Dirty Little Secrets

The Evil Queen picked up the phone and dialled. “Carl? Yes, have my driver bring the car around… right away… I’ll be down shortly.” She hung up the phone, snubbed out her cigarette, and rose from the desk. Then she put on her long black coat, picked up the portfolio full of papers, grabbed her purse, and put on her hat. She turned and looked back at her office, just as she was turning out the lights… she was pleased with the renovations on this part of the building, she made a mental note to send the contractor a nice bonus, then locked the door and pocketed the keys.

On the elevator ride down, she checked her appearance and straightened the collar of the coat. The doors opened and she stepped out. Carl waited by the front door and nodded to her as he opened the door. Outside the Pierce Silver Arrow sat curbside, the driver standing by holding the back door open for her. She took her place in the car and waited for him to get behind the wheel.

“Where to this evening?” he asked.

“To the airport… KLM gate… we have an important guest arriving from the Netherlands. I’ll wait in the car,” she said, handing the driver a business card with the name of the arrival. The driver wrote the name on the placard, then pulled away from the curb and headed for the airport. The Evil Queen opened the bar cabinet in the back and poured herself a drink… Jameson’s, a fine Irish whiskey.

Outside, the rain continued but the wind had calmed. She sipped on her drink, watching the sights of the City go by as they made their way to the airport. The Dutch had made many in-roads into the Market, she was hopeful some sort of trade agreement could be reached which would be mutually beneficial. Next week her colleagues would be back from their business trips, and she had meetings scheduled with the Tea merchants, which meant a chance to travel to the Far East. She was looking forward to the trip.

Unfortunately, it also meant her meeting with Reilly would be postponed. An involuntary sigh escaped from her lips, fogging up the window.

“Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the world earth revolves - slowly, evenly, without rushing toward the future.
Live the actual moment.
Only this moment is life.”
–Thich Nat Hahn

Darjeeling is perched in the foothills of the Himalayas. The Darjeeling region produces the world’s most aromatic variety of tea. The unusual mixture of soil, altitude, sunshine, rainfall and the character of the people help Darjeeling produce the most fragrant of teas. Thus, good Darjeeling tea is indeed the champagne of teas. Located in the northern extreme of the Indian state of West Bengal, Darjeeling is just east of Nepal, just south of Sikkim, and a bit west and south of Bhutan.

Tea is grown in Darjeeling from a height of 100 mt. (300 ft.) to 2,000 mt. (6,000 ft). Output and the quality of tea varies with the altitude. All Darjeeling teas are hand plucked. The average production in the hills per acre is almost half compared to the production in the warmer plains. It is this climate and high altitude affecting the slow growth of the tea leaf which helps to give Darjeeling teas the flavor for which they are known. The monsoon starts in Darjeeling about mid-June and from July onwards the quality of tea is of standard character until the rains stop in October. Then for a short period until the end of the season in November, a small crop of ‘autumnal’ leaf is harvested which is flavoury but has ‘thin’ liquor. Darjeeling tea’s unique flavour is influenced by altitude, type of soil, slopes and the character of Nepali labourers who hand-pick these tea leaves.

She opened the red leather-bound book and picked up her fountain pen. She paused. The blank vellum page stared back at her, clean, stark, empty.

She began to write.

The machinations of the human heart are of such complexity that often we are unaware of our own intentions even as we carry out our plans. A certain fellow has captured my fancy, and yet, on an intellectual level, I know that it is an impossible match, doomed to failure. I cannot ever hope that this man will understand the sometimes wickedly sinful trysts I engage in from time to time, nor would he think highly of me were he to know. Yet gentlemen are often blissfully unaware of the activities of ladies, regardless of their name or social status, and I fear it would senselessly shock some of them to find out that the ladies in high society often behave no better than the girls in the neighborhood speakeasy.

For that, I will make no apologies. I have always done exactly as I pleased, regardless of societal definitions of normalcy and expected behavior for women. Men may do as they please and are thought of as debonair, manly, and virile. Women do not have that freedom, yet I claim it for myself. Let them say what they will. I will not change to fit their model. I will associate with whomever I please, whenever I please. And if this gentleman is any sort of man at all, he will accept me as I am.

The telephone rang. The Evil Queen put her cigarette in the ashtray and picked up the receiver. “Yes?… Very good, Sloan, I’m glad he’s been found… one other little matter, a smaller job for you. Track down Tucker and follow him. I want to know what he’s up to… right. And send round one of your bug sweepers to these offices, too. Yes, right away… thank you,” she placed the handset on it’s cradle and picked up the cigarette again.

She was studying the Market figures on the papers in front of her. Things didn’t look so well. Price/Earnings ratios rose from a conservative 150 to 200 or more, and higher for the Market’s favorite stocks. Stock prices were overpriced, and P/E ratios were entirely too high. There were rumors of some big changes coming to the Market, as well… changes that could put many traders into bankruptcy. She didn’t intend to be one of them.

Investors were not protected from fraud, hype, or shoddy stocks, nor were they protected from the monkey machines. Prices and P/E ratios had been run up and reflected falsely high values. Individual traders did not know whether the blogs were doing as well as they claimed to be doing and whether their Market reports were reliable or contained sufficient information to enable them to make trading decisions. The Blogshares Securities and Exchange Commission (BSEC) had been established to lay down the law and punish the violators, but so far their work had been somewhat mired in red-tape.

She recalled the Stock Market Crash of 1929… in fact, the entire Market could again crash spectacularly if traders became worried about their investments and decided to liquidate their investments suddenly with a huge amount of stock sales. The villainous MonkeyX could become worried about inflation and slam on the brakes, causing a loss of control over the economy. Billions could disappear overnight, especially if the rumors about the Artefacts were true. Public confidence in the Market could be shattered. It could take years for the stocks to recover, just as it had in that first Crash. And if that happened, public criticism of City Hall and the BSEC would become an uproar of epic proportions.

The Evil Queen puffed on her cigarette. Perhaps a meeting of the Cartel was necessary…

The Evil Queen slit open the envelope and read the message from Sydney Reilly. Her eyes narrowed into slits as she read about the tapped phone and Tucker’s disloyalty. And then this…

“…Meanwhile… may I say that the stars in the mid-Atlantic are mesmerizing? If only you were here, we could share a glass of Domaine St. Michelle under this canopy of night, on the teak decks of the S.S. Dresden, while music plays softly from a phonograph somewhere below….”

Her eyes softened somewhat, wanting to feel the emotions, wanting to let herself believe that she was part of his life, the most enduring keystone of his happiness, as unchanging as the stars… but she was not quite able to let herself feel it. It had been a long time since she’d let herself go there.

As the courier waited, she quickly penned a note. The note read :

Ahhh, now you are dangerous, Mr. Reilly… but I think, perhaps, you underestimate me. I didn’t get where I am by believing every sweet word sent to me by a gentleman, you know. I do my own thinking, sweetheart, and it may surprise you to know… I have the equipment. - EQ

She smiled and sealed the envelope, then handed it to the courier. He gave her a respectful bow and left on his errand.

The rain was coming down in great wild torrents in the darkness outside. A chill wind howled across the desolate cityscape, whipped the dark surface of the river, and shrieked across the lonely strip of highway that snaked along the shoreline. A single set of headlights appeared from around a bend and slowly made their way along the road as if they were fighting the wind and the rain for every inch of forward progress. The headlights were those of a 1933 Pierce Silver Arrow sedan, one of only three surviving… the personal car of the Evil Queen.

The car pulled up in front of a high-rise in the heart of the city, the offices of The Cartel were located here on the thirteenth floor of this building. Her driver stepped out and opened her door. A doorman with an umbrella rushed up to the car and escorted her inside. “Thank you, Carl,” she said, handing him a handsome tip, “I’ll be working quite late this evening. No visitors, please.” The doorman nodded and smiled, pocketing the cash.

On the elevator ride to her office, she removed her long black coat and the fedora she always wore. Tucker, her assistant, met her at the office door. She’d telephoned him earlier, and he’d stayed on after hours finishing up the daily correspondence. An ambitious young man, Tucker worked very hard at handling the small details around the office. Condensing the day’s Market data into a useful form was one of his specialities, and he knew how to prioritize things and present them in order of importance to his boss. When she arrived, all the reports were on her desk waiting for her, and a fresh pot of coffee had just finished brewing.

A thoughtful look on her face, the Evil Queen leaned back in her leather executive chair after reading the messages taken by Tucker. “A spy in our midst? Hmmm… Sydney seemed like such an attractive fellow too… generous and mannerly, at any rate.” She fitted a cigarette into the long cigarette holder and Tucker lit it for her. She exhaled a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling, then arched a brow at Tucker. “What’s your assessment of the situation with Reilly?”

Tucker hesitated a moment.

“Well, out with it! I don’t have all night!” She seemed irritated. Tucker squirmed… he hated it when she got irritated, but at the same time, he was sure she wasn’t going to like what he had to say.

“Sorry… Sydney Reilly appears to be a… what’s the word?… a counter-spy? He’s working for some sort of secret organization… we’re not sure who just yet… and then there’s this Felix character, a punk, really, but supposed to have some sort of connections… I have, of course, sent word out. We’ll know more in a few days’ time, I’m sure.”

“Days? You think I have days to sit around in this office and wait for your clowns to report back? Ha! Tucker, you haven’t learned a thing, have you?” the Evil Queen gave him a disgusted sneer. “Go! Get out of the office and talk to your street hoodlums, I need information and I need it NOW!” she screamed at him, backing him out of her office just as she slammed the door, nearly hitting him in the face with it. Tucker scrambled to get his jacket on and ran for the elevators. She smirked, and then sat back down behind her desk. She picked up the pile of correspondence and began going through the papers.

It appeared that two of her colleagues had flown out of the country on urgent business, leaving herself and Ashes to handle the Cartel’s Market affairs. A number of ambitious Players had suddenly decided that they were either a part of The Cartel or some rival faction called The Syndicate, but neither of those rumors concerned her for the moment. The evil villain, MonkeyX, had also retreated into parts unknown for the time being. The City Council seemed to be bogged down in some sort of bureaucratic mire, but that was to be expected, she supposed. The City newspaper seemed to be in some sort of a holding pattern, she hadn’t seen a new edition in well over a month… it wouldn’t surprise her if the workers decided to strike.

She puffed on her cigarette… her thoughts returned to Sydney Reilly. What Tucker didn’t know is that her colleagues had made an “arrangement” earlier in the week. She didn’t think Reilly would be a problem… at least, she hoped not. Men like Reilly were rare, like a fine wine with a delicate bouquet… yes, there were things she needed to discover about Sydney Reilly and whatever business he was involved in.

“Time will tell…” she whispered.