Sleeping With the Enemy

by Adaire, Alexis

  I breathed a sigh of relief and Sills dismissed me, telling me that Dr. Morello was waiting in her office to see me next.

  My CIA shrink, as I’d come to think of her, was also aware that I’d left the target’s residence without fully collecting the data. To justify my actions, I gave her the explicit details of what had taken place between me and Zeybeck.

  “You said it had taken him quite a while to reach orgasm the first time, in the bed,” Morello said. “Instead of going down on him, couldn’t you have created more time by letting him have sex with you again?”

  “I suppose,” I answered. “I wasn’t sure when I would get another chance to remove the cloner so I created that chance, then took advantage of it. It had been well over an hour and I assumed it was almost finished copying the data.”

  “Almost,” she said.

  I sighed. “Dr. Morello, I see now where I made my mistake. As soon as I saw the cloner hadn’t finished, I should have dragged Zeybeck back to bed and let him fuck me again. Eventually he would have left the room momentarily, although it might not have been for a few hours — possibly not until the next morning. I made a snap judgement to take the data I’d already collected and get out of there cleanly. Next time I’ll ask myself first whether I’ve completed the operation’s stated goal, then act accordingly.”

  It was still a bit surreal, having conversations like this one, talking about sex I’d just had recently. Something which would normally be absolutely private was now a topic of discussion, something to be dissected by my superiors at the Agency to make sure I’d done my job properly. I wasn’t sure if I could ever fully get used to that aspect of the job.

  Back at my office, I closed the door and sank into my chair, trying to convince myself that “almost” could be considered successful enough in my new line of work. I knew it wasn’t, though, and was disappointed at having come up short. I resolved to not let that happen again.

  My computer dinged and I glanced at the screen to see who’d emailed me.

  New email from from: R. Demarco

  Great. What did that asshole want? I hadn’t seen or heard from him since I’d kicked him in the balls a few weeks earlier. I clicked on the message.

  Just heard that you broke your cherry. Congrats on getting that first one behind you and I’m glad you made it home safe and sound.

  RD

  P.S. Good thing I drilled you so hard during our training operation in London. :)

  My eye narrowed and I felt my pulse rise. Damn that man.

  I deleted the message and tried to focus on the details of the operation I’d just completed. Every time I thought about the perfunctory sex with Zeybeck, though, I remembered how delicious my interaction with Lazarenko/Demarco had been; it was steamy, sexy, and so physically gratifying. When I realized I was becoming excited, I slammed my desk in disgust and went to the Agency’s gym to work out my frustrations.

  I wouldn’t truly deal with those feelings of frustration until I returned home that night and used my vibrator, thinking about the sex with Demarco the entire time. I couldn’t stop thinking about how he had demanded that I look directly into his eyes while he was inside of me; it was such an insanely sexy thing to do. I brought myself to an intense orgasm — orgasms, actually, as I had two, back-to-back. Regardless of how much I despised the man, I couldn’t deny that the sex with him had been memorable. And he would never know that I’d masturbated while thinking about him.

  Fourteen

  My second covert ops mission — I wasn’t counting the Lazarenko simulation in London — took place less than two weeks after the one in Turkey. That was probably Sills’s way of forcing me right back up on the horse after I’d almost botched the Olin Zeybeck operation by leaving before I had collected one hundred percent of his computer’s data.

  My target this time was Jean-Philippe Fabron, the French Permanent Representative to the United Nations. A lifelong politician in France, it was publicly assumed that Fabron had been given the U.N. Ambassadorship by the current Prime Minister as a thank you for his years of service. Digging a little deeper, the Agency had determined Fabron was chosen because he could be easily blackmailed. Apparently, for years he had his hand in the cookie jar and now was being forced to do his party’s dirty work, cutting back-room deals that if they were ever to be uncovered, would not be officially acknowledged by the government. Fabron had no choice in the matter, and if his doings were found out, he’d be required to fall on his own sword.

  That much the Agency already knew. What they didn’t know were the details of the deals Fabron was making; for that, they would need to have ears on him whenever he was meeting with someone. Doing so would be next to impossible, since he was usually meeting people in various offices at the U.N. Building in New York City, which was geographically in FBI territory. Planting bugs there would require a bureaucratic nightmare of a cross-agency operation, and bugging U.N. Headquarters would have very ugly ramifications if it were to be discovered.

  Sills and his bosses had decided, then, that the bug would need to be planted on Jean-Philippe Fabron himself. More accurately, on his beloved Pratesi Montesilvano briefcase, which he had carried with him just about everywhere he went since he purchased it new in the mid-seventies. When I saw the pictures of it, I understood why: The briefcase was beautiful, hand-crafted in Florence with an aluminum frame encased in gorgeous Venetian calfskin leather. Twin combination locks would prevent me from planting a bug on the inside, but I would instead be swapping its leather-wrapped handle with an identical one containing a high-quality microphone and radio transmitter. The Agency had managed to purchase a similar model Pratesi briefcase on eBay and had already modified that handle. Now we just had to hope that I could get close enough to Fabron to get the time needed to pull off the swap, and that he wouldn’t notice the difference. Only the first of those were within my control.

  Musgrave and I flew to Paris, eBay-purchased briefcase in hand. He’d already shown me how to swap the handles. Each end of the handle had a thick leather loop through which passed a metal spring-loaded pin that collapsed to shrink its length, similar to the larger pin that goes through a common toilet paper roll. A special tool was used to collapse the pin, which would free that side of the handle, then I would repeat the process on the other side. The replacement handle had been artificially aged and was rigged with pins that would expand automatically when it sensed it was in place, minimizing the time I’d need to make the switch. Basically, I’d have to finagle the old handle off and simply pop the new one in.

  On the flight, I spent a while learning to quickly undo the pins and remove the handle. Musgrave suggested I try it with my eyes closed “just in case.” I couldn’t imagine having to swap handles in the dark, but I practiced until I could do it without even looking.

  I went over the plans again with Musgrave at the hotel after we arrived in Paris. Fabron was giving a speech at the Centre Georges Pompidou, addressing a group of university students. It turns out the old guy did quite a lot of these, mostly, it seemed, to meet young women who were impressed by his years as a nationally known politician. Fabron was sixty-eight and married, but the Agency had documented literally dozens of affairs he’d had over the years. I would be posing as an American college student in Paris. It was a bit of a stretch to play the role of someone a decade younger than myself, but Sandra Teer had given me a few outfits to choose from that, combined with the new bangs she suggested, made me look the part. I would attend Fabron’s speech, approach him afterward, and invite him for a drink. Hopefully from there we would end up in a hotel room and I would eventually find time to swap the handles.

  After Musgrave left, I spent another hour practicing the removal of the briefcase handle, spending half that time in the dark. The next morning I showered and got dressed, then took the briefcase into the bathroom, turned off all the lights, and timed myself. Less than two minutes, in pitch black conditions. I was confident as I slipped the modified handle into my purse, ch
ecking to make sure the pins were in place.

  * * *

  The Agency had procured a seat for me at Fabron’s speech, and I’d shown up early to get a seat in the first row. I was posing as a visiting Yale graduate student, and between my button-down shirt’s slight cleavage and my short skirt, I was hoping I’d attract Fabron’s attention before his speech was over. The small room quickly filled up and the guest of honor was introduced.

  Jean-Philippe Fabron was a very handsome older man who was quite full of himself. He was impeccably dressed in a navy pinstriped suit with a light blue shirt and yellow tie, with glasses and a full head of wavy gray hair. As he spoke, I couldn’t help but think that Ryan Demarco would be a similar type a few decades down the road: still attractive, but clinging desperately to the looks that time is determined to steal. Fabron’s speech was in French and I was proud that I understood every word except for a handful of names and geographical references unfamiliar to me. The first time he glanced in my direction I smiled sweetly. After the third or fourth time, I began to give him subtle flirty looks and crossed my legs, inching my skirt up my thigh.

  When he finished, I stood patiently nearby while he chatted with the organizers of the event. Occasionally he would look my way and smile and I made it obvious I wanted a word with him and that I was waiting for him to finish. I noticed his briefcase next to the podium, a good twenty feet away. There was no way I could do the swap now, though — way too risky. When Fabron finally finished with the last guest and made his way to me, he immediately noticed the well-worn Yale notepad I’d been given as a prop.

  “You are from Yale?” he said in heavily accented English. Good, I wouldn’t have to launch directly into French.

  “Yes,” I said, trying to act smitten by his good looks and power, which I actually was to some extent. “I read about you in my International Relations course and wanted to meet you.”

  “I would love to discuss International Relations with you, young lady,” Fabron said smoothly, “but first I might need your name.”

  “I’m sorry!” I gushed. “I’m Monica Neilson.”

  “And you apparently know my name already,” he said, taking my extended hand in both of his. “Tell me, Miss Neilson, at Yale have you ever met my friend Evan Muster?”

  Caught completely off-guard, I had to answer quickly. “You’re friends with Evan Muster?” I said, as if I were surprised by the revelation.

  “Yes,” he said, absent-mindedly walking to the podium to retrieve the briefcase. What the hell was I going to do? I had no idea who this Muster guy was.

  Just as he grabbed the briefcase and turned around, the man who had introduced him before his speech called his name and approached him. Fabron subtly signaled to me to stay put and I knew the interruption would be brief. I nodded, then whipped out my phone and Googled “Evan Muster.” The first page in the results was from Yale University’s Department of Political Science and I clicked on it. Muster’s title was Hershberg Professor of Political Science and he was the department head to boot. Any Yale poli-sci student would know who this was. How was I going to be able to talk about him without raising suspicions? I had barely had time to memorize what little Yale info I’d been provided by the Agency. Hadn’t they known about this connection?

  Fabron returned and I slipped my phone back into my purse.

  “So you know Evan?” he asked as we walked to the door into an empty corridor.

  “Everyone knows Professor Muster,” I said, hoping we could drop the subject.

  I was in luck, if only momentarily. Fabron stopped and said, “Excuse me one moment, I need to use the restroom. Wait here, then maybe we will have an early drink, yes? I want to talk to you some more, my dear.”

  “Certainly,” I said. He left me standing there as he walked into the men’s room. I was tempted to ask him if he wanted me to hold his briefcase, but didn’t want to spook him. I waited there and noticed that the earlier crowd in that part of the building had disappeared completely. I was standing by myself in the hallway.

  My mind raced. Maybe I could find a way to keep this initial encounter brief, then find time to study up on this Muster guy before meeting Fabron again. What choice did I have?

  That’s when the idea struck me. I looked around again, saw nobody at all, then made a split-second decision to go with my instincts. I walked to the men’s room and pushed the door open, stepping inside.

  Fabron was drying his hands at the air dryer. He looked up at me with equal amounts shock and concern. He grabbed his briefcase off the counter and approached me as I hurriedly began to unbutton my shirt.

  “You should not be in here,” he said, then noticed my suddenly visible cleavage. “What are you doing?”

  When Fabron reached me, I quickly opened my shirt wide to give him a good look, then wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him hard, my hands running through his hair. He was still surprised but began to kiss me back. I turned him, pushing him back against the door as I slid a hand down his chest, across his belly to his crotch. Dropping to my knees, I let my purse fall to the floor, then took his briefcase from his hand and set it on the floor as well. My fingers worked his belt loose and reached for his zipper.

  “Must we do this right here?” Fabron said, concern evident in his voice.

  “Monsieur,” I said, “I know you’re a very busy man, and I don’t want to take too much of your time. But I was thinking about this all through your speech and I don’t want to wait another minute. So yes, right here.” His slacks fell to his ankles and I pulled his white boxers down, exposing him. His small cock hung limp in a mess of dark grey hair and I had it in my mouth before he could say another word.

  Once Fabron realized he was actually getting a men’s room blowjob from a young university student, he relaxed and leaned back against the door. Once I had him hard, I finally removed my mouth and looked up to his eyes, smiling as I asked, “Does this mean you want me to continue?”

  “Please,” he mumbled, nodding. A simple blowjob had swiftly rendered this loquacious man nearly mute.

  I reached up next to the door and hit the light switch, plunging the room into total darkness, then immediately took Fabron into my mouth again. As I sucked, my left hand held him while my right fumbled in my purse for the small flat tool I needed. Once I located it, I reached around in the pitch black until I found his briefcase. Sliding the tool next to the end of the handle, I loosened the tiny pin and felt the handle give. It was much easier than I’d thought. Moving to the other side, I began working on that pin, then heard a faint clink as the first pin hit the floor.

  Realizing this operation might not be as quiet as I hoped, I began making very audible slurping noises as I continued to enthusiastically fellate Fabron. The second pin took much longer to remove as I kept searching to find the right angle in the dark. I was thankful this man was in his sixties and not in his twenties, as I knew that gave me more time to work before his eventual orgasm. Finally I felt the second pin give and to my horror, the entire handle fell off and clattered on the floor.

  “What was that?” Fabron asked with less concern than I would have thought.

  I took my mouth off of him long enough to say, “My phone fell out of my pocket,” then I brought my right hand up to cup his balls while I took his entire short length into my mouth, burying my face against his lower abdomen. He smelled of expensive soap as he politely nudged the back of my throat.

  My explanation seemed good enough for Fabron, or maybe he just didn’t care at that point. Reaching down again, I felt around for the handle and luckily found it, quietly dropping it into my purse and retrieving its replacement. Putting the new handle in place turned out to be the easiest part; once the sensors registered the presence of the metal handle loops on the briefcase, the pins automatically lengthened. A small amount of jiggling secured the handle and I was done.

  I felt a sudden surge of pride. Fabron’s hands were now in my hair and I heard him moan. I silently slid my han
d back into my purse, found my cell phone, and quietly set it on the floor near the briefcase. Knowing I was minutes away from completing my mission, I began to suck him hungrily, stroking him with one hand and playing with his balls with the other until Fabron groaned and unloaded in my mouth. I quickly swallowed and continued to suck for a few seconds longer, then stood up and found the light switch.

  My eyes adjusted to the light as I stood face-to-face with Fabron, his pants at his ankles and my hand stroking his quickly softening cock. I grinned at him when he put his hands on my bra and gently squeezed my breasts. “I didn’t get an opportunity to see these,” he said.

  “Maybe next time,” I smiled. “Look for me in the crowd whenever you speak in public here in Paris.”

  “I will do that,” he said as he lifted his pants and began to put himself together. I saw him notice my phone on the restroom floor next to his briefcase. “Don’t forget that,” he said, not giving the briefcase a second look.

  I picked up my phone and put it in my purse, then buttoned my shirt. “For now, though, I will let you get back to your busy schedule, Monsieur Fabron.”

  He thanked me for the blowjob and I told him the pleasure was all mine. Peeking out the door, he made sure the coast was clear before holding it open for me. We walked down the empty corridor to the busier lobby area, then said a quick goodbye before going our separate ways. I got a kiss on the cheek, but Fabron never asked me for my number, seemingly content at having gotten unexpected oral sex from a silly young woman. I assumed that for a man in his position, sexual favors were a regular occurrence.

  As I walked away from the Pompidou Centre, I broke into a grin. Had I actually just done that? Blown my target in the restroom while simultaneously planting a bug on his briefcase? The taste in my mouth confirmed that I had. The bathroom tryst had taken no more than ten minutes.