CapturedbytheSS (7 page)

“In a few moments, the drug will wear off. I’ll allow you to
eat, but we’re not finished yet, American. I have more questions for you.”

After several minutes, the darkness over me lifts and
finally dissolves.

Relieved to be untied, I sit up. He’s nearby in a wooden
chair, sitting sideways with his elbow propped on the chair’s back. I have no
idea what he’s thinking, but he’s studying me as if I’m some cryptic riddle.

“Thank you for untying me,” I mutter, rubbing my wrists.
Actually, I am truly grateful to be unrestrained…of course he’s the one who
tied me down in the first place. “May I go to the bathroom?” I ask
respectfully.

“Yes, of course.” He gestures toward another room, which I
can tell is a bathroom. “If you want, you may take a shower. I will prepare
breakfast.” He stands and then walks briskly to the nightstand, addressing me
as he moves. “If you try to escape, I can guarantee you will regret it. The
chain around your ankle is a locator.”

“I understand,” I whisper, watching him slip the empty
syringe back in the case.

He quickly zips up the black case before tucking it and his
notebook under his arm. With a subtle nod, he leaves the room.

A bit dizzy and lightheaded, I manage to stand and then
stagger drunkenly to the bathroom. After hurriedly relieving my bladder, I take
a moment to study my weary-looking reflection. Although I have very fair skin,
I look even paler than usual, which I’m guessing might be a side effect from
either the truth serum or the sedative he administered last night or possibly
the combination of both drugs. But all in all, I’m not in bad shape, especially
for a prisoner.

After studying my reflection, I cross the small bathroom.
With a tired sigh, I sit on the tub’s edge. I hike my foot up, wanting to study
the silver chain around my ankle. The small links of gleaming silver look
delicate and fragile. I hook my finger around it and pull, trying to break it
off, but I quickly discover its appearance is deceiving. I tug until I leave a
deep, purple indent in my flesh, but the chain won’t give.

Sighing, I focus on the anklet’s sensor instead, which is
sealed in a small, rectangular-shaped capsule. Flat and smooth on both sides,
the capsule has no obvious seams or breaks. Running it between my fingers, I
can’t find any way to open the sealed case. Approximately the size of a pill, the
encased sensor looks like one solid piece of shiny metal.

I reluctantly abandon the anklet, not seeing any way to
remove or deactivate it.

Not wanting to dawdle, I turn on the faucet. I quickly peel
off my damp satin dress and underwear. I’ve sweated through every inch of both
garments. With an appreciative sigh, I step into the shower.

The warm water pours over me like rain from heaven. I can
still feel the potent drug in my system, and the water helps clear my head. I
find some soap and shampoo in the shower. I make use of both products and
quickly lather my hair and body before rinsing off. I turn off the shower,
feeling renewed.

Wanting to dry off quickly, I wring out my shoulder-length
chestnut hair before blotting my tresses with the towel. I reluctantly look at
the blue satin dress, which I tossed on the floor. I don’t really want to put
the sweaty garment back on, but I guess I have little choice. With a sigh, I
sit on the tub’s edge and blot my dripping hair, frowning at the discarded
dress.

The door suddenly opens. Startled, I cover myself with the
towel.

“Good, you’re finished. Breakfast is ready. Here, put this
on.”

He tosses a bundle of white fabric to me, and I catch it
while clutching the towel. Without another word, he turns and leaves.

The smell of bacon suddenly wafts across my nostrils. Oh
food.

After quickly pulling on the garment, which is a man’s dress
shirt, I fiddle with the buttons and then roll up the sleeves. It’s long enough
to cover me up. I’m actually grateful for the shirt. It’s clean, dry and soft.
Realistically speaking, I probably only have a few hours of life left. And
being comfortable is truly one of life’s simple joys, especially after a hot
shower. Hell, there might even be a last meal in my immediate future.

Not wanting to piss off my captor, I tidy up the bathroom a
bit and then hang up the towel. I fold my blue dress and underwear before
setting them neatly on top of the toilet tank.

Emerging from the bathroom, I cautiously look around the
room. I don’t see my captor anywhere. I feel better after the shower, and I’m
eager about the possibility of food.

Just as I poke my head from the bedroom, I spot him leaning
against the wall, apparently waiting for me.

He only looks me up and down, but he doesn’t say anything. I
can tell he wants to ask me something, but he doesn’t.

“Come on, American.”

He urges me to move while he takes a place behind me. As I
move down the stairs, I take in the house and mentally note where pieces of
furniture are. It’s a habit, really. I can’t walk into a room anymore without
mentally checking off what’s in the space and where it is. The house looks
different in the light of day.

Running a quick reconnaissance of my surroundings, I move to
the kitchen. There’s a single plate on the table with some bacon, eggs and
toast on it. My stomach grumbles. There’s also coffee and juice. Damn, I wasn’t
expecting to be treated so well. I quickly check my thoughts though. Just
because there’s food out doesn’t mean he’ll allow me to eat.

A bit hesitantly, I turn and look at him.

“Sit,” my captor orders, pointing to the chair that’s
closest to the food.

I
very
cautiously sit down. Is he really going to let
me eat? He nods approvingly as he walks to the other side of the table.

“Eat,” he orders, taking the chair across from me.

Almost immediately, I dig into the food before he changes
his mind.

He pours himself a cup of coffee. “Slow down, American.
Don’t choke. I’m not going to take it away.”

Willing myself calm, I force myself to eat slower. I even
take a sip of apple juice. He nods at me.

“So, how many lamps did you spot in the foyer?”

I stop eating. Did he notice what I was doing? I’ve been
trained to be subtle.

“Yes, I noticed, American,” he replies. “I’m just curious
how many details you obtained. How many lamps did you spot in the foyer?”

“Three,” I answer honestly. I don’t see the point in lying
to him. “Two on each side of the door and another against the wall.”

“The color of the shades?”

I swallow a bite of egg before answering. “The two by the
door are the same with gold shades. The one by the wall has a black shade.”

He nods at me. I take a bite of bacon and drink some juice.
The food is actually quite good, and he was very generous with the portions.

“So what about the living room? There was a book draped over
the top of the sofa.”

I nod as I take a bite of the toast. “Keats,” I reply.

“Very good.” He sounds impressed. “I also have some writing
paper and some pens on my desk near the window in the living room. The pens are
in a black cup. How many pens are in that cup?”

“Six,” I reply without hesitating. “Seven if you include the
highlighter. Eight if you count the pencil.”

“Excellent.” He looks a little surprised I knew that one.

I only shrug a bit indifferently. It’s my job to remember
details. I can’t exactly haul around photocopies. Oh yeah, a box of suspicious
papers would go over
really
well at a checkpoint. Digital cameras and
video equipment are also thoroughly screened, and the guards will take
anything
that looks suspicious.

Hell, I once had a patrolman confiscate my shoes because he
thought they sounded hollow. And another time, a patrolman broke my watch
because he thought it looked like a hidden camera. And both times, they were
wrong.

“Do you like being a spy?” he asks.

Again I only shrug. “My country needs me.”

I can feel him studying me intensely as I take another bite
of the scrambled eggs.

“In school, you were one of the brighter students, weren’t
you?”

I’m not sure what he’s driving at. “I don’t know,” I mutter.

“Do you remember taking a lot of exams in school, especially
during the first few years?”

I only shrug again and take a bite of toast. I vaguely
remember taking a lot of tests when I was young, but no one ever told me what
they were for or how well I did on them. I’m not sure why, but I don’t want to
answer that question.

“Were you often pulled out of class and made to watch
pro-American and anti-German films?”

How the hell does he know that? “We all watched those
films,” I counter carefully.

“No, they made you watch more than your classmates, didn’t
they?”

Actually, he’s absolutely right, though I have no idea how
he knows that.

“How did you know that?” I ask.

“Did they lock you in a room by yourself and make you watch
those films alone? Did they make a point to isolate you from the others?”

My breath actually hitches at that detail. “How…how did you
know
that
?”

He only takes a sip of coffee before continuing. “Your
parents suddenly came into wealth when you were young, didn’t they? You may
have moved into a bigger house, you may also remember your parents buying
things like cars or jewelry, yes?”

Again he’s right. I remember we moved from a cramped
two-bedroom apartment in the city to a sprawling two-story house in the
suburbs. Our new home had a backyard, an in-ground pool and a swing set. New
cars and fancy electronics soon followed after the house.

Even as a child, I knew there was something strange about
how my parents had come into the money. And I vaguely knew it had something to
do with me.

I think my captor sees the answers to his questions on my
face.

“Your parents were awarded a grant based on your performance
on initial exams. By accepting the money, they agreed to a government-approved
curriculum for you.”

“What are you telling me?”

“You were selected when you were a child. You repeatedly
tested high on several exams, probably hitting top scores in memorization,
which made you an ideal candidate for intelligence. Your country has been
training you since grade school.”

I don’t like what he’s implying. “My country didn’t force me
to do anything. America doesn’t have a draft anymore. I voluntarily signed up
for the military when I was eighteen.”

He only shrugs. “Believe what you want, American.”

I quickly dismiss the entire conversation. No one forced me
into this. No one tweaked my destiny or manipulated my free will. I’m not
listening to a Nazi. I take another bite of bacon before sipping some juice.
The food helps clear my head, but his strange words are leaving an odd knot in
my stomach.

“You were encouraged to take on many lovers, weren’t you? As
a spy behind enemy lines, especially a lovely female spy like you, you could
use your body to parley access to rooms and functions, flirt your way past
guards and patrolmen, gain favor with contacts and American sympathizers.

“Your superiors would want you to be a skilled and
accomplished lover. It wouldn’t be wise to send a blushing virgin into enemy
territory. Weren’t you encouraged to take on boyfriends and lovers when you
were in school?”

His words cut straight through me. Countless films about sex
rush through my head.

Again, I don’t say anything, but I suddenly understand why
he thought earlier I should be promiscuous.

When I joined intelligence, my seduction teacher taught me
how to use my charms and my body to help aid me in my missions. A doctor even
surgically implanted something in my uterus to prevent pregnancy and ward off
venereal diseases. I was often told that sex was an available tool in my
arsenal and that with the implant I wouldn’t have to worry about pregnancy or
some unsavory disease.

“Tell me, do your superiors know how inexperienced you are?
You may not technically be a virgin, but you’re damn close. I know they
wouldn’t like that if they knew. You’re expected to be something of a sexual
predator really, with literally hundreds of past lovers, which was why your
agency put an implant in your uterus. Do your superiors know you’re not the
femme fatale you’re supposed to be?”

I look away from him, refusing to answer that question. My
sex life, or lack thereof, is none of his damn business! In all honesty, my
superiors don’t know. Whenever I was back in the States, my seduction teacher
used to tell me to hit the clubs. She said one-night stands were my homework. I
constantly lied to her about my sexual escapades. Somehow, it was just easier
to stay home and be by myself. If I wanted, my fingers could bring me
gratification.

“I’m assuming they don’t know,” he murmurs, taking a sip of
coffee.

I avoid looking at him and instead study my plate. I take a
bite of toast. How does he know so much? How does he know about my training and
about my implant?

“Since I have so little to work with, I suppose all I can
really talk about is your first and only lover, Steven. You told me you were
eighteen when you met him, but I’m guessing you met him
on
your
eighteenth birthday and it was at a party, wasn’t it? A very elaborate party
your parents and teachers put together?”

I don’t say anything. I just swallow a bite of egg.

“Let’s see if I can guess your evening.” His confident tone
suggests he’s not really guessing. “Steven was introduced to you by one of your
teachers. He was attractive, in the military and considerably older than you,
at least by a decade if not more, which you probably found intriguing.

“Everyone at the party made sure you two spent the entire
evening dancing together and in between songs, a parent or teacher would give
you a glass of champagne and wish you a happy birthday.