(Disclaimer: This story is a work of fantasy for free entertainment. Indiana Jones and related characters are property of Lucasfilm Ltd. *Please DO NOT repost without permission*)
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George McHale dropped onto the bed, the springs groaning beneath his considerable weight, and rocked from side to side. When the frame creaked and crunched, threatening to snap at any moment, he shot to his feet and backed away.
He looked to the large man standing beside the door, his haircut and ill-fitting suit marking him as Russian. "They don't make 'em like they used to, do they comrade?"
The man didn't answer. He didn't even look at him.
George shrugged and picked up a near-empty bottle of scotch from the table, gulping it down and growing angrier with every swallow. He was fed up with this cloak-and-dagger nonsense: always looking over his shoulder and couching his conversations in code words and odd phrases; meeting his handlers in third-rate motels that should have been torn down years ago. Almost as if they weren't taking him, a former member of MI6, seriously.
He slammed the bottle down and pointed a thick finger at the guard. "Don't think you can judge me, you red son-of-a-bitch. I'm in this for the money. I could give a flying leap about your precious Motherland."
The man smiled. So, he did understand English.
Just then a car pulled up outside, older model by the sound of it. George moved to the window and pulled the curtain aside, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the glaring midday sun. The driver, yet another Russian with a pistol bulging beneath his coat, stepped out and took a look around. Satisfied they weren't walking into a trap, he moved to the rear of the car and pulled the door open.
A black leather boot emerged, polished so deep the sun reflected off its surface like a mirror. It touched down in the hot dust as the rest of a tall, lithe woman clad entirely in a form-fitting light-blue uniform emerged from the backseat. In her late thirties, with jet-black hair bobbed at the jaw line and trimmed across the bangs, she was every inch a Soviet.
The beautiful pale-skinned woman brushed a black-gloved hand through her hair as she strode to the door, long legs and firm thighs catching George's eye. Dust kicked up around her, sunlight flashing off her fashionable black sunglasses as she turned to the window and smiled.
George jumped back with a start and bumped into the table. He quickly composed himself while the guard opened the door.
"I am Colonel Doctor Irina Spalko," the woman said as she came into the room, her English fluent but heavily accented. "And I am a very busy woman."
She removed her holstered pistol from her belt and handed it to the guard. He shut the door, locked it, then tucked the weapon under his arm and resumed his post. Irena took a look around, then brushed past George on her way to the mirror.
"We'll keep this short and sweet then," he said. He watched her adjust her hair, his eyes slowly making their way to her shapely posterior.
"Indeed we shall," Irina said. She turned away from the mirror and produced a fat envelope. "The amount you specified, plus a little extra."
George snatched it from her hand and tore it open. Irina looked at the guard and shrugged.
"I trust this will be the last time we meet," she said sternly. "I am many things, Mr. McHale, but patient is not one of them."
George nodded, too busy counting his money to notice the not-so-subtle threat in her words. "Call me Mac," he said. "We know each other well enough, I think."
To this Irina said nothing.
George chuckled. "Yeah, this will do for now." He shoved the envelope into his shirt pocket.
"Then our meeting is concluded."
George folded his arms across his burly chest. "I don't know about that," he said. "You Russians have been yanking me around for some time now. Maybe it's time you give me some reassurance, a little something to show I'm not just your fall guy for whatever scheme you're cooking up."
"Reassurance," Irina repeated. She tilted her head. "Such as?"
It was almost imperceptible, so deceptive were her lovely blue eyes, but George noticed right away how tightly coiled she was, ready to lash out at a moment's notice. He knew he was pushing his luck--one didn't rise to the rank of Colonel in the Soviet Union by virtue of being meek--but he was already in so deep that it didn't much matter what he did.
Irina exhaled loudly. "I speak for Stalin himself," she said. "Tell me what you want. If it is in my power to give, you will have it."
"You might just regret that," George said softly, forcing her to lean close to hear him. He gave his belly a gentle pat, and was surprised to find it hanging over his belt. He cleared his throat and silently resolved to lay off the booze.
Irina raised one pencil-thin eyebrow, immediately taking the hint. "You Westerners are all the same," she laughed, "thinking with your balls instead of your brains." She clasped her hands behind her back. "That is why your so-called democracy will fail."
"Perhaps, comrade, but until then you need men like me." George took her by the waist. "And I'm going to wring everything I can out of you."
Irina scoffed. "You flatter yourself, I think." But she didn't pull away, staring at him for some time before slowly nodding.
She stepped back and said something in Russian to the guard before walking over to the table and taking a seat. She removed her gloves, her boots and socks, and finally her belt, then stood up and took a small wrapper from the guard.
"You will wear this," she said. "If you remove it, I will kill you myself."
George looked down as she dropped a Soviet-made condom in his hand, then up at the guard. "I don't normally do my business in front of other men," he said. "Not if I can help it."
"He is my bodyguard. He will not judge."
