blank.”

  “Why?” asked Georgia, “She had nothing to do with you.”

  “That wasn’t for me,” said Alan, “That was for the Soviets. They wanted everything tied up. They knew Witt wouldn’t say anything about the transaction. He was supposed to tell the Agency we were all missing in the field. The bodies were supposed to start turning up. He was going to blame a KGB wet works team and get more funding to go after them, a phantom that he could secure so much money to chase and never catch. No one was supposed to care to look into his other funding gaps. The left over money from Full House wasn’t going to be enough to fill the gaps from the money he took. It would just be enough to survive a preliminary inquiry. That’s why he wanted carte blanche to go after this whatever KGB wetworks team, black money to fill the black hole.”

  “How much money did Witt steal?” asked Georgia.

  “What difference would it make?” asked Alan.

  “I want to know how much our lives were worth to him,” said Georgia.

  “I don’t know how much,” said Alan, “But he’s been at work at the Agency for a long time. And he took little by little over years. So I’m guessing it adds up to the king’s ransom,” said Alan.

  “So the Soviets wanted Simone dead to cover all tracks,” said Georgia.

  “She knew about the swap,” said Alan, “Me for Witt’s mole. So the Soviets didn’t want anyone to know that they had a mole and that they made a deal to swap. So they had me kill the mole and her before they would let me go to Moscow.”

  “Only that you didn’t kill him,” said Georgia.

  “Are you lying?” said Alan, “I’ve been lying to the Agency for the past three years, passing reviews. Witt was the only one who figured out I was giving stock to the Soviets.”

  “Ok,” said Georgia, “So I won’t lie to you. He’s alive. He’s inside. You shot him but he lived. You’re a better liar than you are a shot.”

  “Maybe,” said Alan, “I guess that was a possibility. They have a tracker on him that they track by satellite. It’s like Sputnik. It just sends off a signal from a radio antenna. That’s why it’s in his armpit. It has to be close to the surface of the skin for the antenna. But the Soviets thought Simone collected his body and took out the tracker.”

  “Why?” asked Georgia.

  “Because it hasn’t moved,” said Alan.

  “What’s the pick-up range on the transponder?” asked Georgia.

  “A little less than 250 meters, on the ground from space,” said Alan.

  “That’s your problem,” said Georgia, “He hasn’t moved that much since. He was in a coma and he’s been here at the house since he woke up. So it reads like he’s in one spot, even though he’s been moving around. But that’s how you found Simone isn’t it?”

  “We knew she had the tracker,” said Alan, “And it didn’t move. We figured we’d follow the tracker and we’d find her.”

  “If you apologize for her, I’ll shoot you in the balls and watch you suffer,” said Georgia, “We’re so remote you won’t be heard screaming. Fucking just own it. She deserves more than an apology, so does Yvette and Tanis and Diane and the boys. You killed them. It’s what you meant, so just own up to it.”

  “Ok,” said Alan, “I’ll own it. I should have stuck to the objective.”

  “What objective?” asked Georgia.

  “You,” said Alan.

  “How’s that?” asked Georgia.

  “I was on the same train as you to Le Havre,” said Alan, “Travelling second class. You were in first class.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Georgia.

  “I was at the train station in Paris,” said Alan, “I watched you board the train to Le Havre. I was like this, shaved head and tanned. You weren’t expecting me. You wouldn’t have recognized me. I was three cars back. I got out at each stop to make sure you didn’t get off the train. But I saw the Soviet mole in Gare du Havre. The Soviets gave me his briefing file. I had already seen several photographs of him. I didn’t know where he boarded the train but I knew where you were staying in Paris. I figured I could take him in Le Havre and take you when you were back in Paris. Why do you think Witt set you up with a flat? So we’d know where you were.”

  “You were working for both Witt and the Soviets, but why though?” asked Georgia, “Your family’s rich. Why would you spy for the Soviets then escape to Moscow?”

  “Because it’s nothing like the Hamptons,” said Alan, “And The Life is nothing like you think. You don’t come from money. You don’t know what it makes.”

  “What does it make?” asked Georgia.

  “Hypocrites,” said Alan, “You know my father, Mr. Robert Forsythe, is the most respected asshole you’ll ever meet. Since I was a kid, he’s banged more whores than I could hope to and I’m still young. I caught him naked with two women in a Jacuzzi when I came back from playing soccer with some kids down the street and he says to me, close the door to the patio. That’s all he said to me. And my mom has stayed with him for fear of losing her place in society. I’d rather be in a classless society than see rich people do what they want because they’re rich. You know the stereotype of the Harlem dope fiend. I’ve seen more dope and cocaine consumed on a Fourth of July party at my dad’s house than a hood from Harlem could get his hands on. I’ve seen people overdose and have the ambulance called and then no one files a report because this person is a prominent lawyer from Midtown and that’s bad for business. I know of pedophiles that walk free and enjoy life because money bends justice. And it somehow makes people forget what they know and their social responsibility. Rosseau said we giv
e up freedom for protection in a society. He never predicted the extremes of capitalist, like today. You wanna know what it really means to have money? It means being as dirty as you want because you always have the means to clean up yourself and your mess.”

  “And you would kill us all because your family is rich and fucked up?” said Georgia.

  “Your society is fucked up,” said Alan, “You’re just a part of it and so is my family. The Agency protects the interest of a bunch of corrupt motherfuckers. You think you work for the good guys, Gigi. You work for the capitalist pigs, who have the money to look good. In America, looking good and being good, plays like the same thing. It’s not.”

  “And look where it’s got you,” said Georgia, “Lying in a ditch in the middle of France. You’ve been shot but it should feel good. You’ve clearly made all the right choices.”

  “It’s not so bad, Gigi,” said Alan, “At least I get a nice view of you. You’re special, Gigi. Don’t ever let anyone tell you different.”

  “I won’t,” said Georgia. She squeezed slow on the trigger and sent a sharp round through Alan’s forehead. She grabbed his left arm and leg and dragged him as far from the road as she could. She contorted Alan’s body, putting one arm bent up above his head and one folded over his chest. She took his right leg and pushed it upward and bent it at the knee. She took his left leg and dragged it away from his body and folded it inward. To hide a body, it had to look unlike a human body. She contorted his position so his body looked awkward, inhuman. She pulled his shirt over his face and pulled all tall grass from the surroundings to cover his body as best she could.

  Georgia had one shot left but much to do. She was tired and sore. Her shoulder ached and the backs of her thighs hurt from the hustle. She had her Browning in her pocket, safety on. She started a slow jog back to the property. She slowed down toward the fence and took her time and went through the gate. She was so tired she could see stars in her eyes but she kept up her steady jog. She jogged over the grass, not the gravel. She started to walk as she approached the garden. Out of respect for Simone, she didn’t want to trample any more flowers. From far back, the shadow of the house masked the fact that the front door was left wide open. With heavy breath, Georgia entered the house but didn’t shut the door. She found a hiding place for her Browning in the drawer of the mahogany console table in the entryway.

  “Gavril,” said Georgia, thinking her voice would signal an all-clear.

  “Cedric, aidez moi,” said Georgia. Help me. Georgia had used much of her energy to chase the intruder. She didn’t have much reserve air in her lungs for shouting. She rested her back against the console table and let her expanding lungs breathe inside air. She waited but no one came.

  “Cedric,” said Georgia. The house was silent. She didn’t know if they were inside or out. She wasn’t going looking. Instead, she went fishing. She moved away from the console table and grabbed her Browning laying in the drawer. The front door was still open. She aimed out toward the garden for the flowerbed. She fired one shot, trying not to hit a single flower. She figured the shot would send someone running. It did but not as soon as she expected. More than three minutes later, Cedric showed his head cradling a MAS-62. When Georgia told him to get his gun she didn’t know what she was asking of him. The MAS-62 was an automatic rifle manufactured by the French government. It was a decade old, but it was more than would be expected in a countryside chateau. Georgia looked at Cedric. He lowered his rifle.

  “Madame est morte,” said Cedric. Madam is dead.

  “So is her killer,” said Georgia.

  “Where?” asked Cedric.

  “By the road,” said Georgia.

  “You shot him?” said Cedric. Georgia nodded.

  “Four times,” said Georgia.

  “That’s as many times as Madam,” said Cedric.

  “I know,” said Georgia, “I counted.” Georgia paused, there was a silent mourning.

  “I need your help,” said Georgia.

  “With what?” asked Cedric.

  “The body,” said Georgia, “We can’t leave it there. It’s not far.”

  “Wait,” said Cedric.

  “For what?” asked Georgia.

  “For nightfall,” said Cedric, “We can’t risk being seen loading a dead body in a car. We can’t have that association with the house. Our anonymity is our shield. You know that.”

  “And the gunfire?” said Georgia.

  “Let them think we were shooting at rabbits in the vineyard,” said Cedric, “You hear shots in this area, from time to time. Some people have a license for hunting rifles.”

  “I hid the body,” said Georgia, “It was the best I could do.”

  “Very good,” said Cedric, “Do you want to see her?”

  “Let me ask you,” said Georgia, “Do I want to see her?”

  “Briefly,” said Cedric, “It will give you a sense of an ending, a sense of closure.”

  “You talk like you’ve done this many times,” said Georgia.

  “I was a Legionnaire,” said Cedric, “I have done this many times.” Georgia looked at Cedric and walked to the end of the entrance hallway and into the den. She went through the den and saw Gavril standing in the doorway leading to the living room.

  “Are you ok?” asked Georgia.

  “No,” said Gavril. That was all he said. Georgia didn’t want an argument. She left him alone and opened the door that lead out to the table where she sat with Simone on more than one occasion. Instead of coffee cups, wine glasses or plates of cassata cake, Simone’s lifeless body lay on the table. Cedric had lifted her body onto the table and folded her arms across her chest. Georgia took two steps closer but no more. Georgia could see hard bits of blood matted in Simone’s dark hair. It looked like dirt. From a distance back, Georgia could see Simone’s face. It looked contorted, not so much lifeless. Her face looked like she was making a very animated grimace, which is why it didn’t look like Simone. Simone had no expressions. She didn’t communicate with facial movements but she moved mountains with the words she chose to let fly. Georgia thought about how careful Simone was, how smart she was. She crafted so much and made it look so effortless. Georgia took in the sight, noticing one more thing, half of Simone’s neck looked black. It was all Georgia needed to see.

  Georgia went back inside through the den. Gavril was gone. She could hear footsteps coming from the living room toward her. She turned around expecting to see Gavril. Cedric came through the doorway. Instead of cradling his rifle, he was cradling a stack of bound books and a binder. He walked into the den and sat the stack down on the little used card table in the far right corner.

  “I have called Guillame,” said Cedric, “He’s coming with Marc to help. They are coming from Lyon. It will take some hours.”

  “Ok,” said Georgia.

  “These are all for you,” said Cedric, putting his hand on the stack of books and papers.

  “What is that?” asked Georgia.

  “Complicated,” said Cedric. He took an envelope, wedged between two of the books, and handed it to Georgia. Cedric closed the curtain and locked the door leading outside to the veranda. He walked toward the living room but didn’t enter. He closed the door to the living room and then walked across the den to the door leading to the entrance hall, before he closed the door he looked back at Georgia.

  “Prenez votre temps…Madame,” said Cedric. Take you time, Madam. The envelope wasn’t a normal kind. It was higher quality, label-print paper. Georgia thought about it and was reminded that Chateau Constance was a working vineyard. She enjoyed the wine the first time from bottles without printed labels. But they couldn’t sell unlabelled wine. The paper had to come from the labels printed on the wine bottles. Georgia didn’t know if it was on the house grounds or somewhere else. But she looked at the envelope and realized it had been completely folded, seam-by-seam. As she felt the paper, her fingers rubbed against something hard and dry on the back of the envelope, prompting her
to turn it over. She saw her finger was pressed against a red wax seal. Stamped into the dried wax was the emblem of a morning rooster. Georgia broke the seal and opened the envelope. There was a two-page letter inside, written on parchment paper.

  Hello Agent Georgia Standing,

  You’re reading this because we are at a crossroads and yet we are at it again, playing this game of ours. It is said to be the second oldest profession in the world, which means it has been going a long time. Because of that, we know it will continue. These games are never at an end, even when we are. My sincerest apologies that I am coming to you as a fiction, scribbles on a page meant to say to you what I would, if I could. And I can’t, so I have to settle for this, as our last conversation. It will be very one-sided but then they always were. Weren’t they? That’s the mechanism of a profound education, a love of letters, a wanting for words. I told you before that I was beginning to like you, that was true. I said it was dangerous, that was more true. Let’s get passed the obvious and get to the truth. I’m dead. It’s true but what is also true is that my death has profound consequences. And though dead, I still have this idea and this feeling about you.