Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs

“And you call yourself a scientist?” His tone harbors more than a hint of humor.

“Yes, Dr. Omar, but I’m a woman, too.”

“So I’ve noticed.” He walks around me as if conducting a perfunctory inspection, his eyes devouring my flesh, though he doesn’t touch me.

I ignore his comment. “I believe in instinct. A scientist can’t rely on calculations alone—”

“I also believe in following my instincts,” he says, breathing on me, his strong male scent suffusing my senses and making me turn away. Fool. That’s exactly what he wants. I shudder as he slides his dark, leathery hand over my thigh and cups my crotch, squeezing me hard, making me cry out in shock, then letting me go. I look down. Grease stains my light-colored pants an ugly brown.

“Dr. Omar, you—you—”

“I imagine you’re wet—and tight. Very tight, eh?”

Embarrassed, I look out the tall window, watching the puffs of clouds moving across the pale blue sky. I remember hiking out to the old fortress, those same clouds hanging like a backdrop against the remnants of the ramparts silhouetted against the sky. Seeing them illuminated by the sun, knowing at night they’re hidden by the darkness fascinates me, as if new artifacts wait for me to find them and bring them out of the darkness. I take a deep breath. I must continue my work, though I refuse to suffer more humiliation from this man.

“It seems I’ve wasted your time, Dr. Omar.” I turn away, pull damp straggles of hair off my face and compose myself. I’ll dig anyway, though without a permit I won’t receive credit should I unearth any artifacts. I’ll be labeled a tomba-rolo, tomb raider, and my reputation will be tarnished, but I can’t stay here a moment longer with him. I can’t.

“You seem to be in a hurry, Miss Malone.” He picks up an olive and pushes it between my lips, nearly choking me. “Care for an olive?”

I spit it out. “I made a mistake coming here, Dr. Omar,” I say flatly. “Sorry to have troubled you.”

Before I can take more than two steps, he closes the door, locks it, then turns to me, smiling. “Of course, there is a fee for my services.”

You mean grabbing my crotch wasn’t enough for you? I want to ask, but don’t. Instead, I brace myself, my eyes fixed on him. “A fee? How much?”

He names a figure that will blow the rest of my grant money. We bargain back and forth, him popping olives into his mouth and lickinghis fingers, me getting the fee down to an amount that won’t leave me with merely a camel for transportation.

In the end, I write him the check, counting myself lucky to obtain a dig permit without having to go through all the red tape with the local director of the Antiquities Service. So what if it cost me a bit of my pride? Finding the Byzantine artifacts will make it all worth it. Still, I barely have enough funds to purchase supplies and rent transportation, but what choice do I have? Only after I give him the money does he agree to help me establish provenance, the documented history of the site, should I find any significant artifacts. I agree. The Aleppo Museum already contains collections of antiques unearthed in northern Syria, from the Mediterranean to the middle Euphrates, near the point where the river flows into Iraq. Showcasing my find here would be a big step in finishing my dissertation.

“You won’t be sorry, Dr. Omar. My work goes beyond discovering the artifacts to building their scientific potential,” I continue, making my point and buttoning up my open shirt with my hand. “It’s the invisible part of what I do.”

He shrugs. “I’m more interested in what I can see, Miss Malone,” he says, handing me the permit, then brushing his fingers across my breasts and lingering on my nipples pointing through the soft fabric. “There’s one more thing necessary to complete our deal.”

“Yes?” I barely breathe the word, standing in his office, wrestling with my emotions, my fears, knowing he’s not finished with me. Known as a furious digger, a determined seeker after booty for his museum, no doubt he has other vices, as well. I stuff the permit into my pocket, then look for a way out. I frown. There isn’t another exit and the door is locked.

“I want to touch you and worship you as a goddess.” He unbuttons my blouse in quick, short movements, the silky grease on his fingers making me sick. I try to stop him, but he pulls down my bra cups and rolls my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. Gritting my teeth, I fight against him and push him away. Hard. He stumbles back against his desk, shaken.

“Unlock the door, Dr. Omar,” I say in an even voice, holding my shirt together. “Or I’ll scream.”

4

Present day

With slow, deliberate moves, I shake the past as I strip in front of the Russian. Where I once floundered, now I perform. I concentrate on the little things, the curve of my fingers when I touch myself, my lips parting in a silent sigh. I maintain a composure bordering on ice. I’m no longer the same young woman locked in a room with Dr. Omar. This time I’m in control. My pulse beats faster, my pussy vibrating to the burning but stimulating sensation a striptease evokes in me. I’m cucumber-cool while I strip, opening up to the pleasures of my art. I find no shame in taking off my clothes. Nudity is part of the game. The only exposure I fear is a double agent like Ivan blowing my cover to one of his cronies.

I turn, unhook my bra, and with the finesse of an artiste on stage, I ask, “Is this what you’ve been waiting for, Ivan?” With my back to him, I whip off my bra. Then, with a graceful flick of my wrist, I wave my undergarment back and forth in front of his nose as if it were a flag of surrender.

He says, “Turn around so I can see your tits.”

Tits. So American. Then it hits me. The one-eyed Jack from the alleyway used the same word. My pubic muscles go into overdrive, reminding me of our sexy encounter.

I push him off my radar, then say, “Not until we have a little talk, Ivan.”

“About what?”

“The real reason you came to Zurich.”

He suddenly flares up. “That wasn’t part of our bargain.”

I smile. “In wartime, an agent extracts information by force—” I drop my bra onto the floor, then turn around slowly, folding my arms over my nude breasts “—though I prefer other methods.”

He grins, though I see puzzlement in his eyes. “Our countries aren’t at war.”

“Aren’t they?” The smile fades from my face, replaced by a deliberate tenseness around my mouth. “Who are you working for, Ivan?”

“I work alone.”

“You’re lying.” I trace my fingers over my breasts, circle my nipples, which are hard and aching. “I’m asking you again, who do you work for?”

“You think I’m going to tell you?” He shakes his head. “I don’t intend to end up buried alive in a nailed coffin.”

I let out a sigh. Whatever the outcome, he’s a KGB pro-fessional of the old school. He knows the game. He knows the risks. Like most informants, the most striking thing about him is the contradiction between his evident strength of character and his vulnerability where sex is concerned.

Which doesn’t help my situation. If I don’t get him to talk, I won’t find Sharif.

I grab another ice cube and sweep its icy tongue over my nipples until it melts. Ivan is also going into a major meltdown. He plays nervously with a swizzle stick, drumming it up and down against the glass. He’s so hot, the sweat drips down his face and wets his shirt in a wide, dark stain across the front.

“I can’t wait any longer.” He unzips his trousers, wide gray pants made from a cheap fabric. “I’m so hard, I could fuck you all night.”

“Really? What a capitalistic idea.” I take in a deep breath, close my eyes. You’ll never get the chance, Ivan. Though I’d love to demote him maximally, I won’t. I need him. Besides, he disarmed me. No prob. My backup will hear my call for help if he gets carried away.

“I’m hard,” says the Russian, grabbing his crotch. “Take off your panties.”

I shake my head. “Not yet. My pussy is so hot, it needs cooling down first.” I have to work fast. I haven’t gotten the chip or the intel from him.

With a quick movement, I plunge an ice cube under my red thong, between my labes, making a sweet circle on my clitoris. I let out a loud groan. I shiver both from the chill and the high state of arousal surging in me. The ice burns on my clit. I push it deep inside me, the sensation so intense I want to scream. I’m so hot, the cube melts in seconds, dripping down my thighs in glistening rivulets, tickling my skin like icy fingers. A puddle forms between my high-heeled boots.

“Enough of your games.” He comes toward me, wiping his mouth with his hand. “I want you.”

“And I want to know what your organization is planning.”

“That wasn’t part of our deal.”

“I’m willing to pay.”

“You’ll pay with your cunt—”

“Ten thousand dollars extra.” I direct my disarming smile at him. It’s standard equipment for a TA special agent. This smile—and my government-issued cleavage—draw men to me like a prostitute wearing nothing but a pink boa and red high heels.