“My god,” I said hoarsely, “you’re amazing.”
“Thank you, baby,” she replied, just as Contreras entered the room naked, three fresh drinks in his hands and his happy penis dangling contentedly.
“I heard somebody being loud,” he said, struggling with his English. “I hope I didn’t miss too much.” I blushed as Isabel stood up. The three glasses clinked and we all knocked back the drinks. At this point I knew I was beyond a mere buzz and told myself that would be the last one, though I felt safe considering the situation. These two wanted an extra woman in their bed and to them, I was the exotic foreigner who shared their politics. It probably helped that I was a bit younger and of a similar body type as Isabel.
Speaking of whom, she had just peeled her tank top off and reached behind her back to unclasp her bra. Her breasts were gorgeous, smaller than mine with perfect nipples perched on them. Contreras lit a match and I saw him naked in a nearby chair, lighting a cigar. I hated the smell of cigars, but somehow this time it felt decadent, so perfectly right for the occasion. The alcoholic haze make everything seem surreal as I sat there watching from the bed. Isabel wiggled out of her jeans and panties in one smooth motion and I was treated to the sight of her lovely curves. Her hips were so perfect they made me instantly jealous as she walked to the bed and climbed up next to me.
I stared at her body as she lay on her back. “Come here, Liz,” she teased. “Make me feel good.” The accent and her brown skin were a sexy combination. I obliged her request as best I could, starting by playing with her soft breasts. I reveled in the soft feel of another woman’s body. I’d never been with a woman, but it felt so comfortable and was so intoxicatingly erotic that I would definitely keep myself open to it in the future. Glancing over at Contreras, I saw he was watching happily, holding his cigar in one hand and stroking himself with the other. I moved over his woman’s body, covering her belly with kisses as I moved downward.
Isabel tasted delicious, her wetness greeting my eager tongue. I did my best to return the favor of the amazing orgasm she’d given me, but I felt clumsy and understood why most men struggled with the task.
As I buried my head between her legs with my butt up in the air, I felt Contreras behind me, pushing into me. It felt wonderful to finally have a man inside of me again. I could tell he was wearing a condom, so I melted into his taking me as I continued my attempts at getting Isabel off.
Eventually, Contreras pulled out of me and grabbed Isabel’s legs, pulling her to the end of the bed. He stood against the bed and entered his girlfriend. I watched, fascinated, as he started slowly and was soon hammering her, I could tell she was getting close, so I slipped my hand down her belly to gently rub her. She moaned and arched her back while her boyfriend thrust ferociously into her. I lowered my mouth to hers and kissed her hard just as she went over the edge. Isabel wrapped her hand around my wrist and squeezed tightly. We kissed as she came, her throat producing intense sounds and vibrations as her body writhed beneath me. When I broke the kiss, Contreras kept thrusting until she’d finally had enough. I softly stroked her hair as her moans turned into little whimpers, then just a soft purring sound.
I sat up as Contreras pulled out of Isabel. It felt good to have helped, even if her boyfriend had done most of the work. He motioned for me to lie on my back, then he climbed up onto the bed and lowered himself onto me, not even bothering to change the condom before easing into my wetness — and I was so ready for more, I didn’t protest. Even though Contreras wasn’t a talented lover, it was an incendiary moment, with Isabel laying next to me, her fingers entwined with mine as she watched her man fuck me.
Eighteen
Someone nudged me awake. I cracked open my eyes and found Contreras snoring softly, his arm draped over my hip. I felt another nudge and turned to find Isabel standing next to the bed. I had no idea how long I’d been asleep. She motioned for me to follow her, so I slipped away from Contreras’s embrace and tiptoed across the room. The two of us stood naked in a hallway outside the bedroom. My nipples puckered and I noticed hers did, too.
“I’m sorry, but you must go now,” Isabel said politely but firmly. “It was fun, but the fun is over and I want to sleep just with Miguel.”
I understood. “Yes, of course,” I said. Then I impulsively hugged her, wanting to feel her soft, naked body against my own one more time.
She kissed me gently on the lips and said, “Get dressed and Carlos will take you to your hotel.”
I sent Mendez and Krause a signal via text, then Carlos, one of the security guards, drove me through Caracas at three in the morning. I instructed him to drop me off at the Hotel Alex, a few blocks from my real hotel, then watched from the lobby as he drove away. A minute later the two support agents picked me up. On the short drive to the Hotel Paloma I felt like crap, tired and with alcohol still in my system. The two men were total professionals, asking only if I’d been able to resolve the issue with the painting. I told them I hadn’t, but mentioned that I’d purposely left my folio in Contreras’s office and would have to retrieve it, giving me another opportunity.
Mendez had an idea. “The Assembly building opens its doors at six in the morning. You should be there then, because once Contreras shows up, it’ll be tough for you get time alone in his office. If you can get security to let you in, Krause and I might be able to create a diversion to buy you a few minutes alone.”
We went directly to the guys’ room to brainstorm. Assuming that security would have a record of me being in Contreras’s office the previous day, they would likely believe my story about leaving something there. They might call Contreras himself to verify, but after our previous evening together, I was certain he’d give them the okay. We reasoned that a security guard would likely escort me to the office, but definitely wouldn’t leave me alone there, so Mendez and Krause would have to do something to distract my escort so I could fix that damned painting.
Since the diversion would need to be sufficient to attract the attention of the Assembly Building security, Krause suggested they rig a small explosive with a phone to function as detonator. He would leave it in an alley next to the cinema across from Contreras’s office. I could put the number in my own phone’s speed dial and detonate it myself at any point just by pressing a single key. My sole concern was that it might injure someone in the vicinity. After more pondering, Mendez said he could set the explosive up with a defeat mechanism. Although there shouldn’t be much pedestrian traffic that early, he could watch from down the block and remotely engage the defeat when people were around to prevent me from detonating the small bomb. That way I could send the signal from my phone without worrying.
The catch to our great plan? The two men had less than three hours to make it happen. Calls were made to CIA headquarters. The plan was reluctantly approved, probably only getting cleared because Mendez and Krause were veteran agents with clout. We were told to sit and wait for a call from a local contact, so I headed to my room for a shower to wake me up.
They were still hashing out the details of the plan when I returned, clean and wearing fresh clothes. Shortly afterward there was a knock on the door and the CIA station chief for Caracas, a man by the name of Javier De Los Santos was standing there holding a paper bag.
“Someone called for bang and burn props?” he asked with a smile.
We ordered two pots of coffee from room service and the three men worked feverishly. They were limited to supplies on hand at the local CIA station, which was actually a house, so they decided to go with a homemade blackpowder low explosive. De Los Santos explained that it would be loud, but not particularly strong. The only real possibility for damage would be to eardrums if anyone was too close, something Krause’s defeat mechanism should prevent from occurring. Codes were sent from headquarters via computer to be programmed into a burner phone — an untraceable, disposable cell phone De Los Santos had brought with him.
Working quickly, De Los Santos was able to concoct blackpowder from t
hree chemicals: sodium nitrate, sulfur and powdered charcoal. The first two he had on hand, while the powdered charcoal he’d picked up from a local contact on his way to the hotel.
As they worked, I took out my cell phone and studied the picture I’d taken of the painting’s mounting bracket. I told Mendez my theory that an older bracket had been swapped for the one in the picture, and that the new bracket somehow added pressure to the glass that limited its movement. That minute difference was sufficient to screw up the laser microphone’s ability to read the sound waves in the room. Mendez pointed out something I hadn’t noticed: a wire drooping across the top of the picture frame. He theorized that prior to the renovations, the painting was mounted to the wall with a simple wire-and-hook system, which would have put no pressure at all on the back of it. The bracket was indeed what was killing our eavesdropping efforts, and we both agreed that’s where I needed to focus my efforts. Mendez studied the picture, then gave me two tiny screwdrivers to use on the bracket.
Sills had told me that any changes I made to the picture could be checked quickly if someone were talking in the office. By “quickly” he meant that the laser’s data could be bounced off the satellite and received at headquarters within two minutes. Rather than risk confirming the data with me while still in Contreras’s office, they would call Mendez’s phone directly. Waiting for the improvised bomb to be built, I realized that calling Mendez wouldn’t be good enough. If my efforts failed, I wanted to know as soon as possible so that I could make another attempt if I were still alone in the office. Mendez came up with a simple solution: I changed his name in my locally purchased burner phone’s contact list from the pseudonym Martin Butterfield to Aunt Inez. I would text Aunt Inez a smiley face to request that headquarters test the system. If my alterations to the painting’s bracket worked, I’d receive an emoji of a cat from my Aunt; if they failed, the emoji would be of a dog. It would have saved time for me to text headquarters directly, but I couldn’t risk revealing such important numbers. This way if I were caught I’d only be giving up the number of another local burner phone.
When we had everything ready, it was five-forty and the skies outside had changed from black to indigo. I was still slightly hungover and should have been exhausted, but between the coffee and the urgency of the operation, I was instead feeling energetic and anxious.
Mendez and De Los Santos waited at the hotel and Krause and I walked through the empty pre-dawn Caracas streets to the National Assembly building. Even though I wasn’t the one holding the paper sack, it felt surreal to be carrying a bomb in a foreign country. We parted ways a block from the building. I knew Krause would have time to drop the bag in the alley before I managed to talk my way into Contreras’s office, so that wasn’t a concern. The bomb would be ready when I was.
The building was unlocked when I arrived, with only a handful of people scattered around the large lobby. I proceeded to the security desk and told them my plight. They suggested I come back later in the day, but I insisted I had a flight to catch and needed to retrieve my folio immediately. The desk guard eventually tired of listening to my poor Spanish and picked up the phone with an animated roll of his eyes. I could make out most of what he was saying; whomever he was talking to was trying to decide whether they needed to call Contreras himself at that early hour. I nodded my head and implored them to do so, “Si, por favor, llame a Miguel.”
In the end they decided that since I had been there the day before and records showed I left with Contreras after hours, he evidently knew me and I posed no security risk — especially since they were sending an armed guard to let me into the office. A tall, somber officer arrived a minute later and I followed him wordlessly through the building’s empty hallways, our footsteps echoing and my heart beating like a drum. My phone was in my pocket and only two steps were required to detonate the explosive: I had to hit the power button, then hold the “5” key for a couple of seconds.
We arrived at the office. Nobody at all was in the nearby reception lobby, and in fact I saw no one anywhere. The guard unlocked the door and held it open for me. My folio was right where I left it, on the floor next to the chair where I’d been sitting. My pulse was racing as I slipped my hand into my pocket and turned on my phone, then held down the “5” key while I bent to pick up the folio.
Nothing happened. No explosion.
De Los Santos assured me it would be quite audible on that side of the building, enough to send security into a panic. I raised up and opened the folio with one hand as if checking for something, then pressed the key again.
Still nothing.
I was panicky, afraid that my mission would fail. Then I remembered the restroom inside Contreras’s office. Pointing at the door, I asked in broken Spanish if the guard could give me a moment. He understood and nodded, then stood rigid as I walked past him and shut the door behind me. I waited about a minute, then took my phone out of my pocket and pressed the “5” key down.
Nothing. Fuck.
A second later I was startled by an explosion so loud it rattled the window in the restroom. I could hear the security guard run to the office window, where he’d likely see the commotion across the street.
“Espérame aquí, señorita!” he yelled through the door, then added in English for clarity, “Wait here!” Then I heard the outer office door slam. I peeked out and saw that I was alone in Contreras’s office.
It was do or die. I ran to the office door and turned the deadbolt lock. I doubted I would have time to remove the painting, so I pulled it away from the wall and inspected the mounting bracket. I slid one of the tiny screwdrivers behind the painting and adjusted the bracket slightly to reduce the pressure on the glass. There was no way to tell if that would be enough, so I texted Mendez a smiley face. “Testing… one… two… three…” I repeated, giving the laser some vibrations to detect. From the window I saw dozens of uniformed security guards running toward the smoking alley.
My phone dinged and I looked at the screen to see an emoji of a dog.
I made another attempt, this time loosening the tiny screw as much as possible, then sent Mendez another smiley. The seconds ticked by slowly as I repeated my test speech, then I received another dog emoji. Dammit!
Sirens blared and I rushed to the window to see the first response vehicles arriving. Again I looked behind the picture. Maybe I was taking the wrong approach. Instead of trying to manipulate the mounting bracket to reduce the pressure on the glass, what if I were to insert something soft or spongy between them to serve as a buffer and restore the painting’s lost movement?
I searched through my purse and was about to look in Contreras’s desk drawers — an obviously risky move — when I saw my tampon container. It wasn’t much to work with, but I had nothing else. I swiftly removed the tampon from its tube, pulled the painting forward, then jammed the tampon between the two parts of the bracket. The tiny string hung down, but was invisible once I pulled my arm out and the painting moved back to its position a half inch from the wall.
Pulling my phone out, I texted another smiley to Mendez, then heard someone turn the doorknob. There was cursing in Spanish and the sound of keys, then the deadbolt turned and a different security guard entered to find what looked like a helpless young woman, eyes open wide and a terrified expression on her face.
“What’s going on?” I asked anxiously in English.
“Ven conmigo,” he said brusquely, holding the office door open. I was officially out of time and hurried past him into the hallway. Walking quickly, he escorted me to the lobby. There was much noise and commotion, with people running everywhere. I stepped out onto the sidewalk and kept walking toward the hotel. I’d only gotten about a block when I heard my phone ding. Fishing it out of my pocket, I looked at the screen.
It was an emoji of a cat.
Holy shit, I thought. I did it.
* * *
Back in the hotel room, everyone was ecstatic. De Los Santos broke out a flask and we all took swigs
from it. Krause called headquarters to ensure that the laser microphone was indeed picking up stronger vibrations. They still weren’t as good as before Contreras’s office renovations, but they were again strong enough to be read and converted to audio.
Sills decided to get me out of Caracas on the next flight. He told me he doubted airport security had been increased due to such a small explosion in which there were no injuries, but it was a possibility due to the location of the incident, so close to a federal building. Sills asked if my meeting with Contreras had gone well, since in a pinch I might need to contact him from the airport to smooth things over if I were detained. I replied that I would have no problem getting Contreras to vouch for me.
Mendez, Krause and I checked out of the Hotel Paloma and we all piled into De Los Santos’s Range Rover. He drove the two men to the local CIA station, a house in the suburbs where they would lay low for a few days before making their way to Valencia and flying to Aruba. Then they could fly directly to Washington. With twenty years of CIA service behind them, they were more likely to have a history that could be discovered, so the Agency was much more cautious in their case.
De Los Santos dropped me off at the airport. I’d already given him my phone and tablet PC, so all I had on me now were props to support my identity as Liz the reporter for a socialist magazine. That raised no suspicions at all in Venezuela, so I didn’t need to name-drop Miguel Salazar Contreras.
Too bad, I thought with a sly smile. I never got a chance to say goodbye.
Nineteen
It felt like I had entered the Twilight Zone. Nobody in my department said a word as I walked toward my office. I wasn’t expecting a parade or a hero’s welcome, but I had just managed to successfully complete an operation that two experienced agents had stumbled on, so the total silence was perplexing. As I opened my office door I heard snickering from the nearby break room, and then I saw why: Hanging in my office were about a dozen tampons, each dangling from the end of a string thumbtacked to the particle board ceiling.
Sleeping With the Enemy Page 13
