The Gaze of Caprice (The Caprice Trilogy Book 1) (55 page)

              Xiaoyu walked out of the church into the courtyard of the still dripping morning sunlight.  It complimented the dew on the grass in the courtyard.  With Shaw Borwa’s backpack heavy on his shoulders, he walked away from the structure and returned down Via del Teatro Valle, returning in the same direction he came.

• • •

Xiaoyu used the key to get into his apartment on Avenue de Clichy.  Alain Metayer was in the building.  It was midday by the time he returned to Paris and he felt drowsy as if it were a side effect.  He sprayed his skin with a silver topped can and took a shower to wash the flakes away.  He returned to his bedroom wrapped in a towel from the waist down.  He lied down on his bed and fell asleep unwittingly.  He was awakened by the sound of his phone ringing, the house phone.

              “
Hello, Mr. Metayer
,” said the woman.

              “
Call me Alain
,” said Xiaoyu.

              “
We have an appointment scheduled for you tomorrow at the gallery
,” said the woman.

              “
What time
?” asked Xiaoyu.

              “
Does 10:30 work for you
?” asked the woman.

              “
Ok, confirmed, 10:30 at the gallery
,” said Xiaoyu.

              “
Bon soiree
,” said the woman.  Xiaoyu recognized the voice but it took him several seconds to place it—Marti Laine—the curator of
Galerie L’Esi
. 

              The gallery floor was empty except for Marti Laine and one apparent customer.  She approached Xiaoyu and shook his hand professionally.

              “
Good to see you again
,” said Marti, saying it like she meant it, professional.  Xiaoyu shook her hand without saying anything.

              “
The piece you inquired about is in storage upstairs.  I’ll take you up if you like
,” said Marti.

              “
Of course
,” said Xiaoyu.

              Mason was waiting for Xiaoyu in the same third floor room where he had been introduced to Georgia Standing.  Mason wasn’t smoking but he was sipping espresso like Georgia, sitting in the same chair.

              “Sit down,” said Mason.  Xiaoyu sat down without trepidation.

              “I want to tell you about your next project,” said Mason.  Xiaoyu nodded in silence.

              “You can relax and take some time off,” said Mason, “We have a new project starting in Malaysia but it will be several months before we have a role for you.  We’re just now laying the foundation.  There’s a group in Malaysia that’s creating American money out of thin air.  We don’t know if they’re printing the bills themselves or moving them for someone else.  But they work the currency back into the system and it’s as good as gold once it’s in.  We know the money is fake we just can’t prove it.  The counterfeiting’s that good.  The Secret Service follows fake money but we have international license so we’re involved to see what else is going on besides the money.  I’ll give you briefing when I understand what we need from you.  For now, remember the name
Project Open Gate
.  We’ll assign you soon enough.”  Xiaoyu barely moved.

              “But I wanted to talk to you about another assignment, the one you just had,” said Mason.

              “What do you want to know?” asked Xiaoyu.

              “What happened?” asked Mason.

              “I caught up to Voloshyn and I reported where to find his body,” said Xiaoyu, “ Did you get there before the police?”

              “Of course,” said Mason.

              “I locked the door and told you where to find the key,” said Xiaoyu, “That was as much time as I could give you.”

              “What about his head?” said Mason, “Can you give us that?”

              “No idea what you’re talking about,” said Xiaoyu.

              “Voloshyn’s body was there but his head wasn’t attached,” said Mason, “You don’t know anything about that.”

              “About what?” said Xiaoyu, “A project that has no designation or record.  No I do not know anything about it.”

              “The point wasn’t just to kill Voloshyn,” said Mason, “We needed to extract his chip to see how he took it offline.”

              “You said you didn’t want anyone to know about this side project,” said Xiaoyu, “So the less is known the better.”

              “What did you do with his head?” asked Mason.

              “I told you before.  I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Xiaoyu.

              “Need I remind you of the power that I have,” said Mason, “It’s my finger that presses the button.”

              “That’s why you sent me to Rome.  No more button, no more power.  Voloshyn knew that,” said Xiaoyu, “You can press the button but how do you get back your $7 million.” 

              “You don’t wanna say anything,” said Mason.

              “I can say only what I know and I don’t know what you’re talking about with this missing head,” said Xiaoyu. 

              “You didn’t cut his head off,” said Mason.

              “You wanted me to kill him,” said Xiaoyu, “Now he’s dead.  Head no head, dead is dead.”

              “Will you at least tell me how you found him?” asked Mason.             

              “The contact said he disappeared, on Via del Teatro Valle and they swept the building he went into and came up empty handed,” said Xiaoyu, “Via del Teatro Valle is just behind Sant’Ivo church.”

              “How did you know he was in the church?” asked Mason.

              “The only place in the area where a stranger could walk in and asked for sanctuary,” said Xiaoyu, “You think he’d kill someone and take their apartment and stay in the building.  With a missing person, someone would come knocking before long.  Sant’Ivo is a rectory church.  It has living space and Voloshyn was a believer.”

              “How did you know that?” asked Mason, “I never told you that.”

              “You gave me his picture,” said Xiaoyu, “You could see the top of his necklace, a cross.”

              “How did he disappear?” asked Mason, “If he dropped off grid in the alley behind the church, how did he get to the church?  The satellite didn’t pick him up.”

“I told you.  You rely too much on your satellites,” said Xiaoyu, “You’re thinking like the satellite thinks.”

              “How am I thinking like a satellite?  I’m just saying he dropped off grid,” said Mason.

              “No, you said he disappeared,” said Xiaoyu.

              “Ok,” said Mason, “How did he drop off grid?”

              “The algorithm is for mapping people’s motion,” said Xiaoyu, “You’re thinking like the contact, Shaw.
If a person is moving then the satellite will match them
.  He never thought about a person who’s not moving like a person.  The algorithm is for people.  It doesn’t care about a dog.”

              “You’re saying he didn’t walk from the back street to the church,” said Mason, “He crawled.”  Xiaoyu looked at Mason then looked off.

              “He was cornered.  I’ve seen people crawl out of corners before,” said Xiaoyu, “That’s why he didn’t go far.”

              “And the church offered him sanctuary,” said Mason.

              “The church is named for Saint Yves, the patron of abandoned children,” said Xiaoyu.

              “That’s funny,” said Mason, “He did the abandoning.”  Mason stood up from his chair and began pacing the room.

              “If I had a cigarette, I’d smoke,” said Mason.

              “You don’t smoke,” said Xiaoyu.

              “This job is gonna make me start,” said Mason.

              “Starting habits that you’ll have to break is not a good idea,” said Xiaoyu.

              “And you’re Confucius?” said Mason.  Xiaoyu looked at Mason dealing with his frustration—a Chessmaster feeling out-maneuvered.  Xiaoyu realized he controlled the balance in the room.

              “Go across the hall,” said Xiaoyu, “Get another coffee and tell me more about
Open Gate
.”

              The Eiffel Tower was so tall it pierced the sky over Paris but so iconic the sky couldn’t touch it.  The peerage of icons was reserved for such things, structures that stood unwavering, still in their environment without abating.  Georgia was such a structure.  She had weathered a storm of more than twenty-six years at the Agency.  The highlights of the Cold War weren’t highlights only headlines.  News reporters got a glimpse that wasn’t much more than fodder but kept them away from what went on behind the scenes.  To get the real story you could talk to Georgia herself, a structure that stood on the Cold War frontline.  Xiaoyu talked to Georgia.  He didn’t know anyone else in the city. 

• • •

Mason left for Malaysia six weeks after Xiaoyu returned from Rome. 
Project Open Gate
required a lot of build up and strategic planning.  It favored those who favored both.  Mason didn’t have to think twice when asked to help with the landscape of the project.  He left for Malaysia the same week, leaving Xiaoyu in Paris for a full nine months with only Georgia for company.  Xiaoyu had begun to read Mason.  And he read him well.  Mason’s reputation of tactile planning was earned less from talent and more from desire.  Mason enjoyed the plotting and the intrigue.  He was good because he wanted to be and he spied because he liked it.   His relationship with Georgia was the perfect example.  Georgia was intriguing so he gave her his time.  And he was better for it.  Georgia helped Mason.  She taught him.  He had to let his guard down but the more Georgia came in the more she shared.  And Georgia was a library.  Georgia had a way of whispering that gained her ground.  Her vocal cords vibrated a little and she projected her voice even less.  It was a net that materialized by the smoke she blew, subtly going by as she was too well mannered to blow smoke in anyone’s direction.  The smoke formed ropes that never went toward Xiaoyu only around him.  Her whisper had its way.

              “You’re smart,” said Georgia, “And you know how to handle yourself.  But you boys, you boys…” Georgia trailed off.  She dragged off her cigarette and turned her head, tightening the muscles in her neck.  Xiaoyu lost interest in the conversation as Georgia stopped talking.  Xiaoyu stared across the avenue; the longer he stared the larger the light.  It was almost 1 o’clock and the sun liked all things Parisian.  Sunlight echoed the colors of everything, blotting them out and lighting them up.  Xiaoyu’s interest in Georgia was renewed not by the sound of her voice but the touch of her leg.  Georgia continued to stare off and her touching wore on.  Xiaoyu didn’t move but he did notice.  He kept staring across the avenue, running his eyes over every column of the
Musee du Petit Palais
.

              “You were born for this…built for it,” said Georgia, “You know how to work with your fist but do you know how to work with your fuss?”  Georgia released smoke from her mouth casually.  Her leg recanted casually.  She gave Xiaoyu time to think.

              “I don’t know what you’re saying,” said Xiaoyu.

              “You don’t hesitate and you adapt.  You have no expectation of any outcome.  There’s no getting over that.  Even Mason has that chip on his shoulder.  He’s American.  Confidence is in him.  That’s why he works so hard.  He labors under the assumption that if he does everything the right way he wins.  He’s right most of the time but he’s a sore loser.”  Georgia took a long look at Xiaoyu.

              “You don’t plan like him.  You go in with an open mind, prepared to adapt.  Like that you can make decisions when necessary, about planning and people.  And you do it all without hesitation.  You can take someone out, true.  But that’s not always what’s needed.  More often we need a warm body.  Can you bring a body in from the cold?” said Georgia, “And keep it warm if need be?” Georgia’s leg found its way back to Xiaoyu.  It was more emphatic than the first time, less subtle. 

              “Sometimes, Ray, you have to get a woman hot and bothered, especially if she’s in a predicament.  The job is dangerous.  The more reasons you can give someone to do it the better,” said Georgia, taking a long drag off her cigarette.

              “Money talks but you have to give them so much more if you want them to get and give you information that could get them killed,” said Georgia, “Do you know how to get people to do something for you that could get them killed?”  Xiaoyu saw the question wasn’t rhetorical.  He shook his head under pressure, both the pressure of the question and of Georgia’s leg against his.

              “You make them feel alive,” said Georgia, “People risk death if they have something to live for.  Men and women.  Especially women.”  She took her cigarette out of her mouth and looked it up and down.  She studied it as if studying her own addiction.  Then she turned her eyes to Xiaoyu, studying him like an addiction.  Xiaoyu felt a sudden loss of scope.  He had always had enemies and he was good at dealing with them.  He was far more efficient at being hated than being liked.  Even the ashes of interest coming from Georgia’s cigarette bothered him.  Nothing remotely romantic had ever come his way.  He struggled to find himself.  Georgia was right about one thing; he could fight with his fist.  It was when he couldn’t that he could be easily absorbed.  Being caught off guard made him feel caught off guard.  He felt more vulnerable and uneasy than being the only mixed-blood kid on the playground.  At least on the playground, he knew where he was.

“Time for us to go,” said Georgia.  The timing could not have come sooner for Xiaoyu.  Georgia called the waiter and put the bill on a company card.  The benefit of being with Georgia in Paris came in the form of company perks.  Instead of relying on public transportation or his own two feet, he got to ride in style.  In style, was a well-preserved 1976
Alfa Romeo Spider Veloce
, black in color, clean in sound, tough in tone.  In its prime, only the car’s owner got more stares.  The day wasn’t ripe for letting the top down but Georgia took a detour along the Seine.  The car rolled along Quai de Seine with a few other cars.  With the top up, it was impossible to hear the conversation in the car, the topic was limited to the car’s occupants.  The conversation turned carnal—like tartar—nothing cooked, just meat. 

              “This car has done more service to the United States than most agents ever will,” said Georgia casual shifting gears but keeping her eyes on the road—always on the road.  It didn’t matter to Georgia where Xiaoyu was looking.  It only mattered that he listened. 

              “More men spilled secrets in this car than any interrogation room or torture chamber the Agency ever cooked up.  You boys have your interrogation; we girls have ours,” said Georgia slowing the car to round the corner. 

              “So many men with access to so much sensitive intel couldn’t keep secrets in the seat where you are,” said Georgia, “I wasn’t so much smarter than the other girls in the field but they were something I wasn’t, cliché.  Notice the car when we got in.  It’s black.  Most girls would have sprung for the red one. 
C’mon
. 
Young girl
. 
Red convertible
. 
Paris
.  That’s a living cliché.  You still see it.  I was different.  I was an amalgam.  Like yourself.  My parents were from Oldham around Manchester.  But we were born and raised in Virginia.  English manners mixed in with Southern charm.  It did them in, that and the car. 
And cleavage
. 
And the lack of clichés
.  You give them what they want; they give you what you want.  Guys and girls are all looking for the same thing, something interesting.  And they want to have it so they feel powerful.  You can’t let them have you forever, Ray.  They’ll try, but that’s not the job.  You’re something interesting.  You’re not from here or there. 
Like me
.  We’re both combinations.  Men and women love it.  It makes them feel like they have more than one person all in one.  The men that had me had a British gal and Southern Belle at the same time, but they only had to satisfy one woman.  It’s as psychological as much as physical.  A spiraling mystery.”  Xiaoyu looked outside guessing where they were going.  Georgia had said it was time to go, not where they were going.

              “You have to find a niche in this business,” said Georgia, “Powerful people like to share information as much as anyone else.  They just have more to tell so they keep it held tighter.  I knew girls who could go without a bra.  They were less successful at this job.  You gotta work what you got.  Any asset is an advantage.  My assets never got overlooked.  I’ve got one asset you’d never know.  One more gift from Mother Nature.  I didn’t always see it that way.  It was an ironic existence.  I could flaunt my boobs and bed any guy but they couldn’t get me pregnant.  I even encouraged them to try.  Different cultures have different ideas about pregnancy.  Positions, potions I’ve tried all of it.  I could tell you how men from all continents try to knock you up.  They enjoyed it.  That was always the point.  That was always my advantage in this game we play.  Powerful men don’t want to wear rubbers.  The more powerful the more they protest.  Back then, sex without a condom was considered a moral hazard not a medical one.  Other girls wouldn’t let guys do it without a rubber.  As soon as I told them I couldn’t get pregnant they couldn’t handle themselves.”  The topic of conversation had an other-dimensional quality.  Xiaoyu was going on twenty-three years old.  Georgia was fifty-one.  Ironically, the age difference made them like mother and son.  But Georgia couldn’t have children and Xiaoyu had never known his mother. 

              “Why can’t you get pregnant?” asked Xiaoyu out of genuine curiosity.  Georgia started singing.
La la la la la
.

              “You hear that?” said Georgia.  Xiaoyu looked at Georgia and shook his head.  She could see his confusion out of the corner of her eye.

              “My voice.  It’s deep for a woman.  I sound like Tallulah Bankhead.  Difference is she had laryngitis.  The Agency’s full of men.  I’ve been around them so long now I sound like one.” Georgia turned to look at Xiaoyu as she stopped at a red light.

              “Your sense of humor needs work.  You can kill but you’re liable to do more killing than you have to if you can’t take a joke,” said Georgia.  The red light turned yellow, then green.  Georgia tapped the clutch and shifted into first gear.

              “Hormones,” said Georgia, “My body produces too much testosterone.  My reproductive system is the same as if I were seven years old.  It never fully developed, too much testosterone in my tank.  I got boobs though.  The extra free testosterone ramped up my estrogen to balance.  The answer to your next question is yes.”

              “What question?” asked Xiaoyu.

              “If more testosterone means I’m always horny,” said Georgia.  Xiaoyu didn’t say anything.  He was a natural fighter who had known there was more to life than fighting but there wasn’t more to his life.  He killed the day he was born.  He imagined he would kill until the day he died and he wouldn’t die naturally.   It wasn’t something for him to avoid.  It was something for him to accept.  He had no idea about the relationships between men and women.  His sister had been the only person he trusted; it didn’t matter that she was a woman.  It mattered that she could be trusted.  That too proved to be a premature decision or an immature one.  He didn’t trust and he didn’t get close, especially to women.  The only two women who had anything to do with him had abandoned him.  The way he saw it, his mother had taken the easy way out, dying instead of living to be his mother.  Xiaoyu learned dying was easier than living from the Tank.  Every opponent he killed left him one more to face.  He killed only to buy more time till the next one.  Dying was a way out.  In Georgia’s car, he felt the uneasiness of not being able to kill or die.  Georgia had some plan in mind.  Xiaoyu knew that but only she knew where they were going.

              Xiaoyu recognized the Boulevard Ornano.  They drove passed
Galerie L’Esi
.  Georgia parked in a garage a few blocks away and led Xiaoyu back to the Gallery.  At all times, Georgia made sure she was a few steps ahead of Xiaoyu.  At all times, Xiaoyu was a few steps behind.  Marti Laine—the dual-functioning gallery curator and safe house housemistress—was too stylish for both roles.  She wore an optic white shirtdress with light green silk blouse that made the shirtdress somewhat disappear.  She wore 10cm cork wedges with crisscross straps in a green floral pattern to match her blouse.  The cherry on top was her invisible frameless glasses.

              “
Salut
,
madame et monsieur
.  It’s nice to see you again.  May I show you something?” said Marti.

              “We’ve come for our reserved viewing,” said Georgia.  Xiaoyu had no idea.

              “Of course,” said Marti.  Marti led them to the second level and let Georgia escort Xiaoyu the rest of the way to the third floor.  Georgia led Xiaoyu down the hall to the door on the right at the end.  It was the room where Xiaoyu first encountered Georgia.  Georgia walked to the center of the room and did a half turn. 

              “You remember this place,” said Georgia.  The room had four chairs and a small coffee table and thick walls.

              “The room is sound proof,” said Georgia, “And without any connections save for the light switch.  What goes on in this room is always meant to be kept private.  Anything can happen here and it wouldn’t reach passed that door.  You look around and you’ll notice there is almost no furniture in this room, no bed.  Remember what I said about not being cliché.  Never be cliché.”  Georgia wore light gray wide-leg linen pants with long sleeve sheer panel shirt, black.  Her flat-soled sandals were natural leather.  She kicked off the sandals reducing her height minimally but noticeably.  She freed herself from her pants, letting them slide to the ground, stepping out of them.  The shoes and pants were easy compared to the shirt, which was easy-on, not easy-off.  Georgia took the last few steps toward Xiaoyu and grabbed his hands, both of them.  She put her sleeves in his hands.