Spy Nude Pt. 01

The Sweaty Man looked at the new profile and swore.

"A college student! A fucking college student stumbles into the biggest operation since Bin Laden, and now we have to use her! Whodathought?!"

"Well, Jim's the best at what he does," said the Nervous Man. "He can work around her. And what we found on her bio indicates a woman who thinks fast on her feet. Plus, she keeps calm in crises. Her father's a decorated Marine, and her mother's from Croatia, a very tough pair. She could be a natural." The last statement held some uncertainty.

"Well, she's going to have to be," the Sweaty Man growled, "It's far too late to pull him out, and we are this close. You know the risk if this op goes south. He's dead and we're in jail. No, I take it back. We're dead too. Biggs will probably kill us to maintain deniability."

"I know Sir," the Nervous Man trembled. "I thought subcontracting Jim would help cover our asses. We shouldn't have taken this one. It's a rogue op after all. Too many variables, including this coed."

"Biggs had no choice. Too many leaks on his end, and he didn't trust his superiors. He wants this bastard bad, and he's willing to risk federal charges to get him. Send the message to Jim, and cross our fingers."

The wristwatch, through mild electric shocks, tapped headquarters' reply:

>Message begins: Random element genuine article. Brittany Summers now Melanie Swann. Use her. Get the prize. Message ends.<

"Damn!" Jim thought. He wouldn't believe it if she weren't curled up asleep in the seat across from him. A simple, ordinary, but quite beautiful, coed who, literally, stumbled into this game.

And she's clean. No criminal background or questionable connections. I could make this work, if she can put up her end. A distraction; that's all she needs to be. She's beautiful, inexperienced, but thinks fast, and she's flexible, adaptable. We can pull this off. My question is what does Krause want?

The worst of the worst of the worst were rumored to be coming.

The distraction is sex. It has to be. He wouldn't specify someone beautiful, otherwise. Melanie sure counted but she didn't make the rendezvous. This one's here by sheer luck, or bad luck.

Brittany/Melanie stirred and moaned.

Nightmare, no surprise there.

Jim felt some sympathy. She wasn't part of The Life, just some poor kid who stepped into the deep shit. Life and his profession taught him to be hard, though, forced him really. He was a hunter after a big prize. He felt no qualms about using a deer to draw out a wolf. Still, this girl was a looker. It would be a shame if she got killed.

Which is highly likely. Let's see how this plays out.

Jim did not fear death. He played high stakes with no less than his life as collateral. That's why they hired him. His employers were casting dice on his part. The information Jim heard about the formula made the temptation to steal it himself, and sell it on the black market, almost overwhelming.

Such an act came with big headaches. He may like the game but hooking Krause, and the others, promised safer stakes, than stealing a formula everyone and their mother would kill to possess. White elephants existed, even in this game.

The overhead speaker buzzed. "We're making our final approach," the speaker said in a thick Jamaican accent, "Make your final preparations and take your seats."

Jim reached over and shook Brittany. "Wake up, we're nearly there."

She sat up with a gasp, looked for a second's confusion before registering it wasn't a dream. She curled up on the seat and looked, balefully, at Jim.

"I think you better go to the restroom and straighten your face up a bit. We'll be landing soon and the teary-eyed face doesn't look good. Oh, and from now on you're Swann, Melanie Swann.

"Melanie" said not a word but rose and walked, quietly, to the restroom. The tears came when the door closed. She grasped the sink and stood shaking and sobbing.

"Ogodogodogod! What the fuck's happening?! It was only a prank, sob!"

She looked about. She needed something sharp, whether to kill herself or that man out there, she didn't know.

What are you thinking, girl! The voice thundered into her brain with a shocking, yet familiar, clarity. The voice of her father. On your feet, Marine!

Her father always sounded this way when pissed, especially at her. Usually when she whined or complained about some childish or teenage triviality.

You think I raised my little girl to be a weak crybaby? You stand up, grit your teeth, and get through it girl! You're my daughter! Act like it!

Her mother, who went through her own war, would add with her Croat lilt, There is always something worse dear, and someone to experience it.

"But this is bad, Mama," she spoke out loud, but noticed her tears had stopped.

Brittany looked at herself in the mirror. Her face no longer wore the look of despair. The look was something her father wore in the field, from pictures she remembered as a child. The look of grim acceptance and hard determination. She was in the shit. The only way out was to go through it.

Her next emotion was anger; not at herself for getting into this trouble, but at the three backstabbers who put her in it. It didn't matter if it was willingly or not. Brittany could not have known about the danger in the park but for the girls' betrayal. So much for the bonds of sorority but the reckoning would come later.

"If I ever survive this," she whispered through gritted teeth, "Those bitches will pay."

First, she needed to get ready for what came next. She washed her face, straightened her hair best as she could, and stepped out of the bathroom as Melanie Swann.

Jim was impressed. Even without makeup the young woman was striking. The tearful look had vanished from her face. She looked hard and determined.

Good! We just might get through this.

"Melanie" sat down across from him. "So what happens now?"

"Well, buckle up. We're landing." Melanie did so. "Let me do the talking," Jim continued, "Basically, we're temporary hires. I'm your agent. I set the rules. When we land, look disinterested. It makes you look like a pro. Do not show fear. These people are predators. One whiff is blood to a school of sharks. I'm not going to lie. You'll likely be called upon to do things you never would dream of doing in your real life. You'll have to do them, and you'll have to sell it. You'll have to sell yourself. If they get even the faintest hint we're not who we say, we're both dead. Our best chance is Krause. He has a weakness for women, especially beautiful women. You qualify. I'm not saying this from flattery, so don't blush."

"Melanie" didn't know she was blushing. Compliments on her looks made her uncomfortable.

"I'm gambling he'll be drawn to you. Keep him distracted long enough for me to figure where he keeps his formula. When I find out, I'll trigger a signal to bring the cavalry."

"What about the others, the buyers?" she asked.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. They're here to buy, not steal, albeit I wouldn't put it above them, but that's my problem."

The overhead ringed, "All passengers buckle up. We're landing."

"Welcome to Falstaff Island. Have nice vacation, ha!" Krakov laughed.

"Will you get your hands of that?! Damn!" and then the overhead cut.

****

The Falstaff Island Spa and Resort was located roughly ten miles southwest of the Virgin Islands. The long forgotten explorer who'd surveyed the island loved Shakespeare. The island, for most of its history, was an afterthought visited by the occasional fisherman or naturalist.

Post World War Two, the island became a popular destination for picnickers and overnight campers. Some fifteen years before Brittany/Melanie's adventure, a real estate development consortium, United Caribbean Resorts, bought the island and constructed a high end hotel and spa.

The clientele were the extremely rich and powerful, and the resort received the highest ratings from the top critics. The consortium constructed a small airfield to accommodate the new arrivals.

The actual owners of the consortium were a murky collective of businesses, under a tangle of legal documents, making it difficult to figure who owned what.

A diligent forensic accountant, with resources and support, could trace ownership to a certain son of a Nazi war criminal. Said son could reserve the multi-million dollar resort exclusively for himself, and his clients, for an undisclosed period, free of charge.

It was dawn when the plane landed. Apart from the traffic controller, and the man standing by the black Mercedes, the airfield was deserted. The airport was small, clean, and well-kept.

Krakov got out of the plane first, followed by Jim, who turned and offered "Melanie" his hand. The young coed instinctively recognized the theatrics of the gesture and played along. She took his hand and stepped down the ramp.

The waiting man was also small, clean, and well-kept. He was thin, and pale gray, from his slicked-back hair to his immaculately tailored suit. His smile revealed a set of ivory white teeth, near perfect, yet predatory.

"Hello," he smiled, holding out his hand, "I'm Jerom van Boorstadt, Heinrich Krause's personal secretary. Welcome to Falstaff, Mr. Blake. Ah! And your assistant, Melanie Swann. Most honored."

He shook Jim's hand, then bent down to kiss "Melanie's", who affected a slight disinterest as Jim advised. "What a strange accent," she thought.

His voice was guttural, slightly European; she couldn't place it. Jim answered for her.

"South African?"

"Pretoria," Jerom replied, "So! You're obviously tired from your long trip. If you will get in the car, I can take you to your bungalows where you can rest. I can assure you Ms. Swann, we have excellent spa and rejuvenation facilities." Boorstadt opened the passenger seat in back.

"You go ahead," Krakov said. "Air traffic controller 'nother old friend. I'll catch up later."

"Melanie" went in first. Jim took the seat next to Boorstadt. He noted with dismay, before he went in, the large antennas around the airport; signal blockers. No signal was getting on or off the island.

Basically means we've dropped off the map. I'm going to have to find the generator first before the formula. Can she hold out until then?

The car left the airfield. Krakov went to the air tower. The pilot refueled his plane and took off immediately for a nice vacation in Daytona. He knew some fun was going to happen on the island, given the hot number leaving in the car, but Krause paid him to ferry passengers, some of them very scary, and he knew better than to ask questions.

Interlude

"What do you mean we lost his signal?!" the Sweaty Man yelled while trying to down a blood pressure pill with a Maalox chaser.

"We lost it just past the Virgin Islands," the Nervous Man squeaked, "Our techs think there's an island somewhere with signal blockers."

"Goddamn it!" the Sweaty Man cursed. "That area's resort central. If we start searching every vacation spot there for signal blockers, Krause will be alerted, and Jim and that poor girl'll be fucked, if not already."

"Jim will have to work it out from his end," the Nervous Man said.

"You think he can?"

"He's been in tight spots before. Getting in and out is his specialty, remember?"

"Yeah, I'm sending a report to Biggs. At least we have a general idea of the area he's in," said the Sweaty Man.

"Maybe we better have assets in the area on standby, just in case we get near the right island."

"Hmmm, try it, if you can scrounge the right personnel. Tell them to be discreet."

"I'm on it," the Nervous Man said.

The car pulled into the resort. "Melanie" barely restrained a gasp. She expected a strange, fortified compound. The kind more suited to Jim Jones and his cult. She didn't expect manicured lawns, open swimming pools, wide avenues, and "bungalows" that made some movie stars' houses look downright decrepit. It was like Beverly Hills on steroids.

The Mercedes stopped in front of a large building, a hotel really, more than a match for the best Hyatts or Merriots. "Melanie" of solid middle-class background, knew hotels from family vacations, but this one surpassed anyplace she'd ever visited.

A day here would break my Dad.

The lobby was almost deserted except for a concierge, and a few bell people.

"We sent most of the staff off the island," Jerom said, "The incoming guests are not for witnesses. Not that you should worry . . . much. It's good you don't have luggage."

"Well yes," Jim replied, glancing at "Melanie", "I'm wondering about the guests. I don't know what Melanie is supposed to do, but I certainly don't want her involved in anything . . . damaging. Know what I mean?"

"Of course," Jerom chuckled, "I assure you that Mr. Krause has set strong rules regarding guest etiquette. The duties she will be asked to fulfill are perfectly safe. Ms. Swann, you may actually have some fun, and be well paid in the bargain."

"Melanie" smiled at Jerom's word, not so much as she trusted them as part of her act. She disliked being talked around like an object, but staying quiet was a safe move.

"So I see you're exhausted," Jerom continued, "Follow me, and we'll get you the keys to your bungalows."

The desk clerk handed them the digital cards. The short walk to the bungalows took them through the lobby, out the back, to a large recreational area, containing a swimming pool so large as to be almost a lake.

No less impressive were the bungalows, more luxury condominiums than the aforementioned buildings.

"This area is designed to mimic a lakeside property," Jerom said, "The bungalows are soundproofed so the pool guests won't disturb you and vice versa. Note the double French doors allowing you to open one side of the bungalow to the pool. We also have a spa and exercise facility, open twenty-four hours, seven days a week. The equipment is state of the art.

You can get a bikini wax, a top quality manicure, skin exfoliation, hair do, even laser treatment if you wish. Under Mr. Krause's instructions I've scheduled appointments for both of you, beginning at ten o'clock sharp tomorrow, all expenses paid. Mr. Krause's thanks for coming this far on such short notice."

"Melanie" could not help but smile at that. The prospect of a complete makeover at a world class facility, far beyond her tax bracket, nearly made her shudder.

If I get killed, at least I'll look great.

The prospect of a massage also appealed to Jim, but he preferred to keep his body hair. Plus, he wanted to recon, take in the security set up, places where Krause could keep his formula, areas of vulnerability, and escape routes.

"You have free run of the island," Boorstadt continued, "Except the buildings with padlocks, and areas marked employees only. The bungalows are stocked with every luxury you need. The best of everything. You'll be allowed to take them home with you when your contracted work is through. If you wish to reach me or the concierge, the bungalows have phones, laptops, and personal computers. So, do you have any questions?"

"Melanie" thought she had none until she looked at herself and realized, "Uh, clothes?"

Jerom's face was blank for a second and then, "Oh! Ahem! Well, I see. Those are your only clothes?"

"Um, she thought the gig was someplace else and came prepared. We didn't have time to retrieve them," Jim replied.

"I see. Well, our store sells a variety of bikinis, swimsuits, and other clothing, but it's closed for the moment. I guess you'll have to make do with those coveralls, at least until the guests arrive. I'll make sure to extend you a line of credit when the store opens. Now, I'll give the two of you a day to rest up. I shall leave you now."

"Wait!" Jim said, "Do you have places to jog?"

"We have jogging, biking, and hiking paths all around the island, leading from the hotel," Jerom replied, "So, on behalf of my employer, I thank you once again, for coming on such little notice. I'll look into scrounging something more appropriate for you to wear Ms. Swann. Ta-ta!" Boorstadt waved and left.

Jim and Brittany watched Boorstadt walk back to the hotel.

"Well that was easy," she said.

"I guess," Jim agreed, "but we have to be careful, always. I guess the real show starts in a day or so."

"What's next?"

"Well, I don't know about you but I'm beat. I going to get some shut-eye."

"You mean you're not going to do anything?" asked Brittany.

"Do what? There's blockers around the island, so I can't get a signal out. The guests aren't here yet. Remember, the formula isn't the only prize, just the big one. Look, I'll figure something out, but I need my head to be clear. Right now I'm grabbing some Zs while I can. You should do the same."

Jim went into his bungalow. Brittany stood outside hers. An urge to sob welled up for a brief instant before she tamped it down. "No weakness Brit," she told herself and went inside.

The luxurious interior drew out a gasp. The living area was the kind reserved for the highest paid movie stars, or the wealthiest CEOs. It was nearly a tropical palace, from the plush, hundred thousand dollar sofa, to the expensive mahogany chairs.

Mahogany defined the main theme of the bungalow, from the polished floor to the walls. The polished table, mounted by glass crystal, displayed a pitcher, also crystal, stuffed with varieties of sweet-smelling tropical flowers and fruits.

Plant stands packed with flowers and small trees were displayed around the bungalow. Brittany felt as if she were in a tropical garden.

The kitchen contained a bar stocked with expensive wines and liquors, a huge state of the art refrigerator, packed with a variety of gourmet foods, and a cooking area more suited to a five star restaurant.

The bedroom area shamed the upper floor of her sorority house. A California king-sized bed featured a mattress she swore cocked its finger and said, "Come to bed now, dear." She opened a closet as large as her dorm room. "Empty."

One side of the room opened through a double French door into a wide brick-paved patio, with a lush garden and outdoor furniture as expensive as the indoor.

The bathroom, separated from the bedroom by translucent glass, took up the other side. The mahogany floor gave way to sienna colored tiles. A white porcelain sink, with brass faucets, and set in a stone basin supported by marble cupids, seemed out of a Maxfield Parrish painting.

A huge mirror sat against the wall. A shelf displayed an assortment of homemade soaps, very expensive rare perfumes, shampoos, and conditioners. Plus skin creams, body oils, and washes. Brittany took it all in, and viewed herself in the mirror.

Damn! I look like hell!

Her face was drawn with circles under her eyes. Her hair was a mess, and she felt muggy under the coveralls. A shower first, definitely, and then bed.

The spacious shower featured a shower head offering a massage setting, rivaling actual human masseuses. Brittany groaned under it, nearly coming in ecstasy.

She used the most expensive shampoo, the best soap, and body wash. Dried off with a four hundred thread count towel, and used an overhead fan that functioned like a hairdryer. Afterwards, she had a glow not seen in days. Brittany never felt so clean in her entire life.

God! I never knew they made showers like that!

Her drawn, haggard look was gone but her exhaustion remained. "Bedtime," she yawned, stopping only to rub some cream into her skin. She fell, nude, into the bed, and was asleep in an instant.

It was just past noon when the man walked out of the closet. He didn't bother to look about. The concealed cameras confirmed the presence of one girl.