by Fox J Wilde
“What are they all here for?”
“Oh, they’re the entourage of some traveling big-wig from Paris. His name is The Honorable Louis Pelletier.” the bartender responded, accentuating his honorific with thinly-disguised sarcasm, “He’s a politician of some note, and supposedly a man of great dignity and moral fiber. He’s absolutely unimpeachable in the French papers.”
“Supposedly?” Lena asked.
“Oh, don’t you believe a word of the papers, my dear. Every diplomat and politician is as perverse as they are powerful…and he is powerful.”
“I still don’t understand.” Lena responded honestly.
“Well...” the bartender replied, looking around for less-than-casual onlookers before leaning in to Lena and continuing, “I’m hardly one to judge the affairs of others—particularly our patrons. But…and you didn’t hear this from me...”
“Yes?” Lena leaned in.
“He’s a boy-fucker!” she whispered with glee and a conspiring gleam to her eyes.
“He’s…what?!” Lena gasped.
“Will that be all, my dear?” the bartender said plainly, straightening up and wiping a towel across the counter as if she had said nothing just a second before. Lena was nearly about to respond, when she heard a male voice calling from a few yards away.
“Excuse me, miss? …Miss!”
Lena ignored it, figuring that it wasn’t for her. That is, until the voice called out again, and then she prayed it wasn’t for her. She already felt out of sorts in this environment. She didn’t want to end up getting in trouble or kicked out already.
“Miss!” the voice called again, and Lena decided it was best to acknowledge it, at least.
“...uh, yes? I...” she turned around to make an excuse she hadn’t quite formulated yet, when she realized that she recognized him.
“Miss,” Patrick, her young Stasi officer spoke, “You forgot your purse.”
Lena almost said something stupid. After all, she hadn’t brought a purse with her. That, and she recognized him, so why wouldn’t she greet him? Then it dawned on her that she should ignore her first instincts, and fall into the role that he had just now written for her.
“Oh my, what a gentleman!” she gushed, “Thank you! My hero! Why, I hadn’t even noticed! How can I ever thank you, Sir?”
“Perfectly fine, Ma’am.” he responded, shooting a glare her way before hustling off to god-knows-where.
“Don’t be so eager.” the bartender said plainly behind her, “Just thank him for the purse and turn around…draws less attention.”
“B-but…he was shouting across...”
“Of course, he was.” the bartender smiled as she absently cleaned a counter, “If Jack secretly slipped it to you, that would raise more questions, wouldn’t it?”
“You mean Patrick.” Lena corrected her, without thinking.
“Right, Patrick.” the bartender said, before winking, “He’s cute.”
“No he’s not.”
“I understand.” the bartender winked again, “You work with someone for a while, feelings are bound to happen. Happens to everyone…and I do mean everyone.” She added this last part with a sly grin, that imparted a secret best kept between girls. It was good to find company with this lovely bartender, she realized.
“I suppose he’s alright.” Lena allowed.
“Oh, he’s more than alright. Not that it’s any of my business, but I think you two would make a handsome couple. Even if he’s your trainer.”
Lena nodded; she hated to admit it, but she liked the idea.
“So, how long have you two been working together?” the bartender asked casually, as she began straightening up her counter-top.
“Oh, just a few months. He’s been teaching me a lot, though.”
“So what has he taught you so far?”
“Well, he’s...”
Just then, Lena heard the clicking of dress shoes and pumps behind her. Turning to look, she noticed Wart-face, Red-hat and Makeup-lady walking right up behind her. There was no rush to their steps, but they had a certain set in their jaws that Lena understood. All three were dressed to impress, with Makeup-lady now wearing a gorgeous black halter-top gown. The former two, now dressed in immaculate tuxedos, walked casually up to the counter, leaned over, and whispered something at the bartender. Immediately, she turned ghost-white, although her expression remained the same. Her chest began raising and lowering ever-so-slightly faster, and Lena thought she could make out the hint of a shiver. The bartender nodded at the two of them, and began walking around the counter and through a doorway, with Red-hat and Wart-face in tow.
“Ah, British intelligence.” Makeup-lady smiled, avoiding looking at Lena as she slid into a chair right beside.
“Wh-what?!”
“On the one hand, I suppose we should thank you. You would make a good counter-intelligence agent if you weren’t so stupid.” she said in a low cheerful tone through a perfectly practiced smile, “On the other hand, the next time you volunteer information to anyone you don’t know, regardless of how much you stupidly trust them, I will personally put a bullet in the back of your skull. Smile if you understand.”
Lena gulped and smiled, trying to act as natural as she could.
“If that had been an Officer, rather than a poorly-chosen asset…” Makeup-lady continued, casually and without the slightest hint of the rage she meant to express, “and we didn’t have every inch of this place bugged, you would have just blown your cover and the cover of your training officer. Who knows how much damage you could have caused?”
“I understand.” Lena said through her forced smiled, as her insides twisted with the shame of failure.
“You had better”, because tonight is your big night. If you get this right, the ‘Mad Bunny’ goes to West Germany. If you get this wrong, we have to make sure everything you now know doesn’t go anywhere it’s not supposed to. And the black cells are good for several things—keeping loud-mouths safe and secure, and giving me some much-needed entertainment.”
For the first time, Lena saw Makeup-lady’s visage change. Lena knew better than to ever earn that look again.
“So, what will happen to her?” Lena asked, referring to the former bartender.
“Oh, she’ll talk. We’ll make sure that she talks. And then, once she’s done talking, we’ll have some more fun with her.”
Lena shuddered, but managed to maintain her pleasant smile.
“You’ve been inside the prison. Remember what we do to people who merely annoy us, like you. Then think hard about what we do to people like her.”
Lena smiled even harder as genuine fear crawled up her spine.
“Once tonight is over, I might stop by there myself and see if I can get some practice in.” the woman said, with a maniacal and sadistic grin, “They have these little electrical things now that don’t stop your heart like the last ones did. And they can attach anywhere. They have these little needles with the hooks on the end that…”
Lena continued to hold the smile, yet she thought her face would explode. God, how she already loathed this woman.
“…eventually, we’ll send her back to wherever she came from. Dead, of course. But it will take years before I’m done playing with that one. She’s pretty! Personally, I like to keep souvenirs. Maybe I’ll take one tonight.” She said this with a giggle, and Lena’s stomach roiled. “In any case,” she continued, “you’re here to learn. So, here is how this is going to go. I’m going to explain the operation quickly, and then you are going to do all of the work with me watching. Just remember: you aren’t the only one working tonight. We believe in redundancy. A professional agent is going to be doing exactly what you are doing in the important steps just in case you didn’t do it correctly.
“Your actions are going to seem unnecessary at times and I will tell you
right now that they are. But you have to walk through these steps, or you don’t get a pass. On the side of things, you will be taking these unnecessary actions during an actual operation—an actual operation that you can’t interfere with. So really, you only have two goals for tonight. First, do not expose the operation. As long as you do that one thing, we can still work everything else out. If you feel like you can’t do something, make a judgment call and we’ll move on. Second, complete each one of the steps issued to you. I don’t care how pretty your pictures are. All I care about is that you took them, and that they are of the correct things. Understood?”
“I do. I mean, I understand,” Lena said, hoping her nervous swallowing wasn’t too obvious.
“You may have noticed Lord Shit-for-brains standing over there?” Makeup-lady motioned back towards the crowd, “Go ahead, look…the fat one.”
She looked back at the crowd of howling French-people. They were all quite drunk and not the least bit upset about that fact. In the middle of them sat the one that Makeup-lady was referring to—a massive man, but in all the wrong ways, looking to be in his high-fifties or low-sixties, and balding. He was dressed in a flagrantly expensive suit which was layered in expensive cocktails and spittle that showed just how much more drunk than the others he was.
“Yes.” Makeup-lady nodded, “That’s him. The fat, worthless sack of pig shit, Lord Piggy. And tonight, you are going to help us make him squeal like one.”
Das Mission
Lena hoped to god that she didn’t look as terrified as she now felt. She tried harder to look natural than she had tried at anything she could remember. She knew that Makeup-lady was watching her like a hawk, and she didn’t want to think of what would happen if she got anything wrong. She truly believed the woman capable of everything she said she was, and the next hour or so might land her in the same predicament as that poor bartender.
Lena shuddered at the thought of it. She knew that the bartender was the enemy, as far as the Stasi was concerned. She also knew that the bartender had been trying to use Lena, which might very well have gotten her in the same trouble. But to earn that?! She hated Red-hat and Wart-face now. They were pure evil as far as Lena was concerned. As for Makeup-lady…well, Lena was just too scared of her to hate her. Somehow, she would find out that Lena hated her, and then…
The mission wasn’t going to be easy. Over the past few months, Lena had learned several new skills to varying levels of expertise (most of them not very expert at all, admittedly), but this was something else entirely. She had been assured that what she was provided worked with a minimum of explanation and that she had received training sufficient for her role tonight. Still, she had done nothing remotely like this.
She looked over at Lord Piggy and she honestly wanted to feel somewhat sorry for him—she knew what was coming his way, and while he probably deserved it, well, she still felt bad. Especially knowing that she was going to be a part of his downfall. Yet her feelings on his behalf began to wane as she watched him drunkenly opening and shutting his fine leather briefcase in front of the hotel staff, loudly slurring, “Oh, I bet you would love to see what I have in here, wouldn’t you, you Stasi pricks! Go ahead…look!” followed by him slamming the briefcase closed and saying, “Oh, too slow! Stupid Stasi pricks!”
This was followed by the ever-polite Interhostel staff trying to reassure him that, “the hotel staff are not Stasi, and any Stasi that might be present are only here for routine national security. The Metropol is hoping to build a fine relationship with the people of France,” and that he, “really should keep his voice controlled, so as not to upset the other esteemed guests of the Hotel.” To this, he simply responded by quickly opening and shutting the briefcase, and shouting, “Stasi pricks!”
It appeared that Lord Piggy’s cohorts were beginning to tire of him as well. Many had skittered off to their rooms, moved on to a separate table, or taken to the Hotel’s various male and female companions for some more stimulating conversation. Lena had her duties, of course, but she did manage to overhear some of the various conversations. Most deviated between apologizing for their boss, commenting on how pleasantly strong the drinks were, or trying to impress the companions with how important they were.
Within a few short minutes, her first task was complete: make a mental note of the combination locks on the briefcase and their respective codes. Since the drunken bastard was too hard off to scramble them every time he closed the case, the numbers ‘0505’ and ‘2001’ were practically visible for all to see. Hell, he practically gave the combos away themselves, “How in the world is a man like this trusted with anything?!” Lena boggled.
Her first mission complete, she needed only wait for her second tasking. While awaiting, she leaned over to spy on a new couple. This couple was comprised of a member of the dignitary’s entourage and a companion who were having a decidedly important conversation.
“...wish to just sail the world.” he gestured, hands flailing in the air.
“Oh, that sounds marvelous!” she gushed.
“Just imagine; the wind in your hair, the spray hitting you in the face, nothing but ocean to explore for days around you!”
“Oh, that sounds wonderful!”
It was as sad a sight as could be seen. The man talked and talked and talked, oblivious to the woman’s put-on body language. One of Lena’s first items of instruction when she got out of prison was to learn how to read body language—something her young Stasi officer had trained her well in.
“You can’t always trust the face.” Patrick had told her during one meeting, “People—especially professional liars, like spies, politicians, salesmen and otherwise—have all memorized and practiced their faces. They know when to look you in the eyes or when to smile. As a matter of fact, the better the smile, and the more comfortable or intense the eye contact, the more likely it is that you have a professional liar on your hands.
“That’s why you have to look elsewhere. Look at the body! People never subconsciously control where their feet are pointed. If they are truly engaged in the conversation with you, they will face you with their body. They will lean in and protect the conversation with their arms, as if wrapping the two of you up in a box of privacy. But if their body is ‘bladed’—that is, facing slightly to the left or right— that could signify a standoffish cockiness, sure; but it mostly signifies disinterest or discomfort.
“Watch the feet most of all. The feet will always point to where they want to be. If the feet point towards a doorway, or towards another group of people, this tells you that they aren’t enjoying the conversation.”
Lena watched the woman and saw that her body language was well-trained. She had her elbows resting on the table, and her forearms splayed slightly outwards, as if to focus the conversation between the two while appearing ‘open’. Occasionally, she would box the two in, by touching her face repeatedly. This also served to accentuate her arms and shoulders, something that oddly made the man slouch more. Lena knew this was a sign of self-consciousness. When people felt out of control or poorly about a situation, they would cross their arms or slouch in order to take up less space.
His companion picked up on this and straightened up, further dominating the situation. She wiggled her shoulders (as if to suggest a brief chill), which also served to elongate her torso. The man responded by awkwardly closing his legs, a subconscious sign of submission to protect his sensitive parts from attack. Lena knew this man was aroused, and for some reason he really didn’t enjoy that fact.
Obviously, his female companion wasn’t enjoying the interaction in the slightest. Her legs were tightly closed under the table, and her feet pointed towards the exit. No doubt this was nothing but work for her. Yet, as the man wrapped an ankle around the leg of a chair, as if to fasten himself to something solid, Lena knew this man was intimidated by the woman. Perhaps she would get all the information she wanted from him without
ever having to visit his room.
Another ‘couple’ sat talking in a darkly lit alcove, and boy, did these two make a pair. The man was wide open, with his forearms and legs splayed to either side of the table. He spoke loudly, with words that communicated his inherent import. Yet his voice was in an upper register, instead of a deeper one, suggesting how important the man truly felt. He used wide gestures with his hands and forearms, but locked his upper arms in place (closing himself off), with weak, floppy fingers (that suggested a non-resolute character—sort of like a bad handshake), and hip-fidgeting (which told the real story of how comfortable he was).
The woman, smiling wide and nodding too much at what he was saying, responded by clenching her lower jaw and squeezing her fists.
“Look at the jaw.” Patrick had told her, “If you see the sides of the face and temple flexing, that signifies stress, and/or the desire to either leave the conversation or get a word in edgewise.” He would go on to describe how adults carried most of their stress in their lower jaw. Even when they attempted to relax the jaw, they almost always failed to relax the sides of the upper just behind the cheeks.
“Go ahead. Relax your upper jaw.” Patrick had said, laughing, when she didn’t believe him.
Lena did. A pressure she didn’t know she had was released on her gums and molars. Yet, it brought her awareness to the knotty stiffness behind her cheeks. It didn’t hurt, per se, but no matter how hard she tried to release it, it wouldn’t go away. And the realization of how much stress she was storing immediately made her clench her teeth again the second she stopped thinking about it.
“See?” her young Stasi officer laughed.
Lena had come to hate those lessons. Not that they weren’t interesting—they were actually fascinating—but now, realizing that entire humans (including ones that she had known forever) could be reduced to a few movements and gestures caused her to despise the transparency of it all. Suddenly, she realized that she hated everyone. Patrick, of course, did nothing to dissuade her from this line of thinking.