by O. L. Casper
“I am here to make you an offer to buy the business. I have heard you are a serious man of business and not one to beat around the bush, as they say, so I am ready to begin if you are,” said Massood.
“I’m ready. Are you, Julie?”
“Go for it.”
“I have a figure for you here.”
Massood pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Stafford. I smiled inwardly, thinking about how this would further confound the FBI.
“I’ve done my own calculations with the firm,” said Stafford.
“And…”
“That would be high by about $750,000.”
“Seven hundred fifty-thousand. I see.”
He seemed to be thinking it over in his head.
“Why?”
“Considering the economy and your lower volume of sales in the last quarter—we think our price fits the projections. We don’t figure we stand to earn a lot on this deal. I’m sorry if you find our number too low. Unfortunately, in times like these, we cannot do better than that.”
“Life is a gamble. I understand perfectly. We expected you to come back with something lower. Just not that low. What is your perception of the textile industry? How do you think it will fare on the whole in the next—say—ten years?”
“It’s a great industry. Once the economy recovers substantially it is only onward and upward. An essential industry. We just don’t know when the economy will recover. Therefore we don’t know if we can maintain the standards of the company provided the strong possibility it will bleed money in years to come. That is, before a full economic recovery.”
Stafford seemed tired and disengaged for the course of the conversation.
A member of the hotel staff approached us on the beach. A light rain commenced and we all headed back to the bar with him. He handed Stafford a card on the way back.
Stafford pocketed the card and the three of us sat at a table not far from where Carter sat behind his menu. For a moment Stafford sized up the Pakistani. Then he said, “I’ve got to make a call. Excuse me for a minute.”
“By all means.”
Stafford went to the bar.
“Julie, tell me about yourself. You are a good friend of Mr. Mark, no?”
“We’ve known each other for a time.”
“I see. He’s a good man. A stellar reputation in business. I’m quite happy he consented to meeting with me. I know he will buy. I feel it in my bones. I believe that is the English expression.”
“Yes. That’s right.”
“You are very beautiful, Julie.”
I wondered why he repeated it.
“Thank you.”
Stafford came back to the table.
“I’d like to acquire your company. I’m sure we can agree on a price. Is it possible for you to meet with a member of my team later in the day to hash out the details?”
“Of course. You name the time and the place.”
Stafford smiled as we stood up.
Chapter 17
Special Agent Glenn Carter’s Notes
November 18, Mahé Island, Seychelles
The meeting between Mr. Stafford and Omar Massood was striking in what it didn’t reveal. The starkness of the details leads to more suspicion than anything that was said or the events of the meeting alone. Mr. Stafford is a tricky bastard. STF followed the meeting between Mr. Stafford’s team and Mr. Massood to little avail. Nothing more was revealed than what we gleaned from the meeting on the beach. The only details that stand out to me from the mysterious conversation on the beach—what we were able to catch of it—was the fact that it was a textile company in Pakistan. Also the eagerness of the seller and the lack of interest on the part of the buyer, who nonetheless, after a mysterious visit to the bar near the end of the meeting, consented to buy the company regardless of his prior conversation. The first fact is strange because of the location. STF has been able to track Mr. Massood’s company to a series of warehouses in Northern Pakistan, near Waziristan, in the mountains by the border to Afghanistan. Why the acquisition of these warehouses in such a remote place? Also in a country, and near another, in which illicit weapons deals are abundant. Perhaps I am reaching, perhaps not. We will soon find out.
We have not been privy to any prior meetings of Mr. Stafford more than those which lasted a few seconds over the phone. Maybe it is common for him to seem so disinterested when he intends to buy in order to extract a better price. Maybe he acted so for another reason. But one thing is clear. He was acting. And acting bizarrely—unusual for such a situation.
From an upper room in the hotel I was able to watch Mr. Stafford and Ms. Durant as they headed to a somewhat secluded part of the beach that night. I observed the pair through binoculars equipped with night vision. I do not like this sordid voyeurism, but it is necessary for the job. I feel I must put that down before I put down anything more about the couple’s night under the stars. With Special Agent Haverstock I watched the pair and listened as STF tried to put together the sound from the couple’s location. Neither had bothered to take their cell phones with them so we had to rely on high-powered, directional microphones which didn’t pick up much as the voices in question were masked by the crashing waves. What we witnessed however was certainly spectacular.
The pair made diminutive gestures with their hands as they spoke. I wondered what she was telling him about us—the STF and me. It was clear from the meeting earlier they were lovers. The way they spoke to one another. The conspiratorial glances. Every movement and word between the pair engraved it for all to see. Ms. Durant was not as subtle as she liked to think. Nor was he. As close as they clearly were, there was no doubt she was telling him all about us and what we were there for. That was not so much a blow as a help. We had figured as much would happen and had prepared for it. What they knew about us would distract them from what we were really doing. That was part of the plan.
A blue, phosphorescent glow lit up in front of them in the water as they took a few steps in. It shot up in fluorescent lines, probably the tiny stars of algae or miniscule creatures attached to the rocks that were activated by movement. It was a brilliant show, luminously beautiful, and it distracted us from the grim reality of the task at hand. I was fairly convinced of Mr. Stafford’s guilt over the alleged murders of those women. Some of my supervisors were leaning this way, others thought he had nothing to do with it, but that it was a frame job by some as yet unknown element. As the investigation progressed, the pieces would fall into place. Hopefully the investigation would not turn out to be a waste of taxpayer money. But there was still that possibility. The whole thing had started based on some anonymous tips phoned in to the Bureau. Doubtless they were coming from someone Mr. Stafford and company had burned in the past, but as we looked into them they bore smoke. And, as the saying goes, where there’s smoke there’s fire.
Sophia Durant’s Diary
November 18, Mahé Island, Seychelles
I took a few steps into the water ahead of Stafford on our beach rendezvous. It was nice to get away from the business of the day and the FBI, if only for a brief reprieve (—undoubtedly we weren’t really without the FBI presence even now). Stepping into the water, I found a soft, blue glow from what appeared to be a million tiny stars under water lighting up like a Christmas tree. Scared, I froze in my tracks.
“What is that?” I asked.
I heard laughing behind me.
“It’s tiny algae that lights up when you go near them. They’re in the Indian Ocean and also along the Pacific Rim.”
“They’re extraordinary.”
I took a few steps forward into the water. Rows and rows of them lit up as I walked forward.
“They’re not dangerous, are they?”
“Not at all.”
It gave the night a sense of magic and wonder as I splashed around in the cove. I looked in the direction of the hotel. A few lights were on inside. The trees blew violently around the building and it seemed that a sto
rm would hit anytime.
Suddenly I feel his hands on my hips. He slides my bikini bottoms off and I spread my legs as I lift my feet, one after another, so he can completely remove them. I feel his fingers slide along the crack of my backside to my aroused lips below. I’m already wet and he plays with it before slipping his middle finger inside. I pant and writhe with pleasure as he slips a second finger in and begins to stroke. I bend over in the shallow water on my hands and knees. He removes my bikini and I feel my breasts hang freely from my chest. He caresses them with his free hand and I sigh. I realize that perhaps we are being watched from the hotel or from an adjacent beach even, but I don’t care. It’s dark and there probably isn’t much to see in the phosphorescent glow. He removes his fingers and slides in his long, boisterous cock. I moan as he thrusts gently at first, then harder.
I feel a few droplets on my skin and a light rain begins, but we carry on regardless.
Special Agent Glenn Carter’s Notes (continued)
As the intercourse began I glanced at Haverstock who was watching me with raised brow.
“You ever do that with her?” he asked dryly.
The room erupted in laughter as I raised my brow and went back to watching. We observed from the side as Mr. Stafford enjoyed himself with Ms. Durant down on hands and knees. I noticed something move in my pants and set the binoculars down. I felt the flush of impassioned jealousy awaken in me. Finding myself thinking more in this vein, I decided I would drown out these feelings with gin as soon as the beach gorging was over.
Sophia Durant’s Diary (continued)
He unleashes the seeds of his passion in a powerful explosion that bursts into me. I drink it in, tensing the muscles in my vagina, imagining I’m squeezing out every last drop. He moans heavily as he lets himself go in me. When I think he might be finished he pumps some more, causing my shoulders to collapse in ecstasy. My face hits the sand. I literally lose muscle control. I roll forward in the sand and turn over, seeing his pulsating wet cock, waving in the phosphorescent light.
“What happened?” he asks tenderly.
“I lost control.”
“Do you want more?”
“I’m afraid I’m sore.”
“It’s alright. It happens. I’ll help you get dressed.”
“Wait just a minute. I want to bask here in this light, under the stars.”
He looks up.
“You mean clouds.”
“Whatever.”
I sigh, spreading my legs. Airing it out.
Special Agent Glenn Carter’s Notes (continued)
I couldn’t believe what I was watching. When they finished she spread herself out in the sand, legs spread apart. We got a full view of everything. Now we know that she keeps it well trimmed. As silly as it seems, that will have to go down in our official notes. She also appeared to have some tattoos I will have to ask her about later. Ms. Durant has the most extraordinary splendid body. It’s well proportioned and in the shape of a supermodel’s. I’ll have to find somewhere to let off this steam eventually. No doubt I’ll destroy these notes but it still feels strange writing about such things in them.
Woke up early the next morning with a headache and diarrhea. After several moments sitting on the toilet I had to stick my other end in. Spilling from both ends this morning. I must have eaten something bad last night for dinner. It must have been that—the late dinner the team enjoyed last night. Afterward the whole group of six had a long night and/or an awful morning of the runs and head pains and some of us vomited. Not a nice way to spend time in a tropical paradise. I was rather looking forward to this trip before we left. Now it has all come to naught. The meeting between Mr. Stafford and Mr. Massood was fruitless. Other than the satellite images of the warehouses in remote Pakistan, which very likely will turn out to be nothing, the meeting was entirely fruitless. We learned nothing new. We know Mr. Stafford and Ms. Durant are engaged in a heated affair—we didn’t need to see it. We know Mr. Stafford also conducts legitimate business operations. We know the Seychelles is a remote, exotic location. We know Mr. Stafford has frequent sexual liaisons with various beautiful, cultivated, rich, women. This is perhaps one of the reasons the affair with Ms. Durant is a little strange. She is beautiful and intelligent, but hardly sophisticated or wealthy. Definitely not cultured. What does he see in her that puts her in such a special place among his inner circle? A sexual affair would be one thing, but why then make her privy to the inner workings of so much of his operations. I have been unable to put the pieces together on this, but time reveals all as they say.
Sophia Durant’s Diary
November 19, Mahé Island, Seychelles
I got back to my room in the morning hours after the affair on the beach. Stafford texted to see if I was alright. Apparently he’d got some sort of stomach bug—he thought it was food poisoning—the evening we enjoyed the phosphorescent manifestation on the beach. I didn’t get the bug although I ate the same hotel dinner he did.
Before first light, when I got back from the beach excursion, I sat down to write in my diary all the experiences of the past twenty-four hours before the memory faded. It was then that I had a very unusual experience unlike any before. Sitting down on the bed with my computer and looking at the mirror to my left—the mirror on the closet door—I saw myself clearly, but my reflection was not looking back! Instead she was looking down at the computer and entering my notes. I didn’t know what to think of it. I was extremely exhausted and I jumped at seeing myself like that—and the revelation that I might be having some kind of out-of-body experience. I think I jumped again, and, as soon as I did, my reflection looked back at me, startled. That was when synchronicity resumed between the acts of myself and those of the girl in the mirror. What an incredibly strange thing to witness. Writing it off as lucid dreaming, I got into my diary quickly—and, while still feeling tense about the girl in the mirror, I wrote the entry of November 18. After I finished, I set the computer down on the bedside table and checked the mirror again.
Suddenly, I experienced another bizarre hallucination. With seemingly no regard for me, the girl in the mirror went on writing. I passed out either out of fright or exhaustion, or both. I didn’t know what had happened, and wasn’t in any frame of mind to try to analyze it. In the morning I got up and reread the previous night’s entry, which I commonly do. To my surprise there were six or seven more pages than I had written—including much more about the fucking on the beach, followed by something like an out-of-body experience. I couldn’t remember any of what was written about in those additional six or seven pages and I quickly erased it in fear. Mind you, dear reader, this is the first time I’ve actually known any kind of serious fear in my adult life. And I couldn’t accept that some bizarre alter-ego was the cause of it. There were any number of causes for the bizarre experience—and, in the end, without thinking much more out of it, I put it down to a wild hallucination brought on by exhaustion.
I felt life was much more hurried, more confused, less focused, and infinitely more resistant since I’d focused my mind on a fixed goal. But for the first time in my life I felt something like happiness. Reading over my early entries in this diary of my new life, I felt I was once more perceptive, more open, to all the goings-on around me. I saw the colors, felt the sensations, could tell you the smell of the ocean air I breathed. Life was now flatter, more two-dimensional than three—like a passing motion picture racing precipitously to its calamitous end. And with these thoughts came visions of dark clouds in the future. Whether there was light beyond them, I could not see.
Curious as to Stafford’s whereabouts, I checked Minerva. I located him by his cell phone through GPS tracking. He was in the Majestic, the hotel across the street. I knew he was with her; Emily Mordaunt, the British hotelier-heiress. Jealous, hot blood coursed through my veins. I breathed faster. Familiar demons returned with a vengeance. I turned on the audio from his phone. Barely audible was a conversation between Stafford and Emily. I brought
up the audio dials and cleaned up the track, isolating the voices. Then I amplified it to a point where I could hear them clearly.
“My family has been in the business for six generations,” came the disembodied female voice.
“I’ve stayed in various Majestics across Europe. I didn’t realize they were linked.”
“Some of them are. We’re not the only ones to own hotels with the name.”
“Still—that’s incredible. What a wonderful heritage.”
“Yes and no. Sure it’s great to have it all. The money is a comfort. The family reputation firmly a part of the international establishment—it’s all very nice. But…as you’ll probably find with much of the moneyed class…it’s rather stifling. You always find yourself in the same crowd, talking to the same kinds of people. You don’t really meet anyone new or interesting. And the money always seems to cause great inhibitions in the bearers of it.”
I hated her already.
“Perhaps you’re right. I don’t really spend too much time with the moneyed class—as you call it—so I don’t really know the ins and outs of it all. I’m not what you call old money. Maybe that makes some of the difference. I can see how an inheritance could be stifling; that sort of protection could allow a person to grow comfortable with their fears—never having to leave their comfort zone so much of the time. No, I never really liked people with money—or those born into it, anyway. You’re the exception.”
“Interesting,” she said.
She was purring now. I imagined she was breathing heavily, though I couldn’t really hear it.
