Gynophagia Chronicles: Samantha

/files/Authors/LuisCypher/

Friday, October 2, 2218, 6AM

Livermore Municipal Airport, Livermore, CA

Narrative Reconstructed by Peter Howard

Charlie stood on the second floor of the Livermore Municipal Airport Terminal sipping his Pete's coffee in the coffee shop there. Great invention, Coffee. James Bond would approve. Bond's little rant in the novel Goldfinger about the British Empire's collapse due to tea was something Charlie's trainers liked to quote whenever they drank hot, black coffee. They seemed to universally loath tea, or at least pretended to.

Charlie was a little early. The plane he waited for was scheduled to land at exactly 6:24AM. It contained his new boss, Lord Gregory Greyson and his secretary, Maureen Clark. The nature of Charlie's assignment be Lord Gregory's shadow. It was starting today.

For the past five weeks, Charlie had lived on Singer Island in Florida. His mission was to help establish the new Palm Beach office which was located in a Aston Martin Dealership on Worth Avenue and Hibiscus. The shop was tiny, as most shops on those very narrow streets, with only four cars squeezed into the display room. But it sold an average of four a week, interestingly enough. Charlie began working there as a salesman his third day in Florida, the day the shop officially opened, and sold a car that very same day for 145,000€ to a young woman named Cornelia Palmer. The Palmer were from Massachusetts and claimed lineage to the the Schlossbergs and Kennedys all the way back to John Fitzgerald, the legendary president.

Cornelia Palmer made it no secret that she bought the Aston Martin DBS Volante convertible simply to get close to Charlie. So she was the one? She was pretty, but not beautiful. She was reasonably intelligent, but not all that smart. What she had was money and exuberance. She had a lust for life, and likely had never been told no by anyone. So when Charlie declined her invitation to dinner at her family compound on the beach, she was shocked, and made a great show of being put off. Charlie thought it would cancel the sale, but it did not. She bought the car on the condition that Charlie give her lessons on driving it.

The station chief was amused when Charlie reported this on his third morning. It was Wednesday, August 26.

“So you've got a rich little bird already, pretty boy?” mocked Tony Cray, the station chief to Charlie's horror. “Marry her, and you can retire.”

“Bloody hell,” Charlie said. “It's just annoying, that's all. I wish she'd move on and find someone else.”

“Fuck her and be done with it. She'll lose interest and go with someone else.”

“Right. She won't go away if I do that!”

“Maybe not. But did you see where here family estate is?”

“Yes. What has that to do with anything?”

“It's right next door to Alber Crown. And you need to go in there and put taps on his phones soon as you can. Access to the next door estate will help get you in. They don't guard those walls between them. Oh don't look at me that way, Charlie. The whole bloody Palmer family has a thing for Aston Martins. Of course it was planned. Do you think we chose this business at random?”

Charlie smirked. “What? Randomly chose to sell Bond's favourite car? No, of course not.”

“Al right,” Tony snorted. “On to business, then. I have your first assignment here. Have you been to Atlanta yet?”

“No,” said Charlie. “Never.”

“You're on your way there. You're to fly to New York, then to Atlanta under the name Richard Dreyfuss. Doctor Richard Dreyfuss, to be precise. You're to meet with Dr. Bernard LeBeau at the University of Georgia and give him this.”

“What's this?” Charlie took the small aluminium brief case.

“It's a packet with DNA samples. These,” he held up a thick folder. “Are your exchanges with Dr. LeBeau who you have been conversing with over the past eighteen months.”

“Who's DNA?”

“Queen Elizabeth, Prince James, Princess Caroline, Princess Catherine, Prince Andrew, and the Queen Mother.”

“What?” Charlie's senses caught fire. “What could... why would we give those to him?”

“Our good Dr. LeBeau is a geneticist. He's been talking to Genetics experts in the UK for years. He's quite connected at Cambridge and Oxford. You are from the little known University of Hull in Yorkshire.”

“I've been there,” said Charlie.

“I know, that's part of the reason it's your job. Dr. Dreyfuss has been carefully constructed by our team in London. He's something of a recluse, and does not enjoy getting out much. He assists in correcting papers for Professor Lingham of Hull's advanced genetics program. He's also a bit disgruntled with the system, and underpaid, and is willing to sell his soul for enough money to retire early. He's been a doctor for ten years. By the way, we'll have to fit you with a different face before you go. You're nearly forty, and that face won't do.”

“How much is the royal family worth?”

“Ten million!” Charlie took a breath. Even considering the enormousness of what he held in his hand, ten million Euros was still a lot of capital for one man. The fiction that was Dr. Dreyfuss would have trouble hiding it were he a real man.

The face Charlie wore was even more ruddy than Charlie's customary face, and far more lined with a big nose and bigger ears. It was the kind of face a woman might tolerate, if she were desperate enough. His hair and attire were a bit dishevelled and he smelled slightly of urine, much to Charlie's dismay. But it completed the effect. A recluse would be inured to that smell. Charlie would have to just get used to it. The “fat suit” was a bit unbearable in the South Florida heat, but once inside the air-conditioned airport, it was not all that bad.

Once in the cab, Charlie began reading the exchanges in the cab on the way to Palm Beach International Airport. It was about getting into character. The communications were replete with references to “The Subjects.” Apparently both men, the fictitious Englishman and the real American, knew exactly who “the subjects” were. It was not immediately apparent to Charlie till he found the summary stapled right in the middle of the email exchanges. There had been a phone call by Dr. LeBeau to Dr. Dreyfuss in January of 2216. Apparently, Dr. LeBeau had been making inquiries about DNA samples from the UK for years. Off hand, he would mention how much he would thoroughly enjoy researching the Royal Family DNA. He'd mentioned it so much that it raised suspicion. MI6 was tasked with creating a character that would investigate if this was just a passing interest, or if anything sinister were going on. Dr. Richard Dreyfuss was created with the help of Dr. Albert Lingham of the University of Hull, who had done work for MI6 on multiple occasions. Dreyfuss was to be a reclusive, very eccentric man who had his own laboratory at his home, and did invaluable work for Lingham. It was Lingham himself who replied to the emails with overly pretentious language. The language was so pretentious that Charlie wondered if it could have raised suspicion.

But academics were nothing if not naive. The likelihood that Dr. LeBeau would be anything but annoyed at Dr. Dreyfuss' pretentiousness was unlikely.

The trip took eight hours with a layover at Newark Airport. Charlie picked up the New York Times and enjoyed the sheer pleasure of reading the news printed on real paper. It wasn't something most people did, but in world's airports, it was a luxury people enjoyed.

Charlie flipped through the pages reading headlines. “Carmen Sanchez affirms support for decriminalizing lesbians” caught his eye. The interview had been conducted weeks before, and the NY Times was late to the party, reprinting it from a small California newspaper. Charlie read it thoroughly. While it was frowned upon in the Greater UK, it was not grounds for conversion the way it was in the U.S. Homosexuality, of course, was universally grounds for culling in every country Charlie had ever heard of except Canada. In Canada they tolerated homosexuality, especially in British Columbia. Charlie's two young sisters were very likely bisexual and he knew his own mother was a practising lesbian. But Mum had no idea he was aware of it. She was very sensitive of her position in the community, and could never let on that she was practising any “deviant” behaviour. It would go very badly for her and that, of course, would go badly for Charlie and his siblings.

Charlie arrived in Atlanta at six in the afternoon and was met by a cabbie holding a sign up with Dr. Richard Dreyfuss printed on it. The woman drove him to a coffee shop down town. The American custom was to tip the cabbie, which Charlie did with 20€ note. She dropped him in front of a private Café at on Decatur at Pryor street.

“Wait here,” he told the cabbie. “I won't be long.” Charlie straitened his lumpy grey cardigan and, put the case under his arm and walked into the shop.

The only patron was an older black with half moon glasses sitting on the tip of his nose studiously grading papers.

“Dr. LeBeau, I presume?” Charlie said.

“You presume correctly,” said the man in a deep voice. He stood and offered a good sized hand to Charlie. “And you must be Dr. Dreyfuss.”

“I am,” said Charlie. “May I sit?”

“Please,” LeBeau said. “I ordered you some Earl Gray with Lemon, the girl will bring it soon, I hope,” he called.

“Coming right up, Professor!” Said a sweetly perky black girl with a lighthouse grin.

“I've been wanting to buy her contract and make her a concubine,” said LeBeau. “I haven't decided yet. My wife isn't fond of the idea, but she's getting culled next month. So Sally might replace her.”

“She's attractive enough,” said Charlie as the girl set his tea in front of him. Charlie ignored it and put his hands on the girl's hips. “Nicely built,” said Charlie even as he pulled open the snaps on the front of her waitresses dress revealing she wore only panties. The poor girl's expression was one of horror. “She'll make a good supper if you changed your mind.”

Dr. LeBeau looked from Sally to Charlie with equal horror. Charlie finished his examination of the girl's nakedness, and turned back to LeBeau.

“If you pass on her, I would be interested in her carcass. Now,” he continued. “I've brought what you asked for.”

“Indeed you have,” said LeBeau, his voice deepening, his anger simmering just enough for it to be visible. “You have the documentation as well, I hope?”

“I have everything you need to confirm its authenticity right here,” Charlie slid the box across the table, picked up the cup of tea and tried not to make a face as he drank the disgusting stuff.

LeBeau opened the case and immediately vapour appeared as the warm air touched the sub-zero contents inside. He examined the four vials, then extracted the paper contained within.

“I've been hoping to get these for a very long time.”

“So long as you've met my price, you may have them. I am taking no small risk bringing them, Professor.”

LeBeau put down the paper and closed the case, then looked over his glasses at Charlie with appraisal mixed with fury.

“This represents my appreciation,” LeBeau slid an identical looking case across the table.

Charlie looked around. No other patrons were in the Café, but there was a camera. Charlie could have smiled, but did not. He turned back to the case and opened it. Crisp, new currency in 100€ notes. Dr. Dreyfuss would indeed been insulated, inexperienced and stupid in this affair. Accepting anything but well used currency was the height of stupidity.

But Charlie smiled as he fondled the cash.

“If we have no further business,” Charlie said. “I have a conference in Miami I must attend. Good day to you. Miss,” he nodded to the girl.

Charlie left the fuming professor and returned to the waiting cab. He waited two hours for the flight to Miami, which took another two. At Miami International airport, he went to the information desk and collected the envelope left for him by Tony. It contained only a key marked 007.

“Tony, you cheeky bastard,” Charlie quietly exclaimed looking at the number. He found the lockers and opened the one that the key fit. Inside was a pistol, a knife and a cell phone, all of which he concealed as discretely as he could.

He went out to hail a cab and watched as one cab cut another off to get the fare.

“Bloody combat for you lot, isn't it?” Charlie told the Cuban girl in the driver's seat.”

“Every day! Where to?”

“Any hotel near the University of Miami. The closest will do.”

“Yes sir!” Said the girl, and they cab sped away enough so that Charlie's back pressed into the seat. And Charlie waited for it to happen.

The cab exited the freeway near Eighth street, nowhere near the university, and proceeded to fifth avenue and seventh street. There, she turned it into an apartment parking lot.

“Where are we?” Charlie said with a panicky voice. “This isn't a hotel!”

“Get out!” said the cabbie.

“What? No! Take me to a hotel now!”

The woman pointed a pistol at Charlie. “Get out!”

“Al right!” Charlie said. “I'm getting out!”

Charlie got out of the cab, taking his precious case and travel bag. Outside stood four rather large men who were probably Haitians. Haitian gangs were a well known problem in Miami, but Charlie had not heard of them being an issue in Little Havana. He'd have to look at that.

The cab sped off.

“Give us that case, mon!” said the lead Haitian. “Or we kill you!”

Charlie handed the man the case filled with cash. The man opened it and smiled. The leader switched to French and told his men.

“Prenez-le et tuez-le.” Take him and kill him, the leader said. “À plus tard.” I will see you later.

The three thugs moved forward. They were not as fit as one would think. In fact, they were quite soft. They lumbered. They would not be a problem. Charlie dropped his travel bag and ran.

“Attrapez!” Get him! cried the leader.

Charlie ran, and that must have surprised the three men behind him, because he had considerable speed on them. He had to slow down just enough so they could see him duck into an ally. Once there, he pulled the pistol, attached his silencer and executed all three of them with forehead shots.

Charlie walked ten blocks before he found a suitable location to finish his business. From his fat suit he pulled a t-shirt, shorts, new underwear, a ball cap and a pair of sun glasses and the kit necessary to remove his face. He had nothing that would allow him to put Charlie's face back on, but the sunglasses should do. Wearing sunglasses at night was common in South Florida and the attire was far more suitable to the weather than what he had been wearing. He disposed of everything else, except the cell phone and knife in an apartment dumpster, and began to walk.

“Little Havana, huh?” Tony said. “I've been worried about you. How did it go?”

“As expected,” Charlie said. “Is everything working?”

“It is. Professor LeBeau is still in his laboratory. We should have some idea of who he's working with soon. Good work, Charlie. Very nicely done. I'll have the cab meet you on seventh avenue and tenth street in six minutes.”

Like clockwork. It was how MI6 liked it. Whatever it was LeBeau was after, who he was working with, that would be handled by the analysts in London, it wasn't something field operatives did. Charlie's part in this job was done.

Sidling up to Cornelia Palmer, however, was something else. She made a point of coming in every other day with her girlfriend Payton Fouts to look at cars. Charlie played his part and by Saturday, accepted her invitation to dinner.

That dinner was an all day affair. Cornelia and four of her friends had taken a middle class girl under their wing. When they told her she was going to be the main course for her new boyfriend, the girl shrieked and tried to run. They tackled the hapless girl, and dragged her into the kitchen with glee while Charlie watched doing everything he could to suppress his horror. Charlie watched with them as the girl was gutted and trussed up by the cooks put into roast.

He ate without tasting, doing his best to be pleasant. Of course, he'd had roast girl before. Many times, in fact. He'd heard of such cruelty as well, but gave it no credence till now. That night, he fucked Cornelia Palmer with a vengeance, putting all his anger into his repeated ravishing. She enjoyed it way too much.

Charlie visited Cord ilia every other night. He would not allow her into his apartment in Singer Island, and she began to wonder who he was keeping there out loud by the end of the following week. He was looking forward to getting the job done, but Tony told him that the Palmer neighbour, Alber Crown, would be going on a trip to Santo Domingo on September 11^th. He was scheduled to return on September 14^th, which defined the window in which Charlie had to bug the Crown home. That was over a weekend, which would be perfect. The question would be if there would be added security.

Tony shared nothing about why Alber Crown was being surveiled. It was simply a job, and Charlie knew not to ask any questions.

“I want to watch you fucking Payton,” Cornelia told him one night.

“So I'm your entertainment, now?”

“I want you to fuck her in the ass,” said Cornelia, a glint in her eye. “Let's get her over here, tie her up and you can fuck her!”

“What if I don't want to?”

“I want you to,” said Cornelia

“Maybe I want to tie you up and fuck your ass instead.”

“But I don't want you to,” said Cornelia, looking a little worried. “You won't do anything I don't want you to do.”

“Maybe...” said Charlie. She was showing fear now, and it was arousing to her. Charlie almost smiled. You know fuck-all about fear, you lecherous bitch. But playing the part of her toy-boy was still on the docket. He could not jeopardize the job. He'd do what she commanded.

“I'll be around next Saturday,” said Charlie. “I have some business to attend to,” and I need some time off from you!

“Just because you have the bugs in place, does not mean the assignment ends,” Tony told him a few days before that weekend. “You'll continue to see her.”

“I'd like to kill her,” said Charlie. “She certainly deserves it after what she and her friends did to that girl.”

“I read your report,” said Tony. “Toughen up, Charlie. It's not the worst thing you'll ever see. There are far worse.”

“I know,” Charlie said. He was, of course, familiar with the wholesale butchery by the Mugabe Regime in South Africa which amounted to genocide. He'd never seen it first hand. He'd experienced combat. He'd perpetrated the slaughter of an entire army. He was familiar with blood and gore. But the cries of that poor girl, he couldn't even remember her name, rang in his ears. He never wanted to see that ever again.

Even so, Charlie escaped into a different world. He drove to Orlando, purchased a prepay phone and called his mother. Her voice sounded musical to Charlie's ears, like a long forgotten caress. She was ecstatic to hear from him. “I've been counting the days, it's been a year since I've had word!” she told him. The phone call lasted two hours. She wept, he could hear it, a little at the beginning and much more at the end of the call. She let him talk to his brother and two sisters for a few minutes. His eldest sister he was very close to. She was fifteen and had become a radiant beauty, very much admired by her peers and suitors were beginning to make themselves known. She'd probably be married and pregnant by this time next year.

Charlie missed them terribly. His family was his refuge. It was the only place he could be completely himself and unguarded. Out in the field, where he'd worn this face. Wearing the face of a thug from Birmingham for the past few years he could be anything but himself. He was used to it. Speaking with Mum reminded him of how free he felt at home, and how imprisoned he felt in the world. When he finally ended the call, he felt a sense of loss so strongly it seemed to squeeze his chest.

At six in the afternoon on Saturday the 12^th, Charlie arrived at the Palmer compound in a borrowed Aston Martin Volante. It was to impress her family, of course. There were five living in the home including Cornelia, her father, step mother, and two half sisters that were eight years old. Cornelia’s elder brother attended school at the University of Miami. Her father, Coulton Palmer wanted to talk nothing but business with Charlie, testing Charlie's savvy while Cornelia and her friend Payton watched.

“You served in the military?” Mr. Palmer was suddenly interested when Charlie dropped that titbit.

“Three years in the Greater Congo,” Charlie said, unsure if Mr. Palmer had any idea what that meant.

“I've been to Libreville on business several times,” said Mr. Palmer a little proudly. “We have some interests there. We'd like to have a permanent office at some point, but we need the right man to establish it.”

“Finding that man won't be easy,” said Charlie. “The locals are a little insular. A significant portion of them are a little hostile to outsiders.”

“I didn't notice that at all,” said Palmer.

“They're very friendly to tourists, but if you're coming to stay, they become territorial and will do their utmost to shun the interlopers.”

“I see,” said Palmer, who was unable to hide his distaste for Charlie's comment. His opinion was obviously the truth, and having it challenged, Charlie observed, was disrespectful. Charlie decided the man to be untrustworthy at that point. He wondered how tolerant his business partners were of this.

“Well,” said Mr. Palmer. “I'm surprisingly tired. It's been a long day. If you'll excuse us. Come, Monica.”

“It was nice to finally meet you, Charles,” said Monica. They took the two young girls with them. The sedative Charlie had put into the water system was working.

“You shouldn't be so rude to Daddy,” Cornelia snapped as soon as her family had left. “What were you thinking? He might have offered you that job!”

“Who says I want that job?”

“If you want me, you want that job!”

“Who says I want you?” Charlie said.

Cornelia looked shocked, or made a good pretence of it.

“You're a pig, Charlie! You're not fucking me any more!” Cornelia said. “Fuck Payton! She wants you so bad...”

“I do not!” Payton protested.

Charlie watched the two interact the way spoiled sixteen year old girls do. He longed for the company of his sister as he watched them. She was happy and gracious and cared deeply about her friends. These two would each watch the other gutted in agony and enjoy every moment of it. Charlie wondered if he could arrange that...

“Admit it, Payton! You're so horny for Charlie you'd let him fuck your ass sideways!”

Payton was so shocked her mouth stayed agape for long moments.

“I can't believe you said that!”

“I said it because it's true! Isn't he pretty enough for you? Don't you want his cock in you? C'mon, Payton. Unzip his fly. He gets very horny when I get all submissive! Look at that bulge! It's big! It's really big!”

“Why are you doing this?” Payton cried.

“Because you want him!” Cornelia said. “Stop being such a baby. Go on, you know you want to suck on it!” Cornelia slid next to Charlie and unzipped his fly. Her fingers brought him to erection and pulled his member out. “Isn't it big? Don't you want to wrap your lips around it?”

“Why are you being so mean?” Payton's face was a mess of tears and running nose. She knelt down, curled up into a ball and sobbed.

Damn, Charlie thought. Is that sedative ever going to work?

“She's such a baby,” Cornelia said. “Come here, you!” She pulled on Charlie's shirt and slumped down into one of the fluffy couches where she demanded a kiss. By the time they parted, Cornelia’s eyes were so sleepy, Charlie just backed away. She was out in seconds. Payton was dozing, still curled up in a ball on the floor.

Charlie put his penis away and sighed. “The things I do for Queen and Country.”

He changed quickly into his black stealth suit, which was basically a black Spandex set of underwear and went out to the car to grab his gear. A periscope showed there were no lights on in the home of Alber Crown. Further examination revealed that there was a security guard walking the perimeter, but no one else outside. Charlie donned his black jumpsuit, night vision goggles, and went to work.

It took one hundred seventeen minutes to complete the task. A little slow, but acceptable. The lone security guard never knew he was there. There were also no electronics on the upper windows, which was expected. The bugs, as were the custom of MI6, were attached to the inner glass windows which tended to amplify sound, as well as the mirrors. Cameras behind the mirrors were flat, and difficult, at best, to detect. The mansion was full of mirrors. He only had twenty cameras, one for each room. The fish-eye lenses were computer corrected so that they gave a beautiful panoramic view of the room at normal perspective.

Back over the wall, he almost ran afoul of one of the Palmer security girls.

“Guess she doesn't like the water,” thought Charlie. He changed back into his dinner attire before going back into the house. Cornelia and Payton were still fast asleep. He went to the refrigerator in the kitchen, where the two cooks were dozing peacefully at their own staff table, pulled out a bottle of Cranberry Juice, one of Vodka, and three glasses. He doused the glasses with the stuff, then poured the contents of each into the sink, and carried them upstairs to Cornelia’s room. He carefully placed the bottles and glasses on the floor, the bottles open and the caps near the foot of he bed. Then he carried each of the girls up, Payton First, then Cornelia, stripped them naked, placed them in each other's arms and turned to leave. But turned back to regard the pretty picture.

Then he grinned. Oh God, I'll be a cheeky bastard! He thought. In the bathroom he could find no razor, so he went to Cornelia’s absent brother's room and found one. He let Payton be. She'd suffered enough tonight. But he took great pleasure in shaving Cornelia bare, carefully making sure there was no hair on her between the two ends of her nether-cleft. Payton would tell the whole world Cornelia’s fantasy of being spitroasted.

Cornelia did not call Charlie for a week, and he was loath to call her. Tony, fortunately, did not seem to notice. Charlie occupied his free time by checking sound and picture on the Crown home, making sure everything was working properly. He saw nothing of note going on, and could only imagine that some event or another at the Crown home would justify the effort.

It was Saturday Afternoon when Charlie received a message from Cornelia She was livid with him for leaving her to drown in humiliation for a week.

“Payton told everyone!” Cornelia’s voice whined in Charlie's ear on the phone. “I'm completely humiliated and it's all your fault! Why did you shave me?”

“You shaved yourself!” Charlie lied evenly. “You were talking about how girls out west are bare, and you wanted to know what it was like.”

“Liar! You're a fucking liar! I would never do that!”

“Okay,” Charlie said. “Then I guess maybe I'll see you around. Or perhaps not.”

“You ass hole! Get your limey ass over here and make it up to me if you ever want to see me again!”

“Maybe I don't want to see you again. Maybe I'm tired of you.”

“You do not get to do that, you cocksucker!”

“What did you say?” Charlie growled into the phone.

“I... I'm sorry! I'm sorry!” She was crying on the phone now. Charlie sighed. “Please say something! I said I was sorry.”

“I don't believe you.”

“I said I was! I swear I'm sorry.”

“I don't believe fuck-all you say, Cornelia If you want to prove you truly are sorry, you're going to have to prove it.”

“Prove it? Haven't I proven it already? I said I was sorry!”

“You can talk all you want to,” Charlie said, his voice low and even. “But talk is cheap, Cornelia And what you do does not match what you say. You will not get a pass from me. I'm not your father. I will not cater to your hyperbole and I will not tolerate your deceptions.”

There was a long period of whimpering sobs on the other end of the line. “What? What do you want me to do?”

“It's going to hurt.”

“I'll do anything!”

“Anything?”

“Anything!”

“Al right,” Charlie said. “I want you to go over to Payton's home, strip yourself naked, and shave yourself bare again right in front of her and whoever else is there with her.”

As horrified as she was, she agreed with the condition that Charlie be there. Charlie replied that if he were going to be there, she'd have to get the other three of her clique there as well. It happened that evening at Payton Fouts' home.

“You're good!” Tony laughed when he listened to the exchange sound file Monday morning. “Damn, I wish I could have seen that!”

“You've no idea how much I despise that... girl,” said Charlie. “She could turn me off the whole feminine gender.”

“You, Charlie? Go gay? I highly doubt that. Even so, get this over with. I have material you have to go over as soon as your done. You have some studying to do.”

“Very well,” said Charlie. In spite of himself, he very much enjoyed watching Cornelia beg for mercy, which he denied, then sit there naked in the middle of Payton's bedroom floor carefully shaving the stubble between her legs. He enjoyed listening to her admit that she fantasized about getting spit roasted in front of everyone. That she secretly loved having her ass fucked. Charlie watched them all flush, and told Cornelia to masturbate right there, right in front of all of them. Her reluctance was easily defeated. Right after she brought herself to climax, Charlie left. He'd not felt this satisfied in a very, very long time.

“Here it is,” Tony dropped ten inch tall stack of sheets and reports on Charlie's desk on the show room floor. “All we have on the subject.”

The subject. Charlie stared at the stack of paper. MI6 was leery of electronic copy. It was too easily distributed. Aircraft flew with reports from continent to continent routinely. Word had it that the U.S. CIA and the Czar's FSB did likewise.

“We have quite a bit on that subject.”

“We do. He's a known quantity, mostly. You'll know the name. We want you completely familiar with his entire history before we send you in.”

“You mean I get to leave Cornelia?”

“Ah... no,” Tony smiled mirthfully. “But you will be doing some travelling. Spend the week studying. Oh, and if your lady love calls, have her come over to your place, fuck her, and drug her. Don't waste too much time. I need you to know this material by a week from Monday.”

“And I thought my home was my sanctuary.”

“Why would it not be?”

Charlie snorted, and dove into the material. When he saw the name he immediately drew a breath.

Lord Gregory Grayson was something of a legend among lords, either loved or despised. He was a known champion of Her Royal Majesty. There had been rumours that, when he was only twenty three and she fifteen, that the two had a clandestine affair that resulted in the birth of Prince James. Such rumours were vehemently denied. But Elizabeth never married and asserted that each of her children were artificially sired with semen from the four original realms of the United Kingdom, England, North Ireland, Scotland and Wales, in that order. She was the Virgin Queen, literally. She had never, it was said, been touched intimately by a man, “rumours to the contrary be damned.”

Lord Grayson had spent much of the last twenty three years in the Greater Congo working on God only knew what. He was a very powerful agent of the British National Trust, and might even be on the BNT board. Membership to that board was, of course, highly classified. If anyone in MI6 knew who was on the board, it was only those with the highest security clearance and only those that had a need to know.

Loyalty in Question was a term used for suspected traitors. If Lord Gregory Grayson was a traitor, it was a very real threat to National Security even if he were not a member of the BNT board. And if he were, the damage could be irreparable.

“You cannot be serious,” Charlie looked up at Tony with genuine shock and concern.

“I had the same reaction,” Tony said. “I'm assured it's quire serious. And yes, I am aware of the implications. This is strictly on the QT. Eyes only. Return all of it and let no one else see it.”

Charlie looked around. Every man in the room was a field operative. He barely spoke to the rest of them. Not one of them, he knew, wore their real faces. It was a technology that changed the shape of a man's face so that no computer facial recognition software in the world could make a positive ID on the real face underneath it. Charlie had no way of knowing who any of these men were. One or even two of them might have graduated with him, and he'd never know it. The reverse was not true. Charlie had established his identity long before he entered training. Seven years. Six of those in the Royal Army. The destination had always been MI6. He had been recruited when he turned sixteen, and enthusiastically sought that path.

Charlie sat back in his chair and surveyed the room as he often did. Dickie Barnes' pudgy face was crunching numbers or studying something technical. Elrond McClintock was on the phone. Jamieson Lynch was typing some report. None of them or the others seemed to be remotely interested in what Tony and Charlie were speaking of. But all were trained to hear everything around them. What was more, all of them were trained to be suspicious of everyone. Everyone was a potential enemy operative. Tony was giving this to Charlie right out in the open with six field operatives in the room other than them. Protocol breaches like this, with this kind of sensitive material, could blow an operation or even get men killed.

Charlie wondered if he were being tested. Or might there be something else happening.

“Just in case you're wondering,” Tony said. “Nobody thinks there's anything to it. Lord Gregory has lived under a microscope for a very long time. For us to have missed anything with him is not bloody likely. Still, you're going to baby sit him for a while. Your job will be to be his valet You'll be replacing the his man who is retiring. Of course, you have to pass the interview process. Which means you'll be flying to meet him in his home in South Hampton.”

“How long will I be assigned to him?”

“As long as he wants you, I'm sure. He's looking for a temporary man, of course. But your job is to get his trust.”

“Why is he being investigated?”

“Leaks coming out of his office,” Tony said. “Of that we're certain.”

“Is he aware of this?”

“Only if he's the one leaking information. Lord Gregory is very highly placed in the BNT, and information he gets has been showing up out and about in circles he can't possibly be aware of. One or two of his peers are, shall we say, concerned. We do know for certain that it's his office. We just don't know if it's him, someone in his office or someone who is a very stealthy client. Nobody is breaking into his office, of that we're certain. Our surveillance of it has yielded nothing at all. Whoever it is is very cagey. Difficult to identify. But all that is not for you to be concerned about till you've gained his trust. For now, Lord Gregory is being fed innocuous information that is of little import. He's been doing a lot of travelling anyway, mostly to New York, Kigali, Kinshasa and Luanda. He's currently in Kinshasa, but will be in London tomorrow. That's where you'll meet him. Your flight is at three am.”

“So much for seeing Cornelia this weekend.”

“You'll be gone for twenty four hours, tops, laddie. Don't be such a drama queen.”

Charlie had his phone turned off when took a sleep aid at four in the afternoon. He was at Palm Beach International Airport by two thirty with naught but a travel bag and his best wool suit.

Lord Gregory Grayson's office was in the old Revenue Building overlooking the Thames river just upstream of Black-friar’s Bridge. The greyness of London contrasted sharply with the Florida sunshine. Charlie felt like he was coming home to a dark room. But he'd never lived or even worked on the Thames, even if he was quite familiar with it. The cab dropped him at the main entrance on Upper Ground.

His Lordship’s office was in the west wing penthouse directly across from the Belle Ami restaurant in the east wing. The reception desk for it, however, was on the ground floor. It was a typical affair. Lords would often occupy the top floor of a building and have their own private lift. This one was large enough to fit into it the largest of furniture. Perhaps even a piano.

The sliding door opened and Charlie was met by a pleasant looking women wearing a simple navy blue dress that accentuated her generous hips, a girdled waist and narrow torso. She had a lovely smile befitting a mother or a teacher, but this was Lord Grayson's secretary, Maureen Stratford, as well as his concubine, mother of five daughters by him.

“Charles Gordon?” said the woman, offering her hand. “My name is Maureen. I'm his Lordship's personal secretary. Welcome to the office.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” said Charlie.

“Maureen,” she said. “Please. To the girls I'm Miss Stratford. But to all of Lord Gregory's men, I'm just Maureen. His orders, you see. This way, please. May I get you anything? Tea? Soda perhaps?”

“Thank you,” said Charlie. “I just ate breakfast, and am quite al right.”

“Do you mind terribly waiting? Lord Gregory is on an important conference call, I'm afraid, and it's become a little contentious. It might be a bit before he's finished.”

“Not at all. I'm at his Lordships disposal,” said Charlie.

“That's so very understanding of you. Please, if there's anything I can get you, do not hesitate to ask.” She had led him to a private waiting room. “The wireless code is this here,” she pointed to a sign next to the door. It had ten seemingly random characters, LSKSSSASBS.

“It was very nice to make your acquaintance, Maureen,” Charlie said.

“Likewise, sir,” Maureen smiled that pleasant smile and left him. She was not a ravishing beauty. But she had an appeal about her that Charlie found instantly attractive to the point of being sensual.

Charlie looked at the code. LSKSSSASBS, and used it to log into the office wireless. He pulled up one of the various Fleet Street profiles on Gregory Grayson. Of course, he saw nothing about Maureen or of the other five concubines he kept.

Charlie had made himself as familiar as he could with the two thousand or so pages in Grayson's MI6 dossier. In fact, he almost put his PDA away, thinking he wanted to meet Lord Grayson before reading any more on the man. But curiosity got the better of him, and he read anyway. And then there was that the term “loveless marriage” enthralled him. Fleet Street was so very forgiving of dysfunctional family dynamics among the peers, Charlie mused.

Marissa Grayson was the youngest child of Lord and Lady Billingston. Lord Elliot Billingston was the third lord in his line. They dealt in scrap metal to start, and eventually invested heavily in pharma before attaining enough wealth to become part of the BNT. The first lord Billingston was granted membership in 2154 at age fifty. The second Lord Billingston took his position in the house of lords upon his father's death in 2189. He lived only fifteen years. 2004 saw Lord Geoffrey Billingston ascend to the seat with the same pomp and circumstance as all other new lords enjoy. The man was now sixty, and his thirty seven year old son Elliot Billingston now worked for the Royal Lottery Board as an executive. Marissa was wed to Gregory Grayson in 2202 and gave birth to her first child, Anthea that same year in December. Her son Anthony was born was born three years later in late 2204.

Charlie read on even without looking up at the clock, so enthralled he was. Then he came across another name he had heard before. It was something someone omitted from Grayson's MI6 dossier.

Gregory Grayson's lifelong friend Lord Percy Shelby was killed in an automobile crash with his wife Agatha in March of 2207. Lord Percy had been a key member of the BNT, having managed much of the BNT's direct holdings in Africa. Lord Gregory inherited not only that, but as God Father of the Shelby children, he took them in as well. Iain and Penelope Shelby were ages eleven and four respectively when they became wards of the Lord Grayson. Both travelled with Lord Gregory every time me made the move between London and Kinshasa, and, for a few years, Kigali and Kinshasa along with the rest of the family. Eventually, Marissa stopped travelling with Lord Grayson, took Anthea and Anthony to London where they both attended school. Penelope joined Anthea's class at age eleven when Iain joined the Royal Army at age sixteen.

And eighteen months ago Iain and I defeated the SA together, Charlie thought. Iain came up with the plan. The SA were moving north, zigzagging as if on simple manoeuvres. The satellite footage indicated they were no threat. When they were digging up the equipment in that canyon, the 189^th struck from the south and the north, moving down till they were all dead. Well, most of them were dead. The few that survived were escorted north into the Angola territory as the surviving half of the 189^th Highlanders made their escape, and averted war. It was said, amongst the survivors, that the queen wept when she was told of the affair. Not one man over the age of twenty one had survived. Should the affair ever be made public, there would be a very public awarding of several Victoria's Crosses. General Albert Mountbatten said that the 189^th had probably saved all of the Greater Congo. Iain and Charlie, already good friends, became as brothers. It was Charlie, himself, who had convinced Iain to join Her Majesty's Secret Service. How very interesting that Iain's name was omitted. Why?

Charlie shook his head, and tried to clear it of unproductive suspicion. He pulled out his note pad where he'd jotted the bits about the girls in the office. He'd listed their names and their job descriptions. Three of the women in the office who were Grayson's concubines, with their children's names listed. Maureen was the eldest of them, and the one he spent the most time with. She travelled with him everywhere. Her five girls lived either in the boarding school near Maureen's home in London, or near her home in Kinshasa, spending six months in each. At the moment they were, all six of them, living in Kinshasa. Lydia was the eldest. She'd be turning fifteen on September twenty seventh. Then there was Karen, fourteen, Silvie, thirteen, Anita, twelve, and Belinda the youngest at eleven. No twins, all born about a year apart. Five pregnancies, five girls. Interesting. Most women would chose to have multiple births rather than endure several pregnancies. Charlie looked up at the code again, something struck him.

Charlie looked back up at the wireless code. LSKSSSASBS. Lydia Stratford, Karen Stratford, Sylvie Stratford, Anita Stratford and Belinda Stratford. Not random letters at all, but initials. Charlie wondered if it was his Lordship or Maureen who set up the wireless code. Either way, it meant that Maureen meant a great deal to his Lordship. He either did that himself, meaning these girls were more than just a tax sink to him, or Maureen was very trusted. Having just met her, Charlie could surmise Lord Grayson's attraction to her. Was she the love of his life? Charlie mused. But security was the issue here. How many knew Maureen was his concubine and how many of those knew the names of his daughters? Lords tended to keep that kind of information to themselves. Concubines who were special tended to be a man's refuge, especially in a loveless marriage. If it took Charlie only a few minutes to understand the code's origin, was the rest of the Grayson's secure files equally vulnerable to someone who knew of Maureen? This would be going in his report.

“Mr. Gordon?” Charlie nearly jumped out of his chair so engrossed had he become. He looked up to see Maureen's pretty smile. “His Lordship will see you now.”

“Yes, of course,” said Charlie. He stood, straightened his suit, and followed Maureen.

“Lord Gregory, this is Mr. Gordon here to see you.”

“Of course,” Lord Gregory stood with a slight smile on his face. He moved carefully around his desk on long legs. He was ever so slightly taller than Charlie must have been quite fit in his youth. He offered Charlie his hand.

“Lord Grayson. It's good to meet you, sir.”

“Mr. Gordon. Maureen, would you mind bringing in a cup of fresh Columbian coffee for Mr. Gordon?”

“Of course, Sir,” Maureen said, and left.

“Please be seated,” said his Lordship. “I've been going over your file. You served with the 189^th Highland division in the southern Angola Territory. Rather boring duty, don't you think?”

“It was, sir. Miles and Miles of Bloody Africa. I think I spent more time in the bed of a lorry than anything else.”

“Still, you commanded men.”

“Hardly, sir. I was a lowly leftenant.”

“What can you tell me of this accident? Half of the men in your unit were killed.”

“I wasn't there, sir. I heard about it, and we were put in quarantine to make sure we weren't infected. They all died in hours. I'm lead to understand that the doctors are still tying to track down the viral agent that killed them.”

“Such a loss,” Lord Grayson said. “Horrible.”

“That it was, sir.”

“You left the Army shortly thereafter.”

“Yes sir.”

“What have you been doing since?”

“Currently, I'm working at an Aston Martin dealership in Palm Beach... in Florida.”

“I see. You do understand what my needs are?”

“Yes sir. Prepare you for your day, and be at your side, help you decompress at the end of it. Be your driver and be prepared to eliminate any threat there may be.”

Lord Gregory nodded. “Very good.”

“And, of course, respect your privacy and ask no questions.”

Lord Gregory smiled. “Very well. I have other men I'd like to see before I make a decision, Mr. Gordon.”

“Charlie, Sir,” Charlie said. “Please, sir. Call me Charlie.”

Lord Gregory stood. “Very well, Charlie,” he extended his hand. “Tell me, did you have any experience with security breeches in your unit?”

“I did not, sir.”

“Very good.”

And that was the end of the interview. Charlie had not any idea what to make of it. Lord Gregory seemed not to like him at all. Had he been too eager? Perhaps. It would mean a different assignment, which suited Charlie. Being a sitter for a stoic aristocrat was not exactly his cup of tea, anyway.

On the flight back to Palm Beach, Charlie consoled himself by chatting with the pretty stewardesses who seemed to enjoy his company. Each of them was, of course, for sale. Stewardesses were highly trained women who were among the most likely to get married. They came in contact with a large number of men. That they spent a great deal of time chatting with Charlie told him they considered him a good prospect for just such a thing. Pity. Some of them were very pretty. But he could not do any such thing at this point, and he had to be very picky, anyway, considering his profession.

There were ten messages from Cornelia and three pleading voice mails. She was beside herself with grief that she could not find him.

When he arrived at work Tuesday morning, Tony did not bother mentioning the wasted trip to London at all. Instead he seemed to want to focus on the Palmer family.

“It seems that Alber Crown has made contact through Coulton Palmer with one of our marks. Palmer is holding a soiree this weekend and both will be there, ostensibly there will be a transaction between them at that party.”

“Is Palmer part of this?”

“Not so far as we know. It's not likely. We think that our mark is simply a mutual acquaintance, and Crown is using Palmer to make the connection less conspicuous. Palmer has no interest in the BNT that we've found.”

“Who's the mark?”

“Classified,” Tony said. “You're to observe and report. If the mark's name comes up, we'll take it from there.”

“I see. So you want me there.”

“I want you there, and I want you to take Barnes with you as an extra set of eyes. Ask the lovely Miss Palmer to get him a date.”

Charlie glanced over at Dickie Barnes through Tony's office window. Couldn't you have given him a more appealing face? Charlie thought. He almost pitied Payton.

Charlie called Cornelia from Tony's office immediately.

“Hello, Cornie,” Charlie said.

“Where have you been? I've been trying to call you for days!”

“I'm so sorry. I misplaced my phone. How are things?”

“Oh, my God! Payton's just turned on me! She's been horrible! I don't know what to do?”

“What can I do to help you?”

“I don't know... get her converted? I don't know... she's such a bitch. I totally want to kill her! Maybe I can get Daddy to roast her this weekend! We're having this party. Everyone's going to be there! Will you come?”

“I could. I have a friend in town, though. Think one of your girlfriends would be his date?”

There was silence on the other end and Charlie heard her breathing heavily into the receiver.

“I don't know...”

“Good looking chap. His name is Richard Barnes. Good man. Know him from school. Perhaps Payton might fit the bill.”

“Payton? Are you kidding?”

“Not at all,” Charlie said. “Dickie has a reputation with women... he's a bit of a lady killer, if you know what I mean. He likes his sex very rough. Payton might enjoy that, don't you think?”

Again, silence. “I don't know...”

“Why don't you call her. Dickie roasted his last girlfriend and he's been single ever since. He needs a new one.”

“Oh, well! Since you put it that way! I'll try!”

“I knew you'd come through for me,” Charlie said. “I'll talk to you soon.”

“Bye babe!”

“Likes his sex rough?” Tony exclaimed. “Roasted his last girlfriend? Have you met Barnes?”

“Of course,” Charlie looked out the office window again. Barnes was still hard at work at his desk, crunching numbers, his pudgy face looking every inch the type of man a woman might have to settle for.

“Christ. Maybe we'll have to get him a new face.”

“Not at all,” said Charlie. “The one he has will make Cornelia very happy.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Come!” Tony called.

“Boss,” said Barnes. “There's something happening in California. It's all over the news!”

Tony turned on CNN and watched the report. In California the Food Worker's Union was up in arms over the firing of several members at a particular High School.

“I'm not sure I understand why we're watching this,” Charlie said.

“Does the word 'Union' not mean anything to you, Charlie?” Tony asked.

“Of course. Organized Labour.”

“Organized Crime,” said Tony. “If one shop makes the national news, it means someone is getting hurt, or fears getting hurt. Organized Crime controls a great deal in this country. When the boat is rocked, it means the board is going to look a little different. It will likely bring down a politician or two, and that will have certain ramifications for us.”

“Of course,” said Charlie, dubiously. But Dickie had been nodding emphatically through every word of Tony's speech.

“Do not discount this, young man. Mark my words. This is a little item in a back-water hamlet. Why is it a national story?”

Charlie pulled out his PDA and called up the New York Times, and read. Unions were screaming bloody murder. The Food Worker's Union Boss in Chicago had been interviewed. He said an investigation was warranted, but to lay off the entire shop and close down the school was not. When he finally managed to get to the original story he was shocked to learn the details. Had it happened in Britain, it would have gone a lot further than just the laying off of a shop. In America, the workers are certified by the Union. The Union itself would be investigated.

“And therein lies the problem for the Union. If authorities here start an investigation, there's going to be a lot more hanky panky revealed!” Tony said. “The proverbial shit will hit the proverbial fan, and everyone will smell it. If you don't think there's a lot of money changing hands in the way of graft, bribes and extortion, you have another thing coming. Heads are going to roll, Charlie. We're going to need to find out which ones will roll before they do so we can be ready!”

“Pity I'm busy with other things,” Charlie smirked.

“While you're at this little party,” Tony said. “I think we'll wire you both for sound. I'm sure the subject might come up.”

“Party?” Dickie asked. “What party? Is it someone's birthday?”

Charlie checked himself in the mirror. His formal seersucker suit and bow tie made him feel like the spy he wanted to be. The idea of it still gave him a thrill. Why did you have to saddle me with a name like “Gordon?” Charlie lamented. Gordon, Charles Gordon. It sounded like a gin commercial complete with a drunk with a smelly Martini in his hand.

Like a lot of MI6 operatives, Charlie had watched every single James Bond film ever produced. Iain Shelby and Charlie Gordon had been primary drivers in the Bond film night with the 189^th Highlanders. They smuggled a 60” television into one of the five tonne trucks and used that same truck for power to show at least one film a week out in the field. It was mostly any film you wish to see so long as it is James Bond. The Borne Identity, Mission Impossible, all those made it into the mix. But everyone knew there was nothing like the original.

Leftenants Charlie and Iain thought they had been as slick as 007 in stealthily sneaking in that television, setting it up and rounding up the men. It happened for months, actually. And the enlistees in both their companies would always ask when the next movie night would be. Iain and Charlie both thought they were getting away with it till Colonel Bartlett showed up for movie night. He waltzed in, everyone came to attention, he looked around. “As you were,” he said, took a seat. “Isn't there popcorn?”

They watched Thunderball and True Lies that night. Thursday was designated movie night. If they were otherwise engaged on movie night, it would fall on Wednesday or Friday depending. Anyone not on watch crowded in front of that tele.

Everyone had had their favourite aspect of Bond. Iain loved the Daniel Craig action. Charlie loved the cool, collected, desired, sassyness of the Bond portrayed by Sean Connery. Iain began his free-running in the 189^th after seeing Casino Royalle, and begged Charlie to train with him. In turn, Iain endured every formal affair Charlie could get tickets or an invitation to. It was a symbiotic relationship.

But formal affairs tended to be Charlie's forte. He prepared for Saturday evening and took Dickie Barnes under his wing. In the process, Charlie began to wonder if the pudgy face Dickie Barnes wore were not his actual face, and not an artificial one. It matched the man's clottish character. That was ridiculous, of course, as artificial faces were required in the field.

Dickie Barnes was as socially inept as anyone Charlie had ever met. “The trick will be to keep her talking,” Charlie finally arrived at that conclusion. “Never make a statement with Payton. Only ask questions. You make a statement, you're finished.”

“I didn't know I'd have to entertain spoiled girls when I passed the field exam,” Lamented Dickie.

“Do your best to look like your interested in whatever she's saying,” Charlie added. “She's quite the muppet, but she's not entirely brain dead.”

Dickie snorted, and Charlie drove them in an Aston Martin DBS5, the very latest. It was worth somewhere near a million Euros, but Charlie wasn't sure. He didn't care. Anyone who could afford such a car didn't care about money, and he didn't care to own one. Drive, yes, own, no.

The Valet at the Palmer compound took his key at exactly seven o'clock. The sun was just about to set in the west as Charlie pulled up, just ahead of the three limousine's he'd passed on the way here. The valet caught the keys Charlie tossed as he strode around the car, almost in time to open Dickie's door for him.

“'Ello lovelies,” Charlie did his best Cockney when he found Cornelia and Payton on the porch in very fashionable evening gowns. Payton's look of dismay upon seeing Dickie almost made Charlie smile. Certainly she was expecting someone faster looking. “Miss Payton, this is my good friend Dickie Barnes.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Dickie stammered. “That's such a beautiful dress. Wherever did you find it?”

“Oh, you think so?” Payton said. “I think we've been shopping for a week, haven't we Cornie? It took me forever to find the right colour. In the end I had to drive all the way to Miami to get this.”

“I hope that wasn't too tiring,” said Dickie.

“Tiring?” Payton cocked her head, and looked at Charlie with pleading eyes.

“Payton,” said Charlie. “Why don't you take my friend Dickie and introduce him around. I'd be very, very grateful.” Charlie winked at her.

Payton nodded. “I guess I could do that.”

“What was that?” Cornelia snapped after Payton had taken Dickie into the house. “You'll be grateful?”

“Didn't you say you wanted to watch me with her?” Charlie said.

“You're so stupid sometimes,” Cornelia said.

“Well, I wouldn't want you being seen with a stupid man. I'd better leave then,” he said. And he turned to the Valet.

“You can't leave!” Cornelia almost shrieked, grabbing his arm, then looking around in her embarrassed state. “You can't leave! You just got here!”

“I can, and I will if you continue your little games.”

Cornelia’s lower lip began to quiver. Charlie wanted to back hand her across her face and knock her across the porch. Guests were arriving and looked on as the Charlie defeated her, and Charlie found hitting a woman distasteful in his gut. Spanking was one thing. He had been charged with spanking his sister three years ago. She had been twelve and had said something cruel to another girl that everyone had been talking about around town. Mother was livid, and pulled the naked child out of the shower and across Charlie's lap. The poor girl had cried in his arms, and Charlie had never forgot the powerful sense that he had completed a very loving act. Spanking was something else entirely. Spanking Cornelia was not anything he wanted to do, though she thoroughly needed it.

Cornelia bowed her head and moved close to Charlie who stood rigid in his fury.

“I'm sorry!” She said in an emphatic but small voice. She sounded sincere, but then, she'd sounded sincere before and been lying through her teeth.

“Take my arm, and introduce me around,” Charlie offered his arm, and she smiled that big smile she always gave when she thought herself forgiven. Cornelia took his arm, and they went inside, engulfed by the sound of Strauss .

The Foyer of the Palmer mansion was large enough, with two staircases curving on either side up to the second floor. Tonight it was quite crowded. Men in linen and seersucker suits, half lined jackets and bow ties in white, grey, slate and navy. The women's gowns were, of course, colourful. They bloomed like spring blossoms amid the monochrome men, and seemed to move in waves around the room as they danced from greeting to greeting. The ratio of men to women was quite high, Charlie estimated. Perhaps as high as 40/60. Except for Cornelia’s two young sisters, he saw no other children. It was to be entirely an adult gathering. Well, almost entirely...

But Cornelia seemed to grow up in this setting. This was the forte she had so long hidden from Charlie. She ran him headlong into the various assemblies in the foyer, making sure he was introduced to everyone present. Those who she had not yet met she very graciously introduced to herself before introducing Charlie of whom she often repeated “Charlie is my pet man for the evening. I have him exactly where he wants me.” It was almost endearing.

Into the ball room where waltzers spun in circular patterns across the floor with a ten piece orchestra on a dais at the back wall. People waltzed to the melodic sounds Lara's theme from Dr. Zhivago, which reminded Charlie how uneducated he was in music. He would never have guessed that song was a waltz at all, till he saw people dancing to it.

Charlie could not keep the grin off his face when he saw Dickie leading Payton across the dance floor, gliding gracefully as if he were born to it. The look on her face matched his own sense of awe at the notion that Dickie had any social skills at all.

“Mr. Crown,” Charlie's ears heard Cornelia’s voice, causing his head to snap away from the sight of Dickie and Payton. “How nice to see you! Are you on vacation from your travels?”

“A vacation would be nice,” said Alber Crown in slightly accented English. He young looking for a man in his fifties. Trim, fit and athletic looking. Charlie might even describe him as rakish. “How beautiful you look tonight, Miss Palmer. Who is your friend?”

“Mr. Crown, may I present Charlie Gordon. He's been teaching me how to drive very fast in very fast cars.”

“Wonderful. One can never have enough skill when having to go fast. It is very nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Gordon.”

“Likewise, Mr.. Crown.”

“Miss Palmer, Mr. Gordon, this is my friend Simon Carver,” Crown introduced the young man next to him. He was a perhaps six foot one, blonde, and tan with piercing grey blue eyes and had the face of a young boy. He looked almost effeminate even with his square jaw. Charlie accepted Carver's offered hand. Carver's strong grip sharply contrasting his appearance. “Simon is a student at the University of Georgia,” added Crown. “He's studying business administration, law and accounting, which is why he's spending some time with me. We're travelling to São Paulo next week where he'll do a short intern-ship at my office there.”

“Have you been to São Paulo before, Mr.. Carver?” Charlie asked.

“Not yet,” said Carver with a hint of Georgia in his accent. “Call me Simon, please. You been there, Mr. Gordon?”

“Charlie, please. I haven't had the pleasure of visiting it yet,” said Charlie. “I'm told it's warm and the ladies there are much warmer. I am also told it's quite dangerous.”

“That it is,” said Crown. “One does not go about without a weapon. And one does not go about with anything valuable without muscle. Fortunately, both are easily procured there.”

Charlie's radar was up on Simon Carver. Could he be the contact Charlie was looking to identify? He discounted it since, it seemed, Crown had brought Carver. The trick would be to try and stay close to Crown and identify anyone he comes in contact with. But what about Carver? Would he act as an agent...

“It's interesting,” Charlie said. “That the news out of California would be old hat in a place like São Paulo, I would think.”

“Yes,” Crown said. “It would be in Austria as well,” he added.

“It's horrible,” said Simon. “I hope they get those responsible.”

Charlie watched the man's face and body language. Something was wrong with Simon's comment. He could not put his finger upon it, but Charlie had the immediate sense that the hope he expressed was, in fact, the opposite.

“One wonders,” Charlie said. “How much help they'll have in getting away with it.”

“Unions are pretty powerful,” Simon said. “I don't know, but they say it might get very ugly.”

“Who's saying that?” Charlie asked.

“Huh? Oh, people,” Simon said.

People, hmmm... interesting.

“Do you follow Football, Charlie? The real football, not the American abomination, ” Crown asked.

Charlie smiled, answered yes, and managed to be polite and non-committal with regard to the sport. The truth might be that his favourite ream were the pathetic Destroyers of Kingston, who consistently lost four out of five games each season. Protocol dictated that he not reveal that. The Destroyer's fan base was far too small, and he'd been a registered fan since he was a boy. It would be too easy to identify him with that information. Even so, the change of subject by Alber Crown was very, very interesting.

Payton and Dickie were getting along famously, and Cornelia was not sure if she should be happy that Payton was being seen with such a socially inept cream puff or angry that she was having such a good time at this event.

“Cornelia!” Called Mrs. Palmer. “Come, bring Charlie.” The woman led the two of them to Mr. Palmer who stood with a foppish looking man in a perfectly fitted seersucker suit, not a hair out of place.

“Lord Billintston,” said Mrs. Palmer, this is my daughter, Cornelia and her friend, Charles Gordon.”

“So very pleased to meet you,” said Billingston. “But my father is Lord Billingston,” he added. “I'm not a member of that particular club, yet. Someday, perhaps, if I live long enough.”

“Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Billingston,” Charlie said.

“Ah, am I speaking with a fellow Englishman?”

“You are, sir. From Birmingham, originally.”

“My family estate is in Leicestershire,” said Billingston. “That's the neighbouring county to West Midlands, in which Birmingham sits,” he said to Mrs. Palmer. “What part of Birmingham?”

“Do you know Roundhay?”

“I do,” said Mr. Billingston. “Rather rough area in which to grow up.”

“I joined the Royal Army to get away from it,” Charlie said.

“What unit?”

“189^th Highlanders.”

“The Scots accepted a boy from the Midlands into their midsts? I thought hey were rather protective of their reputation.”

“You would be surprised,” Charlie said. “I was not the only one. The truth is that several of the lads were from outside of Scotland. We were, of course, sponsored into the unit. But once in, we were part of it.”

“I know a lad who was in that same unit. Are you familiar with the name Iain Shelby?”

Charlie almost stiffened, but suppressed his reaction.

“I believe so. A leftenant I met was called Shelby. I did not know his first name,” Charlie lied. “But I only met him in passing.”

“Too bad. I've often wondered what ever happened to the boy. He rather disappeared and has abandoned his young sister. He's a peer by right of birth. Of course, he's not a member yet, being far too young.”

“I had no idea,” Charlie said.

“His sister is in danger of being forfeit. Fortunately for her, she's under the protection of my brother in law, Lord Grayson.”

“Lord Grayson?” Charlie raised a brow. “Lord Gregory Grayson?”

“The very same,” said Mr. Billingston. “So you've heard of him.”

“I dare say, I don't know of anyone who has not.”

“I haven't heard of him,” said Mrs. Palmer.

“Why don't you tell Mrs. Palmer what you know of him,” said Mr. Billingston.

“Very well,” Charlie said, sorting out what he could only have known publicly from what he knew privately. “Lord Grayson is notorious or infamous among the British because he was long rumoured to have had an affair with Princess Elizabeth before she became queen. It is said that the king himself put an end to that relationship and banished Gregory Grayson to the Greater Congo shortly before he died. He is also said to be the reason Her Majesty decided never to marry, because she could not marry him by royal decree. This is all conjecture, of course, but the rumours persist.”

“And,” Mr. Billingston added. “Gregory Grayson, who has since become Lord Gregory Grayson, has increased his estate considerably since his supposed banishment to Kinshasa. The man is one of the wealthiest men in the world, and quite powerful in the House of Lords.”

“Very, very interesting,” said Mr. Palmer. “Any chance you could introduce me, Mr. Billingston?”

“I can try to arrange that. It may be difficult, however. Lord Grayson is not exactly fond of me. Though I should be able to make that happen through Marissa, my sister.”

Elliot Billingston's candidness told Charlie the man was at ease, unconcerned. There was nothing for him to hide. Even so, that he was here at all, a tacit connection to Lord Grayson. Coincidence? Or another player to watch? Either way, Charlie felt compelled to keep an eye on this man. He'd attempt to catch Mr. Billingston alone later so they could converse more about their football teams, as soon as Charlie could remind himself which team, other than the Destroyers, he knew enough about to convince Billingston he was a legitimate fan.

Charlie and Cornelia moved to the dance floor for a time. “I didn't see his wife,” said Cornelia”

“Who's wife?”

“Mr. Billingston. She's the only woman here who's not in the lottery.”

“What lottery?”

“Oh, silly. The lottery for the midnight roast! You know. Whoever wins the lottery gets to be the main course!”

Charlie raised a brow. He had, of course, seen Cornelia lure a girl into being roasted under the guise of friendship. But a genuine roast of an upper class American woman? Truly?”

“Are you in the lottery?”

“What do you think?”

“I highly doubt it.”

“Anyway, I'm just a little pissed off that we can't put her name in it. This whole protection of the British aristocrats is such bullshit. How come we don't have those kinds of protections here for high class people?”

“Like you?”

Cornelia looked at him sideways. “Ye-e-es,” she said slow and low. “I guess,” she said after regarding him for a moment, “that I'll just have to settle for Payton.”

Charlie smiled. “How savage of you,” he said giving her as warm a smile as he could.

“You approve?”

“Well, I'm really not into her. And, as much as I'd hate to ruin Dickie's evening, it'll save me from having to entertain her.”

“Oh good!” Cornelia kissed his cheek.

“Tell me,” Charlie said. “How did you arrange for her to win it?”

“Oh, I had my maid switch the bowls. The one for the drawing has Payton's ticket over and over filling the bowl. It was so much work! Did you know there are one hundred and fifty women here and I had to replicate the tickets one hundred fifty times for each one of those tickets? I worked for three days on that!”

Charlie felt his desire come up. Damn it. Well, stiff upper lip. Make the most of it.

“Let's go to your room and fuck like rabbits!” Charlie said.

“Ooo!” Cornelia replied, and hurried in the direction of the stairs.

Charlie had to admit after he lay next to her, having taken her for the third time, that she did have a nicely built body. It certainly served its purpose. Charlie had taken her with a vengeance, throwing all his hatred into each thrust and she enjoyed every one of them with loud enthusiasm. Her large breasts slapped back and forth as he took her from behind.

“That was amazing!” Cornelia said.

“Yes,” he replied. He'd have to do hate sex more often. It was immensely satisfying. Charlie went to get up, then saw the plastic bags of small bits of paper in the closet.

“What are those?”

“Those? The tickets I made, silly. I told you, I had to make a hundred and fifty for each of one hundred fifty!”

“You didn't destroy them?”

“I haven't had time to get rid of them. I'll do it later. I need to get this sweat off me. Shower?”

Charlie laid back. “I'll join you in a minute.”

“Okay,” Cornelia said, and bounced off the bed, buttocks rippling as she trotted into the bathroom.

Christ! Could it be this easy? Charlie went to Cornelia’s tiny compact. She put everything in there that was important and temporary. Valet Tickets, Movie Passes, everything, and sure enough, her lottery ticket was there. Number 172. Charlie replaced it in the compact and dove into the closet. It took more time than he'd have liked, but he found the bag which held identical tickets, all of them numbered 172. This he placed in the inside pocket of his jacket. Surely it bulged, but that couldn't be helped. He had little time. Charlie dressed quickly, combed his hair and left the room.

The kitchen had only maids in it. The cooks were absent. Charlie had to wait for the room to clear before he went in. Next to the refrigerator, he found two bowls of tickets. One had repetitive number 199 on them. The other had mixed numbers. He emptied the one filled with repetitive tickets into the garbage chute and replaced those with the ones numbered 172, and made his way to the main hall.

Due diligence, Charlie thought. I've been slacking. The exchange could have happened already.

But Charlie found Simon Carver speaking with a banker from South Carolina Charlie recognized as Arnold Philips. He had no reason to approach the man, so he loitered near the bar and had a vodka Martini made. He saw Dickie Barnes and made his way to him.

“Did Miss Payton abandon you?”

“Not at all,” said Barnes. “At least, I hope not. She seemed to be having a good time.”

“Did she introduce you to Lord Billingston's son?”

“She did.”

“What about Simon Carver?”

“Yes, and I've been watching both. Except for when you were with Mr. Carver, I saw neither with Mr. Crown. Crown's been making polite rounds, and I've been watching him as much as I can. Nothing suspicious yet. Where did you go?”

“Cornelia was being a bitch, had to give her a spanking of sorts.”

“Ah... well, so long as she's around, you're stuck with her.”

“And you're stuck with Payton, I'm sure.”

“Lord, I hope so!”

“Bloody whipped already, you are.”

Dickie laughed. “There you are, Luv. Was worried.”

Payton smiled. “You shouldn't,” Payton said. “Charlie, is Cornelia up to something? She's got that look on her face like she is.”

“No more than usual,” Charlie said. “You know Cornelia,” he turned to Barnes. “Cornelia wants to watch me do your date from behind,” Charlie said to Barnes' horror. “I hope you'll make sure I don't have to.”

“Maybe she'll win the lottery and we can all be saved.”

Payton laughed for a moment with the two men, then abruptly stopped. “Christ!” Payton said. “Oh my god!”

“What?” Charlie and Barnes said in unison.

“My god,” Payton had genuine fear in her eyes. “What if she rigged it so I lose?”

Charlie smiled. “She's not that evil. She can't be.”

“Yes she is! You know she is!” Payton protested. “My god! She did! Didn't she! My god! Richard, I don't want to die!”

Charlie looked from her to Barnes, and back to her. Not going to help you, Miss Payton. You'll have to just live in terror till it's done.

Then he saw it. It was the banker! Arnold Philips carried a small pouch with him. As he walked passed Alber Crown he placed it on a small table with great discretion. Alber looked around, turned, retrieved it, and stuffed it in his inside jacket pocket with speedy grace. At another table not far away, Phillips picked up an identical pouch and carried it to Coulton Palmer? Not possible. Charlie smelled a ruse. They know we're here. Charlie looked around and saw no sign of Mr. Crown. The man had disappeared. Charlie cursed to himself. It had to be a ruse. Coulton had no connection at all to the BNT. This whole operation might have been a waste of time if Charlie couldn't find that contact. There was no doubt in Charlie's mind Coulton Porter was not him.

Charlie meandered about, greeting the random couple till Cornelia finally found him.

“Where did you go?” Cornelia asked. “I'm still all wet.”

“Sorry, my love,” Charlie said. “I just didn't have the energy. You wore me out.”

“Well,” Cornelia said. “You'd better have enough for later. I need you back inside me! You were a beast! Grrarrr!”

Charlie could have done more. He had enough stamina, he felt, to do several more rounds, as angry as he was at himself. Maybe he missed the real exchange. But if Dickie were true to his word, that hadn't happened. He needed to speak with him again. To confirm that Dickie had been on the case when he had not been.

The sound of a ringing glass caught everyone's attention.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” Mrs. Palmer called out. “As you know, we are having a midnight feast, and one of us ladies will be that feast! Maybe even me!” Her voice shook a bit. She was nervous. “So let's all gather, and gentlemen, please put your arms around your dates. All you single ladies, please come forward. If your name is called. You must not panic. I know I will!”

Two cooks wheeled a thick wooden butcher's table in, and a third held a spit. The table was quite elaborate. It was made of boards laminated together with a trench carved around it.

There was laughter, hearty and nervous all mixed. Cornelia’s was hearty. Charlie looked over to see Barnes with his arms around Payton. She was weeping, knowing what Cornelia had done.

“Gentlemen, if you so choose, you may have the honour of gutting your date. If you do not, my staff will do it for you professionally. It is up to you. My husband will undress and gut me if I am chosen.” She paused. “So, without further adieu... I'll draw the number!” A maid held the bowl at eye level, and Mrs. Palmer reached in. “And the winner is... Number 172!”

“What?” Cornelia said out loud. “That's not right. That can't be right!”

“Who is 172 dear?”

Mr. Palmer examined his clip board. “It's... oh... it's... it's...”

“Let me see that,” Mrs. Palmer said, a little annoyed, snatching the clip board from Mr. Palmer. “Cornelia Palmer!”

“NOOOOOO!” Cornelia shrieked. “Nooooo!”

Charlie was holding her tightly. She was struggling to get away. Dickie joined in restraining Cornelia

“Pleeeeease!” Cornelia sobbed. “Please don't kill me!”

Coulton Palmer approached his daughter. “It's al right, Cornelia You know the rules.” He was visibly choked up. Mrs. Palmer tried to console her daughter, but to no avail, she was making such a scene.

“Cornelia!” Mrs. Palmer raised her voice sternly. “Stop embarrassing us! This is your time!”

“But it was supposed to be Payton!” She wept.

Mrs. Palmer looked around with not a little shock on her face. “If you embarrass us any more... I swear, I'll have your head chopped off right now!”

Cornelia stopped at that, but continued to weep.

Charlie led the weeping girl to the table. The procession followed and people gathered close.

“You may undress her, Charlie,” Mr. Palmer said.

“Me?”

“You are her date.”

Cornelia was hugging herself as Charlie unzipped her strapless gown. She'd not put her underwear back on, he saw as it went past the cleft of her bottom. He took Cornelia’s hand and gently pulled it away from her shoulder, then the other, and the dress fell away, revealing her nakedness.

Charlie picked her up, and she let out a sob as he did, and lay her on the table. The three cooks went to work then, strapping her wrists to the table's upper corners and tying her ankles apart on a bar that they raised to expose her sex fully.

Charlie felt immense pity for the girl at this point. Such a waste, he thought. If only you were kinder, this might not have happened to you. You might have been married and had children, but no, you had to be a selfish, evil bitch.

He caressed her face, and bent town to kiss her as the cooks washed her skin and removed the stubble from between her legs. The crowd was murmuring now, watching with fascination as the girl's sex was cleaned. A douche at the end of a hose slid into her sex, then into her rectum, injecting water and sucking it out again through the hose and into a tank beneath the table. Finally, the cleaning was done, and the head cook offered Charlie a gutting knife.

Cornelia looked up at him with pleading eyes. He bent town, kissed her, then took the knife, and slit her open. He let the cooks extract her organs as she whimpered. There was no scream in pain, only whimpering. Like all the women there, she'd had her inhibitors. The blood was not over-much either, but the cook's hands were coveted with it as the brought out her intestines first the the rest of the abdominal organs.

Charlie took pity on her, and put his fingers over her sex, massaging it so that she was experiencing gentle orgasms. Cornelia simply started wide eyed at him, mouth agape, gasping at the sensation.

“Do you love me, Charlie?” she whispered.

Charlie simply smiled, then put his head to her ear and whispered back: “No.”

She began to cry again, squinting her eyes shut as the cooks guided the spit into her vagina, through her abdomen and into her oesophagus. When it came out of her mouth, she was silenced forever. She'd never again speak another vicious word to anyone.

Charlie was watching this happen, but something caught his eye. Elliot Billingston had moved next to Alber Crown on the opposite side of Cornelia’s table, and slipped something, Charlie could not see what, into Crown's jacket pocket so discretely it should never have been noticed. Billingston moved past Mr. Crown as if they knew each other not at all.

Four men. All worth watching. Elliot Billingston was the contact. He was connected to Lord Gregory Grayson through the marriage of his sister and Lord Grayson was under investigation for security leaks... it was too much to be a coincidence, far too much!

“Bloody shame about Cornelia!” Tony lamented two days later on Monday Morning. “Now we have to find another way into the house. Bloody hell. You did get all the bugs in place?”

“They're ready to be activated,” Charlie said.

“Are they securely placed?”

“I was very creative,” Charlie assured, and was charged with activation of every bug in the place. Likely it would clear Coulton Palmer of any connection to Alber Crown's affairs, but MI6 had to be thorough.

He had to work with a newly confident Dickie Barnes, who proved annoyingly smug following his third night with Payton Fouts.

“She's such a slut!” Dickie said. “She loves it up the in the mouth, up the arse, she can't seem to get enough of me. I swear I'll die of exhaustion if this keeps up. Oh, no, it has to be set to 114 Hertz or it won't work.”

“Of course,” Charlie said.

The masochist in him missed the witless battles with Cornelia She had cooked up well, however. Her soft muscles just the right tenderness. He'd let her father enjoy her fillet, having had enough of it, however.

It was early Tuesday Morning, late September. What was the date? 29^Th? Charlie emerged from the electronics closet where all local surveillance was routed to London, and went to the men's room. He had not slept since Sunday night, and needed a shower and a shave badly. If he left it go too long, his natural stubble would begin damaging his unnatural face. It had to be cared for carefully.

He went back to his desk to get his toiletry kit when Tony called him.

“Charlie! Did you see the news?”

“What news?”

“Lesbians were legalized yesterday!”

Charlie shook his head. “I beg your pardon?”

“It's true! The whole country is celebrating! Girls are kissing girls everywhere! But you have to see this! It's astonishing. Do you remember that case with the Food Unions in California? The one where they chopped off heads in that School? Guess who the reporter was?”

“I don't recall. Wall?”

“Wells! Samantha Wells! And guess who interviewed both Congresswoman Sanchez and Congressman Jackson, who were the movers and shakers behind this Lesbian Legalization!”

“Remind me!”

“Samantha Wells!” Tony said excitedly. “Remember that bit in California? The Food Worker's Union case? Well they're rioting! They tracked down that poor reporter and burned down her house!”

“What?”

“I told you this case bore watching!”

Charlie was lost. Tony's rantings were nonsensical, and Charlie was too exhausted to understand any of the connections Tony was making. Finally Barnes came to the rescue.

“Al right, so we have a reporter interview Congresswoman Sanchez of New Jersey, who is a rumoured lesbian. She asserts that she wants to legalize bisexuality, not lesbians, whatever difference there may be. Then the same reporter interviews Congressman Jackson, who is running for the U.S. Senate in California. Then this same reporter breaks a story about this butchery in her school. The Unions go berserk, then they riot on the very same day Sanchez and Jackson convene a special session of the Yank Congress, the President is right there to sign it into law, and the Union workers riot and burn down her house.”

“Precisely,” said Tony. “Precisely.”

“How can the two stories be connected?” Charlie asked.

“Well,” Tony said. “Why don't you find out during your journey to California.”

“I'm going to California?”

“Yes. Day after tomorrow to meet your new employer. Lord Grayson has hired you.”

There was a deceptive chill in this Northern California valley on this early October morning. From yesterday, Charlie knew that the valley in which he now stood would become quite hot during the day. It reminded him of desert weather. Cool or cold at night, unbearably hot during the day. Though, unlike the heat in Florida, this heat was a dry heat. Far more tolerable.

The chill, however, went straight through him. He had become too used to those sultry Florida nights to be comfortable. He took refuge in the Pete's Coffee on the second floor of the Livermore Municipal Airport terminal, ordered a cup of black Sumatra, and sipped it watching the aircraft, modern and vintage, take off and land.

A helicopter, a very sleek Sikorsky S-77C that probably seated eight comfortably, and twelve or more in a pinch, landed on the pad fairly close by. It whined in, it's engines surprisingly quite, and its rotors slowed, turning perhaps five RPM in idle, which pilots will do if take off is soon, but not very soon.

The two men in it emerged from the pilot and copilot's seats. To Charlie's eye they looked like father and son. They had the rugged appearance of cowboys in long sleeve plaid shirts and plain denim jeans. The elder had a shock of white hair, and the younger dark. Both looked wiry and fast. Charlie wondered if these two were not horse ranchers. Anyone with enough money to own a helicopter probably had enough to own horses as well. There were only fifteen thousand in the U.S. But the numbers were slowly improving. California had mostly Quarter Horses and Warm-bloods, but Charlie did not know in what numbers. It was a rich man's hobby and required a rich man's budget to keep them. These two men fit the part.

As Charlie watched the two men, his eye caught the landing of a Hawker 289 Executive landing on the runway. It was one of a new breed of pilot-less aircraft, guided by remote from the Hawker facility in Dunsfold, Surrey.

Charlie grabbed his travel bag, and headed to the tarmac.

There was, thankfully, no wind. Charlie came out of the terminal and onto the tarmac close to the helicopter he'd seen land. He stopped short and watched as the Executive Jet taxied and closed on his position, taking its place in the closest available parking space. When it stopped, Charlie began to approach, and noticed the two men from the Helicopter moving in the same general direction.

The hatch opened and Lord Grayson emerged.

“Charlie!” He called.

“My Lord,” Charlie called back.

“So good of you to come. Martin! Jake! Good to see you!'

“Hello Gregory!” The elder man, the one with the shock of white hair called back. “Thanks for dropping in on us. Sorry to re-order your schedule.”

“I've been away far too long,” Lord Grayson replied. “Misters Tucker, this is Charlie, my new man. He'll be acting as my valet for the duration of the trip.”

“He certainly looks tough enough,” said the elder Mr. Tucker. “Martin Tucker.” He offered his hand. “I'm not a lord, so please all me Mr. Tucker”

Charlie smiled. “Pleased to meet you, Sir. Mr. Tucker,” he nodded to Jake, who also offered his hand.

“Charlie,” Gregory said. “Would you mind helping Maureen out with the baggage. We she knows which ones are coming with us.”

“Of course, sir,” Charlie nodded and headed into the plane. “Miss Maureen, oh! I'm terribly sorry!”

Maureen stood there completely nude. “Don't worry, Mr. Gordon,” she said. “It won't be the last time you catch me naked. Gregory likes me that way when we're alone together. Come, I'll show you which bags to take.”

In short order, Charlie had the bags loaded on the Sikorsky, Maureen was dressed and Jake Tucker had the aircraft high above Livermore.

“So,” Lord Gregory said. “What is going on with Mulsquevich?”

“A change of ownership,” said Martin Tucker. “I only noticed it Monday, and I called Mr. Mulsquevich who told me he was forced out. We need to go in and make sure our data is secure. I want you there so you know what we're dealing with. It could be bad, it could be good, it could be a lot of things.”

“A change of ownership? How did it happen?”

“Forced takeover. That's why I'm worried. It was way too sudden. It just...”

“I understand,” nodded Lord Grayson. “How badly can we be hurt if someone gets access to the data?”

“Well, every single name of every single employee of Tucker-Klein and Tucker Engineering is held by that firm.”

“Oh dear,” Lord Grayson said. “So they'll immediately see where our people are!”

“Exactly. That's enough to tell whoever's looking where we operate and give them enough direction to expose everything! Could be bad.”

“Indeed. You were right to call me in. How long till we get there?”

“Jake,” Martin spoke to his son through a microphone. “What's our ETA to the city?”

“We'll land on the tower in three minutes,” Jake Tucker's voice sounded over the intercom speakers.

“If I may,” Charlie said. “Are we not going to the airport?”

“No,” Martin Tucker said. “The top of the tower at 101 California Street. We have to talk to a man named William Acres, and find out who he is and why he suddenly has access to very sensitive data!”

True to Jake Tucker's word, the helicopter landed almost to the second three minutes later. The landing gear rolled into locks that would keep it from blowing off the building in the high gusts. The wind was about 20 miles per hour at this altitude, but the high walls which protected the heli pad diminished that considerably. It took an extraordinary pilot to land on the top of a skyscraper, and Charlie's admiration for Jake Tucker was now secure.

The two older men chatted about family on the way down in the lift. Jake was recently married and Martin's second wife had bee the main course at that wedding.

“I miss her,” Martin said in a short breath. The pain in his voice was not at all lost on Charlie. Martin had found a woman worth loving, and now she was gone. They did exist in this country. At least on this coast.

“It's going to be a bit crowded at the house,” Martin also mentioned. “Jake's invited some unexpected guests.”

“My father means unwelcome guests,” Jake said. “The daughters of a very good friend. And by good, I mean the best. They had no place to go.”

“They're annoying.”

“They've been great, Dad! Christ, you've been ridiculously rude to them!”

“It's my house,” Martin said.

“So you keep reminding me.”

Thankfully, the lift came to a halt on the 34^th floor and the doors slid open, putting an end to the exchange.

Charlie, as per protocol, went first to insure his charges security, and led the men into the lobby area of Mulsquevich-Arnold Payroll. Martin Tucker exchanged words with the receptionist.

“Don't worry, Miss,” said Martin Tucker. “Mr. Acres will see us right the fuck now if he wants to keep our business. That way, Charlie.”

Charlie nodded and lead. The corridor led into a large office filled with cubicles. At the end of the isle was a very large set of double doors that obviously went to the executive office. A man came out with the fluid motion of someone who either danced, or had close combat training. He was in his mid to late 20s, dark hair, dark shadow on his face, though he looked shaven, six one, one hundred eight five pounds. He wore a slate grey wool suit of good quality. This man was not a dancer. He could easily handle a brute. But he would not stand against a highly trained killer. Charlie's eyes met his for the briefest instant, then the man looked past him, and his eyes went wide. The man ducked into a cubicle.

As Charlie passed that cubicle, he glanced at the man, who appeared to have called up a spreadsheet and was working on it.

Who are you? Charlie wondered. The man's odd behaviour bothered him, and Charlie opened the main office door, peaked inside seeing only a portly, balding man and a young Hispanic secretary. He moved aside to let Lord Grayson and the two Americans pass, keeping an eye on that cubicle. Before he went in, the man left that cubicle with a stack of papers. Were they blank? And proceeded down the isle in the opposite direction. Charlie cursed himself. He was not wearing a camera. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

It couldn't be helped. Charlie formulated the man's visage in his mind, attempting to recreate the face in a picture he could describe to an composite artist. Blast! He made a metal note to get the personnel files of everyone in that office. There was, indeed, something not at all right about this office.