Blue with Black Dots (The Caprice Trilogy Book 2) (13 page)

Chapter Five    Girl Talk

The Agency hadn’t bothered to look up any of Owen Spice’s former relationships.  They left a man in charge of building the profile on Owen Spice, leaving Georgia to do the real work.  None of Spice’s exes would share intimate details about him with Shane Dunn, but they might have with a woman.  Even a one-night stand would have held some cheap crayons to add color to the Agency’s black-and-white picture of Owen Spice.  But the Agency didn’t think like that.  She knew everything about what kind of man he was but nothing about what kind of male.  It bothered her, mostly because she wasn’t at liberty to cut things off.  The relationship had to be maintained indefinitely.  She had to recover the document first.  It was her first assignment and she wanted to make a good impression.  She had to find that document.  There was no opining on or thinking about.  She lied in bed awake and thinking about Professor Owen Spice.  She thought it would be very nice to know how he was as a lover.  She would be given a file on everything she had already been told.  But his political record was past tense.  What good would it do?  Was he an Alpha?  Was he aggressive with the women in his life?  There hadn’t been so many.  What did that mean?  Was he gay?  His marriage had been for political appearances, to a certain extent.  Was he gentle?  Did he not have so many women in his life because there already was one?  Was it his mother?  Or did he have enough feminine psyche to live without a feminine touch for long periods.  Was his masculine energy balanced by a strong feminine side?  It was entirely possible.  It was how he mapped the landscape of his political career, like a married couple putting on a good appearance for the public.  He was like a husband who talked so well with his wife when others were watching and a woman who didn’t overtly flirt with other men while her husband was around.  It was a united front that didn’t betray itself in public.  Private was a different matter.  Georgia began to think that Owen Spice was that type. 
The rare type
. 
The balanced type
.  Equal parts masculine and feminine, not overly aggressive but firm.  Every so often there were men and women who came like that, perfectly perforated down the center—half and half. 

It made Georgia curious, very curious.  Because she was the same.  Her body was feminine, from any angle.  Her official inflection points according to her Agency profile were 38D-28-36, at five-feet and six-inches tall.  But internally she wasn’t consistent.  She had no ovaries; no uterus.  She had child-bearing hips but they were an empty promise.  Her breasts were big but to feed missing children.  She had chosen at the age of seventeen not to live with the phantom pains of no reproductive organs.  It was different than missing limbs.  The world treated her as able-bodied, not handicapped.  She realized that was the stereotype, so she played it up.  She was able-bodied, but even more so.  She didn’t ovulate, didn’t bleed and her hormones didn’t fluctuate.  It gave her an inner stillness that would always be there, a masculine-like center—nothing moved.  No child would ever grown insider her, it was all still.  She got used to it.  It was how she withstood Yvette’s initial disdain of her.  She remained still.  She couldn’t be sure but she felt it was the same way with Owen Spice.  He seemed to move toward stillness.  He hadn’t had a political career designed to foster a legacy.  The idea of a legacy was an emotional one, choosing to act memorably over rationally.  He did what he thought would appease his constituents.  It wasn’t cowardice; that was an emotion.  It was representation, a principle.  Georgia thought about Owen Spice as she tried to stop herself, there was no stopping it.  But the phone in the cottage rang.  It was 5:02am.  Georgia easily found the receiver in the dark.

“Hello,” said Georgia.

“That was quick for this time of morning,” said the voice on the other end, “I’m guessing you were already awake.”

“I was,” said Georgia, “Well your application is in and we’ve reviewed it.  We’d like to schedule an interview with you today at our offices in London.  We’ll take lunch together.  How does that sound?”

“Just what I was hoping to hear,” said Georgia, “Where are your offices located?”

“Our offices are in City of London,” said the voice, “Let me give you the address.”  Georgia wrote down the address and meeting time.  She decided it was time to get up.  Breakfast was the same as dinner, an egg sandwich, protein, carbs and fat—fuel to burn.  Coffee substituted for tea.  She went to the main office to ask the easiest way to get from Dorking to Central London.  She made it by rail.  A train left every half hour from Dorking to Central London.  The voice on the phone told her 12:30pm.  She arrived in the city at 10:38am.  She had two hours to kill.  She passed a cinema with the idea that she could see a film.  If the film ran too long she could leave early.  She decided it better to find the building before deciding on how to kill time. 

The building was off Newgate St., nearest St. Paul’s underground station.  It contrasted the Romanesque buildings in the area.  It was perfect geometry, no arches or reliefs, all modern brick and glass.  Confident, Georgia walked away to find something to do.  There was a bookshop around the corner from Paternoster Square.  Georgia went in.  She browsed but she didn’t buy.  At 12:02pm, she headed back toward the building off Newgate St., with directions to head to the third floor.  She took the stairs, not the elevator.  Stairs were less problematic.  The third floor had a large foyer where the elevator would have let her out.  As a consequence, the office space was reduced.  There were two sides, east and west.  The west side door was made of solid wood.  The east side door was wood with glass panel.  The panel had etching spelling out
Conactive Partners, Ltd
.  The design was so standard looking for a financial services company, it made Georgia wonder if the entire firm was a CIA veneer or just Mark Miller. 

The office had an electronic communicator on the outside.  Georgia buzzed.  A female voice greeted her with the company name and line.  Georgia gave her name, her real name, and her 12:30pm appointment with Mr. Mark Miller.  The woman took a moment to check the details before buzzing Georgia through.  There was no one on the other side of the door.  Georgia could hear the heels of a woman’s shoes approaching from the right.  The woman rounded the corner and came toward Georgia.  She was tall.  She shook Georgia’s hand, introducing herself as Phyllis.  Phyllis led Georgia around the corner to the third office on the left, in the corner.  She knocked on the already open door.

“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.”