Tortured Spies
by John Savage
A Blaze Lane Novel
Smashwords edition
Copyright 2010 John Savage
Published by Strict Publishing International
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Chapter I
Enter Miss Lane
Blaze hated her real name. Which is why she wanted everyone to call her “Blaze”, a much more dramatic and dynamic name. It fitted her style, her image of herself as a brightly burning soul amid a sea of mediocrity. She imagined herself to be a star shooting across the heavens, a bright candle for all to see and follow. She told people she did not walk on the wild side; she lived on it.
Unfortunately she was only a secretary in a small loan office. She was the prettiest secretary there, but since there was only three of them, that was no great accomplishment. Still, she was a beautiful woman with a fine full-busted figure and long, shapely legs. So far in life, that had gotten her only numerous requests for dates and almost as numerous crude suggestions. She was tired of refusing to go on sales trips with her boss because she knew from the other secretaries that he was a lecherous old bastard with a wife that just did not understand him. Or so he said.
In the privacy of her mind, Blaze imagined herself to be the beautiful princess of a far-off land, living in a splendid castle with servants and a loving kingly father. In these dreams, she imagined that a barbarian from the northlands had come into the kingdom and kidnapped her from her fairytale castle, and ridden hard for the border with her bound and slung across the saddle of his horse. In the harsh mountain lands beyond the reach of her father’s guards, while sitting round a blazing campfire, the barbarian took her in his strong arms and crushed her body against his rock-like chest. His lips eagerly sought hers and, although she resisted, with her hands tied behind her there was nothing she could do to stop him from having his way with her body. His hands…
“Miss Lane, please come in here,” intruded upon her daydream. She sighed and picked up the steno pad and a pencil. The man simply refused to call her Blaze. In fact, he thought it very humorous that she had asked him to in the first place. What terrible, sadistic, twisted mentality had her parents, the plain and disgustingly average Mr. and Mrs. Lane, possessed when they named her Lois?
Mr. Grundwald, Harold to his friends, folded his hands over his more than ample paunch, settled back in his chair, and began dictating a letter, all the while his eyes never leaving the shapely legs on display, expect for an occasional jaunt up to the bulges in her blouse where he wondered and dreamed of what was hidden within. The letter was boring, businesslike, and mainly an excuse for him to get the gorgeous Miss Lane into his private office, partly so that he could ogle her and partly so that he could once again make a pitch for her to accompany him on the trip to Detroit at the end of the month. And, once again, she declined, claiming that she could not leave her sick mother alone. Truth was, as Mr. Grundwald suspected, Miss Lane’s mother was in perfect health and leading a very active life as an aerobics instructor.
Lois, I mean Blaze, went back to her desk to enter the letter into her word processor and to wish once again that life held something more exciting. She should have remembered the old adage: “Careful what you wish for; you may get it.”
* * * * *
In a far distant land, a beautiful young woman was being tortured.
The woman’s name was Cindy Smith, age 24, American by birth, quite beautiful with long ebony hair falling to mid-back, and matching dark eyes that gave her a mysterious, exotic look. But at that moment, her face was not looking exotic; it was looking pained. The interrogators had strung her up by her wrists until her feet were well off the concrete floor of the basement room beneath the headquarters of Lidé Národních Bezpečnostních Sil, the People’s National Security Force.
They had ripped off her blouse and skirt, then torn the bra from her body, leaving a magnificent pair of breasts exposed to their evil, leering eyes. Only her black lace panties remained, along with what was left of one nylon on her right leg. A man with a belt had been whipping her bottom, slowly pacing out the blows so that each would be more effective and so that the punishment, which he was enjoying very much, would last longer.
At first, the lovely young American had cried out and jerked that fine body with each impact. But after a few dozen, the cries became less and the jerking of her hips away from the belt lessened. Now it took more of his strength to evoke a decent cry. He paused to let his arm rest. The chief interrogator came over and inspected the battered bottom. He pulled down the panties that he might see more closely the red and swollen flesh. It was not marked with swollen red lines such as a whip would make. The wider belt did less damage to the flesh but still delivered a lot of pain. If necessary, he would change to a true whip later. That, he knew from experience, would make her scream quite nicely.
Walking around to the front, he enjoyed the view of her black pubic patch and those wonderful breasts. What a target they would make for a whip!
“Miss Smith,” he spoke. “Are you ready to talk?”
“I told you, I know nothing. I am just a tourist.” Her voice was weak and her head hung down, the black hair hiding her lovely face.
“You are an American spy,” he said sharply. “We already know that. What I wish to know is what is your assignment in our country?”
“I told you, I’m just a tourist stopping here before going on to Russia.”
He considered for a moment the idea that she was telling the truth. Perhaps she was just passing through and her real assignment was in Russia. But she had been identified at the airport as an American agent. That new computer scanning system was paying off nicely. She was picked up before she could even get into a taxi.
“We have ways of making you talk,” he said, totally unaware how famous that line was. “You will tell us all. Continue. Only this time, hit her flanks and that lovely bush there also.”
He stepped back to watch again.
The whipper shifted his position and delivered a strong blow to her flank. She cried out as the previously untouched skin began to turn red. Slowly he worked his way around until he was striking blows directly across her venus mons. As the belt landed there, she cried louder and jerked around nicely, her legs kicking out. She tried to twist her body about to protect that sensitive area, but hanging there gave her little freedom for movement. He had no problem striking the black hair-covered target. Which he did with delight.
“Would it not be easier to use drugs?” asked a lieutenant standing by the chief.
“Sure it would,” he replied. “But I prefer the old-fashioned ways. Don’t you agree that this is a much nicer show?”
“Yes, sir. Much nicer.”
The whip was swung underhanded and landed a blow directly upon her cunt. This time she screamed. Yes, the chief told himself, a much nicer show.
* * * * *
“They took her into custody.”
“You’re sure it was the LNBS?”
“No doubt. The car was followed to their headquarters.”
“Shit! Smith was one of our best agents,” said the Section Chief for Eastern European Affairs, Calvin Grudge. “And the funny part is that she wasn’t on assignment to that country. She was just passing through on her way to Moscow.”
His assistant, a youthful looking Mark Paulson, stood by awaiting orders.
“Any chance of our getting her out of there?” Grudge asked.
“Not likely. The building is very secure. It also connects with several other buildings via tunnels. She may not even be in the same building now.”
“See if our main man there can find out anything. Her mission is very important. Zorro will meet only with her. Besides, she knows too much to let them keep her. Shit! This is damned bad luck!”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter II
Job Offer
“Damn! That’s Cindy!”
The scene was a coffee shop in a shopping mall in McLean, Virginia, only a few miles from the headquarters of the CIA, America’s spymasters. Mark Paulson often stopped there for a cup of coffee on his way home and to give himself a little time to unwind from the espionage and spy business. Actually, he was more of a paper pusher than true spy. Having graduated only a year before with his MBA, he had been put into an administrative position instead of the field operative training he had really wanted. His slender, accountant-like physique had a lot to do with that.
His utterance was because he saw a beautiful young woman come into the shop, purchase a coffee and sit down by herself at a table not too distant. The more he looked at her, the more convinced he became that she was the missing spy, Miss Cindy Smith, whose folder and photos he had been looking at only that afternoon. The resemblance was incredible, even down to the height and figure. She even wore her black hair as Smith had, long and straight.
Mark picked up his coffee and went to her table. He sat down without asking permission. “What is your name?” he asked seriously.
Lois looked up at him, and was about ready to tell him to shove off when she felt that there was something in this young man different from all the others who regularly tried to pick her up. His serious express was not the grin of a male on the hunt.
“Lois,” she said.
“Not Cindy?”
Was this a rather unusual pick-up line? She decided to play along to see what his game was. Besides, he was not bad looking at all.
“No, not Cindy. My full name is Lois Lane. And don’t make any jokes about that.”
“Do you have a sister or a twin?” he asked.
“I have one sister. Her name is Melody.”
Mark nodded. Now came the critical part of a plan that was forming in his head. “You look exactly like a woman named Cindy Smith,” he told her. “And because of that I would like to offer you a job.”
Once again she felt it was time to tell him to bug off. But before she could speak, he went on. “I’m quite serious. I work for the CIA.” He pulled out his wallet and showed her his ID. “We could use you.”
“Sure! And what for?” She was waiting for the pitch to come. It had to be some kind of gimmick. Unusual and well delivered, she had to admit, but still just an attempt to pick her up.
Mark paused to purse his lips. “I can’t go into details right now, but if you will come to the headquarters tomorrow morning, I can explain all.”
Well, it was not “let’s have drink and talk,” she thought. With a tingle of excitement, she wondered if maybe this was on the level.
Before she could ask more, he pulled out a business card. On the back he wrote a six digit code of letters and numbers. “Give this to the guard at the front gate and he’ll let you in. Is ten o’clock good for you?”
He wanted to have a little time to convince his boss of the merit of his half-baked idea.
“Sure,” she said as she took the card. “Why not. You serious?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am serious. We’ll talk with my boss, and if he agrees we’ll describe the job for you. Do you like to travel?”
“Haven’t done much,” she admitted. She was beginning to get interested. She had always wanted to see the world.
“You might get a chance to in this job. Please be there.” His eyes were most sincere as a faint smile finally livened up his face. Not bad looking at all, Lois told herself.
He rose and shook hands with her. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. I’m looking forward to it.”
“I am, too.”
With that, he left the coffee shop, his coffee hardly touched.
Cindy tried to keep from smiling broadly. A job with the CIA! All kinds of ideas were running around in her mind, mostly fueled by numerous spy movies she was addicted to. If she were getting the job simply because she looked like some other girl, that was all right with her. This might be the big break she was hoping for since high school. She was going to be someone important!
She could hardly sleep that night. First thing in the morning, she called in sick to the loan office, and put on her sexiest clothes, a tight black dress more fit for a party than a job interview. She added a pair of pantyhose because the dress only came down to just above her knees, and a pair of black high heels she only used at the rare party she attended. She debated which of her necklaces she should wear, but since there were only three of them, the plain gold chain was chosen.
Armed with all the charms a young woman could muster, she left her tiny apartment and headed out with happy heart for a whole new life!
* * * * *
The real Cindy Smith was not feeling very good and looked worse. She was back in that basement room and again suspended from the ceiling. But this time she was not hanging by her hands. They had tied her arms together with the elbows tightly together and her legs tightly bound at the ankles and above the knees. Then they turned it into a hogtie by connecting her wrists and ankles with more rope and pulling her into a nice arch. Normally a girl so tied would be able to lie flat on her stomach with her arms and legs only slightly elevated. But they had tied another rope to that connecting her wrists and ankles and pulled her up by that. She was hanging four feet off the concrete floor, her body arched into a bow that was backbreaking and a terrible strain.
Not content with letting the hanging provide the torture needed to make her talk eventually, they had attached viciously tight clamps to her nipples and hung a couple of pounds of lead weight to each so that her breasts were pulled downward and a constant source of pain to her. One of the more imaginative guards had put a clamp on each labia and attached more weights so that the lips guarding her sex were stretched out most painfully.
Then they were asking her questions and pushing a burning cigarette up against bare skin each time the answer was not to their liking. Her breasts and ass were covered with small round circles of burnt flesh and there was a unique burnt smell in the room.
The day before, after the whipping with the belt had failed to get her to change her tune, they had switched to a real whip, a vicious little black braided leather whip with a very stiff piece of leather at its tip. That one had done much more damage than the belt had, and hurt all the more because the belt had made the skin very, very sensitive. Each cut of that whip on her ass brought forth a scream and a painful jerk of the hanging body. The interrogators worked over her ass and thighs with that whip, enjoying the screams and sobbing coming from the lovely woman.
But this was the next day and her ass was covered with vivid, swollen red ridges and black, bruised flesh. That did not deter them from crushing the lit cigarettes against that already tortured flesh. But mostly they used her breasts as an ashtray because they found that more interesting.
During a short lag in the torture, Smith managed to look up her chief tormentor and tell him, “I did not come to your country to spy on you. Please believe me. Please…”
Her plea might have wrung tears from a stone, but it did nothing to the hard, evil men who were delighting in abusing her body. Truth was that the chief of them was sure that she was telling the truth, at least about her reason for being in their country. He was certain that she was a spy, even if not on a mission there. The other part of the truth was that they were simply enjoying themselves. Rarely had such a beautiful spy fallen into their hands and they wished to make the most of the opportunity.
They had all taken a turn at her body the night before. She was tied down to a hard wooden table on her tortured ass, very, very tightly, and then screwed by each of the men. They left her on the table overnight and screwed her again the next morning before beginning the day’s torture.
Smith’s head hung down, her face covered by her long hair, so it was a few minutes before the chief interrogator noticed that the cigarette no longer evoked a cry or even the tiniest jerk of her naked body. Cursing that she had fainted, he ordered a bucket of cold water brought forth to revive her. It was no fun torturing a non-reacting victim.
The water did not bring her to. One of the guards knelt down and felt at her neck. “There is no pulse,” he informed.
“What! She’s dead!” exclaimed the chief. “Are you sure?”
The guard took the lit cigarette in his hand and shoved it directly against her clit. That should have gotten some kind of response. There was none.
“How dare she die on us!” he raged.
“Maybe she had a weak heart,” suggested one guard.
“Well,” the chief said with a dramatic sigh, “the fun’s over. Get rid of the body.”
* * * * *
“I don’t know.”
Calvin Grudge was shaking his head. “Smith was on a critically important mission, which must be completed. And we haven’t found a way to get Smith out of there yet. But the idea of switching this girl for Smith is ridiculous! If we could get in to make a switch, we could simply get Smith out.”
“Our man in that country says that he can bribe a guard to let him into the headquarters. Once there, he can make the switch. The guard will be paid a great deal to turn his back while one woman is replaced with the other. He will do it only because there will still be a prisoner. If we simple extracted Smith, the guard would get in trouble. But the escape will not be noticed.”
“And what if they have tortured Smith?” Calvin insisted. “Then her body may not look like this Lois girl you’ve found. Did you think of that?”
“Well, actually, no sir.”
“And were you planning to leave this Lois there? They won’t be very nice to a woman they think is a spy. They’ve probably already tortured Smith more than I would care to think about. You know them.”
“Yes, sir. Well…”
Before Mark could say more there was a beep from Calvin’s desktop computer. He pressed a couple keys to retrieve the priority message. As he read it, his face went pale. Then he looked up to Mark.
“Smith is dead. Her body was recovered from the Vltava River. She had been tortured, but apparently the cause of death was something else.”
“Damn! We’re back to square one on the Lodestar Project.”
“Maybe not,” said Calvin slowly. “Maybe not. When is that girl going to arrive?’
“In about twenty minutes, sir.”
“Good. Bring her directly here.” Calvin was smiling now. That usually meant someone was going into harm’s way.
* * * * *
“I must say, Miss Lane, you do look exactly like Cindy Smith.”
Lois was sitting in Calvin’s office deep within the CIA headquarters. She was aware of how much leg she was showing to these two men as she sat there, but for once was strangely excited to be showing off to strange men. The low cut of the dress let them see a goodly amount more of her fine assets.
“What we need,” Calvin continued, trying not to stare at the tops of her breasts, “is a woman who looks like you to go into Russia. There you will meet with an agent. That’s all you have to do. Simply meet with Zorro and get a message to him. It will take only a few days, then you come back home.”
“I don’t have to do any spying?” she asked, more than a little disappointed.
“No. Besides, you’re not really trained to do that, are you?”
“Well…”
“Zorro will be looking for a woman who fits your description and who will give him the correct password.. He knows what Cindy Smith looked like from a photo, and will refuse to meet with anyone else. You will tell him that plans have changed and he is to wait until another agent can be inserted to do the mission that Cindy Smith was to do. That’s all.”
“Well…”
He then named a payment that made her eyes widen in surprise. “And, of course, all your travel expenses will be paid, first class all the way. And, if you wish, you may stop at some locations on your way home. Have you ever seen Paris at this time of the year? It’s quite beautiful. Or Rome?”
“I’ll do it!” In her eagerness to respond, she half rose then sat back down. Her dress was now showing two and a half more inches of thigh. She had not noticed, but the males in the room felt themselves heat up a little more.
“Good. Mark will take you down and get you processed through Personnel. You can be leaving on a flight to London tonight and on to Moscow after that. In forty-eight hours you’ll be in contact with Zorro. Give him the message and then enjoy a little vacation in Russia.”
“Is Zorro his real name?” Lois asked.
“No, that’s a codename.”
“Will I get a codename?” she asked eagerly.
“What would you like?” asked Calvin with a wink to Mark. This girl was, like so many, overly eager to play the Spy Game. It amused them because they knew that she would be in absolutely no danger and was really only necessary because they had no other way to contact Zorro, an agent in deep cover, without a woman who matched the photo of Cindy Smith he had been given. And Lois was an exact duplicate of the missing and now dead ace agent.
“Can I have ‘Blaze’?” she asked.
“Blaze? I don’t see why not. Okay, you are now codenamed Blaze.”
She almost giggled in excitement. Behind her, Mark was having trouble not laughing out loud.
With that important and critical detail taken care of, Mark escorted her down to the Personnel Department to get her on the payroll. She also had to fill out several forms, most of which were designed to identify her and her family in case something might happen to her. Like dying in the field. The implications of those forms did not dim her enthusiasm at all. Of course, maybe it was simply that she did not realize what they were for.
As she was filling out forms, Mark was arranging for transportation. He had been in the field a few times, never on an actual mission, but was used to the procedures. And the idea of escorting this lovely young woman was pretty exciting itself. He felt a great attraction to her, and for more than just her to-die-for form. There was something about her eagerness and smile that he really liked.
Project Lodestar was very important and carried a high priority. He did not feel comfortable letting her out of his sight, so he followed her to her apartment where he had her pack a very small travel bag. Anything else she needed on the way, he would purchase for her. He then drove her to his apartment in his car, and had her wait in the car while he packed his own bag.
They drove back towards the Langley headquarters to pick up the passport for her, stopping only for lunch at a fancy Italian restaurant. So long as this was going on an expense account, they might as well have a good meal, he told himself. If it impressed her as well, that was just great.
They talked about little things, keeping away from the subject of spying. Half way through the meal, she suddenly jumped up. When asked, she said she needed a phone. He handed her his cell phone and listened in as she called the loan office and quit her job. She seemed very happy to do so.
Mark, being college educated and smart, deliberately called her Blaze every chance he got. She seemed to love that. It was a real shame, he thought, that in a week her task would be done and she would be off the payroll. But maybe he would continue to see her. Hell, maybe he could even find her a job at the agency so he could win her eternal gratitude and who knows what else…! It would not be a job as a spy, but he well knew that there were many non-field jobs. For this type of impressionable young girl, just working for the CIA would be exciting. For the male employees, it would be exciting, too.
The passport was ready, one of the advantages of working for a high government agency, and then it was off to the airport. Two hours later their aircraft was jetting into the east towards Europe and adventure.
* * * * *
“Да, это было сделано.”
“Speak English. You need the practice.”
“Yes. It has been done as you ordered.”
“Good.”
The scene was an office in a four story brown rectangular building in Lubyanka Square, a building that used to be the headquarters of the KGB or Committee for State Security. The KGB was officially disbanded in 1995 by Boris Yeltsin, but many of the old timers continued their work as if nothing had changed. Even in Belarus, a former member of the USSR, the organization continued under the same KGB name.
The two men talking were agents of Spetnaz or Special Operations. Section Head Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, known as Alexei, and Agent Dmitry Prigov, sometimes called the “Poet” after well-known Russian author of the same name.
“You have no idea who was to contact him?”
“No, tovarishch… I mean, sir. He said he was to recognize her by a photo he had been given.”
“Dmitry, your use of the old terms is going to get you into trouble someday. Well, keep a lookout on his apartment. I want to know if he had other team members or was a lone operative. And we’ll let him go ahead with his meeting. Under our watchful eyes, of course. Then we’ll arrest his contact.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter IV
Welcome to Moscow
They changed planes in London, taking an S7 Airlines Tupolev Tu-204SM, a Russian equivalent of the Boeing 757. That flight took them into Moscow International in the early morning of the next day.
“The times certainly are changing,” Mark told her as they boarded the pale green painted TU-204. “It was not so long ago that Aeroflot was the largest airline in Russian. But in 2008, S7 overtook them.”
Blaze looked suitably impressed. That he was only quoting something he had heard from an agent recently returned from Russia was something he failed to mention. During the long flight and the two hour delay in London, they had become more and more friendly. On Blaze’s part it was almost a form of hero worship. She had been asking him about what kind of assignments he had done, until he told her that was all classified and he could not tell her.
On his part, he learned about her being raised by a stern mother and a sterner police officer father. The father had died when she was in her early teens. He learned about her younger sister, Melody, who was the smart one and had just started college. He learned that she would have liked to go to college but did not have the money. When Melody graduated high school, she contributed part of her earnings to help her sister enter college. It was only a community college, but she hoped to transfer after two years to the state university.
And so it went. They talked about a lot of things, yet unspoken was the ASSIGNMENT. Blaze thought of it in capital letters. This was the biggest thing in her life since she discovered that computers liked her.
Mark had napped a little on the flight, but Blaze was too excited to sleep. Fortunately she was not to make contact with Zorro until the morning of the following day, which meant that she could get some sleep that night. It would help overcome the effects of jet lag.
They took a cab from the Domodedovo International Airport to the Golden Ring Hotel in central Moscow over what looked to Blaze just like an American freeway. The hotel was forty years or so old but had been modernized and was very pleasant. All the staff spoke English, which was very good because Blaze spoke no Russian and Mark only a few words.
After checking in, where they posed as a newly married couple on their honeymoon – Mark’s idea – he took her down to the hotel’s restaurant for a combination breakfast and lunch. Then he took her by cab to Red Square and St. Basil's Cathedral where she was to meet Zorro the next morning. He wanted her to be familiar with the area so that he could stay well away when she met Zorro. The man called Zorro was in deep cover and they had no way of contacting him. All communications were one way; it was safer that way. If the man saw that Blaze was with another man, he would not make the contact and they really would be back to square one.
Blaze was delighted with how huge Red Square was. St. Basil’s was spectacular, she said, and then added that she did not know that religions were allowed in Russian. He explained the most of the Russian people were religious and always had been, no matter what Communism said. Besides, Communism was dead.
Back at the hotel they rested before dinner. Ideas of what a wonderful evening this night be were racing around inside Mark’s head. This Blaze was one wonderful girl. He thought he might be falling in love. Well, at least a good case of lust. Gawd, but she had a body!
He almost crapped in his pants when she announced that she was going to take a shower before dinner. The very idea of that incredible body removing its clothing just beyond that thin door was almost too much for him to take. He almost asked if she need someone to soap down her back but bit his tongue just in time. When he heard the shower water running, and thought about that lucky water running down that body, caressing it, making love to those curves… Well, he was in need of a cold shower himself.