Swiss Exchange

Clutching the hotel manager's undulating buttocks with his hands, moaning deeply, and whimpered, "Yes, yes, just like that. You're such a stud," Jeff Reynolds was taking cock from the Iranian just as the plan as specified he needed to do. It had been much easier than the plan had been assumed to be--as was his boss's covering of the hotel manager's bedpartner in one of the hotel suites.

In fact, all of the liaisons that had quickly developed and were being consummated were going well to Peter Summerfield's overall plan.

Falling into the plan, as well, when Summerfield had totally fucked Luca Meier and pushed him off to the side of the bed to lie, belly down, with an arm dangling off of the side of the bed, smiling to himself and mumbling and blowing bubbles, was what ensued when he answered the suite door to admit the Italian, Matteo Caputo, and the Greek's boytoy, Kabr Zeidan. Room was cleared on the bed for Summerfield to lie on his back, holding Zeidan stretched out on his body and skewered on his cock, while Caputo saddled up to Zeidan from behind and New Zealand and France fucked claimed Palestine in a double penetration skirmish.

Two aspects of "The Plan" were advanced during this afternoon playtime. As the hotel manager and Jeff Reynolds cooled off after sex, Reynolds, carefully not querying why so many of the hotel staffers, including Fariba, were Iranians, did query the hotel manager about the hotel itself. He asked quite a few questions about the hotel and its history so that the questions about the cave behind the hotel didn't seem to be the focus, although they were.

"Yes, the cavern is large, but we just use the closest section of it now--to store our wines," Fariba answered to one question and then, when the questioning continued, "Yes, yes, you may see it while you are here--the wine cellar. Open your legs to me as you just did, I will show you anything you want."

Thereupon Reynolds opened his legs to the man and they fucked again.

Meanwhile, in Summerfield's suite, the Italian, Caputo, had taken the reception desk clerk, Luca Meier, away to his own room for further one-on-one games while establishing Summerfield would fuck Meier again later, and Summerfield concentrated on the Greek's boytoy.

"I know you aren't Palestinian and I know that Christos Diakos doesn't know that," he said.

"What are you talking about?" Kabr Zeidan said. A look of fright floated across his face and he attempted to roll off the bed, but the larger, heavier Summerfield had him in a close embrace. His cock was still buried in the young man's anal passage.

"You are Israeli. You are working for the Mossad, and you are spying on the Greek shipper for your country, keeping track of arms and other supplied to Mideast terrorist organizations. No, don't bother to deny it. My country is working to the same purpose as the Israelis. We don't want to expose you--but we will if you don't cooperate with us--we just want you to supply us the same information you gather while living with Diakos that you are giving the Mossad--without letting the Mossad know."

"Who are you? You aren't a New Zealander, are you?"

"No. I run a unit of the CIA, and we have you by the shorthairs. You can work with us--by staying in place with the Greek--or we can expose you to him. We don't have much time here, so don't play coy with me. In or out? You won't be hurting Israel by including us in whatever you find. But we don't want Israel to know you are a double agent. In or out? Which is it?"

"I don't really have a choice, do I?" Zeidan asked.

"No. In or out. And if you are in, I will be checking directly with you occasionally and I will be controlling you by fucking you."

If anything, that helped Zeidan decide to become a double agent for the Americans--and Summerfield, whose real name was Sam Winterberry and who headed the Agency's Candy Store Unit, collecting intelligence through sex, knew that he was dominating and mastering enough to keep control of his stable of agents this way.

And thus unfolded one--but not the only--operation at play by Sam Winterberry at the Hotel Riffleberg.

* * * *

The table occupancy was readjusted that evening. The three principals in the now-suspect arms transfer negotiations, the Russian supplier, Gennadi Ivanov; the supposedly New Zealand buyer, the allegedly Peter Summerfield; and the Greek shipper, Christos Diakos, were dining together--for the last time. The reception desk clerk, Lucas Meier, was sitting close by Summerfield, and the Frenchman, Alois Durand, was at Diakos's side. Diakos's wayward boytoy, Kabr Zeidan, was absent, as was Summerfield's boyfriend, Jeff Reynolds, who was still in the hotel manager, Akhtar Fariba's, apartment and bed, having lunch with him there and being devoured by Fariba.

The exchange of submissives between Fariba and Summerfield had gone smoothly.

The Iranian ski instructor, Farzin Ahmadi, and the German skier's erstwhile boyfriend, Jonas Koch, were cooing at each other at another table. Ahmadi seemed completely smitten with Koch, which also was going to plan. Absent from the room were the German, French, and Italian skiers, Maximilian Bauer, Lyam Beaumont, and Matteo Caputo.

The Russian supplier's two associates, Pavel Sokolov and Sergei Popov, had latched onto two of the Iranian researchers, Basir and Milad, and were dining with them in the staff's dining area.

After lunch, the hotel manager and his newly found lover, Jeff Reynolds, showered and dressed, and Fariba, as promised, was showing the young, claimed New Zealander around the hotel, including into the cave into the Riffleberg Mountain at the back of the hotel. The cavern they entered, indeed, was being used as a vast wine cellar, but what Reynolds was really interested in was what was going on in the caverns behind that one. Before he could devise a way of finding out, a door at the rear opened and the third Iranian researcher, Naseem, came out, wearing a white lab coat and goggles.

He said something to Fariba in Farsi, which Reynolds, who, unknown to Fariba, spoke Farsi, heard Fariba addressed as "senior doctor," and Fariba quickly sent the young man back into the rear cavern and shut the door--but not before Reynolds, who fully understood the world of chemical development, was able to discern that chemical research was under way in the back caverns under Riffleberg Mountain. This confirmed what intelligence analysts in Langley had already now surmised and had been the reason why Luca Meier was being exchanged with Jeff Reynolds.

At that point Fariba called off the tour of the hotel, saying he was unexpectedly needed elsewhere. This was fine with Reynolds, who needed to be elsewhere just then as well. Reynolds went back into the hotel, noting that Fariba went into the chemical lab behind the wine cellar.

That afternoon, while Jonas Koch kept Farzin Ahmadi occupied, the Russians kept two of the Iranian researchers distracted; the German, French, and Italian skiers completed their work on the "Swiss Exchange" operation; and the Greek shipper, sensing something was not as it should be here and finished with his dalliance with Durand and looking for his boytoy, Kabr Zeidan, prepared to leave the hotel, Sam Winterberry met with Zeidan and Reynolds in his suite to coordinate the exchange in the second of his espionage operations here.

"Luca was right," Reynolds said, "I got a peek into that back cavern. The Iranians are doing chemical warfare research here, not nuclear." Luca Meier had originally been salted here to determine what was going on, but he had a nuclear research background. When he reported it wasn't nuclear, Winterberry's operation became to substitute him with an agent with a different background. Reynolds's background was chemical engineering. The exchange was necessary and it seemed to be working a charm.

Both operations went well. The Israeli agent following the Greek shipping magnates terrorism-support activities had been successfully suborned by the Americans, with Kabr Zeidan added to Winterberry's stable of Candy Store Unit operatives, and now the exchange was being completed in Akhtar Fariba's bed, the chemist Jeff Reynolds for the nuclear physicist Luca Meier.

"Fariba is, indeed, the chief scientist here," Reynolds said. "I heard one of the Iranian researchers call him that. But it's chemical warfare, not nuclear development, that he's engaged in."

"And he's not the one in charge of what's going on here," Winterberry said. "We're lucky that the supposed ski instructor, Farzin Ahmadi, is so randy. Jonas Koch is keeping him occupied nicely so that he doesn't notice the meaning of the exchange in Fariba's bedpartners. This was an expensive operation, requiring a lot of agents--the supposed Russians, Germans, Frenchmen, and Italian--but it was worth it in payoff in two operations. It's time to wrap this up and pull out."

"What will happen with the fake arms shipment operation?" Reynolds asked.

"With luck, we'll wrap up one of the conduits of arms into terrorist hands," Winterberry said. "And with any luck the Israelis will do that for us. The Greek thinks we've struck a deal. He thinks I've bought a shipment of arms from the Russians. They will be given over to him for shipment to Beirut through Crete on his ships, but the arms will be inoperable. The Israelis will be poised to intercept the ships, based on information given to both them and us by Kabr Zeidan, and they'll close down that shipper and that route. They will be surprised that the arms don't work, but they won't care that they don't and they will assign Kabr Zeidan to another Mossad operation that we then will have a look inside. All and all, a very satisfactory result."

The evening at the Hotel Riffleberg was set off by a raucous happy two hours in the bar with two of the young hotel staffers dancing the poles in skimpy bikini bottoms and the remaining guests mingling and mixing with each other and with accommodating hotel employees. The Greek shipper, Christos Diakos, and his boytoy, Kabr Zeidan, had already checked out; the supposed New Zealander, Peter Summerfield, was in his suite fucking Luca Meier to bring him back into the CIA Candy Store fold; and the hotel manager/senior chemist Akhtar Fariba was fucking Jeff Reynolds in his apartment. But the rest were there in a tension-relieving party mood. The drama of the espionage operations that had been going on under the surface had been lifted. The operations had been successful.

Projecting the raucous evening on, and with Winterberry's extensive crew still engaged in distracting the Iranian ski instructor/chemical research manager Farzin Ahmadi and the Iranian researchers from understanding they'd been had, the Russian, French, German, and Italian guests had happily taken Ahmadi up on the suggestion to retire to the spare suite, with its beckoning beds, along with the pole dancers and other rent-boy hotel staffers, to engage in an all-night orgy.

During the night, various guests withdrew from the party room. By morning, all of the Russians, Germans, French, and the Italian guests along with the supposed New Zealander, Summerfield, taking Luca Meier with him, had checked out and were filtering out of Switzerland.

When Summerfield departed the hotel, he turned at the entrance and smiled at and saluted Iman, the doorman, standing there, peering into the early-morning mists swirling around Riffleberg Mountain, his Kalashnikov at the ready. Iman, little knowing that Summerfield was laughing at him inside for dutifully looking for danger outside of the hotel when it had just been playing to a resolution behind the doorman's back inside the hotel, saluted back, but he did not smile. His duty was clear to him--the results of the last two days not so much.

A bleary-eyed Jeff Reynolds arrived belatedly for breakfast in the dining room to encounter a somewhat bewildered but completely nonunderstanding hotel manager, Akhtar Fariba. The Iranian ski instructor, Farzin Ahmadi, who should have been maintaining awareness of what was happening in the hotel, was still abed in the spare suite with two of the Iranian researchers. He hadn't noticed when the German, Jonas Koch, and left him and checked out with the German skier, Maximilian Bauer, his job of keeping Ahmadi distracted successfully accomplished.

"They're gone. He's gone with them," Fariba said, as Reynolds sat at his table.

"Who's gone?" Reyolds asked, fully aware of who had cleared out.

"Most of the guests. But one of my employees, Luca Meier, is gone as well. The man you came with, Peter Summerfield, is gone."

"Summerfield is gone?" Reynolds asked, feigning concern. "Leaving me?"

"Apparently so. As Luca Meier has left me. Is it such a loss for you that your man has deserted you with my boyfriend?"

"That depends on how it affects you," Reynolds asked. "I don't mind the exchange if you aren't going to desert me too?"

"Would you like a job on the reception desk here--the desk supervisor's job? It's open now. You would, of course, be housed in my apartment."

"That sounds like a good plan," Reynold answered with a smile. His smile meant so much more than Fariba realized, though. Two good plans had been executed right under the man's nose and he hadn't even realized the successful Swiss exchange that had been accomplished.