Codename: Mascara, part 3

WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT TO READ IS:

IRRELIGIOUS, IRREVERENT, AND IRRELEVANT.

THE PEOPLE, PLACES, AND EVENTS CONTAINED IN ST MUCKYMUCK ARE COMPLETELY FICTIONAL.  ANY AND ALL RESEMBLANCES TO REAL PEOPLE, REAL PLACES, AND/OR REAL EVENTS PAST, PRESENT, OR FUTURE IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.  

IN FACT, ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ANYTHING AT ALL WILL BE REMARKABLY COINCIDENTAL.

Monday: 9:30 AM

Kilcathclyde Archdiocesan Office Building

A dark purple Kilcathclyde Comm van pulled alongside the offices for the Archdiocese of Kilcathclyde.  Dressed in dark purple coveralls with a matching baseball cap sat Emma, donning her special specs.  Surveying the building on an unusually bright and sunny west of Scotland day, she pulled out the dossier and pulled from a pouch in the front cover a brown envelope.  She peered in the envelope and a slightly sadistic smile came to her lips.

She placed the envelope in a large toolbox and stepped out into the Scottish morning.  After walking around the front of the van, a police officer pulled up, “I’m sorry, but you can’t leave that van here.  I’m afraid you’ll have to move it.”

With catlike speed, Emma produced a document from her purple coverall pocket.  “I’ve been called here by the Archbishop to fix a telephone problem in his office.”  She handed the document to the officer and adjusted her special glasses, taking a secret photo of the officer by pressing on a diamond like gem on the hinge.  A faint whirring sound was heard only by Emma.

“Right, that’s you,” said the officer.  “Ta!”

Emma took the document from the officer and bid good day with a slight tip of her purple baseball cap.  The police officer sped off and Emma made her way to the office building.  When she entered, she was met by a rather forbidding female security guard.

“Good morning,” said Emma.

“Good morning,” came the cheerful reply in a surprisingly high-pitched voice compared to her masculine, squat appearance.  “How may I assist you?”

“I’m here to fix His Grace’s line problem,” replied Emma, producing the same document she had shown to the police officer.

“Right…that’s absolutely fine,” said the security guard, handing back the document.  “The lift is just there, past the portrait of His Holiness.”

“Thank you,” said Emma.  She passed the portrait of the Pope.  He was a short man, balding, but not unattractive.  His smile revealed a dimple in his right cheek that frequently afforded him the affection of many a love-smitten lassie and laddie, too.  Emma gazed at the portrait.  “Bah!” she mumbled.

She then made her way to the Archbishop’s office suite.  Sitting at a desk was a slight but handsome young man.  As Emma approached the desk, she was seen by the occupant who made an effeminate exclamation of delight.  “Wonderful!”  He rose from the desk and came around.  “Right on schedule!  I’ll show you where to go.”

“Thank you,” said Emma.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” said the man.

“Oh yes, quite,” said Emma, adjusting her black leather gloves.  “What was your name again?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the man holding out his hand.  “I’m Mr. Leach.  Stacy Leach.”

“Oh yes, your name is on the work order,” said Emma, producing a purple clipboard from seemingly nowhere.  “Yes, here it is.  I believe there is a connection problem?”

“Yes, that’s right.  I’ll take you into His Grace’s office and show you where the phone line is,” said Mr. Leach.

“What seems to be happening?” said Emma as Mr. Leach led them down a long corridor.  At the end was a set of large, mahogany double doors with enormous rings for door handles.

“His Grace is out,” said Stacy. “So we can go right in.”  

He took a set of large keys from his suit pocket and unlocked the office door with a loud click.  They made their way inside an octagonal shaped office that was easily two stories tall.  There was a plush, burgundy carpet on the floor with all sorts of gold thread woven through it.  The office itself was trimmed in gold.  A majestic fireplace made of burgundy marble comprised most of one wall and before it were two burgundy wing tipped chairs with a small table between them.  A most unusual wall clock was next to the fireplace on the right.  It was quite large, about two feet tall, and was a beautifully carved piece of dark wood with an elegant brass casing.  On top of it was a brass figure holding up a globe.  The pendulum was a man riding a horse and the weights were teardrop shaped and made of brass.  Emma knew this to be a Dutch Zäanse clock.  She was impressed with the Archbishop’s taste.

But she was most impressed by the painting of the Archbishop that hung over the mantel.  In it, the Archbishop held his staff, wearing a most magnificent gold chasuble and a mink lined miter and was obviously painted in the very office that Emma now found herself.  “Right, I’ll leave you to it.  The phone line runs along the wall behind the desk.  To answer your earlier question, there is no dial tone.”

“Very well,” said Emma.

Stacy Leach’s mobile phone rang to the tune of “Ode to Joy” and he swept from the room while answering it, yelling something about pants.  Emma made her way to the phone and lifted the receiver.  As the door to the office clicked shut, she pried open the receiver and implanted a tiny chip quickly putting it back together.

Then she followed the phone line to the wall jack and placed a small, white device into it and then plugged the phone cord into it.  She glanced behind to make sure everything was clear.  No one.

Then, she pulled the brown envelope out of the toolbox and placed it on the desk.  Deciding discretion was best, she sat in the Archbishop’s regal, burgundy leather desk chair and began looking for a place to hide the envelope but where His Grace would be certain to discover it.  She leaned back in the chair and happened to glance up at the ceiling and saw that it was covered from one end to the other with an enormous octagonal mirror.  The middle portion was rather uneventful: a large panel that merely reflected the floor as it appeared.  But around the outside of it ran a panel of eight smaller mirrors that were angled so as to offer unusual and magnified views of the office.  This seemed so out of the ordinary that Emma felt it important to snap a pic with her special specs.

She tucked the envelope in the central desk drawer and before sweeping from the office, she took several more photographs with her camera-rigged, magnifying glasses.  She smiled, slyly, as the specs whirred quietly.  The Zäanse clock announced 10:00 with a loud, piercing bell as she rang her clerical employee, “Lipstick…this is Mascara.  Phase One is complete.  The package has been delivered.”

©2010 Steven Gorman.  All rights reserved.