Spy Games Ch 11 1

This chapter of Spy Games coincides with chapter one of Real Estate Games. If you haven't read Real Estate Games, or haven't read it recently, I suggest you do ... either before or after reading the text below. Some of the scenes that I only mention in this chapter of Spy Games are explained in greater detail in Real Estate Games. You might also enjoy experiencing the same scene from a viewpoint other than Agent Alpha's.

All characters are over the age of 18.

***

Spy Games

Chapter 11

A week after we copied Alek Popov's personal journal and stole his wife's jewelry, Foxtrot and I were in the basement of a West Virginia farmhouse, getting debriefed on our latest mission.

The pictures of Popov's red notebooks were transmitted to The Company via satellite shortly after I took them. Once they confirmed they had the information, I deleted my camera's memory so, if captured, the bad guys wouldn't know what we had stolen. And since I didn't take time to read the pages as I photographed them, this would be the first time Foxtrot and I were told what we had risked our lives to obtain.

Mrs. Bancroft was reassigned about the time I turned twenty-one ... which was a decade and a half ago. I hadn't seen or heard from her since and went through a different handler every two or three years. Foxtrot and I had acquired what I thought an undeserved reputation to be troublesome, so most supervisors didn't want the responsibility of "putting up with our shit."

Our current handler was a thin fifty something woman with greying hair, reading glasses perched on the end of a hawkish nose and absolutely no sense of humor. Like everybody else in the Company, only a select few people knew her real name. In her case, we also didn't know her code name. So, we called her Ma'am to her face and The Ball Busting Bitch behind her back.

"How many times have I debriefed you two?" she asked.

"I don't know. Thirty, maybe forty times," I guessed.

"Probably closer to forty-five," Foxtrot volunteered.

"This is our fifty-first time together," she said. "And this will also be the fifty-first time I've had to rebuke you for your conduct while prosecuting a mission."

"I don't understand. Didn't we deliver the goods? Did we get the wrong books?"

"No. The intelligence you brought us is top notch. Better than we had hoped. But is it possible to complete at least one mission without screwing every woman you meet?"

"Don't you think that's a gross exaggeration?" I asked in our defense.

"Name one," she said. "Name one mission in which one or both of you didn't find an excuse to undress and molest an unsuspecting female."

Foxtrot and I looked at each other, both deep in thought. I was about to concede the point when my partner came to our rescue.

"How about last November," he said. "When we took down that hijacked tanker off the coast of Africa. There wasn't a woman within a hundred miles of us."

"Yes, that was a clean mission" she said. "And in reward for a job well done, Control sent a private jet to bring you home. To the best of my knowledge, you only fucked one of the flight attendants ... although numerous times."

Foxtrot looked over at me. "The redhead?"

I shrugged. "It was a long flight. And she had just broken up with her boyfriend."

"Where was I when you were boning the stew?"

"I don't know. Probably sleeping and drinking, like you always do on long flights."

"Gentlemen, if we can get back to the point at hand ... each and every time I have had the dubious pleasure of debriefing one of your missions, I have always warned that such inappropriate conduct will eventually come back to haunt you. That time has come.

"According to several reliable sources -- to include our on-scene contact -- Alek Popov was slightly pissed about somebody breaking into his wife's safe and stealing her jewelry. But he was incensed to come home and find his wife, daughter and housekeeper naked, tied up and sexually assaulted."

"Not fair. It's not assault when they beg you for it."

"Do you suppose any of the women in question told Popov they volunteered to have sex with a burglar in his own house?"

"Okay. Popov thinks I raped his women. But neither he nor anybody else in the house saw my face. So, what's the issue?"

"DNA is the issue. Apparently, you left a sizable sample in each of the women ... a sample that could easily be traced back to you."

"Not likely. He's in Russia and my DNA isn't in any database and never will be."

"Wrong. All it takes to get you into his personal database is for a willing woman to spread her legs for you and donate the results."

"Huh?"

"Popov is so pissed at you that he is offering a five-million-dollar reward for your identity. He has every woman in the world looking for a tall, handsome white man with a foot-long cock. Whoever can match a name to the semen he found in his women will become extremely wealthy."

"Not a problem. He's still several thousand miles away."

"Wrong again. According to the intelligence you extracted from his safe, Popov and several of his cohorts are establishing a large terrorist organization in the US. If we can believe his notes, this will be the first time in years that the Russians and Chinese team up against us."

"You're kidding. Those are entirely different cultures. They hate each other."

"Apparently not as much as they hate us."

"That's all very interesting," Foxtrot said. "But, besides the bounty on Alpha's overactive cock, what does all of this have to do with the two of us?"

"First off, Agent Alpha is not the only one who should be worried. Since your after-action report was skimpy on details -- as usual -- I don't know everything that happened in the Popov house. But there is also a bounty on whoever tied up and sodomized his housekeeper who, I might add, is on our payroll."

"To set the record straight," Foxtrot said, "I butt fucked her first and then tied her up ... both at her request."

"Regardless of your motivation, I advise that both of you keep your penises in your pants and out of the local populace during this next assignment."

"What? You're giving us another assignment already?" I asked. "We just traveled around the world. Don't we have some time off coming?"

"If it was up to me, this last assignment would have truly been your last. But, for some inexplicable reason, Control not only wants you to remain on staff, but he also feels you two are the best choice for what could be the most important mission in the history of the Company."

The Ball Busting Bitch pressed a button on a desk panel, activating an intercom.

"Yes ma'am," a male voice answered.

"We're ready. Send her in."

The door to the briefing room opened and a girl in her early to mid-twenties walked through. The first thing that came to mind as she took a chair opposite Foxtrot and me was "average". Medium height. Neither fat nor thin. Dishwater blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. Hazel eyes hid behind thick black rimmed glasses. If she had any boobs at all, they were concealed under a bulky sweater. And a full skirt did an equally good job of disguising her hips. She was the type of girl who could walk down the street unnoticed. People would look right through her and, if asked, deny they had ever seen the woman. In other words, the perfect look for a spy.

"Agent Alpha, Agent Foxtrot, this is Agent Sixty-nine ... your new partner."

"Our what?" Foxtrot said.

"I'm sorry, but Foxtrot and I work as a pair," I added. "We don't do threesomes."

"Well, actually we do," Foxtrot interjected. "Just not the type you have in mind."

"Listen Sixty-nine," I said. "This isn't about you. We'd feel the same about any agent in the Company, even if she had years of experience ... which I'm guessing you don't."

"Would you feel differently if she were a man?" the Ball Busting Bitch asked.

"No. Not a bit. Male or Female. Black or White. Young or Old. Alien or human. When it comes to our work, Foxtrot and I are equal opportunity discriminators. We've been together way too long to change the dynamic."

"I understand your concern and will take it up with Control. In the meantime, I'm going to brief you on the upcoming mission. We have been working this non-stop for the last week so pay attention.

"As I mentioned earlier, this is the first time in recent history that the Russians and Chinese have joined forces. Their action signifies a major shift in strategy on their part which we plan to counter with a similar change of tactics. Thanks to you, we have the names of the foreign terrorist leaders and a general idea of their schedule and goals. In the past, we would have stopped them at the border and sent them back to their countries of origin."

"Which would have only delayed the inevitable," I said.

"Exactly. So, we're not going to stop them. Instead, we're going to help them. We will welcome them with open arms and do everything we can to help build their organization ... right here in the US."

"Uh ... wouldn't that make us traitors?" Foxtrot asked.

"It would, if we let them carry their plan to fruition. Which we won't. If you two don't screw this up, we can corner dozens, if not hundreds of terrorists in one location and, when we have sufficient proof of their intentions, take them out in one swift assault."

"That sounds great in the briefing room," I said. "But when it comes time to take them down, they're not going to just put their arms in the air and surrender. I see a major battle coming ... on American soil. Even in the best of cases, there's bound to be civilian casualties."

"We realize that, but a quick battle in a small town will be far less deadly than what the terrorists have planned."

"What makes you think they'll pick a small town for their base? Wouldn't it make more sense for them to operate out of a big city where they could blend in with the locals?"

"We're hoping we can convince them otherwise."

"How?" I asked.

"That's your mission. We have selected the town; your job is to persuade the terrorists to go there."

"What if they don't? Suppose they choose San Francisco or Chicago over whatever Bumfuck town you selected?"

"Then you will have failed, and the lives of millions of Americans will be lost."

"Well, if you put it like that, how can we refuse?" Foxtrot said. "What poor town are we sacrificing for the good of the country?"

"Merryville, Tennessee. It's a failing town just south of the Kentucky border. Their only major industry, a car plant, will close in the next few months. The city council is rife with corruption and the residents are leaving in droves. Your mission is to buy as much of the available local real estate as possible and make the terrorist factions generous offers to use Merryville as their base of operations. Agent Sixty-nine will brief you on your covers and arrange all logistical support. Gentlemen, do you have any questions?"

Foxtrot looked at me with the same dumbstruck expression that I probably wore. I knew we'd have a shitload of questions once we got into it, but that would be a bottle of Jack down the road. We shook our heads in the negative and the Ball Busting Bitch left us with agent Sixty-nine.

With her protector gone, the girl looked like she'd been locked in a cage full of gorillas. She handed Foxtrot and me a large, sealed envelope each and then pushed her chair as far away from us as the room would allow. I was hoping she wouldn't cry. Not that I mind making girls cry, I just didn't have the time or patience for it at that moment. Fortunately, she pulled herself together and got on with it.

"Gentlemen, if you will open your envelopes, I'll brief you on your cover stories.

"Agent Alpha, you will be known as Mark Seiman for the duration of the mission. You are a real estate speculator who will buy houses from the locals and eventually resell those same properties to the terrorists, assuming they decide to use Merryville as their base. Your primary mission is to lure the foreign factions to Merryville and ensure they have access to the soon-to-fail car plant.

"Agent Foxtrot, your cover name is Officer Brian Flanagan. As of yesterday, you are a member of the Merryville police department. We have already coordinated with the local chief of police. He thinks you are on loan from the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation to investigate several cold case murders and has agreed to let you roam the city as you see fit. Your actual mission is to back up Alpha and ensure local law enforcement doesn't stand in our way.

"Drivers licenses, credit cards and other forms of ID are in your package. I've already contracted for lodging and local transportation. Is there anything else I can do for you before we depart?"

"Yeah. If we're forced to take you with us, what will be your duties?"

"I'm uh ... I'm with the finance department. The Company is investing a lot of money in this project. I'll be responsible for keeping track of expenditures."

"Why can't you do that from Virginia?"

"I could, probably. But it would be easier if I were on site."

"Tell me something agent Sixty-nine," Foxtrot said. "Just how many field missions have you been on before this?"

"This ... this will be my first."

"That's fucking fantastic. We're sent on the most important mission since forever and Control gives us a virgin bean-counter as an assistant. In whose world does that make sense?"

"In my world," the Ball Busting Bitch said as she stormed into the room. "You will have a half billion-dollar budget. That's Billion with a B. Five-hundred million. More than the Gross Domestic Product of several small countries. Despite what you think, Sixty-nine will not be there to watch you, her job is to protect you. Because if this goes south ... if you buy a half-billion of worthless real estate with taxpayer's money and the foreigners don't take the bait, half of Washington DC will be looking for somebody to hang.

"You will take her with you. You will appraise her of every dollar you spend. And, when it can be done safely, you will introduce her to the basic principles of field work. Am I clear on that?"

"Loud and clear," I said. "But this goes both ways. When she's not jotting numbers in her balance sheet, I expect Sixty-nine to pull her weight in other ways. She needs to understand that the spy game isn't all Sneaky Pete shit. We're going to be there for several months. Somebody has to cook, clean and do the grocery shopping."

"Sixty-nine did not spend four years in college to be your maid," the BBB said.

"And I didn't sign up to be a babysitter. We'll all pitch in. But if Foxtrot and I are on an all-night surveillance, she better not be sitting on the couch watching Netflix and painting her toenails."

"I don't mind," Sixty-nine said, her voice so faint it was nearly a whisper. "I'm not a great cook, but I'll do whatever is required to make the mission a success."

"Enough," the BBB said. "This briefing is over. I expect boots on the ground in Merryville at the end of the week."

As we filed out of the underground facility, the Ball Busting Bitch pulled me aside for one more bit of instruction.

"I'm serious about you showing Sixty-nine the ropes. But do not let any harm come to her and for God's sake keep your dick in your pants and out of hers."

***

Merryville. Present day.

As soon as I drove into Merryville, I could tell the town was in trouble. Half of the store fronts were boarded up, the streets looked like they hadn't been cleaned since the Ford Mustang first came out and, as I passed through a residential neighborhood, every other house had a For Sale sign in the yard.

To her credit, Sixty-nine found us an ideal place to live. It was a four-bedroom house on three acres of wooded land about twenty minutes from town center. Our nearest neighbor was over a mile away so we wouldn't have to worry about nosey locals. There were three different ways to get to our semi-permanent hide out, which could end up being important if our mission was discovered by the wrong people.

Once settled into the house, my first priority was finding the right realtor. I wanted someone who knew the town and, since I would be spending an inordinate amount of time with this person, he/she had to be someone I enjoyed being with. A quick internet search determined that the two most successful realtors in Merryville were both women.

One was a dark-haired beauty whose web site contained a dozen pictures of her considerable cleavage barely contained by low-cut dresses while she stood next to different sold signs. I assumed she was selling houses, but it could have been something else.

The second candidate was a blond whose web site was limited to her contact information, a list of her qualifications and a head and shoulders shot. The photo showed a pretty face but, for all I knew, it could have been taken thirty years ago.

C. Raven Hardwood, the big boobed, dark-haired beauty was the obvious choice. At the time, we didn't know if Miss Hardwood was a bible toting do-gooder who would report any questionable activity to the local police or someone more amenable to the slightly illegal activities we had planned. Considering her web site photos, I was counting on the latter, but to be safe, we had a backup plan.

Since this was such a high priority mission, I had access to pretty much whatever resources I needed. My first call to the Ball Busting Bitch was to request one of our specialized agents to rear end Miss Hardwood (her car, not her ass).

We used the classic three car sandwich maneuver. I drove the lead car and positioned myself in front of Miss Hardwood's Porsche. Our Company driver, a middle-aged man with a New York accent, fell in line behind the Porsche. When we got to a convenient spot on the road, I hit my brakes just hard enough to make Miss Hardwood come to an abrupt stop a few feet behind me. If this had been an assassination, the trailing driver would have struck her with sufficient force to deploy her airbag, at which point Sixty-nine and I would have jumped out of our car and sprayed the Porsche with automatic weapons fire.

But we didn't want to kill Miss Hardwood. We wanted to befriend her. So, Sixty-nine and I stayed in our car and the Company driver hit her just hard enough to break a taillight. Seconds after the collision, Miss Hardwood jumped out of her car, inspected the damage and then began a verbal assault on our driver that would make a rap star blush. Our driver responded with an equally impressive sequence of curse words that only a true New Yorker could string together. Just prior to them coming to blows (and just after Sixty-nine and I drove off), the newly hired Officer Flanagan showed up in a Merryville Police department cruiser with his lights flashing.

Fifteen minutes later, the Company driver had several fake traffic citations, Miss Hardwood had the number of his fake insurance company (a Company entity who would pay for all damages), and Flanagan had a dinner date with Miss Hardwood. As an added bonus, I had fulfilled my promise to the Ball Busting Bitch and gave Sixty-nine a taste of field operations. All in all, a successful day.

***

One of many things I learned from Mrs. Bancroft was, when possible, not to rush a seduction.

"There will be those cases where time is of the essence and a quick poke with a stranger in the lift may be necessary. But, when possible, give the relationship time to grow. Let the fruit ripen on the vine before you pluck it. Ply it with spice and let it ferment. Smell the aroma, see the color, caress it with your tongue before you swallow. The end result will be tasty and much more valuable."

That's why I didn't go to Miss Hardwood's office the day after Flanagan made contact and hire her as my realtor. I was giving Flanagan time to get on her good side. When it came to Flanagan and women, he needed all the time I could give him. Once he had her trust ... once we knew how receptive she would be to our future plans, then I would make contact and start buying houses. If she objected to my methods, she would complain to her favorite officer of the law, Flanagan, and we could adjust our plans.