by O. L. Casper
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 got 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 6
9.86911 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.
“How do I read the big picture?”
I paused for due consideration. I didn’t want to give away all my cards, even to my partner.
“Stafford is a brute. It’s true. But he’s a cunning brute. I say he is a brute because he has strength and he wields it. But he is highly aware of what he’s doing. I even fear he may be able to use his clout against us. I don’t know how he would do this. Only that he almost certainly will.”
“Will you get him in the end?”
Haverstock smiled.
“Will we get him?” I corrected.
“Yes. Will we? Though everyone considers you the brains of the operation. Even your superiors.”
“Obviously they don’t have much brains calling the operation something like Neptune’s Trident. Isn’t that similar to a recent war operation?”
“Yes. Something to get al-Qaeda, I believe.”
Haverstock shifted in his cramped seat.
“That is a small bit of ignorance. The bigger bit is not getting us the warrants we need to go through Stafford’s digital communication as thoroughly as necessary.”
“Obviously that’s a bit stupid. But why do you think they’re keeping us in the dark, Carter?”
“Because, Haverstock, clearly they don’t know what they’re doing. It’s an issue of internal politics, I suppose. But, all things considered, they are in the dark just as much as we are.”
After a bit of reflection, my old friend continued, “How would you break down the case at this point in time?”
“We have three suspects. One, Mark Stafford. Two, Sophia Durant. Three, an unknown party.”
“The third could be more than one person. I mean potentially—right?”
“That’s true. But unlikely. Though, I will not rule it out altogether.”
“What gives you so much hope? I mean, why are you so optimistic about your success—our success—in this case? Is it just a hunch?”
“More of a prognostication.”
“Like a prognosis?”
“More like a prediction.”
“Anybody’s guess…”
“No. I’m going on more than that. But I won’t let you in on all my thought processes just yet…”
“In case you’re wrong…”
“In case I’m right.” I smiled. “Let me elaborate. Serial killing—and I am going to commit to the theory that this is that—continues for a length of time, but, as with the gambler, luck eventually runs against them. Take roulette,
for example. The ball falls on the black or the red. Sometimes successively on one or the other. But we all know, inevitably it will fall on the other color. It may run for minutes, hours, days even on red—but eventually, in the fullness of time, it lands on black.”
