Love Among the Unicorns

I've been closing off storylines lately, and this one completes a series I began with, "In The Forests of the Night." A year later I introduced a little girl named Josette in "The Baltimore Bitch," and a year after that I added a little boy named Peter in "Dulce Et Decorum Est." That got me deluged by requests to put those two together in their own story - well... honestly... there were at least three. I had to find an age-appropriate time -- meaning they had to be the right age given their origin stories, which led me to the Six-Day War. That also gave me the opportunity to write about tradecraft... which is a busman's holiday for me - but always fun.

One final, and perhaps more important, note. I wrote most of this prior to October 7th, 2023. Hence, there is no attempt to explain, justify, or otherwise rationalize the current political and moral situation in that difficult part of the world. The narrative is historical fact, put there to provide context for Josette and Peter's love story - nothing more. There are no hidden agendas - it's just what happened. I don't write stories that fit well in categories. So, this one is in Loving Wives because the other stories were in that category. I hope you enjoy... Daniel Tiberius Iverson, Ann Arbor, Michigan, 2024

LOVE AMONGST THE UNICORNS: THE ARCHANGEL AND THE NEEDLE

More Americans were killed in a single day at Antietam than at any other place in U.S. history. That's why the Antietam battlefield has such special poignancy at sunset on July 4th. The U.S. Marine Band, the President's Own, finished their Independence Day concert by playing a rousing rendition of the Service Medley... a combination of the theme songs of all five service branches. The tradition is that you stand when your song is played. So, my son stood as the orchestra launched into "The Army Goes Rolling Along," and my daughter-in-law stood for "Semper Paratus."

On the way to the hotel, my sixteen-year-old grandson asked me why I'd sat through the whole thing. His implication was, "What are you -- some sort of draft dodger?" Scott was getting to the age where he was starting to question his little kid assumptions. So, I decided it was time to fill him in about the world I knew... a place that was never black, nor was it ever white. I said, "My people don't have a song. They don't even want you to know they exist." Scott looked unconvinced, so I said, "Let me tell you a story, my dear boy."

*****

Dieter Schmidt was a douchebag. He knew it. Everybody else knew it. Still, Dieter's good looks and bad boy attitude lured women to him like moths to a bug zapper. Nonetheless, it was his money that sealed the deal. However, the source of those funds was a mystery since Schmidt was a minor functionary in the newly re-constituted Bundesnachrichtendienst.

The BND was the West German Federal Intelligence Service, founded from the ashes of the Third Reich - just like every other major branch of the West German government. Dieter was an intelligence analyst. So, he saw things, and THAT was the real source of Dieter's income. Because he had a side job with the East German Staatssicherheitsdeinst.

The Stasi paid a bounty for western agents and Dieter had made a haul when he burned the last one. Dieter's victim was a highly placed academic on several East German technical committees. Regrettably, the man's name was also on a list that came across Schmidt's desk. It showed that the Prof was a bad little apparatchik, indeed. Since he was also an asset of the American CIA.

It was a simple cash transaction. The attitudes of the German intelligence services hadn't progressed much past the halcyon days of Himmler and the Sicherheitsdienst. Gehlen holdovers staffed both the East German Stasi and the West German BND. So, the fact that the man was a Jew got Schmidt top dollar.

Every Friday, Dieter would take the S-Bahn from his office in Pullach to his apartment in Munich - and a magical transformation would take place. The wool suit and vest would give way to formfitting polyester shirts and skintight pants, and a Rolex and a vast array of necklaces would replace the gold watch and chain. This incarnation of Dieter Schmidt would spend his evenings at Munich's Blow-Up Club and his nights in his legendary four-poster bed - the one with the fabled red satin sheets.

Like every other petty dictator... Dieter had the usual collection of hangers-on and toadies. They fawned over him, and he allowed them his leftovers in return. That night, Dieter was sprawled in a booth near the edge of the dance floor, surveying the scene with Hans and Paul. All three looked like the arrogant swine that they were. That's when the woman walked in.

There are a rare set of elite females who expand sexual attractiveness into a new realm. She was one of those. She simply drew your eyes to her. She was gorgeous, she knew it, and she didn't give a shit what anybody thought. She was perhaps five-six with the face of a goddess. That face alone would be enough to catapult her into the realm of extraordinary. But her body, in a micro-mini skirt and halter top was equally special.

Dieter was trying to decide whether her big, perfectly proportioned tits were her best asset. Or was it the amazing pair of slim muscular legs sticking out of the bottom of her micro-mini? Maybe it was her bubble butt?

Still, her most amazing quality was her extraordinary blond hair. It started from a widow's peak on her high, intelligent forehead and hung down to the middle of her back in a wheaten sheaf, so thick and shiny that it swayed as she glided along on her five-inch stilettos.

She was wearing a skin tight elastic mini-skirt in some kind of shimmery black material. It contrasted perfectly with the tan of her golden skin. Paul said eagerly, "That's the one. Everybody's been talking about her. She's supposed to be the wildest fuck in the entire City."

Dieter said, "Who's fucked her?"

Hans said, "Well, Josef is the one who told me about her. But I know he didn't, that's for sure. She's way out of his league." He added weakly, "I guess it's more of a rumor than a fact, maybe just wishful thinking." Dieter looked at the woman... such a rare prize and with a reputation to boot. She was Dieter's Everest. He had to conquer her.

The woman was perched on a stool at the bar, drinking what appeared to be scotch from a double old-fashioned glass. Dieter came up from behind and leaned casually on the bar beside her. She turned her head inquiringly and looked at him. Her gaze made Dieter flinch. Her eyes were bright blue with piercing intelligence and serene confidence. Then she smiled at him, and two adorable dimples appeared next to her mouth. She said in a husky contralto voice, "And who might YOU be?"

Dieter was canny enough to realize that his usual line of bullshit wouldn't work. This woman already knew that she was beautiful and hot. She was also rumored to have a connoisseur's appreciation of the male organ. So, he tried the straightforward approach.

He gave her "THE LOOK." Dieter was a very hot stack of man meat, and THE LOOK never failed. He said, "Why don't we go back to my place, and I'll give you a weekend of sex that you'll never forget?" She seemed amused - not tempted nor frightened. She said, "We'll see."

Then she appeared to make up her mind. She hopped off the stool, gestured toward the exit, and said, "Lead the way." They wound their way through the gyrating bodies on the dance floor. Dieter stopped to give his friends a thumbs-up... envy was written on their faces.

As soon as they got outside the club, the woman threw her arms around his neck and dragged his head down for a scorching open-mouthed kiss. They swapped tongues for a few seconds, plastered against each other. She moaned and said avidly, "Hurry, I can't wait." This hook-up had been too easy, which should have been a red flag for Dieter.

A mere five minutes later they were standing in Dieter's apartment. Her perfume drove him nuts as her body heated up. She kissed him with the same insane urgency and walked him back toward the bed. When they got there, she eagerly undid his pants and worked them down his legs to expose his huge rock-hard cock. Dieter always went commando on club weekends. She looked hungrily at that awesome tool as she said, "I hope you don't mind a little kink."

That got Dieter's undivided attention. He was a very kinky guy. He said hungrily, "What do you have in mind?" She said coyly, "I like a little light bondage. " Dieter responded eagerly, "The handcuffs are in the nightstand. I'll put them on you." She purred seductively, "No, I want to put them on YOU. I have the biggest orgasms riding a man who's been restrained."

Dieter wasn't sure he liked that idea. But the woman had already dropped her skirt and taken off her little halter top. Her body was to die for. She was so full, and yet perfectly slim. Her tits were well-nigh pneumatic and much more bountiful than he'd imagined, with little pink aureoles and bright red nipples. Her waist was ridiculously tiny, and her hard flanks and long legs were sculptural masterpieces. Dieter felt like he was going to burst.

Dieter thought to himself, "Why not? We have all weekend. So, I'll give her, her kink." He added with mentally slavering jaws, "Then she'll give me mine." He lay back on the bed, cock sticking straight up in the air like the Berlin TV Tower. One ripe breast dangled in his face as she fastened his arms to the headboard. He gazed at her supple heart shaped ass as she bent to restrain his feet using a couple of his silk club ties.

Then she swung one of her long shining legs over him and sat on his stomach. That was odd. Dieter hunched himself upward trying to get her to move back on his cock. But when he looked into her face, he saw that the woman's demeanor had changed. She was an apex predator and he was the hapless prey.

She patted him on the cheek as he began to struggle and said huskily, "This is for Professor Anhalter." Then she reached behind her head and pulled a little ampule out of her thick mane of blond hair. Schmidt felt a pin prick and there was nothingness.

The rendition squad was waiting in the plaza across Nordendstrassa. Eight silent men standing in the shadow of the thick grove of trees. The woman had put her slut outfit back on as she strode boldly up to the largest man in the group. He was massive -- like a silverback gorilla.

She said, "I left it unlocked for you, Uncle King. But the next time you set up a mark, put out the word that I've taken holy orders, or that I'm a lesbian. I need a bath!"

King laughed affectionately and said, "You've always been our bravest and best, Josette." Then he nodded to the group and all but one of them headed toward Schmidt's apartment.

Josette took the arm of the remaining man, and they walked toward a silver Mercedes 280SE parked at the curb next to the plaza. She laid her head on his shoulder and said with love in her voice, "Did I do all right Papa?" The man hugged her with profound affection and said, "You always do all right my darling girl."

*****

The Eagle Pub was allegedly Cromwell's headquarters in Cambridge during the English Civil War. Peter Ashworth was sitting in its cobblestoned yard on a fine English May evening. He was nursing a pint and waiting to meet with another of the "Apostles."

The Cambridge Apostles were a society of high-powered intellectuals. They had been around since the 1820s and they included everybody from Bertrand Russell to John Maynard Keynes. So of course, it was a huge honor to be asked to join.

Peter had been one of that elite group since his second year at Kings, he was only sixteen at the time. And he had been an Apostle right up to the time of his graduation. It was all silly undergraduate stuff. But it gave him the special prestige and contacts that let him advance in the British Civil Service.

Peter's stepfather, Ace, was a famous battlefield correspondent and a man who Peter idolized. That, combined with Peter's little boy fascination with chivalry had motivated him to join the shadowy forces at Vauxhall Cross.. where he began a career as a covert agent.

Peter had been a highly effective MI-6 operative for the past eighteen years. His legendary bravery and his quick wit made him particularly effective in the back alleys of Vienna, where he ran all sorts of Cold War exploits into Communist Yugoslavia, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, and Poland.

His exceptional strength and cat-quick reflexes made him a very dangerous man indeed - as many Soviet counter-intelligence agents discovered to their fatal regret. But it was Peter's unearthly manly beauty that had earned him his nickname, "The Archangel."

The Archangel never killed just for the sake of killing. Typically, it was because it was either him, or the other fellow. But the body count of shootings, stabbings and occasional broken necks was impressive. That was the reason why the shadowy figure who sat down opposite Peter did so with a certain amount of wariness.

Robert Goldman was a cutout between even more obscure actors and MI-6. The man was a Don of Gonville and Caius and a well-known player for British business interests in the Middle East. There were no pleasantries exchanged. This was serious business and Goldman got right to the point.

He said, "My clients are growing increasingly concerned that there is going to be a war in Israel. The United Arab Republic is planning to close the Straits of Tiran and if they do, then the Israelis have no choice.

Peter looked cooley at Goldman - to a point where his gaze made Goldman nervous. Finally, Peter said, "And somebody in the Foreign Office wants us to put our thumb on the scale - right?... influence the game, so to speak? It wouldn't be because Nasser nationalized our asset down there... would it?"

Egypt's President, Gamel Abdel Nasser, had seized the Suez Canal from its mainly British and French investors eleven years earlier, nearly touching off World War Three. The U.S. got the British to back off by threatening to sell off all of its Pounds Sterling bonds. The humiliation of pulling out of Suez more or less marked the end of Britain as a world power and the British never forgot that -- or forgave it.

Goldman smiled grimly as he said, "Well, Nasser's back at it again and we need you in Jerusalem... immediately."

******

Hypothetically... you can apply for a job with the Clandestine Service. But it will be a while before your phone rings. That's because the Agency identifies its own talent - and it has its ways. My family had lived around Williamsburg, since the 1700s and their history of military service dated to the 1st Virginia Regiment of the Continental Line. Hence, many of the males in my family had worn the uniform - except for me. That was because I had already been recruited.

My senior year, I was a long-stick and captain of the lacrosse team at Hopkins. Defenders don't get hurt, they give hurt, and I was a master of the butt-end to the kidneys and cross check to the chops. But every lacrosse player has to run and the coach was making a point about conditioning on that hot and humid day.

Afterwards, I was walking along Bowman Drive, bathed in sweat, with my stick on my shoulder - helmet dangling from the end. That was when a black Chevy Bel Air idled up next to me. Inside, were two guys in slick shark skin suits. The guy on the passenger's side cranked his window down and said, "Can we talk for a second, Erik?" Seriously??? I thought that only happened in the movies.

I wasn't afraid of being kidnapped, or anything dire like that. I was six-two and carrying a 70-inch piece of hickory that I used to disembowel unwary middies. So, I gestured toward Decker Quad and said, "How about over there?"

They parked and walked to the forecourt where I was waiting for them. Both were medium height and wearing dark glasses. I actually thought to myself, "Government agents!" I mean... what else could they be? They looked like they were sent over from central casting.

The guy who was clearly the boss stood in front of me and looked me up and down like he was buying a prize stallion. I was commencing to get irritated. So, I said, "What the fuck do you two knuckleheads want?"

Well... It turned out they wanted me. I'd been nominated by one of their assets. Yes -- the professoriate at certain universities is full of CIA assets -- especially the ones located close to the Beltway. I fit a number of the Company's criteria for language and travel. Somebody had noticed and passed along that information.

It was an era when James Bond was at his height of fame and like any other twenty-year old guy I fell for the macho. So, I didn't ask the usual questions, like salary and benefits. I just told the Men in Sharkskin, "Where do I sign?"

Hey -- I know it was impulsive, but I was sorta stupid back then. I mean, seriously... a twenty-year-old kid who plays lacrosse isn't a deep thinker. You get hit in the head a lot. Plus, it beat being drafted, which was another popular career option during that era.

After I graduated from Hopkins, I did the basic course at Chantilly and then the advanced course in Bethesda. It isn't easy to anticipate the intentions and capabilities of foreign actors and nation-state adversaries, especially when the other side wants to keep it a secret. So, that was where they taught me the basic principles of tradecraft -- adaptability, discretion, and opsec.

After I'd finished the academic portion, they shipped me to Camp Peary, in North Carolina. That was a different experience, entirely. The Farm is where the black-ops people hone the finer points of covert operations... stealth, deception, and coercion -- all the dirty tricks that the Company isn't allowed to talk about. I might also add that it was painful -- especially the mock torture sessions... the ones involving a firehose.

I lacked the necessary maturity and geo-political perspective when I came off the Farm. So, the Company stuck me in a cubicle in the Directorate of Analysis, at Langley - compiling and assessing economic data. I spent a year and a half as a basement monkey, before I mustered the courage to demand a transfer to Operations.

My first meeting was with the Assistant to the Deputy Director of the National Clandestine Service, which was actually very lucky. Crowley might have been in his early sixties but he was a legend among the spooks.

Crowley got his start back in the Allen Dulles days when intelligence gathering was more of a seat-of-the-pants operation. Thus, he was a lot more accepting of a six-two, two-hundred and ten pound loose cannon -- at least, more tolerant than anybody else in the building. Apparently, I had gotten a reputation for being a malcontent. Perhaps it was all the bitching emanating from inside my cubicle. At any rate, Crowley got down to the nitty-gritty the moment I walked into the conference room. He said, challengingly, "So you think you're good enough to be a field agent, Sonny?"

There was a huge pile of printouts waiting for me back in my cubicle if I didn't get the posting. So, I said more confidently than I felt, "The best way to find out is to make me put-up-or-shut-up. Give me your toughest assignment. If I fail, then my resignation will be on your desk, ASAP."

Crowley laughed out loud at my rash challenge. Then he got a diabolical glint in his eye as he said, "How would you like to spend some time in Jerusalem?

*****

In the Spring of 1967... Jerusalem was probably the most fucked up place on the planet. That's because a whole lot of people who really hated each other were compacted into far too little real estate. The chief bone of contention was East Jerusalem, which was where some of the world's holiest sites were located.

Places like the Temple Mount and the Wailing Wall were sacred to the Jews. The same was true with the Church of the Holy Sepulcher for the Christians and the Dome of the Rock and al-Aqsa Mosque for Islam. Needless to say, ownership of those places fired-up the adherents of all three religions. And even worse, each one of those sites lay within a one-third square mile space, in the Eastern part of Jerusalem.