by Cole Reid
Diane Connor sat in her car, a beige ’68 Chevy Nova II. Everyone heard her engine started up. She backed the Nova out of its spot and looked back over her left shoulder. She raised her right hand. Everyone who saw waved back at her. Diane alternated the direction of the steering wheel and accelerated toward the edge of the parking lot. Her red brake lights flashed as she looked both ways. She turned left and headed toward the highway, much like Yvette had done. Eleven minutes later Patrick Engel drove down the aisle in his navy ’69 Chevy Corvair. As Georgia saw Patrick wheel away, she remembered she always thought the Corvair was a sexy car. She thought of Patrick as having a southern charm and she resolved to remember him that way. She didn’t fault Diane for wanting to spend the night with him over chatting with the girls. As he drove off, she decided that she would always remember him as a charming southern gentleman, when it came to class he had it in spades. She smiled as she sat in her Apollo. It was Thursday, July 8th 1976, four months before her twenty-fourth birthday. But she realized how much of a privilege it was to meet men like Patrick and the others. They were talented, intelligent and quirky but it made them interesting. Between summer trips to England to see her grandparents and training to be an intelligence operative, Georgia kept smiling. In over twenty-three years, she had lived much of life. Even the future couldn’t take that away.
After Patrick, was Alan Forsythe. He drove a black ’69 Chevy Camaro. Forsythe had a family name that would have taken him places. Georgia thought it spoke to his character to decide to work for the Directorate of Operations. She also thought it might have been just ego, to prove that a Have could be just as resourceful as the Have-nots. Even his car spoke to his pedigree. His ’69 Camaro was over seven years old. Anyone with a house in the Hamptons would have upgraded, but many believed 1969 was the best year for the Camaro. It was a double-edged sword. It made him look less like New York upper-crust to have a car a-year-and-a-half older than the average car on the road. But it was still a Camaro. The intervals were speeding up. Eleven minutes was a bloc of time. But time wasn’t limited to blocs or clocks. It had no Director giving it instructions. It could do what it wanted. But Hagan did what he had to. In the required bloc of time after Alan left the parking lot, Hagan Gerard started the engine to his sky blue ’73 VW Beetle. The Beetle was a colorful reflection to project his hippie self. He tapped the two-note horn to announce his departure. Georgia watched him pull to the edge of the parking lot but head to the right away from the highway. Georgia thought he was lost but he sped away passing behind Georgia’s parked car. All the others had gone toward the highway. The thought of where Hagan might be going kept her mind busy for most of the next eleven minutes. She wasn’t supposed to know, which made her feel guilty for thinking about it. But his departure had taken him along a completely different route. It wasn’t a major route. The highway was the way to all major surrounding destinations: Columbia; Norfolk; Raleigh; Richmond; Winston-Salem.
Hagan’s choice of a county road meant he was headed somewhere out of the way. It wasn’t beyond the norm for intelligence agents but the Agency had a habit of hiding in plain sight. Georgia was sure her destination was some office building or warehouse near Norfolk. Her mind quickly reverted back to the order of operation. She looked over her right shoulder. She could see Tanis now that Hagan’s car was gone. She looked at Tanis. Tanis looked back. Tanis’ smile could be seen from three spaces away. Georgia smiled back. They were thinking the same thing. Their silent conversation was interrupted by the noisy engine of a ’74 Oldsmobile Omega. Georgia could see it was charcoal in color with a black hood. Bryan Lawrence pulled out from the opposite side of the parking lot. Georgia and Tanis had a good view of him through the passenger side window. Bryan stopped his car halfway out of his parking space and looked back at Tanis. He blew her a kiss through the window. She sent a kiss in his direction. He found Georgia sitting in her Apollo near the end of the row of parking spaces. He held his hand over his mouth, a little longer this time. He blew a kiss in Georgia’s direction. She returned the favor, a long kiss goodbye. Bryan angled his tires in the opposite direction and accelerated toward the parking lot entrance. He tapped his horn as he pulled out toward the highway. For some reason, Georgia tapped her horn as well. It was sudden. She hadn’t done it for the others, not even Yvette. But it happened. Only a few seconds after the sound did she realize it was the horn of her Apollo. She didn’t even know how it happened. She only let the dust in her head settle on the most reasonable explanation. She was alone in her car. If her horn made a sound, she had done it. Tanis looked at Georgia from three parking spots away. The message in Tanis’ eyes was simple enough to interpret, what was that? Georgia looked at Tanis. Her look explained her bewilderment. Tanis smiled at her. It was embarrassing for Georgia. She had spent so many weeks, sleep-deprived, interrogated, made to run miles in the middle of the night and recite the capital of any country asked. They all had done it, for one purpose. They were to learn to control their thoughts and more than that. They were trained to suppress emotion. For Georgia, it was clear. She didn’t have control always. She couldn’t suppress everything.
For the next ten minutes, Georgia and Tanis went from looking at each other to pretending it didn’t matter. As soon as they convinced themselves that one last look didn’t matter, they looked across the parking spaces where their eyes met in the space between. As much as Georgia liked Tanis, she realized she didn’t care for Tanis’ car. Constantly looking in Tanis’ direction, Georgia noticed the car. It was a ’69 Dodge Phoenix. The car was sea green with a white hard top. It was four door, a family car—Daddy’s old car. Tanis sat in the car like she owned it but it didn’t own her. The car was long and clumsy. It didn’t match Tanis’ athletic build. The car was boxy. It couldn’t corner like Tanis and wasn’t as quick. But Tanis was the type not to care. She had a set of wheels and that was the focus. Especially when her engine started. She had a call time like Georgia, like all the others. They were all trained to be on time. Georgia and Tanis were the last two in the parking lot. It was lonely at the bottom and Tanis had to leave. Neither could do anything about it. It was evident in Tanis’ eyes. It would have been evident in Georgia’s as well if she had looked up to see herself in the rear-view mirror. She looked only at the ugly green Phoenix, running, not rising, in the opposite direction. She paid close attention to the brake lights of the Phoenix as it stopped on the edge of the parking lot. She imagined they were eyes looking back at her, looking back until they faded. The Phoenix became a monster. The kind that swooped in and carried off children and loved ones. Despite her training, Georgia had no way to fight the monster that carried off loved ones. She watched the ugly thing careen toward the highway. She didn’t want to watch anymore. She turned her head back toward her steering wheel, getting a glimpse of her own eyes as they went by the rear-view mirror. She saw something. She looked again. Her eyes were pink on the sides and covered with clear liquid in the middle. She looked back down at the steering wheel. Trying to disguise the fear she felt in being without her team. An onlooker wouldn’t have been fooled. It didn’t matter. It was herself that needed fooling. She sat with her head angled down for most of the next few minutes. She thought about going back inside the diner, sitting in the same booth and ordering a coffee. She needed coffee. The stagger was designed so they didn’t see each other, where they were going. Georgia figured the rules flexed for the last one. There was no one left to follow her. She really wanted to get out of the idle Apollo. Cars were supposed to move but she had spent over an hour just waiting. It happened in a way she couldn’t have guessed. Those last eleven minutes were the longest. When the eleventh minute came and went, she started the engine too fast. It stalled. She had to crank it again. Once it cranked she left. No horn to honk. Other people would hear it, but it wasn’t meant for them. It was meant for those who had already left. It was 2:26pm. And Georgia was gone for good.
Chapter Four Gone for Good
Driving Route 17 was smoot
h Americana driving. Phone poles and fields lined both sides of the highway. White farmhouses reminded Georgia that she was still where people called home. She grew up on such landscapes in Virginia, wide-open spaces. The early afternoon sun hit the blue sky from a side angle. It made the sky overhead a slightly darker blue. It was exactly the kind of day Georgia needed, with the exact kind of driving. Route 17 was steady moving. It was a natural comfort. The weather and lack of heavy traffic kept Georgia from thinking about how nice it would be to have some one to talk to. She drove for a little more than an hour toward Norfolk, crossing the state line at 3:03pm. It was about another thirty-minute drive from there to the outskirts of Norfolk. She spent the remaining time in her car, in her own quiet dignity.
The address listed on Georgia’s call sheet was at a mid-sized three-story building in Green Brier. It was a cryptic building, dark brick and dark windows. It didn’t necessarily reek of government. It resembled a building for a small architectural or engineering firm. But one thing was clear. The staffers inside worked with proprietary information. The lack of company sign and black windows broke the building’s poker-faced façade. The parking lot wasn’t large. But there were many spots and not so many cars. Georgia parked in the forward-most spot that was open. She took her spade-stapled folder with her as she left her Apollo in the sun. She walked toward the front door of the building. The double glass doors were the only glass in the building that wasn’t tinted on the outside. There was a reception desk after the door. A middle-aged security guard sat behind the desk. Georgia approached the desk and looked down at the guard. She noticed something about the guard that made him stand out from others she had seen. He was not only uniformed, he was armed.
“Can I help you ma’am?” said the guard.
“I have an appointment,” said Georgia, “6:30.”
“Name?” said the guard.
“Georgia Standing,” said Georgia. The security guard handled a stack of green and white lined dot matrix print paper. He used a ruler to scan the printed lines on the paper.
“Standing,” said the guard, “Second floor, Room 215. Get off the elevator to your right, third door on the left side of the hall.
“Thank you,” said Georgia. She went towards the elevators, which were directly in front of her. There was only one elevator. All that was needed for a smaller building. She took the elevator to the second floor. When she came on to the second floor, she faced right. Room 215 was exactly where the security guard said it would be. Georgia didn’t know what to do. It was 4:04pm. She was early. She didn’t know whether to knock or to try the door handle. She thought about coming back closer to her call time but she had nowhere else to go. She thought about finding a diner somewhere to sip coffee and read a magazine, maybe have a wedge of pie. But she didn’t want diners. And there was something else, somewhere inside her was a desire to not be alone. It was enough for one day. She knocked on the door three times. The first two were quick. The last was slower, undecided. She waited for the door to open. Nothing happened. She knocked again and waited.
“Slide your call sheet under the door,” came a voice from the other side of the door. Georgia took her call sheet out of the envelope and slid it under the door. There was nothing else. The voice didn’t give her any other instructions. She didn’t have options so she stood in front of the door. It frustrated her that whoever was on the opposite side of the door knew she had no choice but to wait. There were no chairs in the hallway. She stood in front of the door. She wanted to knock but her presence was already on record; it was the do-nothing frustration that was getting to her. She waited for three and a half minutes. It felt like five or six.
The door opened, making it worth the wait. A tall young-looking man opened the door. Something stuck in Georgia’s throat and her heart skipped one beat then two. It was awkward that she was suddenly so close to the man whose voice came from the other side of the door. He wore his brown hair short, business-like and his eyes were like hers. He had on black suit pants and a black tie against a white shirt. Georgia imagined his suit jacket was flung over a chair in the office somewhere. It was.
“Come in please,” said the man, “Sorry to keep you waiting. We had to enter everything and get your file up. We weren’t expecting you so early. Thought you might want to say your goodbyes. How is Yvette?” The question wasn’t welcome. He was a stranger asking about a friend. She didn’t wonder how he knew. He worked for the Agency. He knew more than he should about her. But why would he ask? She thought about it and before she thought twice, she knew.
“It wasn’t the best of times to see her go,” said Georgia, “She became like a sister to me.”
“I can imagine,” said the man, “And what about Hagan? Did you see him off okay?”
“He left before Tanis,” said Georgia.
“What about Shane?” said the man, “When did he leave?”
“We didn’t have a Shane,” said Georgia.
“Indeed you didn’t,” said the man, “But you do now.” The man stuck his right hand out. Georgia shook it.
“I’m Shane Dunn,” said the man, “I’ll be one of your line contacts. Come meet the other one.” Shane stepped further inside the room to make space for Georgia to enter. The room was simple with fluorescent panels and ceiling tiles. A picture of President Gerald Ford standing with arms folded in front of an American flag was on the far wall. The horizontal blinds were shut over the already tinted windows. The room was medium-sized, with two desks facing each other. A computer terminal sat at each desk along with a telephone. Shane’s chair was empty. A mid-fifties woman sat at the opposite desk. A wide file cabinet stood against the far wall behind the woman. A large world map hung on the wall above the file cabinet.
The woman spoke with a British accent. It caught Georgia by surprise, partly because she was so used to it. It was her mother’s accent.
“My name is Liza Rowe,” said the woman
“Georgia Standing,” said Georgia.
“Are you familiar with the name Owen Spice?” asked Liza.
“Sounds familiar,” said Georgia, “Who is he?”
“Who he is, is less the subject as who he was,” said Liza, “He used to be an MP from Kent, representative of the constituency of Tunbridge Wells, member of the Conservative Party. He worked with the now non-existent ministry of the Secretary of State for Commonwealth Affairs. There were only two Secretaries to hold this position because the position lasted all of two years. The irony is that the most significant thing the Secretary did was something that wasn’t made public. The Secretary was responsible for negotiating with several Commonwealth countries to take refugees from Vietnam between 1967 and ’68. But these weren’t just ordinary refugees. They were former members of the People’s Army of Vietnam who had escaped with their families to Malaysia by way of Cambodia and Thailand. They sought asylum in Malaysia rather than return to be executed by the North Vietnamese. The Secretary flew to Malaysia with a few staff members and an MP, Mr. Owen Spice. A meeting was held in Putrajaya about what to do with these escapees as they were high-valued personnel along with their families. There were nine former North Vietnamese cavalry officers and two pilots along with their families. It was realized that these personnels would be desired targets for assassination or kidnapping due to their specific knowledge of the military and political structure of the North Vietnamese. The meeting was convened to decide how they should best be protected. The idea was to scatter them. The result of the meeting was to decide to disperse the families to different places within the Commonwealth of Nations. Australia and New Zealand were the main priority. We believe some were also sent to Papua New Guinea, the last place anyone would ever think to look. And we have some information that suggests one family might have ended up in South Africa and a few in Canada. We won’t know until we get what we’re going for.”
“What?” asked Georgia.
“Shane,” said Liza.
“Well,” said Shane, “I’m the one who
built the profile on Owen Spice. Mr. Spice was born in the town of Kent October 13, 1931. As a politician, he claimed that he always wished he had had the opportunity to serve in World War II but he was, of course, too young. He did well on his A Levels and studied history at the University of Leeds, did post-graduate work on the history of Mesopotamia and the British Empire’s influence on Mid-Eastern Trade. Began working in parliamentary offices as a researcher for MP Calvin Maxwell. He got promoted to manager of staff, did that for two years then ran for parliament in ’62 using his parents address in Kent, to claim Tunbridge Wells. He’s a tall good-looking sort, of classic English mannerism. It, as you can imagine, helped his political career. He left parliament in ’71, which is why the name of the operation is Step Down. But he still gets calls for advice on parliamentary affairs. He’s currently working as a professor of government and business at Strathclyde University in Glasgow.”
