It had been a hot night and the air conditioning had rattled incessantly on, not quite coping with the temperature. But it wasn't the heat that kept her awake, but her restlessness. She wondered where Peter was, her husband of nearly twenty years, now separated from her as he frantically chased his dream of a disappearing youth. Probably curled round some bimbo he had acquired in a disco the night before.
At forty one, after the last four years apart, she still missed him. She resented his womanising, his wasting of money on his latest flame, his fight to keep middle age at bay. For all that, she missed his companionship, his humour, his ability to lift her when she was down.
From the dark of the bedroom, she heard Gary move in his sleep. Her latest live-in companion, Gary was a health freak in his late twenties, the sort of exciting lover that most older women imagined they wanted. So different from Peter, with his flabby gut running to waste and his soft skin loose as he tried to shed weight.
So why did she still miss him?
Damn you, Peter. I deserved better.
It would soon be time to get ready for work. Another of life's disappointments. The daughter of a local doctor in Long Beach, California, she had worked hard as a student, all those years ago, and finally left Berkeley with a pass in law that awed the most judicious and prudent of employers. Any law firm or major corporation would have employed Billie without a moment's hesitation. Add to that her fluency in French, German and Spanish, she seemed destined for a life of achievement and reward.
But nothing turns out the way we plan it.
Although a child of the sixties and a strong proponent of flower power, she was suitably impressed when the CIA approached her, covertly through her tutor. With her exceptional qualifications in law and languages, was an ideal candidate for the Agency.
The CIA, primarily responsible for the clandestine collection of foreign intelligence, co-ordination of national intelligence and for conducting counter-intelligence abroad, gains many of its employees from the college campuses of America. Whereas the FBI, responsible for national security and operating like a police force, is far more open in its selection of candidates, the CIA can only operate in a secret and underground manner.
The recruitment of Billie Knutsford, as she was before her marriage, was conducted in such a way. Before she had completed her final day at Berkeley she was interviewed and accepted into the Agency. She was assigned to the Office of Collection and Dissemination and based on the West Coast where she continued to keep in touch with the college fraternity, seen as a breeding ground for insurgents and agitators. She went to work each day at the Mayfair Cab and Taxi Company and became assistant to the Vice President of Scheduling. The network of cabs that covered southern California was ideal for gathering information with some drivers working as operatives for the Agency. Then the department, responsible directly to the Executive Director of the 'Company', was restructured into the Office of Management, Planning and Services (Domestic). Overnight, Billie found herself at the bottom of the tree, now under control of the Deputy Director for Administration. They'd sent her on a computer course; they now had software programmes that collected and disseminated information for her; used its vast database not to help her make decisions, but make decisions for her. She regretted her decision to join the CIA, the perpetual snooping on people she considered no more than young rebels depressed her. Nevertheless she decided to stick it out and work her way to the top.
Love soon blunted her ambition.
Peter Wood, five years her senior and the son of the richest and most successful mortician in San Diego, met and married Billie Knutsford. Life changed and she got used to the wealth, she settled for comfort and a social life that was the dream and envy of all those who aspired to the life they read about in the glossies. She decided to keep working and retain her independence and individuality until she had children.
But she never did. Tests finally showed that Peter simply didn't have it in him. Her parents died and her marriage broke up after twelve years. It had been no-one's fault, it simply went sour. He turned to younger women and the life of an ageing playboy, she to the career that had never been. So she kept working, kept her head down, kept collecting and disseminating the information on the kids at college.
For all her promise, for all that bright glow of a future, Billie Wood was no more than a well-paid clerk in a cab company.
She suddenly remembered the memo on her desk. It had been addressed to her, had come from Langley. She was asked to prepare a report on her section. In truth, they wanted her to justify her existence. She'd seen it before. It was the first step in closing down the section, the latest in a long line of cost cutting exercises.
All she’d ever wanted to do was something important. Achieve something. Make an impact.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed seven.
Time to stop thinking.
Time to go to work.
The phone rang in the sitting room and startled her. She hurried over to it and snatched it up, not wanting the ringing to wake Gary.
'Hello.' she whispered into the receiver.
'Mrs Knutsford?' a woman's voice asked crisply
'Yes.'
'I have a call for you.'
There were clicks on the line as she was being transferred. She listened for any movement from the bedroom, but Gary remained sleeping. She was relieved. He was like a bear with a migraine if he woke from a deep sleep.
'Billie?' asked a voice that she had never heard before.
'Yes,' she replied cautiously. It sounded official, probably Langley.
'This is the DDA.' It was the Deputy Director of Administration himself. She'd only met him once before, many years earlier, just after his appointment when he'd visited California to see their operation for himself.
'Yes, sir.' She immediately hated her subservience.
'Whatever we say now goes no further. Is that clear?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Good. Phil Tucker, from our European Communications Sector is on his way to San Diego. He'll be bringing some computer tapes with him. I want you to give him all the help you can. Do exactly as he asks.'
'Yes, sir.' She cursed herself as she said those words again. Pretty original, Billie. You're really impressing the guy.
'This is important to us. On a-need-to-know-only basis. Make sure you give it your best. My secretary will ring you with Tucker's flight times.'
'I'll make sure I…' Too late. The phone had gone dead. 'Yes, sir,' she snapped and slammed the phone down.
In the bedroom she heard Gary stir.
She knew it was going to be one of those days.
Ch. 6
'Sar'n'vinger?'
'Please.'
'Okay.'
Adam watched the old Chinaman behind the counter sprinkle the salt shaker over his chips, then follow it with vinegar.
When he had completely doused the chips, he handed them, wrapped in newspaper, to Adam.
'Great. Thanks.'
The old Chinaman in his white overall turned to his next customer as Adam left the Fish and Chip Take-away.
'Sorry. I'm on my way,' he shouted to the traffic warden who was inspecting Emma who was parked on a double yellow line.
'Never booked an old car like this before.'
Adam swung the door upwards. He turned to the warden and offered him a hot chip from his newspaper packet. 'I wouldn't call this bribery,' he joked.
The warden laughed and took one of the chips. 'They're not going to carpet me for this,' he replied. 'Some car?'