Blue with Black Dots (The Caprice Trilogy Book 2) (10 page)

Chapter Four    Gone for Good

Driving Route 17 was smooth Americana driving.  Phone poles and fields lined both sides of the highway.  White farmhouses reminded Georgia that she was still where people called home.  She grew up on such landscapes in Virginia, wide-open spaces.  The early afternoon sun hit the blue sky from a side angle.  It made the sky overhead a slightly darker blue.  It was exactly the kind of day Georgia needed, with the exact kind of driving.  Route 17 was steady moving.  It was a natural comfort.  The weather and lack of heavy traffic kept Georgia from thinking about how nice it would be to have some one to talk to.  She drove for a little more than an hour toward Norfolk, crossing the state line at 3:03pm.  It was about another thirty-minute drive from there to the outskirts of Norfolk.  She spent the remaining time in her car, in her own quiet dignity. 

The address listed on Georgia’s call sheet was at a mid-sized three-story building in Green Brier.  It was a cryptic building, dark brick and dark windows.  It didn’t necessarily reek of government.  It resembled a building for a small architectural or engineering firm.  But one thing was clear.  The staffers inside worked with proprietary information.  The lack of company sign and black windows broke the building’s poker-faced façade.  The parking lot wasn’t large.  But there were many spots and not so many cars.  Georgia parked in the forward-most spot that was open.  She took her spade-stapled folder with her as she left her
Apollo
in the sun.  She walked toward the front door of the building.  The double glass doors were the only glass in the building that wasn’t tinted on the outside.  There was a reception desk after the door.  A middle-aged security guard sat behind the desk.  Georgia approached the desk and looked down at the guard.  She noticed something about the guard that made him stand out from others she had seen.  He was not only uniformed, he was armed. 

“Can I help you ma’am?” said the guard.

“I have an appointment,” said Georgia, “6:30.”

“Name?” said the guard.

“Georgia Standing,” said Georgia.  The security guard handled a stack of green and white lined dot matrix print paper.  He used a ruler to scan the printed lines on the paper.

“Standing,” said the guard, “Second floor, Room 215.  Get off the elevator to your right, third door on the left side of the hall. 

“Thank you,” said Georgia.  She went towards the elevators, which were directly in front of her.  There was only one elevator.  All that was needed for a smaller building.  She took the elevator to the second floor.  When she came on to the second floor, she faced right.  Room 215 was exactly where the security guard said it would be.  Georgia didn’t know what to do.  It was 4:04pm.  She was early.  She didn’t know whether to knock or to try the door handle.  She thought about coming back closer to her call time but she had nowhere else to go.  She thought about finding a diner somewhere to sip coffee and read a magazine, maybe have a wedge of pie.  But she didn’t want diners.  And there was something else, somewhere inside her was a desire to not be alone.  It was enough for one day.  She knocked on the door three times.  The first two were quick.  The last was slower, undecided.  She waited for the door to open.  Nothing happened.  She knocked again and waited.

“Slide your call sheet under the door,” came a voice from the other side of the door.  Georgia took her call sheet out of the envelope and slid it under the door.  There was nothing else.  The voice didn’t give her any other instructions.  She didn’t have options so she stood in front of the door.  It frustrated her that whoever was on the opposite side of the door knew she had no choice but to wait.  There were no chairs in the hallway.  She stood in front of the door.  She wanted to knock but her presence was already on record; it was the do-nothing frustration that was getting to her.  She waited for three and a half minutes.  It felt like five or six.  

The door opened, making it worth the wait.  A tall young-looking man opened the door.  Something stuck in Georgia’s throat and her heart skipped one beat then two.  It was awkward that she was suddenly so close to the man whose voice came from the other side of the door.  He wore his brown hair short, business-like and his eyes were like hers.  He had on black suit pants and a black tie against a white shirt.  Georgia imagined his suit jacket was flung over a chair in the office somewhere.  It was.

“Come in please,” said the man, “Sorry to keep you waiting.  We had to enter everything and get your file up.  We weren’t expecting you so early.  Thought you might want to say your goodbyes.  How is Yvette?”  The question wasn’t welcome.  He was a stranger asking about a friend.  She didn’t wonder how he knew.  He worked for the Agency.  He knew more than he should about her.  But why would he ask?  She thought about it and before she thought twice, she knew.

              “It wasn’t the best of times to see her go,” said Georgia, “She became like a sister to me.”

              “I can imagine,” said the man, “And what about Hagan?  Did you see him off okay?”

              “He left before Tanis,” said Georgia.

              “What about Shane?” said the man, “When did he leave?”

              “We didn’t have a Shane,” said Georgia.

“Indeed you didn’t,” said the man, “But you do now.”  The man stuck his right hand out.  Georgia shook it.

              “I’m Shane Dunn,” said the man, “I’ll be one of your line contacts.  Come meet the other one.”  Shane stepped further inside the room to make space for Georgia to enter.  The room was simple with fluorescent panels and ceiling tiles.  A picture of President Gerald Ford standing with arms folded in front of an American flag was on the far wall.  The horizontal blinds were shut over the already tinted windows.  The room was medium-sized, with two desks facing each other.  A computer terminal sat at each desk along with a telephone.  Shane’s chair was empty.  A mid-fifties woman sat at the opposite desk.  A wide file cabinet stood against the far wall behind the woman.  A large world map hung on the wall above the file cabinet.

The woman spoke with a British accent.  It caught Georgia by surprise, partly because she was so used to it.  It was her mother’s accent.

“My name is Liza Rowe,” said the woman

“Georgia Standing,” said Georgia.

“Are you familiar with the name Owen Spice?” asked Liza.

“Sounds familiar,” said Georgia, “Who is he?”

“Who he is, is less the subject as who he was,” said Liza, “He used to be an MP from Kent, representative of the constituency of Tunbridge Wells, member of the Conservative Party.  He worked with the now non-existent ministry of the Secretary of State for Commonwealth Affairs.  There were only two Secretaries to hold this position because the position lasted all of two years.  The irony is that the most significant thing the Secretary did was something that wasn’t made public.  The Secretary was responsible for negotiating with several Commonwealth countries to take refugees from Vietnam between 1967 and ’68.  But these weren’t just ordinary refugees.  They were former members of the People’s Army of Vietnam who had escaped with their families to Malaysia by way of Cambodia and Thailand.  They sought asylum in Malaysia rather than return to be executed by the North Vietnamese.  The Secretary flew to Malaysia with a few staff members and an MP, Mr. Owen Spice.  A meeting was held in Putrajaya about what to do with these escapees as they were high-valued personnel along with their families.  There were nine former North Vietnamese cavalry officers and two pilots along with their families.  It was realized that these personnels would be desired targets for assassination or kidnapping due to their specific knowledge of the military and political structure of the North Vietnamese.  The meeting was convened to decide how they should best be protected.  The idea was to scatter them.  The result of the meeting was to decide to disperse the families to different places within the Commonwealth of Nations.  Australia and New Zealand were the main priority.  We believe some were also sent to Papua New Guinea, the last place anyone would ever think to look.  And we have some information that suggests one family might have ended up in South Africa and a few in Canada.  We won’t know until we get what we’re going for.”

“What?” asked Georgia.

“Shane,” said Liza.

“Well,” said Shane, “I’m the one who built the profile on Owen Spice.  Mr. Spice was born in the town of Kent October 13, 1931.  As a politician, he claimed that he always wished he had had the opportunity to serve in World War II but he was, of course, too young.  He did well on his A Levels and studied history at the University of Leeds, did post-graduate work on the history of Mesopotamia and the British Empire’s influence on Mid-Eastern Trade.  Began working in parliamentary offices as a researcher for MP Calvin Maxwell.  He got promoted to manager of staff, did that for two years then ran for parliament in ’62 using his parents address in Kent, to claim Tunbridge Wells.  He’s a tall good-looking sort, of classic English mannerism.  It, as you can imagine, helped his political career.  He left parliament in ’71, which is why the name of the operation is
Step Down
.  But he still gets calls for advice on parliamentary affairs.  He’s currently working as a professor of government and business at Strathclyde University in Glasgow.”

“If he’s a former MP,” said Georgia, “Why is he lecturing business?”

“He sits on the board of a company called
Veridix
,” said Shane, “The name is a play on the Latin word for the color green.  It’s a Northern Irish company that leases farming equipment and sells feedstock in northern Europe, primarily in the UK and Benelux countries.”

“That still begs the question what he knows about farming and feedstocks,” said Georgia, “Kent isn’t a farming community, no?”

“No,” said Liza, “But he knows quite a bit about farming tax rules and prices of corn and feedstocks, as well as farming regulations in the UK.”

“How so?” asked Georgia.

“He’s a Conservative Party member from Kent, which is your classic idealized conservative English town,” said Liza, “He was politically savvy during his almost nine years as an MP.  He avoided serving in any areas of government that would be seen as clashing with his conservative base.  He stayed away from committees dealing with armaments or the British Armed Forces.  Nothing on social topics, abortions, queer movements, radicalism, he didn’t touch any of it.  He served on agricultural committees.  Subsides, government stockpiles to prevent prices shocks, it was all farm based business.”

“That’s actually quite clever,” said Georgia.

“It is,” said Shane, “In fact, I found the most controversial thing he worked on while serving as an MP was a study he and some staff members did on the effects of a European free-trade market on the British agricultural sector.”

“He plays to the crowd it seems,” said Georgia.

              “He absolutely does,” said Liza, “And he’s a fantastic speaker.  We’ve seen and heard a few hours of tape of him speaking, anything we could get our hands on.  His dialectic is gorgeous, gorgeous.”

“Don’t mind her,” said Shane, “She’s developed a crush on the man over so many months.  I’ll albeit she would exchange places with you, if such a thing were on the drawing table.”

“Now Georgia,” said Liza, “Listen to me, I’m not a supplanter and I’ve never been a man-stealer.  I wouldn’t do anything like that.  But it isn’t written anywhere that we can’t double-team the man.”  Shane put his hands over his ears.

“What’s wrong with you?” said Liza, “Coverin’ your ears like a kid.  If you have sensitive ears you shouldn’t be doing intelligence work.”

“No,” said Shane, “Just never thought I’d hear a woman old enough to be my mother talk like that.”

“Well,” said Liza, “I’m not his mother now am I, Georgia?”

“I don’t believe so,” said Georgia.

“See that,” said Liza, “And there you have it.”

“Could I see a picture of this charming gentleman, Mr. Owen Spice?” said Georgia.

“Oh yes Dear,” said Liza, “But I’m gonna need it back.  My reasons are professional not personal.  You can’t walk out with that in hand.”  Liza opened a manila file folder on her desk and passed a head shot of Mr. Owen Spice.

“I can tell he’s tall,” said Georgia.