Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
The most perilous "to swallow or not to swallow" situation as yet described on CF!
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It Ended in Moscow
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
Chapter 10
Lubyanka infirmary, Moscow, Soviet Union, 9 am, Saturday, 6th January, 1940.
NKVD Commissar Sergei Mikhaylovich Popov gazed down upon the naked young woman lying unconscious on an old and battered infirmary gurney. Despite the many cuts, weals and bruises on her body, he had to admit she looked serene lying there … not to mention strikingly beautiful. Under different circumstances, he thought to himself wistfully, they might have been friends, even lovers.
That she laid there before him, alive and breathing, was somewhat of a miracle, for her escape from death had been a very close run thing. As it happened, it was quite by chance that he’d noticed that Nazi pig, SS-Standarten Führer Berger, slip a pill into his mouth and attempt to poison her by passing it to her mouth with a stolen kiss.
Fortunately Popov had been in a position to act quickly. He’d drawn his sidearm and drilled Berger straight in the head. And while Popov’s men had taken Berger’s two subordinates into custody, he’d frantically ripped the dynamo wires away from her nipples and clit, freed her body from the chair to which she was bound, scooped her up, thrown her over his shoulder and carried her on the run all the way up to the Lubyanka’s third floor infirmary. The infirmary staff had, of course, plenty of experience with prisoners attempting to poison themselves and had quickly done what was necessary.
Gazing down on her, and noting the slight twitch at the corners of her mouth suggesting that she might be coming around to consciousness, he wondered … given all he was aware she’d been through since he’d first laid eyes on her back many months ago in Berlin … how many lives … like a cat … she had, and whether their were any remaining.
She moaned and tentatively stretched, in so far as the leather straps binding her to the gurney allowed. Her eyes blinked and then opened, slowly focusing on his face, which undoubtedly was backlit by the overhead lighting.
“Well, Fräulein Mohr. Welcome back!”
The Office of Vyacheslav Molotov, Commissar for Foreign Affairs, The Kremlin, Moscow, 11 am, Saturday, 6th January 1940
Von Ribbentrop took his seat opposite his Soviet counterpart. He felt apprehensive. It had not been a good sign that Molotov had done away with the usual welcoming pleasantries, simply pointing silently to the waiting chair instead.
“What’s this all about, Vyacheslav?” he ventured, attempting to take control.
Molotov only scowled and said nothing for several uncomfortable minutes before finally replying, “what I have to say to you this afternoon is very grave, Herr Reichsminister. It’s a stern rebuke for an unconscionable act committed by your people yesterday. I must inform you that NKVD personnel at the Lubyanka were provoked by the blatant disregard by your man, SS-Standarten Führer Berger, for the agreed upon rules for interrogating Fräulein Mohr. Put concisely and bluntly, Berger tried to poison her and our man was forced to put a bullet in Berger’s head!”
Von Ribbentrop’s mouth went slack as he stared in disbelief at Molotov.
“Berger’s corpse will be delivered to the German Embassy sometime next later today, along with the other two surviving members of his SS team. Our government demands that they be shipped out of the country immediately.”
“My dear Molotov, let me…”
“That’s all for today, Ribbentrop. Get out!”
Office of Chief Anders Hallgren, Headquarters of the Swedish General Security Service (SGSS), Stockholm, Sweden, 11:30 am, Saturday, 6th January 1940
“So, Chief, what do you make of the intelligence this English spy, Underwood, has shared with us? Do you think he’s right about the likelihood of a Russian invasion of Sweden?”
“We’ve every reason to believe him, Anders! I believe Sweden is in real danger of being invaded and occupied by the Russians, possibly by the Germans too. We need to take immediate steps to up our game while there’s still time.”
A knock on the office door, followed by the appearance a pretty blonde receptionist, interrupted their conversation.
“Excuse me Chief, but those two English gentlemen who were here yesterday wish to have a word.”
“Grand and Underwood?”
“Yes.”
“Please show them in, Kristina.”
“Excuse us from coming around unannounced,” said Major Grand. “But Captain Underwood and I are returning to London this afternoon and …”
“Sit down, gentlemen,” said Hallgren gently but firmly, a thoughtful expression crossing his thin angular face. “I believe I have a proposal that might interest you. Mind you, the idea just came to me, so what I have to say, should it interest you, may take some time, operationally speaking, to develop fully … perhaps a fortnight, possibly more.”
“Well, that could be interesting, Anders, but we really must get back to London. Perhaps we can discuss this another time? Suggested Grand.
“No, I think you’ll need to remain here in Sweden for awhile longer … or at least Captain Underwood must. Technically Major Grand, he is in the custody of the Swedish General Security Service until I sign his release.”
“Alright, you win. We’ll listen. What’s your plan?”
“Simple. You need to get the Captain back to Moscow, as he insisted you must do yesterday.”
“You had that room where he and I were talking bugged!”
“Of course, I did. Wouldn’t you have done the same?”
“Touché.”
“Now hear me out, Laurence. My plan is to assist you in inserting your Captain Underwood back into Moscow by sending him there as an attaché assigned to the Swedish Embassy there.”
“But how will that work? He’s British!”
“Give us two weeks and we can wallpaper that over. Tell me, Captain Underwood, ‘pratar du svenska?” Do you speak Swedish?”
“Lite grann … a little bit,” answered Henry. “I was posted to Stockholm for half a year stint early in my career.”
“Yes, we knew that,” laughed Hallgren. “We’re all in the business of gathering intelligence here, aren’t we?”
“So … alright … you can get Henry into Moscow playing the role of a Swedish diplomatic attaché. I admit that would be helpful. And, let’s just say he manages somehow to rescue Barbara Mohr and spirit her safely back to your Embassy,” observed Grand. “What’s in it for you, Anders?”
“Hands on experience for one. Our organization has only been in existence for two years. We’re still getting up to speed. And, like all intel operations, we like to work in teams of two. So I’m proposing that we partner your man Henry here with one of ours and send them on this mission together. Our agent learns from working with an experienced professional, and possibly gets an opportunity to gather intel on Russian intentions as well. You win, we win.”
“And who might this rookie agent be?”
“It’s a she, Laurence. Her name is Maja … Maja Sundahl,” replied Hallgren, pushing a manila personnel file across his desk.
Grand picked it up, and opened it with Henry looking over his shoulder. Both men stared long and hard at the photo, stapled to the inside cover, of a stunningly attractive young woman.
Underwood let out a low whistle.
Personal quarters of NKVD Commissar Sergei Mikhaylovich Popov, Lubyanka, Moscow, Soviet Union, 9 pm Saturday, 6th January, 1940.
For the second time that day, Popov gazed down upon a stretched out and naked Barbara Mohr. Only this time she was stretched out, not on an infirmary gurney, but on his own bed. And this time she was fully conscious and eyeing him warily.
He’d had her brought to his quarters that evening for two reasons. The first was that he wanted to fuck her, not as a means of brutalizing a prisoner under interrogation, but as a pleasurable act, performed gently and adroitly … hopefully in a way that might bring her as much pleasure as it would him.
Having read her file, he knew she had spent time as a willing sex slave for the commandant of a gulag labor camp. There seemed no reason in Popov’s mind why she might not be coaxed into doing the same with him.
The second reason was that he had received a disturbing order that afternoon … disturbing, given his newfound affection for her. It seemed far fetched, but he’d been informed that Comrade Stalin had taken a special interest in Barbara Mohr and had demanded that she be brought on Wednesday .. just four days hence … to the Russian leader’s dacha outside the city. Well aware of Comrade Stalin’s rumored reputation as a womanizer, Popov hoped to win Barbara over and gain her confidence before she met the Soviet leader.
Slipping out of his uniform and underclothing, he gathered two glasses and a bottle of vodka from a cupboard and sat himself down next to her.
“I’m going to untie your wrists so that you can sit up, Fräulein Mohr. You and I are about to have a little talk. I want to you to know that what’s happened between us in the past is over. From now on, I wish to be your friend, lover and protector … the last of which, in particular, you desperately need. I hope you will drink with me and accept, given the otherwise grim realities of your situation, that what I’m offering is a far better option. I sincerely hope you do.”
He proceeded then to free her wrists.
She blinked twice, cocked her head to one side, then slowly held out a hand to accept the proffered glass.
TBC
Lubyanka infirmary, Moscow, Soviet Union, 9 am, Saturday, 6th January, 1940.
NKVD Commissar Sergei Mikhaylovich Popov gazed down upon the naked young woman lying unconscious on an old and battered infirmary gurney. Despite the many cuts, weals and bruises on her body, he had to admit she looked serene lying there … not to mention strikingly beautiful. Under different circumstances, he thought to himself wistfully, they might have been friends, even lovers.
That she laid there before him, alive and breathing, was somewhat of a miracle, for her escape from death had been a very close run thing. As it happened, it was quite by chance that he’d noticed that Nazi pig, SS-Standarten Führer Berger, slip a pill into his mouth and attempt to poison her by passing it to her mouth with a stolen kiss.
Fortunately Popov had been in a position to act quickly. He’d drawn his sidearm and drilled Berger straight in the head. And while Popov’s men had taken Berger’s two subordinates into custody, he’d frantically ripped the dynamo wires away from her nipples and clit, freed her body from the chair to which she was bound, scooped her up, thrown her over his shoulder and carried her on the run all the way up to the Lubyanka’s third floor infirmary. The infirmary staff had, of course, plenty of experience with prisoners attempting to poison themselves and had quickly done what was necessary.
Gazing down on her, and noting the slight twitch at the corners of her mouth suggesting that she might be coming around to consciousness, he wondered … given all he was aware she’d been through since he’d first laid eyes on her back many months ago in Berlin … how many lives … like a cat … she had, and whether their were any remaining.
She moaned and tentatively stretched, in so far as the leather straps binding her to the gurney allowed. Her eyes blinked and then opened, slowly focusing on his face, which undoubtedly was backlit by the overhead lighting.
“Well, Fräulein Mohr. Welcome back!”
The Office of Vyacheslav Molotov, Commissar for Foreign Affairs, The Kremlin, Moscow, 11 am, Saturday, 6th January 1940
Von Ribbentrop took his seat opposite his Soviet counterpart. He felt apprehensive. It had not been a good sign that Molotov had done away with the usual welcoming pleasantries, simply pointing silently to the waiting chair instead.
“What’s this all about, Vyacheslav?” he ventured, attempting to take control.
Molotov only scowled and said nothing for several uncomfortable minutes before finally replying, “what I have to say to you this afternoon is very grave, Herr Reichsminister. It’s a stern rebuke for an unconscionable act committed by your people yesterday. I must inform you that NKVD personnel at the Lubyanka were provoked by the blatant disregard by your man, SS-Standarten Führer Berger, for the agreed upon rules for interrogating Fräulein Mohr. Put concisely and bluntly, Berger tried to poison her and our man was forced to put a bullet in Berger’s head!”
Von Ribbentrop’s mouth went slack as he stared in disbelief at Molotov.
“Berger’s corpse will be delivered to the German Embassy sometime next later today, along with the other two surviving members of his SS team. Our government demands that they be shipped out of the country immediately.”
“My dear Molotov, let me…”
“That’s all for today, Ribbentrop. Get out!”
Office of Chief Anders Hallgren, Headquarters of the Swedish General Security Service (SGSS), Stockholm, Sweden, 11:30 am, Saturday, 6th January 1940
“So, Chief, what do you make of the intelligence this English spy, Underwood, has shared with us? Do you think he’s right about the likelihood of a Russian invasion of Sweden?”
“We’ve every reason to believe him, Anders! I believe Sweden is in real danger of being invaded and occupied by the Russians, possibly by the Germans too. We need to take immediate steps to up our game while there’s still time.”
A knock on the office door, followed by the appearance a pretty blonde receptionist, interrupted their conversation.
“Excuse me Chief, but those two English gentlemen who were here yesterday wish to have a word.”
“Grand and Underwood?”
“Yes.”
“Please show them in, Kristina.”
“Excuse us from coming around unannounced,” said Major Grand. “But Captain Underwood and I are returning to London this afternoon and …”
“Sit down, gentlemen,” said Hallgren gently but firmly, a thoughtful expression crossing his thin angular face. “I believe I have a proposal that might interest you. Mind you, the idea just came to me, so what I have to say, should it interest you, may take some time, operationally speaking, to develop fully … perhaps a fortnight, possibly more.”
“Well, that could be interesting, Anders, but we really must get back to London. Perhaps we can discuss this another time? Suggested Grand.
“No, I think you’ll need to remain here in Sweden for awhile longer … or at least Captain Underwood must. Technically Major Grand, he is in the custody of the Swedish General Security Service until I sign his release.”
“Alright, you win. We’ll listen. What’s your plan?”
“Simple. You need to get the Captain back to Moscow, as he insisted you must do yesterday.”
“You had that room where he and I were talking bugged!”
“Of course, I did. Wouldn’t you have done the same?”
“Touché.”
“Now hear me out, Laurence. My plan is to assist you in inserting your Captain Underwood back into Moscow by sending him there as an attaché assigned to the Swedish Embassy there.”
“But how will that work? He’s British!”
“Give us two weeks and we can wallpaper that over. Tell me, Captain Underwood, ‘pratar du svenska?” Do you speak Swedish?”
“Lite grann … a little bit,” answered Henry. “I was posted to Stockholm for half a year stint early in my career.”
“Yes, we knew that,” laughed Hallgren. “We’re all in the business of gathering intelligence here, aren’t we?”
“So … alright … you can get Henry into Moscow playing the role of a Swedish diplomatic attaché. I admit that would be helpful. And, let’s just say he manages somehow to rescue Barbara Mohr and spirit her safely back to your Embassy,” observed Grand. “What’s in it for you, Anders?”
“Hands on experience for one. Our organization has only been in existence for two years. We’re still getting up to speed. And, like all intel operations, we like to work in teams of two. So I’m proposing that we partner your man Henry here with one of ours and send them on this mission together. Our agent learns from working with an experienced professional, and possibly gets an opportunity to gather intel on Russian intentions as well. You win, we win.”
“And who might this rookie agent be?”
“It’s a she, Laurence. Her name is Maja … Maja Sundahl,” replied Hallgren, pushing a manila personnel file across his desk.
Grand picked it up, and opened it with Henry looking over his shoulder. Both men stared long and hard at the photo, stapled to the inside cover, of a stunningly attractive young woman.
Underwood let out a low whistle.
Personal quarters of NKVD Commissar Sergei Mikhaylovich Popov, Lubyanka, Moscow, Soviet Union, 9 pm Saturday, 6th January, 1940.
For the second time that day, Popov gazed down upon a stretched out and naked Barbara Mohr. Only this time she was stretched out, not on an infirmary gurney, but on his own bed. And this time she was fully conscious and eyeing him warily.
He’d had her brought to his quarters that evening for two reasons. The first was that he wanted to fuck her, not as a means of brutalizing a prisoner under interrogation, but as a pleasurable act, performed gently and adroitly … hopefully in a way that might bring her as much pleasure as it would him.
Having read her file, he knew she had spent time as a willing sex slave for the commandant of a gulag labor camp. There seemed no reason in Popov’s mind why she might not be coaxed into doing the same with him.
The second reason was that he had received a disturbing order that afternoon … disturbing, given his newfound affection for her. It seemed far fetched, but he’d been informed that Comrade Stalin had taken a special interest in Barbara Mohr and had demanded that she be brought on Wednesday .. just four days hence … to the Russian leader’s dacha outside the city. Well aware of Comrade Stalin’s rumored reputation as a womanizer, Popov hoped to win Barbara over and gain her confidence before she met the Soviet leader.
Slipping out of his uniform and underclothing, he gathered two glasses and a bottle of vodka from a cupboard and sat himself down next to her.
“I’m going to untie your wrists so that you can sit up, Fräulein Mohr. You and I are about to have a little talk. I want to you to know that what’s happened between us in the past is over. From now on, I wish to be your friend, lover and protector … the last of which, in particular, you desperately need. I hope you will drink with me and accept, given the otherwise grim realities of your situation, that what I’m offering is a far better option. I sincerely hope you do.”
He proceeded then to free her wrists.
She blinked twice, cocked her head to one side, then slowly held out a hand to accept the proffered glass.
TBC
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Barb resurrected again from death! As usual!
Barb will get diplomatic immunity? In a Red state?
And enter a pretty Swedish girl! Will she and Underwood stay strictly professional, or is there a threesome in the making?
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Stay tuned LoxBarb resurrected again from death! As usual!
Barb will get diplomatic immunity? In a Red state?
And enter a pretty Swedish girl! Will she and Underwood stay strictly professional, or is there a threesome in the making?
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Chapter 11
Cabinet War Rooms, located beneath the Treasury building Whitehall, Westminster, London, 10 am Monday 8th January 1940
“Operation Paul cannot be allowed to proceed Lord Churchill,” Laurence Grand, was pleading his case directly to the First Lord of the Admiralty.
Winston Churchill looked at him, his jowly expression not giving anything away. “And why, Major, might I ask, not? The bloody Swedes are channelling tonnes of iron ore every day into Nazi Germany to fuel the might of their bloody war machine …” his voice was getting louder. “… And so, Grand, why can I not give the Swedes a clip round the head and warn them of what might happen if they continue?”
Grand took in a deep breath. “Because we have had it confirmed by multiple sources that Russia is preparing to bomb the port of Luleå any day now, presumably as retaliation for Swedish munitions and volunteers turning up in Finland to help the Finns in their ongoing conflict with the USSR. We have told the Swedes this, but they seem disbelieving.”
Churchill nodded sagely, took a puff on his long, thick Romeo y Julieta, and leaned into his desk. “So, what you’re saying is that we let those Commie Reds do our dirty work for us, and call off Operation Paul?”
Grand nodded, “Yes, and then Prime Minister Hansson along with Anders Hallgren, Head of the SGSS, can proceed with the plan agreed between Hallgren and myself to send Underwood into Russia, under cover as an additional attaché to the Swedish Embassy in Moscow.”
Another nod and a second quick puff on his Havana, and Churchill looked Grand in the eyes. “And I suppose having Underwood over there means he can gather importantant intelligence regarding the Soviet’s commitment to the Nazis?” He raised his eyebrows.
Grand nodded, “Yes, Lord Churchill.”
“And there isn’t any intention for him to spend time saving that girl, if indeed she still lives?”
“Of course not Sir.”
Churchill smiled a knowing smile and said, “Very well then Major, we shall abide by your plan.”
As Laurence Grand left the Treasury building he was smiling from ear to ear.
On route to the Swedish Embassy, Ulitsa Vorovskogo, 44, Moscow 4 pm, Tuesday, 9th January 1940
Maja and Henry landed in Moscow at 2pm on Tuesday 9th January 1940. Taxi’s were already being requisitioned for use by the Red Army and so it was with some luck that after a short walk along the Gorky to Nishny Novgorood route, they were able to flag down a black KIM-1-51, which Henry immediately recognised as a modified Ford Prefect.
“Eto budet tri s polovinoy rubly …” The driver said dolefully when Maja asked in perfect Russian how much a journey to the Swedish Embassy would cost.
“It’s three and half roubles Henry, do you have that amount to hand?” She whispered quietly to him, not wanting to speak her perfect English too loudly. Henry nodded in response.
When their car turned onto Ulitsa Vorovskogo Maja Sundahl said something about the number of soldiers evident on the streets of Moscow, but Henry Underwood’s mind was elsewhere.
He could still see images of Barb in his head. Beaten, humiliated, naked and close to death. He didn’t even know whether or not his colleague, more than that, his girl … was even still alive. But he knew that being over here in Moscow was the best place for him to be, he just hoped that having been here in the very recent past, incarcerated as a British Spy, that his cover as a Swedish Embassy official would work. The enormity of the task before them both, he and Maja, made his heart race.
Failure was unthinkable. But success would bring his Barbara back to him.
He felt the warmth of Maja’s thigh against the leg of his grey suit, and suddenly she took a little of his attention away from the debilitating thoughts of Barbara’s predicament.
Henry glanced down and looked at the form of her shapely, slender thighs through the dress, her overcoat being unbuttoned while they were in the taxi. Then, turning his head, he looked straight down her cleavage. She had the most perfect breasts and from this angle Henry had a perfect view of the upper curves of those two beautiful rondures of flesh. He felt unwitting lust stir in his loins.
Their car was slowing now, and the embassy was up ahead, he could see the flag with the blue background and yellow cross flying high and proud.
“Vy zdes'” The driver turned and said solemnly to them.
”Vi är här Henry,” Maja said, informing Henry that they had arrived whilst translating the Russian into Swedish with effortless fluency.
With a sharp intake of breath as the cold hit him, Henry got out of the car and moved around to open the door, but Maja was already out.
He said nothing to the driver as he handed over the payment, and they both stood and watched as the black Mercedes KIM-10-51 pulled away. In the fading light Underwood could see the delicious curves of Maja’s body pushing at her coat as she tightened the belt around her waist.
Heading towards the Embassy entrance Henry stepped closer to the Swedish girl, and felt the back of her hair on his face, as his hip accidentally nudged her. Maja laughed. “Henry!” she said, her smiling face half turning.
Personal quarters of NKVD Commissar Sergei Mikhaylovich Popov, Lubyanka, Moscow, Soviet Union, 6 pm, Tuesday 9th January 1940
Barbara was sleeping with Popov … as his lover. At first, she told herself that she was too exhausted from her ordeals to resist the Commissar’s attempts to befriend her, but then she also justified it as a pretext for staying out of bondage, and then finally as a means of giving herself at least some protection if she was to be presented to Stalin himself, which was due to happen the following day.
However, despite her desperate search for excuses and reasons, Barbara felt herself genuinely warming to the care and attention being lavished upon her by her erstwhile captor, and so when a post-coital stupor swathed over her spent body, she snuggled contently against the man she now called Sergei, and after a short leisurely rest, made herself readily available to his further sexual overtures.
Deep down inside, she knew this was wrong, that feeling this way was unfaithful to the man she hoped was at this very minute trying to rescue her, but ‘needs most definitely must’ in her situation.
Gone was her iron collar along with the chains, and she was no longer restrained by the wrist. She accepted his touches, welcomed his kisses and had even started to press her lips to his a little more proactively. She did whatever Sergei wanted and more often than not, was rewarded with exhilarating orgasms.
And so now when the Commissar pushed his softening cock, coated with the residue of his sperm, along with Barb’s own juices, between her lips, Barbara didn't balk or resist as she would have done a short few days ago, and instead, she eagerly opened her mouth and sucked him, intoxicated by the smell, taste, and feel of his virile organ, loving it when his cock began to grow and harden again within her mouth as she cleaned his shaft.
Barbara sucked him off, and when he finally came again, she eagerly and greedily swallowed his hot, thick seed as he ejaculated directly into her greedy, gulping throat, savouring its taste, texture, and the way this little amount of control that she had wrestled in her favour, made her feel.
Sergei rewarded and encouraged her affectionate behaviour, and of all the small benefits that Barbara now began to enjoy, having access to a proper bathroom was by far the best. Hot water, with soap, shampoo, and a with a safety razor available to keep her legs fully depilated. A toothbrush with toothpaste and a simple hair-brush made her feel clean, somewhat content, and very appreciative. The last item of comfort given to her was Sergei's soft cotton shirt that carried his now-familiar scent. Although she finally had something to cover herself, with, Barbara always left the front unbuttoned.
‘What the hell has happened to me...?’ Was the regular thought that reverberated inside her head as she reflected on the recent developments in her relationship with Sergei.
‘Now when he takes me, he doesn't have to force me. My legs spread wide and then wrap around his pumping hips to pull him deeper into me, and my heels dig into the backs of his legs as I frantically urge him to go faster and faster. And when I finally climax in a mind-blowing orgasm …’
God Barbara stop this way of thinking! It is a relationship of convenience for you and nothing more!
But Barbara was confused … Her only link to a reality of any sort right now was when the Commissar’s humping body was between her parted thighs!
Somehow, he has been transformed from captor-rapist into her lover, and, unreal as it may seem, her world had started to revolve around him. The more she catered to Sergei’s sexual needs, the better he took care of her, which right now was all that mattered.
TBC
Cabinet War Rooms, located beneath the Treasury building Whitehall, Westminster, London, 10 am Monday 8th January 1940
“Operation Paul cannot be allowed to proceed Lord Churchill,” Laurence Grand, was pleading his case directly to the First Lord of the Admiralty.
Winston Churchill looked at him, his jowly expression not giving anything away. “And why, Major, might I ask, not? The bloody Swedes are channelling tonnes of iron ore every day into Nazi Germany to fuel the might of their bloody war machine …” his voice was getting louder. “… And so, Grand, why can I not give the Swedes a clip round the head and warn them of what might happen if they continue?”
Grand took in a deep breath. “Because we have had it confirmed by multiple sources that Russia is preparing to bomb the port of Luleå any day now, presumably as retaliation for Swedish munitions and volunteers turning up in Finland to help the Finns in their ongoing conflict with the USSR. We have told the Swedes this, but they seem disbelieving.”
Churchill nodded sagely, took a puff on his long, thick Romeo y Julieta, and leaned into his desk. “So, what you’re saying is that we let those Commie Reds do our dirty work for us, and call off Operation Paul?”
Grand nodded, “Yes, and then Prime Minister Hansson along with Anders Hallgren, Head of the SGSS, can proceed with the plan agreed between Hallgren and myself to send Underwood into Russia, under cover as an additional attaché to the Swedish Embassy in Moscow.”
Another nod and a second quick puff on his Havana, and Churchill looked Grand in the eyes. “And I suppose having Underwood over there means he can gather importantant intelligence regarding the Soviet’s commitment to the Nazis?” He raised his eyebrows.
Grand nodded, “Yes, Lord Churchill.”
“And there isn’t any intention for him to spend time saving that girl, if indeed she still lives?”
“Of course not Sir.”
Churchill smiled a knowing smile and said, “Very well then Major, we shall abide by your plan.”
As Laurence Grand left the Treasury building he was smiling from ear to ear.
On route to the Swedish Embassy, Ulitsa Vorovskogo, 44, Moscow 4 pm, Tuesday, 9th January 1940
Maja and Henry landed in Moscow at 2pm on Tuesday 9th January 1940. Taxi’s were already being requisitioned for use by the Red Army and so it was with some luck that after a short walk along the Gorky to Nishny Novgorood route, they were able to flag down a black KIM-1-51, which Henry immediately recognised as a modified Ford Prefect.
“Eto budet tri s polovinoy rubly …” The driver said dolefully when Maja asked in perfect Russian how much a journey to the Swedish Embassy would cost.
“It’s three and half roubles Henry, do you have that amount to hand?” She whispered quietly to him, not wanting to speak her perfect English too loudly. Henry nodded in response.
When their car turned onto Ulitsa Vorovskogo Maja Sundahl said something about the number of soldiers evident on the streets of Moscow, but Henry Underwood’s mind was elsewhere.
He could still see images of Barb in his head. Beaten, humiliated, naked and close to death. He didn’t even know whether or not his colleague, more than that, his girl … was even still alive. But he knew that being over here in Moscow was the best place for him to be, he just hoped that having been here in the very recent past, incarcerated as a British Spy, that his cover as a Swedish Embassy official would work. The enormity of the task before them both, he and Maja, made his heart race.
Failure was unthinkable. But success would bring his Barbara back to him.
He felt the warmth of Maja’s thigh against the leg of his grey suit, and suddenly she took a little of his attention away from the debilitating thoughts of Barbara’s predicament.
Henry glanced down and looked at the form of her shapely, slender thighs through the dress, her overcoat being unbuttoned while they were in the taxi. Then, turning his head, he looked straight down her cleavage. She had the most perfect breasts and from this angle Henry had a perfect view of the upper curves of those two beautiful rondures of flesh. He felt unwitting lust stir in his loins.
Their car was slowing now, and the embassy was up ahead, he could see the flag with the blue background and yellow cross flying high and proud.
“Vy zdes'” The driver turned and said solemnly to them.
”Vi är här Henry,” Maja said, informing Henry that they had arrived whilst translating the Russian into Swedish with effortless fluency.
With a sharp intake of breath as the cold hit him, Henry got out of the car and moved around to open the door, but Maja was already out.
He said nothing to the driver as he handed over the payment, and they both stood and watched as the black Mercedes KIM-10-51 pulled away. In the fading light Underwood could see the delicious curves of Maja’s body pushing at her coat as she tightened the belt around her waist.
Heading towards the Embassy entrance Henry stepped closer to the Swedish girl, and felt the back of her hair on his face, as his hip accidentally nudged her. Maja laughed. “Henry!” she said, her smiling face half turning.
Personal quarters of NKVD Commissar Sergei Mikhaylovich Popov, Lubyanka, Moscow, Soviet Union, 6 pm, Tuesday 9th January 1940
Barbara was sleeping with Popov … as his lover. At first, she told herself that she was too exhausted from her ordeals to resist the Commissar’s attempts to befriend her, but then she also justified it as a pretext for staying out of bondage, and then finally as a means of giving herself at least some protection if she was to be presented to Stalin himself, which was due to happen the following day.
However, despite her desperate search for excuses and reasons, Barbara felt herself genuinely warming to the care and attention being lavished upon her by her erstwhile captor, and so when a post-coital stupor swathed over her spent body, she snuggled contently against the man she now called Sergei, and after a short leisurely rest, made herself readily available to his further sexual overtures.
Deep down inside, she knew this was wrong, that feeling this way was unfaithful to the man she hoped was at this very minute trying to rescue her, but ‘needs most definitely must’ in her situation.
Gone was her iron collar along with the chains, and she was no longer restrained by the wrist. She accepted his touches, welcomed his kisses and had even started to press her lips to his a little more proactively. She did whatever Sergei wanted and more often than not, was rewarded with exhilarating orgasms.
And so now when the Commissar pushed his softening cock, coated with the residue of his sperm, along with Barb’s own juices, between her lips, Barbara didn't balk or resist as she would have done a short few days ago, and instead, she eagerly opened her mouth and sucked him, intoxicated by the smell, taste, and feel of his virile organ, loving it when his cock began to grow and harden again within her mouth as she cleaned his shaft.
Barbara sucked him off, and when he finally came again, she eagerly and greedily swallowed his hot, thick seed as he ejaculated directly into her greedy, gulping throat, savouring its taste, texture, and the way this little amount of control that she had wrestled in her favour, made her feel.
Sergei rewarded and encouraged her affectionate behaviour, and of all the small benefits that Barbara now began to enjoy, having access to a proper bathroom was by far the best. Hot water, with soap, shampoo, and a with a safety razor available to keep her legs fully depilated. A toothbrush with toothpaste and a simple hair-brush made her feel clean, somewhat content, and very appreciative. The last item of comfort given to her was Sergei's soft cotton shirt that carried his now-familiar scent. Although she finally had something to cover herself, with, Barbara always left the front unbuttoned.
‘What the hell has happened to me...?’ Was the regular thought that reverberated inside her head as she reflected on the recent developments in her relationship with Sergei.
‘Now when he takes me, he doesn't have to force me. My legs spread wide and then wrap around his pumping hips to pull him deeper into me, and my heels dig into the backs of his legs as I frantically urge him to go faster and faster. And when I finally climax in a mind-blowing orgasm …’
God Barbara stop this way of thinking! It is a relationship of convenience for you and nothing more!
But Barbara was confused … Her only link to a reality of any sort right now was when the Commissar’s humping body was between her parted thighs!
Somehow, he has been transformed from captor-rapist into her lover, and, unreal as it may seem, her world had started to revolve around him. The more she catered to Sergei’s sexual needs, the better he took care of her, which right now was all that mattered.
TBC
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
You bet I stay tuned! There is a catfight in the making between Maja and Barb, that will dwarf the rest of the war that is going on!Stay tuned Lox
TheLimey
Governor
Well, near death experiences can change a person, you know.What????!!!
Just..... what????!!!
Did I really just read that????!!!!!
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Clearly, Barb is already thoroughly brainwashed by Stalinist propaganda! She swallows it all! There is no other explanation for it!What????!!!
Just..... what????!!!
Did I really just read that????!!!!!
What????!!!
Just..... what????!!!
Did I really just read that????!!!!!
And you guys thought you knew me!Clearly, Barb is already thoroughly brainwashed by Stalinist propaganda! She swallows it all! There is no other explanation for it!
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
We still do! But we wonder what those Bolsheviks have done to you!And you guys thought you knew me!
Chapter 12
Kuntsevo Dacha, Stalin’s personal residence outside of Moscow, Kuntsevo, USSR, 11:53 am, Wednesday, 10th January, 1940.
Barbara and Commissar Sergei Mikhaylovich Popov stood nervously waiting in the foyer of Stalin’s private dacha. Stalin had summoned them to meet with him there at noon.
The aide who admitted them had informed them that they were to join Stalin for lunch in the large dining hall directly off the foyer, and that he’d emerge shortly from his personal study, which opened onto the foyer to their left. They were ordered to wait standing side by side facing the study door.
Popov had worn his NKVD dress uniform. On that day his boots and belt buckle bore an extra shine. And knowing Stalin’s reputation for having an eye for beautiful women, he’d eschewed presenting Barbara in prison rags, opting instead to outfit her in a fashionable dark green bowtie-neck dress and a pair of black leather pumps he’d happened to pick up for a former mistress at Wertheim’s that autumn while still posted to the Berlin Embassy. He thought the dress, which had never been worn, accentuated Barbara’s shapely slim figure perfectly, and he liked the way she’d chosen to wear her long hair wrapped behind her neck in a finely-crocheted hair snood.
At noon precisely, Stalin emerged from his study, listened patiently as his aide made introductions, and then with a wave of his hand led Popov and Barbara into the dining room where place settings for three had been set at the far end of the room’s very long table.
Stalin took the end seat and motioned for Barbara to sit to his left.
Popov made a gallant show of seating Barbara before taking his seat to Stalin’s right.
Food and wine were quickly served, and they ate in silence. Popov had warned Barbara in advance that no one in Russia dared speak without Invitation from the Vozhd.
Barbara thought it something akin to the protocol of meeting the King of England, but far more intimidating.
After finishing his meal Stalin pushed back in his chair, took two cigarettes from his pocket, shredded the "Herzegovina Flor" tobacco they contained into the bowl of his pipe, lit up, and signaled for a bottle of vodka and three glasses.
Only then, after downing a glass, did he speak, leaning closer to Barbara as he did. “I’m told you’re the headstrong daughter of the Nazi arms manufacturer, Joachim Mohr, as well as a spy for both the Germans and the British. Spying for both, if I may say so, seems quite an interesting, if not improbable, accomplishment.”
Having absorbed enough Russian in her time in the Gulag to be conversant, she replied, “guilty to all at one point in time or another, but it would be quite accurate to add to my resume being held against my will by the Russian state
“And a sense of wry humor as well?”
“Only when I’m not being tortured and raped.”
“So noted. I’m also told that you’ve made claim to possess information about advanced German weaponry as well as evidence that Hitler plans to attack us. But I also understand that despite the inestimable skill and methods of the NKVD you have steadfastly refused so far to divulge no more than bits and pieces of what you claim to know.”
“I’m no fool, Comrade Stalin. I know my life is over the minute I tell all, as your NKVD will have no further use for me. Call it what you will, but I prefer pain and suffering over death, if need be.”
Stalin studied her silently for a good long time. His eyes roved over her, scrutinizing the firm resolve visible in her facial expression, the delicateness of her neck, and what he imagined her breasts to look like when not hidden beneath the green velvet of her dress.
Then suddenly, and much to Popov’s and Barbara’s surprise, he began to laugh, loudly and mirthfully. Slapping his knee, he declared , “I like you Fräulein Mohr. You have both guts and beauty. It’s not everyday I hear of a prisoner who is able to make the NKVD look like a bunch of fools.”
Popov shifted uncomfortably on his chair and downed a big swallow of vodka.
“Indeed, I like you so much Fräulein Mohr, that I’ve decided to keep you here for a time at the dacha. I’m sure Commissar Popov wouldn’t mind, would you Popov?”
Popov nodded quickly, and took another slug of vodka.
“You and I shall have an opportunity get to know one another, rather intimately I should think,” Stalin continued, extending a hand beneath the table, laying it very high upon her thigh and squeezing.
She started, but did nothing to stop the advance of his hand further up along her thigh.
“And over time,” he continued, “you will eventually confide to me your most closely held secrets regarding the development of Nazi ‘wonder weapons’ and any plan to attack Russia. The latter of which, I must say, I personally believe to be highly unlikely to be carried out any time soon as Hitler’s legions have their hands more than full in the West fighting the French and British. But be forewarned, you must be on your best behavior here and please me in as many ways as I desire, or I will send you straight back to Commissar Popov and his goons at the Lubyanka.”
Then, rising abruptly from the table and turning to Popov, he ordered him to leave.
The last Popov saw of Stalin and Barbara on that day as an aide escorted him to the door, was the two of them entering the Russian leader’s study with Stalin’s right hand firmly planted, fingers spread, on her tight little ass.
Swedish Embassy, Ulitsa Vorovskogo, 44, Moscow 11:53 am, Tuesday, 9th January 1940
Maja Sundahl and Henry Underwood stood side by side in the foyer of the Embassy waiting for the Swedish Envoy, Otto Wilhelm Winther, to join them. They’d been summoned to have lunch with him that day in the Embassy’s formal dining room, and had walked to the Embassy together that morning from the Hotel Moskva, where they had taken up temporary residence with adjoining rooms.
Henry had been quite taken with Maja’s beauty and charm from the moment they’d begun working together, almost to the point … but really not .. of forgetting about Barbara. He had a mission … a promise made to himself that he would do whatever it took to get Barbara back. But, for the moment he saw no harm should something happen between him and Maja, and would most assuredly welcome it.
And, as though, she might have been reading his mind, he felt her warm hand reach for his and squeeze it gently … just as Wilhelm Winther, wearing a well-practiced diplomatic welcoming smile affixed to his face, entered the foyer.
He greeted them warmly and led them to the embassy’s formal dining hall, where they took seats at its long table … with Winther at the end, Maja on his left and Henry on his right.
But any resemblance to what was happening at nearly exactly the same time at a dacha outside of Moscow ended there. Winther turned out to be warm and talkative, seemingly intrigued to be hosting two undercover agents of the newly established Swedish General Security Service.
The other main difference was that it was Maja who, in the course of conversation, made under the table contact with someone else’s leg … in this case, gently and provocatively stroking the shin of one of Henry’s legs with the toe of her shoe.
Kuntsevo Dacha, Stalin’s personal residence outside of Moscow, Kuntsevo, USSR, 11 pm, Wednesday, 10th January, 1940.
Barbara had been sitting primly … more or less … across from Stalin’s study desk for more hours than she imagined possible. The man was clearly a workaholic, seldom looking up from his desktop, except to fill and light his pipe or pour himself another drink. She’d gotten up from time to time to walk around a bit, or to pour herself a drink and nibble on some of the food setting nearby on a sideboard. But, by and large, she’d remained quiet and still … waiting to see what would happen when he finished with his work.
And precisely at 11 the Voshed rose abruptly from his desk and beckoned for her to follow.
She trailed him at a distance as he led her to what she surmised was his private apartment and on into the bedroom. There he waved her wordlessly into the small adjoining bathroom, in which she found that someone had placed a very short and very sheer neglige on a small table next to the washstand.
The intent was obvious enough. So she stripped, let down her hair, donned the skimpy nightwear, drew a deep breath knowing she was about to be bedded by the most powerful man in the USSR, and padded barefoot into the bedroom.
Stalin, who was wearing a simple flannel robe, said nothing. He simply pointed at the bed.
She nodded, went over and crawled onto the bed without pulling back the covers. There, she laid down flat on her back, thinking to herself … for some inexplicably crazy reason … how amusing it might have been had the King of England done something similar back in London when she was granted her royal audience with him.
Stalin, again without words, signaled what he expected of her by twirling his forefinger in the air.
The meaning was clear enough. He intended to take her from behind and wanted her to turn over and get up on her hands and knees.
She did so, and soon felt his warm hands take a firm grip of her hips.
Hotel Moskva, Ulitsa Okhotnyy Ryad, Moscow, 11 pm, Wednesday, 10th January, 1940.
After a long day at the Swedish Embassy, in which Henry and Maja met with various embassy staff, including a number of Russian employees, the object being to establish firmly their cover as newly assigned attachés.
It was assumed that at least some of the Russians working at the embassy were NKVD and would hopefully report back to their superiors that the two new Swedish attachés were what they claimed to be … not the spies that they actually were.
Afterwards they had grabbed a late meal together at a small Moscow restaurant before retiring to their respective rooms at the Hotel Moskva.
Lying on his bed, Henry staring at the unsightly cracks in the ceiling, thinking such things could only happen in Russia. The hotel, having been completed barely two years earlier in 1938 as a show place, was already showing the signs of shoddy workmanship.
He glanced toward the door leading to Maja’s room, as his and hers were meant as adjoining rooms. He could clearly hear water running, and set to amusing himself by imagining her naked in the bathtub, which led naturally enough to imagining her naked in bed and inviting him to join her there.
But what was the use. They were on a mission and even though there were clear signs that she was attracted to him, he knew there was a need to stay focused … to think not about her but about the mission … about Barbara … about what lay ahead.
And he had just about convinced himself of that, and had turned out the reading light over the head of the bed when he heard the key turn in the lock of the door to her adjoining room.
Watching in breathless amazement Henry tracked her movements as she slipped through the door, padded across the darkened room, made her way around to the side of the bed on which he lay, pausing there to drop the bathrobe she was wearing on the floor.
He felt her pull back the bedcover, and heard her whisper throatily, “flytta dig!”
He made room and she slid nakedly in beside him.
TBC
Kuntsevo Dacha, Stalin’s personal residence outside of Moscow, Kuntsevo, USSR, 11:53 am, Wednesday, 10th January, 1940.
Barbara and Commissar Sergei Mikhaylovich Popov stood nervously waiting in the foyer of Stalin’s private dacha. Stalin had summoned them to meet with him there at noon.
The aide who admitted them had informed them that they were to join Stalin for lunch in the large dining hall directly off the foyer, and that he’d emerge shortly from his personal study, which opened onto the foyer to their left. They were ordered to wait standing side by side facing the study door.
Popov had worn his NKVD dress uniform. On that day his boots and belt buckle bore an extra shine. And knowing Stalin’s reputation for having an eye for beautiful women, he’d eschewed presenting Barbara in prison rags, opting instead to outfit her in a fashionable dark green bowtie-neck dress and a pair of black leather pumps he’d happened to pick up for a former mistress at Wertheim’s that autumn while still posted to the Berlin Embassy. He thought the dress, which had never been worn, accentuated Barbara’s shapely slim figure perfectly, and he liked the way she’d chosen to wear her long hair wrapped behind her neck in a finely-crocheted hair snood.
At noon precisely, Stalin emerged from his study, listened patiently as his aide made introductions, and then with a wave of his hand led Popov and Barbara into the dining room where place settings for three had been set at the far end of the room’s very long table.
Stalin took the end seat and motioned for Barbara to sit to his left.
Popov made a gallant show of seating Barbara before taking his seat to Stalin’s right.
Food and wine were quickly served, and they ate in silence. Popov had warned Barbara in advance that no one in Russia dared speak without Invitation from the Vozhd.
Barbara thought it something akin to the protocol of meeting the King of England, but far more intimidating.
After finishing his meal Stalin pushed back in his chair, took two cigarettes from his pocket, shredded the "Herzegovina Flor" tobacco they contained into the bowl of his pipe, lit up, and signaled for a bottle of vodka and three glasses.
Only then, after downing a glass, did he speak, leaning closer to Barbara as he did. “I’m told you’re the headstrong daughter of the Nazi arms manufacturer, Joachim Mohr, as well as a spy for both the Germans and the British. Spying for both, if I may say so, seems quite an interesting, if not improbable, accomplishment.”
Having absorbed enough Russian in her time in the Gulag to be conversant, she replied, “guilty to all at one point in time or another, but it would be quite accurate to add to my resume being held against my will by the Russian state
“And a sense of wry humor as well?”
“Only when I’m not being tortured and raped.”
“So noted. I’m also told that you’ve made claim to possess information about advanced German weaponry as well as evidence that Hitler plans to attack us. But I also understand that despite the inestimable skill and methods of the NKVD you have steadfastly refused so far to divulge no more than bits and pieces of what you claim to know.”
“I’m no fool, Comrade Stalin. I know my life is over the minute I tell all, as your NKVD will have no further use for me. Call it what you will, but I prefer pain and suffering over death, if need be.”
Stalin studied her silently for a good long time. His eyes roved over her, scrutinizing the firm resolve visible in her facial expression, the delicateness of her neck, and what he imagined her breasts to look like when not hidden beneath the green velvet of her dress.
Then suddenly, and much to Popov’s and Barbara’s surprise, he began to laugh, loudly and mirthfully. Slapping his knee, he declared , “I like you Fräulein Mohr. You have both guts and beauty. It’s not everyday I hear of a prisoner who is able to make the NKVD look like a bunch of fools.”
Popov shifted uncomfortably on his chair and downed a big swallow of vodka.
“Indeed, I like you so much Fräulein Mohr, that I’ve decided to keep you here for a time at the dacha. I’m sure Commissar Popov wouldn’t mind, would you Popov?”
Popov nodded quickly, and took another slug of vodka.
“You and I shall have an opportunity get to know one another, rather intimately I should think,” Stalin continued, extending a hand beneath the table, laying it very high upon her thigh and squeezing.
She started, but did nothing to stop the advance of his hand further up along her thigh.
“And over time,” he continued, “you will eventually confide to me your most closely held secrets regarding the development of Nazi ‘wonder weapons’ and any plan to attack Russia. The latter of which, I must say, I personally believe to be highly unlikely to be carried out any time soon as Hitler’s legions have their hands more than full in the West fighting the French and British. But be forewarned, you must be on your best behavior here and please me in as many ways as I desire, or I will send you straight back to Commissar Popov and his goons at the Lubyanka.”
Then, rising abruptly from the table and turning to Popov, he ordered him to leave.
The last Popov saw of Stalin and Barbara on that day as an aide escorted him to the door, was the two of them entering the Russian leader’s study with Stalin’s right hand firmly planted, fingers spread, on her tight little ass.
Swedish Embassy, Ulitsa Vorovskogo, 44, Moscow 11:53 am, Tuesday, 9th January 1940
Maja Sundahl and Henry Underwood stood side by side in the foyer of the Embassy waiting for the Swedish Envoy, Otto Wilhelm Winther, to join them. They’d been summoned to have lunch with him that day in the Embassy’s formal dining room, and had walked to the Embassy together that morning from the Hotel Moskva, where they had taken up temporary residence with adjoining rooms.
Henry had been quite taken with Maja’s beauty and charm from the moment they’d begun working together, almost to the point … but really not .. of forgetting about Barbara. He had a mission … a promise made to himself that he would do whatever it took to get Barbara back. But, for the moment he saw no harm should something happen between him and Maja, and would most assuredly welcome it.
And, as though, she might have been reading his mind, he felt her warm hand reach for his and squeeze it gently … just as Wilhelm Winther, wearing a well-practiced diplomatic welcoming smile affixed to his face, entered the foyer.
He greeted them warmly and led them to the embassy’s formal dining hall, where they took seats at its long table … with Winther at the end, Maja on his left and Henry on his right.
But any resemblance to what was happening at nearly exactly the same time at a dacha outside of Moscow ended there. Winther turned out to be warm and talkative, seemingly intrigued to be hosting two undercover agents of the newly established Swedish General Security Service.
The other main difference was that it was Maja who, in the course of conversation, made under the table contact with someone else’s leg … in this case, gently and provocatively stroking the shin of one of Henry’s legs with the toe of her shoe.
Kuntsevo Dacha, Stalin’s personal residence outside of Moscow, Kuntsevo, USSR, 11 pm, Wednesday, 10th January, 1940.
Barbara had been sitting primly … more or less … across from Stalin’s study desk for more hours than she imagined possible. The man was clearly a workaholic, seldom looking up from his desktop, except to fill and light his pipe or pour himself another drink. She’d gotten up from time to time to walk around a bit, or to pour herself a drink and nibble on some of the food setting nearby on a sideboard. But, by and large, she’d remained quiet and still … waiting to see what would happen when he finished with his work.
And precisely at 11 the Voshed rose abruptly from his desk and beckoned for her to follow.
She trailed him at a distance as he led her to what she surmised was his private apartment and on into the bedroom. There he waved her wordlessly into the small adjoining bathroom, in which she found that someone had placed a very short and very sheer neglige on a small table next to the washstand.
The intent was obvious enough. So she stripped, let down her hair, donned the skimpy nightwear, drew a deep breath knowing she was about to be bedded by the most powerful man in the USSR, and padded barefoot into the bedroom.
Stalin, who was wearing a simple flannel robe, said nothing. He simply pointed at the bed.
She nodded, went over and crawled onto the bed without pulling back the covers. There, she laid down flat on her back, thinking to herself … for some inexplicably crazy reason … how amusing it might have been had the King of England done something similar back in London when she was granted her royal audience with him.
Stalin, again without words, signaled what he expected of her by twirling his forefinger in the air.
The meaning was clear enough. He intended to take her from behind and wanted her to turn over and get up on her hands and knees.
She did so, and soon felt his warm hands take a firm grip of her hips.
Hotel Moskva, Ulitsa Okhotnyy Ryad, Moscow, 11 pm, Wednesday, 10th January, 1940.
After a long day at the Swedish Embassy, in which Henry and Maja met with various embassy staff, including a number of Russian employees, the object being to establish firmly their cover as newly assigned attachés.
It was assumed that at least some of the Russians working at the embassy were NKVD and would hopefully report back to their superiors that the two new Swedish attachés were what they claimed to be … not the spies that they actually were.
Afterwards they had grabbed a late meal together at a small Moscow restaurant before retiring to their respective rooms at the Hotel Moskva.
Lying on his bed, Henry staring at the unsightly cracks in the ceiling, thinking such things could only happen in Russia. The hotel, having been completed barely two years earlier in 1938 as a show place, was already showing the signs of shoddy workmanship.
He glanced toward the door leading to Maja’s room, as his and hers were meant as adjoining rooms. He could clearly hear water running, and set to amusing himself by imagining her naked in the bathtub, which led naturally enough to imagining her naked in bed and inviting him to join her there.
But what was the use. They were on a mission and even though there were clear signs that she was attracted to him, he knew there was a need to stay focused … to think not about her but about the mission … about Barbara … about what lay ahead.
And he had just about convinced himself of that, and had turned out the reading light over the head of the bed when he heard the key turn in the lock of the door to her adjoining room.
Watching in breathless amazement Henry tracked her movements as she slipped through the door, padded across the darkened room, made her way around to the side of the bed on which he lay, pausing there to drop the bathrobe she was wearing on the floor.
He felt her pull back the bedcover, and heard her whisper throatily, “flytta dig!”
He made room and she slid nakedly in beside him.
TBC