by C. L. Black
“Need I draw you a picture?” Lady Jack checked her watch.
“Oh, yeah, the condom; sorry,” answered Pete with a childish smirk. “Do you have any?”
“What?” Lady Jack returned her glare to Jane. “Who the devil is this bloody wanker?”
“It’s Long, ma’am, Peter Long.” He lifted an eyebrow and said, “It is ma’am? Or is it Mum?”
No response. His name gave her pause to reconsider.
“Pictures? Do ya have any?”
“It’s Lady Jacqueline, Mister Long.”
“Oh. Sorry, your Ladyship. But please; just call me Pete, okay?” He produced his business card and offered it with a puppy-dog smile.
She took it with a hint of enticement. Peter Long, United States of America, Department of State. Her eyes lifted to meet his. “Director of Human Relations?” A fake laugh, then she put on the charm. “How may we (MI6) be of assistance, Mister Long?” She added, “It is long, you say?”
“Yah, it’s long alright. Secretary sends her warmest. Recent pictures? This Krump fella; do you guys have any?”
“I’m sorry to say, we don’t.” She snarled at Jane.
Pete didn’t let up. “So, he really is your boyfriend?…I mean, that’s what it says on all them internet gossip sites.” He looked at, Dame Jane. “Right?”
Jane didn’t think Little Dickey needed any help. He gave the idled crop another stroke and made like that puppy dog. It was all Lady Jack could do not to blow. She brought the crop down swiftly into her own palm and gripped it safe.
“He values his privacy. As do I, Mister Long. So unless you have some official business?… No?…Then, I think it’s time you leave.”
“Oh, bummer. I kinda hoped you’d show me your tack room. I kinda have a thing for saddles.” He shrugged.
Jane was the one laughing now. Pete knew Jack’s weakness for pony play.
“Do you, Peter?” Her tune had changed. She was stroking her own shaft now.
“Yeah, can’t help myself; something about the leather.” He paused. “Oh yah, there’s one other thing, Jacqueline. You don’t happen to know anything about a one-armed senator named Winter? Thirty-seven. About your height. Maybe you met in New York?”
Her shaft was stilled. “Man or woman?”
“Woman, I think?” He shrugged. “Wait. I got this photo.” He played Columbo, fumbling through his suit. “Nice whip. Ah, here it is.” He pulled his out and showed her. “That’s you two, ladies, boarding Krump’s plane, together, right?”
Lady Jacqueline shrugged him back, than gave her shaft its final stroke. “As I said, Peter, we value our privacy. Why?”
“Well, if you happen to see, her; let her know that if she doesn’t show for tomorrow’s meet, the entire deal’s off. I’m sure you understand.” He smiled and tickled her crop.
“Perhaps I could show you the tack room on your way out, Peter?”
“Really? Awesome.”
“Really, Jack.” Sir Goodwin continued, his speech somewhat gurgled but still sounding very British. “Not now; I invited Miss Jane and her young man into this house and I shall say when it’s time to go.”
“But, Father! I—”
“Jack! Leave us.” The old bugger may have been down, but he wasn’t out—yet. He put his foot down—sort of. “Now!” The drool really flowed as he shooed her away—with his good hand.
“Next time, Peter.” Lady Jacqueline turned to Jane and growled, “Goodbye, Sterling.” She let free the instrument of her rage, cracking the well-worn crop hard against her riding boot and withdrew. Her hundred-fifty-plus-pound frame crushed the ancient flooring as her metal-edged heels sounded a pained retreat.
My Sincerest Apologies
“My sincerest apologies, Miss Jane. Jack’s become such a bore since— Well, not to worry, child; Lucy should be along any minute with tea. So, what brings you two here to see this old man, other than to spark up my day? Do join me in a nip.” The drool wouldn’t stop.
“Sir Goody!” Jane bent, picked up the soaked cloth, and wiped. “That’s my good little boy. We hoped you could answer some questions about Heinrich von Krump.” She pocketed the drool rag and headed for, the scotch. “Peter believes that Papa is dead.” She laughed politely, signaling disbelief as she reached for the virgin bottle of her favorite. “Ah, the twenty-one. Smashing. I see you remembered.”
Before Sir Goody could respond, Lucy entered with the tea trolley. She parked it beside Sir Goodwin and offered Jane and Pete a cup.
“None for me, thanks, love.” Jane poured two of the Old Pulteney, handing one to, Sir Goody. “Cheers.” Down went the scotch.
“Yes, please, Miss Lucy,” responded Pete eagerly. “I like mine creamy and sweet, wicked sweet.”
“Bet you do, sir,” responded Lucy with a naughty blush as she prepared Pete’s tea, making sure to give him a good performance. She turned and said, “Now don’t you be drinking that, you naughty boy.”
Sir Goodwin handed an empty glass back to Jane and said, “Dead, you say? No, not possible. Saw the old boy—just this morning in fact. Standing in this very room. You know he’s fucking her?”
Lucy was handing Pete his tea when she turned and scolded, “Sir Goody, that’s a very naughty word.”
“Sorry, Miss Lucy. Perhaps Miss Jane will put us over that lovely knee of hers?”
Lucy turned back to Pete and continued. “Yes, methinks my little boy could do with a good birching.”
Something about Nurse Lucy made Pete wish he was ten again. He got little and took his tea, with a healthy dose of Lucy.
“Not now, Sir Goodwin.” Undeterred, Jane asked, “Are you certain?”
“What’s that?” Sir Goodwin’s focus was elsewhere.
Pete piped up, “Krump! You saw him this morning?”
“Of course.” Messy lips waited while Lucy found a new cloth and wiped the drool. “Indisputable. I’ve known the old bugger since birth.” He looked at Pete and held up his dead hand with the good one. “Delivered him myself, with these.”
“Yes, sir, I heard.” Pete was sure Sir Goodwin’s doctoring days were behind him. “Could we see Krump’s rooms?”
“Rooms? No rooms. The filthy bastard doesn’t own the bloody place yet. Been using my study, though.” Sir Goodwin pointed at the hallway and grunted, “That way.”
“No shit! Sorry. Mind if we see it?”
“Don’t see why not, old boy.” He winked, and then grunted for Lucy to release the locks on his wheelchair.
Lucy pushed what was left of the crumpled old man into the study. She parked him behind the mammoth old desk, positioned before an enormous window. The commanding view looked out over the estate’s expansive rear grounds. Nearly a quarter mile away, on the far side of the estate, sat the old orphanage. Even from that distance, it looked to be in a sad state of neglect.
Jane didn’t care for the view. The little she did remember hadn’t been a pleasant experience. A glass display cabinet full of old dolls caught her eye. “Didn’t know you were a collector, Sir Goodwin?”
“What’s that? Oh, heavens no, Miss Jane. My daughter’s. Yes, Jack has collected them since she was a child. She’s kept every one we gave her. They’re not valuable, mind you. To remember, I suppose. Some of the older ones were her mother’s and sister’s. Too bad about your shunt. That was our last chassis, you know.”
Jane didn’t say anything. She wasn’t listening, just stared into the case. One doll in particular. It was an old Bild Lilli doll from the fifties, almost hidden, in the back right corner, behind the others. The doll was missing an arm. “Hers, you say? You gave her them?”
“Yes, Miss Jane. Some were gifts for the girls. They outgrew them. You understand. She even has names for each of them. Silly, isn’t it? A grown woman.” He needed a wipe.
“Yah, I guess.” Pete walked over to get Nurse Janie and to check out the dolls. He wasn’t impressed. He nudged her and said, “Forget the damn dolls, will ya?” Frustrated, he turned a
way and went back to join Sir Drooly and Luscious Lucy at work by the window. Looking out for Jane, he asked, “What’s with all them workers?”
“Yes, that? We’re preparing the grounds for Krump’s welcoming reception and the Hush-Hush fashion show. A condition of the sale; I insisted.” That thought got the drool flowing. “You will still be coming, won’t you, Miss Jane?” Sir Goodwin was drooling through his crack again. “Miss Christi promised you’d all come. Will the new doll be coming too? You know: the one Jack met in New York. How on earth did she get hold of those old boots? They went missing years ago.”
Pete stayed silent. Didn’t flinch; just kept his eyes pointed out that window.
Dame Jane responded, “Yes, Sir Goodwin, that’s the question, isn’t it? We’ll all be here. I look forward to finally meeting your mysterious benefactor.”
“Brilliant. I’m sure that Herr Krump will as well. You should join us too, Mister Long.”
“Hey, thanks, Sir Goodwin. Please, call me Pete, will ya?” He gave the old bugger a solid whack on his dead shoulder. “Sorry, I hope that didn’t hurt much.”
“Smashing,” loathed Jane, still fixated on, the doll—a different doll. Its arm was broken too.
It was Sarah’s Secret Agent Femdom Barbie. The little girl inside remembered: Sir Katherine had Scotch-taped it at the party, in a feeble attempt of repair. She had the boots on. She went white as a sheet, a vinyl sheet. That night. They were the same boots. And that shiny black jacket…
Pete gave the window a shout. “Hey, Janie!”
“What!”
“We got to get going.” Pete’s tea sat untouched on the windowsill. He found his Blackberry and started tapping. “Our ride just landed.” He hurried back over to see what was holding his Kat spellbound. He whispered, “Didn’t know you still liked dolls; not those ones, anyway.” His focus followed hers. “Shit, Janie, that one looks just like—” He froze stiff. “Hey!”
She elbowed him in the gut and growled, “Shut it!”
Lucy was pushing Sir Goody their way.
“What’s that you said, old boy?”
“Nothing, Sir Goody.” Jane moved to intercept. “Pete’s just not a doll lover. Sadly, we must be off. Perhaps, we’ll have more time for Miss Jane’s favorite little boy next time.” She fussed with his blanket, making sure to paw his good side.
“Oh, I do hope so, Miss Jane. I’ll have Nurse Lucy polish the armor.”
Lucy started to giggle.
Miss Jane kissed the drooling lip goodbye. “Right then, best have Lucy lube the rack as well. It was a wee bit squeaky last time, as I recall.”
“Come on, Miss Jane; we got to go, now.” Pete wasn’t amused.
They were off.
Not a minute later: Lady Jacqueline emerged from behind the secret panel. Seething with contempt, Jack approached his father, shouting, “Lucy, leave us at once!”
“Yes, Mum.” Lucy had seen that look enough times to know what was in store. She wasted no time in withdrawing.
“Now, Jack.”
The Lady struck her father across the face—the good side. The crop halted his protest. She waited for the doors to close. “You old fool. The Blachmann KAT knows.”
“How could she? Katrina can have no memories of that night. She was drugged, I tell you. The other dolls too.”
“I tell you; the Blachmann KAT is awake! She knows what you did.”
“Nonsense. I—”
She struck him again—a stinging blow. “Silence! You old pantywaist.” She struck him twice more, each just as harsh. His face looked clawed. It seemed that Sir Goodwin enjoyed the receiving as much as the Lady did the giving. “I see you two shared the scotch.” It was drugged. She knew her father would have no memories of his beating. And, with some luck, neither would Jane have of seeing Katrina’s doll.
Karla entered, her head bowed.
Lady Jack raised her crop and spoke in German. “Thanks to your continued incompetence, the doll’s KAT still prowls.”
Karla spoke to Lady Jack’s boots. “The blowout occurred before I could detonate the device. The Tiger was already out by the time I—”
Whack!
“Silence!” Lady Jack turned back to her nemesis. “No matter, Father; I’ll have the candy girl finish her tonight.”
Whack!
“Smashing, Jack. One more should do.”
Whack!
“Come now, Karla, we’ve given Father his fun. Inform Captain Schumacher; we leave for Dulles on Krump-One within the hour. I’ll see that our special guest is ready.”
Good Evening Miss Jane
The Town and Country, Washington DC, 21:20 local
“Good evening, Miss Jane,” said Nina, rubbing her bandaged arm.
“What happened, sweetie?”
“Oh, I’m okay now.” Nina’s eyes bulged. “My apartment blew up.” Her head shook with excitement.
“Fuck you say?” Jane hadn’t achieved enough sleep in the last few days. It was beginning to tell.
“Hard to believe, yeah?” Nina’s head bobbed. “It’s true. The fire investigator thinks it was a gas explosion.”
“Was anyone else injured?”
“My roommate.” Her eyes went sad. “She died. Burnt to a crisp. Like toast, they said. I was just getting back. I was nearing the door when, Bang! Next thing I know, I’m waking up in the ambulance. Something hit me on the head. They took a big piece of pink glass out of my arm.” She held the arm out. “It still hurts.”
“Right. A gas leak, you say?”
“Well, that’s what they said. I didn’t smell any.” Nina nodded.
“Did you not receive my gift?”
Nina’s eyes grew. “What gift?”
Wet… The perfume was a bomb. “That’s so awful, my dear Nina.” Jane tried to comfort her, “Can I offer you any assistance. Perhaps my room?”
“Uh, it’s okay. I was thinking about going back home anyway. Would you like your usual?”
“Please.”
“Right away, Miss Jane. Did you see who’s at your table?” Nina pointed to the corner table.
So taken by what Nina said, she hadn’t noticed, Natasha, sitting in the shadows. Miss Jane felt that old tingle as she moved past Nina to Natasha, beautiful sweet and most possibly, deadly, Natasha. Did Boris send you?
“Didn’t expect to see you again, Miss White,” snarled Jane sarcastically.
“I…I had…I don’t really know why I’m here.” Natasha wasn’t making eye contact. “I just—”
“Bloody happy you are, love.” Jane didn’t sound it. “May I join you?” Not waiting for the answer, she sat.
Natasha’s eyes rose to meet—only darkness. She hissed, “Please do.”
Nina brought the Old Pulteney.
“Another; make it a double, please.”
Both dolls stared blindly at the scotch, their daggers drawn, waiting. Nina sensed a catfight looming and backed off without another word. She noticed Natasha’s wine—still untouched. Though concerned, she didn’t dare ask if Miss Snow White wanted something else. Nina quickly returned with Jane’s double.
“I had to see you,” said Natasha, shattering the darkness between them.
“Yes,” growled Jane, reaching for her second glass.
“Wait!” Natasha reached out, covering the glass. “Not yet; I need to tell you something.”
“Not here!” Jane snapped, clawing Natasha’s hand away. With a death grip, she downed the double Old Pulteney like a thirsty sailor just back in port. It only fueled the fire of lust and revenge raging in her heart. That’s odd? The scotch didn’t taste quite right tonight. She looked at the empty glass, then Natasha.
Bloody hell… She pondered another? It would only make it more difficult.
“You know you shouldn’t.” Natasha reached for her wine. “I need to tell you—”
“I said, not here!” growled Jane as she rose from the table. “Leave it!”
“Yes, let’s get it over with.”
Natasha stood, leaving the Chardonnay untouched.
They headed straight for the elevators. This time Natasha wasn’t Miss Jane’s little girl. She was leading the way. In the elevator neither spoke. Her lover wouldn’t look at her. She couldn’t. Pete was right. The GoodKnight had a job to do. She was back on the C17A. Pete was shouting in her ear…
You’ve Been Blown
On board the C17A, earlier that day
Jane was out before takeoff. Pete let her sleep it off for the next four hours while he decided what to do. It was like riding cross-country in the back of a refrigerated delivery truck. He’d listened to Jane’s pained mumbles about the monster and Papa for long enough. Someone had loose lips. He shook her awake. She wanted more sleep as they huddled under a blanket. Pete yelled in her bad ear and repeated those dreaded words, “You’ve been blown! Either Sir Goody or Lady Jack let your BFF out of her cage. You really shouldn’t drink, kid. Remember the last time?”
“Not really.” Jane took in her new surroundings, including the six DSS agents. “How long?”
“About five hours.”
His Cougar had been drugged. He knew it the instant he spotted that one-armed Bild Lilli doll in the case. Cruising westbound at thirty-four-thousand feet, he told her everything his old KAT needed to know and no more, then shouted in her ear, “Face it, kid! Your augmented doll tried to kill you, Red, and—” He handed her the NSA transcript from the week before. “The box of Wet was a bomb.”
The intercept was a text message signed K… She couldn’t. Not KK… “Bloody rubbish!” Papa yes—not my KK. Kat—Boris!
It really was going to be a bumpy flight. His KAT looked sick. Pete began the intel dump. “The subject was tipped.” He pointed toward the head. “You better go.”
Jane returned, wiped her lips, and said, “Tipped by whom?”
“Your not-so-dead BFF. She talks in your sleep.”
“What about Boris?”
“Boris?” Pete shook his head and pointed to the six metal coffins. “Leave it alone, Janie! Want that to be you?”
His KAT wasn’t listening. “What do you bloody know? Who tipped her?”
