Blue with Black Dots (The Caprice Trilogy Book 2) (37 page)

              “Then all the others were murdered,” said Georgia, “I’m alive because I was last on the list.”  Simone nodded.

“Rule Number Three,” said Simone, “Never trust anyone, not even in small cases like a person-to-person swap.  My agency has never been infiltrated.  We have that as a reputation.  It’s my job to maintain my agency’s reputation.  Since we were the facilitators, I wasn’t about to have any damage done to our reputation especially during a simple person-to-person swap.  I ordered both men be sent for medical evaluation in separate hospitals in Paris.  Then we’d make the swap.  I didn’t want the Soviets to poison the mole so that he’d die shortly after they turned him over to the Americans or the Americans to put some sort of sophisticated micro-device on the mole so they could track where the Soviets took him or some other sneaky things.  As it turns out, the Americans didn’t put a tracking device on their mole before the hand over, the Soviets did.  Our doctors discovered a golf ball-like object surgically implanted in the armpit of the Soviet mole.  The problem was it couldn’t be removed without killing the man.  We found that out from the mole himself.  It was an experimental Soviet developed device.  It has to be kept at body temperature.  It can measure the tempature of the body constantly.  If your body temperature goes up because of fever or some illness it can adjust but if you open the skin and outside air rushes in or you put some sort of clamp on the device to pull it out, the temperature change on the device will be too sudden and it will explode.  It’s close enough to heart and lungs that it would be difficult to survive that explosion because it’s happening internally not externally.”

              “I didn’t know the Soviets had developed that kind of technology,” said Georgia.

              “Now, so many of us do,” said Simone, “The Americans probably have some similar technology, but Arthur Witt knew better than to reveal it and screw up a person-to-person swap that he himself needed.”

              “Where does that leave me?” asked Georgia.

              “That’s what we’re here to figure out,” said Simone, “After we discovered the tracker inside the Soviet mole, I told the Soviet agents to leave France.  But obviously Witt couldn’t take custody of his Soviet mole with a tracking device imbedded in him.”

              “What happened to the Soviet mole?” asked Georgia.

              “He had no choice but to remain on French soil,” said Simone, “So like any stray he needed someone to take him in.  We were the only candidate.”  Georgia looked around the room.

              “I kept him until I found a use for him,” said Simone.

              “What use?” asked Georgia.

              “To help me collect you,” said Simone, “When you came to Paris.”  Simone looked intently at Georgia.

              “You sent me the package in Paris,” said Georgia, “With the message to go to Le Havre.”

              “We had to get you out of Paris,” said Simone, “We tried to get to you before he did.”

              “Who?” asked Georgia.

              “Your colleague from
Full House
,” said Simone, “The one who was spying for the Soviets.  He was the gun that killed your other colleagues and Witt wanted him to kill you before brokering another deal with the Soviets.  Then he was supposed to disappear by defecting to Moscow.  They would both get what they wanted.  And
Full House
would be over like Witt planned from the beginning.”

              “And you don’t know who he is?” asked Georgia. 

              “Never met him,” said Simone, “Never saw him.”

              “Why not?” asked Georgia.

              “Do you know who I am
petite fille
?” said Simone.

              “You said I would never know your real name,” said Georgia.

              “That’s true but my name is not who I am,” said Simone, “I am
Le Poq
.”  Georgia gave Simone a radical look.

              “The rooster?” said Georgia.

              “You are new to this game,” said Simone, “For that reason, I am forgiving. 
Le Poq
is the
nom de guerre
, given to the director of the
DST
—
La Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire
, the FBI of France.  Roosters are territorial and the Gallic Rooster is a symbol of France.  Our organization monitors all domestic security and threats to the French State.”

              “You’re the head of the
DST
?” said Georgia.

              “Roosters are male which makes my job that much easier,” said Simone, “I’m much safer because no one knows
Le Poq
is a woman at the moment.  I can eat at the best cafes in Paris, sit outside and have a cigarette with anyone I want and fear for nothing.  Most people think the Minister of the Interior appoints the head of the
DST
.  He appoints
the man
whom politicians can point to as the head of the
DST
, a political figurehead. But the actual administrator
has always been selected by his predecessor and it has always been done in secret.  Even the Minister and the
DST
figurehead don’t know who is
Le Poq
.  They don’t need to know.  We communicate through proxies.  We keep it that way because France cannot afford security breaches as much as America can.  And we’ve never had a breach.  I’m the administrator and the Minister doesn’t know I’m a woman.  You’d be surprised how many perks there are to being a woman on the job.  When I start yelling, no one’s ever ready for it.  I’m supposed to be soft…I’m not soft.”

“So you weren’t involve in the swap?” said Georgia.

              “I wasn’t there in person,” said Simone, “But I managed the whole thing from A-Z.  Being there would have made things easier now.  But
Le Poq
is never anywhere in person.”

              “So you don’t know what he looks like,” said Georgia.  Simone shook her head.

“What about the medical staff?” said Georgia.

              “One doctor, two nurses is what I ordered—no more,” said Simone, “And the faces of both moles were covered with a ski mask during their medical examination.  Witt made sure of that and we made sure of that. We did dental, eyes, X-rays, blood, everything but each man was wearing a ski mask during the entire evaluation.”

              “Then how would each side identify their mole,” asked Georgia.

              “That would be up to them,” said Simone, “There’s typically a series of questions or if they know what the mole looks like.  But we didn’t need to know as the facilitator.  That’s why the masks were required.  Like I said, I protect the reputation of the
DST
.  That’s how we get things done in France, by our reputation.  Like Champagne, only we make Champagne.  It has to come from the Champagne region, right here in France.  If it’s made anywhere else, it’s just bubbly.  My priority was to facilitate the swap so that it would be executed perfectly.  I wasn’t trying to discover any other details about the transaction, accidentally or purposefully.  We didn’t need to know what the men looked like or who they were.  So I made sure no one knew.  There was also the matter of safety for the medical staff at the hospitals.  If an employee saw the face of the man, that alone could make him an enemy of a foreign state.  They would target him and we’d have to protect him.  We didn’t want or need anything extra, from a swap between the CIA and KGB.”

              “So you know it was one of the four boys,” said Georgia, “But you don’ t know which one.”

              “I’m sorry,” said Simone, “But it’s different when you’re a small country like France.  The Americans can foul up royally, like the Bay of Pigs.  They can do that and still be a player in this game.  But for us, if we’re going to get people to trust us, work with us and risk their lives for us, they have to be able to rely on our impeccable reputation.  The CIA, the KGB are seen as having vast resources.  Our resource is a lack of fuck ups.  In fact, the CIA has provided French agencies with a lot of business because we can convince an asset that we’ll handle everything correctly.  The Bay of Pigs was a disaster because the CIA wouldn’t listen to Cubans who knew Cuba.  We can point to that and say
we don’t do that
.  We listen and we’re successful.

Chapter Twelve    Successful

              “Where do I fit in?” asked Georgia.

              “Time for dessert,” said Simone.

              “OK,” said Georgia, “But where do I fit in?”

              “And girl talk,” said Simone.

              “We can’t do it here,” said Georgia, “Too many men around.”

              “I agree,” said Simone, “I think the veranda would be the most suitable.”  Simone got up from her chair and turned around lifting a large white envelope from the sideboard behind her. 

•••

              The veranda was clearly not part of the original house.  The stone bricks had been added on later.  A long hand-carved wood table stood on top of the stone floor.  The table was well made but unpolished, like Simone.  It resembled a giant cutting board more than a table.  Chairs for the table were only on one side against the wall facing outward, overlooking a different part of the property.  The vineyard was visible through a large rectangle formed as an open window left by the stonemason.  A potted jasmine plant sat in the open space, partially obstructing the view through the opening. 

              “
Le Poq
,” said Georgia.  Simone started to laugh like she did at the dinner table.  While she was laughing two of her retainers came to the veranda.  One was Guillame carrying the wine.  The other was Marc carrying a porcelain cake plate with chocolate-crusted cassata cake on top.  Marc set the porcelain plates and dessert forks neatly on top.  He kept the cake knife in his hand and looked at Georgia.

              “Big or small,” asked Marc.

              “Small,” said Georgia.

              “Big,” said Simone.  Cedric came out of the door with fresh wine glasses.  He asked both women if they cared for a coffee.  Simone assured Georgia she didn’t want to miss Cedric’s cappuccino.  She didn’t.  Marc pulled Simone’s golden cigarette lighter and matching case out of his pocket and handed it to Simone.  Simone promptly lit her first cigarette in hours.  She flicked her hand as if trying to clear the oncoming smoke.  As the three men retreated back inside, Georgia realized Simone was sending them away not clearing smoke.  But she still wanted to clear the air.

              “
Le Poq
,” said Simone,”Do you want to know how I became
Le Poq
?”

              “From the sound of your voice I think we both want to know,” said Georgia.  Simone laughed again.  Either she was on a roll or Georgia was.

              “I do want to know,” said Simone, “
A woman
. 
A Jew
. 
A Pied-Noir
.  And I’m
Le Poq
.  I actually fooled the bastards.  They think I know how to handle this shit.  Let that be Rule Number Four, Agent Georgia Standing.  You never know how to handle anything.  That’s the secret to the spy game.  You’ve got to put that cocky confidence aside and realize you never know how to handle anything.  Being
Le Poq
doesn’t mean I know how to handle anything; it only means it’s my job to handle things.  And that is why I’m more successful than my male predecessors.  They always had this idea that being
Le Poq
meant that they were know-it-alls and because they were know-it-alls they got the job.  It took a lot of luck to get this job and it takes even more to keep it.  When you realize that, you’re careful.  Being careful is not a recipe for success but it helps.”  Simone took a slow drag off her high-class cigarette. 

              “It couldn’t have been all luck,” said Georgia.

              “If you consider being caught in a war luck, then I was lucky as hell,” said Simone, “I was studying nursing in the French Women’s University of Algiers.  It’s not there anymore.  In fact, Albert Camus went to the University of Algiers.  Just not the Women’s School.”

              “You joined the French effort during the war,” said Georgia, “That’s how you went from nursing to intelligence.”  Simone took a drag from her cigarette and smiled at Georgia as she exhaled the smoke. 

              “I was still a student at the time of
Toussaint Sanglant
, the Bloody Saint’s Day,” said Simone, “A Muslim group, many of whom had served in the French Army during the Second World War, had grievances against their lack of representation in the French Algerian assembly.  They made up most of the population but they only had half the amount of representatives in the assembly.  As if the French Revolution taught us nothing about feelings of under-representation, we saw another revolution for ourselves.  I suppose every generation wants its own revolution.  It was actually my last year of studies when the war broke out.  The Bloody Saint’s Day was in November. I was to graduate in June of ’55.  The FLN was formed during the bombings on that day,
Le Front de Libération Nationale
.  They were organized splinter groups but after the bombings they had no choice but to become unified.  There were many attacks all over Algeria.  But civilians weren’t really targeted.  The bombings were at night against official stations, military stations.  It was retaliation against France not really its people.  In fact, I remember reading the newspapers without any real idea a war had started.  Shootings, bombings these sorts of things happen almost everyday somewhere in the world.  But these are also the things that start wars, you never really know.  I figured it would lead to the French government giving more autonomy to French North Africa.  There were many Algerian Muslims who wanted Algeria to stay in French hands and many Europeans were living there back then, Black Foots.  But they closed our university.  When fighting started they didn’t want us girls in the crosshairs, but as long as you’re living where there’s a war you’re in the crosshairs.  I found myself feeling useless without being able to finish my studies.  So I got a job at a bank, a Sephardi bank, in a mostly Sephardi community.  I was Sephardi so they hired me.” 

“After almost six years in Algeria, I spoke decent Kabyle so I could talk to those who didn’t speak French.  It worked but I realized one thing about working in a bank, can you guess?”  Simone looked at Georgia.

              “You saw a lot of transactions,” said Georgia, “A lot of money change hands.”

              “Exactly,” said Simone, “Our bank had a reputation that was excellent.  So many people did business with us—Berbers, Jews, Catholics, people from all places.  That’s when I learned about having a good reputation and protecting it, same as I do now as
Le Poq
.  Forget money, reputation is the best currency in the world.  I had access to so much information it was incredible.”

              “You started to trade that information,” said Georgia, “That’s how you got in the spy game.”

              “You may be too smart for your own good, Agent Georgia Standing,” said Simone.

              “But why did you start trading information about the bank’s business,” said Georgia, “It could’ve cost you your job.”

              “Have you ever heard of the Café Wars?” asked Simone.

              “I haven’t,” said Georgia.

              “Bloody Saints Day was symbolic,” said Simone, “November 1
st
is the Catholic All-Saints day so the groups that formed the FLN chose that day specifically.  They then became united in a common cause against France but they weren’t the only group.  Another group called the
Mouvement National Algérian
was a guerrilla group that clashed with the FNL.  It was a mob war, like you saw in America during Prohibition.  People were being gunned down in public.  There were bombings at restaurants, public places.  The membership of the FNL and MNA were hard to determine like any sort of mafia.  But when they found members it was usually in public, so that’s where they targeted each other.  Thousands of civilian people were killed in restaurants and cafes, that’s why it was called Café Wars.  My mother wasn’t in a cafe; she was with friends at a shisha parlour.”  Simone went silent for a moment.  Georgia let the moment stay silent.

              “I felt like ending something,” said Simone, “A life, the war, the Café Wars, it didn’t matter.  When you feel powerless, you’d do anything to feel powerful.  So I started trading information from the bank with French military intelligence agents.  The Sephardic community generally sympathized with the French government but as there were so many flourishing businesses, many business owners refused to take sides officially.  They just wanted to stay open for business.  The same was true of the bank owners.  They wanted to be neutral.  And I suppose that brings us to Rule Number Five, Agent Georgia Standing.  During any conflict, those who stay neutral are always the best facilitators.  Facilitators are great for information.  Just look at the Swiss.  If you want information about how much was stolen from Jews by Nazis during the Second World War, don’t ask a German.  Ask a Swiss.  They were the bankers.  Bankers make great facilitators.  My bank was financing a lot of business ventures at this time.  The thing about banks is they always get as much information as possible from their customers, including addresses.  I just gave information about some of our larger business loans to French military intelligence.  Not a lot but some of those businesses were fronts for financing the FNL.”

              “Were you found out?” asked Georgia.

              “I was never found out,” said Simone, “But I was rewarded.  I moved back to France in 1960 at the behest of the gentlemen who was my contact at military intelligence.  They gave me a job at the
DST
.  That’s how I was able to research about my father’s friends.  Why they stayed rich and my father was killed.  Then I did what I’d been doing in Algeria.  I used their secrets against them.  And that’s why we sit here in my father’s house, Agent Georgia Standing.”  Simone took the time to light another cigarette.  Something seemed to change in her.  It was clear to Georgia that she didn’t tell the story to everyone.  She took one of her expensive cigarettes and handed it to Georgia.  She even passed her gold-plated lighter to Georgia.  Georgia lit the cigarette without hesitation and passed it back.  The cigarettes were a twist.  They shared wine.  They shared goose.  They hadn’t touched the cassata cake.  But cigarettes were addictive and Simone was an obvious addict.  Georgia knew something else was coming; Simone wanted to get an early start on the cigarettes.  It seemed she was getting a late start on telling the story she really wanted to tell.  Her buzz from the wine was wearing off.  She needed a new fix.

              Georgia sat quietly.  She let Simone sip her cigarette alone, inhale and exhale.  She would ash her cigarette while Simone took her drag.  When Simone was done, Georgia took her turn.  They smoked together, just not at the same time.  It was Georgia’s way of paying her respects to
Le Poq
.  They were similar but not on the same level.  But that wasn’t the point.

              “I need your help,” said Simone.  She let the question sit next to them as they smoked.  They finished their cigarettes at about the same time.  Simone offered a refresher to Georgia before she took one for herself.  Georgia lit her cigarette and Simone leaned in to get a light.  Simone didn’t say anything.  Georgia felt like Simone was waiting for permission to continue.

              “You’ve made a mistake,” said Georgia.

              “Two,” said Simone, “Depending on how you look at it.”

              “Can we start in order?” said Georgia.

              “We have to,” said Simone, “We have to go back to 1946 when I was in Tahiti, thirty years ago—before you were born.  I told you I got island fever.  I was putting it mildly.  I went crazy.  I would be gone for days at a time.  My mother called the police to come looking for me three times.  Maybe it was four times.  She was always worried something would happen to me.  Papeete was a bit more dangerous for a French girl than for a Tahitian.”

              “Where did you go?” asked Georgia.

              “Where the boys were,” said Simone, “Where the fun was.  That’s when I started smoking.  I learned to ride motorcycles because I had boyfriends that had them.  We’d hangout by the waterfront.  We went camping, took the boat to Moorea and camped out on the beach with friends.  I suppose Freud would say I needed a male figure out of some latent sexual obsession with my father.  But my sexual obsession wasn’t with my father. It was with the Polynesian boys.  But that strategy backfired.  To be honest, I didn’t have a strategy.  I just wanted to be cool.  I was young and I was stupid.  I wanted to be that girl who always had the coolest boyfriend, but the coolest guy changed from week-to-week, so I changed with the times as a manner of speaking.  When I got pregnant, I honestly wasn’t sure who the father was.  And you know what happens when that happens, you’re called a whore and no one wants anything to do with you.  I went to the one guy who I had been with the longest and he just said I was a French whore and he knew I had slept with two guys he knew.  They had bragged about it.  I told him I thought the baby was his but he just called me a French whore and his family denied anything happened between us.  So there I was, I wasn’t even sixteen yet and I was already pregnant.  I switched schools from Papeete to Paea, but Tahiti isn’t all that big an island.  People knew my story.  In Paea, they just whispered more and talked less.  After my pregnancy, things changed for me.  My attitude changed.”