Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs

I continue studying the old photo, tracing the outline of the object the man holds up high, allowing the odd shape to form on my mental plane, round, then oval, pointed in one corner with a drawing on it. No, it isn’t a drawing. It’s a crest. A chill goes through me, though the day breathes heat.

“It’s a shield, Ahmed.” I point to a cross with a rose. “There, see the crest?”

Curious, the guide leans over my shoulder. “Ah, very old, yes?”

“Most likely from the Fourth Crusades.” Not understanding, he blinks at me and hunches his shoulders. “Around the beginning of the thirteenth century,” I continue. “It could have come from the castle built to protect Christian pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land. The fortress was never breached by invaders, but abandoned after a long siege.” I glance at the other photos and see the archaeologist holding what appears to be a goblet. “I don’t see any sign of the castle or the village surrounding it in these snapshots, but look at these huts.” I indicate cone-shaped, mud-laced houses stacked up next to one another.

“Beehive huts.” Ahmed shakes his head. “No one has lived there for a long time.”

I dare to look at my guide, hoping I heard him correctly. “You know this area?”

He nods his head many times. “Far from the city. In the desert.” He explains to me how the area is in a desolate spot not close to any oasis and accessible only by four-wheel drive.

I close the photo book, holding it to my chest, while Ahmed bargains for me with the shop owner with his hand already out. With my eyes shut, a thrilling vision blazes through my mind, making my pulse race as the whispers continue, bringing me closer to acting the crazy idea formulating in my mind. It’s too fantastic to put into words. The scribbled white ink on the photos proclaims the year was 1933. Underneath the photo with the goblet, the archaeologist wrote one word: Byzantine. That confirms what I suspected: here is the evidence of a story long believed by scholars to be legend. A story about a time when knights ransacked the great city of Constantinople and retrieved Christian artifacts to take back to Europe, including gold crosses, goblets, ivory, silver and precious jewels. Much of what they recovered was never seen again, since the returning knights often ended up in graves by the roadside, their loot buried with them or stolen by bandits. Could this be the site of lost Byzantine artifacts?

I’m so sure I’m on to something I can’t wait to get started. Why hasn’t anyone else ventured to this part of the desert to dig? I know the answer. So often, the academic community races across an excavated area like rabbits running across a color-rich Afghani carpet. The area becomes a blur of yellows and reds and blues. They spend their lives racing back and forth, studying a small portion at a time, never seeing the patterns, even with the help of satellite photos converted to digital images.

But this bearded archaeologist from long ago photographed the area from the air, making low flights over the desert to search for hidden ruins in a time before plows and irrigation systems destroyed large areas of archaeological record. He found something out in the desert near the tels, the ancient mounds common in the Near East formed where people lived in mud-brick houses and built on top of the remains of fallen structures. A sword and broken shield, a goblet, but not everything.

I’m going to change that. I heard the whispers.

I have no problem getting together a team of diggers, thanks to Ahmed, along with a cook—an Arab woman tattooed from her forehead to her chin with two children in tow. His wife and sons, Ahmed tells me proudly. I laugh and agree to take them along with us. Why not? With the woman’s patience enduring her husband’s constant chatter, smiling and following behind him with reverence, she allows him to lead yet she exudes strength. I admire that.

Ahmed hires a driver and I set out to acquire my permit to dig. I’m not worried. In the Near East, few prejudices exist against female archaeologists. Everywhere I go, my projects are well received, often welcomed by local antiquities dealers and museum curators.

Until I meet up with Dr. Hassan Omar from the National Museum in Aleppo.

“No, I can’t give you a dig permit.” Dr. Omar picks up a big, green, shiny olive from a glass tray and chews on it, his dark, searing eyes never leaving me.

“But why?” I ask, pressing my point. “All my paperwork is in order. My letter from the university, bank credit, passport—”

“No.” He continues chewing on the olive, sloshing it around in his mouth.

“Listen, Dr. Omar,” I continue, my voice strong but even, attempting to smile to alleviate the growing tension between us. I refuse to let this man get the better of me after what I had to do to see him. His male secretary insisted he was too busy to listen to my plea, so I sneaked into his office when the assistant left for lunch, then waited for the director to return and convinced him I was an archaeologist.

“A team from a well-known university in the States recently got a permit to dig in the northwestern region near the Tel Kalaf,” I insist, tossing out phony information, knowing it normally takes months to get a permit but hoping he’s too busy to check out my story. What do I have to lose? Any minute now Security will barge in here and throw me out. “I’m only asking for a short time. Two weeks.”

“I repeat, no.” He takes the slick, nude olive pit out of his mouth and tosses it onto the tray, then licks his lips, his eyes riveted on my chest. His obvious salacious pleasure in the salty taste isn’t lost on me. I can guess what else is on his mind.

I cast my eyes downward, notice my hand is shaking. Think. Don’t get angry. Losing my cool isn’t going to work with a man whose stony expression reminds me of the ancient, stoic-faced basaltic statues standing guard at the front of the museum, their strange, staring eyes painted huge and white to increase their effectiveness in their duty. Besides, I don’t have much time. A khamsin, winds blowing from the east importing extremely hot and dusty air from Saudi Arabia, is forecast in the next few weeks. The tem-perature can climb to a hundred and twenty degrees, making it impossible to sustain any work on an excavation.

I look up at him and cringe. Flashing my university creds isn’t good enough for him. I have a distinct feeling flashing something else would work better when I see him straightening his torso up off his padded chair to get a better look down the front of my shirt. Perspiration rolls down my neck and settles between my breasts. A pulsating noon heat zapped my energy and I didn’t bother to button up. A single layer of white lace hugs my cleavage, a stark contrast against my suntanned skin. God knows what he’s thinking, where this conversation is going, his eyes strip-searching me with the cool methodical gaze of a man used to discerning the tiniest detail. I imagine him probing the intimate crevices of the statue of an Assyrian queen with his greasy fingers. The thought makes me shiver.

To ease my tension, I scan his office. The room is open, airy, with sleek, black, modern furniture. In direct contrast, women wearing lightweight georgette abayas, long robes covering everything but their hands, their heads covered, scurry in and out, leaving paperwork on his desk and, though they take great care not to show it, listening to our conversation. We speak in English, but the brash tone of our voices clearly indicates a disagreement between us.

“I’ve hired a team of diggers,” I comment, hoping to appeal to his civic pride. “All local men. Fair pay.”

“I see. Can you trust these men?”

“Yes,” I answer without hesitation, though the truth is I know little about Ahmed and the diggers he found except they need work and appear strong and healthy.

“You are a most interesting young woman, Miss Malone,” he begins, getting up from his desk and walking around to face me. We stand eye to eye, though I’m taller. A strong, oily smell, mixed with something I can’t identify, assaults my senses. I don’t back down. “Breaking into my office and not even apologizing for your bold actions. How American.”

“We call it ‘going for it.’”

“I’ll make a note of that,” he snaps, his breathing ragged, his eyes going for a better look at my breasts. “I should have you thrown out of here, but I’m most curious, why do you wish to dig in that part of the desert?”

“A hunch.” No way am I going to tell him about the photos I found. I need him, but I don’t trust him.

“And you call yourself a scientist?” His tone harbors more than a hint of humor.

“Yes, Dr. Omar, but I’m a woman, too.”

“So I’ve noticed.” He walks around me as if conducting a perfunctory inspection, his eyes devouring my flesh, though he doesn’t touch me.

I ignore his comment. “I believe in instinct. A scientist can’t rely on calculations alone—”

“I also believe in following my instincts,” he says, breathing on me, his strong male scent suffusing my senses and making me turn away. Fool. That’s exactly what he wants. I shudder as he slides his dark, leathery hand over my thigh and cups my crotch, squeezing me hard, making me cry out in shock, then letting me go. I look down. Grease stains my light-colored pants an ugly brown.

“Dr. Omar, you—you—”

“I imagine you’re wet—and tight. Very tight, eh?”

Embarrassed, I look out the tall window, watching the puffs of clouds moving across the pale blue sky. I remember hiking out to the old fortress, those same clouds hanging like a backdrop against the remnants of the ramparts silhouetted against the sky. Seeing them illuminated by the sun, knowing at night they’re hidden by the darkness fascinates me, as if new artifacts wait for me to find them and bring them out of the darkness. I take a deep breath. I must continue my work, though I refuse to suffer more humiliation from this man.

“It seems I’ve wasted your time, Dr. Omar.” I turn away, pull damp straggles of hair off my face and compose myself. I’ll dig anyway, though without a permit I won’t receive credit should I unearth any artifacts. I’ll be labeled a tomba-rolo, tomb raider, and my reputation will be tarnished, but I can’t stay here a moment longer with him. I can’t.

“You seem to be in a hurry, Miss Malone.” He picks up an olive and pushes it between my lips, nearly choking me. “Care for an olive?”

I spit it out. “I made a mistake coming here, Dr. Omar,” I say flatly. “Sorry to have troubled you.”

Before I can take more than two steps, he closes the door, locks it, then turns to me, smiling. “Of course, there is a fee for my services.”

You mean grabbing my crotch wasn’t enough for you? I want to ask, but don’t. Instead, I brace myself, my eyes fixed on him. “A fee? How much?”

He names a figure that will blow the rest of my grant money. We bargain back and forth, him popping olives into his mouth and lickinghis fingers, me getting the fee down to an amount that won’t leave me with merely a camel for transportation.

In the end, I write him the check, counting myself lucky to obtain a dig permit without having to go through all the red tape with the local director of the Antiquities Service. So what if it cost me a bit of my pride? Finding the Byzantine artifacts will make it all worth it. Still, I barely have enough funds to purchase supplies and rent transportation, but what choice do I have? Only after I give him the money does he agree to help me establish provenance, the documented history of the site, should I find any significant artifacts. I agree. The Aleppo Museum already contains collections of antiques unearthed in northern Syria, from the Mediterranean to the middle Euphrates, near the point where the river flows into Iraq. Showcasing my find here would be a big step in finishing my dissertation.

“You won’t be sorry, Dr. Omar. My work goes beyond discovering the artifacts to building their scientific potential,” I continue, making my point and buttoning up my open shirt with my hand. “It’s the invisible part of what I do.”

He shrugs. “I’m more interested in what I can see, Miss Malone,” he says, handing me the permit, then brushing his fingers across my breasts and lingering on my nipples pointing through the soft fabric. “There’s one more thing necessary to complete our deal.”

“Yes?” I barely breathe the word, standing in his office, wrestling with my emotions, my fears, knowing he’s not finished with me. Known as a furious digger, a determined seeker after booty for his museum, no doubt he has other vices, as well. I stuff the permit into my pocket, then look for a way out. I frown. There isn’t another exit and the door is locked.

“I want to touch you and worship you as a goddess.” He unbuttons my blouse in quick, short movements, the silky grease on his fingers making me sick. I try to stop him, but he pulls down my bra cups and rolls my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. Gritting my teeth, I fight against him and push him away. Hard. He stumbles back against his desk, shaken.

“Unlock the door, Dr. Omar,” I say in an even voice, holding my shirt together. “Or I’ll scream.”

4

Present day

With slow, deliberate moves, I shake the past as I strip in front of the Russian. Where I once floundered, now I perform. I concentrate on the little things, the curve of my fingers when I touch myself, my lips parting in a silent sigh. I maintain a composure bordering on ice. I’m no longer the same young woman locked in a room with Dr. Omar. This time I’m in control. My pulse beats faster, my pussy vibrating to the burning but stimulating sensation a striptease evokes in me. I’m cucumber-cool while I strip, opening up to the pleasures of my art. I find no shame in taking off my clothes. Nudity is part of the game. The only exposure I fear is a double agent like Ivan blowing my cover to one of his cronies.

I turn, unhook my bra, and with the finesse of an artiste on stage, I ask, “Is this what you’ve been waiting for, Ivan?” With my back to him, I whip off my bra. Then, with a graceful flick of my wrist, I wave my undergarment back and forth in front of his nose as if it were a flag of surrender.

He says, “Turn around so I can see your tits.”

Tits. So American. Then it hits me. The one-eyed Jack from the alleyway used the same word. My pubic muscles go into overdrive, reminding me of our sexy encounter.

I push him off my radar, then say, “Not until we have a little talk, Ivan.”

“About what?”

“The real reason you came to Zurich.”

He suddenly flares up. “That wasn’t part of our bargain.”

I smile. “In wartime, an agent extracts information by force—” I drop my bra onto the floor, then turn around slowly, folding my arms over my nude breasts “—though I prefer other methods.”

He grins, though I see puzzlement in his eyes. “Our countries aren’t at war.”

“Aren’t they?” The smile fades from my face, replaced by a deliberate tenseness around my mouth. “Who are you working for, Ivan?”

“I work alone.”

“You’re lying.” I trace my fingers over my breasts, circle my nipples, which are hard and aching. “I’m asking you again, who do you work for?”

“You think I’m going to tell you?” He shakes his head. “I don’t intend to end up buried alive in a nailed coffin.”

I let out a sigh. Whatever the outcome, he’s a KGB pro-fessional of the old school. He knows the game. He knows the risks. Like most informants, the most striking thing about him is the contradiction between his evident strength of character and his vulnerability where sex is concerned.

Which doesn’t help my situation. If I don’t get him to talk, I won’t find Sharif.

I grab another ice cube and sweep its icy tongue over my nipples until it melts. Ivan is also going into a major meltdown. He plays nervously with a swizzle stick, drumming it up and down against the glass. He’s so hot, the sweat drips down his face and wets his shirt in a wide, dark stain across the front.

“I can’t wait any longer.” He unzips his trousers, wide gray pants made from a cheap fabric. “I’m so hard, I could fuck you all night.”

“Really? What a capitalistic idea.” I take in a deep breath, close my eyes. You’ll never get the chance, Ivan. Though I’d love to demote him maximally, I won’t. I need him. Besides, he disarmed me. No prob. My backup will hear my call for help if he gets carried away.

“I’m hard,” says the Russian, grabbing his crotch. “Take off your panties.”

I shake my head. “Not yet. My pussy is so hot, it needs cooling down first.” I have to work fast. I haven’t gotten the chip or the intel from him.

With a quick movement, I plunge an ice cube under my red thong, between my labes, making a sweet circle on my clitoris. I let out a loud groan. I shiver both from the chill and the high state of arousal surging in me. The ice burns on my clit. I push it deep inside me, the sensation so intense I want to scream. I’m so hot, the cube melts in seconds, dripping down my thighs in glistening rivulets, tickling my skin like icy fingers. A puddle forms between my high-heeled boots.

“Enough of your games.” He comes toward me, wiping his mouth with his hand. “I want you.”

“And I want to know what your organization is planning.”

“That wasn’t part of our deal.”

“I’m willing to pay.”

“You’ll pay with your cunt—”

“Ten thousand dollars extra.” I direct my disarming smile at him. It’s standard equipment for a TA special agent. This smile—and my government-issued cleavage—draw men to me like a prostitute wearing nothing but a pink boa and red high heels.

Didn’t the one-eyed Jack prove that?

I pull out a wad of used hundred-dollar bills from the hidden pocket in my corset, then stack them neatly on the table.

“It’s all there, Ivan.” He counts the bills, hissing through his cracked teeth. Greedy bastard. I’ll use that weakness to find out what he knows. “What is their target? When will they strike?”

Bitterness turns his face hard and pale. “No information until we complete the deal.”

Can I trust him? Before the fall of the Soviet Union he rolled up more than one KGB double agent and sent him to his death.

“How much do you want?” I ask.

“Twenty. And your pussy, too.”

“Next time we meet I’ll give you the money—”

He smirks. “I want to get into your cunt now.”

“The information first, Ivan.” I twist my collar with the embedded microphone, making certain the rhinestone stud containing the listening device is pointed directly at him. I don’t wear a comms earpiece since the Russian would have detected it when he was feeling me up and smelling my scent. “Or the entire deal is off.”

He grins. “Clever, aren’t you?”

“The money speaks for itself. There’s more where that came from if you play ball with us.” I am at once smiling at his compliment and frustrated by his reluctance with words. “Tell me what your organization is planning.”

I move closer toward him, run my fingers up and down his cheek, the black tips of my nails scrapping across his skin like chalk against a blackboard. He shivers. Good. He’s weakening. I snuggle up close to him, wrapping my left leg over his thigh. Biting down on my glossy-red lower lip, I toy with my garter. Tiny biofeedback sensors are hidden in the black leather garter circling my leg. If I can get him to touch the sensors, I’ll know whether or not he’s lying.

“I assure you,” he says, pulling on my nipple and rubbing it between his forefinger and thumb. “After our leader receives the funds he’s been promised, there will be an attack against government officials.”

I wince, but I refuse to show weakness in front of him.

“Where, Ivan, where?” Frustration zaps the breath out of me. He’s so busy playing with my nipples, I can’t get him to move his hand down to my thigh. Damn. I press my bare breasts against his chest and lick the pulse at the side of his neck. “Tell me.”

“No. I want to fuck you.”

“You won’t get any pussy if I don’t get the intel.”

His eyes narrow. He leans over me. His breath smells unpleasantly of vodka and garlic. “I’m meeting up with my connect in Paris. A Chechen. I can arrange for you to meet him.”

I exhale. Sharif? Is he telling me the truth? I’ve got to find out. I’m not about to send him to nirvana with my pink pussy lips for a lie. Besides, I have a personal stake in knowing this information. If Sharif is in Paris, I can’t take the chance he could locate me. I have an apartment on the Right Bank, though I change digs often. In my business, it’s safer that way.

“Touch me, Ivan,” I say, grabbing his hand and placing it on my thigh. “Here.”

I place his index and middle fingers on the two biofeedback sensors disguised as phony rubies. With his fingers on the sensors, I ask him again what their plans are. I get the same answer. A meeting in Paris. With a man I believe is Sharif. Is the converted Muslim getting ready to unload the artifact he stole from me? It has yet to resurface, not even in a private collection when the U.S. government seized Syrian artifacts on loan and auctioned them off to compensate Americans injured in a terror attack sanctioned by Syria and Iran.

I look for other clues—rapid eye movement, a flushed face—then I press the tiny set button on the side. Ivan notices my action and rips open the Velcro fastener and removes the garter.

“What’s this?” he yells, trying to dig out the fake stones with his nails. The LCD screen. My face pales.

I continue to smile, showing none of the rising fear surging inside me. “Give me the garter, Ivan—”

“Why? Did your lover give it to you?” he bellows, his words dripping with sarcasm.

I swallow uneasily. “Yes. It has sentimental value.”

He laughs. “Since when did a woman like you have a heart?”

I close my eyes and will the tears not to come. He’s right. I’ve turned into one of them, the miscreants of the netherworld who prey on the lascivious appetites of those who live for power. I have no heart.

But I can’t turn back. I have a mission to finish. I won’t give up until I kill the bastard who sent me to that prison and retrieve what he stole from me.

I sink back into the darkness, dragged down by my own hatred. Those few moments cost me. I open my eyes to see the Russian pull out a tiny plastic unmarked spray bottle. Holding the nozzle close to my face, he says, “You bitch! I figured you were double-crossing me. Is this a microphone?” He waves the garter in my face. “Is it?”

“No, Ivan, it’s not a microphone. It’s—”

Before I can stop him, he sprays a light mist into my ear, making my head go crazy. Is it nerve gas? I press my fingers to my temple as if to stop the sudden throbbing in my head. I can’t.

I blink, then blink again, trying to clear my blurry vision. Sputtering, I lose my balance when he pushes me facedown on the double bed. I land with a thud on the cedar-brown coverlet, when I feel hot breath on my thigh, his hand pushing aside my skimpy thong, followed by fingers plunging deep inside me. The merest contact with him disgusts me. The touch of his unseen fingers brushing across my clitoris sends a glittering trail of heat through my body as the unwanted sensations spark through me, though they can’t overpower my disgust.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him holding the vial close to my face. Fighting my revulsion, I try to push him away, but my strength is zapped. He’s about to spray more mist into my ear when I hear—

Knock, knock.

I stiffen, hope surging in me. Is it my backup?

“Go away!” he yells in Russian, moving toward the door with long strides.