by O. L. Casper
“So…what’s it like…having all this? Being you? You must have problems too right?”
His voice cracked with a small laugh.
“Everybody’s got problems. Mine are no different from most.”
“You seem very self-possessed. You know your own mind.”
“Too much so. Yes. I need to let loose, be more flexible, meet new people, try new things.”
I heard his crackling laughter. It was confident and cool, and I knew what was next.
“The woman I met. The one with you…”
“Sophia.”
“Yes…Sophia. You have some connection with her. I can tell there’s something there.”
“No, no, she works for me…I wish there was…something. Obviously there’s an attraction. I don’t know. It’s complicated. Let’s stick to something lighter.”
I heard some ruffling sounds. I could tell from the GPS tracker the general location. It was one of the rooms facing the ocean. I knew where it was when looking down on it from space, I just didn’t know what floor they were on.
In a near whisper she said, “We don’t need to do that. I’m not someone to get involved in this sort of thing. Not when the man in question might be involved with somebody else.”
“My big mouth.”
“You dirty scoundrel.”
I loved the British accent in the way she said this.
“I know, I know.”
His voice broke with laughter. I heard some more ruffling sounds and what could have been kissing accompanied by heavy breathing. I could see the rest in my mind’s eye. Him lifting her onto the counter by the sink, pushing back her skirt. Her leaning back on the kitchen table as he slipped off her pants. I closed the MacBook and walked over to the bed and sat down. I wondered how he could love me and go do something like that. I know he’s been involved with other women since it started with us. Hell, we started as an affair. Poor Isabella. I felt remorseful and ashamed. Though, at the same time, I still believed in freedom. I didn’t really believe in commitment. To me, it was just an antiquated, sentimental idea. How could I ask him to give up his freedom if I couldn’t give up my own? I was never going to give up Julie. Or the possibility of exploring the realms of passion with others. But a part of me did want him and only him. A part of me wanted to commit, and that part was sneaking up on me—overwhelmingly.
Sitting on the bed, I spontaneously burst into tears. I couldn’t help it. And I didn’t even really know what I was crying about. I was torn between two worlds: an ideal I’d held as long as I could remember and these new feelings, unlike anything I’d felt before. A rush of passion for Mark Stafford surged in me, rising up from my feet and passing through my entire body. The feeling focused itself on my heart and clung to me deeply, not letting go, but becoming more entrenched the more I fought it. Strange thoughts of optimism flooded my being. Maybe he didn’t fuck her. Maybe something started and he decided to stop it. Or maybe she did. She didn’t seem that into it as it started. But I knew from experience how he could break that down. He had an almost magical way of transcending any conceivable boundary in a woman’s soul. A command presence that was penetrating, spiritually as well as physically. He had penetrated the deepest reaches of my heart and soul. Admittedly, I was thinking like a sentimental fuck. Though, as much as I tried to control it, I couldn’t rid myself of these thoughts. Is this what happens when you come of age? The passion of the heart overcomes the ideals of mind. I had to admit I was more lost and confused than at any other time I could remember. I felt like I was reaching for something new, some new turn—a new way of being in life that I couldn’t quite get to. It was like there was a paradise island to be found somewhere, but I was groping in the dark. I couldn’t find it because I was using the wrong set of tools. My whole attention was focused on the external world when it should have been held within. The rational mind versus the intuitive one. Universe against the soul. Me against the world. And, as my mind turned in this kaleidoscopic whirl of thoughts, I saw him. Standing on the edge of the cliff. His hair blowing in the wind. He looked at me. It was the same mental image I’d seen right after the death of Isabella. I looked into his eyes. And, in them, I saw the universe turn. All the stars in space turned on a hinge that was at the core of his being. That was the overwhelming power I felt flowing through him.
I felt at once that I was in the throes of a powerful, soul-changing vision. A tingling sensation moved through my legs and up my spine, exploding in the head like lightning or fireworks. Illumination. These images washed over me. Sweeping across the savannah of my soul, wiping clear old worn out concepts, ideas of self, and making way for a new soul—a new self—to emerge from the ashes like the phoenix.
Gathering my senses and seeing the surrounding room once more, I wondered if these thoughts were some insidious daydream. A mind reeling from unbearable pain and translating it into some bizarre, esoteric vision like the snake awakening in the mythical Garden of Eden. The acquisition of a thousand golden brains and the byproduct therefrom completely and unexpectedly vile, lugubrious, depressing. Repugnant beyond expression. I could weave the inexplicable feelings into a thousand tangents. But the core jealousy remained. What had all this violent emotion made me? In what direction had it moved the course of my life? I had become something terrible, unthinkable. And I was becoming deranged in some instinctively maligned way—a coming apart at the seams—a misguided last resort of the impulse of self-preservation—or self-annihilation. I didn’t know which.
Chapter 18
Emily Mordaunt’s Diary
November 19, Mahé Island, Seychelles
I feel vile and disgusting and can hardly bear to set this down. I wouldn’t but for the fact that it’s the only way I can seem to get it out and get this vile confession off my chest, seeing as I dare not confess these thoughts or deeds to another living soul. I had finally got my life in order. Through experiences of late and certain realizations I believed I came to some sort of summation of earlier experiences—experiences of my youth—that amounted to a kind of enlightenment. An enlightenment as such might occur in the life of a person as simplistic and limited in imagination as I. All that realization of self and now this. I feel that I’ve utterly betrayed myself and no real thoughts can ever come to me; I can never really understand life—never understand the world or universe in relation to my character—never really get my place in it all. I’ve heard it said that thoughts repeated become spoken ideas, which in turn, repeated, become actions, then character, then destiny. Or something of the sort. In my sad case, I’ll never make it past actions in that certain chain of events because my thoughts and spoken words are so muddled. Nothing consistent enough manifests to compose anything one might call character.
If I appear torn up on the inside—hopelessly confused—it’s because I am. I must give such the opposite impression to others. In fact, I know I do; it disgusts me. I’m so full of self-hate—self-loathing—and now I’m crying as I write these words. I see myself in the mirror across the desk from me in my hotel room, mascara all run down across my cheeks, and I begin to think—where did it all go wrong? Both parents dead at an early age. No close relationships with siblings or friends. Any number of things could be the cause.
And now I’ll come to the point. I resolved to know my moral boundaries, who I am, and now someone has come between me and them—left my mind—my heart—all in disarray. This mess you see on the page before you is the best of me. I was never again going to be involved with a man, never in any sort of intimate relationship, and tonight I lost all of that. What’s worse: he’s involved with another woman. Her name is Sophia, she’s gorgeous, and she’s a member of the help. Those are all the facts I know. Initially, he denied any kind of intimate relationship. But later it all came out. Perhaps he knew women can sense these things and therefore there was no point in attempting to conceal it. Smart move. He made all the smart moves one can make.
Mark Stafford, the self-made billionaire, has g
ot his hooks in deep. How did this happen? How did I let myself get carried away? His looks are…well—at the risk of sounding cliché—I believe smoldering is the appropriate word. Not to sound too much like an American soap. But this is what he makes me feel when I am near him. The man floats in a cloud of (self-made) deception. He lies so much he believes he is telling the truth. He probably can no longer tell the difference. He’s a chronic liar. Takes one to know one, I suppose. But I like to think I’m past all that. The girl—Sophia—is a chronic liar too. But there is an essential honesty about her. It’s what gives her such intensity. Like her, Mark has incredible intensity too. Perhaps it’s what binds them together. It’s an intensity such as I’ve only seen in the American temperament. A sort of American self-righteousness that we Brits are never serious enough (or confident enough) to muster. Perhaps it is better to say, in our realism we are unable to deceive ourselves in this way. Whatever the cause, the billionaire and his girl have it—in spades.
He came to my room today. We spoke for a few moments about nothing of importance. “Gettin’-to-know-you-chit-chat” is, I believe, what the Americans call it. In the course of the conversation, just as I let my guard down, he made his move. He kissed me, I laughed and turned away. He grabbed my chest, massaged it, and there was nothing more I could do to resist. He was laughing on the inside. I could feel it. He was thinking, “I got this girl.” And it’s true. He does. If things were different—primarily, if he wasn’t with that girl—I would take him more seriously. But obviously things between them are quite involved and intense and really I don’t want to get in the middle of it all. However, things just happen, and, as much as I pretend to know myself and my limitations, I constantly surprise myself. Little old me. Before I knew it—in the beginning, I didn’t want it to progress into anything else—he had my clothes off and we were on the couch together, naked, and basking in the throes of passion. I really resisted. I tried. He reached into my pants to get a feel between my thighs and I pulled his hand back out with a smile. He took my hand and put it in his pants and I felt his long, throbbing…then it was over. I acquiesced to all he wanted. One article of clothing after another removed. Long foreplay. (The man’s greatest gift I believe—greater even than all his billions.) Licking me from my neck, with small bites and tugs, here and there—all the way down to navel, and then, with great deliberation, to the sweet spot itself. Oh, I am horrible at writing this. It feels so strange to get it down and it comes out nothing like it felt. Maybe I need to slow down and express it better, but that’s not what I’m here to do. I’m not writing cheap porn. I’m here to vent.
Remembering his hot breath on my body gives me goose-pimples even now. Part of me wishes never to see him again, but another part—the greater part—knows this will not come to pass. He will be seen again. It will be complicated. Sophia will come into it. God knows what will result. It all makes me sick. If I had any sort of developed will-power whatsoever to start with, I’d never see him again. But I know of course that is by now an impossibility. I’ll carry on. I’ll try to stay calm. I’ve vowed not to live by the passions anymore. I strictly vowed not to do so ever again, not too long ago. I’m thirty-four. And pathetic. I’d always thought I might know something by now—something of life that was solid and would set me apart. I suppose you can’t force maturity. It just happens. What is the meaning of the word anyway? Maturity. I’ve received the bulk of the family fortune in inheritance since my parents died. I’ve got men to look after it. I’ve got my whole future written out and planned in every way. And still, I have no idea what I’m doing. No idea what will come to pass. I’m still a girl wandering round in the dark. No clue as to what her future will bring. I feel lost, hopeless, and in despair. No man can fix that. No one else but me. I thought I had. Till I saw him. When I saw him I knew it was all over. Overpowered by feelings I couldn’t understand, I knew nothing else but to just give in. What else could I do? Deny him and forever wonder what may have been?
That’s is no way to live. Ripped in half again it seems, no peace and no way out.
Special Agent Glenn Carter’s Report
November 20, Mahé Island, Seychelles
Nothing conclusively criminal was revealed in the meeting between Mr. Mark Stafford and Mr. Omar Massood of Pakistan. The coordinates we received (32.31165 N 69.86911 E) revealed some warehouses in the middle of the mountains in North Pakistan. Further intelligence is needed to determine whether this is anything of interest. My instincts tell me it isn’t and we’re being led up the garden path. The only notable factors in the meeting between the aforementioned is what was not said. No details other than $750,000 were discussed in the meeting. That sum only referred to a disagreement between the parties involved; Mr. Massood said the offer was $750,000 too low and Mr. Stafford cited the weak economy and an inability to predict the future of the textile industry as the reason for the low offer. We do not know the sum suggested in the offer, nor do we know what sum was finally settled upon. We merely know that a sum was settled upon in a secondary meeting between intermediaries of the two parties. This fact leads me further to believe the meeting was a farce. Though I have nothing to substantiate that claim.
Have we wasted our time entirely on this trip? I do not believe so. We will follow the deal to its natural conclusion. At the very least we will gain a working knowledge of how Mr. Stafford’s deals work. At most we’ll find something. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. And in this meeting we definitely have smoke. I try to stick to the facts as per my training. But I must also express my instinctive feelings. They are a fact of my experience on the case. And they have set me on the right track on more than one occasion on previous cases. We have also gained, by this long journey, a deeper look at Mr. Stafford’s intimate relationship with Ms. Sophia Durant. It has been claimed by a few within the division that Ms. Durant may have something to do with the allegedly subversive enterprises of Mr. Stafford. And perhaps even with the deaths of various women in connection to Mr. Stafford. While I can conceive of the former, I find it more difficult to fathom the latter—though I do not find it by any means impossible. I have witnessed many stranger incidences in other cases. I will discount nothing till proven impossible.
I have given a brief account of the facts as I have seen them. One would perhaps get a more detailed account with the other special agents.
Sophia Durant’s Diary
November 21, Mahé Island, Seychelles
I spent our last morning on Mahé Island catching up on various correspondence captured in the web of Minerva on the MacBook Pro in my hotel room. Having broken into Emily Mordaunt’s phone via Bluetooth and Minerva at our first meeting, I was able to get into her personal computer from there. I read the latest entry in her diary with apprehension and fear. I was amused to find a muddled and extremely insecure mind splashed across the pages of the entry. She’s nothing like I expected her to be. As she said in her own words, she is in reality the opposite of what she appears to be to others. What a royal fuckup indeed. If not actually royal, then at least well moneyed. I will crush her. I am determined. The plus side being it will assist her in the cause of teaching herself moral lessons.
Carter’s journal was extremely embarrassing. I couldn’t believe what they’d seen on the beach. I should have known better. But his description of it made me cringe. The fact that he discovered certain feelings for me was interesting—and unexpected. How could I have not seen it in his tenderness? In his almost forgiving attitude? I chided myself for not being more observant and for letting his unusual charm get to me. His report was a waste of time. It told me nothing I did not already know. It only confirmed everything he had said. He gets paid for writing that shit? I thought they had to stick to the facts, not get into personal feelings. This is what hard-earned taxpayer money gets spent on? What a fucking waste? Futile efforts. Stupidity. I loathe the man, just like I loathe the Bureau, and the government and everyone involved with them. What a load of fucking shit. Waste of
goddamn time.
And as for me and my life? Was I any closer to obtaining my goals? No. I was farther from it. It was a case of one step forward and two steps back. Now there was a new love interest in Mark Stafford’s life. How was I going to discern his true thoughts on the matter? That would be revealed soon enough. The potential seriousness of the relationship between him and the British hotel mistress was already too much to bear.
Special Agent Glenn Carter’s Notes
November 23, Eleuthera Island, Bahamas
It was a long journey back to Eleuthera. The seating on the flights were cramped, there was much turbulence, and I don’t think I slept at all. I remember looking at Africa, so far below, thinking how nice it would be to fly on one of Mr. Stafford’s planes instead. The devil’s lifestyle had infected my mind. Indeed, everything about him had. I obsessed. Thinking about him was also a way to turn my thoughts away from Sophia. It seemed at every break in the analytical method in which I considered the case, my mind turned to her. What is it about her? She’s attractive—yes. But she’s distinctly not my type. There’s her mind; and it is the mind that is beautiful. She’s extremely analytical in her thinking, and methodical, like me. Therein lies the attraction, I’m sure. On the last leg of the journey to Eleuthera I talked with Haverstock as we sat together playing checkers on his tablet computer.
“Stafford’s really got us running in fucking circles,” he started, rather nonchalantly.
“Yes,” I agreed, “he does.”
“I feel we’re pawns in a game far greater than us.”
“In the hierarchy of the game, where do you place Stafford?”
“Somewhere near the top—possibly the equivalent of a senator in the business world.”
“An interesting thought.”
“How do you read the big picture?” he asked.
