Stiletto Dolls

by C. L. Black

  She dangled Jane’s sweaty underpants like a treat.

  “Na. Besides, Mom’s expecting you two for dinner tomorrow. Remember?”

  “Right, that.” Ja, you promised.

  “Yah, that that. So forget the damn dolls, grow up, and pull on one of those shiny rubber outfits everyone likes. Just give her a taste of that dominatrix stuff you’re so good at. Is that too much to ask? And make sure you wear them boots; the high ones; okay? She has a thing for them high boots. And don’t forget the rubber. That new stuff. Make sure it’s the new stuff. I left some in the top drawer; with them photos you gave me. Got it?”

  “Right! Your intel was quite explicit on that point. Tell the rubber slut we’ll meet in the dining room. O-nine-hundred; sharp! Or else.” She gave a sly grin and tossed Jane’s god-awful knickers.

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure, mate.… Know anything about that missing Air France flight?”

  “Yah, a little. It’s missing.” He tossed the sweaty pink cotton on the pile. “And Janie; no more hiding in the doll’s vinyl; understand?…Why Air France?”

  “Papa was expecting one of the passengers.”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  “Like I told you last week.” He flipped the page. “Papa’s history.”

  “BDN doesn’t think so. What’s your bloody proof?”

  “Funny you should ask, Miss Jane. No one’s seen Papa since last December; in Dubai. I’m told that every time he’s supposed to show somewhere, KK pops up and makes some dumb excuse. Lately, it’s the swine flu. Hey, have you been to Mexico lately?”

  “No, mate. It’s too hot there for me down there.” She fanned the T-shirt. “Remember?”

  “Oh yeah… Just making sure you are you. They still sore about that?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Anyway—word around town is that your little pink doll is covering up Papa’s demise.”

  “KK?”

  “Yes, KK! She’s playing you, Miss Jane. Krump’s sister is running the show now.

  “Sister?”

  “You heard right, Miss Jane. Auntie Krump. The only problem is no one inside Langley or the Foggy knows anything about her. Chicks rule!” He chuckled and flipped the page. “It was the Brits, wasn’t it? They woke up your BFF, didn’t they?”

  “Where’s the body, Peter?”

  “Beats me.… We don’t have it.” He scratched the back of his head and pulled at his hair. “Who hired you?”

  “No one bloody hired me. You need a haircut. Want one?”

  “Come on, Janie. It’s me, old Uncle Pete. Dubai? Who let MK out?”

  “So, you want to meet the client?”

  “You shitting me?…Really?”

  “Yeah. He used to be a regular. A girl’s got to stay in shape.”

  Pete smiled. “Any front page stuff? I never figured you’d really retired after…”

  “Nothing political. Strictly industrial. I’m mindful of your Cock-in-Arse rules. Six wanted proof Krump was really Krump. The assignment was scheduled for my—Jane’s birthday.”

  “Nice present. Did you whack the old fuck?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? Come on, Cougar; I’m not a moron. What have you two been doing for five months? The BND wants to know if you’re still working the Dubai term paper. And no bullshit this time!”

  “Like you said, mate, babysitting. Won’t be much longer. Krump’s taking over the old Churchill estate. My—the assignment, terminates on the twentieth.”

  Pete didn’t like the sound of that. “The orphanage? Weren’t you and—ah, forget it. That’s closed down, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Brilliant, ain’t it?”

  “Sounds pretty twisted.”

  “Not really. Sir Goody squandered the family fortune. The Royal Scottish Bank sent a final notice of foreclosure. His daughter—”

  “Hey, Janie, you okay?” Pete sat up and showed concern he might lose her again.

  “What, ja.” Her mind had hit a pothole. She reached for the can of Black Stallion and drank. “There; good as new. Jack is selling it off to Krump’s foundation under the provision her father can stay on until his death.”

  “You mean she’s selling it to Papa’s sister. Papa’s dead. And so will you, if you keep drinking that shit.”

  “So you say.”

  “Whatever. It don’t mean shit to me. Or you! Get dressed, Dame Jane. I bummed us a ride on a Globemaster (C-17A) headed west. It’s bringing some boys home from Afghanistan. She’s due in at (RAF) Brize Norton.” He checked his trusty Blackberry. “We got two hours. And, just so you don’t get lost again, I’ll be riding shotgun all the way to the Mayflower.”

  “Just like the old days. You plan on tucking me in, mate?”

  “Yeah, something like that, mate. Hit the showers. I’ll tell you the rest on the plane. Hey, Janie—you want to get some lunch first?”

  “Not yet.” She picked up Jane’s mobile.

  “What now?”

  “How’d you like to have tea with a very naughty royal? Mum’s arranged us a visit.”

  “No! My job is to get you to the Mayflower, tonight!”

  “It’s with Lord Churchill himself.”

  “Really? Hey, isn’t he the same guy—” Pete picked up the paper, flipped back a few pages. “So that’s your client? Says here he’s selling the place to the Russkies.”

  “Wrong. Krump’s German.”

  “Whatever. It says he’s selling the entire ten-thousand-acre estate, lock, stock, and rusty barrel, to a commie. Apparently the locals aren’t too thrilled about having another ex-KGB commie billionaire in the neighborhood.” He showed her the page.

  “Yesterday’s news. And Krump was Stasi.”

  “Whatever.… Hey, Janie; wasn’t that place used by the Brits during World War Two as some kind of secret high-value prisoner interrogation center?”

  “Right. His father headed up the whole program. Sir Katherine knew him.”

  “That’s right! What did she call him? Professor O—Orgasm, wasn’t it?”

  “Never to his face. Mum said the old bugger was quite the sadist. Good man, though.”

  “Yah, sure. Guess Sir Goodwin didn’t follow in the family business,” said Pete with a grin.

  “Guess not: obstetrics. I’ll just pop in the shower. Want to come?”

  “Thanks; I’ll pass. What’s the link?”

  “His daughter. She’s still on the Queen’s payroll.”

  “MI-six? No shit?”

  “Maybe a little,” smirked Jane.

  “Huh?” Pete didn’t want details. He did want to have a little fun. “Okay; we got time. Make it quick. And don’t get any ideas, Miss GoodKnight.” He glanced outside. “Insurance.”

  She peered through the blinds. “Only three?” Agents from the Department of State’s DSS London branch were standing outside the motor coach. “You really think you can keep this Kat on a leash?” Two looked familiar. Paris… Bloody hell.

  “Like I said, Cougar. Plane leaves in two. I’ve got a brand-new Blackhawk waiting.”

  “Right. Noticed you circling: Vulture.”

  “Hey, Janie, that’s a good one. By the way, the Brits have you on a term sheet.”

  You Won’t Get Me

  The Churchill country estate, Oxfordshire, UK, 12:26 local

  The Blackhawk set down on the front lawn. A second one, with the assault team, stayed in orbit above the grounds. Just in case. Next to them sat Sir Goodwin’s latest ride. A leased and well-worn Bell Jet-Ranger was dripping oil on the ratty grass. Pete pointed and mouthed to Jane, “You won’t get me on that P-O-S.” He could see right off, things didn’t look to be going so well for Sir Goodwin.

  Born 1 January, 1916, Sir Goodwin was Lord Churchill, the Seventeenth Duke of Oxfordshire, and oldest serving member in the House of Lords. A full-time staff of nurses cared for him, confined to a wheelchair since suffering a stroke on his eighty-fifth. Unable to stand, and w
ith no feeling or movement on his right side, the stroke had necessitated the use of diapers. Thankfully, his eyesight was still sound. His hearing had degraded, but was no worse than most of his advanced age. One other side effect of the stroke was an almost-constant stream of drool dripping from the gap in his teeth on the right side of his mouth.

  Back during the technology boom of the late nineties, Sir Goodwin bet big on the dot-coms. When the bubble burst in April of 2000, he lost nearly all his family fortune—over two billion pounds sterling. Against his daughter’s wishes, he mortgaged the family estate, and other properties and assets, with the RSB. He put the entire proceeds, three hundred million, into an investment fund run by some Wall Street veteran named Bernard Madoff. Madoff’s fund was a favorite investment vehicle of many of the old aristocracy scattered across the European Union. Year after year, the fund returned at least 12 percent, more than enough to maintain their plush royal lifestyle.

  Last December, while listening to the BBC news, Sir Goodwin had got the bad news. The American Wall Street financier, Barnard Madoff has been arrested, allegedly for running a fifty-billion-dollar Ponzi scheme. His daughter was still in shock when the Receiver’s letter arrived on his birthday. His entire investment was gone. Now, Lady Jacqueline was burning through her own rapidly dwindling funds to support her father and the centuries-old family estate.

  They waited in a large sitting room. Like the oil-streaked Jet-Ranger, the place seemed to be in need of much more than just a good cleansing. It suffered from deferred maintenance. The Churchill’s were struggling to maintain a lifestyle that greatly exceeded their current means. Jane hadn’t been there since last fall, when times were better. In March, much of the thirty-thousand-square-foot house was closed off and the staff sacked in an attempt to reduce expenses. It looked to be a losing battle.

  Pete did a double take when the sonsy young nurse named Lucy wheeled in what was left of the old man and parked him before them. To see him there, all shriveled up and twisted, it was hard to believe Sir Drooly, was once a spy master. Jane had neglected to mention that the poor old bugger in the wheelchair had spent twenty years as the Brit’s senior operative in Berlin. He traveled freely, crossing the Wall under a white cover of a doctor. He left the spy game in Berlin for good in 1973, returning to Britain after the death of his father. The crumpled old spy no longer appeared capable of mastering much of anything, including himself.

  Nurse Lucy bent to set the wheel locks. She leaned forward, her hastily brushed hair falling against his old thin face. Jane was sure she caught Sir Goody looking as drool dripped from the right side of his mouth. Nurse Lucy took out a small white cotton cloth and wiped the drool away, all the while speaking to him like he was her little boy. He clearly enjoyed all the fussing about she was giving.

  Pete enjoyed it too. Nurse Lucy’s slightly plump derriere was but two feet in front. The uniform wasn’t hospital regulation. Her big boobs practically fell out when Luscious Lucy leaned over to tend to “Sir Goody.” That’s what Nurse Lucy called him. Her round tush was staring them both in the face each time Luscious Lucy adjusted the small pillow behind his head, or bent over to wipe his constant drooling.

  Pete leaned over and whispered, “What a shitty way to go?”

  Jane whispered back, “Right; like locking a diabetic in a candy shop with no bloody insulin.”

  “Christ, Janie. You sure know how to ruin the moment.” Pete slouched back, improving his angle on Luscious Lucy.

  “Boys.” She nudged his knee.

  “What?”

  “Sit up straight, Peter.”

  “Hey, Janie. Good thing you’re not in uniform. Probably send him over—”

  “Does someone need a spanking?”

  “Where’s the old Jane?”

  “Got old and fat. Remember?”

  Their hushed banter was interrupted by the sound of angry heels approaching. Pete was preoccupied, still fondling Nurse Lucy’s curvy bottom with his eyes as Jane stood and came to attention. She looked directly into the woman standing in the entrance.

  Lady Jacqueline Churchill, sole heir to Sir Goodwin’s hopelessly indentured estate, and next in line for the family’s seat in the House of Lords, glared from the doorway. Clad smartly in her finest equestrian attire, she clutched a favored riding crop that was now being tapped against her boot. Pete took only brief notice, but did sit up straight when she removed her hat and puffed her broad chest. He then resumed his probing of Lucy’s nursing qualifications.

  Dame Jane was less than impressed by the Lady’s display.

  The Lady Churchill eyed Jane with disdain before turning to her father.

  Whack!

  That got Pete’s attention.

  “Lucy! Stop that incessant coddling.” The Lady Churchill entered the sitting room. She struck the crop sternly against her boot. “I’ve told you not to overstimulate him. Go. Fetch some tea! Leave us!”

  Pete was concerned—Lucy’s overstimulation was becoming noticeable. Just the same, he knew better than not to get up to greet a Lady—Churchill. So you’re Papa’s British bitch.

  “Yes, Mum.” Lucy gave Sir Goodwin another quick wipe, leaving the sloppy drool cloth on his lap. She wiggled off, wagging her tail like a well-trained pet.

  Pete and Jane heard a faint gurgled hiss. It sounded a lot like Zicke. They turned to see the smile still dripping off Sir Goodwin’s lips. Each gave the other a glance. He’d just called his daughter a bitch in German. Pete stifled a grin. He was starting to like the guy.

  “To what do we owe this impromptu visit, Sterling? Come to beg Father for a new car?”

  “It’s Dame Sterling,” growled Jane. “Lovely seeing you again too, Jack.”

  Lady Churchill moved forward, stepping across Jane’s proud bow to greet Pete. Without removing the glove, she offered her hand.

  Gunboat diplomacy… Pete felt a definite chill blow through his shorts. He took hold of the Lady’s hand. Her firm grip shook him. Not my type. Her skintight black leather glove sent a shiver racing up his spine. Sir Drooly’s blanket… Maybe that nurse? Lucy returned, blanket in hand. Her big tits jiggling, she bent forward and set it over his lap.

  Lady Churchill released Pete. He kept his eye on the crop. She kept hers on the bulge. He lifted her hand and kissed the fine leather. She liked it. Little Dickey kept up the act. Jane didn’t.

  Traitor.

  “Is it now? What’s this visit really about, Sterling?” snapped the Lady as she sat on the throne next to her father, all the while maintaining a steady glare at Jane.

  “Truth,” said Jane coldly, returning with Pete to their seats.

  “About what?” retorted the Lady.

  Pete rested a hand on Jane’s knee, then piped up. “Your boyfriend; that Krump fella. Ya—”

  Bloody hell!

  “Boyfriend?” Lady Churchill laughed, then directed a piercing glare into Jane and said, “He’s not my boyfriend. You’re the one screwing that disgrace of a daughter; aren’t you?”

  Brilliant!…Dame Jane ignored the assertion. Katrina readied her claws.

  Pete squeezed Jane’s knee. “Um, wasn’t that you I saw in the paper last week with them two reporter chicks? Hey, that was you, wasn’t it? You’re taller in person. Much prettier too.”

  “Yes.” The Lady smiled, briefly tossing Jane another glare. “Herr Krump asked that I act on his behalf in the Korean affair.”

  “So you actually met this Krump fella?”

  “Yes. We met last week, in New York.”

  “Where?” demanded Jane, coming to her feet in a flash. Pete’s black KAT was loose.

  “On board his aircraft.” She gave Jane a peculiar look. “At JFK, and all the way over to London and—”

  “The flat?” Jane already suspected.

  “Yes, the flat! Not that it’s any of your concern, Sterling. He’s purchasing the estate. It’s taking some time to finalize the terms.”

  “Terms?” Sterling laughed and stood tall. “R
ight. Whose condom was it? Yours or his?”

  The Lady stood and readied her crop.

  Son of a prick. Pete’s suspicions were right. Big hands. That neck. Those shoulders. Those feet. Ms Churchill ain’t no lady. He couldn’t afford his cougar getting all scratched up in a fight with a pissed-off tomcat. Jumping to his feet, he got between them before she—he could strike.

  “Whoa! Easy, ladies.” He quickly placed his weak hand over her crop and smiled, then slowly slid it down her shaft. It felt a little stiff, but he sensed she would soften. He stroked it once, more than tickled the business end, and said, “Nice whip, Lady Churchill. Papers say you sold out to a commie; that Krump fella?” Pete had chills as he—she removed his hand for the crop. He braced for an expected backlash.

  “Poppycock!” The crop lowered. “Krump’s no communist. No more than you or I.”

  “Are you sure it’s really him?” asked Pete. His curiosity peaked; he studied, Lady Jack’s, lines. Not bad for a remodel job. Nice.

  “Yes, very. What’s this all about—what’s your name?”

  “An assignment,” interrupted Sterling, sounding less than official before bringing her hands to rest on her hips.

  Lady Jack backed off. Pete stood down too, placing sweaty palms deep in his pants pockets for a needed adjustment. Thankfully, they came out dry.

  “Who on God’s good earth would ever hire you? Not after nine-eleven. You were sacked, weren’t you?”

  “Was I?” responded Jane, as if Jack’s bite didn’t matter. Her eyes wandered back to Sir Goodwin’s drooling lips. He had a twinkle in his eye. She went to lend assistance. Picking up the cotton cloth, she wiped his endless drool, doing her best to imitate Lucy. “How’s that, Sir Goody?” She tickled his left cheek.

  Jane outdid Lucy by miles.

  “Um, your Ladyship; how’d you know it was really Krump?” asked Pete, prying his eyes back away from Nurse Janie and back to the, wicked pissed, and stiffening—Lady Jack? Shit. She was sizing his up too. He was really in a sticky wicket now.