Why spend your life in endless drudgery as some backroom research flunky in a New
York law office, the recruiter had asked. After all, it would take years of sixty hour
work weeks as a researcher, law clerk, then menial associate, before anyone in the firm
would treat me with any respect or dignity. And then what? An early ulcer or a heart
attack.
Now, the FBI was a career with a future, with dignity and respect. Plenty of career
advancement was possible with the United States Justice department, and without the
bone-weary hours, the years of being treated like a lackey, and the constant brown nosing
to arrogant, sexist partners. And best of all, excitement, excitement, excitement!
Well, I'd hated school, every miserable hour of it, sitting cooped up, dull
eyed, in a dull room full of other dull eyed people, listening to a dull professor drone
on about dull old cases that didn't interest me. The thought of year upon year of
paperwork, and toadying to misogynistic big shots had been preying on my mind more and
more as I neared the end of my unimpressive tenancy in law school.
What was I doing there in the first place, you ask. Well, it was a mistake, really.
I think I'd seen too many exciting movies about exciting cases. By the time I was far
enough into things to realize that most law work consisted of research, paperwork, and
mind numbing boredom I'd already invested too much time and borrowed money to back
out and search for something else, especially as I had no idea what else I wanted to do.
So the FBI guy hit me at just the right point in time, and I fell for it. Off I
went, the law school graduate, two hundred and thirty seventh in a class of three eighty
five, skipping merrily down the path to the FBI academy, to learn all about crime
fighting; fingerprinting, gunplay, hand to hand combat, DNA typing, interrogation
techniques, crime patterning, and... oh yes, paperwork.
I should have known, really. The world runs on paperwork, and no part of it more so
than a government agency. My visions of undercover work, of high speed chases and
shootouts, of snappy interrogations of evil suspects, all slowly faded away amongst the
gossip, small-talk, chatter, and boring lectures. So when I finally graduated, twelfth out
of thirty eight this time, I was not overly surprised to find myself sent to Seattle, and
assigned to... Federal employee security screening.
For lower level employees this mostly consisted of inputting their names and
fingerprints to the monster computers in the basement and seeing if anything popped up,
like - INTERNATIONAL TERRORIST WANTED IN NINETY COUNTRIES. Mostly all that ever turned up
was NOF, not on file. For middle level employees we'd also do credit checks, and for
the big shots, or the ones with higher clearances, we sometimes got to go around and
interview friends and family.
So much for avoiding boring drudgery. As for being treated like a lackey, well, the
FBI is a semi-military organization, everybody is somebody's lackey. The bosses were
every bit as sexist as any old law partner, and the brown nosing that went on was
incredible. The only part of the plan that went right were the hours, and that was because
budget constraints ruled out overtime.
Still, just like at law school, I'd come too far down the road to just quit.
And so I took my place every morning at my ancient government desk, in a large,
grotesquely unattractive room filled with three dozen other ancient government desks, and
shovelled through paperwork and computer tape.
The room was filled, aside from myself, with earnest young men clad in dark blue
suits, their ties suitably sober, their pants so sharply creased it was a wonder they
didn't cut their knees when they sat down. Their behaviour was as solemn as a pack of
priests at high mass, and every one of them was a dutiful trooper, an eager helper and
yes-man to the senior agents.
If the junior agents were the priests, the senior agents were the Bishops and
Monsignors, and any senior agent from Washington was a visiting Cardinal from the Vatican
itself. Senior agents controlled everything, most especially assignments and promotions.
As earnest as everyone was at their jobs, nobody wanted to keep doing them for long, not
in this room anyway.
So toadying was the name of the game, especially to Agents-in Charge, those guys
who ran different departments like Counter Espionage, Counter Terrorism, and Organized
Crime. Everyone wanted to chase spies in Washington or drug lords in Miami. No one wanted
to keep doing security checks on boring middle-class people.
Unfortunately for me, I soon discovered a singular lack of talent in the toadying
field. My efforts, such as they were, ended fruitlessly, and were often
counter-productive. I had a handicap, of course, that most of the other agents didn't
have to contend with. I had breasts.
Oh, I was no Dolly Parton, not even a Loni Anderson, but I was noticeably female
but nature had gifted me with a noticeably prominent pair of breasts which, due to good
exercise and genetic luck, continued to sit high and firm on my chest even at the ripe
old age of twenty six.. My height was one of the reasons they’d recruited me in the first
place, but six feet and two inches of height inevitably brings with it long legs, and good
ones too, even if I do say so myself.
My face is a narrow oval, which makes my lips seem fuller than they are. My pale
skin makes them seem redder, and moister, and so I often noticed when I was speaking to
some of the men at the office they were staring, not at my chest - which anti-harassment
courses had at least taught them to do tactfully - but at my lips. That always made me
feel more than a little odd; partly embarrassed, a little irritated, and sometimes oddly
aroused.
The thing is, the FBI is as sexist as any dockyard, and almost as racist,
aggressively white and male, unofficially, of course. And so, being seen as an object of
lust was really not a help for me in my efforts at blending in and being “one of the
guys”. Girls were, so far as they were concerned, weak, untrustworthy, a liability, likely
to break into tears at any misfortune and faint at the sign of blood.
And it meant that while a male agent could, say, invite a senior agent out for a
drink, I couldn't, not without running the risk of rumours that I was trying to sleep
my way to a better job. I had to be as modest and careful as a nun, or risk innuendo about
my sleeping habits. Sleeping around could be deadly to a male agent's career, to me
it would be pure poison. This was a sober organization run by sober, conservative men who
trusted in God and the Republican party.
You think I exaggerate? Well... maybe a tad. The truth is, I didn't much
associate with the "guys" outside of work, those nasty rumours, you know.
Besides, they were, as far as I could tell, the biggest bunch of back stabbing pricks in
the city. Go paint the town red with one of these guys and the next day the whole room
would be talking about the alcoholic nymphomaniac at desk eighteen. A week later I'd
be on my way to Iowa to guard agricultural secrets from the Europeans.
Of course, David Mills wasn’t one of the guys, not really, which was why the
careful protective shield I’d built around myself over the previous few years failed me.
Oh did it fail me!
Mills was British, from MI5, their internal security service. He was tall, broad
shouldered, and sleek in that Sean Connery sort of way. Think of Pierce Brosnan, but
really built, you know, with a wider face and shorter hair. The first time I saw him my
jaw dropped almost to my chest and my hands immediately went to my hair to make sure
everything was in place.
He was talking with Peter MacDonald, Senior Agent in Charge, Organized Crime, and
Peter was being his usual sycophantic self, in full suck up mode, a phoney little smile
plastered on his face. He looked like a peppy little dog next to Mills, who, with his dark
hair and tanned skin looked like a big Labrador, stolid and tolerant. And perhaps even
bored. His eyes left Peter and moved over the office, and then lit on me.
I felt like a deer in the night frozen in a pair of bright headlights. His eyes met
mine, caught them, and then he smiled and I felt a warmth in my belly which rapidly sank
down into my lower abdomen. I could literally feel my nipples tightening within the cups
of my lacy French cut bra.
He turned his head away and it felt as thought the lights had gone off. I sort of
slumped, letting out a long breath of air I hadn’t known I was holding. I wistfully looked
on as he and Peter left the room, and tried to keep my daydreams to a minimum as I got on
with the day’s work.
And then, less than an hour later, my phone rang. It was Peter, and he curtly
demanded I come to his office. When I got there, dreamy Mr. Mills was sitting comfortably
across against the wall, sprawled, rather, legs apart, arms spread along the top of the
small sofa. My stomach did a flip and I licked my lips and nodded politely to him, then
turned to Peter.
“Agent Ryan, this is David Mills,” he said. “From MI5. He’s English,” he added
helpfully.
Idiot.
I nodded as if this had been quite interesting information.
“David is looking for our assistance in an investigation his department is running
in the British Virgin Islands.”
Lovely. It was February, cold, chilly and dry out. Even hearing name of the Virgin
Islands brought a contented image of palm trees, white sandy beaches and blue waves
washing ashore to mind.
“It involves a Hong Kong crime syndicate,” Mills said, his accented voice so deep
and smooth it made my legs tremble and that heat in my lower belly flare up anew.
“We believe they’re running drugs through there, down through the Panama Canal, and
up through New Orleans.”
All lovely, warm places.
“One of the heads of this group is coming to the United States tomorrow, to
Buffalo, and we want to see what happens.”
My heart sank a little, images of palm trees blown away by a blizzard of snow.
“The reason Mr. Mills has specifically asked for you is this person is female,
young and female, and likes to party. He feels, and of course, I agree, that a young
female of comparative age would be less noticeable in the environments she might be likely
to ah, inhabit.”
Idiot.
“I’ll be happy to do anything I can to help,” I said.
“A single person alone is far more noticeable in the nightclubs she’s going to go
to than a man and woman,” Mills said. “Do you have suitable clothing for that sort of
thing?”
“Suitable?” I asked in surprise.
“She tends towards the ah, darker forms of pleasure.”
“I don’t understand?”
“The Bureau will reimburse reasonable clothing purchases for the purpose of
undercover work,” Peter said.
I nodded uncertainly, wondering if that meant designer dresses I could get to
keep.
“We’ll have other agents involved, of course,” Peter said. “Male and female teams
where possible.” He frowned, as if the very thought was unpleasant.
“I’m, as you might have noticed, rather tall,” Mills said, smiling.
My nipples hardened again.
“And so a tall girl helps me blend in.”
I would have resented the term “girl” from anyone here, but he made it sound so
natural I found myself smiling at him.
“I will brief you further later on,” he said.
“Of course, “I responded, a tad breathless.
| 
