Blue with Black Dots (The Caprice Trilogy Book 2) (38 page)

              “Did you consider an abortion?” asked Georgia.

              “For all of five minutes but the risks were great,” said Simone, “It was 1946 in Tahiti, not exactly the safest place to have abortion surgery.  And my mother was afraid of the damage it could do to my body because I was so young.  It was actually the time in my life where I saw my mother be most like my father.  It was obvious she had learned from him.  I wanted to leave the island and go back to France.  I cried.  I was humiliated just about daily, constantly called a French whore.  But my mother thought like my father always had, long-term.  She told me I was the one to get pregnant at fifteen so I had to deal with the consequences.  She said I had to finish high school before we left Polynesia because it wouldn’t be suspicious for me to leave after graduating.  So October 22
nd
1946, I had my son and called him Joseph.  It was my mother who said we could keep his origins a secret when we left Polynesia and could say Joseph was my little brother and not my son.  Tahiti was on the other side of the world from France.  No one had to know Joseph was mine.  We raised him together.  Mama kept him during the day while I was at school, but when I came home he was entirely my responsibility.  I changed him.  I made his food and put him to bed.  I never knew I had a motivation to do such things.  I was like so many other girls my age. I wanted to be cool.  There is nothing cool about being sixteen with a small baby but there’s more to it than being cool.”

              “What happened to your son?” asked Simone.

              “I finish high school in ‘49 and my mother decided it was time to leave Polynesia,” said Simone, “At that time, so many Jews were moving to Israel.  It was a newly formed Jewish State at that time.  It literally got recognized the month before I graduated high school.  Joseph turned two a few months before that.  My mother spent a lot of time and money on long-distance phone calls back then.  She was calling Israel.  I only found out why when we discussed our move from Polynesia. 
Maman
had made arrangements with some relatives.  Some cousins of hers who were moving to Israel.”

              “What arrangements?” asked Georgia.

              “To take Joseph,” said Simone.

              “She decided that I was too young to have a child,” said Simone, “She told me when we moved back to France, we couldn’t get back into society, if I was thought of in such a way.  After the war, it was bad enough that we were Jews.  We would automatically be looked down upon.  She was getting near the bottom of the money that Papa had sent us away with and she hoped to return to France and get back our assets and our place in society.  Sometimes she was as stupid as my father was intelligent.  I told her we should move to Israel like so many other European Jews.  But she held on to this idea of us returning to French society.  That’s why she chose Algeria.  At that time, it was still part of France and it was close enough to France that she felt like she could start reconnecting some relationships by making visits.  She wasn’t so stupid to think we could just show up on French soil and be welcomed back with open arms.  Even she understood that such a thing would take time.  But that was her goal—for us to come back to this chateau, to drink wine, eat cheese and speak French, like they spoke French.  It’s how we lived when my father was alive and it’s how she saw us.  She had arranged with her cousins to take Joseph and raise him in Jewish tradition.  I had no choice but to protest, but I had lost a lot of my thunder after getting pregnant.  I lost that youthful rebellion.  To see how so many of my so-called friends had so quickly turned against me, made me realize it wasn’t just unique to Vichy France.  It happens everywhere.  At that time, my
Maman
was the only one I felt and knew would not turn her back on me.  And let that be Rule Number Six, Agent Georgia Standing, when your heart and mind are synchronized you obey.  So I did.  I said goodbye to my little son in
Anderson Airport
on the sixth of August 1949.  He boarded a plane with my mother for Israel and I flew to Algeria to start at university. 
Maman
stayed in Israel for six months to help Joseph adjust to new family and to have some of her cousins help her find contacts in Algeria who could set us up there.  So when
Maman
came, it was nice because she got us a flat in a Sephardi neighborhood.  I stayed on campus during the week and stayed at the flat with her on weekends.”

              “And how is it that I’m able to help you?” asked Georgia.  Simone pointed to the end of the long table.  A folded newspaper that had gone unnoticed had been left by one of Simone’s retainers.  Georgia leaned to reach the newspaper.  And unfolded it to see it was thirteen months old May 2
th
-7
th
1976.

              “Page four,” said Simone.  There was no picture on page four.  But the only article that had any relevance was from a speech made on Wednesday, May 5
th
1976 by a twenty-nine year-old Israeli parliament member in Brussels at NATO Headquarters.  Although Israel was not a member of the NATO alliance, the young politician was described as trying to make a name for himself in Israeli politics by expressing his support for NATO and being a staunch anti-communist.  His name was Daniel J. Biram.  Mr. Biram was given high praise for his speech and compared to great orators of the past.

“Daniel J. Biram,” said Simone, “What do you think the J is for?”  Georgia turned her head to the left and looked seriously at Simone.

              “Joseph,” said Georgia.

              “Apparently my mother’s cousins didn’t like the name,” said Simone, “So they change his name to Daniel Joseph.  Biram is their family name.  I suppose that makes him more theirs than mine.”  Simone picked up the white envelope she brought from the dining room and had been trying to conceal.  She handed the envelope to Georgia.  It had already been opened.  Georgia put her hand in the envelope and pulled out eight photos.  The photos were strange. Georgia noticed immediately.  The photos had been taken on duplitized film stock but weren’t converted to color.  Instead, the photos were left black and white without removing the yellow dye.  The result was the pictures were black and white with yellow toning.  But the images were clear.  The first few images were of an elderly looking woman from a profile view.  She had on reading glasses and pulled back graying hair.  She had no wrinkles around her eyes or mouth.  The second photo showed the elderly woman turning her head.  Her face pointed almost directly at the lens.  Georgia could see the woman more acutely.  She recognized the woman but couldn’t make out from where.  Her mind worked fast.  The woman was sitting right next to her.  It was Simone, disguised with glasses and a graying wig.  There were two more photos of Simone in disguise.  The last photos were of a young man.  First he was seated at a panel table with other men, in military uniforms.  The lens was clearly focused on him.  The next photos showed him behind a podium.  His mouth was open and his eyes were excited.  He enjoyed speaking. 

              “This is Joseph,” said Georgia, “You were in Brussels to see him speak.”

              “I hadn’t seen him since that day in
Anderson Airport
,” said Simone, “Nearly twenty-eight years ago.”

              “Why did you go to Brussels?” asked Georgia.

              “Do you have children?” asked Simone.

              “No,” said Georgia.

              “When you do, we’ll talk,” said Simone, “I read that he was a great speaker.  I wanted to see that little boy I once knew speak.  I thought I was careful.  I sat in the back.  I wore the wig and glasses.”

              “Who took these photos?” asked Georgia.

              “It doesn’t matter who took them,” said Simone, “It matters who gave them to me.”

              “Who gave them to you?” asked Georgia.

              “Your Deputy Director Arthur Witt,” said Simone, “Six weeks after I got back from Brussels.”

              “How did he make the connection between you and your son?” asked Georgia.

              “He had photographers there,” said Simone, “Probably posing as press.  They photographed everyone there and matched them to their CIA profiles.  When they matched me they had to wonder why I was there.  That’s when they went to work.  I don’t know how long it took to find the connection between my mother’s family and his family but from there it was easy.  My mother had never had any other registered children and she was forty-two when Joseph was born.  Women didn’t have babies so late back then.  They traced the time he was born and found out where my mother and I were.  I think my mother took the hospital records but they could have sent agents to Papeete to ask about.  They could have pieced it together.  You know that.  Most often that’s how it works.  In France anyways, maybe the CIA only gets direct information.  I don’t know.”

              “So Witt knows that Joseph is your son,” said Georgia, “And he’ll use that against you.”

              “More than that, Agent Georgia Standing,” said Simone, “He knows what you don’t.”

              “What?” asked Georgia.

              “He knows my real name,” said Simone, “And he has already used it against me.  Why else would I let him use France as a neutral zone to make his swap with the Soviets?”  Simone took a long drag off her cigarette followed by a long exhale.

“You tell me what was the bigger mistake,” said Simone, “Having my son or going to see him after all these years.”

              “Doesn’t matter,” said Georgia, “How do we fix it?”

              “I have a way,” said Simone, “It’s beneficial for us both.  And remember one thing, Agent Georgia Standing.  If you help me protect my family, you and I become family.  And I’ll protect you like I would my own.  I want you to decide what kind of intelligence career you want to have.  And think if your ideal career would be aided by someone like me watching over your shoulder.  You’ll always have access to me—to this place.  This will be the first of many girl talks.  Because right now I want you to understand that I am compromised. 
Le Poq
cannot be compromised.”  Simone took one more cigarette out of her gold-plated case and lit it.  She patted Georgia on the thigh and stood up.  Leaving her cigarettes and lighter on the table. 

“Take some time to think, Georgia, whose side do you want to be on in this game,” said Simone, “Ask yourself if you like this little country of ours and if you’d like to have friends here.  Think about it.  I’ll be at the dining table.  When you’ve made up your mind come see me.  Bring our cake, we’ll eat and talk.”

Chapter Thirteen    Eat and Talk

              Georgia needed something to focus on, something simple.  She found her cappuccino cup.  The coffee and milk inside had long gone cold.  Cold-tasting coffee had little upside.  The only advantage was the caffeine.  Georgia felt the picture of her sipping cold coffee by herself was out of character.  She was supposed to be an intelligence siphon, a seductress.  But cappuccino wasn’t as sexy without the heat.  Somewhere in the recesses of Georgia’s mind it fit.  She didn’t feel sexy because of the words in her head.  She already made her decision but her mind was searching for a label.  Some words were sexier than their real world counterparts. 
Intrigue
. 
Deceit
. 
Mystique
.  They sounded as good as the cappuccino, if it were warm.  But there was another word in her head, betrayal.  Her loyalty was to the Agency not the Director and she still worked for the Agency. 

              Georgia almost finished her cold cappuccino.  She drank most of it before its cold consistency became an annoyance and she decided she had enough.  There wasn’t more for her to do out on the veranda.  Between drinking and thinking, she was done.  She got up leaving everything where it was.  She opened the door to the house and went back to the table for the cassata cake—two plates, two slices.  She took the cake with her to the dining table, where she had goose with Simone.  The table had been cleared but Simone sat in the same spot but Georgia’s chair had been moved.  It was right next to Simone, sharing the same corner of the table.  Georgia set Simone’s plate of cake in front of her and set her own on the table.  She sat down realizing Simone wasn’t going to say anything.  Along with the pieces of cake, Simone’s proposal sat on the table.  She didn’t have to say anything.  But Georgia did. 

              “My mother used to say one thing a lot,” said Georgia, “History is everywhere, in everything.  I used to always think she was talking about the War but she wasn’t.”

              “What was she talking about?” asked Simone.

              “I work for Arthur Witt, the Deputy Director of Operations for the Northern Hemisphere, and that’s all I know of him.  I know his job,” said Georgia, “I know what he does.  But apparently even that I don’t really know.  But you just gave me your life on a dinner plate, even though we just met.  You introduced yourself by introducing yourself.  I see the difference between someone coming in with a title saying that’s who I am and someone saying this is who I am and I want to offer you a job.  I wouldn’t mind working for you.  I don’t know your name but I know your history.  It’s the opposite with the CIA.  I know the name of my superiors but I have no idea who they are.”

“
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 head 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.”