off his white mantle, he wiped the sweat off the back of his neck with the garment, disturbing his spiraling long black hair, matted and damp. As was customary, a small platform stood nearby with his personal items: his scent of mandarin, musk and lavender, along with a box of beeswax, flower garlands, lotions and perfumed powder to remove the odor of perspiration, as well as a jar of lemon peelings and betel leaves for sweetening his breath. After tossing the robe on the soft fleece carpet, he washed his hands in the basin of water for that purpose, then grabbed a condom and a pack of cigarettes. Al-Amra, a local brand. Long and slender, like the girl. He slipped the condom on his penis to catch his semen as a way of placating his God, but instead of grabbing a cigarette out of the pack, his fingers clasped around cold metal. A digital camera that fit in the palm of his hand. He stroked the cold metal and saw in his mind the many nights of pleasure he’d have watching the blonde on the video while she languished in hell. He pressed down the shutter button to the record position and pointed the camera toward her, then lit more candles to highlight the curves of her body.
“Now, my lovely one, you shall receive the talisman of divine pleasure.” He saw her take in her breath at the mention of his shaft. Foolish girl. She imagined herself in love with him. A wicked smile turned up the corners of his mouth. She was but the tool to show his power to the mujahideen.
He held her hips tightly as her back arched toward him and lifted from the mattress, her buttocks quivering. Then he thrust his hard cock into her….
Two years later Zurich
I lean over and tighten my sagging black satin bra strap before gravity takes over and my left breast pops out. Not easy to do when I’m running through the trash-strewn cobblestone alley smelling like dead cats and urine in thigh-high, black-leather embroidered boots with stiletto heels and a beaded Cleopatra wig, heading for the Central Plaza Hotel to hook up with my Russian informant, and I’m late. He insisted on meeting me at the piano bar in the hotel situated on the riverfront, a favorite of his, where the ex-KGB agent downed shots of vodka during the Cold War.
Not a good sign. His turf, his rules. I hope today’s mark doesn’t give me any trouble. The last man I shot asked me if I liked to sleep in a T-shirt or lingerie. Nothing at all, I said, then before he could take me down, I took him out with my Glock 22. After all, this is a job. And I’ve learned to do it well. The name on my U.S. passport identifies me as Breezy Malone, a twenty-nine-year-old female; place of birth, Philadelphia. I’m taller than average with sun-streaked, white-blond hair and green eyes. Since my recruitment as a special agent for Theta Agency, I’ve become proficient in adapting disguises, served as a provocateur to entrap extremists and participated in numerous black ops, including major “wet” operations.
Contrary to popular imaginings, the latter has nothing to do with ejaculation but with rolling up political insurgents in Europe and the Middle East. No thumbscrews for torture or blunt objects for persuasion for me. I use vaginal wizardry to entice the target. I go where other government agents can’t, taking down sophisticated men in gray tweed as well as terrorists who view the world with a piercing gaze and an AK-47.
As an Arab-speaking agent, I use my language skills as well as my personal attributes, often obtaining more intel by keeping out of the subject’s arms. If a man is only physically attracted to me, he will lose interest once he has had sex with me. But if he comes to rely upon me more for companionship and sympathy than merely for sex, the operation has a better chance of success. From supine and supple positions to tease and torture, I can execute any sexual task required of me. Using erotic techniques I learned at the TA training camp near Prague, I snare my target in a black-leather web of intrigue and lust.
My curvy body is the ultimate honey trap.
I check my weapon hidden in my bondage belt along with my prepaid cell phone and wad of cash tucked away in my corset. I’m not fond of the black-leather armor and skimpy red thong I’m wearing, but it’s part of the job. Fit in with the locals. Everyone on the streets is wearing crazy outfits. Guys with silver-painted bodies and sporting frizzy purple wigs, girls wearing lacy bras and bare-bottom cowboy chaps. I see latex and sequins everywhere, flower pasties, even pink-feathered boas. The Love Parade attracts big crowds in the Swiss capital for a weekend of love and beer, though it’s more about sex than love.
The perfect place to exchange cash for trash. Bureau-speak for useless intel. According to recent chatter picked up on the street, the Russian knows more than he’s selling about terrorist activities in Western Europe. We can’t afford any more intelligence failures. Everybody knows the game has changed. No longer are attacks planned and executed by a single al-Qaeda mastermind. Fueled by an ever-increasing well of recruits bound together by motives and causes, it’s up to me to find out what the Russian knows and who he’s working for.
Unlike military interrogators who push emotional buttons to get the intel, I’ve taken on the persona of a dominatrix to whip the informant into shape with my sexual tricks. With my sharp black nails flashing from the tips of my fingers to my mouth glossed with Sinfully Red lipstick, I’ve been sent to flush out this ex-KGB agent by my handler, Rork, Special Agent in Charge.
Unlike authorized FBI counterintelligence agents, TA special agents need a handler, an agent who can provide technical support in the form of service weapons, operating funds, clandestine communications gear, spy cameras and other specialized equipment.
A sudden stab of adrenaline strikes me, hitting me in my gut. I’ve also got personal reasons for working this case. I’ve waited a long time for this day since I went over the prison wall in Syria. If the Russian is involved with a certain Chechen-based renegade, as I suspect, then we’ve got business of another kind to settle. Every target I take down brings me one step closer to finding Sharif and bringing him to justice.
I’m about to round a corner when I sense someone sniffing me out like an animal in heat. Nothing new to me. Since I received government-issued breast implants, I’m used to being stared at wherever I go. But this is one pussycat who hasn’t got time for primal games.
I slow down, walk purposefully down the alley. I’m a TA special agent who knows her job, wants to get it done and get back into my slinky, formfitting catsuit. Black. I disappear in black, my chin-length sugarcane hair turned up in a perfect flip.
I wipe off the back of my neck with my hand. The damn wig is hot and sweat is dripping down my bare back. I inhale the smell of my own body heat and a familiar desire to relieve the gnawing ache between my legs hits me. Good. I can use my own need to keep the mark off balance, make the Russian forget he’s a card-carrying member of an elite terrorist group.
Out of the corner of my eye I see movement to my right. The answer to this blonde’s wet dream spills out of a doorway, weapon drawn. I stare at him, narrowing my eyes, then peek at him through my false eyelashes. Uneasy but not shaken, I hold my breath. The tattooed bodybuilder stud with the spiked, black-crow haircut and patch over one eye is pushing the cold barrel of the rif le against my neck. I’ve stared down the barrel of a T.A.R. 21 Tavor assault rif le a few times in my terrorist-fighting career. That doesn’t mean I’m used to it. My throat tightens and my nerves become taut, the icy metal against my flesh signaling a sense of impending danger loud and clear.
Where did he come from? Who is he?
He wasn’t on my radar a minute ago.
“Want to have some fun, Fräulein?” he says in German. I bet he cuts a notch in his rif le butt for every girl who says ja. Not me. Every move I make is under surveillance. It goes with the job.
“I don’t understand you,” I toss back at him in English, relaxing my stance, trying to appear insouciant. No doubt he’s a raver out for extra action and he chose this alleyway to frisk the first piece of tail to stroll his way. Why not? No cars allowed on the street during the parade. No cabbies. And the street revelers aren’t within earshot but carousing up and down Bahnhofstrasse, eating, drinking and ogling the free show.
“Give