by Cole Reid
There wasn’t anything either could do to change the mood. The night before was unique. It wasn’t going to be repeated. Saturday night was overcast, no starlight. But there was one thing the starlight couldn’t illuminate, the space between Georgia and Owen. Physically, they were very close. Georgia curled up next to Owen and rested her head on his chest. Her right hand held his left hand atop his chest. But the mood had no real fix. The pregnancy scare had made Owen realize what he was doing. It was more distinct than before. The last time he was three years younger and she was four years older than Georgia. There were only fourteen years between them. But there was more than two full decades between Georgia and himself. He felt like he had almost impregnated someone young enough to be his daughter. It was true but it wasn’t the reality. With Nita Harris it was different. The fourteen-year age difference was a gap but he didn’t feel like he was with someone he could have raised. It left a stain on the night before. It wasn’t so much a stain. It was more like spent embers—ash. That feeling—sex under starlight, both burning like star fire—couldn’t be resurrected. They were the same two, in the same place but the unseen piece was missing. That was the irony. They couldn’t see it the night before but it was there.
The mood carried through the night and into the next day, Sunday. The sad part was that Georgia knew a way to get the spark back, she just couldn’t tell it—the truth. If she had told him that she couldn’t get pregnant, that there was no scare, it would put things back to primal. But the scare tactic put thoughts in his head. Telling him the truth might put even more. She caressed him without kissing him. She grabbed his penis and began to play. She went to the bathroom and came back with one condom. She made sure to get him in the right mood to put it on him. She let him stay. She mounted him and did the work herself. But there were no stars and no fire. It was all biological—a disappointment to them both. They ate breakfast together before Georgia showered and readied herself to board the train back to London. The closing seemed to have less efficacy than the greeting.
“Thank you for having me,” said Georgia.
“Thank you for accepting my invitation,” said Owen.
“I’ll call you when I get back to London,” said Georgia.
“Please do,” said Owen. They hugged each other like old friends, who tried to see if there was a spark between them, but were disappointed that there wasn’t. The hug was more of a question. How will it be from here on? For Georgia, the answer was above her pay grade. It was up to the powers that be to decide how to proceed. She looked back and held her hand up, extending her fingers. She smiled like a student would smile at her professor and went into Leeds Station by herself.
•••
Georgia made it back to her apartment in Isleworth at 8:58pm. She let her rucksack fall without bothering to unpack anything. She lied on top of her bed—fully clothed—with a large smile on her face. The train from Leeds to London was from Mr. Hyde to Dr. Jekyll. It was the kind of enlightenment brought on by clearing thoughts. She had gone from a creature of stirring emotions to a calm and rational scientist, capable of acute thought. It was the kind of transformation brought on by sitting still while looking at passing landscapes—only a train ride could do it. She had found the success in her failure. She felt she was successful enough to call in sick at Roizman, even though she was still within her six-month probation period.
The phone rang for an unusually long time before Mark answered. He sounded tired in his voice and his breathing was heavy.
“Hello,” said Mark.
“Are you busy?” asked Georgia.
“Yes,” said Mark, “Well, I’m in my office but no. Not really. Tell me what you found out.”
“I want to come see you,” said Georgia, “Can you make me an appointment? Remember I’m your daughter.”
“Yes, Dear,” said Mark, “Be in my office at two this afternoon.” Mark had a cappuccino pre-made and waiting for Georgia when she stepped in his office.
“I don’t see why you couldn’t just say thumbs up or thumbs down on the phone,” said Mark, “Even if the line were bloody bugged, no one’d have any idea what we were talking about.”
“Wanted to check in on family,” said Georgia, “Plus we have some things to think about.”
“Go ahead,” said Mark.
“It’s not there,” said Georgia.
“You’re sure,” said Mark.
“I went through everything,” said Georgia, “Closets, cupboards, everything.”
“You’re absolutely sure,” said Mark, “You understand that everything is predicated on him having that document.”
“Well,” said Georgia, “There’s one thing I realize now that I didn’t realize before. Something that could have saved me the search.”
“What?” asked Mark.
“He’s got this bonsai bush in the corner of his living room, near the window,” said Georgia.
“What difference would that make?” asked Mark.
“The fact that he spends so much of his time lecturing at Glasgow,” said Georgia, “It’s a bonsai bush. Those things have to be cared for and watered frequently. He’s almost never there, yet he has this perfect looking bonsai in his living room. Someone is going there when he’s not around.”
“You mean he’s got someone with an extra key who drops by to water his bonsai,” said Mark.
“In our industry, if you have a classified document or in his case a document that’s not supposed to exist, do you keep it in a place where someone else has regular access to?” asked Georgia.
“No,” said Mark, “Especially if you’re not often around.” Georgia didn’t say anything.
“So he doesn’t have it,” said Mark.
“No,” said Georgia, “He doesn’t.”
“Then he did destroy it,” said Mark, “That leaves us up a creek.”
“Owen reads an anthology of political essays every year,” said Georgia, “That’s not the sign of a man who throws away a document with the political significance of those minutes.”
“You’re telling me he didn’t lose those minutes,” said Mark.
“He doesn’t have them,” said Georgia, “But that’s not saying the same thing as if he destroyed them.”
“So he didn’t destroy them,” said Mark.
“I don’t think so,” said Georgia.
“Then where would he hide them?” asked Mark, “In his rented flat in Glasgow?”
“You want my theory?” asked Georgia.
“If you care to share,” said Mark, “Considering it’s all we’ve got at the moment.”
“You ready for this?” said Georgia.
“I’ve got an unopened bottle of Beefeater here in the desk, if that’s what you mean,” said Mark.
“Karen has the minutes,” said Georgia.
“His ex-wife, Karen,” said Mark, “That’s not even funny.”
“It isn’t supposed to be,” said Georgia.
“You’re serious,” said Mark.
“She has them,” said Georgia.
“Where?” asked Mark.
“I don’t know,” said Georgia.
“But you’re sure she has them,” said Mark.
“You wanted me to get near him and find those papers,” said Georgia, “He talks about his ex-wife as his confidant, even when he’s in bed with me, after giving it to me up against a window. If you can be married but available like so many MPs why can’t you be divorced but together, an ex-MP? She still has him, which makes me think she has them—the minutes.”
“And you’re actually sure of this?” said Mark.
“Yeah,” said Georgia, “And you want to know the dead give away?”
“What?” asked Mark.
“He doesn’t keep condoms in his flat,” said Georgia.
“He brought some back when he brought back the pregnancy test,” said Georgia, “If he’s getting it regularly, and he gives it like he’s getting it, why doesn’t he have condoms around?”
&
nbsp; “Because his ex-wife is too old to get pregnant,” said Mark. Georgia nodded her head.
“They were an afterthought,” said Georgia, “He invited me for the weekend and didn’t prepare, so to speak. He’s not in the habit of buying condoms before the deed. He actually forgot.”
“That’s actually quite clever of him really. He’s keeping her still and she’s keeping his secrets,” said Mark, “I don’t think we’d have thought to look at her.”
“Well, I’ll tell you this,” said Georgia, “I was frustrated in the beginning because there wasn’t anything in the briefing materials about his love life. I thought it was unfair to send me in there with this guy and find out he’s violent or likes to slap women around or in to bloodletting or something. I just wanted to know what kind of guy he was. And the materials fell short. But then it came up that he wasn’t involved that regularly. He had his wife, then there was the fling with the student then there was some speculation about him and the Telegraph reporter. But he shags like he is getting it regularly. I thought about it on my way back from Leeds. He is getting it regularly, from his wife. She was with him at New Year’s and he makes it down to London a few times every year by his own admission.”
“Bugger,” said Mark, “That’s stranger than fiction. The bloke’s still with his wife or ex-wife, however you want to call it.”
“I don’t think it would’ve ever worked, if I’d stayed in Glasgow,” said Georgia, “It was too public. I’m sure his relationship with Nita Harris caused some friction with Karen. It was too public. The administration even found out. But one weekend with me in Leeds wasn’t a crime I suppose. Plus, we stayed in mostly. He wasn’t parading me around in front of his friends.”
“I don’t think I’m going to get over that for a while,” said Mark, “Tolerant, I’d say about that woman or understanding maybe.”
“It was in the briefing,” said Georgia, “Their split was largely over the fact that she didn’t like being that close to politics. It didn’t mean she minded being close to him. They worked out a compromise, simple as that. We do that every day. Don’t we?”
“I suppose we do,” said Mark, “I guess I should say thank you. I mean you’ve done good work here, real good. Bravo, I’m a bit impressed this is your first outing.”
“Thanks, Dad,” said Georgia. Mark laughed.
“You don’t have to call me that anymore,” said Mark, “We’re passed that at this stage.
“So now we have to look at his wife,” said Georgia, “You’re not gonna line me up to shag her, as well. Are you?”
“It’s not entirely my call,” said Mark, “But since you’ve handled yourself so well on this go…”
“Oh stop,” said Georgia.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Mark, “Sit right there while I make a phone call. We have to reorganize to focus on the wife. You’ll no doubt be on standby though.”
•••
Georgia stayed in London for the next three months. She passed her probation at Roizman and signed a full contract. She continued to phone Owen but the phoning was less frequent. She didn’t ask to meet him in Leeds or elsewhere and he didn’t extend an invitation. Despite saying he visited London many times a year, he didn’t tell Georgia that he was visiting the city after she left Leeds. It suited Georgia. Owen was nice and she liked him. But he was a reminder of being in play. With nothing to do but her job at Roizman, she became a de facto denizen of London. Not a Londoner, but she knew the city well after being there for over half a year. She shopped and visited museums on weekends. She wasn’t well-to-do by London standards but she felt it. Her apartment was sponsored by the Agency and she collected two salaries, her normal salary at Roizman and her pittance from the Agency. It was the most money she had collected at any other period in her life. She was still in play but inactive. It gave her time to enjoy being a twenty-four year old woman in London, making her own money. On Sunday June 5th, she got her first call from Mark Miller in over two weeks. It came to the apartment house main line. The phone call was very brief.
“How soon can you get here?” asked Mark.
“Where?” asked Georgia.
“My office,” said Mark.
“On a Sunday?” said Georgia.
“Yes,” said Mark, “Fast as you can.”
The brevity said it all. Despite her double-month long holiday in London, something had happened. Brief calls with instructions to meet meant the same thing at the Agency as it did elsewhere. Something was too big to fit over a phone wire. Georgia didn’t take the London underground; it ran slower on Sundays. She took a taxi. She showed up at Mark’s office building and had to be buzzed in by Mark himself. It was Sunday and the building was mostly empty. She didn’t want to wait on the elevator so she took the stairs. As she climbed, her curiosity turned to excitement. She had no real idea what the Agency was doing to follow up on her theory that Owen’s ex-wife, Karen, had the document in safekeeping. But she knew they were doing something. A quick summons to Mark’s office on a Sunday meant something big—not necessarily good or bad, just big. The suite door was locked when Georgia got to Mark’s office. It was Sunday. Phyllis wasn’t around to escort her to the door. She had to knock to announce herself. She heard the door unlock from the inside and saw Mark’s blank expression.
“Come in Georgia,” said Mark, “Have a seat.”
“Thanks,” said Georgia.
“Have you eaten anything?” asked Mark, “I’ve got half a sandwich here if you’re hungry.”
“I’m OK,” said Georgia.
“I made coffee as well,” said Mark, “I think you’d better have a cup.”
“Then I’ll have a cup,” said Georgia, “What’s happened? Did you find the document?”
“We did actually,” said Mark, “Just yesterday.”
“Where exactly?” asked Georgia.
“She did have it,” said Mark, “You were right. Her parents own some land just east of Huntingdon, some acreage with a small cottage. They do some things. Apparently, they used to raise horses but got too old to keep it going. Karen actually had a studio set up in there when we went in. We went at night and didn’t have much time but they told me what was there.”
“Where was the document?” asked Georgia.
“In the attic, in a trunk,” said Mark.
“A trunk?” said Georgia.
“Karen had a trunk of some old things that used to belong to Owen or still do,” said Mark, “I guess so she could give him something, if he requested it. But it was in the trunk, in an envelope, under a coat. There were some plaques in there from his MP days. It wasn’t terribly hidden to be quite honest.”
“I think it’s like you said before,” said Georgia, “No one was supposed to go looking for it there. It wasn’t supposed to exist in the first place. Who goes looking for what doesn’t exist?”
“Someone expecting manna from heaven I suppose,” said Mark.
“Maybe that’s why she hid it in the attic,” said Georgia.
“Maybe,” said Mark.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday?” asked Georgia.
“We were going to,” said Mark, “But something came up. I was organizing so much yesterday. We got the photographs of the document. We took two pictures of each page with two different cameras. I was waiting for the film to be developed hoping we’d get a decent-looking copy.”
“Did you?” asked Georgia.
“Yes,” said Mark, “But I got a phone call at home while I was waiting for the lads to phone me back and say that they got good exposures and the prints came out. Then I got a call saying that the negatives have to be shipped out of country to Langley.”
“What’s so big about that?” asked Georgia, “You can do all that.”
“Yes,” said Mark, “But amongst all that, I got even another phone call. You won’t believe who it was.”
“Who?” asked Georgia.
“Deputy Director Arthur Witt,” said Mark.
