by C. L. Black
As the secretary had requested, Pete was to let Winter think she was running the show. First, the accidental meeting of the translator Natasha at the clit trap. Next, the old girlfriend arranging a last-minute trip to Berlin, where she met Mistress Katrina for lunch. There had been a snag in Berlin. Winter wasn’t the least bit happy after the third last-minute brush-off the week before. That’s when she sent Pete word she was prepared to resolve the matter herself. After seeing Jane in that rubber corset, all was forgiven.
“Sure you won’t join Miss Jane in some breakfast, Miss Winter?”
“I’d rather it be the GoodKnight service I was promised, Mistress Katrina. I have to be on the Hill for eleven.”
“Pity. I had hoped you’d want to play with Miss Jane all day.”
Winter checked her Blackberry. “Maybe another time. What room?”
“Eight-seven-one, slut.” Jane handed the subject the key card. “Run along, slut. Mistress Katrina shall be along directly.”
“We’ll expect you soon, Mistress.” The rubber slut headed straight for the elevators.
Jane signaled for the bill as Katrina stepped out from her shadows. Bloody hell…
Meow.
Sharing Time
The Panty Parlor, 11:00 local
“Good morning, my dear.”
“Good morning, Miss Christi.”
“I watched your swim today. Your breaststroke has really improved.”
“Thanks.” Catherine smiled briefly then slumped. “But Dani still kicked my ass in the four hundred.”
“You still need to work on your endurance. It will come, dear.”
“It used to be my best event.”
“I’m sure, with continued training, it will again.”
“May I fix your tea today, Miss Christi?”
“Please do, my dear. I wish to ask you about your girlfriends. May I?”
“Yeah. What about her?”
“Don’t you mean them?”
“What?”
“Tell me when you first started doing it together.”
“What? We’ve never done it.”
“Not your friend and her mother, dear. Tell me of the other woman you call BP.”
“What?” She spilled the tea. “Shit!” Catherine shrieked.
“Please, my dear; you did promise to be open with me.”
“But I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. I promised I wouldn’t say.”
“No trouble awaits those who speak the truth. Do you trust me?”
“Yeah, kinda, but I can’t. I promised my—” MK bit her tongue.
“It is the mother that you love, is it not?”
Catherine’s eyes closed. “Maybe.”
“Do you love her friend too?”
“Na… but I totally love the rubber. It’s feels so good.” MK snuggled with herself in the love seat.
“Good rubber is hard to beat. Please continue, my dear.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.” Catherine took a deep breath and continued. “It really started last fall. I went to her house. Natasha was supposed to help me with my German. My mom said I had to take it. It was the first time I’d met her. I tried to say something in German. Like, that she looked hot. I don’t think I said it right because she laughed. She said something really fast, in German. I didn’t get it; she talked so fast. It was, like, something about wanting to give me a real lesson. Then, she gave me a look, you know. She’s so beautiful; like a princess, beautiful. You know?”
“Yes my dear, I know the look.” Miss Christi reached for her tea and sipped as Catherine told her how it really began.
“Well, I went back over that Saturday to see my friend. My mom dropped me off. I was staying over for the weekend. My parents had some trip. A football game, I think. Anyway, her friend, that senator from the TV, was there. My mom doesn’t know. Well, Natasha said she had to give me my first lesson. That’s when she asked me to come to the bedroom. So I grabbed my book and followed.” Catherine perked up. “Wow! Who fricken knew! Her mom gives great German! She really knows her stuff, if you know what I mean?”
“I think I do, dear. Not too vanilla?”
“Nooooo.” Catherine blushed, “We usually hook up like, once a week, unless she’s traveling; Thursday evenings, at her place. But she just watches, mostly. Really!”
“Her friend?… Well, my dear, you do have a pretty grown-up problem, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess. Funny thing is, after we’re done, she pretends like nothing happened.” Catherine sighed and slumped lower into the love seat. “Maybe she’s crazy or something.”
Miss Christi leaned forward and whispered, “Is Natasha a good kisser?”
“Miss Christi!” Catherine scrunched up tight in the love seat. She tried not to smile.
“Well? Is she? Just between us girls.”
“Yeah, really good.” She touched her lips and added, “Not that I have a lot to compare it to.” She felt Natasha in her arms. “Are you going to tell my mom?”
“Certainly not! Mum’s the word. And, it’s not like you’re a whore. Now is it, my dear?”
“No! I’m not her little whore.” Catherine started to cry.
Miss Christi had hit a nerve. She set her tea on the tray. “Be right back, dear.” She went to her desk. On top was a photo album. Returning with it, she sat next to Katherine in the love seat. “Here we are. Look.” She opened the album, and pointed to the photo. “This was my Katherine.” It was an eight by ten black-and-white print.
“That’s her? That’s your Katherine?” Catherine wiped her eyes, “She looks like me.”
“Yes, she does.” Miss Christi dabbed her own eyes. “Oh dear. She was seventeen when that was taken. It was her first assignment.”
Assignment… Not much older than me? “When was it taken?”
“Nineteen thirty-seven.”
“Hey, is that the Eiffel Tower?”
“Yes dear, she was in Paris with her father. A secret mission. They had just come down from the top.”
“Too high for me.” Catherine shivered. “Can I see some more?”
Miss Christi turned the page. “This one was taken in Munich, later that same summer.”
“Who’s that blonde chick with her?”
“Her?” Miss Christi pointed to the woman in the picture, sitting with Katherine. “Miss Braun, Eva Braun. Ever hear of her?”
“No.”
“She made many of these pictures, dear. Eva loved her photography.”
Catherine turned the page. “Who’s that?” She pointed to the man on the right. “He looks like my dad.”
“Yes dear, but that’s Katherine’s father, James.” Miss Christi pointed to the other man in the photo. “That’s the evil Duke, Simon von Krump. He’s a very bad soul, that one.” She flipped the page.
“Hey, that’s your Katherine again.” Her eyes glanced to the right. “Is that that Hitler guy?” He’s that Nazi.
“Yes it is, my dear. That’s him.” Miss Christi flipped to the last page. “Here’s a lovely shot with her mother, Victoria.”
Catherine studied the old photo. “Hey, she looks like my mom, kinda, only sadder, maybe.”
“Yes, maybe a little. This was taken in nineteen-forty-one. She’s about your mom’s age there. Katherine had returned for her father’s funeral.”
“What happened?”
“I told you on the train, dear; James died in a plane crash.”
“Not him. Victoria?”
“Victoria; she died of a broken heart.”
“Oh.”
“I think that’s enough for now, dear.” Miss Christi closed the album.
Catherine looked up to see Mommy G waiting with the Enforcer…
“Fuck—where did you come from?”
F-B-I
Room 869, 11:55 local
The rubber romp with Winter had Katrina pacified for the time being. Jane was showered and dressed. This time it was black leather. Her departure now scheduled for 1
3:30 out of Dulles. About to leave, she heard someone at the door.
“FBI, open the door!” announced a male voice, trying without success to sound intimidating.
“Please, miss, I’m with the Secret Service,” seconded a female voice, sounding much less authoritative.
“FBI who?”
Mr. FBI barked back, “Open the damn door, ma’am.”
Through the peephole Jane could see a pudgy older man and an attractive athletic-looking younger woman. Both had their credentials visible. She pulled the door and said, “Something amiss?”
“May we come in miss, please?” asked the woman, her tone sweetening at the sight of Jane in a pencil skirt and boots.
“Please do, love.”
“Sorry to disturb you, Miss—”
Mr. FBI cut Ms. Secret Service off. “Do you know a young woman—” He checked his notes. “A Miss Nina—”
“Why, yes, I saw her last week. She works in the Town and Country.”
“We know that, ma’am.”
“Has something happened to her?”
“Something?” inquired the female agent.
“Yes, love. What’s this about?”
The FBI took charge. “Last night. Didn’t she inform you that her apartment was destroyed in an explosion? A gas leak, I believe she said.”
The female agent broke in. “It was no gas leak, Miss—”
“Please, love, call me Jane. Jane Smith.” She offered her hand to the trim female agent.
Mr. FBI cut in. “We know who you really are, Katrina Teufelritter.”
“You were saying?” asked Jane, looking down at the FBI man drawing his weapon.
“I’ll ask the questions, ma’am. Did you give a Miss Patricia Cockney a gift-wrapped package Wednesday morning? We have it on video. You asked that Cockney deliver it to her roommate, Nina.”
“Yes, the gift. What of it? I really must be off.”
Agent Daniels said, “I’m sorry Miss—Jane. Miss Cockney is deceased. She was killed in the explosion.”
Bloody hell…
Jane showed no reaction as they pictured the dead woman. Bloody waste.
“Katrina Teufelritter, I’m placing you under arrest.” Mr. FBI reached for his cuffs. “Anything you say may be used against you.” He slapped the second cuff around Jane’s wrist.
“Bloody Christ! Unhand me at once!”
Mr. FBI hadn’t been advanced in three years, and now he’d just bagged an actual living breathing foreign agent. This had to be worth something. He reached past his inflated balls for his cell phone. He’d been tipped by an anonymous e-mail, received at nine this morning, giving Jane’s description, age, passport number, and present location. A query of the passport number against Homeland’s watch list led to an expedited meeting with an Agent Daniels from Secret Service and an unidentified individual from State whom he assumed was a spook. It was nearly two hours later when Agent Daniels informed him she’d once met the assassin last year while on a protection detail and asked to tag along since she could ID her. On the ride over to the hotel from the DHS complex, Ms. Secret Service had spoon-fed Mr. FBI what Homeland’s file contained on the suspect.
“Jane Smith’s birth name was Katrina A. Teufelritter. Age forty. Born East Germany, sixty-nine, orphaned. Adopted by a GDR Diplomat named Blachmann at age three. It was a cover. This Blachmann character was a Stasi double agent, stationed in London. The false parents were killed in seventy-nine. Someone’s birthday. Crime scene was a real bloodbath. The kid—our K-A-T, was found holding a little girl’s severed arm. The arm’s owner was never located. MI-five stashed her under a Jane Doe in some all-girls orphanage for the highly disturbed. Four years later, MI-six selected her for some black program called Project Stiletto and shipped her to the CIA for reprogramming. Her CIA case officer came up with the surname Sterling. The British and CIA designated her Cougar-seven-three-S; for stiletto. Turns out our K-A-T, now Jane Sterling, had been a Goddamn KGB sleeper agent—a Hushgirl.”
“Hushgirl?”
“Yeah; Hushgirl. As in child assassin. The KGB had some nutcase doctor breeding them. Called them his Kats—as in K-A-T. Get it?”
“Yeah, go on.”
“The Kats were cultivated in Petri dishes and raised in a secret facility inside the GDR. Psych drugs and conditioning. KGB called them Tigers.”
“Them!”
“Yeah; them. No one knows how many were produced. Ours was originally designated Tiger-Six-Niner. According to MI-Six, her first KGB handler went by the pseudonym Papa. Homeland’s liaison in London could provide no other details on Papa. Langley and NSA were no help. A friend at State said this Papa someone is protected. Following Nine-Eleven, and her blackballing by MI-Six—they didn’t say why—the Tiger did occasional contract wet work for some Berlin-based multinational; a Krump Industries-GmbH. My friend at State says Krump is really an old joint CIA, MI-Six, BND false flag left over from the Cold War gone legit, mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Yeah, mostly.” Daniels sipped on her third coffee then continued with the brief. “Homeland recently acquired a leaked BND file stating that K-A-T usually operated under the cover of a high-end dominatrix. Calls herself Mistress Katrina GoodKnight.”
He interrupted, “Goodnight? Or Good, Knight; like in swords and shields?”
“Both, I think.” She smiled then sipped more coffee, expecting some response. He didn’t give any. Agent Daniels continued, “In street clothes she goes by Dame Jane Sterling. When she’s not killing, she divides her time between million-dollar-plus apartments, and lovers, in London, New York, and, since last fall, Monaco. Claims to be a child psychologist. Some recent chatter inside Homeland suggests Krump’s tiger went rogue last December, on her fortieth. The British think she’s lost it. CIA won’t acknowledge any Jane Sterling or Project Stiletto ever existed.”
He shook his head no and repeated from the e-mail: “Ms. Jane Smith, British, age forty-three. Wanted by Interpol—Red and Black folders—in connection with three suspicious deaths in Dubai. Faked her own death by blowing up a jet after a brutal killing. The Vic was found castrated…”
That last nugget was still giving him pause when he blurted, “God himself can’t help you now, you terrorist bitch!” Mr. FBI was feeling his oats.
“That language isn’t necessary, sweetie. You’re making a grave error. I have diplomatic immunity. I insist you unhand me at once.”
“Shut the fuck up, bitch!”
“You shall unhand me at once!” demanded Ms Jane Smith again. Katrina drilled into his eyes and got all British. “I will be most cooperative in your bombing investigation, provided we reach a little understanding first.”
Agent Daniels asked, “Where’s your passport, Miss?”
“Smith. In my bag, love. Next to my dragon—my sidearm. If you’ll please? Right, do be mindful not to shoot Miss Jane, won’t you, dear.”
Agent Daniels opened Jane’s bag. “Lookie here.” With care, she pulled out the Glock Model 26C fully automatic handgun and held it up for Mr. FBI to see. “You do have a nice piece, Miss Smith.” She started to laugh.
“Shit!” stammered Mr. FBI upon seeing Jane’s weapon. “Only German intelligence issues those.”
“Yes, I do. Thanks, love. Would you be a dear boy and remove these?”
Agent Daniels smiled as she removed Jane’s passport. “This says she’s British alright—diplomatic issue.” She inspected it and the suspect closely. She’d been trained to spot a fake. “Looks legit. Better cut her loose.”
“Brilliant idea, love.” Jane waited as Mr. FBI inspected the passport. His training appeared recent. He copied each of Agent Daniels’s moves until he read the DoB. “Fourteen-Feb, Sixty-six. Told you.” He seemed more than a little disappointed as he handed back the passport. “Okay, Miss Smith, what’s going on?”
“I’m on loan to your government, sweetie. The bomb was most likely intended for me, a liquid explosive, most probably CMX. On a time delay, m
y guess, triggered by lifting the bottle from the case, which no doubt contained the timer and detonating explosive. Probably North Korean. Same type used in their nasty toy mines. They make them by the thousands, every day,” said Jane, shaking her head with distain.
“In retrospect, the case did seem a little too heavy. Bombs, that’s the way Krump operates.”
“Krump? Who’s Krump?”
“When I find out, sweetie, I’ll let you know.” Jane had her eye on Agent Daniels.
“What do you mean, Miss Jane?” asked the trim and fit Miss Secret Service.
“He’s a mystery man, love. Krump’s never been definitively identified by Six, the BND, or your Cock-In-Arse associates.
Mr. FBI said, “Yeah, so why would this Krump fella want to kill you, Miss Smith?”
“Yes, that. His daughter thinks she’s in love with me.”
“Really?” The answer juiced Mr. FBI. “So you’re a lesbian too?” He turned to his soon-to-be ex-partner and glared smugly. “Maybe you should take over, Ms. Daniels.”
She gave him the same smug look and did. “Miss Sterling!” Her cover blown, Ms. Secret Service got all butch and said, “You’ll need to give us a contact that will endorse you.”
“So, I’m going to be a guest in one of your illegal interrogation centers?”
“Now, Miss Sterling. We don’t operate that way.” She backed off the tough-girl act.
“Right then! If you would be so kind and retrieve my mobile.” Jane’s eyes tilted, showing the way. “Inside, breast pocket, love.”
The female agent reached in, patted her down, then up. “Where?”
“Other side, love,” encouraged Jane, leaning into the firm pat-down. “Do take your time.” She took a deep breath, more than filling her blouse. “Lower, dear, I have an itch.” She smiled as the agent’s free hand entered her blazer, and began roaming, feeling for the device.
“Just checking for weapons, miss.” She gave Jane’s bra a thorough going-over.
“Brilliant idea, love. Sadly, you won’t find it in there. Shall we lift the skirt as well?”
The agent deliberately took the long way. “Got it.” She withdrew Pete’s iPhone and handed it to Mr. FBI. “Sorry, it’s protocol, Miss Sterling.”
