“You know all the lingerie I bought you?”
Again, she only nodded.
“Put something on for me tonight. I also left fresh sheets for the bed. When you shower, be sure to use the soap and shampoo I bought for you. I like how they smell on you. Do you understand?”
He could tell the idea of dressing provocatively for him made her uncomfortable, which only thrilled him more. Any other woman in her position would be giggling and smiling in agreement, but his war prize only pressed her lips together before reluctantly nodding, as if he were asking her to dress for her own execution.
“Good girl,” he whispered. “Now, get up and eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”
At the mention of food, she eagerly looked at the covered plates that now rested on the table.
“Okay,” she whispered, sitting up, looking excited about the food. He’d left her a generous breakfast of bacon, eggs and waffles. He’d also left her some fruit and nuts for lunch. Sometimes, he liked draping her across his lap as he fed her. But he wanted to create some much-needed space between them. He wasn’t planning on heading for the office, either. What he was planning was very different. It would either reveal her to be the truly innocent, submissive creature that she appeared to be or a cold and calculated product of some American scientist, something sent to try and crawl around in his brain. As she moved to the table, he wordlessly picked up his dirty uniforms as well as her crimson gown on the chair, planning on having them cleaned.
He hurried from the room, knowing damn well he needed to get out before she distracted him again.
Just before he left his house, he retrieved his sidearm from a desk downstairs. He decided to drive to the range. His job required that he log a few hours a week at the gun range. It would be a good distraction.
Chapter Two
Before he knew it, Darvlicht was settling into a familiar routine. He drove to the range and fired a few boxes of bullets. Afterwards, he drove to the cleaners.
There was really nothing remarkable about the dry cleaners. It was quite typical in so many ways, just an average place of business, except for one thing. On the wall behind the counter, framed in tacky crystals, was a picture of a young girl. It was one of those glamour shots, where the picture was a little blurry and the makeup was very heavy handed. Darvlicht assumed it was the owner’s daughter. This place was one of the few cleaners in Berlin that knew the delicate and precise ways to properly clean and press the Reich’s uniforms. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what the owner and his daughter wanted. Judging by the picture, she was maybe eighteen. A mere child. And yet, even at eighteen, Darvlicht saw it, that scheming money-hungry look.
All the women of the empire had that look, that pick-me look, that I-want-to-be-a-princess-of-the-Reich look. From time to time, fashion magazines would run those articles, Women of the SS, Royalty of the Reich, The Princess on His Arm, etc. They usually included photos of elaborate homes and vacation getaways, pictures of jeweled women in expensive gowns, and of course, advice on how to snag an SS man.
Apparently, from what he’d seen, it was every woman’s dream in the empire to marry an SS man. His wife had appeared in many of those articles, flaunting her extensive jewelry collection or bragging about the latest party they’d attended. God, he even remembered his wife calling herself a Princess of the Reich. It wasn’t an official title, of course, but it wasn’t unheard of for waiters and retail staff to call his wife, “Your highness.” Christ, she certainly spent money like royalty. He had actually lost track of just how many homes, vacation getaways, condos, chateaux and estates he currently owned that were spread throughout the entire empire, in just about every damn country and every fucking continent. Hell, she’d even purchased some scientific research facility in Antarctica, just to tell people, “We own property on every continent.”
Aside from his current residence, one, only one, he himself had purchased—it was a gorgeous ten-bedroom home in Hawaii that rested on top of a cliff and overlooked the ocean. He didn’t buy it for recreational purposes or vacation plans. He’d purchased it for the same reason why most high-ranking officers wanted a piece of the islands—Hawaii had once belonged to the Americans.
The rest of the properties, which probably numbered somewhere in the hundreds, his ex-wife had purchased in order to, “You know, create a fresh image for the magazines. I am royalty, after all.” That was really the main reason why she’d fought him on the divorce—she didn’t want to lose her bullshit title.
“Hello, sir. Just the usual uniforms today?”
“Yes,” Darvlicht commented, laying the clothes on the counter. “And this as well.”
“Oh, my,” the man behind the counter commented, examining the crimson gown. “This might cost a little more to clean. It’s a designer gown. Very specific care must be taken.”
“It’s fine,” he said. “Just charge it to my account.”
“Very good, sir.”
Although the dry cleaner had been smart enough not to comment on it, Darvlicht easily picked up on all the unspoken comments. Must be quite a woman to drop this kind of money on a designer gown. Wonder what she did to get it? How can I get my daughter into clothes like this?
Darvlicht knew he was frowning as he drove aimlessly around Berlin. He knew what he had to do, but he wasn’t certain he would like the answers he would find. No matter. He couldn’t live with this uncertainty anymore. He had to be sure. He pulled into an empty parking lot of a well-known nightclub, Depraved. It was deserted now, but by nightfall, this place would be crawling with all kinds of people. He himself had darkened this club’s doorway more than once. With a reluctant sigh, he opened his center console. A black, leather case rested there. He pulled the case out and unzipped it before studying the glass bottles inside. There were three, each filled with a pale yellow liquid.
He’d been issued this serum only a few days ago. What it was, simply, was a new truth serum called only P7. The Bureau of Interrogation didn’t waste time trying to think of elaborate names for new truth serums. Up until very recently, the most potent truth serum the Reich had was something called RR-44. It was the serum he had used not that long ago on his war prize during her interrogation. But this new serum, P7, had a different chemical in it. According to the lab techs, it did more than just bring the truth to the surface. This new serum could go deeper into the brain and retrieve forgotten, old, or repressed information. In fact, it went so deep that it could actually retrieve an agent’s programming, the very code itself that was, almost literally speaking, downloaded into the brain during the agent’s surgical procedure.
“Of course, the code itself isn’t that interesting, but it is fascinating that we can now plunge so deep into the enemy’s mind,” one of the lab techs had explained, showing Darvlicht a transcript—I am an agent. Agents feel no fear. Agents have no nightmares. We are strong. We are the guardians of freedom.
“What is this?” Darvlicht had questioned, holding the paper.
“Essentially, it’s their psychological bedrock. So far, every agent we’ve re-questioned with this drug has given this response. This is their programming code.”
“What if an agent were given different programming code? Would it come out with this drug?”
“Well, these statements seem very typical of all agents. I don’t know why an agent would receive different code.”
“But, if one were given different code, different programming, would this drug find it?”
“Well, as best as we can tell, yes.”
And that had really been the beginning. Darvlicht had had that conversation two days ago. Up until now, he’d merely let it percolate in his head. If his war prize was indeed something new, some advanced agent meant to charm its way into his house, this drug would find it.
Darvlicht pulled his vehicle up to the gates of building one-eight-six. Located in downtown Berlin, building one-eight-six was a highly secured location that required passing through several checkpo
ints to get inside. It was where the empire kept captured American spies. They were valuable for many reasons. For one, any information they had on America. Two, they helped identify the weaknesses in German security. And three, once the empire was finished with them, they had value as currency with the Americans. Of course, there was sometimes a fourth reason. From time to time, the Reich would execute one on a public stage, just to show the Americans that they could. There was a time, years ago, when all American spies were executed on live television. Ever. Single. One.
But, times do change. It wasn’t any act of mercy that motivated the change. Ratings for the executions went down. That’s all. For just a brief moment, he saw his war prize up on that stage, bound and dressed in white…. He pushed the mental image away. Though, if she did turn out to be like the other agents, just a pretty little liar, he himself would drag her up on that stage.
He parked his car and began the arduous task of checking in—show his credentials, sign in, walk two feet and repeat. Finally, he was able to gain access to the records room, where an uptight woman named Dee looked like she’d just eaten a sour plum.
“Why do you need access to the records?” she questioned, standing in front of him as if her bony frame could stop him.
“Because I need them,” he replied evenly, walking past her to the carefully shelved documents. Sure, computers were great. But some things were still better on paper. She almost looked like she might have a heart attack as he started pulling out files. He couldn’t get mad at her. The Reich had high expectations on keeping meticulous records. She probably saw him as a bull in a china shop.
“I’ll refile everything,” he said in an effort to please her.
“No, just leave them on the table. I’ll refile them.” With a cold nod, she reluctantly left the room.
Darvlicht pulled the records for all current American spies in custody. As of today, the current number was twelve. He even found Isabel’s file, but hers, unlike the others, had a red label on it that read, non-transferable. The records department had probably done that when he filed the paperwork to claim her as a war prize. He smiled at that, liking her ‘non-transferable’ status, but he wasn’t interested in his woman’s documents.
After doing some research, he settled on two candidates—a woman named Veronica and a man named Jacob.
He decided to start with Veronica. The guards brought the woman to the interrogation room that Darvlicht sat in. The minute she walked in, she smiled at him. She sauntered a little as she walked over to the chair he gestured to. She glanced down at his trouser-covered cock before meeting his gaze. Yes, this girl had listened to her seduction teacher. He silently checked off the contraband on her body—bright red lipstick, black eyeliner, earrings, a bracelet. He also smelled perfume on her and a red bra strap peeked from beneath her white jumpsuit. It all told a story.
“Hello, Veronica,” he began.
“Hi,” she responded in a sweet, breathless tone. “Am I in trouble?” She batted her eyelashes at him and tilted her head, making her look both vulnerable and innocent. But the darkness in him wasn’t impressed. It was all an act, he knew, not at all like the real vulnerability and innocence he saw in his war prize. He instantly saw that look in Veronica’s eyes, that emptiness that all American spies had, a look that had been noted time and time again as, a complete lack of affect. They could feel physical pain, yes, but emotional and psychological distress was pointless, as both he and his colleagues had learned.
He didn’t respond to her question about being in trouble. Undaunted by his silence, she plowed forward.
“I hope I’m not in trouble,” she said sweetly.
She placed a hand on his thigh as she leaned into him. “How ‘bout I suck your cock?” she purred. She arched her back a bit, making sure her full breasts were in his view.
Everything she did was exactly the way he’d seen it time and time again—the way she would look at him, the way she would bat her eyes, the delicate way she would moisten her lips. All of it calculated. All of it taught to her. She was good. He’d give her that. No wonder the guards had blessed her with so many goodies. He could only imagine what treasures she had in her cell. The guards were, after all, only men. They weren’t like him. They hadn’t gone through the things he’d gone through. Darvlicht was one of the few who could see the things that others couldn’t, hear the lies that others didn’t, see the deceit where truth masqueraded.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” he said, unzipping his case, which was on the metal table next to him.
“Oh, okay,” she whispered. “I’m not sure if I have the answers you want, though.” Smiling, she slid her hand toward his cock. “I could just unzip you.” He knew what she was doing. She’d been trained to try and avoid giving answers.
“Let me decide if you have the answers I want.” He took hold of her forearm, halting her vulgar attempt to touch him.
She gave him a little pout, which might have moved a less-disciplined man. He turned her hand over and swabbed her wrist with alcohol. A moment later, he retrieved a filled syringe and pressed the needle into a vein. He pushed the plunger, forcing the serum into her body. Almost instantly, she went limp. He reached over and leaned her back in the chair, so she wouldn’t fall. No need in causing unnecessary damage.
“Can you hear me, Veronica?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Psychological bedrock, that’s what he was after. He couldn’t just order her to recite whatever code had been placed in her mind during surgery. He had to go at this from a different angle.
Over and over again, whenever he asked Veronica about her fears and nightmares, the answer was exactly the same.
For example, if he asked, “Were you ever afraid in enemy territory?”
She would say, “No. I am an agent. Agents feel no fear. Agents have no nightmares. We are strong. We are the guardians of freedom.”
Darvlicht knew that the words spoken were all truths. This was not a strong mind resisting the serum. This was not a brave face. He’d never heard these actual words before about not feeling fear and not having nightmares. And he had to admit, it was impressive that the serum could pull the actual code that had been fed to them out. But really, there was no new information here. This was the type of response heard time and time again by himself and every other SS officer. Fear just didn’t touch them. That part of them, the part that feels fear, had literally been cut out, along with a good chunk of free will and individuality. They followed orders and they did what they were told to do. And they did it all without one shred of fear of the Reich. He had indeed found her programming code. And it was precisely what the lab techs had recorded from other subjects—I am an agent, agents feel no fear, agents have no nightmares, we are strong, we are the guardians of freedom.
He had the guards take the still drugged young woman back to her cell. He was finished with her. He had what he wanted. His session with the young man, Jacob, went about the same way. The only difference was that Jacob had leaned into him at one point and whispered, “You know, only a man knows what a man likes. I could suck your cock better than any woman.” It was an offer he’d received, and refused, many times before. Similar to Veronica, Jacob had recited the exact same code back to him—I am an agent, agents feel no fear, agents have no nightmares, we are strong, we are the guardians of freedom.
He left the building, satisfied that he’d done a complete investigation but at the same time, curious about what Isabel would say. It was dark. He decided to head home.
Once he arrived home, he locked his sidearm in his desk downstairs and walked up to his bedroom. His woman was awake. She sat on the bed, wearing only a few scraps of pink lace and ribbons. He could tell she’d showered for him, as he’d told her to do, and she’d also changed the sheets on the bed.
The lingerie was nice, sure, but that’s not what stopped him dead in his tracks. After interviewing those two spies, he was genuinely struck by just how different she was.
In his notes, he’d called it, an unusual presence of broad affect. But somehow, that didn’t quite describe her.
She studied him, clearly worried, obviously picking something up about him.
“Do you not like this?” she asked quietly, plucking at the few scraps of pink lace on her body.
“Actually, it’s perfect. You look perfect.”
She said nothing.
“Even the way you’re looking at me right now is perfect.”
She pressed her lips together, clearly concerned about his ominous tone.
“And that’s just the problem, American.” He walked up to the bed and studied her.
She wisely said nothing and instead looked down.
He slid his finger under her chin, forcing her lovely face up. “No one is this fucking perfect.”
Uncertainty and unease filled her gaze.
His black leather case was tucked under his arm. He set it down on the night stand before carefully unzipping it. A hard knot formed in his stomach as he filled a fresh syringe. A part of him didn’t want to know the answers, but he couldn’t live with that kind of uncertainty. He took her hand and swabbed her wrist with alcohol. He pressed the needle’s tip into a vein. He needed to know if they’d programmed her differently. Both Veronica and Jacob had given him the same spiel—agents feel no fear, agents have no nightmares…etc. What would Isabel say? Would her programming be different? What would she recite—I am innocent, I am perfectly submissive, I know nothing of manipulation, I will only be your sweet captive, I am bait for the SS, let me into your home, I only want to feed information to my sources?
He waited till her head fell back. He even checked her eyes, ensuring they were rolled up in her head. Once, she’d managed to resist the other serum. It was so unusual, he had even had to highlight that in his notes. He retrieved his digital recorder and turned it on. When he was satisfied she was under, he sat on the bed next to her limp body.
Agent of Darkness Page 4
