by C. L. Black
Karla ordered her boys off then quickly lifted her hands, as if to surrender. She laughed, a little too much, as she peered into Jane’s hijab for a few tense seconds then stepped aside. Karla spoke in Russian, wishing KK and her guest well and suggesting that they would enjoy the evening. She then instructed the security detail to let them pass without delay. Didn’t even require KK’s mystery date to open her expensive clutch.
“Ja, we will Karla,” KK answered in her native German tongue. She escorted a disbelieving Jane past the visually and otherwise impaired security boys, their wands still excitedly warning of danger, and directly to the head table. They sat as thirteen belly dancers entertained the gathering.
Jane glanced at the place card and stiffened. ‘Chairman Krump’. Bloody hell! Instinctively, Cougar73 scanned the gathering for additional threats. Only six more security boys. Odd. The intel advised Krump would be surrounded by three levels. The first was provided by the hotel. The second was the nine bad boys and Karla. Where the bloody hell was the third? Where the bloody hell was his Tiger? Papa never went anywhere without his bloody Tiger. Tiger-six—
Before Jane could think her last digit, KK stood and pounded the table. She signaled for the music and dancing to cease, then announced to the gathering, “Unfortunately, Papa took deathly sick this afternoon. He is now on his way back to Berlin. Please accept his apologies. Doctor said it might be…bird flu. Ja, that’s it, bird flu!” She quickly signaled for the dancing to resume.
Bloody hell. Under her veil, Jane silently groaned as KK plopped down beside her. Right! So much for a quickie. The intel wasn’t worth a pint of day-old piss. Krump was a no-show at his own bloody party. And KK wasn’t on her bloody yacht. She was right bloody here. Something frisky was rubbing her thigh.
“Where you staying, Miss Jane?” She kept her words hushed so only her date could hear. Remarkably, KK seemed fully recovered from whatever ailed her earlier in the lobby.
“What?” Jane had no idea. She expected to be back on the chartered jet by now, almost certain to be gone. She didn’t even pack a bag. Her casual clothes and other life were locked in that diplomatic case on the plane. Suddenly, that diamond-encrusted gold watch on her left wrist felt immensely heavy. She was getting hot. Hot and wet. The go-pill’s magic was nearing its end. She needed to get out of there, and out of, Katrina’s bloody rubber, fast. They wouldn’t wait.
Standard procedure: if the asset didn’t show by the agreed time, they would leave. She didn’t need some rich-bitch watch to tell her; she was going to miss that plane. Right. One look at KK’s drooling eyes told her that. She turned the other way. How long had it been? Something besides Katrina’s bloody latex was making her wet. She felt something. That old tingle. KK had grown…
“You must join me, tonight, on my Knotty Girl. This stupid dinner was all Papa’s idea anyway. I hate these things. Look at them. All fat with their money and whores. I had to entertain them all day while Papa stayed in the honeymoon suite, waiting for the doctor. Bullshit! Just look. They think they can rule the world. They…”
Jane wasn’t listening. She recalculated her escape options. The Prince—not likely.
“A helicopter is waiting?”
“What?”
“On the roof Miss Jane. Ja, Papa said I can’t go out in public in this. You want to come too? Please. You know they kill lesbians in the UAE. Ja, Papa told me! You come?”
You are a naughty girl. She surveyed the room, full with Krump’s wealthy associates and their hired “dates.” She recognized one right off. A general now. She turned the other way only to see another. She’d doubted he’d remember. Played a ditzy blonde teenager on that assignment.
He was a Russian diplomat and FSB colonel at the time. That was years ago, the early nineties, Serbia. Boris had pumped him for intel. Jane felt that familiar tingle when she remembered having pumped his teenage daughter. Uncle Pete was pleased. She’d done well. The bombs all hit their targets, shortening the war. A dancer moved and she spotted another old client. She knew that old bugger well. Liked a good birching. Jane had unwittingly placed her selves in the very bowels of Krump’s inner circle.
Thank God for the dancing girls. Apparently, the state-recommended dress code didn’t apply to dancing girls. The old one reached his left hand out and slapped one of the dancers’ plump round bottoms. Sir Goody, always the naughty little boy. The dancer turned, slapping him back, right across the face, but then sat in his lap, giving him a face full of olive tits. Jane dipped her head. The girls wouldn’t shake their more-than-ample tits and asses forever.
She wagered the old British lord and the others wouldn’t risk their very private interests becoming public. Not in front of their peers. Thankfully, they appeared less interested in KK and camouflaged Jane once the belly dancers resumed their mesmerizing performance. Just the same, the place could use a thorough cleansing. Bloody right. Krump Industries needs a bloody enema.
Miss Jane wasn’t giving any enemas tonight—not dressed in that sexed-up black leather evening gown, matching opera gloves, and those killer five-inch stiletto boots. Not after meeting KK… Miss Jane really wasn’t in the mood, except for Boris’s stilettos? How’d we get these? Jane was mostly unarmed. Maybe next time, boys. Krump was the primary assignment, but he was gone. Who tipped him? She leaned into KK. “Love to, darling.”
“Goody, Miss Jane. Let’s go, before they start asking questions.” KK was up and moving.
Jane grabbed Katrina’s Prada and followed. Instead of concealing her baby dragon, a Glock model 26C and an extra magazine, the small clutch contained six condoms, one of which was used; four latex examination gloves, one pair used; and six tiny ziplock plastic bags, each with a fabric swab inside. Three contained DNA; two, a small toothbrush, also used, and her mobile, a prepaid throwaway. She also had an almost-virgin tube of her favorite shade of red lipstick and a fresh pack of Trident White (Cinnamon Tingle) for after.
Some of the gathered evildoers were staring. Jane shook her head and silently groaned. Time for plan B. “Well, if you insist, sweetie.” Still on the clock.
They left together by helicopter from the hotel roof. She was thankful at least KK had a plan B. Safely in the sky, Jane wiped her killer lips clean. They shared that night and the next together secluded in KK’s stateroom aboard the Knotty Girl, anchored twelve nautical miles off shore in the Persian Gulf. It felt like old times. And this time it was perfectly legal. They were in UN-patrolled waters and KK wasn’t fifteen anymore. It wasn’t until she freed herself from KK’s hungry lips that Jane learned Katrina’s getaway jet had exploded just after takeoff, killing all aboard.
Jane Sterling first met the Countess, Kristin von Krump, eleven years earlier. KK had been at the exclusive Swiss boarding school for only three days when they informed Papa, “KK was not appropriate. She must go at once!” One day later, August 20, 1998, Papa signed the papers and wired Miss Christi, headmistress of Blachmann Academy, the one-million-dollar tuition. Papa happily enrolled his behaviorally challenged and only daughter into the Blachmann Academy for gifted young ladies. Gifted? KK was gifted alright. In the dark arts, maybe.
Papa had warned the headmistress, “I don’t expect she will go willingly.”
She replied, “Perhaps an escort will be appropriate.”
“Better send two.”
“Oh dear, I know just the one.”
“I don’t want her back until you fix her!”
“You signed the contract, there can be no interference.”
“I understand.” Krump abruptly disconnected.
That afternoon, Jane received her action order. She had been given eight days to deliver the skinny little brat to Blachmann Academy. That assignment should have been a snap too. How much trouble can a sassy-assed fifteen-year-old debutante brat be? That’s another story. One they both fondly reminisced about their first night aboard the Knotty Girl. Let’s just say, Katrina got Papa’s brat doll there one day late and both a little sore. Bu
t they made it to the Castle and nobody important died. She hated missing a deadline.
Papa would not speak to or visit with Miss Krump the entire time she attended Blachmann. Those were the rules. Miss Jane did. She visited KK as often as Mum would allow.
Since their wonderful coming together last December, KK had repeatedly promised to introduce Miss Jane to Papa. Five months later, Jane had yet to come face to face with Papa von Krump. Mum’s British clients weren’t thrilled. To make matters worse, Miss Jane was now up against a hard deadline. The Cougar was scheduled to begin another assignment in DC.
The DC client wasn’t thrilled either. Not when she canceled, again. She had blown him off twice before. Then the image of the girl in boots showed up. Jane sent her sincerest apologies and asked if it might be rescheduled, for tonight.
Who was playing who? The clients on all sides of the Atlantic were beginning to wonder.
Greetings from a ghost
11:52 local
Too bloody late! The pink jet was on the roll. Jane glared at the red envelope. Clutched in her perspiring hands, her eyes fixed on those hand-scribed letters, M. H. The pink jet surged ahead, rapidly gaining speed. She didn’t dare open the envelope. But there it was. From a hand she long thought dead. A hand-drawn heart with a stiletto stabbed through it. M.H. How was it possible? MH was her secret, a most secret and unacknowledged code name.
Of the other four that knew of MH, three were dead. Sir Katherine was buried at Arlington. The other, a former KGB operative and Stasi double agent code-named Boris, believed KIA, 11 September 2001. That was how the official After Action report classified Tiger66’s operational status at Jane’s blackballing. Eight bloody years.
The one still living was, Mum. Mum was Jane’s only living link to her past life as a Stiletto doll. She trusted Mum without question. In fact, Mum was the true reason she was headed to DC. That left only one other. It couldn’t be. Not her. Not Kat— She wouldn’t say that name. Nein. She couldn’t say her dead lover’s given name.
Can’t be. She crushed the envelope, burying it, and Katrina’s memories, face down into her heated leather skirt. You’re dead! Her body twitched in response as the Dubai reality hit home. First, those bloody boots, then the kid, and now this? “Bloody hell!” It was getting hot, much hotter than the back of that BMW. KK…
Her head was spinning. She reached for the glass.
Boris has to be dead.
Was that bloody intel wrong too? The only woman Jane Sterling truly feared wasn’t dead? Had Pete lied? She gazed out the window. Through her reflection, the runway’s remaining markers whizzed by. As the two-thousand-foot marker board came into view, the rumbling ceased. They were wheels up and climbing fast. Jane’s heart stopped. She felt a dull thud under her still-booted heels.
Easy old girl.
It was the landing gear locking in place. Since Dubai, every time Jane felt the gear retract, she couldn’t help but think about that Citation crash. “Boris!” Had she done it? Had Kat—Boris really killed her sister? Jane hadn’t been herself since learning the news of Katrina’s demise.
No! Boris is dead. Must have been Papa’s doing.
What about that cocksucker? Karla? Right, the Dubai intel…
Karla was ex-Stasi. She had taken over as Papa’s right hand when Boris was KIA on nine-eleven. In addition to keeping trouble away from KK’s father, Karla had a hand is his dirty work. Had Karla recognized her that night in Dubai? It didn’t matter. Karla was back there, on the ground. Jane was safely on her way.
What if KK knew? Never; KK…
Friendlier surroundings awaited in DC. She was finally leaving the whole bloody Dubai affair behind. Less than nine hours to Dulles. Just in time to soak in the tub, shave, eat a thick bloody rare steak, and prepare for her much-belated encounter with the subject. The client had arranged that the rendezvous be rescheduled for 2100 hours DC time.
Best settle back for a catnap. Her eyes closed.
M. H….
I’ve finally got you
Onboard Krump One, FL 350, somewhere over Siberia
He stared at the dark computer screen for the longest time. Finally a smile appeared. “I’ve finally got you.” The message Krump had been waiting for since yesterday had been received.
Your gift delivered. Going to meet Petra. Wheels up at 10:53 GMT. Meet you in Berlin. K.
He smiled, then raised his glass of Stolichnaya Elite and turned to gaze out the window. “Pleasant journeys, Mistress Sterling.” He laughed. He’d just bagged the rogue Tiger. London would be pleased. Turning back, he found his attention drawn to the elegant woman seated across the table. She had been there, tight-lipped, staring back at him the whole time. He stood, inviting Lady Jacqueline back to his stateroom. “Shall we go freshen up, darling?”
“I thought you’d forsaken me.” Already standing, she was put off by his obsession with reclaiming his wild KAT.
Together, they retired to Krump’s shower before rejoining their special guests waiting in the midships VIP salon. Krump One would be stopping briefly in Berlin for some necessary PR before returning to London to reunite the two female journalists with their employer. Krump’s intervention had secured their freedom only hours before. After six torturous months in a North Korean interrogation center, both young MI6 operatives were looking forward to resuming their lives.
Rubbish
11:02 GMT
Jane’s lids popped. The large flat panel on the forward bulkhead had powered up. It gave the aircraft’s altitude, airspeed, and position on a moving map display. It also showed the outside air temperature. As they climbed, it was getting colder and colder. She glanced at her lap. It was getting hotter and hotter. The jet passed through flight level one-eight-zero, eighteen thousand feet. “Rubbish!” This is all Krump’s doing!
They had been airborne for only nine minutes. She couldn’t wait any longer. Outside, the sky was severely clear. Not a cloud. She picked up the pink cotton, checking the size. Something on the label caught her attention. Made in Turkmenistan—printed in Russian… She got up, leaving her crumbled lover behind. She’s dead! Taking her new cotton mamas, she headed aft to the lavatory to dry off and cool down.
“That’s better.” Feeling comfortably secure in her new armor, Dame Jane returned to her seat. Her eyes focused immediately upon the red envelope. “Rubbish!” She was done cowering to Boris. She flattened it then reached into her left boot, removing her stiletto. She snatched the envelope from the table and sliced. Eyes closed, she let MH hold Boris in her hands. MH wanted to crush her ghost lover into a wad and drown her in the Panna.
Dame Jane thought better and slowly lifted her lids. This card wasn’t a Hallmark. It was fashioned simply, a piece of water-soluble red card stock, folded in half. On the front was a sketch of a compass, hand drawn. Northeast. There was also a clock face. Five till one. It was Kat— Jane stopped herself. She wouldn’t humanize her. No. But only Boris and Katrina could have known that authentication code. Sir Katherine had given it to us the day before the great tragedy over Lockerbie. Her throat went dry. She opened the card and with it a past they both tried so desperately to forget. Paris…
My Dearest MH,
Hey baby. Long time no see.
Terribly sorry we missed each other in Dubai.
Still want your dolls? Interested?
T&C / 1900 / Smith / White / Bullwinkle
Please, do enjoy the photos, love.
Do let Elsa know if you want any signed.
Yours always, K.
P.S. Speak German / Works every time / Do enjoy the gift, baby.
K… Jane practically wet herself. She hadn’t seen that handwriting since that tragic September morning almost eight years before. Boris. She stuffed the long-overdue coded love letter into the half-empty glass of Panna. The paper dissolved into a mushy pulp, its red dye turning the water bloody. She stared at the awful site. Boris is alive. Bloody hell…
Designated Tiger66 by her Russian handl
ers, Katerina Anastasia Teufelritter had been code-named Boris by British intelligence. Like all Tigers, Boris was a highly skilled dominatrix and KGB trained spy and sometimes assassin. She first met Boris the spy on a cold snowy night in East Berlin, February 1989. Jane had no idea she had known Tiger66 as a child. Jane Sterling’s memory only went back to January 1980.
Since going rogue from the KGB that same night in Berlin, Boris always traveled with a candy girl code-named Natasha. Both were believed to be killed in the North Tower on 9/11. Their bodies were never recovered. Neither was any verifiable DNA. At the time, they were also traveling with a little one. Boris called her the princess. She also went missing, that bloody awful day.
Cougar73 had neglected to mention that important nugget of intel at the disciplinary hearing, such as it was, was all done by bloody teleconference. London didn’t have the bloody balls to sack her in person. Just as well. I would have cut them off.
Afterwards, Jane stood alone, lost except for Mum. Mum stood by us. Well, Mum and Pete. But he swore she was dead. Pete said they were all dead.
Something in the photo caught the Cougar’s eye. What’s this?
She reached into the gift box, removing the, real diamonds and, too skimpy, bra and matching panties. Photos… She tossed the priceless bra but held the, precious, panties tight, for cover, as she studied each glossy image. Something about the cabin. She scanned her surroundings. The rack… The old spy was certain. These were taken on this aircraft.
All were action shots—quite explicit action shots. Four women. All playing some kind of kinky fetish game. Miss Jane knew one immediately. Someone’s been a very naughty girl. She must have recorded the encounter. Right. The one in pink was, definitely Papa’s little princess. She continued to eyeball the other woman but couldn’t identify the three wearing hoods. She looked up. Bloody hell! Elsa was coming. She needed to think—Quick.
