For one night
she’d be his wife.
For one night only.
His name: classified.
She couldn’t repeat it.
She’d seen it once,
in a file folder.
M’s office, Vauxhall Cross.
In the windowless inner office,
as Elizabeth sat prim and pale
in a red leather armchair,
trying to appear offhand,
M had explained the task
in his usual clipped way,
his yellowed teeth clenched all the time
on the trademark ivory cigarette holder —
a Dunhill burning in it —
gazing off into space
through the cloud of blue smoke.
As if she didn’t exist,
as if her father, Alwyn Storm,
has never lived
On Her Majesty’s Secret Service.
It wasn’t, he said, a “wet” job.
Yet her training might,
just might be needed
if the thing went South, so to speak.
It was a simple hand off.
a Corsican drug kingpin,
was getting a briefcase
from this “David Blair” —
an undercover “00” man —
with a homing device in the leather.
The homing device was to track Vaclos,
so SAS commandoes might lift him
in a lightning ambush
somewhere on the roads
between his grand villa and San Remo.
The villa was too well defended,
and in San Remo he always rented a whole floor
of the Hotel Grand Regency.
-Vaclos’ bodyguards are ex-French Action Service,
all Corsicans. Hard men.
So it’s going to be a damnably hard operation as is.
But with the bug in place,
there’s a better chance of success.
We can pick the spot to take him
and thus minimize casualties to our people.
Get the picture?
Elizabeth cleared her throat slightly.
Bending forward, she licked her upper lip
with the point of her tongue,
and said clearly:
M glanced at her.
It wasn’t his habit to look at agents.
Instead, he usually just smoked, stared into space,
gave the clipped, tiresome exposition, and sent them off.
To live. To die. Who knew?
“Every field op represents a risk;
every secret foray can devolve into a life or death struggle.”
She felt the skin on her forehead prickle,
but she kept her face calm,
the lips smiling slightly.
M hadn’t glanced at her face.
He was a man, after all.
His gaze had gone to her chest.
She made an effort to keep still,
watching his lidded eyes
as he darted another hot glance at it.
Breasts, not face.
She is aware,
Elizabeth Alwyn Storm is,
that her bust is sublime.
She’s heard it described
even as majestic.
She’s a legend in the Service
not for killing people,
which she hasn’t yet —
none confirmed, anyway —
but for her icy beauty.
And for those proud breasts
she carries before her so brashly.
She is shy, Elizabeth —
prone to blushing easily,
the color rising to her ears in a rush.
This used to torment her.
She had to master it.
She did master it,
during her training at the Fort.
She’s careful about her reputation. She never sees male colleagues outside.
At HQ, she dresses conservatively,
baring only the thrilling arms and white neck.
She’s even considered getting glasses,
so the men here won’t dream of making passes.
No, she thinks.
They’d dream of it anyway.
Just as she’s dreaming about this “David Blair”
after seeing just one photograph of the devil.
Slick as the action on a Luger.
“oo4” with twenty confirmed kills in the field.
Known to enjoy the company of alluring women.
All in all, the closest thing SIS has to a “Bond.”
-Yes, Agent Storm.
-Why do we want this man,
if you don’t mind my asking?
He takes the cigarette
in its ivory holder
from his lips,
crushes it out,
puts it down with a deliberate click
and sits back
in the leather chair.
He fixes Elizabeth Alwyn Storm’s ice-blue eyes with his own.
M.’s are, as always, black and fiery.
She doesn’t flinch,
but it’s an effort not to.
-Vaclos is dealing with a warlord
who goes by the name Sukhmet.
Sukhmet supplies Vaclos raw opium
in exchange not for money
but for specialized types of arms,
which Sukhmet then peddles
to the Taliban. Among others.
We need to know exactly
who Robert Vaclos works with
on the armaments front.
It’s not just a drug issue now —
it’s a matter of national security.
“The rest is silence.” Top Secret.
Satisfied, Agent Storm?
Elizabeth bows her head slightly.
The beautiful lips part.
-Yes. Thank you, Sir.