Condor Page 7

  She should have known better than to ask him. They were halfway down the cargo bay, inspecting each of the destroyed helicopters as they went.

  Jeremy proceeded to answer the wrong question. “Every single helo shows the same pattern. There was heavy fire damage, then each airframe was subjected to a high-pressure blast event originating near the front of the aircraft.” He lined up five separate parts—chunks of shredded metal—on the cargo deck.

  “That’s the nose section of a Kamov Ka-52 Alligator.” She’d know it anywhere—one of those had nearly killed her in Syria.

  Jeremy made a note to that effect, then photographed the parts lying together. “Am I seeing it? They all exhibit the same burn pattern, before they were torn apart by the blast. Fire, then explosion. Yes, I’m seeing that.”

  “No, Jeremy, are you seeing… Never mind. You’re right. Well done.” But she couldn’t stop looking forward to where Miranda and Major Swift were kneeling side by side and practically playing pat-a-cake together.

  How fast had Miranda integrated their brief Q-and-A talk? No time for Holly to give her warnings or maybe some guidelines. What trouble had Holly unwittingly sent her into?

  What trouble had she unwittingly let her prior team fall into so that—

  “Well, we’ve got the perimeter staked,” Mike came up and reported with little Ms. I’m-Acting-So-Cute by his side. “What’s with her skipping the debris field?”

  “You know our Miranda,” Holly managed against a dry throat. No longer sure that she did.

  “Not when I see her so cozy with Jon. They make a cute couple.”

  Holly managed not to groan at the load of doubt weighing her down. “Look, Mike, whatever’s going on up there…shit, I don’t know. How about you grab a couple of hard hats and see if you two can go back and locate the black box? Maybe start getting eyewitness jabber from some of the fire crews before they all leave.”

  Many of the engines were indeed gone. But several were gathered around the area where the tail section had collapsed on top of two of the Striker fire trucks.

  “Sure. Come on, Elayne. Oh, there’s one crash investigation I’ve got to tell you about.”

  Holly kept an ear out as they moved away. Mike had damn well better remember what was classified and what wasn’t. Both of their prior investigations for the military had indeed required their entire team’s top-secret clearance. And Holly, at least, still remembered how fast Elayne had slapped for the gun she didn’t have.

  “There was this Beech King Air that somehow landed—”

  Civilian. Unclassified.

  Holly tuned him out. Sure, that investigation would make a good story. In fact, she’d be sorry to miss his rendition of it; Mike was a skilled storyteller, making it easy to laugh.

  A laugh would be really good right now.

  Then she glanced forward in time to see Major Swift helping Miranda to climb onto the back of the inverted crew section.

  Did Miranda even have a clue?

  16

  Gregor Federov chose the location to place his call carefully.

  Tantsy Bobor was just the place he needed. He liked the name because it required knowing English slang to get it. No Russian would waste his time checking out a non-descript place called the Dancing Beaver—faded lettering on a battered, unpainted door between a butcher and a shoe store, that led down into a basement.

  Kiska, pizda, manda? Kitty, pussy, quim? Any of those names and the place would be thick with loud drunks. But those were Russian words for a woman’s best part. Beaver was American slang.

  The owners knew the kind of people they wanted when they’d named it.

  Many people at the factory for Progress Rocket Space Centre in Samara were bilingual. It helped in the study of stolen American designs. The clientele at the Tantsy Bobor were still loud, drunk Russians—but they were smart, well-paid, loud, drunk Russians.

  Members only, too.

  And the décor was well done. The fittings were modern. The bar selection and kitchen both top notch. The central stage was brightly lit, but the table area was dim enough that he could safely ignore that asshole from optics without offending him as Gregor passed his table. Thumping Russian rock and roll added to the imagined privacy by making conversation impossible beyond a few meters.

  And the caliber of the waitresses and floor show was incredible. Even the leather-strap-clad She-Hulk former-Olympian weightlifter who tended bar was a treat to look at.

  He chose a corner table that put his back to two walls so that no one could look over his shoulder.

  Vesna, his favorite, with black hair down to her exceptional ass and skin so pale she looked like an angel, came up and took his order in nothing but her high heels, thong, and her hair brushed forward. She shimmied to the throbbing beat of the hard-pumping music as she offered to join him.

  “Later? For now, a vodka and an American burger. Very rare.”

  She left him after rubbing a hand slow and hard over his jean’s crotch, knowing it would make him ache for her. Watching her walk away, the view interrupted by only the thin line of her black G-string, was one of the great pleasures of the Tantsy Bobor.

  The owners also offered free, high-bandwidth Wi-Fi, protected with a very robust VPN.

  Most guys who surfed here streamed porn. Which seemed ridiculous as he watched Avelina start getting it on with Ludmilla on the raised platform at the center of the place.

  If they were faking it, they were incredibly good at it.

  Then Marta joined them, too wild for his personal taste but so fun to watch. things really started rocking.

  They made a whole show of putting on a pair of double-ended strap-ons, lubricating them, and eventually taking Avelina front-and-back simultaneously. Definitely not pretend. She clung and groaned as they set upon her. He hadn’t seen them do that before, and he watched long enough that he missed Vesna delivering his meal.

  Gregor thought about calling her back to take care of his throbbing ache as the stage show escalated, but he had other matters to attend to first.

  He pulled out his phone, plugged in a set of earbuds, then used the protection of the Tantsy Bobor’s VPN to launch the Onion browser into the Dark Web. There he picked up an anonymous dialer that made him look as if he was in Malaysia, before keying in a number from memory.

  “Monster!”

  “Beastmaster!”

  They’d agreed to never use each other’s names, despite the precautions.

  Clarissa Reese had tagged him with Monster the first time he’d revealed the scale of the endowment that nature had blessed him with for pleasing women.

  He’d tagged her as Beastmaster for the creative things she’d thought to do while taming the Monster. Even the exquisitely skilled Vesna couldn’t match what the tall American blonde could do to his body.

  “It has been too long.”

  “It has,” he sighed. They’d both been much younger when he’d managed to rent a cozy, but very private, summer dacha along the Black Sea. They’d made very full use of their week.

  Everything from coating each other in slippery oils (something she called a Mazola Roller) to bondage to eating meals off each other’s bodies; it was a time he dreamed of often and expected they would never repeat. Since then, nothing but phone sex. Glorious phone sex, but still, he kept hoping.

  “What are you watching, Monster? I can hear the music.”

  He tapped the icon to select the camera on the phone’s back and held it up for her.

  Gregor watched Clarissa’s smile grow as Avelina peaked and thrashed with the power of her orgasm. Ludmilla and Marta locked lips over Avelina’s shoulder and kept going as they continued seeking their own releases against the woman pinned between them.

  “Oh, you naughty boy.”

  “Gives me ideas, Beastmaster.”

  And she looked just a little sad. “I’m sorry, Monster. Life has intervened.”

  He’d known it was over, even if he hadn’t wanted to really
admit it. But now the time he’d known was coming had arrived. It was just as well; meeting a CIA agent for sex, even the best sex of his life, was too risky. But at least he still had the memories. Besides, Vesna was an artist and would take care of his fantasies—or at least most of them.

  He kept the phone on the escalating show and enjoyed watching Clarissa’s breathing quicken.

  He didn’t mind, too much, that it was over. “I have a present for you, Beastmaster. Just for old time’s sake. Worth it just to see you again.”

  “Make it quick. I have a lunch meeting soon.” And her tone said exactly what kind of a lunch meeting. Or maybe she was just teasing him?

  He flipped the image so that she could see him again.

  “Spoilsport. It was just getting good.”

  “The newest Persona surveillance satellite is done, and being packaged for a Vostochny launch.”

  Clarissa’s blue eyes were suddenly very intent. Her face took on that look of perfect concentration that she always had the moment before exploding into orgasm. He tapped the screen capture so that he’d always have that image. Then he encrypted it and sent it to his Dark Web storage locker so that not even the FSB would be able to find it.

  “That is so interesting, Monster.”

  “I thought you might like it. It’s the same family as the Kosmos 2506, but with upgraded optics. We can’t match your resolution of ten centimeters per pixel…” He left a pause in case she wanted to boast about what the Americans could actually resolve now. No, so he continued as if he hadn’t paused at all. “but we’re down to twice that. Thirty percent improvement.”

  Vesna was headed back his way. Once again, he tapped the camera icon to give Clarissa a view.

  “Oh my, have her do a turn, Monster.”

  He signaled her and Vesna did a languid spin to the music, making her long hair swirl much the way Clarissa’s always did when she let it down. Oh! That explained why he’d always been so partial to Vesna despite the coloring difference from the Beastmaster. Both were remarkably beautiful women, with absolutely amazing hair.

  “She’s lovely,” Clarissa agreed. “I have no time for phone sex, so I’ll give you just a quick little gift. Next time you have her, imagine that we’re both there. A little virtual ménage.”

  That was a nice image.

  “Oh, here’s lunch,” and Clarissa flipped her camera.

  No, she wasn’t teasing about the type of lunch she’d be having…stud male. A tall, handsome man, about his own age and wearing a three-piece suit, was stepping through her office door. No question about what kind of meal he was expecting as he made a point of locking the door behind him.

  “Think about the same from me,” Gregor offered. “Two men to tame the Beastmaster.” Not that he’d be willing to lie next to another man, even with her in the middle.

  “Always a pleasure,” she said it formally, which was fine. She had company. He knew she meant the words, not the tone. So, their future was to be relegated to occasional phone sex—at least he hoped that wasn’t off the table. Clarissa offered exceptional phone sex and he always looked forward to it.

  He hung up, pocketed his phone, and opened an arm for Vesna to slide in beside him. He stroked her lovely hair as she planted a nuzzle and kiss on his neck and a palm between his legs.

  Should he imagine Vesna and Clarissa going down on him together?

  Perhaps have the blonde Avelina fill in the role?

  He looked to the stage and watched her reach a second shuddering peak. Her breasts were nice, if a bit small, but her hair was all wrong—deeply gold-blonde and cut severely straight at the jaw, almost boyish.

  No, just the two of them: him and Vesna. Then he’d imagine the Monster and the Beastmaster together as a team, both going down on Vesna. Oh yes. That was good. Maybe he could get Clarissa to phone in and they’d both wear headphones. He and Clarissa had always made love in Russian, which was good because Vesna had only the poorest English.

  He’d have to save that fantasy for later, though.

  For now, Vesna undid his pants and lay her head in his lap. When he looked, the trio on stage had shifted. Now Avelina was taking a kneeling Marta from behind with long, powerful strokes of her own strap-on while Ludmilla strutted about, enticing the crowd to cheer them on.

  The stage lights revealed sheens of sweat on all their bodies. They were as heated as he was.

  Vesna was taming the Monster like never before, as he finger-brushed her lovely black hair in long, liquid strokes.

  All the while, Gregor imagined himself and the American Beastmaster, with flowing hair the color of sunshine, at their cozy summer dacha swimming naked in the Black Sea.

  17

  Clarissa rose from her chair and moved to meet Clark. In some ways, he was now a better lover than Gregor Federov had ever been.

  He didn’t have nearly the natural equipment that Gregor had, but it had made Gregor a very single-focus man—where could he place his self-declared Monster and how many times? His stamina had been remarkable, which had been a nice compensation, but his imagination had been lacking. And he was very Russian, so didn’t take hints or even outright suggestions very well.

  She’d have been just as happy to never hear from him again. But due to that one bit of information on the Persona satellite, she’d definitely have to keep stringing him along. Too bad he had insisted on verbal communication only. No documentation, images, or transmissions of anything else that he could be caught with, which meant no detailed design plans.

  But his payment was easy. A man with no country one way or the other—his price for information was merely anything that entertained his Monster.

  Clark was a staunch American patriot, who also had a different focus. Just like any hetero-male, he enjoyed nothing so much as being inside a woman. But he was also fascinated by the rest of her body. At first, it had just been her breasts, but he was open to suggestion. She’d taught him that there was so much more to be had if it was properly appreciated. And he definitely had imagination about where to go once told where to begin.

  “How are you settling in?” Clark’s voice was pleasantly deep, enough to make her gut clench in a nice way. Nice, too, that he asked.

  It was her first day in Clark’s old office.

  She hadn’t done much yet to make it hers. Perhaps she wouldn’t.

  People would see the continuity of the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency’s office embodied in the broad cherrywood desk, the dark leather chairs, and the view toward the Potomac and Washington, DC. It was a very masculine room. It might be a sensible play for the youngest-ever Director (by a couple decades), and only the second-ever female, to keep that look and feel.

  “I’m doing fine,” she straightened his tie though it didn’t need it.

  Clark always liked the gesture, finding it affectionate. It was the last thing she did for him on any morning after they’d spent the night together. As essential as the parting kiss and the pat on her ass.

  “How about you, Mr. Vice President Clark Winston?” Her plan had worked beautifully. The former D/CIA was a popular man, well-liked by both the President and Congress. His replacement for the disgraced VP had been almost automatic…once she’d arranged to have it suggested to President Cole.

  Clark’s own recommendation had carried most of the weight in her own selection and approval.

  Though she hadn’t held the Bible for Clark’s swearing-in ceremony, she’d made sure she was front row and at his side for every photograph before and after. She’d taken a note from prior Second Ladies at such events and dressed in a demure yet elegant sky-blue two-piece with a single strand of pearls. Time to start making her own mark. Dowdy, but on point for the American public.

  “I can’t complain for a second. I just moved into the VP Mansion this morning. I can’t wait to show it to you…every room.” His gentle stroke of her breast and the slow circles he drew with his thumb through the wool of her Altuzarra double-breasted blazer t
old her exactly what he hoped to do in each room.

  The Queen Anne Victorian at One Observatory Circle had eight rooms on the ground floor alone—if you counted the garage, which she didn’t, and the pantry, which she just might. Though maybe Clark wasn’t ready for that yet.

  But their first time together in the mansion would be in the Vice President’s bedroom.

  Actually, that would be for her ego.

  For his?

  Perhaps one of the landings of the central staircase? “Oh, I just can’t wait until we’re upstairs to have you. I’m simply so proud of you.”

  As if he’d ever have gotten there without her.

  Yes. It was always good to remind a powerful man just how powerful he was.

  The stairs were carpeted and the stately historic space could use a little lively sex in it.

  “I can’t wait.” She trapped his hand against her breast as she kissed him.

  “Can you leave early? Take the afternoon off?” He made a partial move toward the door, but she kept him in place by his hand.

  “Tonight’s soon enough.” There was too much work to be done. For one, she had to think of what best to do with Gregor’s tidbit of information. However, there was something she wanted to do as her first “official” act as the D/CIA. For herself.

  She turned slowly. His pinned hand drew him toward her, reeling him in as she turned. When he pressed up against the back of her, she could feel his arousal.

  His free hand slid around her waist rather than grabbing her other breast. Clark really was a decent man; she’d have to be careful to always remember that.

  Together they looked out the one-way glass. No one could see into the D/CIA’s windows.

  Her windows.

  This view was what mattered. This view and the two of them together just taking it in.

  Okay, she looked out. Clark was too preoccupied with nuzzling her neck.

  But she wanted to stand like this for a moment and just let it all in. So many pieces of her future were coming together today.

  The Director of the Central Intelligence Agency’s office was now hers.