Message-ID: <30892asstr$992715003@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: <John3365a@aol.com> From: John3365a@aol.com X-Original-Message-ID: <124.5beda6.285b8661@aol.com> Subject: {ASSM} {Jake Lucas series} NEW Coo Coo Ca-choo Mrs. Robinson (MFF adventure humor) Date: Sat, 16 Jun 2001 14:10:03 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2001/30892> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, dennyw <1st attachment, "COOCOO.TXT" begin> This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons is unintentional and strictly coincidental. If you are below the age of 18, or 21 depending on your locality, stop reading right now. If your government prohibits erotic literature, stop reading now and delete this. If you choose to continue, that is your decision -- and your responsibility -- not mine. This is intended solely for adults, and any other rebroadcast, retransmission, and account of this game is strictly prohibited by the National Hockey League. Wait --The NHL doesn't care -- I care. Any unauthorized redistribution of this is in violation of copyright. I authorize the reader to make one copy for reading purposes only. I expressly prohibit posting of this work on anyone's website, including but not limited to pay-sites, sites with advertising, and any type of site where a fee is charged. Any distribution without the author's permission is strictly prohibited. DO NOT REPOST "Coo Coo Ca-choo Mrs. Robinson" Copyright (C) 2001 by John3365A@aol.com (John A). All rights reserved. -------------------- Author's note: This is the third installment in the Jake Lucas series. The first two, "Acquisition" and "Berlin Diversion" can be found at my web site: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/JohnA/www/ For those of you who don't want to go to my site (and why not, may I ask??) I've reposted "Acquisition" and "Berlin Diversion" today as well as posting this. If you haven't read the first two in the series, you might want to read those before reading this story, though this story can probably stand on its own. You'll just miss out on some valuable character background. Enjoy. And remember...don't forget to tip your waitress.... It's good to be back JA 6/15/01 ------------ I'd love to know what you think. Positive or negative, I'll try to respond to everyone (except obnoxious flames). My e-mail address is John3365a@aol.com. Coo Coo Ca-choo, Mrs. Robinson by John A copyright (C) 2001 The early morning sun glistened as it reflected off of the dew- covered grapes in the vineyard in which Lotte and I were walking. We'd been in Florence, Italy for three days and this was our first day out of the hotel room. It didn't take me very long to learn that she was insatiable. Ok, truth be told, my balls ached and I needed a break. "What would you like to do today?" I asked, every step a ginger one after three days and nights of almost nonstop sex with Lotte. "I suppose we should do something," she looked up at me, squinting, the bright morning sunlight gleaming off of her blonde hair. "It would be a shame to spend all of this time in Italy and stay indoors." "Well, we can head across the Ponte Vecchio and go into town for the day and do some sightseeing and then take it from there." "How about the disco tonight?" "Dancing?" I asked warily. "Yes," she giggled. "Don't you dance?" "Well, Lotte. If there's one thing I've learned in life is that there are three types of men: those who can dance, which are very few; those who think they can dance, but really just look like uncoordinated apes on the floor; and the third type, those who have admitted to themselves that they can't dance." Lotte laughed. "I take it you are in the third category?" "Absolutely. But if you want to go tonight, we can for a while." She smiled and clutched onto my arm, leaning her head against my shoulder as we headed back to the villa before heading into town for the day. We ate dinner at a little trattoria on the Piazza del Carmine before heading down the street to one of those dance clubs that views itself a little too self-importantly, reveling in the trendy Eurotrash and American celebrities that litter the floor until dawn. But they could pour a good double scotch, so what the hell did I care? After about ten minutes of looking around at the fashionably dressed, mostly young crowd bumping and grinding to some techno pop beat, Lotte grabbed my arm and started walking backwards, leading me onto the dance floor. "You know, Lotte. This really isn't my speed," I argued. Hell, I would have given a hundred grand to hear something from the White Album. She laughed. "Come on, Jake. It's fun. You don't need any rhythm, just move against me." I reluctantly followed her onto the floor, squeezing our way through the leather-clad masses, where we bumped and grinded against each other through what seemed like two songs, though I couldn't be sure where any of this music ended or began. We found our table and I ordered another round of drinks as we looked around the room at all the scantily clad dancers. It was certainly delicious eye candy, and my eyes couldn't help darting around the room as I downed my scotch. Lotte interrupted my leering with a giggle as she leaned close to me. "I think that woman over there is looking at you." "I actually thought she was looking at you," I countered and Lotte grinned sheepishly. The woman in question was a stunning brunette, her slightly dark skin made even more so by a Mediterranean tan. She was short and curvy, like so many Italian women, and the way she stood accentuated her curves. Her large breasts pressed against the white silk of her designer dress -- Versace or Cerruti, perhaps -- which did little to hide what was underneath, and what was underneath was nothing. She was definitely hot, and more than that, she knew she was hot. She noticed both Lotte and me looking at her and smiled slyly before turning back to her companion. I signaled for the waitress and I instructed her to bring a drink to our new Italian friend. Lotte looked at me in shock, and I suppose I didn't give much thought to her reaction to the offer of a drink. Just as the waitress was about to leave the table, I grabbed her arm. "Is there something else, signore?" she asked in clipped English. "Yes. Tell the woman that the drink is from my friend, Lotte, here." She walked away and Lotte playfully hit me on the arm. "Why did you do that. She's going to think I'm interested in her . . .or else be totally disgusted by the idea." "Well, are you?" I asked. "Am I what? Interested in her?" I took another sip of my drink and nodded. Lotte blushed and turned her head from me, taking a large sip of her wine. "What kind of a question is that? I don't want to talk about this subject." She turned and pouted. Women. A day earlier while I fucked her ass she was pumping three of her fingers into her pussy and screaming out for the entire villa to hear, "Come on daddy, ream your baby's ass with your fat cock," and now she couldn't answer whether or not she found another woman attractive. I'll never understand them, but they certainly make life more interesting. Lotte was pretending to watch the dancers, ignoring me after my impertinent question when the Italian woman I had bought the drink for suddenly appeared at our table. "Would you mind if I joined you," she asked in perfect English, her accent made slight by what was probably years in the finest English boarding schools. Upon closer inspection, my original impression of her was accurate, if not a little conservative. She was older than I initially thought, but the subtle lines didn't deter from her beauty, rather they made her look more worldly, if anything. Yes, she was pretty, but more than that she was exotic. She had a faraway look behind her dark complexion that made her more desirable than any of the scores of half naked twenty-somethings in the crowd. "Please, sit down," I stood and pulled out a chair for her between Lotte and me. Lotte smiled and the woman's warm gaze at her melted her initial nervousness. "Thank you for the drink. I'm Maria. Maria Modliano," she extended her hands to each of us. Her skin was smooth, pampered. The way she repeated her name made me think that she was doing it for effect. And the more I thought about it, the name Modliano kept repeating itself in my head. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, the name was rattling around and it was going to bother me until I could remember I how I'd heard of it. I smiled and Lotte and Maria made some small talk as I drank my scotch and wracked my brain for where I had heard the name. Then it hit me. Roberto Modliano was an Italian with some sort of title -- a count or baron or something -- who owned a handful of heavy machinery factories that supplied small parts to Italy's automobile industry. If this woman was related to him, then she was definitely in the big leagues. "Maria," I interrupted. "Your name? Modliano . . . that wouldn't be related to Modliano Manufacturing, would it?" She tossed her head back and laughed slightly. "Roberto is my husband, but he's a dreadful bore. I need a little more excitement in my life." She leaned over and hugged my arm slightly, brushing her breast against it as she did. Lotte looked around awkwardly, unsure of what was developing between the two of us. To be honest, I didn't know what was developing either. When we first noticed her looking at us, I could have sworn that she was more interested in Lotte than me, but now I wasn't so sure. Still, if a sexy woman wants to rub her big braless tit against my arm, I'm not going to argue. Maria smiled and leaned over to whisper something in Lotte's ear. The young blonde giggled and blushed as the Italian placed her hand under the table. Lotte giggled again and looked at me questioningly with a hint of lust in her eyes. Whatever Maria said to Lotte, certainly enflamed my Teutonic beauty's passions. "Why don't we all go somewhere for a drink that's a little . . . more intimate than this," Maria suggested over the din of the heavy beat. The two women leaned against me as we walked up the street toward my car. Lotte leaned over and nibbled at my earlobe while Maria clutched onto my arm. God, sometimes life is great. "Anyplace you have in mind, contessa?" I said after we got into the car, looking at her for a reaction. She grinned and shook her head, before turning to look out the window. I couldn't help but notice how her already short dress had ridden up and exposed her smooth thighs above the thigh-highs that she wore. Lotte, it seemed, had also noticed this from the back seat, and was transfixed on Maria's legs. Well, *that* question that I'd asked Lotte was answered in the affirmative. I drove to our hotel just outside of town, trying to gauge the situation. I was pretty sure what the contessa wanted, I just wasn't sure if she wanted it with me, Lotte, or both of us. "I thought we'd get a bottle of champagne from room service and continue the party in our room," I suggested, alternating my gazes between the two ladies as we entered the large ornate lobby, adorned with Louis Quatorze furniture and finished in the finest Algerian marble. It was a formal room, but despite it's opulence, it was relaxing and inviting. Comfortable. "I adore champagne, " Maria said superiorly as we walked toward our suite. I called the concierge and had two bottles of Dom Perignon sent up to the room. When they arrived, I poured the drinks and turned some soft music on the stereo. Maria took her glass and stood, swaying her hips, dancing to the music in a tantalizing seduction. She moved gracefully to Lotte, seductively stalking her prey as she urged the young German to stand and join her in her dance. The two slowly moved their bodies against each other, occasionally looking over for my reaction and giggling to each other. Maria turned Lotte in her arms and brushed her large breasts against Lotte's smaller ones, their nipples poking through the thin material of their dresses, causing the younger woman to moan involuntarily. Before Lotte fully comprehended what was happening, Maria lowered her mouth to the blonde's neck, eliciting even more moans from her and serving to give me an erection like I hadn't had in, well, maybe a day or so. "You look lonely over there, Jake. Doesn't he look lonely over there all by himself, Lotte?" she asked seductively, running her hands over the younger woman's swaying ass. "Mmmm," Lotte moaned, reveling in the feelings. "Come here Jake." Let's see, two beautiful women were going at it and inviting me to join them; this was not a difficult decision. I joined the women in a three way kiss, flicking out tongues together as we explored our each other's bodies with our hands. I took the two woman by the hands and led them into the bedroom. We shed our clothes rapidly and tore at each other, a tangle of arms and legs. Maria took the lead and pushed me onto my back, grinning lasciviously and lowering her mouth on my erection in one swift motion. She sucked and bobbed until I thought I was going to lose it -- less than a minute of her blowjob convinced me that this contessa was one of the best cock suckers I'd ever experienced. She looked up at me and smiled before removing her mouth and beckoning Lotte over to join her. The two women took turns licking and sucking on my cock, sharing it between them and running their tongues all over the turgid shaft. Lotte licked up my pool of precum and shared a deep kiss with Maria, swirling their tongues in each other's mouth. Lotte broke the kiss and tugged at my balls, looking up at me slyly. "He likes this." "Mmmm," I moaned, reveling in the pleasure the two mouths and one hand were giving me. I looked down at the two women giving me such pleasure. The way they contrasted each other was erotic in and of itself. Where Lotte was tall, blonde and angular, Maria was short and curvy with fine jet-black hair. Maria had large, heavy breasts while Lotte's were small with tiny nipples. I leaned back and smiled at my good fortune. Five minutes later, the ladies stopped their oral ministrations on my cock and crawled up the bed. "I need you to fuck me Jake," Maria said matter-of-factly in her boarding-school English. Lotte, too, knew what she wanted, and crawled up to the head of the bed, placing her pussy just inches from my face. With one swift motion, the contessa mounted my cock and began to ride me like a jockey heading down the home stretch at Churchill Downs. I grunted into Lotte's bald pussy, as I flicked my tongue over her clit. The two girls inched closer, fondling each other's breasts before joining in a deep kiss that was just overwhelmingly erotic in its imagery and sent my libido into overdrive. I met Maria's thrusts with my own and I insistently sucked hard on Lotte's clit, roughly nibbling on the pink pearl and driving her into the throes of orgasm. When Lotte fell off my face, Maria grinned and leaned over me, continuing her expert ride, and swayed her tits tantalizingly in front of my face. I clamped onto one with my mouth and sucked furiously at the distended nipple, biting and twisting it with my teeth. "Fotterlo. Attaccarlo nel mio figa. Fuck me," she screamed out and came furiously, bobbing her cunt on my shaft and squeezing her internal muscles until I felt the familiar tingle in my balls and I shot my load deep within her pussy. The two women were still sleeping when I awoke. I threw on my robe before grabbing my cell phone and walked out on the terrace. The summer heat at 8:30 was already strong and hit me when I stepped out of the air-conditioned room. I looked out at the Arno river lazily wending past the Villa's finely manicured grounds, the rolling hills with their olive groves and sparse forest dotting the landscape in the distance; a setting so peaceful, in such stark contrast to my life I was mesmerized by the abject serenity of it all. I punched in the number for the CIA's secure call routing center in Frankfurt, Germany and after about a minute of clicks and buzzes on the line to ensure call security, Andrew Maxwell's secretary answered the phone. As she was transferring my call to Andy's office, I ran back into the room to make sure the girls were still asleep and to grab the sound scrambler that Maxwell had given me in Berlin, switching it on as I did. I closed the terrace door behind me and moved over to a chair by the deserted pool and sat in the shade of an old elm as Maxwell's scratchy voice came over the telephone. "Jacob, how's Italy?" I glanced back toward my room where the two women were sprawled naked on the king sized bed and smirked. "Not too bad Andy. What's up with the deaths." "Well, I got a couple of reports from my field people and something smells fishy. There's nothing conclusive, by any means, but there's some suspicious shit going on around two companies: DLB Petrochemical in Mannheim, and Alsace Pharma in Strasbourg, ever hear of them?" Andy asked. "Vaguely," I answered, sitting back and resting my legs on the other chair at the table. "I've heard of them to say that I recognize the names, but that's the extent." "That's ok, you'll get up to speed soon enough. I'm going to need you to get up there and get inside. You know . . . don't arouse suspicion." "Me? Arouse suspicion?" I joked. "Yeah. Try to keep the artillery fire to a minimum." I laughed. "So, what's the plan? I figure that my angle is that I'm doing some fact finding on behalf of Tate-Reynolds for possible take-overs." "That's what I was thinking too," he agreed. "Am I solo? And who's the control?" There was generally a control person -- an overseer, if you will -- involved with every mission. The control was someone who had information that the field agents needed, and was a contact for when things got dicey. At times the control and the agent worked together, pursuing different ends of the same mission, but more often than not, the control was someone to lend assistance when needed. Now, controls were merely a source of background information and tactical support, but during the days of the cold war they had much more prevalent and necessary -- before the opening of Eastern Europe -- running networks of spies behind the Iron Curtain. Sometimes it was the agent's life that was held sway by the control's ability to remove him from a hostile country, often mere minutes ahead of the KGB or East German secret police. In one of my first missions after joining The Company, I was in East Germany acting as a courier for a double agent that Maxwell had succeeded in turning years ago. West German Deutchmarks were quite an effective enticement for turning eastern agents, especially ones who had gotten a taste of the west at some point. The double -- a Johann Paltz -- was a general in the intelligence branch of the East German army. Paltz had served as a deputy consul -- the consulate or embassy in a hostile country was a typical placement for a government to hide someone in the intelligence field; both sides did it -- in Brussels for four years in the late seventies and had gotten a healthy taste of life in the west. He had always been a font of information -- for which he was paid handsomely to a numbered account in Geneva -- and had somehow managed to get advanced plans for Soviet missile redeployment in the Satellites. The Satellites were those countries we referred to as the Soviet Bloc, nations such as Czechoslovakia, East Germany, Poland, and Hungary, which nominally were autonomous, but in actuality took their orders from the Politburo and Soviet Central Command. Paltz had known that his time was numbered; already he had felt that he was being phased out of some decisions and meetings that he was previously privy to. And in the Bloc, suspicion was only a few connected links away from the firing squad -- or worse. Taking the file -- more like a book -- of missile deployment was going to be his last, and greatest, act of treason. I had gone east to retrieve the book from him but with the book in hand he wanted out and the retirement lifestyle that the west had promised him. Little did he realize how closely the secret police were watching him. It turned out that he had been under surveillance for a couple of months and anywhere that Paltz had gone he was shadowed by a member of the Stazi. When we met at the pre-arranged spot at Eisenach near the DDR southwest border, we knew something was different. Sentry positions had been altered, giving a sense of carelessness in the arrangement of border guards. I was relatively new and unsure of what was happening. Paltz, on the other hand, knew definitively that he was blown. The East Germans were anything but lax, and if there were areas that were unguarded, he knew that it only meant one thing: trap. I wired my control with the portable radio I brought as we holed up in an abandoned farmhouse for the next few days. The East Germans either didn't know exactly where we were or were waiting for us to make the move, so they could arrest Paltz in grand fashion as a traitor attempting to flee with national secrets. No, the East Germans and Russians never needed an excuse to arrest anyone, but Paltz was somewhat of a big fish and we supposed that they felt from a tactical standpoint in cold-war relations it was better to catch him 'in the act.' A man like Paltz had many allies in the Praesaedium, and it was necessary for the Stazi to have actual proof when they arrested him. Plus, the Soviets liked to show some legitimate arrests, it seemed, to justify to everyone the righteousness of the communist way of life -- or some such bullshit. So we waited, subsisting on rainwater and grain from an abandoned silo, for a cloudy night so my control could fly over and come and pluck us free. After three days and three cold October nights, my control radioed that there was a storm heading into the area and if it was heavy enough, he'd fly his small four-seater plane just above the treetops to avoid the radar, land and quickly turn around again, making the seven mile flight back to the safety of the west. At two o'clock in the morning, my radio cackled slightly with the faint one word call of "go" signaling to us that he was making the attempt in the torrential downpour. The next several minutes seemed to take hours as we waited for the hum of the small plane to be heard above the roar of the tempest. Apparently the East Germans had spied the plane shortly after it entered their airspace and were closing in on our position as we took off for the west. A Russian Mig fighter had closed the distance on us and fired a missile toward our little plane. Whether it was the tremendous electrical storm, or just sheer providence, the missile whizzed past our wing, missing it by a few feet before exploding harmlessly in a field not too far from the border. The miss was the break we needed as my control flew down to tree level, flying in an obstacle course within the sparse forest too low for the Mig to follow. Paltz clutched the book of missile positions, as if holding on tightly to his ticket to the west was going to help us through the predicament we were in. For my part, I'd never been more scared in my entire life. Another missile was fired, but intercepted by an old pine just as we were entering West German airspace. There we were greeted by three US Air Force F-16 fighter jets with their targets locked on the Mig. The Soviet pilot took the wiser course of action and veered off before leaving communist territory and the west was given some of the most secret and valuable intelligence they'd received in years. I never forgot the value of a good control after that night in the former East Germany and I always trusted my controls with my life because -- just as the time twelve years ago -- it sometimes came down to that. Andy cleared his throat and interrupted my memories. "You'll meet your control, Dana Robinson, tomorrow at three pm at the south side of the St. Mark's square in Venice, and get your instructions there. You'll be working with Dana closely on this mission, too," he informed me hesitatingly. There was something odd about Andy now, I just couldn't put my finger on it. "Why not just pick a more public place, like the middle of St. Stephen's square in Prague. Or how about on the 50 yard line at half time of the fucking Super Bowl?" "Listen, you know as well as me that a busy, public place is better for a meet than someplace secluded and private. Remember, crowds can be an ally." "They can also be a fucking pain in the ass too. Especially since I have no idea what this guy Robinson looks like." "That's another thing Jake . . . your control," he paused, more out of trepidation, it seemed, than for effect. "Dana Robinson is a woman." "Fuck." I hated working with women and Andy knew it. I had nothing against them in any phase of intelligence work . . . except working in the field. There were several reasons I objected to women working in the field, not the least of which was that I always felt protective of them and if I was worrying about someone else that meant that I wasn't concentrating fully on what I had to do. And if I couldn't fully concentrate on what I needed to do to complete the mission, there was a real possibility that the mission wouldn't get accomplished -- or worse. "Andy, come on. There's got to be someone else," I pleaded. "Sorry, Jacob. No can do. Dana's the most experienced agent we have concerning this matter and I need her there as much as I need you. You can run things the way you want, but she's going to be there too. I'm not going to discuss it further, my decision is final. I didn't say another word. Andy was a fair man and allowed his agents a great deal of leeway, but when he made up his mind, you knew better than to challenge it. I sighed lightly and asked what the contact code would be. "She'll know what you look like. She'll come up to you and ask if it's four o'clock. You'll reply, 'no, it's three, it's four in Istanbul'." "Got it." I shook my head. The contact codes were getting dopier by the year. This one sounded like something from a bad spy movie. "Anything else I should know?" "No. Dana will debrief you thoroughly when you get to France. The two of you will work out the details then . . . . Good luck, Jacob, and try to forget that Dana's a woman. She's an excellent agent." "Good bye, Andy." I terminated the phone call and reflected on what he said about working with Dana Robinson. "Fuck." A sparrow landed on a table nearby, searching for some scraps of food before taking off, unsatisfied. It flew gracefully over the river, disappearing in the trees beyond. I stared out blankly at the green hills banking the Arno, lost in my thoughts about having to work with this Dana Robinson. No matter which way I looked at it, I was stuck. If he felt it was crucial, Andy was not going to yield on my wishes. I wanted a control that I could trust with my life, not one that I wanted to sleep with. As I turned back toward the room, I felt an uneasy feeling in my stomach, unsure of what this mission --and working with Dana Robonson -- would bring. The two women were still sleeping soundly as I packed my clothes silently, trying not to wake them. Maria stirred just as I was putting the last of my things into the suitcase. "Where are you going, Jake" Maria asked, sleepily, squinting against the morning light. "Work, doll," I answered succinctly. "Can't be helped." At this point Lotte blinked her eyes open and did one of her Olympic diver stretches, proudly presenting her pert breasts for us to admire. And we did. "Are you going to come back or are you heading back to the states?" she asked. "I'm taking the train to Venice to meet with an associate, then we're flying to France for a couple of business meetings," I said as I headed into the ornate bathroom, with its high polished brass and green Iranian marble, to take a shower. The hot water streamed powerfully onto me, loosening muscles made stiff by my romp with the two women last night. No more than four minutes into my shower, as I was washing my hair, two pairs of arms wrapped around my body. One of the hands clutched my soft penis while another, smaller, hand cupped my balls and someone's tongue was flicking at my earlobe. I was very grateful that my train wasn't leaving for two hours. *** The train ride to Venice was uneventful. I spent most of the time either sleeping or going over some financial reports. I brought extra work with me to Europe because Reynolds had been getting on my ass for all the time off I'd been taking. It's not as if he'd do anything about his threats; with the amount of money I brought into the firm last year, they needed to do anything they could to keep me happy. Still, I felt responsible for getting *some* work done. Midway through the two-and-a-half hour journey from Florence to Venice I looked over the business card that Maria handed to me as I left. House of Fasiano, it read. Apparently aside from being a countess and being filthy rich, she was also the president of one of Italy's hottest new fashion houses. Look me up if you're ever in Milan, she had told me. I tucked the card into my briefcase and smiled slightly. Now there was a woman whose marriage vows were important to her, I chuckled to myself, drifting back to sleep as the train rambled past the green Italian countryside. I looked at my watch when I got off the train. It was already two o'clock, late enough to place a call to my secretary in New York. Jeannie usually arrived at the office by seven o'clock, which was 1 pm, Venice time. I grabbed a couple of pieces of fruit for lunch at a little counter in the train station before heading into Venice to call Jeannie and wait for my contact. Walking around Venice, I found a somewhat remote area a few blocks from St. Marks square in an old residential neighborhood where the only activities were of women hanging laundry on clotheslines and a handful of young boys and girls playing soccer in the street. I discreetly switched on the scrambler as I dialed the number to my New York office on my cell phone. I needed to get appointments to the two companies quickly and have hotel arrangements -- through the offices of Tate-Reynolds, for authenticity, in case anyone decided to check -- made for a few days in the vicinity of Strasbourg, France and Mannheim, Germany. Jeannie answered on the third ring and seemed pleased to hear my voice. "Jake, how long are you going to stay in Europe? I've missed you." "I'll bet you say that to all the boys," I teased. "Another week, probably. What I need is a favor." "Sure . . . . You know, Jake, you're my boss. They're pretty much not favors," she laughed genuinely. Jeannie had to be one of the nicest people I'd ever met and I was truly lucky to have her as an assistant. "Well, I need you to make arrangements for me to have a meeting with some top brass at DLB Petrochemical in Mannheim and Alsace Pharma in Strasbourg. I'm going to need info emailed to me on both of those companies, too . . . everything we have." "Why?" "It's a long story. I need to get some info for my *other* job." Jeannie was the only one from my 'real' life, other than my ex-wives, who knew about my work with the CIA. "Gotcha. What should I tell Mr. Reynolds?" I thought for a few seconds. "Tell Alvin that I have a couple of possibilities in the works, but nothing near definite." "Ok. He's still so overjoyed that you salvaged the Berlin deal that he won't mind anything else." I told Jeannie to make hotel arrangements for two rooms at a hotel in Strasbourg and to be sure that Tate-Reynolds specifically was the billee. I didn't want to take any chances that our cover could be blown by such an amateurish mistake. "Oh, any messages?" I thought to ask. "Ernie Callas called about a race this weekend." Ernie Callas trained my horses -- among others -- at the Belmont and Aqueduct race tracks in New York. Horse racing was always a love of mine, ever since my father used to take me to watch the horses every Saturday as a kid. It was a weekly ritual that started when I was about nine years old and something I always looked forward to; a special time with just me and my dad, without my mother or sisters around. Not that I didn't enjoy spending time with them, but dad used to work such long hours and most nights I was already in bed by the time he came home. I treasured those Saturday afternoons and the memories of days at the races with him. I owned three horses that I ran regularly in New York. They were nothing that would threaten to win a triple crown race or compete in the Breeder's Cup, but were nice claimers that I had picked up at decent prices. Gold Starlight was a big roan filly who raced in the $15,000-$20,000 claiming division and was as playful as the day is long. She was a bulldog of a horse, handling a mile-and-an-eighth easily, never missing a start and giving her best in every race. My second horse was a four-year-old colt named Halo Colony, who from the name indicated great breeding lines, but just never had been able to put it together on the track. He was sold to an Arabian syndicate for over $1,000,000 as a yearling and raced as a highly touted two-year-old with no success. The owners kept racing him, in hopes that he'd someday get his maiden win, at least. Finally after being dropped in class several times Halo got his first win in a low price maiden claiming race. A few unsuccessful starts later they raced him in a $30,000 open claiming race, and I had Ernie put in a claim for it. So for $30,000, I bought myself a horse that had raced nine times and had one win, one show, and a lot of also-rans in his statistics. But Ernie had convinced me to race the horse on the turf instead of dirt and he'd had a little better success. We'd made the decision to have him gelded -- the ultimate equipment change -- to see if it would help calm him down and focus him on the track. Turning him into a gelding worked to some degree but he was still a frustrating horse. There were times he'd show flashes of brilliance and others when it seemed as if *I* could have beaten him in a race. Rounding out my modest little stable was my star, a beautiful chestnut colt called Risen Affirmation, a three-year-old sprinter whom I ran in small allowance races, who pretty much consistently gave me the best chance of reaching the winner's circle of any of my horses. Antsy and fractious in the stable, once he was on the track he was all business. They made enough money to pay their expenses -- generally -- but it was the excitement of being in the owners box at the track and being there when one of *my* horses hit the wire first that was the thrill for me. "What did he say?" "He was wondering if you were going to be around this weekend. Gold Starlight is running in race two at a mile-and-a-sixteenth on Sunday at Belmont." "Shit. I completely forgot about that. Well, not much I can do about it now . . . . Hey, if you and Steve want to use my owner's pass, feel free. If the horse wins, you can get your picture taken in the winner's circle." "Really? Thanks, we might just do that." "Just call Ernie and he'll get you the passes . . . . Any other calls?" I asked. "Well," she hesitated. "Um . . . Diane called." "What did *she* want now?" I asked disgustedly. Diane was my second wife and only called for two reasons. The first was whenever her Jaguar XKR convertible was in the shop and the second was when she'd broken up with the latest of a string of her boy-toys and needed a man's shoulders to rest her crying head on. Lord, I hoped the Jag was in the shop. "She didn't say. Just said something about needing to see you in a desperate hurry." Jeannie couldn't hide her chuckle. "Where did you tell her I was?" "Osaka," she said, giggling slightly. One of the reasons that I appreciated Jeannie so much was that I knew I could count on her telling Diane that I was at least 10,000 miles from where I actually was. "You're beautiful, you know that?" "Oh please, Jake," she snickered. "The last thing I need in this world right now is for *you* to hit on me." I laughed. Talking to Jeannie always lifted my spirits. She really was as much of a friend as she was an assistant. "Any other messages I should know about?" "Well, a few work related ones. I transcribed them and forwarded them to your mailbox; nothing urgent so you can see them there . . . that is if you'll ever *check* your e-mail. Oh yeah, one other message, from an April Connoly. She asked if you were back from Europe and left her number in Chicago." I smiled. For the brief time that we spent together, April was as fun a girl as I'd been with in a long time. I was going to have to get in touch with her when I got back in the states. "Thanks Jeannie, I guess that'll be it. When you make those arrangements take the rest of the day off." "Thanks Jake, but without you here, it's not as if there's a heck of a lot to do. Yesterday I chatted online with my daughter at Providence College when she was between classes. Today I was planning on ordering my groceries over the internet," she chuckled. "Well, if you'd like, you can take off any time you want. If anyone says anything, just tell them I told you to leave." "Thanks Jake. You're a sweetheart. Talk to you later." For the next hour or so, as I waited for my three o'clock meeting with Dana, I tried to act as much like a tourist as I could. I took a gondola ride down the grand canal, examined the Gothic architecture of the Doge's Palace, and got a gelate at a little cart while watching the minutes tick away painfully slowly. The waiting was easily the most difficult and monotonous aspect of intelligence work. The life of a spy may have seemed glamorous in movies and books, a dashing James Bond playing Baccarat in Monte Carlo one minute then dashing off to a mountainside resort in Gstaad or some such place the next. But intelligence work, for the most part, was one of tedium. It was waiting hours in a location for a specific time to meet a courier. Waiting for a specific time to make a drop. Waiting for a specific time to meet a contact. Waiting hours in surveillance of a military installation or private guarded residence. Waiting. Always waiting . . . until those precious minutes where the waiting is over and the action begins. And the biggest key to success -- and typically success in the intelligence field is read: staying alive long enough to complete the mission -- is managing your concentration level so you're not lulled to a false sense of security by all the waiting and are alert enough to act -- or react -- at a second's notice. As I was waiting for my contact, my thoughts drifted to April and the fact that she had called, looking for me. She was just another girl I'd met along the way, but there was something different about her. She was innocent and sexy, forceful and funny all rolled into one, and she had that damn black hair. Thick, dark hair was always a weakness of mine and April had it and I was feeling weak. Both my ex-wives had thick, dark hair: Kristin's was soft and straight and went halfway down her back and I loved the way it would drape over my face whenever she was on top while we were making love. Diane's hair, on the other hand, was shoulder length, straight as a pin and never an millimeter out of place, complete with bangs that gave her a seductive innocence I still thought about -- despite how miserable the two of us were together. She was too much in love with herself to love anyone else. We made a pretty pair, me the international financier and her the star of fashion runways and magazine covers but it was a case of too little love and too much ego -- on both our parts -- for the marriage to have had any serious chance of surviving. I couldn't identify what it was but there was something about a woman with thick dark hair that made me lose my perspective. April and I had gotten together only once and I my thoughts were consumed with when I could see her again, yet I hadn't even given a second through to Jessica, the blonde thoroughbred from that same night, or Lotte for that matter. There was just something about April that had gotten under my skin. This had all the earmarks of me falling for another woman. Damn weakness in character, I thought as I watched the pigeons land and take off in what only could be described as organized chaos while I waited for three o'clock to come. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman walking purposefully toward me. Looking at my watch I saw that it was close to three. The woman neared and I got a better look at her. She was slim -- fit, actually -- of an average height, moderately pretty in a wholesome, librarian way, with sandy hair pulled back severely in a bun which did nothing to flatter her. She was maybe in her late twenties -- no older than thirty -- I estimated. Her eyes were wide and expressive and they darted around the square looking everywhere, yet nowhere at the same time. She was walking rapidly, as if every second wasted was one she'd never get back. Dressed in khaki slacks and a bright white blouse, the only jewelry that she allowed herself were a wedding band and diamond solitaire on the ring finger of her left hand. She was the proverbial sore thumb and just screamed "agent." This was not going to be an enjoyable mission. "Is it four o'clock?" she asked me formally. Her voice was a monotone, professional in tone and pitch and seemingly without humor. Lord knows I was tempted to say something other than my designated response, but I wasn't in the mood to play any head games with someone who was going to be my partner for the next several days. Besides, I wasn't sure if she'd try to shoot me to teach me a lesson. "No, it's three. It's four in Istanbul." She looked me up and down suspiciously, as if I was a used car she was considering purchasing, before perfunctorily extending her hand. "Dana Robinson. Pleased to meet you Lucas," she said militarily, almost brusquely. I smiled warmly -- well as warmly as I could muster -- and shook her hand as I stood. "Nice to meet you Dana, call me Jake." "There's a car waiting to take us to the airport. Our flight leaves in an hour." She didn't mince words. I was definitely *not* looking forward to working with Dana Robinson. The ride to the airport was in silence. On a couple of occasions I tried to initiate conversation, but was met only with nods and grunts. Nancy Drew here was definitely not one for small talk. On the flight, Dana handed me a couple of files to look at about the companies. At the airport I had logged into a data port at a pay phone and downloaded all the information on Alsace Pharma and DLB Petrochemical that Jeannie had emailed me from New York. The information from Dana was mostly tactical, whereas what I got from my office was financial. Put together, the two helped connect a few pieces of the puzzle. Although, at this point, we weren't even sure if either one of these companies was what we were looking for, it was still a step forward. I took the time on the flight to more carefully analyze Dana. It was readily apparent that she was a perfectionist, her files and notes were meticulously organized and color coded. In fact, everything about her was meticulous. Her tan slacks were crisp, the pleat razor sharp. Her blouse was pure white and finely ironed. In fact, nothing about her was out of place, by design, and I wondered if she ever allowed herself a mistake. A perfectionist -- at least one as anal as Dana here appeared to be -- was a dangerous person to have on a mission. Perfectionists are great when everything is going according to plan, but let one thing not work out and they don't seem to be able to handle it. Fortunately for me, this was mission was relatively benign, in a safety sense and the worst that it seemed Dana could do would be to insult an executive and give Tate-Reynolds a black mark in the couth department. *** A late-model Mercedes limousine sat waiting for us at the airport and I recognized the driver as someone who'd been assigned to Andy's security detail for the last couple of years: Tony Salman, or Salian, or something like that. I'd never worked with him before, but Andy spoke highly of his ability. Apparently he'd fought Golden Gloves when he was younger and was as strong as a bull. He was plucked by The Company from the Army Rangers and specialized in hand to hand combat. Not a bad guy to have around when times got tough. Since the driver was CIA issue, I'd assumed the car was as well and was probably equipped with armor plating and extensive communication and surveillance equipment. Seemed like overkill for this case -- at this stage, anyway. We pulled onto the Place St. Pierre and arrived at the Sofitel Hotel in downtown Strasbourg with Dana still holding the record for fewest words said on a mission. Tony brought our luggage -- mostly empty, but without luggage, hotel guests arouse suspicion -- to the waiting bellhop and gave us the number where he was staying if we should need him. Dana and I checked in and went to our respective rooms; adjoining, as requested, but divided by a set of locked double doors. We could work together, but also have our privacy. After dinner, which we ate separately in our rooms -- actually I was only guessing that she ate, for all I knew she was practicing flag folding -- I heard on knock on the door connecting our rooms. "Good evening, Lucas," she said tersely in the monotone I'd come to expect from her as I let her into my room. "I trust you're ready for tomorrow, I just felt as if we should plan our strategy." "Sounds good. Care for a drink," I offered, producing a bottle of Glenlivet and two glasses. I had made sure that I had Tony stop at a liquor store so I could buy a bottle of scotch before heading to the hotel. Dana turned up her nose at the whisky. "Thank you, no. I make it a point never to drink when I'm working on a case." "I know what you mean. I don't like to drink hard stuff if I'm working on a case either . . . oh, you don't mean a case of beer, do you?" I grinned. She sniffed, though I thought I detected the slightest hint of a smile, the first sign of a chink in my partner's armor. If I didn't find some rapport with her soon, no matter how benign of a mission this was, it wasn't going to go smoothly. "Just some water will be fine." Her tone at first blush seemed arrogant and haughty, but upon further reflection it was one of nervousness and apprehension, much like a student trying to impress a teacher on the first day of class. "Sit down then," I angled my head toward one of the two chairs surrounding a large work table as dropped a few ice cubes in a glass and filled it with scotch. "I've read your file, Mr. Lucas," she said stiffly. "I'm flattered . . . and it's Jake." "Don't be, you haven't heard my evaluation yet" "I didn't know I was being evaluated," I said smugly. She ignored my rebuke. "I must say that for someone of your stature, you're quite irresponsible. Married twice and divorced twice -- reasons not crystal clear. You're a heavy drinker, even a drunkard at times, as evidenced by this." She nodded her head in the direction of my bottle of whisky. I chuckled slightly and tried to hide it, but I don't think I was too successful. She darted her eyes around nervously before returning them to the file she was reading. "You're also a lothario," she continued. "Do you realize in that last year you've been intimately involved with over 38 different women?" "Thirty-eight?" I asked, feigning shock and downing the rest of my drink in mock horror. "I must be slowing down . . . . Any pictures in that file?" She huffed and ignored me again. "I imagine that your philandering ways is what got you divorced from your wives." Only partly, I thought as she nailed her 95 theses against the door of Jake Lucas. "In addition to your unwise and even immature personal choices, your work in the field -- while at times brilliant and flawless -- has a certain air of recklessness about it. To put it bluntly, Mr. Lucas . . . Jake, you're a loose cannon and I don't know if I'm comfortable with working with you. I also know that you're not comfortable working with women." "I'm not uncomfortable working with women," I corrected. "I'm just old fashioned. I don't want them working in the field." "Well, you're stuck with me . . . as I'm stuck with you for this assignment. If it makes it any easier for you, try not to think of me as a woman." "That will be tough to do when you stand in profile," I retorted and she shook her head at my cheekiness. "Mr. Lucas, if . . . " she started to say something but I cut her off. "Look, why don't you get down off your high horse for a minute. I was running networks of spies behind the Iron Curtain when you were still trying to decide if you were going to let your boyfriend come back to your dorm room after the homecoming dance for a little slap and tickle, so don't come in here and give me a lecture about *my* lifestyle, because when it comes down to the mission, I get the job done. To put it *bluntly*, as you say, I'm the best there is. Now, you're probably thinking that I'm arrogant and self-serving and conceited, and you know what? You're right, I *am*. But *I'm* also correct when I say I'm the best, and if you put your mechanical pencils and index cards and colored file tabs away for long enough to pay attention, you just might learn something about fieldwork." She stared blankly at me. It was a look that bordered on awe and intimidation and I frankly didn't know if she was going to burst into tears. She was clearly accustomed for her outright efficiency and perfection to control matters. Unfortunately for her, she never ran up against a field agent as unorthodox as me and all she could do was look down at her file. But all of the files in all the world couldn't tell her how to deal with someone who had just drawn a line in the sand. She closed the file and smiled slightly -- almost relieved -- as the veil of discomfort seemed to lift from her face. She looked up, breathing deeply, looking slightly more relaxed now that her prepared speech was over and continued in a more relaxed, conversational tone. "Is there anything you wish to question me about?" "Only two things. The first is: can you take orders?" "Orders? I'm your control on this mission," she said militarily, trying to maintain the smallest semblance of authority, though probably realizing that she was fighting a losing battle. "No," I corrected flatly. "Technically yes, but you need to get it straight that when we're out in the field, I'm calling the shots. I'm going to get us into the plants, and I'll get the info we need. You're here for support, and that's it. Andy made that perfectly clear, and he knows that I won't operate any other way." Her look was one of resignation and she sighed in frustration. Being a field agent for The Company wasn't a lucrative profession -- though there were certain perks along the way. Nor was it the most professionally rewarding; it wasn't as if public testimonials could be made for toppling over a government, or assassinating an arms merchant. It was largely a career spent in anonymity, even for the best of agents. Brief words of praise from a bureau chief or the DDCI -- Deputy Director of Central Intelligence -- were the most any of us could hope for in terms of accolades. But being a female field agent had to be much more difficult than being a male. More often than not, the women field agents were required to insinuate themselves into the upper levels of organizations, using their bodies and sexual wiles in the execution of their duties, subjecting themselves to humiliation that male agents would never have to. It was damned unfair, and one of the main reasons I objected to women being in the field. Call me old fashioned. "What's the second question?" "What do you prefer to be called?" "Huh?" "What would you like to be called?" my tone softened, trying to relax her. "Do you have a nickname or something . . . we're going to be working closely." She stared, taken aback at my question. As the conversation progressed, I'm sure she had herself more and more convinced that I was a complete asshole. Maybe she was hasty. Then again, maybe she wasn't. "You can call me Mrs. Robinson," she said hesitatingly. "No, that's too formal." I shook my head. "What about calling you '39'?" I chuckled and she furrowed her brow for about ten seconds before the telltale flush of red blotted her face as she recalled some of the more personal information she retrieved from my file. She coughed and took a sip from her drink of water. She recovered and smiled. "How about Dana?" I grinned at her and we opened our files of the two companies. Dana seemed a little more at ease than when she first entered the room, but she still was formal and unwilling -- or unable -- to relax very much. "Ok, from what the preliminary investigation shows, DLB Petrochemicals is something of a rogue corporation," Dana started out, reading form her carefully crafted notes. "They've been fined several times for environmental violations, the last of which was eight months ago, when they were forced to pay 272,000,000 Marks in settlements for illegally dumping into the Rhine." I raised my eyebrows in surprise. The financial reports we received listed the amount closer to 22,000,000 Marks, quite a disparity. Someone obviously did a nice job of obscuring the court records. "In addition to the disregard for environmental laws," she continued, "DLB in the past year had a relatively high-profile firing . . . " "Hans Glickman, the CFO, right? That's not all that uncommon. Especially in light of the large financial settlement they had to pay out. It happens all the time in the corporate world. Someone fucks up and someone else takes the fall. Dana nodded. "Yes, but from what we've learned there are a few more things about this Glickman than a simple case of someone holding the bag. It seems that there were allegations of improper lobbying tactics with the German government and the European Commission. Our Mr. Glickman was accused of being behind substantial bribes offered to officials in the German government and the EC." "Well, here in Europe, a bribe has always gone a long way for securing contracts." I said. "But some of these lobbyists who were working on behalf of Glickman were on the CIA's watch list for Germany," she added. Every CIA bureau had a list of people they kept tabs on from time to time. These 'watch lists' ranged from powerful individuals who had questionable personal dealings, to potentially subversive people, either against the US or our allies to people who were out and out known spies and terrorists. "Wow, now it gets interesting." "Exactly. And the people on the watch list who were associating with Glickman also had affiliations with people from the middle east." "Terrorists?" I asked. "One of Glickman's associates -- one of these 'lobbyists' -- a Martin Franck, had taken five trips to Damascus and three to Tripoli in the last year." "People don't go on vacation to Tripoli," I deadpanned. "Right. We know that this Franck is a small scale arms merchant, most likely working the Italy-Libya corridor. There are a few other names on the list here with ties to known terrorist outlets." "Franck . . . Franck. I know that name from somewhere," I said scratching my head. "Is this guy about in his mid-fifties?" Dana checked her records. "We don't have an exact age, but from the reports, that would be a good guess. Why?" I shook my head slightly. "If I'm right, and I'm not totally sure that I am, Franck is an alias used by a Czech by the name of Anton Burec. If it's the same guy -- and I've always found that there are *few* coincidences in this line of work -- Burec is vicious. He was trained in the late seventies at the Soviet terrorist training center -- the Center for Socialist Development, they called it. That was the same place those guys involved with Lockerbie were trained. The Soviets used to pluck some of the meanest, anti-social malcontents from all around the globe and train them in the ways of terrorism and then set them loose on the west." In fact, most of the major terrorist actions taken in the last twenty-five years, with the exception of the IRA activities, could all find their roots in the Center for Socialist Development. "Wow," she said simply. "We have nothing on this Franck-Burec relationship. I'm impressed." I shrugged. "Ever since the cold war ended, intelligence services -- fieldwork specifically, where you get your best information -- have been cut way back and there just aren't enough human resources to gather all the info that needs to be gathered. Let me see the rest of the list." Dana showed me the file. Of the seven listed known associates on Glickman's lists, six had links to middle eastern terrorism. Something like that just wasn't a coincidence. The question that remained, however, was what relationship did DLB have with the terrorist organizations, if any, and what relationship did Glickman still have with DLB. "Before you go on about Glickman, I have a few things that I learned about DLB," I said. "They're received several fines from the Frankfurt stock market and German securities authorities about questionable accounting practices -- ranging from improper crediting of sales to the current quarter to out-and-out fraud. I know that they had an independent audit last year -- in conjunction with their application to be listed on the New York Stock Exchange -- that didn't go well. The auditor listed several questionable methods of accounting and several discrepancies in their books which they tried to brush off. The NYSE rejected their application for a listing and Frankfort fined them heavily and came close to suspending their ability to trade on their exchange . . . . This is not a company that plays by the books." "Everything seems to fit into a pattern with them." Dana took another sip of her water and rubbed her forehead. "Yep. Several years ago there was a big battle over a refinery they had to the north, near Kiel, on the Baltic Sea. The company had been fined several times for improper toxic waste handling. There were increases in cancer and leukemia in the area in question and the allegations were that whatever it was they were dumping was what was causing it. This factory was pumping toxic output that would have put cold-war Soviet factories to shame. Eventually, after a lengthy court battle, DLB agreed to close down the refinery and move all of their Baltic operations to a refinery that was previously operated by a company they had recently acquired. There have been no *outright* complaints about that one, but rumors have it that it's not much better than the first. I guess the officials in the area are much more receptive to bribes than the ones near Kiel." I stood and refilled my glass with the Glenlivet and walked over to the window, looking as the sun was setting just below the treetops past the Rhine and the picturesque area known as Petite France. "Jake," Dana piped in. "There's something else too . . . about Glickman." I turned and leaned against the wall as she continued. "Do you happen to know what Glickman is doing for a living now?" I stared at her and shook my head. I hadn't given it a thought. "Hans Glickman is now in full time employ of a Syrian oil company with strong -- and I mean *strong* -- ties to terrorism. In addition, get this, guess which Western European company has some prime contracts with the Syrian company." My eyes shot wide open and I downed the rest of my scotch in one swallow. "DLB Petrochemical?" "Exactly." "Shit," I spat. "Looks like we may have found a smoking gun." "Seems like it, but Alsace Pharma has a few interesting tidbits, too." "We don't have a hell of a lot of information on Alsace, on my end. It's a private company, so they really don't have to disclose much. I'd imagine you'd have a lot more on this. Basically, what I have is the info that was made public when Glaxo was considering purchasing it a few years back. It's essentially a biotech company; they work on discovering new cures for diseases and typically partner with one of the major pharmaceutical companies, who will then provide a lot of the research capital. Then if a drug proves efficacious, the large drug company will market it, paying royalties to the biotech . . . . I know when Glaxo wanted to purchase it, there were a few things that came up that made them rethink their position. I'm not sure exactly what they were, but I know that Glaxo distanced themselves from Alsace pretty quickly." "I think I can fill in those holes. About six years ago, only a couple of years after the company was formed, they had a cancer drug that seemed like a real winner. They got it to the last phase of testing, the trials that would determine whether or not the various drug agencies -- like the FDA back home -- would approve it. To make a long story short, there were about thirty-five deaths in the phase-three testing . . . " "Deaths in drug testing isn't uncommon," I countered. "It doesn't generally happen in large numbers like that, though." "Right. But what made this so special is that Alsace tried to hide the whole testing." Dana leaned forward to emphasize her point. Her breasts hung low and a hint of cleavage showed through the top of her shirt. I was momentarily distracted. I think she noticed and she blushed slightly, though made no motion to cover up. "They attributed the deaths to other testing and it was only when a full scale investigation began did they finally admit what happened." I sighed. Apparently, DLB didn't hold patent on underhanded behavior. "Anything else about Alsace we should know?" "Yeah. Based on some of the last info that we've gotten, Alsace is making some sort of a chemical that has a nerve deadening effect." "I'm guessing you don't think it's a painkiller of some sort." "No," she shook her head. "From what the folks in Langley Medical think, this is powerful stuff. Now here's the kicker, they haven't applied for a patent or anything. They're keeping this as under wraps as possible. I mean, this could be nothing more than a new pain reliever, but it might also have some relation to the deaths in the area . . . especially given their history of obfuscating medical trials." I sighed and rubbed my eyes. Before the night began, I had been hoping that we could have eliminated one of the companies from contention, but if anything there were now more questions than answers. As I poured myself another drink, Dana trotted off to her room, holding up a finger as if to say, "wait a minute." She returned about a minute later holding a black briefcase in her right hand which she laid down on the table. "What's that?" I asked. Dana popped open the lid, revealing what looked like a miniature satellite dish surrounded by other small electronic equipment. She removed the dish and propped it on the table. It was about eight inches in diameter and had a cable coming from it that looked as if it would interface with a computer's USB port. "Great," I said. "Can we hook this up to the TV and get ESPN?" She smirked and rolled her eyes. It seemed as if she was beginning to loosen up a little, anyway. "This is a data receiver. And these," she held up a handful of what seemed to be one-centimeter-square computer chips. But unlike regular computer chips, these were flexible, almost jellylike. "These are our 'bugs', if you will. Not only do these receive sound, but they'll also record temperature, light levels, chemical composition of air, location -- through GPS -- and transmit it all to a range of five miles to this receiver." "Wow, I'm impressed," I said, looking over the equipment and holding the bugs in my hand. They looked as if they'd blend in much easier than other listening devices. "I used these a few months ago and they were far and away superior to any kind of listening and measuring device I've used in the past. The great thing about them is that -- because everything is digital -- we can separate each voice by it's frequency and timbre and then record each distinctive voice on a different channel." "So, if a room full of people are talking, you can home in on one voice in the background and just listen to that voice, right?" I asked. "Right. But more than that, you can listen to everyone's voice in the room, to a limit of -- I think -- sixty-four distinct voices. So, it's easy to record several different conversations in the same room. The great thing about them is that they break down inot sludge after about 96 hours of use so there's less of a chance of them being discovered." Dana went on, pointing out the various other features of her system, highlighting things that she felt might be useful to us and just glossing over things that we probably didn't need. I had to hand it to her. She was thorough and knowledgeable. After another ten minutes or so, she gathered all of the gadgets and notes and headed back to her room, politely -- if not quite warmly -- saying goodnight. I sat back and finished my drink, contemplating the information we'd gone over. As I had thought before, there were more questions now than answers. And one of the big problems that loomed before us was that there was the possibility that *neither* one of these companies was involved. I exhaled deeply as I placed my glass on the table, where I noticed a couple of the small recording devices Dana had brought over. They blended into the table so well, that I don't think I would have noticed them had I not placed my glass within six inches from them. I rapped on Dana's door, not wanting to lose any of the gadgets. I had no idea how many she had or how many we'd need. The woman who opened my door was hardly the one who had left my room ten minutes earlier. Gone were the hair in the bun, formal blazer, and crisply ironed slacks. Now her dark blond hair was down around her shoulders and she was dressed in a short, low cut T-shirt and minuscule shorts. Her legs were tanned and her nipples poked out from the tight gauzy material of her T-shirt. I suppose I stared for a few seconds longer than I should have. Dana took note and made a self-conscience attempt to tug at her shirt. Red-faced and grinning almost despite herself, she tried to meet my eyes and regain her professional bearing."What can I do for you Jake?" Perhaps it was the scotch taking an effect on me. I grinned lasciviously. "Why Mrs. Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?" Her face turned even redder, if that was possible and she swallowed hard, fighting the urge to smile, shaking her head at me. "What do you want?" I cleared my throat. I realized that I had made Dana -- my partner, for crying out loud -- uncomfortable and I felt bad about it. She was nervous as it was, the last thing she needed was a 'lothario' as she described me, hitting on her. I regained a look of seriousness as I out-stretched my hand. "You left these bugs back in my room, they're so small I didn't want them to get lost." "Thanks." She took them from my hand and started to turn and close the door. "Um, Dana," I held my hand out, stopping the door from shutting, causing her to turn in my direction. Her look was one of uncertainty and even a little apprehension. "I know that sometimes I come on a bit strong and I have a tendency to be a bit overbearing. We're going to be working closely on this case and I want our working relationship to be open. So if I start being a little too much, just give me a swift kick in the ass, ok?" I smiled warmly. Dana grinned and her tension seemed to ease. "Thanks, Jake. I appreciate that . . . . Really, I do. Good night." As I lay back in bed, I thought of the mission ahead of us. Relatively innocuous on the danger scale to be sure, but a vital step in determining what, if anything, the potential was for more widespread deaths. Then my thoughts drifted to Dana, the two Danas, actually. The first was so professional and formal, while the second was relaxed and comfortable; pretty and desirable. I knew which one I liked better already and that was one of my big problems with working with female agents. "Fuck." What happens next is a story for another day. END If you liked this story (or perhaps the whole Jake Lucas series), please take a moment to nominate it for this years erotic writing awards, The Golden Clitorides. You can send an anonymous email to the nomination address clit_awards@yahoo.com or the anonymous nomination form at the clittie website http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Rui_Favorites/www/Clitorides/nominations2001.htm There you can nominate the Jake Lucas series for best series, any of my other stories from this year (Fonda and Cat or Summer Awakenings) for best story, or even place a nomination for me, your humble author, for author of the year. Thanks, John A ------------------------------------------ Copyright (C) 2001 John3365A@aol.com (John A). All rights reserved. --------------- Visit my story site and with twelve visits get a free hummel figurine* http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/JohnA/www/ *while supplies last. Offer not valid in Vermont, Latvia, and where prohibited by law <1st attachment end> ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ Notice: This post has been modified from its original format. 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