Sleeping With the Enemy

by Adaire, Alexis

  I tried to take it all in. “Can you give me an overview of how things will proceed?” I asked.

  “Well, our flight leaves Dulles at ten-thirty a.m. — we’re on Delta, nonstop. Meet me here at eight for the drive over. It’s a seven-hour flight and we’ll be there by eleven local time. We should be in our hotel by midnight.” I raised an eyebrow. “Separate rooms, of course,” he clarified. “Friday morning we’ll meet with the local operatives who will go over everything. They should have arranged a way to get you in the same room as Lazarenko. That could take place anywhere from Friday night to several days later. You’ll have to remain in place and stay ready.”

  “And then?” I asked.

  “And then you plant the bugs and get out of his room as quickly as you can without raising suspicion,” Musgrave answered. “The bones of the operation are actually quite simple.”

  When he told me to go home and get some sleep, I realized I had no idea what to pack.

  “Um, what do I wear?” I asked. “And what clothes should I bring?”

  “They’ll have everything ready for you there,” he said. “All you need are casual clothes that you’ll wear during the flight and while you’re lounging at the hotel. Everything you need for the operation itself will be provided — dresses, shoes, accessories, lingerie. You’ll likely be getting your hair done there, too.”

  My exciting new job includes makeovers! I thought as I drove home, trying my best to ignore the fact that I was nervous as hell.

  * * *

  Back at home in Reston, I poured myself a drink, booted the tablet PC, and scanned the files on it. Several pages contained my fake history, which would be easy enough to remember. On the fourth page was the same photo of Sasha Lazarenko, followed by his biographical information. He was born in Lviv in the Ukraine, but spent much of his childhood in Paris and London. Despite his degree in mechanical engineering from Oxford, he only worked in that capacity for a few years before moving into black market trading, specializing in plutonium isotopes used to make nuclear weapons among other things.

  As I scanned Lazarenko’s bio, one section jumped out at me. It was titled “Sexual Preferences” and detailed his predilections. “Subject is likely 100% hetero, with a noted fondness for women size 10 or larger. Previous contact who was interviewed described him as sexually ‘exhausting’ and prone to non-standard requests.” There was more, including two additional pictures. In one of them, Lazarenko was dressed in jeans and a tight-fitting T-shirt that revealed a svelte body and large biceps. This guy was ripped. Sleeping with him would be a pleasure if he weren’t a dangerous international criminal.

  I quickly stripped down and headed for the bathroom. I was on edge about this operation and hoped that a hot bath might soothe me. After easing into the steamy water, I ran through my mission in my mind, but soon found myself growing excited when I imagined what physical interactions might be in store for me with this Sasha Lazarenko guy. Despite Dr. Morello’s instructions, I hadn’t had sex with anyone since that night with Dante Gutierrez. It bothered me that I was getting turned on by Sasha Lazarenko, to the point where I forced myself instead to think of Dante Gutierrez. I used that memory to bring myself to orgasm in the tub. Now maybe I can settle down and do my job properly, I thought.

  I didn’t sleep very well, though, only getting about four hours before waking up. I met Musgrave at the office and the two of us drove to Dulles, then passed through security and got to the gate with plenty of time to spare. I’d already known that traveling as a CIA operative meant avoiding detection by taking the same methods of travel as any normal person would. It’s a pedestrian, unglamorous aspect of the job. Musgrave and I sat next to each other in business class, where there were only two seats on each side of the aisle so we could talk without being overheard.

  He again covered the operation, going into greater detail this time. We’d be at a hotel not far from Hotel 41, where Lazarenko was staying. When the support team in London managed to arrange a meeting between him and me, it would be my job to wrangle an invite back to his room. Once there, I was to secure the two bugs behind the televisions without getting caught, then leave as soon as I could. Using a business card, Musgrave showed me how to hold a corner of the sticker between my fingers with the rest of it sticking out behind my hand, invisible if I held my hand in just the right way. Then he demonstrated how to “palm” the sticker so that I could still plant it undetected even if Lazarenko never left the room. He advised me to leave my purse or a drink next to the televisions so I’d have an excuse to go near them.

  It was fascinating stuff, but the entire time I wondered, Can I really do this? I asked dozens of questions and Musgrave politely answered them all.

  London at night was riveting, but I knew I’d have precious little time for sightseeing. We were housed at the Eaton Square Hotel, a clean, plain spot a few blocks from Hotel 41 and Buckingham Palace. Musgrave and I checked in and headed to our separate rooms after making plans to meet downstairs early the next morning for breakfast. Per CIA orders, we had fasted since we left Dulles and weren’t allowed to eat until the next morning in order to stave off jet lag. I was starving and couldn’t sleep, so I stared out the fourth-floor window. We were on a small street and the view was lacking. I watched through the rain on the glass as people walked past a bookstore across from the hotel. Had any of their lives ever taken such a bizarre turn as mine had? In less than twenty-four hours, I could be having sex with a total stranger I knew to be possibly dangerous, giving up my body for the sake of my country. I gazed out the window at the passersby for a while, wondering whether I really had what it took to complete this assignment.

  Six

  I was awakened by a knocking on my door. I looked at my phone and was appalled to see I was half an hour late for my meeting with Musgrave — I’d apparently slept right through my alarm. I answered the door wearing only a T-shirt, poking my head through to tell Musgrave I’d be down in fifteen minutes. After a very quick shower, I arrived in the hotel’s restaurant with no makeup on and apologized profusely, blaming it on my apprehension and consequent lack of sleep. He was understanding, but said we had to leave immediately to meet the rest of the crew already in place in London. Insanely hungry, I grabbed a piece of toast off his plate and shamelessly wolfed it down as Musgrave paid the tab.

  We climbed into a waiting car moments later and I was introduced to Edgar Vitek, who was coordinating the mission. Vitek was dressed in a typical black suit and tie and a white dress shirt, with just a touch of gray in his otherwise-dark hair. He drove us to an office used by CIA London Station as a staging ground for UK operations, where I was surprised to see Kathy Hannah. Kathy was in OTS, as I had been until a few months ago. Her cubicle had been not far from mine and she and I interacted over the years on quite a few projects. I knew she would be in charge of getting my look right, from clothing to makeup to hair.

  That was the entire crew for the operation: Vitek, Kathy (I knew her too well to call her by her last name), Musgrave and myself. Vitek made us some tea and we sat around a small conference table to discuss the plan. Kathy would have me fitted for clothing right away and then take me to a stylist for my hair and makeup. Afterward, we’d pick up the finished clothing and head back to my hotel. Later that evening, I’d take a cab to Hotel 41.

  “The bad news,” Vitek said, “is that we’ve been unable to arrange a meeting of any kind without arousing Lazarenko’s suspicion. However, he’s spent time in the hotel’s executive lounge every night since his arrival and we have no reason to doubt he’ll be there again this evening. Agent Mercer, you are to simply hang out in the lounge and try to catch his eye, then make your own introduction. Obviously, you know what to do from there.” Hardly a piece of cake, but similar to what I did in dive bars back in Virginia.

  Vitek reiterated what I’d been told many times to that point, saying, “Keep your interaction with Lazarenko to the minimum required to successfully carry out the mission.” I interpr
eted that as: If at all possible, plant the two bugs and get out of there without having sex with this dangerous man. “Immediately afterward, you are to call me and let me know how things went. Agent Musgrave will be stationed outside the hotel before you arrive and will remain there until he knows you are safely out of the situation.” He handed me a cell phone. “Use this only to call me, or if you have an emergency, pressing any button three times in a row will alert Agent Musgrave to proceed to Lazarenko’s suite.” Musgrave nodded; though he didn’t strike me as the type who’d be of value in such a situation, I had to assume he’d been well trained.

  “Any questions?” Vitek asked.

  I thought for a moment. “Will I be armed?”

  “Only with your guile,” he replied with a smile. “We can’t take the risk that Lazarenko finds a firearm on you. Seeing as how this is your first operation, yours is not a face anyone is likely to recognize, so it’s doubtful that he’ll be suspicious.”

  From the meeting, Kathy took me to a private tailor, an older working-class British woman named Julia who had me strip to my underwear, then took precise measurements. Kathy explained to her what I would be needing, turning to me at one point and asking, “You okay with showing a little cleavage, Anna?” I smiled and assured her that was fine.

  Kathy told Julia she’d be back in a few hours, and we proceeded to a small salon where a man named Dustin was waiting. As he styled my hair according to Kathy’s instructions, I asked her if Julia was going to make the dress from scratch in such a short time.

  “No, she’s got many items on the premises to choose from,” she said, “and she’s amazing at quick alterations. You’ll see. She’ll make you look gorgeous. You won’t recognize yourself.” I was amused at the fact that this used to be my job, and now I was on the receiving end of it.

  Until that moment, I hadn’t thought about the fact that I’d need to look glamorous to get Lazarenko’s attention. Glamour and danger together seemed like something from a James Bond movie and I chuckled as I imagined this uranium dealer wearing a monocle and petting a white Persian cat.

  By three in the afternoon, Dustin had transformed me from an average woman into something far more elegant, even in my jeans. My brown hair had been trimmed slightly, but was thick and silky in an old-Hollywood style, and smoky eye makeup had transformed my boring brown eyes into lust-inspiring illusions. When Dustin finished off the look with a dark red lipstick, I had a mysterious, seductive appearance I’d never seen in the mirror before.

  Kathy told me to return to the hotel. “I’ll gather up your dress, shoes and accessories and meet you there shortly to help you get ready.”

  I thanked her and decided to walk the dozen or so blocks back to the hotel. The weather was surprisingly sunny for London and I was hoping the walk would settle my frazzled nerves. The entire way back, though, I could only imagine meeting Lazarenko face-to-face and possibly having to get physical with him. By the time I made it to the hotel, I had thoroughly frightened myself.

  * * *

  I showered quickly, careful not to mess up my hair and makeup, then slipped into a hotel-provided robe. I called Musgrave from my room, needing to talk to someone. He was there less than a minute later, holding a bottle of Glenlivet scotch up to the peephole. I let him in and he poured me a drink, telling me it was “regulation CIA medicine” to relax me.

  As I drank, he did his best to calm my nerves. “You’ve been training daily for this moment, Anna. You’ll be fine. And I’ll be right there in case things go awry.”

  We again went over the technique he’d shown me for palming the sticker with the bug affixed to it, so that if need be I could merely put my hand on the TV to plant the bug behind it. I didn’t want to tell him that planting the bug wasn’t the part that had me the most nervous.

  The alcohol and having someone to talk to made me feel better. I insisted Musgrave stay and eat dinner with me, so we ordered some room service. Although I only ordered a salad, I still picked at it, not wanting to feel too full.

  Kathy arrived with my clothing and Musgrave left us to prepare. Kathy opened a department store bag and took out a gorgeous pair of royal blue La Perla panties. Handing them to me along with a dark blue dress, she said, “Try this on. You won’t need a bra.”

  I excused myself to the bathroom and slipped off my robe. The panties fit perfectly and hugged my wide hips like they were meant for me. I stepped into the knee-length dress and pulled it over my curves. The fit was flawless. The dress featured a plunging neckline and slits up both sides to mid-thigh. Kathy set a pair of shiny black heels in front of me and I slipped them on and turned towards the mirror.

  “Wait, not yet!” she said. She opened a box and took out a silver necklace with a small diamond cluster, handing it to me. As I cinched the necklace, she gave me a matching tennis bracelet. “They’re not real,” she said in response to my soft gasp. “But they’re good enough fakes to fool some experts.” I slid the bracelet on and Kathy gave me the once-over.

  “You look amazing, Anna,” she said, leading me by the shoulders to the bathroom mirror.

  I did look pretty damned hot, I had to admit. The dress, jewelry, hair and makeup were all first-rate, and those three months of workouts with Leslie had accentuated the curves of my body. There was no mistaking the fact that I was still a big girl, but I was a big sexy girl. I didn’t know if I’d ever shown that much cleavage before, but it was a look I could get used to now that I was more confident about the rest of my body.

  “Do you think it’ll be enough to attract Lazarenko?” I asked. “To get him to invite me to his room?”

  “Let’s ask an expert,” Kathy said, dialing a number on her phone. “Get in here, we need your opinion.”

  A few seconds later, the door opened and Musgrave stepped in. Kathy looked at him, then at me, saying, “Musgrave, would you want to take this woman back to your hotel room?”

  Musgrave looked at me from my feet to my head, then quickly back down to my breasts before half-whispering, “Oh, hell yeah.”

  The three of us burst into much-needed laughter

  Seven

  “Water with a splash of Coke,” I told the waitress. I wanted a pretend cocktail, something that looked like a drink but had no alcohol. I had no idea how long I’d be sitting in this lounge, and I needed to be sober if Lazarenko indeed showed up.

  I looked around the room at the dark woods and leathers. Hotel 41 had a breathtaking old-world appeal and their executive lounge’s charm epitomized it. Books lined the shelves and a large old globe stood watch near my table. Everything was elegant and expensive in the small room. Though only paying customers and their guests are allowed in the hotel, Vitek had arranged for me to enter.

  I had an abundance of nervous energy as I waited, my eyes darting toward the door every time someone walked in or left. There were only a couple dozen people in the room, and I was certain Sasha Lazarenko was not one of them. Vitek’s instructions for me were to be in the lounge at nine, prepared to stay until midnight. As I sat, I recalled the feeling of strolling into the hotel and receiving admiring looks from everyone I passed. I had never felt so beautiful, so sexy, so desirable — a feeling that would certainly come in handy if I were going to attract an international criminal who was apparently a bit of a player.

  I was ill at ease, sitting by myself dressed as I was, and decided that if Lazarenko asked, I would tell him I was waiting for a friend, maybe an investment banker, who had obviously found something more appealing to do and left me stranded. I leafed through a coffee-table book of modern art, gazing absentmindedly at the Rothkos and Pollocks. By the time I’d finished it, though, Lazarenko was still nowhere to be found. I picked up another book, this one a collection of photographs by Robert Mapplethorpe. I’d heard of him and knew he was controversial, and as I flipped through the pages it was easy to see why: lots of provocative nudity. One picture in particular caught my attention. It was called “Man in Polyester Suit” and was a torso
shot of a black man in a light-colored three-piece suit, the zipper down and an absurdly large penis hanging out. The juxtaposition of business attire and raw genitalia glued my eyes to the page until something moved in my peripheral vision and I looked up to see Sasha Lazarenko entering the room.

  I was immediately flustered and quickly closed the book. I could feel the crimson in my cheeks and prayed he wouldn’t look my way. Taking a sip of my third Coke-and-water of the night, I tried to look inconspicuous. Lazarenko called out to the waiter, then walked over to a table where another man greeted him warmly in French. As I listened to them converse, I realized how fluent Lazarenko was and wondered if my French would be convincing, considering I was supposed to be a French citizen.

  At one point, Lazarenko glanced over and caught me looking. He smiled, as much with his eyes as his lips, then turned back to his friend. My breath caught in my throat; this man was devastatingly handsome, much more so than in his pictures. And oh my god, what an air of confidence! He was wearing dark jeans and a button-down shirt that strained against the muscles of his chest and arms. Every gesture he made looked powerful and masculine.

  The two men spoke for about fifteen minutes, then Lazarenko got up and walked right toward me. I held my breath as he stood in front of me, looking first at my cleavage, then in my eyes. I smiled as he held out his hand and said in a sexy baritone with a distinct Eastern-European accent, “Hello, I am Sasha.”

  I put my hand in his and said with my fake French accent, “Dominique.”