Amanda, CIA Agent Ch. 07

When she turned back, she felt Maddie's hands on her hips. She put her eyes on the ceiling and bit her trembling lip. It seemed like an eternity before the elastic began to slide down her thighs, slowly, inch by inch.

She's making a show of it, she thought. Of me.

My panties are the main event. And my pussy is the starring attraction.

When she finally looked down, her pale blue cotton thong lay in a figure eight across the tops of her new navy Manolos, curling around the backs of her three-inch spike heels. She put her hand over her mouth.

Again, she felt Maddie's hand on her abdomen, only this time it was lower. Maddie's fingertips trailed across her exposed vulva, and she peeped. Feeling a woman's touch on her pussy was extremely disconcerting, and her feelings about it were complicated. One thing she was sure of: she didn't like having an audience.

At least, that was what she told herself.

Maddie snickered. "Freshly waxed. Probably to please your boyfriend."

"Husband," Amanda said through her teeth as she willed away the new warmth she felt between her legs.

"I see." Maddie glanced at her gold band. "Take that off now, so the tan line fades."

Amanda complied. She wanted to put her ring in her change purse, but she'd have to face Derrick straight on, at close range. There was no avoiding it. As she extracted her feet from her tangled panties and moved toward him, her eyes dared him to look.

He stared directly at her unprotected vulva, a smile playing over his lips.

She had her fingers on the clasp of her handbag when Wilson told Derrick, "See if she's wet yet." When she startled, she spilled the contents of her bag into her chair. A couple of tampons fell to the carpet. Her pink plastic box of birth control pills landed between Derrick's feet.

"Shit." She dropped to her knees and bent to grab her items. Putting her elbows on the carpet, she reached for a tampon. As she did so, Derrick's fingers spread her labia and penetrated her.

She reared up, but found herself kneeling between his legs, looking up at him.

He held up his hand, and his fingers glistened. "I've heard the stories, and seen the pictures," he said as he grasped her breast with his other hand. "I must be the last guy in NCS to get some." He tried to put his wet index finger to her lips.

She twisted, wrenching her breast from his grip, and heard a crunch as her knee landed on the little pink box. An ejected pill rolled across the carpet to Wilson's wingtip.

He pushed back his chair, then bent and picked it up.

Amanda tracked the pill across the carpet. Her eyes flitted to her handbag, to the gold band in her palm, to the wreckage beneath her chair, to her bra, badly askew, to her bare vulva, then finally to her panties, which lay abandoned, the cotton fabric twisted around the elastic.

Her stiff posture gave way, and she slumped forward, the weight of her humiliation and shame like a heavy anvil between her shoulder blades, pressing her down until her nose touched the floor. A tear dripped onto the carpet.

Wilson rose. "Get up."

For a long moment, she looked at the cuffs of his grey wool trousers, then unfolded herself and stood up. She'd lost track of her handkerchief, so she wiped her face with the back of her hand.

He took her wrist and pulled her close, resting his hands on her waist as he looked her in the eye. "You're a decorated operations officer, spearheading one of the most important missions in the history of the agency. You're a role model. Stop sniveling and do your job."

She nodded, feeling the tips of her breasts against his body as his fingers stroked her ass.

Close behind her, Maddie cleared her throat. As Wilson released her, Amanda sighed with relief. She turned to find Maddie sneering with her hand outstretched, dangling her panties from her finger.

"Try to keep these on until you leave. Maybe that'll help keep stray cocks and fingers out of that famous pussy of yours." She looked at Derrick and Wilson. "Then again, maybe not." She handed Amanda her handwritten instructions, then turned and left.

Now alone with the two men, Amanda shivered, then turned away. Letting her hair fall over her face, she bent to step into her panties and pulled them into place. Still aware of their eyes on her body, and feeling self-conscious, she straightened her bra straps and centered her breasts in their cups.

Derrick rose from his chair and stood between Amanda and the chair holding her blouse and skirt. "Go to the hair salon tonight, then get a passport photo tomorrow morning. I'll have the documents team create a new French passport for you, in the name of Gabrielle Vernier. You'll need that to get into Iran."

"Will it withstand VAJA scrutiny?" VAJA was the feared Iranian ministry of intelligence.

"Of course. Our documents team is the best in the world."

"Make sure," said Wilson. "As the new French wife of a scientist in the Iranian nuclear weapons program, she'll be put under the microscope. They might even send a VAJA agent from their embassy in Paris to interview Gabrielle's parents."

"Already on it. They live in Lyon." He reopened his binder. "Her father's a back-office supervisor for a major French bank. They've always strongly disapproved of Gabrielle's affair with Farwan."

"Why?" Wilson moved closer to Derrick so he could see the contents of the binder.

"He's her professor, and he's more than twice her age. Now that they're planning to get married and go back to Iran together, her parents are convinced they'll never see her again. They refused to pay for the wedding, and now they're not speaking."

Amanda huffed. She wanted to put on her blouse and skirt, but the two men blocked her path.

Derrick looked up. "One more thing." He turned and picked up a smaller notebook. "There's a symposium on nuclear reactor technology in Tehran in two weeks. Since Farwan is planning to go, the team identified the scientists from Natanz most likely to attend. We only included those with clearance to connect their laptops to the internal Natanz LAN."

He stood next to her and opened the notebook. "This contains profiles of the seven best targets." He held the spine with one hand and put the other around her hip, toying with the waistband of her panties. "Memorize them."

That evening, as Amanda walked to her car, her mind replayed the day's events. She was thrilled to be assigned such an important mission, but still upset about the meeting with Wilson and his team. She especially hated to be reminded of her growing reputation, and Maddie's victim-blaming rankled.

But there was no time to contemplate such matters now. Her flight left in two days, and she had weight to lose. She needed to get to the gym.

* * *

Two Days Later

As the flight attendant cleared her dinner, which she'd barely touched, Amanda lounged back in her wide leather seat and took another sip of her gin and tonic. She'd been dreading the prospect of spending a sleepless night in coach, but then the agent at the counter had let her purchase an upgrade to first class. She'd had to put the charges on her personal black American Express card, but it was worth it.

A click emanated from the speaker above her head. "This is Jacques Menard, captain of Air France flight 21 to Charles De Gaulle. We're on schedule for an on-time arrival at 7:15am tomorrow. I'm going to lower the cabin lights now. Please enjoy your flight."

She finished the last of her drink. Reclining further in her seat, she pulled her blanket over her shoulder, shut her eyes, and tried to sleep, but her thoughts kept turning to her upcoming mission.

Her biggest concern was her initial encounter with Farwan. She'd run through the plan multiple times with Derrick, but the fact was that she had only an outline. There were too many variables in his response to cover every contingency.

Finally, the gin began to kick in, and she felt drowsy. Her last thought was of breakfast. Air France served an elegant one. Too bad her breasts were still undiminished in size, despite losing more than a pound in the last three days. Now she wouldn't get to eat any of it.

* * *

After arriving at Charles De Gaulle airport, Amanda took the train to the left bank. Seeing she had time to spare, she took a leisurely stroll through the lovely Luxembourg Gardens before heading toward Farwan's apartment building, just off Boulevard Saint Germain. Periodically, she caught glimpses of the Gothic spires of Notre Dame in the distance. She'd been to Paris before, but she loved its history and sense of style, and she felt exhilarated to be there.

Later, she found Farwan's building, and eyeballed its perimeter before going inside. As she'd hoped, the elderly, nearsighted concierge mistook her for Gabrielle. Amanda didn't linger, giving a friendly wave as she breezed past and climbed the narrow stairs to the fourth floor. Farwan's apartment turned out to be the last one, at the end of a serpentine corridor.

It was now mid-afternoon, and there was no sign of the other residents, but she made a minimum of noise as she picked the lock and opened the door. The studio was even tinier than she expected, with just a small bed, a dilapidated armchair, and an ancient TV. In one corner stood a water-stained table with a hot plate, an electric teapot, and a single chair.

Inside the miniscule closet that passed for a bathroom, there was a rudimentary shower. After her long journey, she would have liked to wash off, but Farwan could arrive at any time. She settled into his armchair to wait.

By the time she heard his footfalls in the hall and his key in the lock, it was evening. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and there was enough streetlight spilling around the edges of the window shade for her to see. Silently, she rose and stood behind the door.

As soon as he stepped inside, she put her hand over his mouth and pushed the door closed. "Stay quiet," she said to him in Persian, with her arm tight around his neck. "I don't want to hurt you. Nod if you understand."

He seemed to be hyperventilating. He nodded rapidly.

She'd known he was diminutive, and slightly built, and now he trembled in the face of her superior height and strength. She relaxed her grip, then pushed him towards the armchair.

"Who are you?" he managed, still trying to catch his breath.

"Call me Gabrielle," said Amanda. He flinched when she said the name.

"Why are you here?"

"You're going to take me back to Iran with you next week."

He looked baffled. "Why would I do that?"

"Because you're seeking a divorce from Daria, but your imam back in Tehran is beholden to her family and refuses to grant it. I can help you with that."

She stepped over to her carryon and pulled out a folder, from which she withdrew a paper and held it up. "This is a divorce, signed by your imam here in Paris. And here is a letter giving his approval for you to marry me. And here is a copy of our official certificate of marriage."

His voice became strident. "Who are you?" he repeated. "I don't want to marry you." Then he looked at the marriage certificate and began to sputter. "But this says Gabrielle Vernier."

She pulled her passport from her carryon and held it open. The name read GABRIELLE VERNIER. But the picture was Amanda's.

He shook his head. "Why do you pretend?" Then, "Has something happened to her?"

She pulled the wooden chair from beneath the table and sat down facing him. "You're attending the Symposium on the Evolution of Nuclear Reactor Technology in Tehran next week, right?"

"Of course. I'm delivering a lecture there, as I do every year."

"I need to be there. You're my entry ticket."

"What possible interest do you have? Wives aren't even allowed to attend the lectures."

"But they can attend the welcome reception."

He was still for a moment, then rose from his chair. "You're a spy. You're probably not even French." His lip curled. "I'll never help you. Kill me if you like."

Amanda stood and stepped toward him, and he shrunk back again. She put her hand on his shoulder, and he tensed visibly.

She spoke in a gentle tone. "Your son, Ibrahim, finished his bachelor's degree in finance at Columbia last May. He got top marks, and even before he graduated, he received a job offer from Goldman Sachs, but he hasn't been able to obtain an H1B work visa. Meanwhile, his student visa expired. He's now in New York illegally, without any income."

She brought out a surveillance photo. "This was taken three days ago. Look how haggard and skinny he is. He's also about to be evicted from his apartment."

She touched his hand. "Let me help you. I can get him a green card, so he can remain in the U.S. permanently. Goldman has rescinded their job offer, but I'll ask them to renew it. And Ibrahim would have you to thank."

Farwan began to weep. "He asked for money. He begged me. But I didn't have it. His final semester took the last of my savings." He collapsed into his armchair.

"Ibrahim will be fine." Amanda pulled her chair closer and sat down again. "You also asked about Gabrielle."

Farwan sat up straight.

"She's been detained. Right now, she's on her way to Guantanamo Bay. Don't get upset, she's being treated well."

"She's done nothing wrong." He wiped his eyes, and his strident tone returned. "Guantanamo is a prison. People are held forever without trial."

"That's true. But Gabrielle will get special treatment. Better food, comfortable clothing, a real bed. I've arranged access to a computer, and you'll be able to correspond with her through a cutout. She can continue her studies and complete her degree."

Fresh tears filled his eyes. "We need to be together."

"Once our business in Tehran is concluded, she'll be released, and you can begin your life together. We'll give you new identities, and obtain employment for you both, either here in Paris or in the U.S., nearby your son. Your choice. Of course, all of this is contingent on your full cooperation, starting now."

"And if I don't cooperate?"

"Ibrahim will be deported and permanently barred from the U.S. Gabrielle will be placed in a standard cell with no amenities or communication privileges. You'll return to your post in Tehran, but I'll turn over evidence of your adultery to your dean at Amirkabir University. You'll lose your job. I'm not sure what VAJA will do to you."

His face darkened, and he scowled back at her for a moment, but then he became more thoughtful. A full minute ticked by before he spoke again.

"You're asking me to commit treason."

"Yes."

"I'm a patriot, and an honest man. I want nothing more than for Iran to have her proper place in the world and be respected by all nations."

"Yes."

"But I don't have a choice, do I?"

"No."

After several minutes, he began to nod. "Ok, I'll help you." Then a smile crept over his face, and he took her hand. "Does this mean we're legally married?"

She bit her lip, then nodded and looked away.

"You even cut your hair like Gabrielle." He dropped his gaze to her jutting breasts, prominent beneath her thin sweater, as though he was seeing her for the first time. "But your body is different."

He leaned in, until their shoulders touched. He brushed his hand across her chest, then gripped her breasts with both hands.

She stiffened.

"You're my wife now. You have to let me."

She met his eye as she held his wrists. "Just because we pretend to be married doesn't mean we have to maintain the charade in private."

"I want to see your body. Get undressed."

She nodded, her lips pursed, eyes downcast, but she made no move to obey.

He raised his voice. "Do what I say."

She winced. After a moment, she stood and peeled off her sweater. Drawing in a breath, she unbuttoned the waistband of her tailored slacks and slid them down her legs. Seeing no obvious place to hang them, she left her clothes crumpled on his dusty floor.

He sat quietly, watching her, unblinking.

Facing away, she unfastened her bra and let it fall, then dropped her panties, feeling his eyes follow her every move. Turning back, she stood beside his knee, her arms folded beneath her breasts.

Farwan stared at her cleft from close range. He ran his hand up the inside of her thigh, nearly to the top, then back down, repeating his touch on her other thigh. The third time, he went higher, and when he traced her labia, she sighed and moved her feet apart to give him access. He continued, circling her entrance without going inside. After a moment, she bucked her hips.

"Get on the bed." He began to remove his own clothes. "You took my Gabrielle. You think you can take her place, but you can't. I'm going to fuck you every day until you give her back."

She stepped to the bed and sat down, then swung her legs up and laid back, resting her head on his thin pillow. A moment later, he pushed his narrow frame between her knees and penetrated her.

He allowed only two strokes for her to stretch and lubricate before his movements became urgent, then frantic. As he pumped her, he made no expression of pleasure, or any other sound. Scarcely a minute later, he withdrew and rolled to the side, finished.

He sat up only long enough to take the pillow from beneath her head, push her toward the edge of the narrow bed, and raise the sheet and blanket over his shoulder. Curling around her, he threw his leg over hers and put his hand on her breast. Then he slept soundly, as though he hadn't a care in the world.

Naked, with only a corner of the sheet to cover herself, she eyed her sweater, then spotted her panties on the floor nearby. As if sensing her intent, Farwan tightened his grip on her breast and murmured something unintelligible into the crook of her neck.

On the floor beside the bed, a small digital clock read 11:24. Back home, it was late afternoon. She was wide awake, even though she'd only slept four hours on the plane.

In her head, she went over the plan she'd reviewed so many times before. Tomorrow morning, she'd leave a code in chalk on the corner lamp post to let Derrick know she'd successfully contacted Farwan, and he'd agreed to help her. Then, while Farwan was proctoring the final exam for his seminar on safety systems for nuclear reactors, she would visit the Iranian Embassy to apply for an entry visa.

That still left time to put their remaining affairs in order before their flight to Tehran.

* * *

When Amanda and Farwan finally arrived at his home in Tehran, she had only two days to orient herself and acquire some essentials before they left for the Symposium, which was being held at the Grand Ararat Hotel in an upscale neighborhood on the north side of the city.

To the welcome reception, Amanda wore a stylish manteau in a vivid shade of teal over loose-fitting black cotton pants, which she'd purchased in the market the day before. With her matching teal and white checked scarf partially covering her hair, she stood out amidst a sea of men in somber dark suits and jackets.

There were a few other wives in attendance, but most of the scientists and professors were accompanied only by their colleagues. She knew there were also two or three female scientists present. However, as she scanned the nearby faces, she focused on the men, comparing each to the profile pictures she'd studied.

Despite her thorough preparation, she felt anxious. This was the most challenging phase of her mission, and the stakes were high. A mistake would squander months of effort by dozens of experts, and if she were apprehended, she would be tortured, then executed.

She wished she could have a stiff drink. However, no alcohol would be served, tonight or any other night. Even so, she needed to circulate. She wended her way through the crowd toward a man serving non-alcoholic beverages.

On the way, she spied Mahmoud Azizi, one of her targets. Even at a distance, his long, flowing white beard, stooped shoulders, and visible paunch were unmistakable. However, his advanced age and poor physical condition made him her least appealing option, particularly when she considered the range of intimacies in which they would engage. Her experiences with senior CIA officers had not increased her attraction to older, obese men. She turned her head and continued to the beverage server.