NoFoolAnUndercoverMission

by Ann Raina

  “Matt, don’t you want to see the other rooms?”

  “Yes, in a minute.” There was a tiny hole at Diana’s foot and in it the eye of a camera, directed at the bed. Considering the angle, the watcher would see all of the bed and the nightstands as well. “Very tasteful,” Michael said on his way out.

  Eric closed the door. They walked on. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Thought you had forgotten about it.”

  “Nope.”

  “I don’t have a specialty as you call it. I don’t even know what that means—aside from stripping, of course.”

  Eric gave him a queer look. They both laughed.

  “What else is there?”

  Eric opened another door. “This.”

  Michael glimpsed around the corner and almost dropped his bottle. It wasn’t the nice and cozy hotel room he had expected, but a fully equipped hospital room. Bed with white linen, light blue drapes, flowers on the nightstand, IV device on one side, table with a cardio monitor on the other. Even the smell of antiseptics was there. It looked as if producers could come here and shoot an episode of General Hospital.

  “You look stunned,” Eric observed the broadest of grins on his juvenile face.

  “Guess, I shouldn’t be.” Michael’s voice sounded breathy as he entered for a closer look. “I suppose, you got a nurse around here as well, hmm?” He reached the bed, turned and was faced with a white cupboard with milky glass doors. He checked the corners and found the small hole for a camera, hidden behind the cupboard’s wooden headpiece.

  “Not a nurse, but a doc. He takes care if one of the ladies needs assistance down in the wellness area. And, of course, he’s there for us if we need him.” He wiggled his brows, indicating the circumstances.

  “It’s…astonishing.”

  Eric smirked.

  “Yeah, I know, it’s not the right word, but—” He shrugged. A part of Michael had not yet arrived and he felt torn and twisted, trying to focus on something his boss would have expected him to know long before and play by heart. “Have you ever been here?”

  “Yep.” Eric waited for Michael to join him on the corridor again and closed the door, his face as serious as it would get with that sparkle still in his eyes. “You know, I can’t talk about details, but it was a—wow-o-mania—an interesting ride.”

  “Meaning?”

  Eric wiggled his brows and his voice dropped low. “Imagine a nurse who takes you to bed, feeds you, coddles with you and slowly but surely seduces you.”

  “I get it.”

  “Thought so.”

  Michael took a swig of beer. It was stale and warm by now, but he needed the drink badly. What had he thought when accepting the new occupation? Yes, his lower half had thought about entertainment and sex without end with those wealthy women, but the upper half had thought about his job with the agency, about gaining information, being in the inner circle where information floated like water lilies on a lake, ready for him to pick up and deliver. And, admittedly, he had thought about promotion. This was the first big job in two years. It could bring him to the great white chiefs’ attention in a never known way, if he didn’t bust it. Linda expects you to bust, so don’t do it! “More rooms?” He almost had not asked.

  “Plenty.” Eric nodded like an experienced broker, who just showed him a house to buy, praising all rooms, stucco and plaster.

  Michael felt a hysterical laugh coming up his throat. Cameras! The whole place is covered with greedy eyes watching every move in the rooms!

  “Each with a special design.” He pushed open another door. “Let me guess. A classroom.”

  “Close, but not that close. Have a look.”

  It was a kitchen, large enough to cook for a company, with pottery, cooking pans, saucers and anything else needed to cook a full meal. There was no second guess necessary that more than one camera would be hidden. He saw them at the top of the boards, in the center of large framed paintings—disguised as a peppercorn—and within the round clock on the wall. He imagined someone—yes, but whom?—sitting somewhere to watch all moves of the lovebirds. He didn’t know if he felt watched or just envious of the one getting the full show in each room. “I always knew that some people do it where no one else would.”

  Eric nodded emphatically. “My idea exactly.”

  “And the next is a dungeon?”

  Eric took the joke seriously. “That’s in the basement, of course. Windows and daylight don’t go with chaining you to an Andrew’s cross. And the rest of it. You can reach it on the stairway from here, but since I haven’t seen Jason around this morning, I bet my next salary he’s still down there. So I can’t show you.”

  “You mean, you take the women down from here?” Michael tried to suppress the thought that Jason had been in the dungeon all night. Or maybe not. Maybe he had come in late with his lady. It was easier to digest than imagining him to be bound to some kind of rack for twelve hours straight.

  “Yep. Lady Summerston wanted all of the rooms accessible from this floor. I told you, it’s an elaborate piece of work. She must have had a genius as an architect.”

  “Been there, too?”

  Eric lowered his chin, smut grin on his face. “Imagination runs overtime when it comes to a petite woman and a guy like me.”

  Michael couldn’t place the statement. It showed on his face.

  Eric opened the door to the stairway. They went down again. “I please them with my good looks, but some don’t go for the looks, just the size. In every way. And I can tell you I’m well equipped. So that’s the way they want me—helpless.” He let the words sink in. They reached the kitchen again, and Eric tipped the bottle to empty it.

  “Do you like it?”

  “The beer?”

  Michael rolled his eyes heavenward. “You know.”

  “I always cross the bridge when I come to it. Some women are gentle—no matter what they do. Some are… Hey, don’t bring me to talking about my job! I might get fired for less.”

  “And you want to keep your job.”

  “Certainly. You haven’t seen a paycheck, hmm? Wait then and talk with me after the first month.”

  “Are you afraid sometimes that they go too far?”

  “You can always call stop.” Eric shrugged and leaned against the counter.

  Again, Michael had the impression that Eric desperately tried to appear older. Maybe he was only nineteen and had been embarrassed to be asked for his age in front of a date.

  “Like I said—most of the dates are just you and a nice woman, who wants your company. There’s no sex involved at all. And for the other ones—up to now I had no reason to quit a date.”

  Michael chewed his lower lip. “Would Lady Summerston fire you right away?”

  “Naw, I don’t think so. If there are other incidents she might fire you. See, we’re all different.” His voice dropped. “You might think that we all have to do what the women say. True, okay, but some guys around here prefer to do the women the nice way. They cuddle up with them, caress them, love them and let them go. Satisfied.” He tossed his head left and right. “At least, I hope they leave satisfied. And there are others who like to play and challenge the ladies’ imagination without whining when it hurts a bit. The rough things get better sex, that’s what I think.”

  Michael forced his face to remain neutral. “Interesting. Did you tell Lady Summerston that you are a guy of such special qualities?”

  “Yes.” He sounded astonished. “When she took me in, she wanted to know if I had preferences. So I told her.”

  Michael emptied the bottle and cast it into the container. He thought that maybe he should have been a bit more informative about his own wishes. Now it was up to her whom he would get as first date.

  Michael used every pretense to be on the corridor to learn of Jason’s return. Yet, he didn’t need to worry. Jason climbed downstairs toward his room so clumsily, he could not be missed. Michael gave him a hand when he stumbled once more. �
�You don’t look all right, so I won’t ask.”

  Jason smiled wearily. His short brown hair stood on end with sweat, his usually handsome face was haggard and dark rings showed under his eyes. He wore pants and shirt.

  Michael saw the bruises at his wrists. He did not wish to learn how the rest of the man’s body looked.

  “I’ll be fine in a few days. It wasn’t an easy night, no.”

  “The lady was…quite demanding, I’d say.”

  Jason made an effort to straighten, to shoot Michael a hard glance out of blue, bloodshot eyes. “Don’t be mistaken, Matt. It’s Matt, right? I know the lady well. She knows what I want. And I give her what she wants. All of it.” He shrugged, but grimaced. The movement hurt. “She didn’t go too far.”

  Michael kept his expression neutral. “You had such an arrangement before?”

  “Yes. More than once. It excites me more than the women, sometimes.” Another weary smile. “They stop before I want ‘em to, but my true lady’s tough as nails on me. It’s great sex. Always. Here’s my room. Thanks.” Jason walked through the open door. “See you in two days or so.”

  “Yes, I’ll see you around.”

  Michael waited until Jason closed the door, checked the corridor for other men, then hurried upstairs. The omnipresent guard just looked at him, but did not stop him when he passed through. It was nice to have freedom of movement. He was through the corridor and down the hindmost stairway in no time.

  It was dark at the end of the steps. Instead of lights, a single torch illuminated the rough stone corridor. Michael smiled. He had seen that kind of interior when he had tried to enter the wine cellar. The stones were fake, but the thick wooden door was not. He found the hatch open and slowly pulled the door.

  Twilight greeted him. Torches burnt along the walls, illuminating a large, cavernous hall. Michael found breathing a hard task when he walked into the dungeon, large rough stones under his soft shoes. The Andrew’s cross was the most harmless piece of equipment available. There were benches, shackles at the stone walls, racks and large wooden wheels with more chains than to tow a ship. Whips and rods hung at the right side and two large and four smaller cages, made of dark gray steel, were placed at the left side, doors open. The interior consisted of one silver bowl each and more shackles. The hair on Michael’s neck stood on end. A part of him was terrified—locked up in this place meant to have no escape; another part was so excited he felt himself grow hard within the minute he stared at the cages. He heard quiet, classic music and the swishing of something on the stone floor. Curiously, he walked closer, squinting to see more clearly.

  “If you need it right away you’d better let me clean up the blood, sir.”

  Michael jumped at the voice. A black-haired woman, small and middle-aged, dressed in the usual maid’s dress with blouse and apron, appeared from behind a pillar, pushing a floor cloth in front of her. Her cask-like frame made the buttons of the light yellow blouse stand at attention. She laughed heartily about his startled expression.

  “I didn’t know—”

  “T’was just a joke.” She fetched the bucket with water and wrung the cloth, breathing loudly. “There was no blood.” She looked up, obviously pleased as punch to mock him. “This time.”

  Michael regained his composure. He returned the smile. “So sometimes there’s blood around here? Interesting. I thought it was the music room.”

  The maid cocked her head and shot him a cautious glance, frowning.

  Michael was reminded of Whoopi Goldberg with some pounds too much.

  “Are you one of the guests, sir?”

  “No, I live here. I was a handyman. We met before.”

  Her face lit up, strengthening her likeness to Whoopi. “Oh! Yes, right, now that you say it! What’re you doing down here?” She looked round, shoulders hunched, smile dying away. “I don’t like this place. Gives me the creeps. You been here before?”

  “No, not yet.”

  She shot him a glance, telling him without words, he shouldn’t be too eager to get here. “Right.” She took the bucket and the floor cloth and walked past him, shaking her head. “If you want to use it now, wait a moment till the floor’s dry. You might slip if the stone’s wet. And then there will be blood.”

  “Thanks for telling me.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said over her shoulder and was out and up the stairs.

  He heard the echo of her footsteps, then silence settled. The music remained, but was faint, distant, a mix of spinet and harps, fitting the medieval setting. Michael imagined strong heroes taking down a stumbling, sweating, protesting convict to bind him to the wheel. It was like a movie—you just added your ideas to the surroundings you already had.

  His heartbeat slowed. He took in what he saw, all of it. Every detail. He couldn’t imagine walking through a street, a hall, a room and not looking. He never understood that people passed by shops and places and never saw them until they almost stumbled into them. Michael had been educated to be attentive. To see what the world had to offer and not just step over it. His father had always pointed out interesting associations to him. They had made games out of daily routines, like telling which kid belonged to which mother on a playground.

  The ability to look closer had brought him through the exams at college and let him pass the tests for the CIA academy at Langley. They had even prepared him to survive in the field. On more than one occasion, he had seen details other agents had missed. He had even saved the life of one of his comrades on a highly dangerous rescue mission. He remembered the day as one of the most glorious of his life and not the handshake of the boss had been worth it, but the grateful eyes of his companion. Michael yearned for such a moment again. The moment when an agent proved his value; proved that he was more than the agency had taught him, more than the average guy with a badge.

  Michael strolled through the dungeon, touched the hard wood and metal and scrutinized devices he had never seen before. The kneepads at a device that looked like a wooden horse were well used. Sweat had darkened the leather. Other instruments were new, made of chrome and leather and smooth to the touch. He wondered where Lady Summerston bought such contraptions. If she bought them at all or had anonymous assistants who took care of the equipment and let them be constructed if necessary. All of a sudden, Michael grinned. What is it like to be a torture device designer?

  He looked for the cameras and found them in the pillars supporting the ceiling. They looked into all directions so that the watcher—whoever he or she was—was able to follow the couple throughout the dungeon.

  Michael breathed deeply. The smell of soap evaporated and left behind that of leather, wood and burning torches. The illusion was perfect. The moment the people closed the thick door behind them, they were able to pretend it was the Middle Ages and the poor convict would be punished for his misdeeds. What would it be like to be at a woman’s will like this?

  Excitement crawled up his spine. His imagination took a giant leap and left him shivering. There had been this awesome blonde with the little nothing of a leather bra and skirt last summer. She would perfectly fit this surrounding. Whip in hand, vicious smile on gorgeous lips. He had to turn away and walk straight to the door or would lose himself in daydreams.

  Outside, the corridor was quiet. He closed the door, but left open the hatch. To his left, the corridor ended after ten yards. There was a crack in the stone. Curious, Michael walked closer. The smell of soap got stronger and he saw water droplets on the ground. He felt along the crack and suddenly the fake stone gave way. He found a grip and pulled. The center of the wall opened like a door. Michael looked over his shoulder to make sure he was alone before he entered the small room. When he pulled the string in front of him, a single, dim bulb sprang to life and showed buckets, rags, brooms and bottles with liquid soap and other cleaners. Still wet yellow rubber gloves hung over the rim of a bucket. A puddle of foamy water was beneath it. The opposite wall of the very small room was hung with a thin yello
w cloth. He checked if there were hidden wires, then pushed it aside slowly, not knowing what to expect.

  * * * *

  “I want him, Kate,” Patricia Dellman stated in her no-nonsense voice, usually reserved for stubborn employees, managers and other people, who got in her way uninvited. She had her way with people—especially those who considered themselves influential or even indispensable—to get what she wanted when she wanted it. She clicked the door of the office shut and marched to where Lady Summerston sat close to the window.

  “Yes, I thought so.” The lady turned her head to invite her friend to sit down.

  Patricia remained standing. “You owe me to get him first because I’m the reason you have him at all.”

  “He was already employed in my firm.”

  Patricia did not take her amusement well. “As a handyman, Kate. An occupation, which was, plainly spoken, a waste of his talents.”

  “Well, he’s about to show how handy he is.” Again, Lady Summerston gestured toward the empty armchair.

  Lifting her brows, Patricia took the seat. “I’ve got a lot to fix, so when’s my date with him?”

  Lady Summerston did not try to hide that she enjoyed Patricia’s fidgeting. “He’s not yet ready for your demands, Pat. I’ll reserve him for some more—”

  “You will not simply put me at the end of the list!”