Escapades of an Erotic Spy - Part 1 A Spy is Born (11 page)

"Dexeter!" Nanette shouted. "What are you
doing?"

I didn't pause for an
instant.
Shout all you want, Nanette. I'm
finally saying, "no!" This is a line I won't cross!

"Give me my money!" I demanded of the
photographer.

"Dexeter, you don't get paid if you don't
finish the job!" Nanette was up off the couch.

No use, Nanette. That won't work this
time.

"Tell him to give me my money! I'm
finished!"

There was a raucous exchange between the
other girl and the incensed photographer.

"He says he won't pay if you leave now,"
interpreted Nanette.

"Then I'll call the police."

"He'll just laugh. What would you tell the
police? You were holding a man's dick when you suddenly decided you
wanted your money right away?"

It was a compromising situation for me, to
say the least.

"Then tell him I've got friends, and they'll
come here to make things very unpleasant for him if he doesn't pay
me."

It was a lie. The only friends I had in
Paris were the Bardachs, and they weren't likely to pose any
realistic threat. But Nanette didn't know that. She translated my
demand to the photographer.

His face purpling, Tristan Zenglitz reached
into a pocket and counted out some francs, which he threw to the
floor along with an assortment of bitterly uttered words I didn't
comprehend. I scooped up the money and stuffed it into a pocket
without stopping to count it—although I was reasonably certain it
was a lot less than I had been promised. Then, without missing a
beat, I charged for the door and raced down the stairs. A few
moments later, I was on the street and relieved to be out of that
pornography den. I took a deep breath and began my walk back
home.

It had been a bad experience. A very, very
bad experience. But it was over. I was shaken, but physically all
right. I'd simply have to be more careful about the jobs I took. A
woman alone can't be too careful.

I hadn't quite reached the corner when an
automobile sped up to the curb and stopped just a little ahead of
me. Two men in dark clothes jumped out.

"Dexeter Foxx?" asked one of them. From the
way he spoke English, I could tell he was American.

As if this day could get any more bizarre,
now two men I've never seen before are asking for me by name?

"Uh…" I froze.

"Miss Foxxe," said the man, "we're with the
United States Army. We'd like you to come with us."

CHAPTER 3

Dark Mata Hari

U.S. Army H.Q. in Paris:

I still don't know why I got into the car.
My initial inclination was to run screaming in the other direction,
hoping some kind citizen would step forward to offer assistance or
protection. Unfortunately, I was in a neighborhood where people
tended to mind their own business and ignore as much as possible of
what was going on around them. I was on my own and feeling
vulnerable. Even so, now that I think about it, I don't suppose
there was anything mandatory about my cooperation. The two men
didn't say I was under arrest. What authority did they have anyway?
I was in France. The U.S. Army had no right to detain people there.
Still, something about the fact that they knew who I was put a
scare into me, and my resistance disintegrated.

We traveled mostly in silence. The two men
said nothing to me, and I decided the safer course would be for me
to ask no questions until someone explained what was going on. They
drove me to a part of town I didn't recognize, to a little gray
building with blue shutters on the windows and black wrought iron
framing the door. I was led inside and upstairs to a small plain
white office with a large wooden desk and three chairs. One of the
men, a tall fellow, told me to sit and stayed with me while the
other man went elsewhere. About a minute later, two different men
entered the room. Of the two new men, one appeared to be in his
forties. He sat behind the desk. The other was somewhere in his
late twenties and took the remaining chair a few feet to my left.
Both of them were wearing uniforms signifying they were officers in
the United States Army. The older man dismissed the tall man, who
had led me to the room, and told him to close the door as he
exited. Now I was alone in the presence of two more people whom I
didn't know from Adam, but who exuded an air of knowing plenty
about me.

"Miss Foxxe," the older man began, "I'm
Major Harbaugh. This is Lieutenant Ricci. We're with the Military
Intelligence Division."

That meant nothing to me. "So?" I tried not
to sound too nervous, despite my trembling.

"So," he continued, "we've asked you here to
talk about something. Would you like some coffee?"

"No, thank you."

"Glass of water?"

"No." To me, the major's attempts at
civility seemed not in keeping with the situation. "You could tell
me why I was brought here."

"Invited,"
hastened the major. He sat back in his chair and
rubbed his clean-shaven chin with his knobby fingers. His sandy
brown hair was immaculately clipped and combed.

The lieutenant was equally well groomed,
although his curly hair was much darker and his jaw more square. He
didn't appear to be especially muscular, but the younger man had
the look of someone who could take care of himself if the need
arose. His deep brown eyes were currently riveted on me, and the
disconcerting feeling he gave me caused me to turn a little in the
other direction.

"Your
invitation,"
I remarked, "didn't
really seem to offer a girl much choice."

"Miss Foxxe, I'm sorry if our methods
disturbed you." The major leaned forward and folded his hands on
the desktop. "But we have something very important we need to
discuss. A proposition, actually. Possibly mutually
beneficial."

"You're not opposed to honest work
opportunities, are you Miss Foxxe?" They were the first words the
lieutenant had uttered since entering the room. His mellifluous
baritone voice suggested confidence, and his enunciation hinted
there was a level of higher education in his background.

"Of course not," I said, still trying to
avoid the piercing stare of those dark brown eyes.

"Good to hear," said the major. "So it's
possible we might be able to come to some arrangement."

"I'd have to know what it is first." I was
suspicious.

"Of course." The major leaned back and put
his hands behind his neck. "We believe you may possess certain
skills that might be useful to us. Useful toward bringing a
successful conclusion to the war. You'd like to see the war come to
an end, I take it? Our side the victors?"

"Sure."

"Good," he continued. "Well, we're in the
business of collecting information…information that could benefit
our side. We think you could help us there."

"What do I know that could possibly help? I
don't know anything."

"It's not what you currently know, but what
you could find out." Major Harbaugh leaned forward again. His face
expressed a seriousness that made me even more nervous.

What the hell is he talking about? And why
is he looking at me like that?

"It's an intelligence gathering operation,"
explained the lieutenant. "We sometimes employ people to assist
us."

"Me?" I asked.

"You," answered the lieutenant.

"Why me?" It seemed so ludicrous, I almost
laughed.

"Because," responded the major, "sometimes a
woman can get things that a man can't. She can get into certain
places a man can't. Get close to certain people…people who like the
company of beautiful women. Get them to say things no man could
ever hope to get them to say."

"And, when they say it," added the
lieutenant, "you tell us."

It was all starting to become clear.

"You're talking about spying." I shifted
uneasily in my chair.

"As Lieutenant Ricci put
it," said the major, "we prefer to call it
intelligence
gathering."

"But what you're really talking about is my
spying for you."

"Think of it as Mata Hari," quipped the
lieutenant, "only a slightly darker shade."

"Didn't they shoot her last year?" I asked,
agitated.

"For being a
double-agent,"
the
lieutenant fired back. "Never pays to get greedy."

"Miss Foxxe," said the major, "your country
is calling on you."

"I don't live in America anymore," I said
with coldness. "I live here now."

"Then do it for your adopted country." The
major looked most determined. "Surely, you hear the cannon fire.
It's the unmistakable calling card of the enemy threatening
Paris."

This is just absurd. Me? They want me? To be
a spy?

"You still haven't
answered
why me?"
I pushed.

"As I said, you have
special…
qualities
…suited to a particular task." The major was choosing his
words carefully. It made me even more wary.

"You've got the wrong girl," I insisted.
"Spy work? That's not me. Sure, I hope the Allies win. But you're
talking about the kind of work that can get someone shot. So, no.
No."

The major leaned back, a less than amiable
expression on his face. "Lieutenant," he said in a way that
suggested the younger man knew what he was supposed to do.

"On February 19th," the lieutenant began, "a
mulatto woman named Daniela Fenster boarded a ship bound from New
York to France. Stunningly, there's no record of her getting off
the ship in Le Havre. So, either she got off somewhere in the
middle of the Atlantic and decided to swim the rest of the way, or
she disembarked as someone else. French immigration records show
they processed a passenger—a woman identifying herself as Dexeter
Foxxe—also described as mulatto. I take it the passport
documentation was the product of a steerage forgery acquisition?"
He turned to the major. "I'm told it's become its own seaboard
industry—churning out fake passports in the lower decks for those
with a desperate need."

"You'd think they'd check these things at
the port more carefully," bemoaned the major. "I mean, there's a
damned war going on."

"I guess she didn't look
German," the lieutenant said, shaking his head. "Beyond that, they
just don't care all that much." He turned back toward me. "Must've
cost you a pretty penny. Or did you work it out in
trade?"

"You are incredibly rude!"
I remonstrated. I knew what he was insinuating.
How dare he!

"And you are a woman who skipped on a
summons to appear in court on a criminal matter." The lieutenant
sat rigid, his face betraying no emotion. However, his words shot
through me like a jolt of electricity. "We're in the intelligence
industry, remember? There's not much we can't learn about our own
people, if we're motivated."

So is that it? All of this is about hauling
me back to America to face trial?

"We're not in America," I protested. "They
can't do anything to me here."

"Well," sighed the lieutenant, "the French
would probably be equally happy to provide you a prison cell for
entering their country fraudulently…after which, they'd likely
deport you back to Virginia, where I'm told the judges can get very
angry when people disobey their orders."

I started breathing heavily. My eyes were
tearing up. I must have looked as though I were about to faint.

"Don't worry, Miss Foxxe," soothed the
major. "We've no interest in that. None, whatsoever. As the saying
goes, we've bigger fish to fry right here. We just want your
cooperation on one project. Anything else is none of our business,
and we've no intention of doing anything about it."

Have you ever felt both comforted and
trapped at the same time? That's the way I felt then. I gauged the
truth of the major's words to be genuine. The Army absolutely had
much bigger issues to deal with than little me. I couldn't, for a
moment, imagine they would take time out of fighting a war for the
sole purpose of tracking down a girl who missed a court appearance.
So I believed him when he told me they had no interest in my
personal issues. Yet, there was Lieutenant Ricci, sitting there,
staring me down—representing, to me, the very picture of menace. If
I didn't do what these officers wanted, would he be less inclined
to guard my secret from those who might care enough to take some
action?

I started to think to myself: how would my
mother handle this? How did my mother handle it with the
judge…?

Gentlemen, isn't there some way we could
work this out? After all, you're men. I'm a woman. You've got
needs. I've got a mouth. I've never done it before, but, if you'll
just undo your pants… Yes, let me get on my knees. Why, you
gentlemen are so big and hard! Very impressive! I'm not sure I can
swallow all of that. But let me try. Let me open my lips and take
your massive cock into my mouth. Feel how nice I suck on it,
Lieutenant. Doesn't that feel good? See how well I suck on you? You
can come in my mouth. I'll swallow every drop, I promise. Every
drop. That's it. Come for me. Come good. Oh, you're filling my
mouth with your love juice. Squirting it deep into my mouth. Down
my throat. I'll bet that feels good, doesn't it? To come inside my
lips. You like that, Lieutenant. I can tell by how much juice you
shot into my mouth.… And now you, Major. Oh, you're even bigger! I
guess that's why you're a major! You've got a major sized dick for
me to swallow. Let me suck it. Let me suck it all the way. All the
way until you shoot your wad into my sucking maw. Oh, how big…

The major coughed, disrupting my brief
reverie of lewd fantasy before it could proceed any further. He
leaned in again. "We wouldn't ask if it weren't terribly
important…and if we didn't think you're the one we need right now.
Won't you please reconsider?"