The Spy

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a re-publishing as I got a new account. For this story, I just took a moment in history that I found interesting and wrote about it. I am in no way trying to make any political statements, I was just trying to make it semi-realistic. If you don't like any sort of political talk, this story might not be for you.

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Elizabeth and Mikhail were caught in the rain, so instead of walking the half dozen blocks to the restaurant, they took refuge in a tiny bar on the corner nearest to them. They shook their wet clothes at the door and stepped into the warm, cozy space. It was nearly empty, with only an older couple at one table and a young man at another. It was perfect. This is where Elizabeth could extract more information.

"What would you like?" he asked, motioning to the bartender who had given them a small nod as they walked in.

"Whatever you're getting," she said, responding in perfect Russian, smiling at him.

Mikhail went to the bartender and came back with two strong vodka tonics.

"These were on the house," he said as he sat down, his voice low. He tapped on the military badges on the chest of his uniform with a smile.

"One of the many perks," said Elizabeth, taking the drink and putting a hand on his.

"I hope it makes up for me being away at work so often," he said. "I find myself thinking about you more than the work I'm supposed to be doing. Your name revolves through my head—Elizaveta, Elizaveta, Elizaveta, nothing but Elizaveta."

Elizaveta. That's how he knew her. Elizaveta Petrova. Sometimes he would lovingly call her just Liza. He thought she was a young girl who had left the countryside to move to the big city in Moscow and that they had met by chance at a dancehall a year ago. Sometimes, she wished that it was the real story instead of this intricately planned operation she was undergoing. Mikhail had been targeted by the CIA nearly four years ago. Then, it had taken nearly three just to get him in the right place at the right time.

He had been smitten with her. Of course, he would have been—they had backfiles of information about the perfect girl for him. Even though he was high-ranking in the KGB, he was an easy target. She had siphoned off so much information from him in the last seven months—documents, outlines, techniques that were being used against the United States. Everything she collected, she carefully left in dead drop sights around the city. This was the last week of her job, and all she needed was a final bit of information that would confirm who the Kremlin was planning to send as moles in the CIA and FBI.

And yet, as she watched him ramble on about how tired he was about the day, she found herself feeling pained that she would have to leave him. He had been so good to her, he was so handsome, and she had enjoyed the time they spent together.

"Will you have to be up early tomorrow?" she asked him.

"Not as early as usual," he said. "I'll be long gone by the time you wake up."

"Don't be so sure," she said teasingly. "I've gotten better about waking up early. I'll be working at the shoe store."

"Ah, such a simple life," he mused. "Doesn't it get lonely in that little shop with that old cordwainer?"

"He's a lovely little man," she said. "He just can't see very well anymore, and that's why I'm there." She worked to stop herself from smirking. Underneath the floorboards of that shoe store was a communication system. The old cordwainer was an American who was merely a front to hide the American agents that would get rotated in his shop.

"I think it's adorable," he said, reaching out to run the back of his hand across her chin. "I wish I could characterize my boss as a 'lovely' man. I'm dealing with a near tyrant. You know, today was horrible. He was absolutely furious. We discovered that there's a mole."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. She wasn't expecting this. She felt her heartbeat quicken, but her training had taught her to control her composure to not give herself away. "What happened?"

Mikhail leaned forward, his voice lowering to a whisper. "We've found what they think is a dead drop location in the park."

Elizabeth's mind raced. A dead drop location. She had just visited one today to leave two envelopes, tucking them in a metal box under a rock. They contained documents that she had swiped from Mikhail. She searched his face, trying to figure out if he suspected her. "How did they find it?"

"By chance, if you can believe it," he said, shaking his head. "A mother was out with her children—two boys, not even old enough to start school yet. They were playing around on the trail and just happen to knock over some rocks along it. And underneath it, she found detailed KGB plans. It was obvious it was set out to be found by someone, so we're going to try and figure out who was mean to pick it up and get them out of the way."

Elizabeth coolly took a sip of her drink. "Your boss must have been pretty upset when he was shown those envelopes, huh?" Just as the last word escaped her mouth, she realized she had messed up. In another split second, she saw that he had realized it as well. A stony expression passed over his face, and she felt her heart drop to her stomach. They sat frozen for a second, their eyes locking, and then Elizabeth attempted to get up from the chair.

Mikhail moved faster and grabbed her wrist, squeezing it hard. "If you do anything stupid, I'll blow your brains out right here on this table."

Elizabeth gasped, feeling the strength of his fingers digging into her skin. She was trapped, and for the first time since the beginning of her meeting, she was terrified. "Mikhail," she said, calling him by the nickname she had given him. "It's not what you think. I'm-I'm a pawn in all this."

Mikhail said nothing, his face steely and hard. His eyes bore into her.

"Please, Mikhail," she begged again.

"You're coming with me," he said. "Now."

She wanted to resist, but she knew that it would result in death. They got up; his hand still gripped around her wrist. Mikhail tipped his hat to the bartender. The rest of the people in the bar barely raised their heads from their own drinks.

Mikhail walked briskly down the street, pulling Elizabeth behind him. She whispered out pleadings for mercy, but he said nothing as they continued down the cobblestones towards his residence. She knew where he lived, she had slept over there many times, and she didn't understand why he would be taking her there. She tried to keep her wits about her, mentally formulating a potential escape plan.

They arrived at the house, and Mikhail still said nothing as he unlocked his door and pushed Elizabeth through. He still didn't let her go, taking her through the foyer and hallway and to the kitchen in the back. The was a door on the side wall, just next to the table, and he opened it, revealing a set of rickety stairs. Elizabeth had seen that door before and tried to open it once, but it had been locked before, and she didn't have time to pick it. Now, as she walked down the stairs, she got increasingly more nervous and worried. At the bottom of the stairs, Mikhail flicked on the lights, and Elizabeth's eyes strained to adjust to the dimly illuminated room.

It seemed to be used as a storage room or something similar. There were a few stacks of wooden boxes and crates alongside the stone walls and various contraptions hanging from hooks. There was a small sofa shoved in one corner with a box underneath it. At the center of the room, there were two identical chairs. A chill ran through Elizabeth's body. She knew what he was about to do.

"Mikhail," she started again, tears welling up in her eyes. "Please...please, don't do this."

"Shut up and stand over there," was his response. He finally let go of her wrist and shoved her towards the chair. She stood in front of it, and he quickly reached into his coat and produced a pistol, pointing it directly at her. "Take off your coat and let it fall to the ground."

Elizabeth looked at him, catching his gaze, and she gingerly followed his direction. She shed her heavy trench coat, letting it fall down to the floor in a crumple around her feet. As it hit the ground, there was a small, hollow thump against the stone. Mikhail's eyes narrowed, and he lunged towards the coat, lifting it up upside-down and shaking it out. A pair of gloves fell out of the pocket—but not just any normal ones—one of them had a small pistol mountain on top of it. Mikhail picked it up and inspected it. There was no going back now.

"How could you do this to me?" he said, turning the glove over in his hand. He looked at her, his face contorted in anger. "You lied to me."

Elizabeth shook her head, trying to save herself. "I was just a pawn. This was my job, Mikhail."

"A pawn?" he repeated with a smirk, and he threw the gloves back onto her coat. "You're a spy. You knew what you were doing. What is your name?"

"E-Elizaveta," she stammered.

As soon as she said that, he stepped forward angrily and suddenly put up his hand to curl it around her neck, pressing his fingers and thumb into it. She gasped, putting up both her hands around it, trying to claw it off, but he was much stronger than she.

"Tell me what your name is," he said again, through clenched teeth. "Now."

"It's-it's Elizabeth," she choked out. He let go of her throat, leaving her coughing.

"Elizabeth," he repeated, folding the strange American name in his thick Russian accent. "You're American." He said it with disgust, but as Elizabeth watched his face, she saw strains of pain in his eyes. He stepped back, still holding up the pistol aimed at her chest. "Who are you working for?"

Elizabeth paused again, her eyes shifting. "The CIA."

Mikhail shook his head in fury. "I can't believe this," he said. "Why are you here? What are you looking for?"

Elizabeth clammed up. She couldn't tell him anything. She couldn't compromise the rest of the investigation. If she was to die, so be it, but she couldn't put everyone else involved in danger. "I'm not looking for anything," she said. "I'm just following orders."

"I'll give you a new set of orders to follow. Take your dress off."

She looked up at him, confused, but he pressed the barrel of the pistol against her cheek. A small tear dropped down from her eye, something that was entirely against all of the training she had done. But this was different. At first, her feelings were completely fabricated, but as time went on, she felt it becoming less and less of an act. Slowly, her feelings transformed into something else. She had started to crave being with him, not just to extract information, but because she actually enjoyed his company. She felt it becoming something more, even now as he faced with a cold gun against her skin.

She began to unbutton her dress slowly as Mikhail's eyes watched. She revealed the brassiere underneath. It was made out of white lace and in the fashionable bullet shape and fit very snuggly around her last bosom. Mikhail ran his fingers across her chest. The touch ignited her. Even though they had been exclusive to each other for so many months, they still had never explored past heavy petting. He was traditional. He hadn't wanted intercourse before he was married. Yet here he was, the palm of his hand feeling against her breast as he searched her for more hidden weapons.

He had taken off his jacket. He sunk his hand in between her breasts, squeezing them gently as he felt up the fabric of her brassiere. He was smart to do that. He found pins hidden in the hems-pins used to pick locks. He pushed the dress off her shoulder and expertly unlatched the back of her brassiere, yanking it off and releasing her soft, supple breasts. His jaw slacked slightly at the sight in front of him, and he shook his head to keep his mind steady, but he still couldn't help but let his hand cup one of them, feeling her hardened nipple against his palm.

She gasped at the touch. It was something she had longed to feel since the first time they had kissed, but she never thought it would be happening under these circumstances. She looked down at his hand, creeping across her chest, and tried once more to convince him to change his mind.

"Mikhail," she started softly. "I didn't mean for this to happen this way-"

He cut her off with a hard slap across her cheek, the sound of the skin-on-skin contact reverberating through the room. She yelped, her mind swimming from the pain and shock. She never thought that Mikhail would do something like that to her. "If you didn't mean for this to happen, you wouldn't have one with it in the first place," he spat out. "You're not sorry for anything. You're just sorry you got caught. Now, I must do what's expected of me."

He forced her down onto the chair and walked back towards the walls, not taking his eyes or his pistol off of her. Hanging on a hook as a line of thin rope, and pulled it off, then used it to tie Elizabeth to the chair, her wrists reddening as he knotted them to the sides of the chair. She knew that struggling against them would be futile. Mikhail was enraged.

"First, you're going to tell me the name of the operation you're working for," he said, standing in front of her.

"I can't," she sputtered out. "I just don't know-"

"You don't know?" Mikhail chuckled menacingly. "Of course, you know. And you will tell me. You will tell me the name of the operation and how long this plan has been going on. How long have I been a target?"

Elizabeth dropped her eyes, breathing heavily. Sweat had accumulated on her brow from the heat of the room.

"Look at me," he said. "Look at me and answer me."

"You assume they relayed all of this information to me," she seethed, choosing to lie. "I'm just a simple girl that was hired to do a job."

At this, Mikhail laughed out loud. "I know Americans are stupid, but I know they aren't that stupid. You're a spy. Stop playing dumb and stop gambling with your life. The name—now."

"Gambling with my life?" she asked in horror. "Mikhail, please, you wouldn't do that."

"You're right," he said, with a casual shrug as he started to walk around her in a circle. "I wouldn't do it. I care far too much for you, even if you're a dirty traitor. But the rest of my comrades don't know you, and they won't care about you. They can take care of it."

The look on his face sent her stomach into knots, but she couldn't give up. Not yet. There was too much at stake, too many people to protect. She couldn't let her country down. "I'm sorry, Mikhail," she said in a whimper. "I can't. I just can't!"

He didn't say anything. He just smirked and walked swiftly to the corner of the room to a stack of boxes and pulled one of them off the top. Inside of it was a suitcase contraption that Elizabeth recognized instantly. He flicked open the locks and pulled it open, pulling out two long brass tubes with wires attached and tapping them together. She heard the buzz of a spark. It was a state-of-the-art machine—not the weak lead batteries she had been told would be used.

"You're making this much more complicated than it needs to be, Elizabeth," he said, saying her name in a mocking tone. He sat in the empty seat in front of her, and flicked the knob in the box, then held the buzzing rod so close to her face she could feel the heat emitting from it. Slowly, he lowered it to her breast and pressed it against the soft, pink skin of her areolas. A quick shock of electricity ran through her, and she winced at the pain.

"Tell me the name of the operation, American whore."

"I don't know," she said through gritted teeth. He pressed one of the rods against her breast again, keeping it there a few seconds longer until she moaned in pain. She couldn't take it any longer.

"Lovebirds!" she shouted out, gasping. "It's called Operation Lovebirds."

He removed the electric rod, and she saw his expression change into pure fury.

"Lovebirds?" he said. "When was this planned out?"

She paused, clamming up, and he pressed the rod back onto her nipple. She yelled out, and he ordered her to confess.

"Two years!" she said, her eyes squeezed shut from the pain. "Two years of planning."

Instead of satisfying him, this information threw him further into a rage. He pushed his body up against her, and with his free hand, he grasped a bundle of her hair. Elizabeth cried out at the sharp pain in her scalp as Mikhail pulled the strands of her hair back.

"Three years?" His voice quivered with anger. "They've been looking at me for three years? I wasn't in this position two years ago."

"They were looking at you because they felt that you were softer than the others," she said, tears forming in her eyes from the pain. "Because you were looking for love."

"Love," he said slowly with a small scoff. He pressed his body against her, and she felt an unmistakable bulge underneath his pants. "When the Kremlin sends back notice to the CIA that you have died at their hands, I'll make sure to add in an addendum that the man they've been tailing for so long no longer believes in love."

He let go of her hair but continued questioning her, keeping the electric rod only a hair away from her skin. "What have you stolen from us? What information have you given them?"

Elizabeth made the mistake of attempting to lie again. "Barely anything—I didn't find anything of use-"

"Lying capitalist bitch!" He turned off the machine and set down the rod, then went back to the wall and brought back more rope. He knelt in front of her, and even still, Elizabeth felt the urge to kiss him and to beg her to take her away from here. Instead, she sat in silence as he began to work the rope around each of her breasts, looping them into a figure eight before pulling it around her back. The feeling of the rope rubbing against her skin felt like burning as he tugged it tightly. Her soft, white breasts began to swell into sore, red balloons with the rope wound around them.

"You're wasting my time," he said, tucking the rope in. "I saw what was in those envelopes at that dead drop. It was all classified information about trade deals. That sounds like something of use to me. What else did you send?"

He knelt down in front of her he began to take off the rest of her dress, ripping off the buttons and tearing the fabric. Her pale legs were exposed, propped slightly open since each of her ankles was tied firmly to the chair. Then, he picked up the buzzing rod. "You know, there will be KGB agents waiting at the site to see who it is that's coming to pick it up. Their life won't be spared."

"Then you'll get the information from them," she said pointedly.

"But that wouldn't be as fun for me," he said, his lips curling up in a smirk. His free hand slid up her leg, and his fingers flirted with the lips of her pussy. "I need my satisfaction, as well."

He leaned in closer to her and pressed his lips against hers, kissing her passionately as he forced his tongue into her mouth. She tried to resist at first but to no avail. The intimate touch from him was something she had always craved.

"You're aroused," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Maybe you're a little slut as well as a little bitch." He didn't let her respond. He lifted his hand up to force his fingers into her mouth, making her lick them to clean them of her wetness.

Elizabeth almost didn't notice what he was doing with his other hand. She looked down and saw him slipping the electric rod in between her legs.

"Mikhail," she said, her voice cracking with dread and fear. "What are you doing?"

"You've forced me to get creative," he said, not bothering to look up at her. He pushed the rod deeper into her, and her cunt stretched around the cool metal. He flicked the knob, and Elizabeth immediately felt a shock of electricity bursting through her cunt. She let out a scream of pain and writhed in pain.