* * *
311a, Apt. 7, Darwin Street, London. A sickly lime paint was ready to peel off the cheap door as Julie knocked three times. To settle her nerves, she concentrated on her vermillion nail polish, applying it with serene, meticulous brush strokes in her mind. It had worked in the old days, but no longer. Her stomach was out of tune as the organ chords came crashing back. What the hell am I doing?
"Come in.” The harsh voice spoke before the door was fully open. A balding, good-looking man barely glanced at her before turning his back to walk away. That much hasn't changed, she thought, following him inside. They're still about as much fun as root canal.
"I'm Entwistle. If you don't mind, we're really watching the clock.” The man beckoned her over with an impatient finger. Taking off her coat, she felt her insides constrict as another man and a woman studied her from across the room, sizing her up for the half dozen choices of outfit draped over coat-hangers on a steel rack. Well, what do you know? I really have missed this, she thought. The apartment itself was coarsely carpeted, smelled of polythene and fresh leather, and reminded Julie of an oversized boy's bedroom, with no furniture except for a wooden sideboard and a single bed, and dark curtains—an altogether rebellious den for delinquents.
"I took the liberty,” said Entwistle, handing her a typed A4 sheet headed Colloquialisms, Racist Nicknames (by country). “These are the key racist terms she used. Try to memorize as many as you can, in addition to any you might ... come up with yourself.” His voice tailed to a wisp. Something about her distracted him.
"What's wrong?” she asked.
"It's nothing. I was just ... Northam, come here for a second!” He took Julie by the waist and spun her through ninety degrees. “Hmm, we might have to cover it after all. What do you think?"
Julie held her breath as the two rather attractive men, their shirt sleeves rolled up to their elbows, scrutinized the shape of her butt. In her days as an operative, she wouldn't have batted an eyelid, but now, after eight years of calorie-counting on unisex treadmills where the race was real and to the mirror, she felt horribly self-conscious.
"Nah, I don't think so,” replied Northam. “This one's tighter, but it's not that big a difference."
Relieved, Julie exhaled slowly.
"You don't think we should pad this one out a bit?” Entwistle sniggered.
"Don't you listen to him, miss. You'll do fine,” answered Northam. “We'll have you a dead ringer in no time."
She nodded. After taking a few steps, she turned and said to Entwistle, “Hey, pervert, you sure you don't need to enlarge something else?” With a flick of her arm, she hurled her raincoat straight into his face. “Suck on that while you think it over."
Northam burst out laughing. The other woman, a petite redhead wearing jeans and a purple sweater, covered her mouth while she chuckled.
"OK, crackers, let's get this party started.” Julie clapped her hands and then rubbed them together. Adopting an over-the-top posh accent, she added, “I say, are we Limeys or aren't we?"
Entwistle nodded, eyeing her with reluctant approval. “Try down a few octaves,” he said.
Unzipping and dropping her skirt, Julie rolled her eyes at the thought of any colleagues from the accountancy office seeing her now. She undid the buttons of her blouse with supple yet steady fingers. Where had the nerves gone? Had her little feminist barb deflated that momentary anxiety? She threw off the neuroses with her blouse; as it landed on the bed, she checked to see if Northam and Entwistle were watching. They weren't. Each was leant over the sideboard; pen in one hand, mobile phone in the other. Julie felt a slight pang of regret. She was in superb physical shape, and she wanted them to know it.
"What have you got for me ... sorry, what was your name?” she asked.
The petite girl cleared her throat, concentrated on the clothes rack. “Maggie. Hmm, let me see ... we did say this at first.” She held up a garish, tight-fitting number with zebra stripes and multiple slits down each side. “But HQ found a photo of her wearing it a few weeks ago. Problem one, she never wears the same dress twice in public. Hmm.” She unhooked another design from its coat hanger and, after straightening her neck and tilting her head to imagine a figure inside the dress, held it up to Julie. “I'm with Northam. I think this one."
It was a brand new, black silk cocktail dress by Chloe, with gorgeous jet beading on the shoulder straps, a low-cut neckline with a ruched bust, and an unfinished black silk trim. It closed on the side with a concealed zipper. A romantic and elegant number. Julie warmed to it immediately. “Try this one?"
Maggie clicked her fingers for the men's attention. She handed Julie one side of the dress to hold. Without hesitation, both men gave the OK signal before resuming their studious note taking.
"That was easy!” joked Maggie. “We argued about this for ten minutes before you arrived. Right...” She fetched a laminated portfolio from the bed and opened it to a snapshot of Dorothy Buchan labelled ‘Marseilles, February ‘08'. “This should be no trouble."
Julie remained silent. She knew she'd fraternised enough for one dressing session, and it was almost dark outside. Time to play mannequin, she thought, unclipping her black lace bra and from the corner of her eye catching deliberate glances from both men. Yes, she'd always had to-die-for breasts, and no, she'd never minded the male agents seeing them while she dressed, provided they did so discreetly. Kind of a two-way bonus in this thankless job, she thought. An eyeful for an ego boost—no harm in that.
"Like he said, you're in better shape than Mrs. Buchan,” said Maggie, unzipping the dress, “but I doubt anyone will notice, not after we're done."
The fabric was soft against her skin, but the neckline had been custom-fitted for a smaller breast size. Julie studied the Marseilles photograph, though, and Dorothy Buchan had practically spilled out of a very similar blue evening dress. It gave her confidence that the woman was something of a trollop. I can play that, she thought.
Northam nodded approvingly as he approached. His dark, bushy eyebrows and granite chin were potently masculine, and he was warmer to her than Entwistle.
"Alright, Julie, let's run through it, shall we.” He dabbed his finger on his tongue before flicking through the pages of his notepad. “Where are we? Ah, yes ... you're Dorothy Alice Buchan, aged thirty-two, widow—your husband was Petr Luzhny, a multi-millionaire partner in the ‘Nevsky’ Eastern European pipeline. You sold your shares in that before it went bust, to invest in a highly lucrative casino chain, ‘El Dorado', in America and Western Europe. Your assets are anywhere between, let me see, two-hundred and fifty million and four hundred million pounds. Not badly off. You live mainly out of Marseilles and Monte Carlo, but you travel all across Europe and, on the odd occasion, you visit the United States, which you apparently despise. Getting all this?"
"So far."
"Good."
Julie closed her eyes as Maggie applied a light tanning balm to her face, rubbing it in diligently while Northam continued his briefing. “Accent is Queen's English with a slight French enunciation on the ‘e’ vowels. You know the permutations, I presume."
"The mountain stresses,” she replied. “It's a common trait among British émigrés living in France."
"Mountain stresses? I haven't heard that one."
She explained, “Just imagine yourself on the different French accent shapes over the letter ‘e': you trudge up the slope first, to the exhausted sound of ‘ay ... ay ... ay'; then you're on the peak, a little bemused by the view—'eh'; finally you ski down the far side with an ‘ehhhh'."
Both Maggie and Northam laughed.
"What's that?” asked Entwistle. “Orgasmic French?"
She smiled, but a twinge in her lower back gave way to an icy flashback that made her shudder...
Bruges ... nine years ago. Her seduction routine had gone swimmingly; the Belgian captain was deep inside her. No need to fake anything. His thrusts pinned her deliriously to the cabin bed, with far more power than s
he'd ever experienced before. Helpless in the pauses between those bouts of fast, muscular penetration, she felt ashamed, appalled. Julie Blalock longed for her husband's gentle touch. But every time the captain resumed his ravenous rhythm, she clenched, fully splayed in the throes of submission.
Nothing in her training had prepared her for this. The Belgian was insatiable. She was supposed to administer the strangulation move while he was breathless, as soon as he let up. But his relentless sexual appetite left her not a moment to regroup. Just when she felt his stamina begin to wane, enough for her to kindle a spark of fortitude, he yanked her by her hips to the edge of the bed and, grabbing handfuls of her breasts, penetrated slowly, even deeper still. She moaned helplessly, ready to erupt in a blissful firestorm at any moment.
He paused to catch breath. A sudden venomous urge to get the hell out took her over. Derek! The mission! She flung her legs around his waist and pulled him onto the bed, then, clamping her thighs to squeeze his solar plexus, tried to manoeuvre her knees into position to trap his lungs. He could kick all he liked; the grip would be too tight, and he was far too tired to fend her off. His stinging punch to her face did not perturb her. He struggled violently, though, and she knew she'd missed her chance to apply the stranglehold.
Thump! She punched his Adam's apple with all her might. The man's hands around her throat parted instantly. The cry she gave held no joy as he writhed, choked under her repeated blows. Sweat poured from his pale face as less than a minute later he fell limp, lifeless.
Thank God.
When she tried to get up, her lower back sent a splintering pain right through her body. It felt as though she'd been severed in half.
That was the last thing Julie remembered about her Bruges assignment. The next day, MI6 agents bailed her out of police custody from a Belgian hospital, citing diplomatic immunity—with a little help from attaches from the Deuxieme Bureau. The herniated disc in her back required an operation; upon recovery from which, she received an official reprimand. Mission accomplished, they said, but rather too messily for comfort.
"Next time, you get your brains screwed out,” she replied, “and see what kind of mess you leave."
The Service stamp quickly thumped down on her record sheet, leaving a delightful phrase in bold red ink: “Suspended—Agent Status Revoked Pending Review."
Entwistle snapped his fingers. “Ms. Blalock? You OK?"
She looked up at him and forced another smile. “Yeah, I'll be fine. Few bad memories, that's all."
She'd always hated herself for submitting like that to the Belgian captain. Derek never knew, never suspected; he was a gentle, generous lover. From the night she'd returned to England after her operation, Julie had never let another man dominate her that way again. And when Derek had taken his life, she'd vowed to uphold that promise for the rest of hers.
"What were we saying? French enunciation?” she asked.
"I think you're clear on that,” replied Northam.
He played her a tape recording of a conversation between Dorothy Buchan and another agent. The woman's inflections, a mixture of slang and proper verbiage, were typically ‘spoiled rich socialite'. Julie had played the type a few times before as a teenager. She settled down as Northam resumed his briefing. His voice was deep, sonorous, the sort to make a woman feel safe. And indeed there was something decidedly safe about this whole op. A lark, almost—a fancy dress charade to see who got to keep the over-priced bauble.
As Maggie curled a gorgeous black silk scarf around Julie's neck, tied her straight brunette hair up inside a curly blonde wig, Julie locked eyes with Agent Northam. He smiled, acknowledging the mutual attraction. This time, she looked away first. This op is getting to be too easy, she thought.
"Anything else I should know?"
Northam replied, “Entwistle's got a few final details. Just a sec."
Maggie expertly applied cherry lipstick and a smidgeon of smoky eye-shadow. Next, elbow-length black gloves matched the dress and fit comfortably. Rich suede high heels—black, from Audley's in London—also fit first time. Julie suddenly remembered the Service still had all her sizes from eight years ago. It made her realise how little she missed her privacy; a few days back, if someone in accounting had handed her a profile of her vital statistics, she'd have filed for breach of confidentiality. Now, even though they had her butt under close scrutiny and her breasts spilling out for all the world to see, Julie simply nodded. She had her second skin. And it was tough. The Service had given her that.
"Right, it's nearly time,” said Entwistle. “A few more instructions have just come through.” He poured intensely over his notes. “We've got a full house. The auction room is a VIP-only affair, and we're to let you in before Ms. Morrow takes her seat. We'll have a few cameras covering the buyers, so don't try to watch everyone. Do be vigilant, however, of which bidders Ms. Morrow reacts to. We think there's something damned fishy about this whole set-up. We want to know who she's in league with, and particularly how she responds to the Archangel bidders. It will be subtle. Look for signals from her to the auctioneer—flicks of the head, hand gestures, shifting position in her chair. These rackets have got it off to a fine art. The mike in your wig should pick up most of what she says, but only you can coax it out of her. Remember, eyes and ears ... and intuition. We've had very little time to prep this one. We're not exactly sure what this Archangel object can do, but with this much interest shown there's an air of Damocles over the whole thing."
Julie took a deep breath, lifting her entire frame.
"Now, this has come right from the top.” His cold, hazel eyes stared right through her. “You're not, under any circumstances, to let the Archangel out of that room. We've posted agents at every building exit point, but with something this sought after and with so many powerful parties in on the act, we don't know what might happen."
"All this for a bit of treasure?” she asked sharply.
"Oh, it's a hell of a lot more than that,” he replied. “As well as being connoisseurs, many of the bidders there tonight are proxies for multinational conglomerates, foreign governments, even terrorist organisations. The newspapers have painted this as some sort of treasure hunt. The Head Office thinks it's far more dangerous. Only we can't prove anything. Every item was examined by our experts and they didn't raise a single objection to any of them. So there's no law whatsoever to prohibit this auction. And whatever else we might suspect them of, these people are legitimate bidders. What we can't prove, we can't ban.
"Security's too tight for you to smuggle a weapon, and it would be too suspicious if we sneaked you in by another entrance, so you're on your own in there. If someone does try the snatch, if all hell should break loose, you're to fix on the Archangel at all costs. Don't lose it!” He looked at Maggie and Northam in turn. “Right. I think we're set. Good luck."