A Spy Questioned

[Hubee]

I started this story a long time ago, and at one time it was a lot longer. I'd like to find a female writer to complete the story with, either here in this thread or by message or email.

In some ways this is almost an audition for the role of co-writer, based on your follow on from this (long) introduction.

(If I've done this in the wrong place, or there is a better forum, please let me know)

The line moved slowly. Even by the standards of the old Communist days this would have been considered a slow queue. The reforms of the so-called democratic era seemed to have had little impact on this particular Customs
Officer.

So the smartly dressed American businesswoman sucked in a deep breath and
tried to stay calm.

‘Only three people in front', she thought to herself, ‘Nearly there.' It was not as if she hadn't seen it before. Business in the old Eastern Bloc had been good for her in the past 5 years, a trip every couple of months and always coming back with plenty of orders. But she could just never get used to the pace of life in these places, especially when dealing with government officials. Of course it was always going to be worse today because...............

'Don't go there Anna!'

The inner voice snapped her into an upright posture. She smothered the
instinct to look around.

'Act calm, look calm, feel calm.' She repeated to herself, a mental mantra to try and rein in her galloping nerves. 'Just like every time before', she told herself. Only it wasn't.

In an attempt to distract her racing thoughts she checked her ticket and
passport for the umpteenth time - still in her purse.

'Calm Anna, calm.' But she could still feel her heart hammering in her rib cage. 'Pray God it doesn't show,' she thought.

With a loud clunk the Customs Officer stamped the passport of one departing
visitor and the line shuffled forward. Anna kicked her hand luggage ahead of herself and whispered, 'Only two more'. The ageing heating system battled against the chill air in the draughty, hanger-like space of the departure hall. Despite this Anna felt a slow rivulet of sweat trickle between her shoulder blades. She fought the desire to chew her nails until another victim of the queue was processed. 'Just one more.'

Now the feeling of being watched - bad since she arrived in the country -
grew stronger.

'You're getting paranoid in your old age Annie. Get a grip. Just like every time before.' She tried to reassure herself. But the closer she got to passport control the less she was able to shake the feeling. She wanted to look around and see whose eyes where burning her neck.

'Keep still, keep still, keep it together, nearly there.'

After several more life times it was her turn. The spotty young man on the
Passport control desk insolently and indolently gestured her forward. He took the proffered passport without even looking at her. For Anna time slowed and her senses seemed to betray her. Every sound came from miles away yet her vision took in every detail. She saw the dirt under the fingernails of the youth as his hand grasped her passport, the frayed cuffs of the shirt protruding from the sleeves of the ill-fitting brown uniform jacket, the fine hairs on the back of his hand. Her nostrils picked up the scent of cheap tobacco, onions and body odour.

All these considerations faded away as she watched him pick up the official stamp and slowly raise it above her passport.
At that moment several things happened at once. Through her peripheral vision she saw another hand reach for her passport and felt someone take
hold of her elbow. She heard a voice telling the boy to,

'Give me the spy's papers'. Still in seeming slow motion she turned, and looked up.

The man grasping her elbow towered over her, she could feel his strength in the hand that held her, she could see it in the width of his shoulders and sense it in the set of his muscular body. She was still prepared to resist, to shrug off his grip, to protest loudly and make a scene. She was prepared to do all this until she met his gaze, and was pierced by ice blue eyes that were as devoid of feeling, of humanity, as a pair of diamonds – and just as lovely.

'You will come with me Miss Anna.' She felt everything drain from her at once, all the tension, all resistance - all hope. She surrendered her will and allowed herself to be lead out of the airport to large black Mercedes. Her captor helped her into the back seat and got in after her.

Slumping in the back seat Anna had time to notice that there were no handles on the insides of the doors before the car pulled away with a
self-important and unnecessary squeal of tyres. She risked a glance at the tall man sitting beside her. He was staring at her, studying her, she could not look away.

'I hope you are going to be co-operative Miss Anna.', he said in accentless
English.

'I do so hope that we won't have to resort to any unpleasantness during our upcoming.........' He paused, 'what is the word you use........debriefing.'

Anna finally tore her eyes from his with a shudder. She had never before heard words spoken with less sincerity. She nearly wailed in despair as the car roared through the night to an unknown destination.

'Oh my God, oh my God, oh my Go............................'

The panic of the moment, helpless, being "spirited away", was almost more than she could grasp. She tried to reduce it to a single detail - her eyes finding the handle-less car door time and again. The coldness of the man beside her, with his flat yet somehow piercing stare, made her shiver. Her mind was racing as fast as her heart, replaying the scene in the airport, trying to remember exactly what had been said, or what could have gone wrong.

Anna tried to think what an innocent person would do - should she protest more, be indignant? Should she act as if this was all just some annoying delay? Or would too much protest only seem insincere, like false bravado - wouldn't anyone be afraid, suddenly hauled out of the airport, forced into a car? The problem was trying to imagine what this would be like to someone who hadn't imagined it before.

"Where are you taking me?" It didn't come out quite as demanding as she intended, but the trace of fear was reasonable too, wasn't it? It was very real after all

The man, of course, said nothing. He studied her intently for a moment, then turned to look out the window.

"What's going on here?" A little more indignant then - but still greeted
only by his indifference. Did he somehow know she was guilty? How could he? Or was it simply that he didn't care. Anna shivered again.

The driver pushed the car at needlessly high speed, skirting the edge of the city, through an ugly industrial section, then turning away from the lights of town. He pulled up to what looked almost like a warehouse - except for the high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire around it.
There was a gate, and an armed man in uniform stepped out to talk to the driver, then waved them through. She couldn't make out any of the words they used.

The driver pulled up to a side door, then stopped the car. He got out and stepped around to open the door for the blue-eyed man in the back seat. She heard them murmuring outside, and then the man walked around the car and opened her door. He reached in his hand.

"This way, Miss Anna," he said.

She reached for his hand to help her out of the car, for a second almost grateful it was him, and not a stranger. She caught herself, reminding herself that he WAS a stranger - and "identifying" with him at all was a mistake: he was not her friend. Instead of her hand, he again took her elbow, ‘helping’ her out of the car, but with a grip that seemed more intended to prevent her from running. He led her up a short flight of metal steps, and into the building. She had a moment to notice that the driver was taking her luggage from the boot.

'Like a hotel porter', was her incongruous thought.

He led her to a small, dimly lit room. It had a table with two chairs on one side, and one on the other. He sat her in the one, still without saying a word. He left the room again, but the driver stayed, obviously now a guard and no longer a driver, just inside the door. He was an ugly man, thick and brutish-looking. He stared at Anna as she sat at the table.

After what seemed an eternity, there was finally a sound at the door. It turned out to be only another guard, who took the driver's place at the door.

It was another three eternities before, with no warning at all, the door opened, and the man with the ice blue eyes returned. He sat at the desk, across from me, the chair beside him empty. His cold stare studied me for some time before he spoke. . .

HIM

I watched the accumulation of fear take it's toll. The arrest at the airport had been timed to build the tension, the drive in the car had been longer than necessary, the silence and the stares were all having their effect. I saw a facial tic pulse under your eye as you tried to maintain the facade, the act. I was already tired of it. 'Time to crack her' I thought to myself - 'it wont take long.'

“OK Miss Anna.........'

“It's Decent”, you snap back.

I pause, shocked by your anger I ask, almost polite, “I beg your pardon?”

“My name is Anna Decent. I get called Anna or Annie or Miss Decent. It is not correct English to say 'Miss Anna’."
Again I paused, to reappraise you. Had I underestimated you? This outburst is evidence of more spirit than I had given you credit for. Perhaps you will not be so easy after all. I felt a familiar thrill at this prospect. Hopefully without letting any of these thoughts or emotions show on my face I continue.

“As I was saying Miss Anna let us get down to business. You could waste a lot of my time dancing around here, trying to stick to your cover story, proclaiming your innocence and demanding to see the Ambassador. But the facts are that you are spy, a courier. I have pictures of you making contact with members of your ring. I have proof that you took information from them and I have proof that you paid them.

“I have a dossier on you that is several inches thick. I know everything there is to know about you, from your government payroll number, your shoe size, to the names of all your lovers and even what your childhood pets were called. I know things about you even you don't know. So don't try to pretend.”

I kept my gaze on you throughout my speech. I was not seeing the reaction I had expected. You are tougher than I had thought.

“With that out of the way we can get to the heart of the matter and you can save me even more time. I want the information you received from Andropov. If you have not used some other means of removing it from my country it will either be in your luggage or on your person. In case it is the latter we will need to search you Miss Decent, a very.... thorough (I could not keep the relish out of my voice at this word) search.

“You have a choice, co-operate with the search or...............not. Which will it be?'

HER

My mind was racing, trying to take it all in. He had evidence, he said, all the proof he needed. I tried to think if this might be lucky guessing – if I'd only been *seen* with Andropov. Maybe that was it. They were watching him, and had seen me meet him - the rest was just a bluff. It HAD to be, if they thought I had anything with me!

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I say, forcing myself to meet your eyes.

You sighed and nodded to the guard, trying to look disappointed. But I could see the glint of excitement in your ete

I remembered something I read once, about systematic torture in South America. (Strange book list I get with this job) It was an interview with one of the interrogators. He’d said all questioning began with stripping away the clothes. Men were always forced to strip themselves, the interrogator said; because being stripped allowed them to resist, and they were more accustomed to roughness. Women, on the other hand, were more used to stripping themselves - even seductively - so they were always forcibly stripped. The inquisitor has summarised the theory by saying that interrogations were ‘all about power’.

“If you insist on this charade," I said, making my mind up and standing quickly, scraping my chair back, "let's get it over with."

I took off my jacket, and placed it on the desk. My words and been bold words - but now what? I don't really feel like I have any power over you, or that I am taking control! Still, you can't be certain I'm a spy - can you? No. So submitting myself to a search can't hurt my cause.

That's what I told myself, unbuttoning the cuffs of my blouse, and pulling it untucked from my skirt. I even managed to undo the buttons down the front, and open it. It's a little harder to slip it off my shoulders, and stand in the cool room in only my bra.

The guard at the door has an idiot grin - but you only look bored, and mildly impatient. I step out of my shoes, and reach to my left hip to unfasten the skirt. It all seems to be going very quickly. The short zipper is down, I'm stepping out of the skirt - and suddenly I'm only in thigh-high stockings, white panties and bra, and the room is cold.

I had really begun to doubt this "power" of undressing myself theory by this point! I put my right foot on the chair, and unrolled that stocking. The guard hasn't missed an inch of me - I glanced back at you, and felt like I could have been a fly buzzing against the window, for all your apparent interest.

I was running out of clothing – and courage; and no apparentadvantage yet! I tried to make more of a point, tried harder for some sort of reaction, with the other stocking, pointing my toe a bit, letting my hands run more slowly over the length of my thigh, the curve of my calf. In the end, it was just another thing to drop on the table.

"So?" I said, holding out my arms. "Am I hiding anything?"

"I believe I told you this was to be a thorough search, Miss Anna," you said, sounding bored.

I couldn’t quite hide the blush. I knew - I mean, I’d imagined, that things might come to this – but....

"Shouldn't there be a woman present?" I asked.

"Your concerns about your rights and the correct search process are noted," you said with a heavy sigh and large dollops of irony.

"In due course, you may even file a grievance with the proper authorities – but in the mean time, let's just get on with it, shall we?"

It suddenly occurred to me that the South American, whoever he was, was an amateur compared to you.

The idea that there might be a "due course" in which to file a grievance might have been encouraging – under other circumstance. Right here and now the menace looms very real.

I reached behind myself, both hands up and behind to unfasten my bra, making me feel even more defenceless. I let it slide off my arms, and placed it on the desk with my other clothes. I looked at the floor, out of other options I bent to slide down my panties. In the cold, my nipples were stiff, thickening - the centre of a small ring of bumps on my puckered aureoles. I stepped out of the panties and straightened up, before dropping them on the desk.

The guard guffawed, and I unsuccessfully tried to fight another slight blush. I turned slightly away from him - but that meant I turned towards you. I watched as your eyes run slowly down my body.

"You are not naturally blonde then?" you asked.

"Of course I am!" I answered, without thinking.

"Ah," you said, "then you shave your sex for pleasure."

"No - I - I - "

"Place your hands on the desk, palms down."

I put my hands flat, leaning forward slightly, aware of my breasts dangling, swaying a bit - perhaps you are not so stony as you seem and that will make you react? But you only nodded to the guard, who stepped up behind me.

He kicked my bare feet wider apart, forcing me down, bent more over the desk. His hand slapped roughly up between my legs, and he thrust a finger inside me. I gasped, slumping to my elbows on the desk. He worked the finger deep, then pulled it out again.

At that moment I looked up into your eyes, knowing you could stop him, silently begging you with my eyes for some form of mercy. But I see nothing there - only your emotionless, clinical observation.

Once again I couldn’t break away from your gaze, so I was looking right at you when the finger comes back, higher – before it is jammed into my anus. I jumped at the pain, but, still staring at you, I refused to cry out.

I felt the tears welling in my eyes but through my blurred vision I see the first sign of a reaction from you. I see a hint of a smile at my obvious discomfort, and a trace of excitement.

“You’re enjoying this, you bastard.” I think to myself. “So you *are* human?” Then I wonder how that is better than you being some sort of emotionless machine

The guard wiggled his finger around before yanking it out, making me wince again. Behind me I could almost hear him shake his head, 'Nyet'. I watch as you give the slightest shrug.

"We'll see," you said enigmatically. You waved your hand, dismissing the guard. He left - but not before gathering my clothes from the desk and carrying them away. I saw his finger as he grabbed my clothes, and it crossed my mind to burn them rather wear them again - and then I wondered if I'd ever be in a position to.

You told me to stand, and I lifted my hands off the desk, straightening up, feeling a tear trickle out of my eye, but refusing to blink it away.

You leant back in your chair - studying me, as ever.

"We can continue here, or move to other - less comfortable - places," you said. "But it would save a lot of time if you just told me what I want to know, Miss Anna."

"My name is Anna Decent - " I said, suddenly wishing I had a rank and
serial number to go along with my name. "I have no idea what you're talking about, or why I'm here, or what any of this is about."

All this time, I'm concentrating on one thing - if you think I had the
information from Andropov, then you must not know I was only delivering his money. And not even physically the cash - just the number of the account it would be deposited in. Which means you can't know it will be 24 hours before he's satisfied it's there, and THEN delivers the information to. . .

I just need to keep my mouth shut for 24 hours

"Have it your way, Miss Anna," you said - with just the slightest hint of a smile that chilled me to the core. . .