"So, we're on a bit of a clock," he said, removing his cufflinks and setting them down on a sterling silver serving platter. "As you can see," he motioned around to the rest of the kitchen, "we've had to improvise. But it's a poor craftsman who blames his tools, and I'm very good at this." She looked around without turning her head. They were in what looked to be a commercial kitchen. Most of the lights had been turned off, but there were several stainless steel prep tables, stools, pot racks. It was unremarkable, but somehow more sinister without the cacophony of a chef and staff. This was where food from the party had been made. There was still heat coming off of the stoves and a hint of citrus in the air. They'd served Leckerli. She'd been otherwise occupied and realized she was hungry. She'd had to flirt with the German Ambassador in order to get upstairs past the BKA guard. She didn't get any of the hors d'oeuvres, just a drink that--"Oh," she said. Her eyes went a bit wider.
"Good, so you remember me." He gave an obnoxious smirk. "There was a little something in that elderflower cocktail. You may find yourself more cooperative in a few minutes." She didn't feel different yet. "As I was saying, we're dealing with some constraints. You're obviously not," he glanced down at some papers, "Anna Müller." She was not Anna Müller.
"You'll probably be missed if I don't have you out of here in, say, two hours." He removed his tuxedo jacket and carefully folded it. "And I can't leave any marks that would raise attention. That's why you're speaking with me instead of the BND. They contract with me in special circumstances. You have to admire German efficiency, but they're blunt instruments. No phone books, no car batteries tonight, but you will tell me what I want to know." She knew running wasn't an option... she'd been picked up by security at the gate as she tried to leave. "You're not Anna Müller, right? Sprechen? Sind Sie ein Dreilochstute? Mein fleischpeitsche ist schwer, nur daran zu denken." She was still not Anna Müller.
This had not been planned with the same care and detail one had come to expect from the agency responsible for the Bay of Pigs. Not-Anna was a foreign service officer with the CIA. She had been posted at Mission Berlin until recently. It had come to the Company's attention that not-Anna, whose real name was Camilla, looked very much like Anna Müller, who was a Swiss escort who was often hired to make diplomats feel better about being away from their wives. Anna had worked primarily in Bern, but she'd never been to the embassy of the Bundesrepublik Deutschland at the corner of Strasses Willadingweg and Brunnadernrain. Anna has been picked up at Dulles with 3.5g of cocaine. The magic 8-ball said she was off the board, and Camilla could take her place and go to an important reception the next week. This was important because the CIA suspected the German ambassador of double-dealing. Operation Thesaurus was going to be an intelligence coup, and they didn't need him fucking it up by stealing a few pinwheels off of the new CX-52s and selling them to the Austrians. It really was a cluster.
He was rolling his sleeves up. It looked like an Audemars Piguet Royal Oak on his wrist. That was an expensive watch... who was he and how often did the BND have special circumstances, she wondered? She had excellent taste. Part of her job in Berlin had been to make the wannabe James Bond-types look like they actually belonged. Most espionage was sitting in vans with headsets on or bribing the local butcher to give the right person a phone call when the wrong person was in to pick up a string of sausages, but sometimes, you needed to clean up well. That's why Camilla had made some changes to the wardrobe Anna would have brought with her. Anna would have been sexy, but she would have looked like an escort, and this would have attracted the attention of the ambassador's wife, and consequently not the ambassador. He was a philanderer, but he was discreet. So while Elderflower over there was removing his overpriced timepiece, Camilla was reflecting on her own wardrobe. She'd worn a tasteful, full-length dress. Rouge - that complemented her light skin well - and matched the lingerie she had beneath it. She'd wanted to look the part. It didn't matter that no part of the plan involved anyone seeing the expensive, floral lingerie. The Company was paying and she knew no one else at the mission would have any use for a bra that basically took itself off.
"Shall we begin?" Elderflower said. He stretched. "I'm going to search you now. The ambassador is missing something, and we have reason to suspect you know where it is." He took a step toward her. "The reason being I saw you leave the ambassador's office. I'm going to be thorough, so I'd like you to remove your clothing now."
She instinctively said, "No!"
"I thought you might say that." He moved quickly toward her and she raised up her right arm to slap him, still trying to play the part. He had produced a short length of cord with some knots already in it, and when she brought her arm down, he sidestepped and looped her right wrist in the cord, then stepped behind her and had both her arms pinned. She felt the cords cinch. He pulled down on her wrists until her balance faltered and her weight fell back against him. "That wasn't wise," he said, and then quietly into her ear, "What the fuck are you doing here?" He kept his left hand on the cord now binding her, with enough pressure that she was leaning back on his shoulder and couldn't move. His right hand started to search her. He reached around her body with his right and to her left hip and moved it across to the other side, firmly enough that she knew he felt the outline of her thong. He traveled upward, checking under her bust on both sides.
"Stop!" she said. "You have no right to keep me here!" He ignored her. "I'm going to need something to call you other than Anna," he said.
He moved his hands up onto her breasts, and pressed more firmly, squeezing each one, clearly not just to see if she was hiding anything. She rocked her shoulder indignantly, trying to get free of him. He responded by pulling down on her wrists with more force, and she almost fell. "I am Anna Müller!" she protested.
"That's one," he said. His hand left her breasts and she saw him reaching for his pocket out of the corner of her eye. He produced a karambit, a small, curved knife, and hooked it under the left strap of her dress. She had a flash of recognition. "What's your name?" he asked. Camilla replied, "Anna."
"That's two." He sliced cleanly through the strap with a quick motion. It fell loose, but her dress didn't move, on account of the tailoring and her enviable breasts. She felt a chill run down her spine. She'd known there was some risk involved when she volunteered to double Müller, but she thought she might get thrown out of a party, not strip-searched in a kitchen by a man with--noticing for the first time--actually quite nice forearms, save for a long scar that wrapped around his right arm. She tried to shake the thought, unsuccessfuly, but whatever he'd put in her drink was fighting effectively against the chill and she realized she wasn't as afraid as perhaps she ought to be.
"This really is a lovely dress. I'm sorry I had to ruin it," he said. He moved the knife under the strap on her right shoulder. "What did you take from the ambassador's office?" he asked.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Camilla said, sticking to her cover. She wasn't sure what else to do. She couldn't say, "Oh, well my name is Camilla, I work for the CIA, and I'm here to keep your shitheel boss from blowing up decades of intelligence work."
The right strap fell. "Three," he said. "In case you can't tell, I'm keeping track of the number of times you've lied to me. It's the same lie, but there aren't really any rules here, except for the ones I make."
"Fick dich, Schweinehund!" Camilla hadn't been at Berlin for long enough to be fluent, but there were enough men who catcalled her on the streets to pick up a few things. It had actually only been one, and she was pretty sure he'd been Italian, but she had gone straight to the typing pool for some useful phrases. Maybe it'd help sell her story.
He let up on her wrists and she was able to stand up straight. He set the knife down on the counter. "That's not really a lie, per se, but it's still not the level of international cooperation we're going for tonight." He came back to her and ripped her dress open at the sides with both hands. It fell to her feet. "I guess it's possible that you really are Anna and this has all been a terrible mistake. Am I mistaken?"
