Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.
A/N: Beta'd by BookQ36, to whom all due thanks for her hard work!
She glanced through the dossier. Her gaze ran down the notes, lingered briefly on the photograph and went on to the qualifications.
"Impressive," she commented.
Her boss nodded. The suggestion of a smirk played around his mouth. "That's the idea."
She'd had far too much experience to be surprised, but there was still a faint stir of disquiet. "If they find out..."
"They won't. All you have to do is play out the line. He'll bite. And then you know what to do."
Her instructions were detailed and specific. She felt neither distaste nor compunction. It was just another dirty little job, though she looked again at the photograph and noted distantly that this one would have its compensations.
Despite her boss's confidence in her, however – justified by the results of many previous operations, most of which had been far more demanding than this one – she still felt it hard to dismiss her almost formless misgivings. The Section wouldn't be the only people who kept an eye on prospective talent. Her intended victim's own Government had its own equivalent, whose operatives weren't idle in that regard. They would not take kindly to 'poaching' in their territory. Repercussions, if it was discovered, would not be political, would not even be vocal, but repercussions there would certainly be.
Another envelope was tossed on to the desk. It would contain all the things she needed: chief among them her hotel bookings, travel documentation, a passport that certainly hadn't been issued through the regular channels, a quantity of money, and a complete set of ID which did not contain a single word of truth, but which computer records would confirm as being absolutely genuine.
"You'll take no weapons with you," said the man at the other side of the desk, sitting back comfortably. "At least, nothing that could be traced back to us. And I'm sure I can trust you to avoid a diplomatic incident."
"I've never caused one yet." She slid the envelope into the dossier and slipped both into the blank buff envelope.
He did no more than nod. If she messed up, she was on her own. There would be no acknowledgement of her identity from the Section, and no help either.
Neither of them bothered with parting speeches. Moments later she was in the corridor outside, heading towards the outer doors and the summer sunshine.
It would be considerably colder in England. She'd better pack the appropriate clothing. In more ways than one.
Someone had certainly done their homework.
The University was about to close for the summer holidays, and the area was full of light-hearted students letting their hair down. For those completing their third year, there was a particular sense of release, underpinned of course with anxiety until their final grades were announced.
It wasn't everyone who had their exam papers quietly passed through a scanner and sent for examination in another country even before the year's batch was sent off to independent assessors for marking. But then, the particular candidate whose papers were of such unaccountable interest to a department of a foreign government fitted a highly specific set of requirements.
His career path was marked out in front of him. The Special Boat Service were waiting to gather him in. His family were Royal Navy to the core, and there was no reason whatsoever why he shouldn't follow the tradition; he made no secret of the fact that that was his intention.
Along with his intention to have a girl in every port. Preferably rather more than one, and not only decently one at a time.
He was working along those lines when she finally tracked him down, in a pub not far from the University's Halls of Residence. He was in a crowd of students, and he had a young woman in each arm. From time to time he whispered something to one or the other, something that made them giggle.
She bought herself a glass of white wine and found a seat from which she could keep him under observation.
Considering that it had been taken without his knowledge, the photograph hadn't been bad. It had caught the intelligence, the flicker of sly humor. It hadn't done justice to his air of confidence, and to the sexuality he exuded. He hadn't yet grown into the man's body he would have in a couple of years; there was still the last lingering coltishness in the slight frame. Nevertheless, she was in no doubt that there would, indeed, be compensations in this particular assignment.
In the rowdy, raucous atmosphere of the pub, no one was as cautious as they should have been. She'd already made it her business to establish where the security cameras were. For someone with her skills, it was child's play to slip a couple of drops from a tiny bottle into the right glasses unobserved as she passed them, ostensibly on the way to the toilet; the girls were already tipsy and giggly, and swigged gulps of their drinks without heed.
He watched them, of course. Drunk and passed out would be no fun for him at all.
His gaze slid across hers as he whispered in one ear. If she'd been imaginative she might have thought a devil looked out of his eyes, but then she was quite a few steps ahead of him in that respect. Whatever he was, it was nothing to what he'd be one day, if she was successful.
The blonde giggled. "I've never–"
"All the more reason to try it now, then." She caught his voice this time, low and seductive, its English accent pronounced. "I promise you you'll enjoy it."
The last of the doctored drink flowed down. The muscles in the slender throat moved smoothly. "Aw, why not." More giggles, but as she stepped forward she staggered. "God, how many have I had?"
"Not that many." He held her up, though he didn't let go of the redhead in his other arm. "Come on, we haven't far to go. And then you won't have to stand up for the rest of the night."
"You will, though!" the other girl slurred. "Think y'can manage it?"
"Oh, I'm sure I can." He grinned slyly, like a fox, and ran his tongue suggestively around his lips.
More raucous laughter.
The three of them went out into the night. After a couple of moments, she followed them unobtrusively.
After the heat of the bar, the air outside was cool. The change would accelerate the effect of the drug. She only had to wait for the inevitable.
The soles of her shoes were specially treated. She could walk as soundlessly as snow falling, and her dark clothing blended into the shadows.
Almost at once the problems began.
At first they found it funny, but the drug was too strong. The two girls began to lurch and then to stagger, and his initial amusement segued quickly into irritation. "Christ, you haven't had that much –! Can't either of you two hold your bloody drink?"
Evidently they couldn't. Soon he was all but carrying them. Fortunately he'd been right in saying that his flat wasn't far away, but by the time they'd reached it, it was already clear that he knew his plans were doomed.
Extracting his key from his pocket was going to be a serious problem, given that if he released his grip on either of the girls they'd simply fall to the ground. She listened to him cursing for a moment, and then stepped forward.
"Can I help?" she asked mildly.
He snatched a glance at her over his shoulder. "We appear to have a problem with excessive consumption of alcohol," he said bitingly. "I think these two lovely ladies need to get to bed and sleep it off."
"You need help getting your key."
A nod. "Thank you. It's in my left trouser pocket."
Perfect. She reached around the semi-comatose redhead, pulled back the flap of his loose jacket and pushed her hand into the pocket he'd indicated. His pants were tight; she'd already noticed that they displayed his cute little ass to perfection. It made it difficult to get her hand in far enough to get hold of the key, but even so there was no reason for it to remain in there for quite as long as it did.
A fact that did not escape him.
He'd been looking at the door, deliberately avoiding her gaze so as not to embarrass her while she was in such a potentially delicate situation. In some respects, it seemed, he was a gentleman. When her hand remained immobile, however, apart from a gentle probing of the fingers in search of something quite other than the key, the gray eyes switched to her abruptly.
"My, you Transatlantic types don't waste time, do you?" he commented. "Do you know, I don't believe we've been introduced."
"I think that can be arranged." She withdrew the key and inserted it. The lock disengaged with an audible snick. He pushed the door with one knee, and it swung open silently.
"Well, let's get these sleeping beauties to bed. Shame. I had been planning to join them, but as it is..." He shrugged. The gesture was difficult to achieve now that he was effectively carrying two semi-conscious girls, but he managed it. "Perhaps when they've woken up tomorrow we can rearrange. Depends on how bad their hangovers are, really." He kicked open a door that opened off the hallway to the left. "They'll have to share the spare bed. It's only a single, but funny, I can't spare mine. Not when they're bloody comatose, anyway."
She pulled back the bedspread and then relieved him of the weight of the blonde. The girl muttered something as she was laid down on the bed, and her ankle-length boots were slipped off.
"Just yours too, sweetheart." He lowered the redhead alongside her, and competently unfastened the sandals she was wearing. "If you wake up in the night and feel like undressing each other, though, do give me a call." He dropped a kiss on her bare navel. The only response was a muttered obscenity that slurred off into a snore.
"I'll take that as a 'Not likely'," he remarked, pulling up the bedspread to cover them both.
It wasn't just 'not likely.' With what they'd ingested, it was a 'not physically possible.' It would be the best part of a full day before either of them recovered from the drugging. Still, he didn't know that. And by the time they were awake again the chemicals would have been eliminated from their bodies, so that nobody ever would know.
"Care for a drink?" The door to the spare room closed behind them, so that they were in the hall again. She realized that he was prepared for her to try to leave, but determined to detain her if possible. It occurred to her that the confidence he'd shown earlier was covering insecurity. Well, that tallied with his profile. It was one of the things that made him such a promising subject.
She smiled. "I'd love one."
"White wine, I think. I have some in the fridge."
Observant, evidently. Another good quality – no, a vital quality for a Section operative. And well-prepared, too. As they walked into the tiny, immaculate kitchen she noticed there were three glasses beside the slate wine cooler on the sideboard. He poured crushed ice into the latter from the dispenser on the front of the freezer, and took out the wine from the fridge. It had been there long enough to be at the perfect temperature; moisture condensed on its surface as he took it out.
Only two glasses would be necessary, though.
A visit to the bathroom was necessary, just to make sure everything was in order. He was sitting on the sofa when she entered the lounge. He'd removed his jacket, and was lying back at his ease. A posture that emphasized what else he kept in his pants, other than his keys.
Pleasure and policy dictated the same course of action. With a smile she leaned over him.
Their lips met.
Neither of them remembered the wine or the glasses as they stumbled into the bedroom, tongues dueling frantically. They tore each other's clothes off.
She was ready, and he needed no encouragement. For all her experience, she couldn't control a muffled shriek.
"Call this the hors d'oeuvre," he panted in her ear. "You won't believe the main course. And I do dessert, too."
I'd have liked to hang around for the coffee, she thought. Pity.
"I need to use the bathroom." She rolled off him and got out of the bed, having to concentrate to do so with any grace. "And I guess the wine's warm by now."
"It should still be drinkable." He smiled up at her, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. "I'll fetch it."
"No, don't bother." This was exactly how she needed him: drained and relaxed and unsuspecting. It would be one more of the lessons he'd learn tonight. Certainly not one of the hardest, but possibly one of the most valuable.
She walked back into the lounge and collected the wine. The time it had taken them to consume the first course hadn't allowed it to lose too much of its chill, thanks to the ice surrounding it, though that had melted a little.
She'd left her jacket beside his in the lounge, and the hidden pocket in it contained more than one small vial. The liquid inside the one she selected was completely colorless.
She measured the dose carefully.
He'd want to pour the wine; men always did. She carried the bottle in its cooler into the bedroom, making a little joke of swirling it so he'd hear the half-melted ice sloshing around. There had been a corkscrew lying beside the glasses so she'd fetched that too, and handed him both. He sat up and busied himself opening the wine while she brought in the glasses.
When she returned with them, she perched on the edge of the bed. She was careful to hold the glasses at an elevation that ensured he wouldn't pay them his full attention. Her fingers around the bowl of each glass concealed the fact that one of them contained perhaps half a centimeter of liquid already.
His attention held elsewhere, he poured the wine and took the glass she handed him.
"To 'main courses,'" she said, raising her glass with a smile. "'Bottoms up,' as you Brits say."
"That's a toast I couldn't agree with more." Crystal chinked.
She drained hers, though his renewed attentions made steady drinking difficult. "Now you," she said, laughing and pretending to push him away. "No pay – no play."
"Oh, I'm not playing. I'm absolutely serious." But he drank all the same, masculine pride unwilling to be beaten by a woman's ability to down a drink.
And after that, it was only a matter of time.
"I'm sorry – I –" The gray eyes were dazed, their pupils dilated. "I feel –"
"You'll be fine," she said soothingly, running her hand down his flank. "It's a little warm in here, that's all. Would you like another drink?"
"No. Bloody hell, no." His hand rested momentarily on his flat, toned stomach. Nausea was occasionally one of the side effects, but it shouldn't be severe. The dose hadn't been large enough to stimulate his system to get rid of it, and his accelerated heart rate was spreading it through his system rapidly now. Those abnormally large pupils told her that.
"You're really sweating." That was another side-effect. There would be more. "Care for me to help you cool down?"
He shifted awkwardly, frowning at the effort it took. "…weak as a bloody kitten," he muttered. "I think so. Yes. Please. I'm sure I'll be OK in a minute."
"No problem." A pat on the shoulder. She rose, and walked soundlessly into the kitchen on her bare feet.
She'd already noticed the presence of a washing-up bowl. She'd been prepared to improvise if there hadn't been one, but this was what she really needed.
Perfect.
She filled it with water and carried it into the bathroom, where she placed it carefully on the floor while she arranged the pillows around it for additional stability.
He looked on. Not that he had any choice in the matter by now.
When the scene was set to her satisfaction, she went back to her jacket. One hypospray for her, another for him. The one for her was basically a powerful stimulant, because after all he'd take some lifting and probably even some controlling, especially when adrenaline began battling for his life. The one for him was a hallucinogen.
"Dessert's on me," she said playfully, pressing it to his neck.
Ordinarily she couldn't have moved his dead weight with half this ease. She'd pay for it tomorrow: on the flight back across the Atlantic she'd be comatose, and wake to an exhaustion that would take days to wear off completely. But for now he felt like a toy in her hands as she dragged him off the bed, carried him into the bathroom, lowered him to the floor and moved him gently into position. His head was resting on one of the pillows, his eyes filled with bewilderment and fear as he stared into the bowl beside him.
"Bottoms up." She took hold of a handful of his hair and pushed his face into the water.
Every muscle in his body contracted, but they had no power; the drug had been pushed into every fibre by the pounding of his blood. Now the chemicals racing into his brain crippled his ability to react, his capacity to distinguish reality from nightmare. His lungs believed, but his mind couldn't process the information. Even his outspread hands were reduced to hardly more than twitching helplessly.
After a moment she pulled him out. Water ran down his face, his neck, his chest, as he gasped desperately for air. He couldn't even coordinate breathing properly, let alone resistance or protest. He didn't attempt to speak or even look at her; by this time, there was no saying what his mind thought was happening.
She pushed him down again. Held him longer, this time, listening indifferently to the sound of him fighting to conserve air he hadn't drawn enough of to start with. Kept him there, until the fight was lost and the last bubbles danced up around his face, and the jerk of utter terror through his whole body said the inhalation to follow would suck in water.
"Up you come." That knowledge of annihilation had kicked his adrenal glands into top gear; he began struggling as soon as he could claw in breath, but he still had no coordination. He was sobbing and gasping, trying to lash out with arms that could hardly obey him at things that weren't even there.
Another year or two and she might have had trouble, but he was young, and not quite grown into full strength yet. Nevertheless it took her a little more effort than she'd expected to force his head back into the water. He screamed hoarsely all the way down, which was a mistake, as it used up all his air supply. She was using her free hand to bear down between his shoulder blades, feeling the way the muscles beneath it were jerking helplessly. The sudden smell of urine betrayed the depth of his terror; she glanced down fastidiously, hoping the pool wouldn't come near her knees.
This time she let him breathe in. His body went into spasm, and she pulled him out, letting him cough the water out of his airway in great choking heaves.
"One more for luck," she said cheerfully.
He was getting just a little control back. His mouth moved, shaping words with difficulty. " – pity's – …no…"
She shook her head. On the word please, she drowned him.
Perhaps an hour later, she let herself out of the flat.
Practice had made her good at her job; the resuscitation had been simple enough. He was sleeping deeply, if uneasily, in his bed, the sound of his breathing betraying the trauma to his air passages. Doubtless his dreams would be hideous, though that was of no particular importance. The important business would be taking place far below the surface where dreams moved.
Exhaustive monitoring of his psychological profile had revealed one small chink in the Englishman's armor: ever since childhood, he'd been uncomfortable in water. He'd worked hard to overcome it, but the visceral anxiety remained. Not enough to debar him from the service he intended to join, as it stood; they might well have been able to help him control it better, even to give him therapy to help him conquer it completely.
Well. Before tonight, that might have worked. Now his fear had been given flesh. He knew exactly what it felt like to drown…
She had carefully tidied away every scrap of evidence, cleaning the bathroom thoroughly and washing and drying the bowl before putting it away exactly where she had found it. Every surface she'd touched had been wiped down. A couple of hairs she'd left in the bed had been removed and were now safely in a specimen bag in her jacket pocket. Two of the glasses, both pristine, sat in the kitchen. The third lay beside a half-emptied bottle of wine in his bedroom. Illegal drugs commonly available on the street were in his jacket pocket, with his fingerprints on them; in the state of mental confusion that he'd be in when he woke up, the odds were that he'd believe he'd taken them. Everything else could have followed on from that: the delusions, the physical damage. Must have puked up somewhere and breathed it in. He would have no more than fragmentary memories of where he'd been and what he'd done the night before, and even if he panicked over his state when he woke up he wouldn't dare report it. He wouldn't take the risk of what might be found in his system, or who might have access to his medical files. The Royal Navy wouldn't touch him with a ten-meter pole if he 'did' drugs. And even if he ever did discover what had been done to him – what would admitting it benefit him? Any revelation would bring him nothing but danger and shame.
The flitter she had summoned was waiting. It even had a genuine hackney cab license.
"Airport, please," she said politely, as if the driver didn't already know that perfectly well. She knew what the correct fare was, and had a generous tip ready.
As the flitter pulled away smoothly from the darkened flat she lay back in the passenger seat, smiling. Now if only they could get to the airport without being detected, she'd mark the evening up as a complete success.
All comments and reviews received with gratitude!