by C. L. Black
Jane picked up the red envelope. Flipping it over, she read the initials M. H. handwritten in black ink. In that instant she recognized the sender’s hand, gasped, then shouted, “Bloody hell! Can’t be?” She could barely hear her own words. The pink jet’s two powerful Rolls-Royce turbofans were screaming at maximum power.
“Elsa! Don’t raise the gear!”
The Dubai Affair
British Secret Intelligence Services Headquarters, 85 Albert Embankment, London, UK, October 2008
Inside a small windowless room deep inside Legoland, the pieces finally fit. Dubai was the key to London’s penetrating Krump. Well aware, Krump had long ago placed a mole inside their ranks. Senior leadership was now convinced. Something had to be done. But what? All previous attempts to infiltrate and unravel the Krump organization had ended with tragedy.
Ever since MI6 moved in (1994), there had been scuttlebutt of one old doll still in mothballs. Doll was MI6 slang for a Hushgirl. One old-timer, still crunching numbers in accounting, had some limited knowledge of PS. He mumbled something about an old orphanage and suggested they contact the old bugger’s apprentice.
Unfortunately, Sir Jack had departed the Secret Service in 1993. None of the current management inside MI6 could identify the doll in question. As such, London felt safe in outsourcing the Krump assignment to an old ally. Mum was contacted and asked make the necessary inquiries. She immediately contacted Jane.
The request came from the highest level, dear. It’s something to do with your past history with the subject.
Of course, London never had any intention of telling the CIA or Mum the truth. Per protocol, all transcripts and electronic media pertaining to the Stiletto’s reactivation and true nature of her assignment were shredded as soon as they received confirmation that the Stiletto was wheels up for Dubai.
Still Want Your Dolls
Dame Jane’s apartment, Monaco, 21 DEC 2008, 06:18 Local
The previous morning, Jane received a coded text requesting she meet with the go-between. If you’re interested dear. She was. Dubai should have been a simple in-and-out affair. A one day job dear—most of it flying. Mum had informed: The client only required three verified samples of Krump’s DNA. For another genetic fingerprint database dear. Right. Why couldn’t it have been KK’s? Obtaining hers was a cinch. But Papa’s? That was proving next to impossible.
It was still dark when Jane awoke to the buzz of her mobile the morning of her given birthday. It had been a late night—three too many scotches. Her head was still a little foggy. There was the dinner, with the go-between and… The doll beside her came into focus.
“Bloody hell!” Jane had forgotten. Katrina, up to her old tricks, had treated her to a little present, the teenage stepdaughter of a wealthy Italian industrialist, now dead. “Move your little bum sweetie.” Mistress Sterling knew the girl’s mother well, professionally. She reached under the still warm and vinyl-clad bottom to retrieve her mobile. The text read:
Still want your dolls?
Check the time. Six and nine: Valid message. Ja. “Get dressed, love. We must be off, without delay.” She dressed quickly. The pretty brat doll scarcely moved. “Let’s go, sweetie!”
Whack!
A car was waiting. There was no need to bring anything; certainly not, Jane’s purse. She smiled like a KAT. London had been duped. Cougar73-S hadn’t been reactivated. Tiger69 was, using the same go code as eight years previous. About fucking time. Katrina whacked the girl’s ass again. “Move it baby!” Meow.
She dropped Jane’s birthday gift off at her mother’s hotel. It was on the way to Monaco’s heliport. “Tell your mama, Miss Jane expects to see her, and you, tomorrow at dinner.” She kissed the sweet, still-smiling blonde, good-bye.
“I will. Ciao.”
Within one hour of her awakening, the KGB assassin Katrina GoodKnight stepped aboard a chartered Citation X waiting with one engine running at the Nice Côte d'Azur airport.
Tiger69 pulled on the pair of latex gloves waiting inside and closed the door, sealing the jet. The two pilots stayed hidden behind the privacy divider. She scanned to the cabin and sniffed. The scent was familiar. The interior had been stripped. Heavy clear virgin vinyl drop cloths covered the only two seats, the makeshift dressing table, and the exposed flooring. She sat just as the second engine was spooling up. The scent of new vinyl filled her nostrils. Tiger69 was back in the wild. Per protocol, Katrina GoodKnight’s wardrobe and assignment were contained in a large diplomatic case already waiting on the plane.
Her assignment was code-named Papa. No verified current images of Papa were on file with any Western government intelligence agency. The only photo the British had of Papa was some eight years dated. Taken at his daughter’s graduation in the spring of 2001, it showed a bearded fat bastard in gloves, hat, and overcoat. Miss Jane was there too. Katrina had promised Papa’s little bitch that she would let her attend, if she made it that far. KK introduced her Miss Jane to her papa for the first and only time that day. Since that glorious spring day at Blachmann, much had changed.
Three months later, the world’s senses were shocked into a new state of reality. Days later, Jane was sacked, and Herr Krump became intensely secretive. Soon after, he enlisted several doubles. They traveled the world confusing all who cared. Soon few did. Western intelligence organizations had lost interest. No longer concerned with Krump, they had a new Evil Empire to occupy the blanks in their funding requests and endless reports. The public had a new boogieman to fear. Osama was the new prize. Krump and his double-dealing chums could only laugh at their good fortune. While Osama hid in caves, Krump prospered.
Katrina wasn’t laughing as she reviewed the limited intel on the subject, Papa. Though reluctant, she brought Jane along. Jane wished Katrina had paid more attention to Papa that spring day and less to KK. Katrina only brought her along to point him out. Jane turned the page.
Bloody hell!
Their assignment had been upgraded to a Term Paper. The subject was now the target. Jane threw the folder back into the case and buried her face into the vinyl. A few intensely deep breaths later, Tiger69 took charge and reached for the sealed red folder. What’s this, a two-for? Fuck me.
Inside, a second cover sheet detailed the last-minute addition. Another Term Paper. Subject two’s intel was straightforward. Headshot, key card, room number, and operating instructions:
Obtain semen sample then terminate and wait for Papa to arrive. Use protocol Delta Sierra Mike Alpha. London wanted it to look like a sadomasochistic sex game gone wrong. Death by sexual asphyxiation—a special talent of Katrina’s. Piece of cake, baby.
While Jane hid in a ball of vinyl, Katrina committed subject two’s face to memory then slipped the key card in the, lovely clutch. It wasn’t yet time to suit up. She stripped and rejoined her better half already slumbering in the vinyl. Meow…
Awake. Katrina checked the flight’s progress on the seat-side LCD. One hour to wheels down. She made Jane open the first of three sealed plastic bags. Inside was a one-piece body suit made of latex. When originally crafted, the thin black rubber had been custom molded to fit the KGB’s Tiger to perfection. Its measurements were now some eight years dated. That night it was for, Boris… Boris always preferred her KAT in black rubber. Its stated purpose was to contain any DNA material that might otherwise be left behind or picked up during the assignment. It had another purpose. She touched the rubber to Jane’s face and inhaled. Meow…
Thankful for the second shaker of black talcum powder, Katrina finally overcame the extra half stone in, Jane’s bloody awful thighs. What the—Fuck me. It had taken some effort to fit into the stretchy rubber. The tiger’s stripes were cloaked, covered neck to toe in latex. Its only openings were for her head and hands. She left the double-ended zipper open at her middle for much-needed ventilation. A latex balaclava included a long blonde wig. (Intel informed: Papa only did blondes.) She pulled it on and checked the mirror. Fuck, we’re hot. That wig, combined w
ith the shiny rubber, gave the Tiger’s dead memories an unwelcomed jolt of life. Katrina had thoughts of Boris. Like Papa, Boris loved her, blonde kiddy-KAT. Meow…
“Nein.” Jane quickly removed it and thought of the little Italian doll she spanked the night before. It worked. Katrina’s dark memories returned to their twisted grave.
The crime scene forensics deception kit also included a spray canister containing skin cells and other DNA that most surely matched the human hair follicles in the wig. Their purpose was to leave the crime scene investigators a false scent. London was obviously trying to incriminate someone. Tiger69 reached for the patent leather slit-sided evening dress. Nice. With that done, she had time to kill. She went back to sit and reviewed what little intel London had on target one.
Papa…
Papa’s Past
Solid intel on Papa, aka Heinrich von Krump the sixth, was sketchy at best. MI6 placed Krump as being born in Berlin, sometime between 1946 and 1955, give or take. There was also an unverified report floated by an ex-KGB insider in 2000 that stated the real Krump was actually born much earlier. In truth, no one was really sure. Postwar Berlin was a travesty of social rule and uneven record keeping. Rife with corruption in all four sectors, given the right contacts and currency, a person could cross over and disappear at will.
Believed to be an orphan of an unwed dead teen whore, Krump had been wet-nursed by prostitutes. He was educated in the streets and brothels of Soviet-dominated East Berlin. A child of six, he first met his would-be benefactor, a spy for the Stasi—the former East German secret police and intelligence service. He would groom the young Krump to follow in his sadistic path. It wasn’t long before Krump informed for himself. His benefactor and the Stasi were most impressed. Their handouts provided the adolescent Krump more than enough means to service his own growing appetites.
Krump possessed a gifted though increasingly twisted mind. His benefactor arranged for many tutors. There were sketchy reports stating Krump had studied biochemistry near Dresden. It was during this time he would have attended the Stasi Spy University. A recent report claimed Krump was an avid horseman in his younger days. He quickly rose to become a director within the Stasi Science Ministry. By 1984, Krump was heading up the Stasi’s candy business. He also sold some of his finer products on the black market to the highest bidder. His old benefactor was also impressed. He made a large personal investment. Soon Krump’s candy factory was responsible for stocking the KGB’s candy stores, supplying flesh everywhere the Soviets had interests.
By the fall of 1988, Krump and his Russian friends knew the end was in sight for their totalitarian democracy. They had long planned for the end of the old way. Capitalism was to be the new way. Krump, and others like him, would set themselves up to profit in the new perestroika. Corruption may have been the daughter of communism. Krump and his old benefactors had no reason not to believe it couldn’t become the mother of this new era of internet and media-based capitalism. Sex sells. Sex buys. Sex pays. Image was everything. The newly incorporated Krump Industries GmbH was more than ready for the dividends. In November of 1989, it happened. The darkest symbol of their regime fell. The Wall came down and Krump Industries GmbH was finally in business.
All through the 1990s, most former East Germans and Soviets tried to forget their dark past in the depression that followed the fall of communism. Krump and his ex–Soviet billionaire buddies had learned to profit from the dark and dirty secrets of the old way. They just needed to be patient. Soon it would be their turn. The three greedy Turkmen would help make it so. Yes, Papa was certain of that. Soon this Krump would become the greatest king in the new world of perestroika.
The Last Bloody Assignment
30 minutes out from Dubai International
Out the window, the UAE coastline appeared in the distance. Right then. Katrina tried, but couldn’t remember, Papa… It didn’t matter. She pulled on the latex balaclava and hair. Jane could never forget KK. Katrina let those pleasant thoughts in as she finished dressing, slipping on the skintight leather opera gloves. Over her left glove she added a rather expensive wristwatch. To the other, she added a matching sixty-nine-karat diamond bracelet. The latex was causing her to perspire. She downed a large pill. It would help quell the sweating. Sips of ice-cold water from the plastic bottle couldn’t keep her throat moist.
The Tiger’s descent was proving bumpy. The seatbelt reminder flashed. She choked down her go-pill—a powerful stimulant designed to keep her brain sharp—checked, Jane’s face, in the window, and applied the lipstick’s base coat. She sat back and enjoyed the familiar view as the jet made its final approach into Dubai International.
Game time, baby. Tiger69 waited for the Citation X to park at the Jet Aviation VIP terminal. She deposited the empty water bottle and the few clothes she’d worn in the case and sealed it. Any evidence that Katrina GoodKnight or Jane Sterling was in Dubai was now protected by the international laws of diplomacy.
Opening the virgin tube of the special glossy wet red lipstick, she carefully applied the final touch. Killer lips. Katrina covered her favorite leather dress with the included black chiffon abaya, then her head and face with the black hijab. Both were fashioned of fine Korean silk. Tiger69 was now the perfect Arab woman—unseen and unheard. It would prove a dangerous combination.
The pilot stayed in the cockpit behind the privacy divider. Standard protocol: Need-to-know only. No chitchat. Jane opened the door, exited, slipped into Katrina’s killer stilettos, and made her way directly through the terminal. The woman at the counter greeted her. She said nothing. As expected, a white Rolls was waiting to take her to the hotel. It was the same hotel where she met her monthly client, the prince, for the last few years. She had one hour and fifty-eight minutes to make it back before her flying chariot would leave with or without her. So far so good, baby.
Katrina’s GoodKnight
The “Burj Al Arab,” ninety minutes later
The assassin, Katrina GoodKnight, stepped from the lift. A little drained, she hadn’t taken two steps when she spotted the pink vinyl cocktail dress. That attire was strictly out of place for the lobby of the Burj Al Arab. Fuck! What’s that little bitch doing here?
“Papa!” yelped KK, a little too loud, before using her head.
Where? Katrina checked her six to see. No one. The lift. Still open.
“Miss Jane?” asked KK, obviously startled by the sight, and not totally sure who was under the hijab. Not in that abaya? That’s way too old for you…Miss Jane?
It’s been eight bloody years…Tick tock.
Had it been that long?…Tick tock.
“Yes,” answered Miss Jane in a most British way.
KK giggled like a schoolgirl.
Katrina pretended not to recognize her. All grown up I see. “Kristin?” What in the bloody hell are you doing here? Tick tock.
“Oui, Miss Jane. Ja, it is you.” She beamed. Said she was in Dubai attending “Papa’s annual corporate celebration” for the friends of Krump Industries. She took Jane firmly by the arm. “Please!” KK went pale, wavered, then wobbled, about to go down.
Katrina caught hold of both of them, managing to shield KK before they became a scene. “What is it sweetie?” People were already starting to take notice. She didn’t need the attention. Not now. Tick tock.
KK melted. Feeling the Tiger’s powerful grasp, her eyes fluttered. Sirens, then blue lights lit up the lobby. “Come now! You must join me Miss Jane. Ja, you must. Ja, you come. I can really use you right now. Okay? Ja. You come now, with me. Please Miss Jane?”
“Smashing.” This might do. Katrina quickly scanned the crowd. Hotel security was moving in her direction. “Certainly, my dearest Kristin.” She pulled the rag doll into the lift just as its doors started to shut. “And how is Papa? Is he with you?”
KK started trembling. “Not well. I’m afraid.” She pushed the black silk form deeper into the lift and pulled a key card from her corset. Both were gold plated. The viny
l doll inserted it into the control panel then pounded the top button. The getaway lift surged upward. Eight years had passed, but KK hadn’t forgotten, Miss Jane, not for one second. “Are you staying?”
Katrina found it all a bit too queer. Coincidence? Trap, more likely. She decided it best to disappear. She split, leaving Jane to fend for herself.
Jane found herself alone with KK? Bloody hell…
KK repeated the question.
“Staying? I should think not dear. Not tonight. You?”
“This place?” KK became animated. “No fucking way! Papa says they don’t like us in this country.” The doors parted at the restaurant level. “Another one of Papa’s stupid dinners. You look fabulous, by the way.” Except for the “old lady” dress. “What’s under here?”
“KK!” Hesitant to let her uncover the truth, she shooed KK’s hands away. “Don’t think Miss Jane’s on the guest list.”
“No problem. You can be my date. Ja.”
The doors parted. KK tugged, then said, “Fear not, Miss Jane. My dress shall protect you.” They approached the security checkpoint. KK lifted the hem of her neon pink vinyl and gold-embossed corset dress. “Papa said your boys can feel me up Karla.” She stepped toward the first of the Krump security boys. Taking his hand, she guided his stiff wand over her corset, then back up between her legs. Between all the jewelry and the metal in her plunging too-tight corset and garters, KK looked to be a major threat. His wand sounded its alarm. His other wand was stiffening too.