I remained pinned to the wall, my arms and legs holding his hard, sweat-slickened body. Demarco’s head was still next to mine, my fingers gently stroking his hair. I could feel the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing struggled to return to normal. I put my lips to his ear, nuzzling the lobe, chewing it gently between my front teeth. “That’s what I needed,” I whispered.
He slowly pulled his head back and gazed intently into my eyes. Something deep within me stirred, but before I could identify it, I was locked into the most passionate kiss I’d ever had.
Twenty-Four
Snoring.
Someone was snoring. Not too loud, just lightly. It was barely even noticeable.
I managed to get my eyes open and was greeted by the gorgeous sight of Ryan Demarco, still asleep, an arm’s distance from me. He had a dusting of razor stubble and I could see the red welt just inside his bottom lip.
Then it hit me: I had to get out of there, get back to my own room.
What had happened between Demarco and me was necessary, but it unearthed something in me I wasn’t expecting. I needed time and space to process all this, before he woke up and found me in his bed.
I silently slid off the mattress, careful not to disturb the object of my confusion. The room was an utter mess, with expensive designer clothing scattered everywhere. Working quickly and quietly, I gathered my things. After picking up my panties, I raised my head to see Demarco’s stunning naked ass, beautiful enough to steal attention from his muscular thighs and his carved-from-stone back. This man was a work of art.
I took one long look, then tiptoed back to my room, quietly shutting the door behind me.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I felt like a schoolgirl with a crush. My pussy was blissfully sore and I had butterflies in my stomach as I remembered the rest of the sex, after the wall. For the first time with Demarco I had been on top, straddling him as I rode that beautiful cock to a glorious orgasm. Then he placed me on my hands and knees and took me from behind, leaving a little more of himself inside of me when he finished. Afterward, we’d fallen asleep almost instantly, both utterly exhausted from the strange events of the night.
I looked at the alarm clock next to my bed. It was just after six and the sun was beginning to creep above the horizon. I knew Demarco would be stirring soon, and we’d have to meet with Henninger and MacAuliffe to re-confirm that everything had gone according to plan, then coordinate our departure from Moscow.
I headed to the shower, cranking the hot water and letting it wash over my body. I thought of Demarco asleep on his bed, his perfect body exposed by the sheets he’d kicked off during the night. Again I felt those schoolgirl-crush butterflies. It was as if I, pudgy, I-like-you-as-a-friend Anna Mercer, had somehow landed the star quarterback.
As I soaped my body clean, though, a feeling of inadequacy crept in, and with each body part I washed, the stronger it grew. I was in the best shape of my life, but I was still a size twelve with thunder thighs, wide hips, too much belly, and boobs at least two cup sizes too big. Who was I trying to kid? Demarco had sex with me the previous night because I forced him to, and he’d had sex with me in London because he was doing his job.
The feeling overwhelmed me and I began to sob huge, soul-wracking tears.
* * *
Demarco and I flew back to Geneva on the private jet. He was quiet and reserved, but no longer the arrogant jerk I’d come to know. We couldn’t really talk, especially about the operation, because there were three other passengers on the jet, so I mostly read magazines while he either slept or pretended to. We met our contact in the airport in Geneva and turned in our Swiss passports, resuming our actual identities for the commercial flight home. When Henninger and MacAuliffe arrived a short time later, we all four boarded the Delta flight.
I sat next to Demarco this time. His large presence was hard to ignore and once we were aloft I turned to him and whispered, “Are you okay?”
He nodded and smiled. “I think so,” he said, then added, “Thanks for last night.”
I looked him in the eye and said, “That wasn’t for you, it was for me.” He didn’t know I was half lying.
“If you want, you can tell headquarters that everything went as expected with Gurov,” I offered. “Tell them you planted the sniffer while he was busy with me. There’s no need for them to know what really happened.”
Demarco didn’t need to think it over. “No, I have to tell them the truth,” he said. “Baryshev didn’t know Gurov is into men, and Gurov obviously wants him to think it’s the women he’s molesting. In Russia, being outed would mean the end of Gurov’s military career — probably even worse. That’s something the CIA can hold over his head if they ever need to. Blackmail, whatever. Right now, you and I are the only ones in the Agency who know that about him.”
“But are you okay with Sills knowing what happened?” I asked.
“It is what it is,” he said. “I don’t have a choice if I’m doing my job properly.”
I nodded. Demarco was right, of course. This was valuable intel that needed to go into Gurov’s file.
“I’m not going to mention you helping me in Gurov’s office, though,” Demarco said. “That’s not important to anyone.”
Not important to anyone? What was he saying? I felt my heart thumping.
“And what happened in my room is just between us, obviously.”
Obviously. I softly said, “Okay,” then reclined the seat and closed my eyes, not opening them again until we touched down in DC.
I didn’t sleep a wink, though, with so many emotions running through my mind.
* * *
Sills was thrilled that we’d succeeded, and in the privacy of his office commended Demarco for doing what had to be done, and me for my quick thinking and resourcefulness in getting the Cyclops planted. The debriefing went well, except for the fact that my partner for the operation barely looked at me during the two-hour meeting.
After that day, he acted as if nothing had ever happened. I didn’t see nor hear from Demarco for a few weeks. Meanwhile, I grew to accept the fact that I had used his need for sexual reassurance that night as an excuse to bed him for my own selfish reasons. They were both valid rationale for sleeping with my partner, and I was fine with that. I considered reaching out to Demarco, asking him out for a drink, but my pride prevented me. If he were interested in me for anything more than a situational hookup, he wouldn’t act as if I didn’t exist.
I contemplated telling Morello everything that had happened in Moscow, but in the end stuck to the same version of the story we told Sills. The torrid sex between Demarco and me at the hotel would be a buried secret, albeit one I just couldn’t seem to get out of my mind.
Twenty-Five
To deal with the ever-present desire, the chronic sexual ache, resulting from my constantly thinking about Demarco, I heeded Morello’s advice and once again began frequenting bars. I had to stay away from dives out of fear I might bump into Dante Gutierrez, but my months of training and my new status as a covert operative had increased my self esteem enough for me to find men in classier spots. Those “classy” spots were just better caliber bars, though. In the month following Moscow, I picked up three men and slept with them in my quest to find some little spark of magic that would get Demarco out of my head.
Nothing worked. No amount of easy sex could fill the void I felt. It used to be enough, but after what I’d experienced in that hotel room in Russia, I didn’t know if I could ever again be satisfied with a typical man. But those were the cards I’d been dealt, and I had no choice but to continue to try to find some degree of happiness in the arms — and beds — of other men. And in my job, of course.
By that point I knew there were nine female agents in the department, and I assumed they all employed intimacy in the line of duty — otherwise, they’d be working in a different part of the Clandestine Service Division. I had met two of those women and they both looked like models. One of them, a black woman
named Jessica Waller, was a little older, around forty. She had seen me in the cafeteria and walked over to introduce herself.
“So you’re the new girl,” she said. “I’ve been hearing good things about you.”
It was quite a compliment, coming from a decorated veteran agent with four years under her belt.
“Who did they pair you up with for your blind training simulation?” she asked.
I hesitated, then answered, “Ryan Demarco.”
A sly smile crept across her face. “Me, too,” she practically purred.
Wonderful. That’s an image I really didn’t need in my head.
When Sills told me he had another operation lined up, this one on the African continent, I jumped at the chance, desperate for a distraction. The fact that it was risky didn’t sway me. I’d kicked ass in Paris and Moscow and was now quickly moving up in the hierarchy of Extracurricular Affairs covert agents. For some reason, outshining Jessica Waller had suddenly become a goal.
So I listened intently in Sills’s office as he laid out my next operation. The target I saw on his video screen was Joseph Maboso, a high-ranking lieutenant in M23, the Congolese Revolutionary Army. The M23 rebels had been bedeviling the government of the Democratic Republic of the Congo for a few years and controlled large swaths of land throughout the country. They were a bloodthirsty group that terrorized the nation and struck fear in its people.
As Sills presented the details, I looked at Maboso’s face. He was a black man, very dark, with unfeeling black eyes. Dressed in military fatigues, he could have come straight out of central casting on a Hollywood studio lot as the stereotypical African warlord. Looking at him, the anxiety that always came at this point again slowly creeped in.
“The operation is actually very simple,” Sills said. “We need a bug in Maboso’s office. There’s no fancy high-tech security, only armed guards.”
“How do I get into the office?” I asked.
“As a French prostitute,” Sills replied without batting an eye.
Evidently, Maboso had a thing for white women. He regularly had them flown to him from Kinshasa, the nation’s capital and largest city, and actually had the gall to have the women brought directly into his office in the light of day. Our intel indicated it would be an easy matter to pay off the man whose service provided the women. Money talked, and in nations torn apart by civil wars almost anything imaginable could be bought.
Unlike other operations I’d been given, in which I stood a chance of completing the mission goal without sex, in this particular one sex would be a certainty. This time, though, Sills didn’t ask if I was okay with that. I had repeatedly demonstrated a willingness to take that route if necessary and it was apparent he was beginning to treat me as a seasoned agent he could trust.
There was one new wrinkle to this operation, though, and it startled me when Sills introduced it. Turning the lights back on, he picked up something from his desk and extended his hand to me. I opened my palm and he placed in it an oval object not much bigger than a pea. It was covered in a rubbery substance.
“Have you ever seen an L-pill before?” Sills asked.
I’d heard of them, but never seen one. Inside the rubber was a thin-walled glass ampoule filled with a concentrated potassium cyanide solution. It was a suicide pill, to be used in case of capture when death was imminent and couldn’t be prevented. Agents had historically used them to prevent torture or execution when there was no hope of survival. The rubber coating protected against accidental breakage. An agent could place the pill in his or her mouth without worrying about it dissolving. Even if it were accidentally swallowed it would pass harmlessly through the digestive system without breaking down. One hard bite, though, would release the solution and within thirty seconds the agent would be unconscious, with death following minutes later.
I looked up at Sills. “We don’t expect trouble, Anna,” he said reassuringly. “But you know this is a dangerous business we’re in. And even though he shouldn’t view you as an enemy, Maboso is a ruthless man. Better to be safe than sorry.”
I understood, but was determined to avoid any situations that would make such drastic measures necessary in the first place. As Sills wrapped things up, I was already psyching myself up for what lay ahead. When he finished and asked if I had any questions, I only had two: Had they confirmed that Maboso used condoms with prostitutes? And when would I leave for Africa?
Two days later I received an email from Demarco, the first time I’d heard from him since our post-Moscow debriefing.
You okay with this mission?
How did he always know about the classified operations of other agents? Trying my best not to read anything into his message, I replied.
Sure, it’s my job. Why?
Demarco’s response was quick.
Just be careful. Come home safely.
I was as confused as ever. Did that meant he actually cared about me? Or was it just a collegial pat on the back prior to a potentially dangerous operation? With the distinct lack of emotion in the tone of the messages, I decided it was probably the latter.
* * *
A week later I was on an Air France plane touching down on a runway at N'djili Airport in Kinshasa. I was met at the airport by Carl Archer, my local support agent. Archer had been stationed in the DRC for most of the last decade and knew the people and customs thoroughly. He had a home there, or rather the CIA had one in which Archer lived, and I would be staying in a guest bedroom there. After I was settled in, we went over the plans. As always, it was strange to deal with fellow agents who knew what role I filled for the CIA. In this case, there was no hiding it as I would be posing as a hooker. I turned in early that night to rest up for my mission the next day.
In the morning Archer he took me to a Nganda restaurant for breakfast. On his advice, I stuck mostly to French-influenced food and local coffee to wash it down, but truth is I was so hungry from my flight-day fasting I would have eaten anything. Surely even jet lag would be better than not eating for that long. Then we headed back to the airport, where the two of us caught a flight on Blue Sky Airways to Goma in the North Kivu Province of the DRC. Goma was right next to Rwanda, and as we landed we were less than half a kilometer from the border.
At the airport we met up with my pimp, Omari Diako, a short, portly Congolese man who for some reason wore an ill-fitting suit and tie for the occasion, possibly to impress Archer or maybe Maboso himself. We were driven to Diako’s brothel, which was likely the best in all of Goma. It was my first time in such a place, and it felt strange entering the two-story house in jeans and a T-shirt and seeing a dozen working girls, all black, in various types of lingerie. Since it was noon and still early for the sex trade, most of them were lounging around and eyed me suspiciously as I walked past.
Archer waited in the main room downstairs while Diako escorted me to a bedroom where I could change into my Agency-supplied outfit, insisting on remaining inside the room with me. To that point, he and Archer had conversed in Kikongo, a native language of the DRC. Not knowing the language, I wasn’t able to convey to him that I was uncomfortable with him watching. I gave up trying, figuring he wasn’t a threat considering how much he was being paid by Archer.
Sandra Teer and I had worked together to pick something appropriately slutty, but not outright embarrassing. We’d settled on a bright blue sheath dress with a wide black vinyl belt and matching knee-high boots. “Very ‘Pretty Woman’,” Sandra had laughed. The belt was a necessity, as it held both the tiny flat bug I was to plant in Maboso’s desk as well as the L-pill, which I was determined not to need. As Diako stood at the door gawking, I stripped out of my jeans, shirt and sandals, then removed my bra. I tried to cover my breasts with one arm, but gave that up and quickly wiggled my way into the dress. There wasn’t much to it; the top barely covered my breasts and the hem barely covered my ass. I had to sit to pull on the tight boots, then I donned a thin, sheer black cardigan to complete the look. There was a mirror in t
he room, and I applied extra mascara and eyeshadow. Sandra had insisted on straightening my hair before I left, claiming the less I looked like myself, the better I’d feel about the situation. As I looked at myself in that dingy mirror, I realized she was right.
Diako drove me to Maboso’s stronghold, which was located in the Rukoko township on the outskirts of Goma, at the very end of a long uneven dirt road. The windows of Diako’s truck had to be closed to keep the dust out, but with no air conditioning on the warm June day, the truck’s cab was soon stifling.
Archer was accompanying us, ostensibly as Diako’s fellow pimp who’d brought a white hooker from Kinshasa especially for Maboso. The Agency wanted him close at hand in case anything went wrong, especially since I would be unarmed, as usual. I didn’t ask what weapons Archer had hidden on him, but assumed he’d be prepared. When we passed the third checkpoint with soldiers brandishing Russian-made Kalashnikovs, I knew it didn’t matter. If things went wrong, we would be toast. It would be up to me to make sure they didn’t.
It made me feel a little better that the checkpoint soldiers all recognized Diako and waved him through. At one stop, the soldier said something in French and Diako replied in French. That little fucker!
“You never told me you spoke French,” I scolded him. He’d watched me undress when I could have easily asked him to give me some privacy if I’d known we had a common language.
He didn’t seem at all surprised to hear that common language from me. “You never asked,” he said with a smile.
But at least I knew I could converse with him. “How much does Maboso pay for his women? I need to know in case I’m asked.”
Sleeping With the Enemy Page 17