NoFoolAnUndercoverMission

by Ann Raina

  CIA agent Tessler is a known charmer, but now he shall prove he’s good at his job. On the estate of the rich Lady Summerston, the CIA assumes foreign workers to be trained for more than gardening. Michael becomes one of the callboys the lady employs and is soon involved in a world full of desire and strange liaisons. Will he succeed to do his job and what will it be?

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  No Fool—An Undercover Mission

  Copyright © 2010 Ann Raina

  ISBN: 978-1-55487-619-8

  Cover art by Angela Waters

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by eXtasy Books

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  No Fool—An Undercover Mission

  By

  Ann Raina

  Dedication

  For my best friend. Two hearts, two brains – working as one. I owe you, as always.

  What is a playboy? It’s usually someone who gets more sex than you are.—Victor Lawnes

  Women are so unpredictable, you cannot even rely on the opposite of what they said.—

  Sir Peter Ustinov

  Chapter 1

  “You are late, Michael.” Greenburg’s face was concerned as he marched beside his friend through the large office. “And if I may add, again.”

  Michael fumbled with the tie, drawing his chin low to see what he was doing. “I know.”

  Greenburg stopped and pushed away Michael’s hands to tie the knot in practiced haste. “And you shouldn’t wear a woman’s perfume on a Monday morning.”

  Michael flashed a grin. “Remind me on Tuesdays.”

  “What?” They walked on. Lester Greenburg shook his head. “You always do that. Don’t you know it angers them? And Patch, not to forget? Why can’t you use an alarm clock like everyone else does?”

  Michael did not need to answer. They reached the full conference room. All faces turned in their direction. Greenburg lowered his head and hurried to sit down while Michael took a deep breath. He could read the men’s and the women’s faces as if they spoke to him aloud. Here comes the agent with the questionable qualification. And they wondered how he managed to stay with this honorable group of agents serving their country.

  Hiding his thoughts behind a mask of pretended ignorance, Michael took his seat at the table. It was big enough to replay the battles of Flanders and Waterloo and then some. His father had collected tin soldiers and the wholesome memory of afternoons with his dad and hundreds of armed soldiers, no bigger than his finger, still lingered. His father, officer with the highway patrol, had taught him much and always stressed how important it was to find a place in life and serve the people.

  He looked up to his boss, an almost bald man, who stood at the small end of the table. He was dressed immaculately in a dark gray suit and white dress shirt with an elegant silken tie. Perfectly knotted, of course. Involuntarily, Michael fiddled with his collar.

  Keen eyes swept the audience, neither friendly nor scolding though his appearance alone demanded the word stern. Jonathan Bellard had had a severe motorcycle accident in his youth and the scar on his temple looked like alien tissue, a patch that didn’t fit his square, manly face. Hence the nickname Patch, which, of course, no one would ever use in his presence.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, now that all personnel have found their way in here, I want to tell you the reason of this meeting. Intel sources have collected information about Lady Katherine Summerston, born Katharina Schramm, widow of Charles Summerston, owner of Summerston Resorts.” He used the remote control to show a picture of a gray-haired lady in her late fifties on the beamer. “You have her portfolio in the files before you. She is very wealthy and—besides the hotels her husband left her—owns an estate in Virginia. We cannot confirm that the lady’s deceased husband made his money with illegal businesses, but the estate is the biggest I’ve ever seen. I don’t know what firm pays for this, but it should be a second Bill Gates.” An aerial photograph was projected on the wall. Eight buildings, gardens, stables, swimming pools and large paddocks for horses triggered admiring whistles from the agents. “Lady Summerston lives on this estate with a crowd of employees, bodyguards, personal secretaries etcetera. She uses one wing as a private residence, but most of the complex was modified into a wellness farm with various possibilities for relaxation and sports.”

  “You mean, like Thai massage?” George Malone, an agent with a gray moustache and wrinkled face wiggled his brows, leaving no doubt about the intention of his statement. He worked at op-tech and was known for his debatable attitude toward women.

  Bellard’s glare wiped the grin off everybody’s face. “Additionally, as we were informed, Lady Summerston arranges an exclusive escort service. That service is restricted to high-standing ladies with money or influence or both. The list of customers is long and reads like the Who’s Who of Washington, DC, Boston and New York. Our agent was able to verify that the service includes gentlemen who accompany women on social occasions. She could not verify if it goes beyond that, but it can be assumed that the men also serve as callboys.”

  “Well, isn’t that nice,” a female agent said and leaned back, smiling, a pen turning between her fingers. “You book a wellness weekend and if you’re up to some sex, you just add a callboy to your exercise program.”

  Again, laughter welled up and died quickly, knowing Bellard’s mood.

  “I repeat, this assumption is not backed by facts. The idea behind the firm is not entirely clear, but the agent assumes that Lady Summerston achieves intel and favors that way. But there is more.” He turned a page in his file and lifted his gaze again.

  Michael’s thoughts drifted to the night before and how lovely the blonde had been. First, her bare tits. So pale they looked like milk with a dot of dark chocolate in the middle. Then her lovely bare back. Bare ass. That sweet little tattoo of a mouse or was it a—

  “Agent Tessler, would you mind being with us? Mentally?”

  Automatically, Michael’s lips twitched—a hint of a boyish grin. The small apology was not well taken.

  Director Bellard’s face darkened. “In spite of rumors, Agent Tessler, this is the CIA Washington, DC, and we’re not here to drool over some weekend adventures.” His tone put the word adventures in a never before known sexual connotation.

  Michael canned the grin, but it was too late. Everybody in the room, even those agents who did not know Michael personally, looked at him in an unfriendly way. He did not blush, but was close to lowering his head in shame. Why did Bellard always do that? Yes, I dreamed with open eyes, but, hey, who didn’t on a Monday morning? Yet, when he looked around, he didn’t find others still lingering over yesterday’s occupations and their earnest made him feel worse.

  Bellard pursed his lips and Michael knew this had not been the last reminder of his misbehavior. “Our agen
t abroad tells us that many employees are not Americans by origin. While she observed the compound several times in irregular intervals, she found out that the employees change frequently. She also reported that parts of the estate are excavated for a basement. It’s used as a vinery, but there might be more. She had no access to it.” Bellard looked up again, inhaling deeply. “Given the unclear background of Lady Summerston’s brother-in-law, George Summerston, and a high amount of money recently placed in offshore accounts run by firms Mr. Summerston owns, the agent recommends gaining deeper insight into the wellness farm and its purpose.”

  Michael nodded to himself. Getting in was easy, mostly. After that, it was skill and sometimes pure luck what you found. He imagined to break into the office, open the safe and copy everything Lady Summerston and her brother-in-law had gathered on customers and then come back and present enough evidence to clear out the whole organization. It was a job he loved doing—quick in and quick out, without the enemy knowing he was there. The moment of closing the file after the last report was always great. It was the utmost reward for hours of danger and hide-and-seek. The moment the director shook his hand to congratulate. Yes, he would love to have such a moment again.

  Malone from op-tech grinned. His voice held a low, skin-tingling growl. “Now listen to that. Hope there are some nice ladies around there, too. I’d vote to play customer anytime, anywhere. Any position.”

  Bellard stopped Malone with one hard glance and turned back to the audience. “It is imperative to place an agent on the farm to gain access to more detailed information without arousing suspicion. We need to learn about Mr. Summerston’s hidden agenda and what else there is to know. Agent Tessler, you stated in your profile that German is your mother’s language. Lady Summerston’s ancestors also came from Germany. Additionally—and compared to other field agents—you qualify best for this kind of operation.”

  Michael’s mouth twitched. He had thought about a break-in, but being on the farm for a longer time? This is a joke, right? They thought him to be a man of many women and… He cut the thought before it slipped. The idea was absurd. But there they sat and stared at his face and his fair hair, which looked disorderly due to the morning haste. They looked satisfied like cats with cream. Hey, now you get what you deserve! A shiver ran down his spine.

  “You mean, I shall work there for…a week or more?” He knew he shouldn’t have said that, but the words just slipped. The agents around the table raised their brows in unison. He could feel their laughter just below the surface of pretended seriousness.

  “Of course, you can bring forward your objection.”

  Michael thought about a belligerent answer, but only came up with, “I don’t think that I qualify for long-term undercover operations.”

  Miranda, a Latin beauty and owner of uncounted admirers, arched her brows. Her voice was low, husky. “Funny, I thought you work very well under cover.”

  Michael couldn’t help but stare at her, ignoring the colleagues’ desperate attempts not to burst with laughter. His stomach was one tight knot. He was an adventurer—that went with the job description—but he did not want to think about what would await him there. He turned to Bellard again. “You are aware that I’ve not worked like this before?”

  Bellard, masterly trained in non-telling facial expressions, put down the folder. “I know your list of operations very well, Agent Tessler, but I think you underestimate your value. It is very clear that your knowledge of the German language could prove very advantageous for this operation.”

  “This is not a job as an interpreter,” Michael mumbled, again triggering suppressed laughter. He dared to glance at the director. “You expect me to gain intel by posing as a…” He couldn’t say it, but the women around him formed the word hooker with their lips.

  “Your first task will be to get employed as a handyman.” Bellard opened a second file. “The wellness farm is constantly hiring people for several jobs so it should be quite easy to pass the test and be employed. Hopefully, workers get access to more areas than guests. That might be enough already. See what you can gather this way. As our agent explained, it is unavoidable to be on the premises the whole time to observe daily routines of employees and the lady’s brother-in-law.”

  “What about the lady?” Miranda asked and stroked back her hair, expertly knowing the effect she had on men. “Is there a chance to get close to her, maybe as a personal secretary?”

  “That approach was already made and didn’t work out. The present secretary is Lady Summerston’s godchild. Only an accident would rob her of the position, and there are others in line she would choose first. Further questions?”

  Michael flipped through the file. “Is there any indication of what is happening on that wellness farm—aside from the obvious?”

  “No. However, possibilities are that people are brought into the country to reach green card status and move on. The fluctuation indicates such a maneuver. We don’t have enough information to prove an illegal act, and we want to know—if the assumption is correct—why those people are brought into our country. If they are trained for a special reason and if they pose a threat toward political personalities or else.” Bellard closed the files in front of him. “One more thing. Our agent confirmed that all areas of the premises are frequently checked for bugs. The measure is understandable to avoid any blackmailing or publishing by press or TV stations. However, it makes contact and transport of information difficult.”

  “Hu-hu, safety for the noble guests,” another agent said. “So they go there, get a massage, swim a few rounds in the pool, then slip away for a nice hour of entertainment. Sounds great.”

  Bellard nodded. “Such procedure prohibits technical equipment of normal standards.” His gaze found Michael again. “Bugs, transmitters and other electronic devices would be detected immediately and cannot be used. Alternatives are in progress, but until then, you will have to use personal contact and dead drops to let us know what you found out.”

  Michael thought that it meant to fly blind, but kept his mouth shut. The knot in his stomach was tighter still. He was angry that he had been exposed so easily. If he had come in earlier, he would have known the file and the consequences. No use crying over spilled milk.

  “As far as our agent found out, the men of the escort service live on the premises in a separate wing. The lady obviously likes to control their doings. Meetings with customers take place in the same separate wing which other guests cannot access. Guards are likely.” He faced Michael again. “Your mission therefore is two-fold. One, you need to identify callboys and customers and their intentions and find out if they are friends of Lady Summerston. Maybe she keeps a log with notes which she can use for blackmailing if she sees fit. Two, you have to prove if George Summerston is involved in illegal activities and with whom he cooperates. So far, our knowledge is based on few hard facts. Further comments or questions?” There were none, so Bellard nodded briefly. “Dismissed. Agent Tessler, please, wait.”

  Michael would have bet his income on that request. The ladies in the room shot him mocking glances. More than one had once shared his bed or he had shared theirs. There was a rule that forbade fraternization with colleagues, but few considered it risky to break it. He held their stares. Some looked away, some smiled and some were indifferent. He couldn’t care less.

  “Agent Tessler, the assignment for the operation might come to you unexpected.”

  Michael watched his friend, Greenburg, close the door from the outside, then turned to Bellard. He didn’t say that short-term operations left him more freedom for his private life and that he felt squeezed into an uncomfortable role. “Unexpected is not the right word for that, sir. I haven’t had enough time to get prepared for this kind of operation and as I see it, you want me to depart within three days. My qualification—”

  “I think, it is about time that your talent is used to its full extent.”

  “Yet, you expect quite more than just the supervision of th
e enemy’s doings. If I got it correct, I need to be employed as an escort to get the intel needed. You expect acts which are considered illegal in several states.”

  Bellard took the folders. His expression did not change. “I know, the order might demand more devotion from you, but circumstances are what they are. Consider it an opportunity to extend your qualification and prove yourself.”

  Michael added what Bellard did not say. It is about time that you do more than take every female officer to your bed.

  * * * *

  Greenburg waited at his desk, rearranging files that did not need to be rearranged. He looked up when Michael came out of the conference room. “Come on, Mighty, tell me, how did it go?”

  * * * *

  Michael did not know if he should smile or be angered by Lester’s beaming happiness. “Bad. I couldn’t change his mind. He’s a ruthless misanthrope.”

  “Whatever that means. You know, no matter what, I really envy you.”

  “You do?” Michael sighed about Lester’s breathless admiration. “I don’t envy myself for changing my life to become a handyman or a gardener.”

  “Ah, come on, Mighty! I bet you won’t work a day in the garden or in the spa!” His hands formed a very female figure in the air. “They’ll probably check out what kind of guy you are and then it’s fresh as a daisy! You don’t worry about that job, do you?”

  Michael hung his head, hands propped on his hips. There was nothing he could say.

  * * * *

  Lester grimaced and thought of a strategic way to cheer Michael up. They had been friends since the day Michael had moved into the office in Washington, DC, as a rookie without a coherent thought about the CIA’s central tasks. With the months passing by, Michael had proven more than once that he learned fast and brought acceptable results. Nevertheless, his reputation as a charmer outran his reputation as a successful agent. Lester always wondered how easily his friend caught the women’s attention.