Spy Games , livre ebook

Title Page
SPY GAMES
Thrilling Spy Erotica
A House of Erotica Collection



Publisher Information
Spy Games
published in 2015 by House of Erotica
an imprint of Andrews UK Limited
www.houseoferoticabooks.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © House of Erotica 2015
The rights of the authors have been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



Introduction by the editor
To me, the word “spy” conjures up images of exotic locations, gadgets that can both kill and tell time and men in impeccably tailored suits seducing and deducing their way around the globe. I like to think one Mr. James Bond is to blame for this particular image. Certainly he is partially to blame for the anthology you’re holding in your hands right now.
I have always been fascinated with spies and detectives. It’s a world that seems so very far from our own, a world of going deep undercover, of faces and names that may or may not be who you think they are. Of - while not always glammed up like the world James Bond inhabits - true grit and danger lurking around every corner. Spies and detectives have always captured the imagination of readers and viewers around the world, whether very real or fictionally so. They certainly captured my imagination, from the moment I first looked deep into the gun barrel and saw Pierce Brosnan’s suited up charmer stare back at me.
Since then, I have loved plenty of spies and detectives, both real (I adore Mata Hari and her adventures) and on the page and screen. From Mr. Bond came Ethan Hunt, Sherlock Holmes, the men and women of Spooks, Idris Elba’s brooding Detective John Luther and, most importantly of all, Trevor Eve as Waking the Dead’s DSI Peter Boyd. Each of these characters was part of the inspiration for the concept of this anthology - the danger of the spy game, combined with the elations and ecstasy of erotica.
Sex and death. As both Foucault and Freud argued, the two are unquestionably fused - they certainly are in this anthology. Throw in some exquisite locations - like South Florida in the middle of summer, New York in the dying days of autumn and a beautiful evening in a cafe in Italy - some thrills and spills, secret agents, assassins, CIA operatives and even a couple of trips back in time, not to mention a dash of saucy steampunk, and you’ve got a veritable thrill ride of an anthology.
9 tantalising tales. 9 authors. Your mission, should you choose to accept it? Read the stories tucked between these covers and lose yourself in sex, death and the thrill of playing spy games.
This message will not self-destruct. Otherwise there would be no anthology left to read...
Your editor, Jillian Boyd



The Sound of the Chime
Ashton Peal
Her call sign is Chime, but Operator called her “Ma Bell” once or twice because she was American and always worked the phones. It no longer fits her current position, but is instead a leftover from her first post on loan from The Company to the Atlantic Group. That was back before the incident and her subsequent reassignment. Chime, she thinks to herself sometimes, doing silent penance in the belfries of the Moon.
The Moon is what they all call Europe, derived from Jupiter’s satellite Europa. Everything in her life is a code. Names for the names for the names.
She paces across the bare floor of the empty apartment-cum-office and turns on the radio. Usually, there’s a crackle and hum as the vibrations from strategically placed transmitters all over The Drake’s current hotel room here in Paris are collected on the hidden antennae and converted into sound. Usually the oscilloscope springs into life, the electric green line dancing in sines and waves to visually represent the flow of sound.
But now, and for the last day, nothing. Turbid, dead air. Chime shifts her glasses, glowing green in the flat light of the control panel, and waits for The Drake’s voice. Her chest tightens and she shakes, until she finally remembers to exhale all in a rush.
Why hasn’t she heard anything?
In her cold silence, she thinks back to how she got here.
***
Operator wasn’t the first man who’d fallen for Chime. He wasn’t even the first at The Company. But Operator, however, had fallen in the most spectacular manner.
Chime’s first post out of the academy and after the probationary office period was as a telephonic drop box in a joint-op between The Company and the other organization whose official name Chime never knew. At first, she thought her post would be glamorous; she had visions of exotic spy movies and handsome men in sunglasses. In her imagination, she sipped coffee in the sidewalk cafes in the latticed shadow of the Eiffel Tower, basked on the sunny beaches of Spain, reeled around the white marble and red wine in the fountains of Rome. But, as she quickly learned was to be a disappointing pattern, Chime’s expectations and reality refused to line up.
Instead, she was shuttled by red-eye flights and overnight couchette from glorious city to glorious city to sit at desks and answer the phone. In Hamburg, City of Bridges, she saw just the end of the Trostbrücke from the women’s restroom in the rented office. In Florence, she occupied an attic bedroom in a sublet apartment on the Villa degli Artisti that smelled like dust and was covered in plastic. London and Paris were the worst because she had to commute by train during rush hour every day.
Her job had been to receive coded status updates and messages, then re-code them and pass them along to others. Codes for codes for codes. Eight, ten, twelve, twenty-four hours a day, her shifts at the phone were interminable. Long stretches of blank, dull time punctuated by the piercing ring and stage play dialogue. Each time she answered with the same words, although the languages changed and the accents shifted.
“At the sound of the chime, it will be...” and then something close to the time. She rang the little silver bell she kept on her desk for emphasis.
The empty offices were her Globe where every night she came on in a different costume to read the same lines to the empty house. Lines, chime, scene. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Good night.
The monotony was monolithic. On her end, it was simple: two minutes slow meant everything was fine; the right time meant she was being listened to or had been killed and replaced; two minutes fast meant to abort the mission. She never knew what the missions were, only that people would call her and she would recite her lines and ring a small bell on the edge of her desk and the caller would mumble something in return.
“Oh drat, I’ll be late for lunch.” The use of a “d” word, “late” and a meal other than breakfast meant that supply lines needed to be restocked by tomorrow.
“I wonder if Sam will miss the train.” A “w” word, a unisex name and ground transportation meant the assassination was complete.
Chime took these messages, re-coded them and then passed them off to Operator.
Operator. He was the only person Chime was allowed to call out to and the only person she was allowed to say more than her canned speech to. She began to look forward to the weekly call, hearing his voice on the other end.
“Hello,” he said the first time. “Operator.”
It might have been her starvation for contact, but Chime had never heard a voice like his before. It was continental, but accented with little tinges and diphthongs she couldn’t place. It was like Operator’s voice had its serial number filed off and its auditory prints wiped cleaned. Chime, the empty Echo of the phone lines, felt it worm down the wires and lodge into her ear.
“Hello?” He began to breathe heavily and Chime could hear the air move in and out, in and out. The sounds rubbed against her ears, pulling a shiver through her scalp and down her shoulders.
“Hi,” she finally said. “I’m trying to find the address for Preston Window Models.” This was how Chime relayed that the team was moving on to the next safe house.
“Are you?” Through the lines, she could hear his smile pulling the word sounds into different shapes. Chime didn’t know. Was this a test? A wrong number?
“Yes?” she replied, although the inflection made clear it was a question. “I’m trying to find the address for Preston-”
“I heard you,” Operator interrupted. “I just wanted to see if I couldn’t interest you in the Prentiss Door Painting.”
Chime felt the blood rush from her head into seemingly nothing and became acutely aware of the pools of sweat beneath her arms. This wasn’t a code she knew. She’d never heard of this.
“I... I mean...”
“I’m just kidding,” Operator said. “They’re located on the fountain side of the plaza. Would you like me to connect you?”
Chime sighed loudly in relief at the sound of the all-clear phrase. “No, thank you.”
“Good night, then.”
“Good night.”
Chime hung up the phone, her hands still trembling. She took off her glasses, rubbed the bridge of her nose, then pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. Hot, she thought, flushed.
From then on, Chime thought of Operator as a kindred spirit. He was her one point of human contact in the cities after cities after cities. Company Man after Company Man after Company Man could shuttle her to bus stations and borders, but every Friday she would call the