The Swallow

Sunday 14th September 1952, Dolphin Square, Pimlico, London

Rachel Auerbacher had spent the weekend relaxing in her new apartment.

She had been living in Dolphin Square, a prestigious condominium in Pimlico, for just over a week. It was a huge improvement on the woman's hostel in run down Camberwell that had been Rachel's home for the previous year. When her employer offered her a private apartment in up market Pimlico, rent free, Rachel didn't ask too many questions.

Rachel had worked for The Minimax Vacuum Cleaner Company, based at Leconfield House, Mayfair, for a year. She was employed as a document translator and had accepted the position after graduating from Oxford with a first in modern languages. Rachel was fluent in Mandarin and Russian, as well as in her native German and her adoptive English. In need of an income, she took the first job she was offered, hoping for something better in due course.

It seemed odd to Rachel that a vacuum cleaner company would need her multilingual skills. The penny dropped when, on her first day at work, she was asked to sign the Official Secrets Act! The Minimax Vacuum Cleaner Company was, she learned, the cover name for Britain's counter-intelligence and security agency, aka MI5.

Rachel spread the Sunday Times over her dining table and studied the headlines and feature articles. The stalemate in the Korean War persisted, with the two sides trading tit-for-tat artillery fire across the 38th parallel. The Rosenbergs, convicted of passing American atomic secrets to the Soviets, were being moved to Sing Sing Correctional Facility to face execution, despite appeals for clemency from Albert Einstein and Pope Pius XII. American B47 Stratojet bombers had been deployed in Morocco, bringing Moscow within unrefuelled striking distance of the USA's formidable nuclear arsenal. Rumours were rife that Britons Burgess and MacLean, who had defected to the USSR the year before, were part of a wider "Cambridge Spy Ring."

The Cold War was heating up, reflected Rachel, as her saucepan of Heinz tomato soup started to bubble on the hotplate of her Baby Belling cooker.

Monday 15thSeptember 1952, Leconfield House, Mayfair, London

Rachel arrived at work at 8 a.m. as usual. Her commute from Pimlico to Mayfair had been marred by the lecherous man who rubbed himself against her on the double-decker bus. Rachel seemed to attract more than her fair share of frotteurs on London's overcrowded tubes and buses.

She took her place in the ground floor office she shared with eleven other translators. Her desk was piled high with manila folders. "Groan," thought Rachel, "more chicken feed to translate." Chicken feed was MI5 parlance for low-level intelligence of little or no operational value. It kept her in work, but it was utterly devoid of interest.

The 11 a.m. chimes of Big Ben sounded in the distance and, right on cue, in walked Doris the tea lady, pushing her trolley and filling the room with the merry clinking of china cups rattling in their saucers. Rachel requested a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit.

Just as these were passed to her, along came Gladys Frost, the translation pool supervisor. She was wearing her usual grey tweed suit, fake pearls and no-nonsense black leather lace-up brogue shoes that were built to last, but not for comfort. A severe bespectacled spinster aged forty five; Miss Frost ran the translation pool with a rod of iron.

"You can put that tea down Miss Auerbacher; you are wanted upstairs." barked Miss Frost.

"Upstairs?" said Rachel, bewildered.

"Upstairs." repeated Miss Frost, unhelpfully.

Finally seeing that Rachel genuinely didn't understand, Miss Frost relented and explained "the DG and his cronies on seventh floor want to see you."

Rachel decided to have some fun with Miss Frost. "The DG?" she said quizzically, knowing perfectly well who Miss Frost meant.

"The Director bloody General you stupid girl, now get off with you this instant." snapped an exasperated Miss Frost.

Rachel stuck her tongue out and whispered "Frost by name, frosty by nature." as Gladys Frost walked brusquely away.

Rachel took the elevator to the seventh floor. This was the inner sanctum of MI5 and few of her lowly rank had ever entered it. She was ushered into a wood-panelled boardroom where she was greeted by Sir Digby Pratt, the Director General. Sir Digby was accompanied by an army man to his right and by a gaunt anaemic-looking ministry man to his left.

Sir Digby was a plump, balding, sixty year old career civil servant. He had the demeanour of a genial country vicar; a vocation to which he was probably bettered suited than his present position as head of Britain's domestic security service.

"Please take a seat Miss Auerbacher." said Sir Digby in a warm avuncular tone.

"What do you know about Operation Hurricane?" asked Sir Digby, as Rachel took the solitary seat facing the three men.

"I've seen the name on documents sir, but that's all." replied Rachel.

"Miss Auerbacher," said a now serious Sir Digby, "in under three weeks' time, on the 3rd of October to be precise, Britain will detonate an atomic bomb off the coast of Western Australia. It is a test of our prototype A-bomb and, moreover, it is to be a demonstration to the world of our nuclear capability. And that, my dear, is Operation Hurricane in a nutshell."

The military man, Brigadier Bernard Huntly, took over. "But we have a problem. Someone is leaking details of our atomic bomb programme to the Russians and to the Chinese. It is vital that we identify and neutralise the informant. We want the world to see the mushroom cloud, but we cannot allow the technical results of Operation Hurricane to fall into enemy hands. Nuclear deterrents are all about keeping the enemy guessing."

Brigadier Huntly continued, "We're pretty sure we know who the Russian and Chinese spies are, but we do not know who their informant is. All we know is that the traitor must be top brass, as the leaks to date have been highly classified."

"And that, Miss Auerbacher, is where you come in." said Sir Digby. "What we need is a swallow who speaks Mandarin and Russian."

"A swallow sir?" said Rachel, her head spinning with all this unexpected information.

Sir Digby blushed and looked uncomfortable. "Erm, yes a swallow. A swallow is a female agent who sleeps with enemy spies to discover their secrets." he said.

Seeing Sir Digby becoming flustered, the ministry man to his left took over. "Miss Auerbacher, we want you to go undercover as a prostitute and sleep with the two suspected spies. After sex, you will administer to them a truth serum and, while they are under its influence, you will interrogate them to discover the name of their informant."

The ministry man was Giles Barrington-Hill, known as GBH to his friends, if indeed he had any. He was a forty five year old sociopath and an MI5 henchman.

"I am sorry sir," said Rachel, after a long pause while she digested what she had just heard, "did you say prostitute?"

"That's right my dear, a prostitute." said Sir Digby, trying his best to make it sound as though prostitution was a standard clause in the employment contracts of all MI5's translators.

"You have the wrong girl." said Rachel indignantly, as she stood up. Facing Sir Digby she added, "Will that be all, sir?"

"How do you like your new apartment Miss Auerbacher?" said Barrington-Hill, in a tone laden with malevolence. Rachel didn't answer, so he went on, "We gave it to you as part of your cover."

Barrington-Hill then asked, "Miss Auerbacher, where you were born?"

"As I suspect you know perfectly well," said Rachel, feeling very unsettled by these sinister questions, "I was born in Dresden."

Rachel, born in 1927, was the only child of German Jews. The family fled Germany after the Kristallnacht of November 1938. They took refuge in London, only for Rachel's parents to be killed in 1940 by a Luftwaffe bomb in the early days of the Blitz. Rachel then lived in an orphanage in Croydon, before going up to Oxford in 1947 on a hard-won scholarship.

"And therein lies the difficulty Miss Auerbacher." continued the icy Barrington-Hill. "Your parents came to Britain on transit visas and died before they could obtain British citizenship. You, young lady, are therefore an illegal alien. And what is more, your birthplace Dresden is in East Germany, which is a hostile Communist state."

"My dear," said the Sir Digby, trying to sooth the tension growing in the room, "the assignment we have for you is of national importance. You will be sacrificing your virtue in the defence of the realm."

Barrington-Hill added, "But if you are unwilling to do as we ask, Miss Auerbacher, I will escort you from this building here and now and put you on this evening's flight to Dresden. I have your deportation papers here in my briefcase."

Rachel knew she was cornered. The prospect of being deported to a country she hardly knew was bad enough, but deportation to a country behind the Iron Curtain terrified her. It did not take Rachel long to make her mind up.

"OK, tell me what I have to do." said Rachel resignedly.

Tuesday 16th September 1952, Aldermaston, Berkshire

Rachel was driven blindfolded to RAF Aldermaston, a former World War II airfield in rural Berkshire. The site was now home to Britain's top secret Atomic Weapons Research Establishment.

She was briefed by Giles Barrington-Hill, who was to be her controller.

The suspected communist spies were Dimitri Topolski and Mae-Ling Zan.

Topolski was a forty five year old colonel in the Soviet Intelligence Service. He was working at the Russian Embassy in London, under the guise of being a military attaché.

Zan was a thirty year old art historian at the University of Beijing. She was on sabbatical at the Chinese embassy in London, under the guise of being a cultural attaché.

MI5 had gathered intelligence implicating Topolski and Zan as the conduits through which British atomic bomb secrets were being channelled to Moscow and Beijing, respectively. But who was the traitor leaking the secrets to them?

Rachel was briefed on the principles of atomic bombs and given a crash-course in counter-espionage. She received instruction in the techniques of interrogation and the use of the truth serum, sodium thiopental.

"Why don't you just round up the suspected spies and interrogate them?" asked Rachel.

"First, there is the minor detail of diplomatic immunity. Embassy officials are protected from the laws of the host state. We can expel them, but we can't arrest them." replied Barrington-Hill.

"Second, even if we could take Topolski and Zan into custody, the informant might find out and run to ground." continued her controller.

"Third, sodium thiopental works best when the subject is relaxed and is caught unawares. In our experience, post-coital administration served up as a 'Mickey Finn' yields optimum results." said Barrington-Hill in his icy cold, clinical way.

"And Mae-Ling is a woman. Surely it is a man's job to seduce her?" suggested Rachel.

Barrington-Hill replied, "We did consider using a raven, but our intelligence suggests that Mae-Ling Zan is probably a tribade."

"Raven, tribade? Would you mind speaking in plain English?" objected Rachel.

"A raven is the male equivalent of a swallow." replied Barrington-Hill in an exasperated tone.

"And surely an educated girl like you knows what a tribade is? We think she is a dyke, a queer, a bloody lesbian." snapped the easily irritated Barrington-Hill.

Barrington-Hill then explained that Dimitri Topolski was known to use prostitutes on a regular basis. Mae-Ling Zan had booked prostitutes on a few occasions, only to cancel at the last minute. Barrington-Hill had therefore decided that the most expedient cover for this swallow operation was for Rachel to pose as a prostitute.

He stressed to Rachel that it was not enough for her to play at being a prostitute during the operation; she had to become one. "Any hint of play acting and the enemy will smell a rat." he said. "And if they smell a rat, they will tip off their informant. So fuck the brains out of everyone we put your way."

"What a charming man." thought Rachel.

Wednesday 17th September 1952, Soho, London

Barrington-Hill placed Rachel on the books of a high-class call girl agency called Tout Pour Plaire, based in Soho's red light district.

The agency Madame was Celeste Balin.

Celeste, real name Sally Slype, was the illegitimate child of a Liverpudlian fish packer. Born in 1890, Celeste moved to London in 1913 and drifted into prostitution. A businesswoman at heart, she established the Tout Pour Plaire Agency in 1925 and had made a very comfortable living from it ever since. MI5 and MI6 often used her agency for their honey trap operations and the police were on notice to leave Tout Pour Plaire well alone.

Celeste gave Rachel a seminar in the etiquette of being a Fille de Plaisir. Celeste, who had dropped her Scouse accent many years ago, liked to use French terms whenever possible!

Celeste then told Rachel to go home and wait for the 'phone to ring.

Thursday 18th September 1952, Dolphin Square, Pimlico, London

Rachel spent the morning in her apartment. She hadn't bothered to dress, but instead pottered about her apartment wearing only her thigh length emerald green kimono style silk robe. The robe had a black waist tie and black lace hem and cuffs.

Green and black attire suited Rachel. It set off her dark green eyes and her jet black hair. Rachel wore her wavy hair in a short cropped Italian style, inspired by Elizabeth Taylor's look at the time. The robe hugged the contours of Rachel's curvaceous 36-24-36 hourglass figure. Rachel's firm 34C teardrop breasts bounced slightly as she moved about. She liked the sensation of the silk fabric gliding over her nipples as they pressed out against the robe. She was five foot eight inches tall and the robe revealed her long sexy legs.

The sensuous feel of the deep pile carpets under her bare feet was a welcome contrast to the harsh feeling of walking about in her unyielding work shoes. Rachel liked the cool sensation on the soles of her feet as she walked over the linoleum covering her kitchen floor. She also loved the ticklish feeling as she ran her toes through the sheepskin rug that lay in front of her fireplace. She played footsie with the brass Aphrodite figurine that stood on the hearth, rubbing her toes over the face and breasts of the ornament.

Rachel reflected on her limited sexual experiences to date. She had lost her virginity to her professor at Oxford in 1948, aged twenty one. A few flings with male students followed, but nothing serious. Rachel liked sex and kept a trusty contraceptive diaphragm cap in her bedside cabinet just in case, but opportunities to use it had been few and far between of late.

Living in a woman's hostel for the last year had been something of a passion-killer. Rachel had shared a bedroom with five other young women. Each girl had her own single bed, but there was little privacy. Rachel had sometimes brought herself to a furtive orgasm under her bed clothes after lights out and, judging by the sounds she heard in the dark, her roommates did likewise. Rachel also masturbated in the bath when it was her turn to use the communal facilities and had even masturbated in the filing room at work. Those moments of hasty carnal pleasure vented the pressure cooker of her needs, but they did little to satisfy her deeper sexual longings.

The notion of being paid for casual sex excited Rachel and she had thought of little else since the bombshell meeting on Monday. That one of her targets was a woman added considerably to Rachel's sense of excitement. Rachel felt herself becoming sexually aroused.

MI5 had provided Rachel with a corner apartment on the seventh floor of Dolphin Square overlooking Chichester Street. The corridor outside her apartment extended the full length of the building to the left and led to a stairwell to the right.

Rachel opened the door to her apartment and leaned back against the door frame, standing half in her apartment and half in the corridor. She untied the waist band of her robe and allowed the garment to fall open, revealing the front of her body.

Her left hand caressed her breasts while the fingers of her right hand stroked her labia. The risk of being seen excited Rachel.

Feeling adventurous, Rachel stepped out into the communal corridor and walked slowly away from her apartment, her robe hanging off her shoulders exposing the front of her body and the upper part of her back. The cool air brought a tingle to her skin and her nipples stiffened. Rachel had pretty red nipples, which stood out like a nascent raspberries against her light brown penny-sized areolae.

Rachel strayed twenty feet from her apartment in her semi-naked state. She heard voices coming from within some of the neighbouring apartments. She was not alone and could be discovered at any instant. The further she distanced herself from the sanctuary of her own apartment, the more aroused she became.

Hearing the elevator arrive at her floor, Rachel scurried back to her apartment and closed the door behind her; her heart pounding with excitement.

Rachel now abandoned her robe and walked naked to her lounge window overlooking the street. She drew aside the net curtains and sat on the deep windowsill, with her back leaning against the window recess. There was sufficient room for Rachel to place both feet on the windowsill, her knees bent up slightly. Rachel's hands caressed her face; her breasts; her waist and then her legs and feet. She watched the pedestrians below as she fondled her breasts. A man looked up and glimpsed the dimly lit ghostly figure of the nude Rachel, high above him.

Rachel moved to her bedroom, reclined on her double bed and opened her legs. Her left leg lay on the bed, bent at the knee, while her right foot rested on the drawer unit by her bed. She placed a pillow beneath her bottom.

She reached for her hairbrush. It had a narrow head, soft nylon bristles and a varnished cigar-shaped wooden handle.

Rachel lightly stroked her bottom, perineum and vulva with the bristles of the hairbrush, sending ticklish electric shocks through her skin and prompting an involuntary shiver down her spine.

She slid the wooden handle of the hairbrush into her now wet vagina. Her labia quivered as the ribs of the wooden handle passed between them. The fingers of Rachel's free hand made circular sweeps around her clitoris as she slid the brush handle in and out of her pussy. Rachel closed her eyes and pleasured herself in this way for several minutes. Images of being fucked by strangers, and taking cash in return, raced through her mind's eye.

Rachel enjoyed being aroused and wanted to maintain the feeling a little longer. She therefore put the hairbrush aside and ran a bath, adding perfumed bath salts to soften the water.

Rachel laid down in the half-filled bath and draped her left leg over the side. Her right foot pressed against the tiled wall at the end of the bath. The bath was fitted with a shower head on a flexible hose. Rachel used it to direct a spray of warm water over her face and breasts and then held the headset close to her pussy. The steady pressure of the water as it sprayed against her clitoris felt divine.

A warm nucleus started to develop below her navel. This was how Rachel's orgasms usually began. The warm feeling then spread down to her clitoris. Rachel's mind was now wholly and completely focused on the sensations her body was experiencing. Rachel knew that an orgasm was imminent: all that was required was to continue directing the jets of warm water over her clitoris and to keep her mind concentrated on the delicious sensations radiating from her pussy.