"So?" I still didn't understand.
"Sssssoooo…," sputtered the major, "we want you to get close to him in another way."
"What way?"
"A close way."
"How close?"
"In bed." This revelation came unhesitatingly from the lieutenant.
I was stunned. I don't know how many seconds of silence passed before I eventually said, "Excuse me?"
The lieutenant huffed. "I think the implication is pretty obvious. This General Vogler has—shall we say—a partiality for ladies of a darker hue. That's why we selected you for this assignment. We feel you could—"
"Wait a minute!" I was incensed. "Exactly what do you think I am?"
The officers leaned back, looked at each other, and made little sucking sounds with their lips. Obviously, they believed they had a common knowledge that trumped any protestation I might make to the contrary. That infuriated me.
"You've got some nerve!" I jumped to my feet. "How dare you! What gives you the right? I've never in my—!"
"Please! Please, Miss Foxxe!" The major was trying to calm me. "We didn't mean to upset you. If I didn't mention it, you'll be paid very well for your work."
"I'm not a whore!" I stamped my foot as an audible exclamation point.
"No," said the lieutenant with relaxed sarcasm. "You're just a girl who poses for naked, pornographic pictures. How did we ever get the two confused?"
The bluntness of the statement—not to mention the truths within it—shocked me into silence. I was cowed. I was humiliated. I was queasy.
"Please sit down," said the major. "We're sorry if we jumped to conclusions."
I refused to sit. Even standing, I was on pins and needles. As uneasy as I was before, now my discomfort had acquired an even more ominous undertone.
"What makes you think…?" I found myself unable to finish the sentence.
"Again, I'm sorry if we made incorrect assumptions," apologized the major. "It's just…considering what you do…"
"What I do?"
"Well," stated the lieutenant, "if you don't do that to supplement your income when you're not posing for naked pictures, you're the only such model I'm aware of who doesn't."
"What do you mean?"
"Come on," he said. "We all know where these photographers get their models. And it's not the ladies' auxiliary at the Masonic Lodge. For God's sake! Who else could you get to pose like that?"
"You can understand our presumption," added the major.
"And when we saw you walking into that studio with your little friend there…" the lieutenant continued.
"You mean Nanette St. Claire?" I asked.
"Is that the name she's using these days?" The lieutenant smirked in the direction of the other man. "Well, let's just say that lady's not exactly unknown to soldiers with a pass and some newly issued pay."
Why that revelation surprised me, I don't know. The fact is, I hardly knew Nanette. What's more, her behavior that afternoon was anything but ladylike. Picturing her in an even more sinister setting just wasn't that outlandish. Still, the thought of it—the thought that I had willingly accompanied her—the thought that I had willingly let her put her hands on my nude body—and that I had put my hands on hers! Oh, my god!
"I think I'd like that glass of water now." I sank meekly into the chair.
Lieutenant Ricci went outside the room and, about fifteen seconds later, brought me a glass of water. I drank it down in only a few gulps. The lieutenant took the empty glass from me and placed it on the desk. Then he resumed his seat. The two men sat quietly for a few moments, eyeing me with concerned expressions.
I suppose I must have gone pale—which, for a person of my skin tone, isn't easy to do. To some degree, I was traumatized. I'm not sure I could have walked steadily, even if I tried. My head was swimming with disturbing thoughts.
That girl! That Nanette St. Claire! Why didn't I see it? Why didn't I realize? Why wasn't it obvious when I saw her that very first time?—sitting on the floor, legs splayed. Not a shred of modesty. It was as though she were running an advertisement. Pussy for sale! And now, there were pictures of me with her. Pictures of us both naked and provocatively displaying our womanhood. Pictures of us being playful with one another. Not merely "playful," but playful with each other's bodies. Touching each other in intimate ways that have only one meaning to anyone who sees them. I rubbed my tits against hers. I stroked her ass while she stroked mine. We ground our hairy bushes together. There was even a time when I was reasonably certain I felt the moistness of her cunt lips sliding across my upper thigh. I did nothing to stop it. I barely even tried. That woman could talk me into anything. What's more, there's even pictures of us fondling a naked man. A picture of me holding that man's prick. And she took that hard cock into her mouth—so easily, so confidently, so expertly. She smiled while she sucked it. Lord almighty, what kind of fucking idiot am I?
"All right?" asked the major. "I'm sorry for any misunderstandings, but you do understand our position…and why we selected you?"
"Why were you watching me?"
"We weren't," answered the major. "We were watching Tristan Zenglitz. Or, at least, his building. We saw you for the first time when you showed up there with your friend last week."
"She's not my friend," I blurted as quickly as I could. "I had only just met her that day."
"How well do you know Zenglitz?" The lieutenant squinted at me as he asked.
"Not at all. And I won't be going back. I promise you that."
"Wise decision," said the lieutenant.
"He's a bad man, isn't he?" My suspicions about that dirty little photographer didn't need further encouragement, but the fact that the U.S. Army was watching him piqued my curiosity.
"We can't prove anything," answered the major. "But he could be a front for some enemy intelligence operations."
"How do you know?"
"That's neither here nor there," interjected the major. "And it's not important at this moment. You don't need to concern yourself about that. What is your concern—or should be—is the fate of the world. We need someone…someone who can get close to the man who has all the information we need…information about supply trains…and their routes. If we have that information, we can disrupt those trains and bring the German offensive to a stop. We need someone willing to help us do that…in the most effective way we know how…to make a kind of sacrifice, if you will. A very, very important sacrifice."
"Probably the most important thing you'll ever do," said the lieutenant.
"We wouldn't have even asked you if, um…" the major trailed off. He looked sheepishly toward the lieutenant.
"What I believe the major's trying to say," offered the lieutenant, "is we wouldn't have asked a virgin. Forgive my speaking plainly, but we know from the court records back in America that virginity isn't at issue here."
How humiliating. To be sitting in a room with two men who viewed me that way. To them, I was nothing more than a woman of loose morals. A trollop. A slut. More definitively, I was, in their eyes, just a pussy—a pussy they wished to use as their tool. Like a hammer or a wrench. Perhaps, more appropriately, like a pair of pliers. Their plan was to clamp my cunt on some German general's cock and extract what they desired.
"So you were relying on my promiscuity?" I blushed.
"We were, um…" the major coughed, "relying on your patriotism."
"We want your help, Miss Foxx," the lieutenant said. "If you help us, we can help you. A girl alone in Paris…without family…without proper documentation… can probably use all the help she can get."
"Distasteful though it might be," the major added with a grave undertone, "thousands of lives could depend on this. Depend on you."
I thought about it. I didn't want to, but I thought about it. I felt I had to.
"So this general's got an eye for girls like me," I mused. "So what? Why does it have to be me? I'm sure I'm not the only girl this color in Europe."
"No,"
said the lieutenant. "But, while our general likes his girls with a little more pigmentation, he also seems to especially prefer the ones whose facial features are a bit more, well, Caucasian looking, shall we say. At least, that's what we've been able to discern from our information about his past dalliances. Your mixed heritage has provided you with that look. That's what drew us to you. We feel we have the best chance of getting to Vogler if we appeal to his…specialized tastes."
"How would I even get to this general? How would I contact you if I learned anything? I don't speak a word of German."
"Leave that to us," said the major. "Lieutenant Ricci's in charge of this operation. He'll give you everything you need. Just follow his directions to the letter. That's the best advice I can give."
The lieutenant had a look of confidence about him. I supposed he was probably an excellent officer. He seemed capable enough. He was even good looking, in a rough-and-ready sort of way. I could envision him going into battle, climbing out of the trenches, leading men on a bold charge. He was the sort of man you'd expect to find on the military recruitment posters—the image of American masculinity. Yet, as I sat there looking at him, I wished I didn't have to have anything more to do with him. He knew too much about me. He suspected too many other things—not all of which were true. And, worst of all, based on his knowledge and suspicions, I supposed he had a very low opinion of me.
"You know what they call men who put women in other men's beds?" I posed to him.
"In this case," he responded, looking every bit like a man who knew he'd won, "soldier."
"And what do they call the women?" I sighed.
"Heroes…if they're successful," he answered without batting an eye. "Don't over-think it, Miss Foxx. Pillow talk's always been a weapon of war. Welcome to the fight, doughboy."
Continued in
Part Two
The Mission
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Teaser
CHAPTER 4
Dora of Strassburg
France to Switzerland:
It has occurred to me that I let myself get talked into doing things you just know aren’t going to work out well. A perfect example would be my agreeing to seduce and bed a high-ranking German officer for the purpose of spying on him for his enemies.
So why was I doing it? Fraught with all the perils a mission like this would present for even a trained, experienced agent—something I was definitely not—why did I say yes?
It wasn’t for America. I didn’t feel I owed anything to the United States, where I was always a second-class citizen. It was an unofficial but ubiquitous stigma that was automatically appended to every person of color who lived there. Additionally, that stain of perceived lesser quality readily bled onto any white people who dared to suggest an unequal society is an unjust society. That’s what happened to my mother. That’s what happened to Beau. Just as I, and others like me, suffered for our color, they suffered for their colorblindness. Think what you will of me for saying it, but compassion and gratitude were conspicuously absent when I thought about my native land.
It wasn’t for France, either. Although the injustices weren’t as prevalent, the French still had their own biases. Some were based on race, some on religion. I saw the way certain people looked at Elie and Mendel Bardach when they didn’t know I was watching. I sometimes heard what they’d say to each other.
“Jews.”
It was whispered in disapproving mutters by those who’d come into the shop looking for a bargain and then grumble when the prices weren’t quite low enough to suit them. Somehow, that became a Jewish thing in their eyes. It grieved me to see the Bardachs smiling and thanking those narrow-minded trolls who’d patronize their shop one minute and then curse the proprietors behind their backs the next. Considering how kind the Bardachs had been to me, the slurs directed at them might have hurt me even more than the stings of my own suffered barbs.
So, if it wasn’t for flag and country, why did I agree to be the U.S. Army’s undercover strumpet?
Well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t fear being turned over to the authorities—French or American, or both—for my indiscretions. Major Harbaugh said they had no intention of notifying anyone about them, but I wasn’t all that sure about Lieutenant Ricci. He struck me as a man who was used to getting his way. If he didn’t get it, what might be the consequences? And who might suffer them? I didn’t want to be dragged back to Virginia and forced to testify against Beau. I didn’t want to go to jail. My mother sucked a judge’s cock specifically to keep me out of prison. Neither of us would be pleased to know she’d made that effort for no purpose.
And then there were all those soldiers, European and American boys. They’d be hitting the lines, fighting and dying over a war that just wouldn’t seem to end. The longer it lasted, the more death and destruction resulted. If I did an unclean thing, could it help to clean up the mess the world was in? To put a stop to the war? To make everyone safer? Perhaps this was my moment to do the best thing I could ever hope to do.
Yet, I think I might have been even more motivated by the knowledge of that horrid photographer, Tristan Zenglitz, being a German agent. At least, he was suspected of that, and, based on my own limited experience with him, I had no trouble believing it to be true. I felt dirty and abused as a result of just being in the same room with him. As far as I was concerned, the man had “degenerate” written all over his little rat face. To me, it was the face of evil. Anything I could do to counter whatever he was up to just had to be a good thing.
Yes, I was angry. Angry at America. Angry at France. Angry at Tristan Zenglitz. Angry at Nanette St. Claire for introducing me to him. But, most of all, I was angry at myself—angry for having been so gullible, so naïve. Everything that happened up till then, every catastrophe, had happened because I had made a stupid choice. I should have known better. I did know better. But I ignored the obvious dangers. I shut my ears to the warning sirens going off in my head. I closed my eyes to the treacherous terrain I was traipsing through and charged on like a lemming heading right for the cliff.
Damn it! If you’re that much of a Dumb Dora, you deserve whatever you get!
So that’s how I found myself on a train bound for Switzerland. Final intended destination: Strassburg, Germany.
Sitting across from me in the passenger compartment was a snoozing Lieutenant Ricci. He looked quite different in civilian clothing. For this type of assignment, it was essential that no one know he was a U.S. soldier. The nondescript suit of blue and gray he had on must have been selected especially for its likelihood not to draw any sort of attention to the wearer. Still, I considered him a handsome man, even in this less fashionable attire. When we were both standing, I gauged him to be about six or so inches taller than me, which would put him at about five-foot-nine, five-foot-ten—an average height. He was slim, but not skinny. His face was robust of color, not pasty, possibly from being outdoors a lot. Sleeping, as he was, those dark, staring, penetrating eyes of his were currently hidden from view. I recall thinking to myself that it was a shame those eyes weren’t open and looking my way, because I thought I looked particularly good in the green and black traveling suit the Army had provided me. The Army suited me with a few simple, but nice pieces of apparel. It was important that I look good. If I was expected to seduce a man, I’d need to be an attractive seductress. No question about that. The only question was whether I’d be able to turn seduction into a means of gaining valuable information for the Allies.
To that end, Lieutenant Ricci spent the previous six days (and most of the nights) drilling me on the various things I’d need to know and do once I was in Strassburg. There wasn’t time to teach me to speak German. However, he taught me certain key words that I was to listen for when in the company of supply officers—the German words for things like “train,” “shipment,” “supplies,” days, and
numbers. Supply train numbers would be particularly important to the Allies, as they couldn’t hope to intercept or destroy every train in Germany—only the key trains carrying the supplies they wanted to keep from reaching the troops. I was also given geography lessons regarding Germany’s principal railroad centers, the places from which supply trains would typically originate, and the probable destinations. In particular, any large shipments going into the city of Metz, near the French border, were likely headed to the front. I don’t know how many hours the lieutenant spent rattling off sample German sentences to test my ability to pluck out the important information within them. It seemed to take forever before I finally started to acquire the skill. By each evening’s end, my head ached.
To maximize my training time—and perhaps also to keep close watch on me—the Army had provided me with a small sleeping quarters and a cot in its building. That way, I was always there and available. Since I wasn’t going to be returning to my lodgings—for at least the duration of the mission—on the second day I was told I should write a short letter to the Bardachs in which I would make the excuse of having met an old friend from America who had invited me to visit with her at her home in Marseilles. Lieutenant Ricci coached me on the composition and suggested I say my reason for the sudden departure was the need for my friend and me to catch the last train for the day. I thought it not the most plausible excuse, but at least it wouldn’t leave the Bardachs fretting over my sudden disappearance. I assumed they probably worried when I didn’t return home the first evening. Staying out all night just wasn’t like me. I didn’t state in the letter how long I’d be gone. I didn’t know. But the lieutenant assured me, if need be, the Army would see to having my next month’s rent mailed to my landlords. So I didn’t have to worry about losing my lodgings during my absence. I’m told a soldier was dispatched to their shop to discreetly deposit the letter in the mailbox so that it would appear to have arrived with the rest of that day’s mail.
Escapades of an Erotic Spy - Part 1 A Spy is Born Page 9