by Jaye Rothman
(Desire)
by
Jaye Rothman
THE DISHONOURABLE SPY
(DESIRE)
By
JAYE ROTHMAN
Copywrite © Jaye Rothman 2015.
All Rights Reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
THE DISHONOURABLE SPY is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events and actual persons are used fictitiously, and are products of the author’s imagination.
CHAPTER 1
ROME, ITALY
AUGUST 1978
For the last two hours, we had been watching our mark enjoying a lunch in the Piazza Navona, supplemented with two bottles of excellent 1971 Chianti. The Piazza was originally a stadium and racetrack, built in AD86 by Domitian, one of the Roman Emperors, and it’s one of Rome’s most visited attractions.
The restaurant where we sat was opposite the Fountain of Four Rivers, one of three magnificent stone fountains that run through the middle of the square. I could hear the melodic sound of the water through the cacophony of traffic and bustle and, for a few minutes at least, I made a conscious decision to try and relax.
I hadn’t slept the night before and I was tired. CJ had lain on the couch tossing and turning, and I had heard the intermittent sounds of crying throughout the night. On more than one occasion, I had been sorely tempted to bring her back to bed and make love to her. But how would that have solved my predicament?
This morning we had eaten our breakfast mostly in silence. When I had tentatively enquired if she was all right, she had shot me a venomous look and informed me that I was contemptible and calculating. Calculating – I didn’t bother to deny it. Contemptible – well, that felt slightly unfair. I hadn’t known how to respond to either accusation, so I hadn’t replied. Now, in the restaurant, CJ and I were barely communicating, and the little conversation we had attempted as we ate was strained and tense. When we returned to London, I would ask Manning if I could be paired with Lonnie again. The novelty of a female partner had definitely lost its allure.
Out in the square, the crowds milled around, dipping their hands into the cool water that runs from Rome’s aqueducts in an attempt to gain some relief from the insufferable heat. The restaurants and cafes that lined the edge of the Piazza, with their cheerful red-and-white checked tablecloths, were doing a brisk business. Their colourful umbrellas gave some respite from the blistering midday sun to the weary tourists who had lira to pay for the privilege of lunching in the Piazza. For the rest, the only respite was the sanctuary of Sant’Agnese, a seventeenth-century Baroque church that faces directly onto the Piazza.
I loathe Rome in August. In autumn, though, the city empties itself of tourists, and its inhabitants are left in peace once more. During my time at university, I had spent three months in the Eternal City. On my first day, I had met an attractive Italian woman. I had been sitting at a café, having a coffee and drinking in the atmosphere, when Isabella, who was seated at a table nearby, began a conversation with me. She had been surprised at my fluency in her language, and had offered to show me the secret parts of Rome that were privy only to Romans. Despite my youth, I wasn’t sexually naive, and from the way her eyes roamed over my body, I could see that she was more interested in what lay underneath my clothes. On day two I had allowed her to seduce me. After that, I had spent most nights in her bed and most of my evenings eating the incredible food that she cooked.
Inevitably, perhaps because of my youth (I was just 19, half of Isabella’s age), I had fallen desperately in love with her, and my heart was broken when Isabella had kindly but firmly told me that what we had was only an affair. Her lover was returning home at Christmas, and it was time for us to say goodbye. I can recall crying all the way to Heathrow and thinking my heart would never recover. But it did.
Did I speak English during my stay? I don’t think I did, for when I returned to university after the Christmas break my tutor had been amazed that I spoke fluent and colloquial Italian.
We had been watching our mark for the last three days and we hadn’t observed any clandestine meetings or secret rendezvous. Perhaps our colleagues in the Istanbul office had been incorrect in their assumptions that she was passing valuable Intel to the Stasi. Or perhaps she was very good, and knew we had eyes on her. But there was always the possibility that she was innocent and had been set up.
The previous night, we had been lying in a comfortable king-size bed, on high-quality Egyptian cotton sheets. We were staying at the luxurious Hotel de Russie, one of the most expensive and exclusive hotels in Italy. It was 2 a.m., and, unusually for Rome, the noise of the traffic had temporarily abated. Our mark was ensconced in a room two doors down from ours; both suites backed onto the Villa Borghese gardens, meaning they were shielded somewhat from the constant hum and noise of Rome’s ceaseless traffic.
CJ and I had made love and were dozing off to sleep when CJ turned towards me, kissed the palm of my hand and sighed. She brought her lips to mine again and as our kisses became deeper in intensity and more profound I felt a need from her that hadn’t been there before. Tears glistened in her eyes. Pulling back, she whispered, “Something’s changed Nikki, I know it has. I swore I wouldn’t let it happen, but it has.” She kissed me again with a passion that I reciprocated, just as we had the first time we’d made love. I reached out and pulled her on top of me. She ran her fingers through my hair and gently kissed me.
“I love you, Nikki. I’m so in love with you.”
Her lips burnt my skin as they kissed down my neck and along my collarbone. Then she trailed her tongue down further until she found my nipple. I let out a groan as she kissed and caressed it. She didn’t speak. All I was conscious of was CJ, nothing else but CJ. There was only CJ.
She moved slowly downwards, taking her time. I could feel her hair brushing against my skin, and her hot tender kisses covered every inch of my abdomen. I lay there with bated breath, waiting for her. I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. What would I say?
Then she reached my core. I moaned when I felt her tongue on me. She sighed as she kissed me softly again and then again. I held her head in place although I didn’t need to. I had to hold onto her. I had to anchor myself to her. I needed to be connected to her, and all I could think of was her, nothing else but her. A mantra ran through my head and I don’t know if I whispered it. “Don’t stop, CJ. Please don’t stop.” I could hear our ragged breathing in unison, and my hips rose up to meet her.
I was hanging suspended, waiting for her, as she held me on the cusp. With a swab of her tongue she released me and a thunderous rush took me to ecstasy. I know I cried out for her, and when she had sated me, she rolled off me and gave a little embarrassed laugh.
“Wow, that was awesome.” I was attempting to recover my breath as my heart battered my ribs. “I didn’t think it could get any better, but you’ve exceeded yourself tonight CJ.” As soon as the words left my lips, I cursed inwardly at how flippant and crass they sounded. I was trying, as I had always done, to smother the emotions that were rising perilously close to the surface.
“Thanks, honey,” she replied flatly.
To my horror, tears began to flow – not from CJ but from me. Since Egypt, I had been battling with my increasingly emotional state. If we watched a sad movie, I would usually end up dabbing my eyes. I tried to stifle my sobs, but CJ knew. She took me in her arms and soothed and comforted me. Eventually I was calm enough to speak. I cupped her face in both hands. “I’m so sorry, darling. That was unkind and cruel of me. Forgive me?”
“Of course,” she said. I could feel her holding her breath, waiting. A long, uncomfortable silence fell between us. Why couldn’t I say those three words that she was aching to hear? I debated whether I should lie. Why not? It would clearly be advantageous for me, and for CJ. Advantageous? I wasn’t in the field, negotiating with an asset. Inwardly, I shook my head: my girlfriend had declared her love for me. Perhaps if I told her that I loved her, that
would buy me some time. It wouldn’t be true, of course. Yes, sure, I liked her enormously: she made me laugh, she didn’t let me take myself too seriously and she was truly amazing in bed. But it wasn’t enough, not for me. However hard I tried to love her, the way she wanted me to, I failed.
Sins of omission and commission, I thought. Was I scared of being on my own again? I listed all the benefits CJ had brought into my life. “Benefits” – it sounded like an insurance policy. Perhaps I could negotiate a friendship with sex as a benefit, I thought sardonically.
No. I couldn’t, wouldn’t settle for anything less than a burning, passionate all-consuming love. CJ had declared her love for me, but I didn't want her. That was the cold, hard and unvarnished truth. I wanted Eva. Only Eva. The realisation caused me to tremble. I had known love like that once before in my life and I wanted it again with Eva. But should I compromise for now? Would CJ know? Could I live a lie? Would CJ care?
CJ broke into my thoughts. She spoke in a small voice. “It’s OK, Nikki. I know you don’t love me. Yes, it breaks my heart, and yes, I’ve been longing for you to tell me just once that you love me. But I’m enough of a realist to know it’s not going to happen, not with me anyway.” She was trying not to cry. “You love the sex, but not me. I knew it in Pagham when you asked me to fuck you: it was all about the sex for you. Wasn’t it?” She didn’t give me a chance to reply.
“It was like that from the first time I fucked you in Hammamet,” CJ continued sadly. “Then you met Eva, and she blew you away, didn’t she?”
I didn’t answer.
“You’re in love with her, aren’t you? Admit it.”
I didn’t reply immediately. For a few moments I lay in the darkness, contemplating an escape from this relentless interrogation. It seemed as though CJ wanted to inflict as much pain as she could.
“CJ, I’m very fond of you…”
Her voice cut through me. “People are fond of pets, not their lovers. ‘Fond of’? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
I attempted to placate her. “It means that I like being with you. I like the way you make me laugh, you’re an amazing cook, and we get on well together at home…”
“What? What?” Her voice rose to a shout. “I’m not a fucking dog or your fucking housemate. I thought you had feelings for me, but now…” She shook her head. “I can see how wrong I was. What the hell was I thinking…”
CJ sat up and fumbled on the nightstand for her cigarettes. She didn’t offer one to me. I heard the flint of her lighter strike.
“You are really something, Nikki. I laid my heart on the line for you and…shit… you compare me to a fucking dog. What the fuck is so special about a fucking KGB spy? She was going to kill you, for fuck’s sake!”
CJ tossed the bedclothes to one side, leapt out of the bed and stood over me. She was shaking with rage. “Did you ask her to go down on you?” I thought it prudent not to respond. “Did she spend hours lying between your fucking legs getting you off? How many fucking times did she make you come?”
I didn’t speak. She jabbed her index finger in my direction.
“Jesus, Nikki you’re a fucking piece of work. I’m going to sleep on the couch, because I don’t want to wake up lying next to you.”
I lit a cigarette and, eventually, we heard our mark say, “Il conto per favore.” She stood up, gathered her handbag and guidebook, left a generous tip for the waiter and wove her way unsteadily through the crowds. Perhaps she was going back to the hotel to sleep off the effects of her liquid lunch.
CJ whispered, “Let’s go.”
I swallowed the last of my cappuccino and followed her from the shade of the umbrella into the heat of a baking hot afternoon.
Our mark pushed her way through the crowds, stumbling on the cobbles with her high heels. She nearly crashed into the easel of a pavement artist, who swore coarsely at her. Righting herself, she pushed on and was soon swallowed up in the melee of Japanese tourists with their constantly clicking cameras, guides waving umbrellas in the air so their parties of tourists wouldn’t get lost in the heaving throng, and mobs of students loitering, smoking and laughing, not caring if others had to pass around them. I could hear the babble of a dozen different languages as I attempted to push through. Damn it, I had lost eyes. I could just see the back of CJ’s head, ten yards from me, but I couldn’t see our target any longer. Where was she?
Then I heard it. The unmistakable sound of a gun being fired with a silencer attached. I heard three shots and then frightened screams and someone yelling for the Polizia. The mass of humanity was pushing against me, a stampede of people trying to get out of danger. I couldn’t get through, and I couldn’t see CJ. I propelled myself, using my elbows, to the side of the Piazza. Fingers of fear spread their tentacles over me. Where was CJ? I must find her. Had she been made? Had someone taken her out? I scanned the running crowds but there was no sign of her. Where was she?
Then I sighted her. She was standing stock-still. Her face was ashen and she was staring with horror at the pavement. Our mark was lying face up, unmoving. The bodice of her white dress was turning crimson. Slugs had penetrated her chest and a thin river of blood had pooled next to her on the dusty cobbles. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a man hurrying away down the Corsia Agonale. He was wearing a trilby hat and a cheap, shiny suit that looked out of place on a hot August day.
I linked CJ’s arm with mine. “Come on,” I hissed. “Move, darling. We have to get out of here.” My momentum jolted her into action and we set off in pursuit.
The man in the trilby hat glanced back and then quickened his pace, roughly pushing people to one side, out of his path. The Corso del Rinascimeto was ahead of him and, without stopping to look, he ran across the road, dodging the cars, oblivious to drivers braking and blaring their horns in outrage. Sweat was running down my back and soaking my t-shirt. I grabbed CJ’s hand and plunged into the traffic. A car jammed on its brakes and missed me by two inches. I could feel the heat from the engine as I placed my hand on the bonnet to steady myself. It was a close shave but we kept moving. Somehow, but I don’t know how, we reached the safety of the pavement opposite without any injury.
I scanned the street, looking left and right. Where was he? He had vanished into the crowds. I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t hear any pounding of feet, only the unrelenting sound of Rome’s traffic.
“Can you see him?” I asked CJ, in desperation.
How was it possible to disappear into thin air?
“CJ?”
I looked round for her. She wasn’t there. A claw of terror caught at my heart. Where was she?
Dear Reader,
Thank you for reading Murder by Umbrella, the first book in the Passion, Desire, Fire and Assassin Quartet, featuring the brave and intrepid British MI6 agent Nikki Sinclair.
When Nikki made her debut in my first book, The Hell of Osirak, I had amazing feedback from readers about her. I knew then that people wanted to know more about who she is and how she came to be.
So for Murder by Umbrella, I thought it might be interesting to take Nikki back to 1978, before The Hell of Osirak takes place, and explore the events that shaped her into the formidable woman she is now.
Many readers have asked me why I created Nikki – this is an easy question to answer: I wanted to read about a female spy who worked for the British Security Services but could find nothing that suited my needs. I searched libraries and online bookstores in vain for many years, and three years ago I finally decided to just write one myself. Little did I know that Nikki would take over my life!
But I’m so glad she did. I get so much pleasure from thinking up Nikki’s adventures and researching the historical events behind her work.
And you’ll be pleased to know that Nikki will be back again soon, in The Dishonourable Spy (Desire), due in 2015. I’m also busy writing the second book in the Betrayal, Redemption and Salvation trilogy –The Circle of Sappho.
If you enjoyed Murder by Umbrell
a, I would like to invite you to post a review on Amazon. Reviews are tough to come by these days, so Nikki and I would really appreciate it if you could take the time to share your thoughts.
My author page is at goo.gl/x7NzuB
I always love hearing from my readers – my email is [email protected] and my website is http://www.jayerothman.com.
Warm regards,
Jaye Rothman
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1: EGYPT
CHAPTER 1: EGYPT
CHAPTER 2: THE DIRECTOR GENERAL’S BRIEFING
CHAPTER 2: THE DIRECTOR GENERAL’S BRIEFING
CHAPTER 3: DAY ONE
CHAPTER 3: DAY ONE
CHAPTER 4: DAY TWO
CHAPTER 4: DAY TWO
CHAPTER 5: DAY THREE
CHAPTER 5: DAY THREE
CHAPTER 6: DAY FOUR
CHAPTER 6: DAY FOUR
CHAPTER 7: DAY FIVE
CHAPTER 7: DAY FIVE
CHAPTER 8: EPILOGUE
CHAPTER 8: EPILOGUE
CHAPTER 9: CONCLUSIONS
CHAPTER 9: CONCLUSIONS
CHAPTER 1: ROME, ITALY
CHAPTER 1: ROME, ITALY
