Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs

As he did with every disguise, Caine spent a lot of time perfecting his legend, creating a German street thug in need of cash and excitement. The Teutonic accent wasn’t difficult for him to master since he spoke fluent German. The clothes were flea market glitz. His weapons procured through old contacts. To complete his disguise, he’d changed his gait and added a black eye patch with a pinhole in the middle to see through so it wouldn’t alter his depth perception.

To prove himself, Sharif had been only too happy to let him demonstrate his capability with a Beretta 92 in the assassination of a Yemeni sheikh terrorist-turned-informant. Caine prided himself on his skill with weapons. When he was a teen, his father got a job as a security guard at a strip bar and legal brothel in the Nevada desert. His mother did the accounting. When he wasn’t peeking through the windows of the whorehouse watching the action going on, Caine spent his free time teaching himself marksmanship by shooting the heads off rattlesnakes. He could cock his weapon, fire and hit his target in under two seconds. This was vital to his survival since he worked moment to moment on pure instinct and adrenaline, barreling into ops headfirst, gun blazing.

Caine took out the mark discreetly and efficiently, though after the renegade sheikh had relieved the FBI of more than a hundred thousand dollars. The lost funds, he decided, were a small price for the U.S. government to pay for him to infiltrate the relatively unknown but dangerous terrorist network. He also enjoyed showing up the boys at the Bureau. They hated it when a CIA operative beat them at their own game.

Everything had gone according to plan. Until now. He had to find out why the Russian hadn’t returned to Paris as expected. The ex-KGB agent had orders to bring back details of a shipment of TATP to be delivered to Sharif. The highly volatile triacetone triperoxide was a vital component to the terrorist leader’s bomb-making operation. Caine hadn’t been able to find out his exact plans. Sharif kept that intel to himself, though the CIA operative had reason to believe the Chechen was preparing to increase his war chest by unloading a major antiquity with disputed provenance. Such a transfer into the wrong hands could not only deprive the art world of a centuries-old artifact but also cost innocent lives if Sharif used the money to fund terrorist activities. His job dictated he prevent that from happening, though at times Caine abhorred the tactics he must employ to get intel in the murky netherworld in which spy craft was often on a collision course with international politics.

Taking a deep breath, Caine played down the suspicions in his mind and pulled out a wad of cash. He shoved it into the Russian’s face. “How much do you want to let me fuck the girl first?”

The Russian, aware Caine was baiting him, waved his hand away. “I told you, she’s mine.”

Caine could see the intent in the man’s black eyes that appeared deep in his face because of the dark purple half-moons underneath them. Even though they were smiling at him, he sensed the danger that lurked within them. He was wound up so tightly, any wrong move could set him into offensive action.

Caine stood very still. What if he was wrong about the entire setup and there was no meeting with a federal agent? Could the microphone he found in the planter be old equipment left over from the Cold War? The blue van nothing more than a bunch of kids smoking weed?

His normal MO was to catch the mouse, not when he was in his hole, but when he poked his head out of it. Not this time. Like a fisherman with his line, he had to know where to cast it and what bait to use.

He leaned over the unconscious girl. The aroma of this expensive catch dripping with her own juices greeted his nostrils and made him more desperate to satisfy his own needs. This wasn’t supposed to happen to him. He was trained to forgo sex when necessary. The last time he’d allowed a woman to get close to him nearly cost him his life.

He squinted through the black eye patch to get a better look at the girl. She ignited something in him dormant for a long time. And he had to put out the fire. Fast.

The Russian’s voice was flat like cardboard when he spoke, though his eyes blazed at Caine. “Why did Sharif send you?”

“After you left, he received information that the facilitator of the Italian cell is a suspected al-Qaeda operative and is under surveillance by British MI6 agents.”

The hint of a sneer played around the corners of his mouth as if he figured he’d catch Caine in a lie. “Why didn’t you contact me sooner?”

“I had to be sure you weren’t being tailed,” Caine said, choosing his words carefully. Sharif suspected the Russian was double-crossing him and he’d ordered Caine to tail him. “I’m here to escort you safely back to Paris.”

“Sharif told me there would be a car waiting to pick me up when I return.” The Russian knocked the empty bottle of vodka on the hardwood floor, breaking it. Caine jumped sideways to avoid glass shards scattering everywhere like chunks of ice.

“The plans have changed,” Caine said, gazing around the room with the eye of a man well schooled in the art of escape. No way could he allow the Russian to believe he’d let his guard down. All the while, he was gauging how to take him down, assessing his escape route.

“You’re lying!” the Russian yelled, then he swung at him, catching him on the jaw and sending him staggering backward. The man ripped off his eye patch as his knees sagged, but Caine didn’t lose his balance. Instead, he slammed a balled fist into the bridge of the man’s nose. Blood gushed, the Russian’s eyes shot upward, but he recovered and landed a punch on his shoulder.

Caine put his hand up to his face. His patch was gone. He became aware of a new threat. He couldn’t afford to have the Russian discover his identity.

He ignored the pain and used the heel of his hand to deliver a quick blow to the Russian just below the ear. Without so much as a grunt, he fell hard, hitting the polished wooden floor with a loud echo. While he was down, Caine calculated his next move. Instinct warned him to keep on the offensive, knowing the Russian was armed. He wasn’t worried about being disturbed by an angry hotel guest. The room was soundproof, a modern touch to combat the noise from the traffic and trams outside.

The Russian got up, holding his bleeding nose. “No German street thug has moves like that. You’re MI6 or American CIA. You bastard.” The Russian drew a heavy revolver out of his jacket pocket and aimed it at Caine’s chest.

Before he could fire, Caine kicked the gun out of his hand. The Russian attempted to grab him, but Caine executed an evasive side step then chopped down onto his forearm with the edge of his hand. Next, he delivered a blow to his throat. Before the Russian could recover, he shot a sharp low side kick to his knee, followed by a swivel punch to the heart. Finally he attacked the back of his neck with a chop on his spine with a hammer-fist blow.

The Russian slumped to the floor, his eyes dull with pain. Caine leaned down and slammed the man’s head and spine against the hardwood floor, then let him go. He didn’t move. Satisfied he was dead, he slipped his eye patch back on, then went through the man’s pockets. He was surprised to find a second gun, a Glock, along with a phony passport. Cash. Lots of it. Cell phone. And a plastic bag with—he looked closer—a microchip? More than likely, the Russian had intended to use it as a trade. Nausea made him recoil, then take a breath. So Ivan had extracted the federal agent and gotten the cash. He took another breath, a cleansing breath. He felt no remorse.

The asshole got what he deserved.

He searched his other pocket and his fingers wrapped around something small and smooth. He pulled it out and examined it. A tiny vial marked Narcan. The brand name for naloxone. The antidote. Also, a syringe.

He also found a train ticket to Paris, leaving tonight. And a train schedule with stops checked off with red ink. Scrawled across the top was a date. Two weeks from now. He grinned. This was it, the timetable for the delivery of the explosives.

He’d be on that train and surprise whoever was meeting the Russian in Paris with the news of the untimely demise of the ex-KGB agent. An MI6 agent dusted him, he’d tell Sharif, blaming it on the Brits. Only one thing didn’t add up: The girl.

If he left her here and the local Politzei found her, she’d be charged with the Russian’s murder, a perfect solution to avoid blowing his cover. But if she wasn’t dead when they found her, she could also identify him.

So, what am I going to do with her?

He inserted the needle in the rubber top of the vial and drew up the naloxone to the 1 cc mark, all the while thinking, Should I give it to her? Is that what he wanted? Think.

He sucked in air, forcing his agency training to take command of his senses. Something about the way her lips parted in a sigh, how she wrinkled her forehead as if in her dreamlike state she found no peace, made him insert the syringe into her upper butt and push down the plunger. Then he removed her tight choker, rings, bracelet and leather cuff on her forearm, along with her wig. He wasn’t surprised to see she was a blonde, having already enjoyed the sight of her pubic hair.

He put his hand under her neck, tipped her chin up, pinched off her nose, then sealed his mouth over hers and breathed into her. Long, deep breaths to rescue her from the damning void imprisoning her brain. The drug depressed her ability to breathe on her own so he had to breathe for her or she would die. Yet he couldn’t deny he enjoyed the honey-salt taste of her lips. Soft, full and so sweet. How he wished he could guide her fingers down to his groin and she could feel how hard he was.

But her hands were cold, her head thrown back, neck arched forward, breasts pointed and shoulders shaking. Pushing air into her lungs, Caine pressed his body against hers, his huge erection straining against the coarse fabric and round navy buttons binding it in his jeans. An urgency was building in him as little tremors ran up and down her body, and she started to vibrate like a windup doll with a new battery. He was breathing heavier now, holding back, though yearning to move his tongue in and out of her in a parallel rhythm with his penis, though it remained hard and unbending in his tight jeans.

“Oohh…” she moaned once, then twice.

Abruptly, he released his mouth from hers. He continued leaning over her, smelling the lemony-mint fragrance of her breath. She was breathing easier. No more heavy, short gasps. Her lips were stained a pleasing pink, not blue, her eyelids fluttering. She was going to make it.

He held her in his arms, not wanting to let her go. His breathing quickened and he groaned louder as his hands glided over her bare back, touching—

What was it?

Rough edges pricked his fingertips. Without hesitation, he turned her over onto her stomach. Shock, then a different emotion gripped him. Anger. Her back was covered with faint jagged lines. Scars. Surgically applied skin grafts had helped heal her ripped flesh, but they couldn’t completely erase what had been deep grooves in her back, leaving faint impressions of crisscrossing welts.

Caine fought back the revulsion for whoever did this to her, threatening to overpower the analytical section of his brain. The girl had been whipped, not by a kinky lover but by someone filled with hate.

Who? Why?

He had the feeling that although she affected a couldn’t-care-less attitude, she used that to protect herself. Not uncommon of women in her profession. He’d slid down the panties of many shapely femme fatales in dimly lit hotel rooms, whispering what they wanted to hear while their eyes darted to the cash left on the nightstand. He made them cry out in ecstasy, thrusting his cock into them, but never, never would he lay a hand upon a woman except to pleasure her.

He picked her up in his arms and her head fell against his bare chest, igniting a warm heat in him that traveled down to his groin, making him hard. Again. He pushed his own need out of his mind. That was an indulgence he could not afford.

But the smell of her stirred something in him he hadn’t experienced in so long the ache to conquer her made his blood hot. His need unrelenting. He wouldn’t admit his ego was bruised, if only slightly, when the girl in the beaded black wig had slipped away from him. Though he was certain she was of a venal nature, that didn’t deter him from wanting her.

Because she’d made him hard in the alley, rubbing her body against his bare chest? Teasing him with her nipples pointing through her black bra?

She was recalcitrant in her refusal to back down to him and that attracted him, even if his credo was that a smart man didn’t chase after women for the simple reason he had no time to bother with the hunt. He kept telling himself his main job was to obtain intelligence, not satisfy his carnal needs. He hungered for secrets in the same way other men needed sex. Besides, didn’t his training demand he clean the scene and eliminate the witness?

With the beautiful girl in his arms, he kicked open the door with his boot, then checked the hallway. Deserted. He made a quick exit down the backstairs.

Training, my ass.

He wanted to get laid.

7

Dizziness invades my head and nausea rolls through my stomach, one wave after another. I try to take a breath, but my lungs hurt. Dammit, I can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Panic makes me grind my teeth, possessing me with a fear so intense my heart jumps in my chest. What happened?

Damn, I can’t remember. My brain is swimming in a swirl of saffron fog, clinging to me like wisps of memories lost in a swirling sea. Unfortunately, my body is also suffering from a partial paralysis from whatever drug the Russian gave me and it won’t give up its secrets. I roll my head from side to side, begging for some answers, but all I feel are achy arms, stiff neck and, yes, my butt hurts. Not from the tight fit of a dildo jammed into my back end and bruising the soft flesh, but like someone jabbed me with a needle.

Wait. Someone did jab me in my rear.

I hear a man laughing. Was it him?

In a whirlpool of memory mist and damnable recognition, everything rushes back to me—the alley, the one-eyed Jack and the Russian. Vodka breath, fat, cold fingers, body ripe with sweat. I almost got the guidance chip from him, but I can’t remember much after he sprayed mist into my ear. Chloral hydrate? I don’t know. He could have added the sedative to the vodka he offered me, but I don’t remember drinking it.

I do remember I couldn’t breathe, my brain circuits zapping and zinging out of control. Worse, I failed at my mission. As a TA special agent trained in exfiltration, I’m more than a swallow—a female operative who uses sex as a tool. I’m also an intelligence agent who specializes in getting friendly agents out of hostile territory. It was my job to find the Russian and bring him in.

Where am I now? I stretch out and my feet touch a wall, my left shoulder another wall. I sense I’m confined in a small space. A coffin? Oh, God, no. It can’t end like this. Not after everything I’ve been through, not when I’m so close to finding Sharif. I must bring him to justice. He destroyed my life and my work.

I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to will my brain to focus. Images form in my mind. The young Arab boy…his red scarf…the unforgiving desert sucking him into its bowels. I let my thoughts dwell back to that day I chased after him. I was ready. I heard the voices. I did make an important discovery—

One of the greatest antiquities of the ancient world…

Two years earlier Syria

I race toward the spot where the child disappeared, my boots kicking up dirt, my body so tense I can’t breathe, the mood of the desert so quiet my ears hum in silence. As if it waits to see what I’ll do, if I can recover the bounty it’s taken to its breast as payment for my folly.

No. I won’t let the boy suffer for what I’ve done.

I pump up my speed, but I don’t seem to be moving any faster. What’s wrong? My rational mind tells me I’m running as fast as I can, yet my body floats in a macabre dance, my legs light and airy like a two-dimensional cartoon figure stuck in slo-mo. All the while, I chide myself for allowing this to happen. I should have seen the signs sooner. On closer inspection, I make out a dark layer where there should be bedrock. When I reach the mound I can see it’s a vast, shapeless mass, covered with scattered brush and scarcely any traces of footsteps except where the winter rains formed ravines down its perpendicular sides and laid open a sinkhole on the surface of a recently irrigated field.

And somewhere down at the bottom of the hole is a small boy.

Crying.

Muff led cries, but cries. I swallow hard, my heart beating again. He’s alive.

“Missy Breezy, my brother, help him!” The older boy grabs on to my shirt, pulling and tugging at me. I wrap my arms around him to comfort him.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get him.” I point up the hill. “Run back to camp. Tell them what happened. I’ll go down into the hole and—”

I feel my boots slipping, my tall frame pushing down into the earth. Before I completely lose my balance, I shove the boy away from me. “Go, run!” I let out my breath, not taking my eyes off him until I’m certain he’s out of danger, then, holding on to nearby brush, I lean over, straining to see down the hole. “Mo Ahmed!” I call out, using my nickname for the little boy, but I see nothing. More disturbing to my frantic nerves, I hear nothing. Is he so frightened he can’t speak? Or is he—

Not daring to put that thought into my rattled brain, I lean farther over the hole, calling out his name again, heedless of my own safety, already hearing the shrieking of the boy’s mother, the men shouting orders to one another. “Mo Ah—” I don’t finish the words before the ground gives way underneath me and I plunge down the hole, landing with a thud, then rolling over onto my side, choking and sputtering on a mouthful of dirt.

I wipe the grit out of my mouth, realize my sunglasses flew off my face, but other than that I’m okay. Within seconds, the dust clears from my eyes and I spin around looking for the child. He’s nowhere in sight.

Where did he go?

“Missy Breezy!” I hear voices coming from above me. Ahmed and his wife, along with the other diggers, peer over the side of the hole. I look up, figure I must have fallen into a well shaft about fifteen, twenty feet deep. I see portions of stone steps jutting out through the dirt wall. How far down do they go?

“Your son’s okay!” I call out with assurance, hoping I’m right. I heard him crying, so he must have pulled himself up and wandered away, but where? I’m surrounded on three sides by rough-cut walls. A daring thought traverses through my brain at lightning speed. A big hole near a series of steps leading downward was an attempt by builders to stop grave robbers from getting access to the rest of the tomb. Is a tomb nearby? I look around, squinting. A pile of dirt covers the other wall, dirt that sucked me down with it. A terrifying thought comes over me. Suppose the child is buried under that dirt—

“I come down,” Ahmed calls out, and I can hear him scuffling closer to the edge of the sinkhole.

“No, it’s too dangerous!” I yell back. I don’t want him to panic when he doesn’t find the boy with me. “Get a rope. I’ll tie it around him and you can hoist him up.”

When I find him, I finish silently, wishing I had my flashlight. The sun decides to be on my side after all, casting a sobering light onto the area. I see an amphora-shaped jar, unbroken and intact, lying less than a foot from me. My brain records it, yearns to grab it and examine it, but I have one thing on my mind. Find the boy. A chill races through me when I see a small opening I missed earlier. With new hope filling me up, I bend down and call out, “Mo Ahmed, are you in there?”

“Mama!” I hear a feeble voice coming from somewhere beyond the small crawl-through space. I can’t stop the tears forming in my eyes.

“Mama zamanha gaya,” I yell, getting on my hands and knees and making my way through the small opening, careful not to disturb the soft dirt overhead. “Mama is coming!”

* * *

Half an hour later, the little boy is gulping down cool sheep’s milk with his anxious mother holding him and mumbling how thankful she is to me for saving her baby. Ahmed hugs and kisses me on both cheeks over and over, something he’d never do under ordinary circumstances, then we go to work. With the help of my team, I bring up the amphora I found and, on closer inspection, identify the two-handled jar with a narrow neck and vertical handles that arches high above the mouth as twelfth, maybe thirteenth century. I can’t contain my excitement. According to my calculations, this entire area is believed to have been used for secret burials and human sacrifice long before the Crusades. The tombs unearthed in the area all date back more than two thousand years ago. If this is a buried tomb, and the size and shape of the vault indicates it is, then an interloper from a later time must have found the shaft and used it as a shelter.

A knight from the Crusades? I question. The archaeologist in the photos found his sword and part of his shield near the site, didn’t he? I sense the dead live here, waiting for me to find them.

Digging through the feet of soil filling in the rectangular shaft, we uncover a stone stairway consisting of sixteen steps leading to a tomb chamber roughly oval in shape. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I stop, my ears attuned to that distinct sound so familiar to my soul. I hear the whispers. When I come across another unbroken pot, my heart jumps. I’m a woman with a dream, focused, committed, not deterred by academic bickering or jealous rivalry among colleagues. I’m free to follow my gut. Legend says the lost Crusader knights headed toward Palmyra, located midway between the Mediterranean and the Euphrates. I believe the knights deviated from the route and were looking for a popular oasis in this area, an essential watering place for the many camel caravans that traversed the route in the time of the Roman Empire, when they were attacked by advancing Turks or a local desert tribe.

Shining my flashlight, I channel my previous trepidation into unbelievable excitement when I see two statues of lions, winged and human-headed, forming a portal. Mouth open, eyes trying not to blink, I bend down to creep under them and make my way deeper into the moist vault. I see another winged figure, this time an eagle with a human head, and two alabaster slabs with bas-relief faded not only from time but the dripping water seeping down through the earth. I make my way in small, careful steps, arcing the beam of my flashlight on specific areas, revealing portions of the wall decor in increments so it seems the pictures keep changing, like a dazzling slide show. Figures of slaves bearing objects of tribute such as earrings, bracelets and monkeys are painted on the walls, though the once-brilliant colors have faded. Broken pottery, trash, all lie strewn about the chamber, along with lachrymatories, tear-bottles, so named because they hold the tears of the people burying the dead. I unearth an arm here, a finger there, broken skulls. Not unusual because grave robbers dismembered the bodies to yank the trinkets from the dead. I see distinct tracings where the bodies were buried in wooden coffins, long decayed but lined with bitumen and a whitish material that gives off an eerie glow.