A/N: CATs missions begin here. Iceland, North Korea, Milan...taken from canon conversation. A little bit of historical fiction again. Stress the fiction part. The facts are true, until we add the spies. This is only the Iceland mission. My spellcheck doesn't work in Icelandic, so it's missing a few accent marks.
In order to explain how it was that Carina ended up as my savior, so to speak, I have to get much more specific about how lost I actually was during that time. I'm not sure if lost is the right word, but eloquent explanation was never my forte. I was always a doer…someone who acted. I left the communication to others, or left it unsaid. I supposed being naturally introverted was the start of it, for I was assured by many company psychologists that portion of personality was inborn. Our brains developed differently along those very lines. It wasn't meant to be an absolute in life, for introversion and shyness were not the same thing. Shyness was a sort of environmental effect. Introversion merely added an extra layer of obstacle that needed to be overcome to function in a primarily extroverted world.
So I say lost, but I think confused, or disillusioned, would better explain my state of mind. Although, I had no great visions of what I wanted my life to be that were somehow falling short. I was just pushing ahead, making the best of a bad situation. A bad situation that had no end, no hope, just a black hole that I knew at some point in the future would swallow me whole. The only reason I kept going and didn't give up was the hope that something I did, or was going to do, would make the world better or safer. I have to admit that time between the end of my Secret Service tenure and the inception of the CATs, I thought a lot about Sam.
I always make a point to clarify, because hearing myself say it sounds wrong to me. In 2002, the memory of him and what I knew haunted me. I would find my mind wandering, thinking about him, when I was alone. I created scenarios in my head, sort of stories, that explained his choices and his motivation. He married Gayle when she was dying of leukemia. Was he being fatalistic? Trying to fulfill her dreams? There is no answer to that, no way that I will ever know his reasons. My only clue was his final request, that his body be interred in the ground with hers. He had added his name to her headstone, with the possibility that it would be decades before his life would end. He was certain enough that there would be no other…or maybe he had promised her, or himself, that there wouldn't be.
In truth, he had only lived three more years without her. A blessedly short period of time, as I look back now. Maybe I do romanticize that relationship in my head, because it was so foreign to anything I had ever experienced in my life. Maybe he wasn't the way I portrayed him. I honestly don't know. For all the times we were together, I never really knew him. Sometimes I would wake from a dream, my body inadvertently responding to the memory of having sex with him, and I would wonder. One year after her death, he was endlessly fucking me…a long string of emotionless couplings, slightly better than masturbation and cheaper than prostitution. I questioned it all, while at the same time reeling on the inside, knowing what he was going through for the CIA while he was doing that with me.
With my entire life experience, I understand better. Not completely, for as I say, I never had the opportunity to know for certain. I never saw him again, and he died young. I know, regardless of his motivation for marrying her, she mattered to him. I always give him the benefit of the doubt. I know what it is like to have sex with someone when you are in love with someone else, someone you can't be with, for whatever reason. You retreat far inside yourself, offering your body only. It isn't fair, and can be downright cruel, if you aren't honest with the other person. I can say this because I know my husband did exactly the same thing, almost at the same time that I did. We moved past it and forgave each other, but it was one of the most difficult times in both of our lives. Knowing all of this, I can see it through Sam's eyes.
When I was younger, it was the speculation that troubled me. I was training to be a spy, and yet, I was still mystified by this man that I had been closer to than anyone else I had ever known. That speaks to the quality of the rest of my life, rather than anything special with him. But, it caused me to doubt myself in a way I never had before. What kind of spy was I turning into? My training was done, but I felt I wasn't prepared for the life headed towards me. I was thankful for the Secret Service tour, and frightened when it ended.
I don't know what would have happened if Omaha had started when Graham pulled me. But, for all the complaining I've already done, my time with the CATs was the perfect transition, especially when I was internally foundering. My Red Test didn't come until 2005, and it nearly destroyed me. If Graham had done to me what he'd done to Sam, I can safely say I probably wouldn't have survived long enough to have even met Bryce. With the CATs, my breakdown was slower, less noticeable, and easily masked with the lifestyle we lived. Sometimes I think Graham knew that, and that was why he waited, although most of the time I just think he had bigger plans for me, and knew I would burn out faster if he didn't pace my progression better.
The first mission all four of the CATs went on was to Reykjavik, Iceland. The background is complex, and twisted up with history. As far back as 1949, Iceland had internal struggles during the Cold War. At that time, their parliament was due to vote about membership in NATO, and socialists were reporting being surveilled by the government. Throughout that time, many terrorist attacks on civilians occurred. Nothing was ever confirmed, or even discussed. Iceland, in long standing tradition, was an isolationist country. They participated on the world stage when it suited them, but always preferred to remain, literally, on their island, away from everything else.
In 2003, a scholar who was studying history in the UK found documents in Britain's National Archives, recently declassified, although the British have a different name and process for that procedure. Everything he unearthed had to do with communism in Iceland, most of it from 50 years in the past. Iceland was a member of NATO since its inception, a post World War II pact for mutual protection, once the ugly face of communism seemed to darken a great portion of the Earth after that conflict. All of the information that was put forth was actually confirmed later in 2006, long after the mission. But our mission and this were directly related.
In the early 2000s, communism was not a major concern or focus of any government. Terrorism had taken the lead, especially after September 11th. However, the idea of rebelling against certain ideologies remained constant. The communists hiding in Cold War Iceland worked in obscurity to undermine, even overthrow, the government. This same group of people bred similar generations. They became terrorists for hire, working for anyone with enough money, with the purpose of carrying out anti-government espionage. Hired Icelanders, typically Aryan in appearance, attracted less attention during that time than Middle Easterners…just due to the very predictable yet unfortunate circumstance of human nature.
The man who was searching the National Archives in Britain was merely attempting to finish a research paper in concert with a potential position as a professor at Oxford University. However, he set off alarm bells in that terrorist-for-hire community. Their concern, as we learned, was that somehow some of those declassified documents would lead to their network. Even then, when we were briefed, we thought it was strange, barely related, and an overreaction. Until three years later, when Julian Assange started WikiLeaks, in Iceland. We were always told only what was necessary, but the international community had been alerted to the potential that intelligence was leaking into the broader domain and it was only a matter of time before the general population got wind of it. The worst part–no one knew exactly what information had leaked.
The CIA sent us in to secure the documents from the National Archives, to prevent further possible exposure. Why did the CIA, or even the United States, care? First, because there was evidence that Eisenhower had started spying on Icelandic citizens during the Cold War, and there was no evidence that practice had ever stopped. Iceland and the U.S. were allies, never a good optic. Secondly, and more importantly, the U.S. didn't know the extent of the intelligence contained within those documents, and feared a leaker could expose something much worse.
Again, starting with the end, WikiLeaks did reveal all of that information in 2006 when they started. However, because of our mission, they no longer had any proof that the United States had paid for Icelandic mercenary terrorists to work in Pakistan to disrupt part of the opium trade in the mid 1990s. Crazy stuff, stuff that makes me sick sometimes to know so much of what we did as spies was not for the greater good of the world, but sometimes just the greater good of the government, which isn't always the same thing.
I'm digressing a bit. The mission was relatively simple, and only minimally dangerous. Most of the CATs missions were like that. It was the only type of mission the CIA would send an untested agent on.
Our cover was a group of friends, traveling to Iceland on a girls' weekend. We were staying at the hotel associated with the most popular spa in the country, a high-end touristy place. They offered a multitude of natural spa treatments and unique experiences that were possible due to the unique geological characteristics of Iceland–fjords, geothermically heated ocean water, and sulfur springs. We booked almost everything the spa had to offer, on the CIA's dime, which was a minor perk of the job. At our age, it was like a dream come true, almost making the danger of the mission pale in comparison. Full body mud masks, seaweed masks, private saunas, float therapy, and floating massages. In between all of that luxurious pampering, we were conducting our mission–break into the University of Iceland's computer server and copy, then delete, any digital information pertaining to the intel we were briefed about.
Iceland was the first place the CIA sent me outside the United States. It is by far the most beautiful place they had ever sent me. White capped mountains and endless skies, the oddest shade of blue and gray due to its proximity to the Arctic Circle. We were there in January, and the sun didn't rise until after 11 in the morning. It wasn't pitch black until midmorning, rather a soft amber glow that seemed to make us feel like we were on another planet. The ocean was warm, heated by the geothermal activity of volcanoes that pepper the island. The ocean water looked like blue milk, with a ghostly haze often floating above the water.
I was mesmerized by the scenery, and anxious about our first mission. We spent the first 24 hours in the spa, getting masks and scrubs, sipping alcohol and then eating in a gourmet restaurant. I was very relaxed after the day's events, which helped ease my anxiety. Once it was night again, we made our move. All four of us, dressed in black catsuits, armed and dangerous, descended upon the university.
We broke into the university library through a skylight. Amy bypassed the security system, and we slid down on ropes, like art thieves in a movie. I had trained for this for almost two years, and I couldn't shake the feeling like this wasn't real. I found out later this was Zondra's first mission as well, but the other girls, the DEA agents, were pros, at least as professional they could be at their ages. I was a fast learner, and I had an excellent memory, so everything I saw I knew how to do forever afterward, which was a blessing. Carina cracked the coded lock on the server room door. Amy stood guard outside and Zondra was guard inside. Once Carina opened the door, I went in and accessed the computer the same way Carina accessed the door panel. It took about ten minutes, but I cracked the password-protected computer and pulled up the data. Everything was written in Icelandic, a language I did not speak or read. It wasn't important, as I was looking for coded files, and the code was in English.
I copied the files onto my portable drive, and then planted the virus we were given that was assured to destroy data with a specific tag that identified it as pertaining to the United States government. It took another ten minutes, but it was done. I rushed out and told Carina we were good to go.
"We've got company," Zondra said softly, indicating the small circle of light in the adjacent hallway that meant a guard with a flashlight. The danger was minimal here, being confronted by the university library security guard. The worst danger was getting caught, for there was no logical explanation as to what four catsuit-clad burglars were doing there at three in the morning. Our best shot was hiding out of sight until he passed. Zondra, Carina and I hustled into the stacks behind us, crouching low and moving on our haunches as we avoided the path of the flashlight. We were perfectly silent, not even our breathing audible. Eventually, he left us alone, and we escaped back up through the skylight.
It was such a minor thing, but once we were clear, I felt a sense of euphoria I had never felt before. The closest I could say I had come to that feeling was when my father and I would realize we had stolen more than we had anticipated from an armored car. Back then my father's approval and a double scoop of rocky road meant more than the stacks of money he piled into the glovebox. This time, I had succeeded on a mission, with my team, and I was proud of myself.
The next day, we waited to see in the news feed if there was any mention of a break-in, or suspected break-in at the university library, but there wasn't any. The tag we had uploaded had erased the data we now had in our possession, and no one knew it. The researcher who had found the information had no idea the other information was even there, so he never noticed what was missing. We were due to fly out the next morning, so we had a whole day at the hotel and spa. We all went into the sulfur baths to relax for a few hours, then we split up. Zondra and Amy went for floating therapy, and I relaxed in the sauna. I didn't know where Carina was, and I didn't know her very well at this point, but I had seen her flirting with a number of men who were either staff or guests. I assumed she had a quick tryst with one of them.
She eventually found me in the sauna, and told me she had booked us for floating massages. I was reluctant, worrying about the inexplicable gleam in her eyes. I was also tipsy from the alcohol I had consumed in the sulfur baths. I later learned to recognize that look–the it's-my-job-to-thaw-out-the-Ice-Queen look. Half-drunk, she was able to convince me. She remains one of the most persuasive arguers I have ever known.
The floating massage by itself was absolutely heavenly. We were wrapped in thick, blue terry-cloth robes. The ambient air was frigid, as it was still January, but the warmth from the lagoon was palpable as soon as we were close. We were positioned on floats, on our backs. The masseurs, both very Scandinavian looking, kept us close on the floats, and performed deep tissue massage with mineral oil. The air was chilly, but they dunked blankets into the warm water and covered us to keep us comfortable. I hadn't realized how stressed I was until I felt the knots in my muscles, slowly releasing as he squeezed the tension out of me.
Neither one of us spoke Icelandic, but Carina's masseur spoke Swedish, and they were conversing. I didn't speak Swedish, but I understood enough to make out what they were saying. Apparently when Carina had gone missing, she had found the masseurs and offered an enormous tip for…well, extras that were probably illegal. We were at the most expensive and prestigious hotel in Iceland. But, Carina had found two men who were willing to risk their jobs to basically get us off at the end of the massage.
They spun the floatation devices so our heads were touching, facing away from each other for privacy. What I had heard them talking about was a reassurance that they were in a private area of the lagoon, and that no one would see. I watched my masseur pull out a pair of latex gloves, all the while smiling at me. I realized it then, what she had planned. A part of me wanted to say no, uncomfortable with the idea of a stranger touching me like that. What changed my mind? The soft, pleasure-filled sigh I heard escaping from Carina, as well as my persisting drunkenness. At this point in my life, I hadn't had sex for over two years. I was horribly embarrassed, even ashamed of myself for what I perceived as a weakness, and my intoxication lowered my inhibitions significantly. I didn't look at him, or at her, but I gave in.
"Inni eoa utan?" he asked me in Icelandic. The other man obviously translated it to Swedish, too softly for me to hear.
Carina replied, in Swedish, "Det är upp till henne." It was up to me. "Hon talar engelsk," Carina added. She told him I spoke English.
"Inside or out?" he asked me, with a thick accent.
I know I blushed, flushing hot even as a crisp, winter breeze blew across the surface of the water. "Utan," I answered him, in Icelandic, deducing the words from what he said. Outside. I only wanted him to touch me externally.
He massaged my thigh with one hand while he reached below the surface of the water with the gloved hand, and touched me between my legs. I was tense in anticipation, but the massage he continued doing on my body, probably meant to distract from the fact that he was touching me inappropriately, helped to relax my muscles. He was rough at first, like he was continuing the deep tissue massage on my vulva. He ran his thumbs along the fleshy opening, then kneaded everything in a downward motion. It really was just a continuation of the same technique, just on an intimate body part. Ingeniously effective to do that, increasing the blow flood until I could feel my pulse throbbing under his fingers. Under the warm water like that, I was slippery, and the aroused swelling was worse. At the end, his thumb was forceful against my clitoris, already sensitive from the massage. The orgasm took me by surprise, seeming to spring from nowhere under his thumb, exploding through my pelvis when he pulled his hand away. My breathing stuttered and my body shivered.
"Pu ert falleg," he said to me after he stood up straight. I had to look it up later, what he actually had said to me. You are beautiful. It struck me as strange, once I knew. I paid him to touch me like that. Did he feel sorry for me? Or did he want something more? I know Carina ended up having sex with her masseur. Not prostitution, just an eagerly accepted invitation, one that she offered to almost anyone who was willing.
It only briefly crossed my mind when I could focus again to wonder how he knew he had succeeded. I could hear Carina whispering in Swedish, obviously communicating her sensations to him in real time. I had been rocking my hips while he was touching me, and I wondered if perhaps that was how he could tell. I wondered again, aimlessly, why even this depraved version of sex felt better than anything I had ever done to myself. I think I figured that out, but not until after Chuck and I had made love for the first time.
Whenever I touched myself, I was in complete control. I knew what I needed to do to achieve what I wanted. But it was predictable, because it was myself. When Sam had touched me like that, or now even this stranger whose name I never knew, the thrill came from anticipating the sensation when I wasn't in control of it. That was what enhanced the pleasure.
Chuck and I were intimate after being in love with each other for three years. I always think if we'd had sex when the thought first occurred to me–as early as the night I agreed to stay in his room at his sister's apartment to protect our cover–it might have been more like that. It's hard to say, because even though I hadn't admitted it to myself, I was already in love with him, just two months after I met him. I never believed in love, period, let alone love at first sight, but I can no longer separate knowing Chuck and loving him. Be that as it may, our first encounter was different. I loved him. That moment and forever after was about him first, the sensations associated with sex secondary. I wanted to be close to him and to give him pleasure. The pleasure I got from having sex with Chuck was a gift from him, something he insisted upon giving before taking what I reciprocated.
At 23 years old, I had nothing else but meaningless encounters like that. I had no hope of anything else. I would go on missions, do my job, and feel accomplished. But there was nothing else. Admitting that paying the masseur to touch me felt better than almost anything else in my life at the time is brutal, but it's true. I would look at the other girls and wonder if they had ever dreamed of a different life, but I wouldn't ask. It was too in depth a question for the level of our relationships at the time. They all seemed content to limit themselves to purely physical interactions, though no one was quite as promiscuous as Carina. I was the Ice Queen, though. No one ever saw me go to bed with anyone during that time.
Carina tried, I tell you. She would scour the club sometimes, looking for someone who would dance with me. She made suggestions, winked, even brought it up in direct conversation. Disgusted at myself for what I had allowed to happen in Iceland, I stayed away from all of it. I drank, sometimes to excess. I smoked marijuana, sometimes while I was drinking, which could lead to the black outs I referenced before.
Did I pique your curiosity before, when I came up with that possibly three number? Do you wonder why I know that number is between one and three? This is leading to the worst of the worst, the rock bottom of me with the CATs. I said that because, although the nights themselves are blank, I remember waking up three times in bed with Carina and at least one other man.
I'm getting a little ahead of myself here, but the very first time Carina met Chuck, and she saw how attracted to him I was but trying to hide it, she came on to him. She called him to her hotel in the middle of the night, answered the door in her bra and panties, and propositioned him. I didn't know specifics at the time, which was fine because I would have shown more than I already did how jealous I was about her interacting with him. He turned her down, because…well, Chuck was never a sex-for-fun kind of guy. At his core, he had more respect for women than that. But, she also offered a threesome of sorts, something he didn't tell me until after we were engaged and I told him all about this part of my life and what Carina and I may or may not have done.
I'm sure she offered that because she knew, if I was drunk and high enough, she could pull me into her multiple-partner trysts and/or orgies.
As I said, she did it three times. The first time was after a mission to North Korea.
