by C. L. Black
Speaking of business, Krump was growing more and more concerned. Since his daughter’s chance reunion a few days before Christmas in Dubai, KK had pursued her Miss Jane all over the world. Papa’s little KK had fallen deep. Sex with the high-end dominatrix and ex–British Intelligence operative and highly skilled assassin was one thing. But, love! Love is forbidden! Papa had warned her. Too dangerous. Three weeks before, her father had ordered her to break it off. Papa was direct. Be rid of her! If you don’t, I shall! End of discussion. Krump was sure; KK’s Miss Jane would compromise the whole operation.
KK was scheduled to join Papa at the Krump corporate offices tomorrow morning for a special board meeting to approve a new factory he’d promised the North Koreans. Papa said, “Be there or else I’ll shut down your little Hush-Hush panty business and sack all your pretty Hushgirls.” KK would be early for Papa’s special meeting. That was, until she saw her Jane standing in the doorway of her Gulfstream, waving good-bye.
Oh, Papa, I Can’t
11:38 local
Her weak heart pounded in pain. Oh, Papa, I can’t! “I— Nein!” Terrified her Miss Jane would never return from this assignment, she couldn’t arrest herself any longer. Fuck Papa! KK bolted barefoot from the BMW shouting, “Jane! Warten sie! (Wait!)”
Karla reached out, grabbing KK.
Too bloody late! Jane moved fast, to raise the drawbridge.
“Miss Jane! Wait!” KK was free and racing up the boarding steps.
“Bloody hell,” snarled Jane, unable to steal her eyes away from her special plaything. The slender little doll had never looked as full of life as when she ascended the boarding stairs.
“Miss Kristin!” shouted Karla, unable to overcome the piercing noise. KK’s wrap dangled from her outreached hand. “Remember your papa’s expecting you in Berlin.” Her words trailed off. She realized it was no use. She herself had once felt the grip of love.
“Wait! Please Jane! Don’t leave me.” KK’s words were telling as she neared. She was the image of unbridled love lost, tears flooding her cheeks. Unable to hide her true desire, she threw her arms around Jane, and clutched her tight as a small child would do its mother. She couldn’t let go. “I love you Jane. I’ve always loved you.”
But Jane heard none of it. KK had whispered her words deep into a heated bosom. The tired old cougar pried free and stepped back, blocking any further progress. She bent, bringing herself to KK’s level, one step below. Eyes clear and true, she spoke. “Now stop this nonsense. Promise Miss Jane that you’ll be good until her return.” She kissed her doll good-bye—she hoped for the last time, catching sight of Karla nearing the stairs. “And eat something, or no more fun and games. Understand?” She produced her final tissue.
“I promise.” KK held the skilled hand steady as it wiped her drippy nose. She wanted to put a ring on that hand. Her face brightened, “As long as I can be a very knotty girl, when I see you again.” She turned to leave, waving Karla off. “Oh Karla, I’m coming.”
KK wasn’t kidding. She also wasn’t the least bit concerned about the crowd of men gathering on the tarmac. Jane was. She sought for cover, stepping just inside the jet. Some were whistling, others shouting, mostly in French, one, very loud in Italian. All had their cell phones and cameras at the ready.
“Ja. Ja. Okay.” KK lifted her head, inflated her expensive chest, and struck a pose. She gave them an eyeful. Unlike Papa, the poor little rich Countess von Krump craved attention, all the attention. She was certain digital evidence of her good-bye performance would be all over the Internet by the time she met Petra for lunch.
“I shall be expecting you to be very naughty indeed, young lady.” Mindful of the pests, Jane eyed her little plaything one last time. “Now down you go!” She had enjoyed her little doll long enough. It was time to get back to business.
KK’s face exploded with joy. “Okay!” She swung herself back around and proceeded to drop.
“Not what I meant.” Jane hauled her topless beauty up in a snap. “You naughty little slut. Down the steps! Off you go.”
“Ja, ja. Just kidding, okay? I go now.”
Whack!
She felt Jane’s love hand smack her bottom smartly. “See, you love me too, Jane.” She started down, adding plenty of bounce, waving as the many camera shutters clicked, much to the delight of the still-gathering crowd of onlookers.
Jane didn’t hear KK’s last words, but she certainly did notice all the snapping cameras. “Bloody paparazzi.” She stepped back, concealing herself again just inside the doorway, watching to be sure KK was off the last step. Right then. She flipped the switch, raising the drawbridge. The boarding steps retracted and stowed into the doorway. Jane knew all about Gulfstreams, including how to pilot one. Sadly, the only flying she’d done in the last few years was in the back.
Jane wasn’t taking any additional risk that KK would break her promise. More than once, she had flown across the Atlantic with Jane, only to wait on board for her to conduct her client’s business, then fly directly back to the Knotty Girl. KK had her issues. But so did Jane.
“I’ll secure the door Miss, Smith.” The flight attendant laughed. She locked the door, sealing them in KK’s flying castle.
Miss Jane Smith, British. That was the only name and nationality listed on the manifest, along with her diplomatic passport number and customs exemption. Like Jane Smith, they were indiscernible fakes.
She slipped by the provocatively dressed perky flight attendant, through the crew rest area and galley. She stepped through the Krump-mandated securable bulkhead door and into the luxuriously appointed main cabin to find her usual seat waiting. They were all her seats, all of soft white Italian leather.
What bloody recession? She dropped her bag next to the gifts in the adjacent seat and sat by the port side window. She watched as KK entertained the still-gathered men on her way back to the car. Safe at last.
The flight attendant secured the door, setting the safety latch to the Locked for Flight position. She went back to better welcome their very special guest. The muffled whine of the starboard Rolls-Royce BR710C4-11 turbofan coming to life barely disturbed the pristine cabin. Jane clicked her lap belt and closed her eyes. The starboard engine was now running normal at ground idle.
Jane was everything but normal as the big jet began to roll. The captain didn’t wait for the second to start. They couldn’t waste any more time. Headwinds over the North Atlantic tended to be unpredictable. No one could know for sure what awaited them. Dame Jane Sterling had no idea. The assassin, Katrina GoodKnight, wasn’t as dead as she believed. In fact, they were on board the same jet.
KK feared she had kissed her lover for the last time. Papa could be so mean. She watched through the tinted rear window of the BMW as her jet began its takeoff roll, taking her Jane away. She opened her purse, gathered her mobile, and thumbed in a quick text.
The pink jet roared down the runway. KK began to weep. As it took to the sky, she tapped the Send key. Why, Papa? I love her too. She dropped the device between her legs, lowered the vanity mirror, and reached for her pink lipstick, then her lip gloss. Applying a new set of strawberry-flavored lips, the Countess shouted, “Karla! Put away that evil fucking thing and take me to the beach.”
Karla did as she was told. She always did as she was told.
Creating Jane Sterling
December 1973
The subject was delivered, somewhere in the former East Germany. The exact date and place of birth was currently unknown. All records detailing Jane’s birth and biological heritage, along with all other documentation pertaining to the entire secret program known as the Candy Business, were ordered destroyed by the Stasi leadership in the fall of 1988. To this day, the woman who identified herself as Dame Jane Sterling knew nothing of her true lineage.
This much was known. A now-missing CIA report, stamped ULTRA (the level above Top Secret), revealed that on 21 December, 1973, a Caucasian female, DoB unknown, was snatched in a joint blac
k ops action led by the British Secret Intelligence Service (SIS, also known as MI6 or “Six”). Their lead female operative—a Stasi double agent code-named Cougar—had smuggled an infant, Stasi identification KAT-731111, out of East Germany. The subject, now designated as JD-731221, was placed in a nondescript London flat. Left in the care of a young woman who lived with her auntie, the child lived there happily with her pseudo-family until her sixth birthday.
It was bitterly cold that December day in 1979. That evening, a man and woman came to attend the celebration. Each had brought a doll as a birthday gift. Both dolls were one-offs. The taller had long black hair. She wore all black—shiny black. The other, shorter and blonde, wore shiny white. After cake and ice cream, unwrapping gifts, more cake and ice cream, it got late. The subject fell asleep on the sofa with her new dolls, one to each side.
The next morning, Jane awoke in the mommy’s bed to find the dolls missing. In their place were the child’s mommy and auntie—dead. Their necks showed clear signs that they had been strangled. Both had also been sexually mutilated. There was a sweet taste on her lips. Blood…
She lay there in a cesspool of blood and human waste, too afraid to close her eyes. Two days later, Jane was rescued, still clutching the severed arm of one of the dolls. The stench was horrid. Jane was naked but for a single remnant of white latex smeared pink with blood. She’d been bound, spread-eagled to the bed. It too had been stripped but for the new vinyl mattress protector. The victims, both nude and sexually mutilated, were posed to either side. No one was ever apprehended.
One fact was obvious. Those responsible were sending London a message.
From that day forward, the child in Jane remembered nothing of her previous life, not even her given name, or the two strangers that came to celebrate. She remembered only, two gifts—two dolls. They brought them. On occasion, distorted images would appear in the fog: necks, tightly cinched waists, the scent of new vinyl and latex, the cling of the rubber, and those bloody tall boots. Weeks passed. She refused to speak or give any details of what happened, except to say, “Simon said. When Simon says, you have to. Can I have my new dollies back now?”
Since that night of unspeakable terror, Jane had been plagued by the same bizarre erotic fascinations. Blondes, young beauties with delicate necks, narrow torsos, tiny waists, and long legs, shiny fetish outfits and a pair of stiletto-heeled patent leather boots. Just like what she wore. Just like her two missing dolls. That little girl still wanted her dolls. Uncle Simon had promised: if I did what he wanted I could have the dolls.
Traumatic Sexual Imprinting: T-S-I. That’s what the first-year headshrinker sent by MI6 to interview the Jane Doe labeled her after reviewing what occurred over the course of that stormy night and weekend. Young Jane’s psyche would twist those gruesome images into a fetish-filled sadomasochistic fantasy of dominance and submission that always ended in erotic surrender. A nightmare, that to this day, Jane Sterling lived over and over again in the very troubled mind of that child.
In the weeks that followed, there were countless meetings with the many interested parties. Once more the headshrinker was asked, “Is she or isn’t she?”
His conclusion: “Either she is fooling us, in which case the Hushgirl is a skilled actress and master liar. Or, she’s fooling herself, in which case she is suffering from D-I-D (Dissociative Identity Disorder).”
One final secret meeting in the windowless room and the decision was made. “Right then, mark the Hushgirl a potential D-I-D and ship her off to the Dollmaker. Let him sort it out.” He turned to his secretary and added, “Please add this postscript: PS: An ideal candidate.”
Her response: “Yes, Minister, right away sir. Shall I inform Cougar as well, sir?”
“No, not yet. Mustn’t get ’er hopes up until we’re certain the bits and bobs all match.”
“Very good sir.”
And so it was. Jane was remanded in the dark of a cold winter night to a small private orphanage for girls in need of special care. Located on a vast country estate in Oxfordshire, the home was administered by the estate’s lord and adopted daughter. They would call her Janie. Janie lived there, remaining silent until the day the woman arrived. Tall, the woman wore shiny leather boots with fancy chrome heels. She was the Cougar.
The KGB and Their KATs
Their counterparts in the East produced their own breed of deadly KATs. Instead of plucking their Hushgirl recruits from the orphanages, the KGB’s KATs all originated in test tubes. At the time of creation, each was classified as a Teufelritter or Teufelmaus (German for Devil-knight and Devil-mouse.) The Teufelritters were most feared. Dripping wet with sexual magnetism, each displayed stunning beauty and athletic poise. Ice-cold on the inside, yet wrapped in a warm and charming personality.
Physiologically altered, these deadly KATs were believed devoid of guilt or empathy. The KATs were psychologically groomed to be cunning dominants, each with a passion for blood. Their given names always began with Kat. Within the world’s intelligence circles, these dark-headed minxes soon became known as the Tigers, the KGB’s most feared weapon of death.
The Teufelmaus were a different breed. Unlike the Tigers, the Teufelmaus were always of mixed blood and groomed to be submissive. From birth, these doll-like porcelain beauties were instilled with an unrelenting desire to please their master, or mistress, even if it meant death.
There was evidence—detailed in the missing CIA report stamped ULTRA—that claimed that some Teufelmaus were sent in the field as young as six. They often worked in teams, with one or two Teufelmaus assigned to the Tiger. They would act as the provocateur. One fact was certain. Their targets never saw them coming. Given the nature of the work, a Teufelmaus’ useful life was short, often lasting only one mission. The KGB and their Stasi puppets didn’t believe in loose lips. Use ’em and lose ’em! We have plenty more. Ja.
The KATs were all products of genetic manipulation and chromosome splicing, followed by in vitro fertilization and gestation in surrogate incubators. It took nearly thirty years, countless failures, and hundreds of millions of rubles to produce the perfect Tiger. By the spring of 1973, the hard work was done. Now, they had to wait. KAT-731111 was the first successful product of a new generation of synthesized genetic artistry. Their genetic discoveries and manipulations were decades ahead of anything occurring in the West.
It was no wonder the Stasi’s head man, known to the West only by his code-name, Breeder, went mad after losing his greatest creation to the West. He had engineered the KAT-731111 to be their best Teufelmaus yet. When word of the abduction reached him, the Breeder vowed to his disciples, “One day the world will see my revenge. The Cougar must pay. Yes, Sir Katherine Black, and all her like, shall die a thousand deaths. One day!”
Project Stiletto Receives the Green Light
January 1980
The events of that cold December night had shaken London to its core. The West had to have its own man-eaters. Referred to in official documents and ministry budget hearings only as PS, Project Stiletto’s purpose was to create the perfect killing machine: a teenaged assassin, a la femme Nikita, a cold-blooded killer with no lasting conscience. Cloaked under the cover of the CIA’s existing Cougar Program, PS was on. The JCSSA (Joint Council for Stiletto Selection and Activation) had made their decision. The Jane Doe found bound in that bed was to become the first candidate selected for the ultra secret, totally black project. By late 1984, Dollmaker was satisfied. Janie was indeed special. It was decided, this Jane Doe actually did have D-I-D.
21-DEC-1984, the Doll Factory, Oxfordshire, England
The tall woman in the fancy boots asked, “Would you like to be my little helper?”
“Help do what?” said Jane coldly, as she admired the woman’s fancy boots.
“Help Sir Katherine kill them evil bastards which killed your mommy and auntie. That’s what!” Those were the first words each heard the other speak that dark, cold, wet morning. The day was 21 December 1984.
/> “And get me back my dollies?” The girl held out a doll’s severed plastic arm. It was fastened to a string she kept round her neck.
“Yes, love.” The woman got down on one knee and smiled. “I think we can do that too, kitten.” She kissed the doll’s hand, then Janie’s, and said, “Well, are ya with me?”
“Bloody fuckin’ we are!” was the teen’s immediate response.
“Sterling! That’s my good kitten.” Sir Katherine held out her hand. “Come along Miss Jane.” She paused to think then added, “Sterling. There now, you have a proper surname. Come now, Miss Jane Sterling. You’re going to come live with me and my lady in our special castle for GoodKnights in the faraway land called New England.”
Four hours later, the wide-eyed Jane Sterling was seated next to Sir Katherine Black in First Class on a Pan Am 747 as it climbed out over Lockerbie, Scotland. They were on their way. Bound first for New York’s JFK airport, and then by special train and private car to the Blachmann Castle in East Hampton, New Hampshire. Late that evening, the Stiletto doll JD731221 entered the Cougar’s den for the first time.
Under Sir Katherine’s tutelage, Miss Jane excelled in all aspects of their education. From the very beginning, the Stiletto was destined to become a strategic asset of the West. The kitten with no past had been groomed those four years in England for one purpose. Now designated Cougar73-S, Miss Jane Sterling had become Project Stiletto’s first success. Their teenaged assassin was to prove every bit as deadly as the KGB’s KATs.
