assignment: the dungeons

i present to you coded transcripts of file XI. XXX agent greenglass.

Date: blacked out. Location: London

It was a slow day. When B popped his head in, I was just slipping on my Dior coat, hoping to make a quick getaway.

But his smile told me it wasn’t to be.

“The Dungeons await you agent.”

I could see the curiosity in his eyes. I have to admit, I was just as foxed. After all, it’s not every day that the Queen summons you to her palace.

The last time B and I made a trip to see her, it was because her Finance Minister was found floating in a Greek billionaires pool. It took us ten days to unravel a story fuelled with drugs, money and power.

But that was a year back. And B was still looking at me with his brown fox-hound eyes. He knew.

Four months back, I had met the queen. This time because her dearest last born was so infatuated by me, that he kept insisting I meet his mother or he would slash his wrists. I should have known better. Getting involved with a notorious bisexual who had suicidal tendencies was bad enough. Add monarchy and secret service’s most attractive female to that and you have a combination that would gladden every tabloid editor’s heart.

But that was then. And I’m sure the Queen wasn’t calling me to tea, to ask why I had dropped her darling son like a hot scone.

Still, I decided it was just the kind of thing that would demand a break in tradition. So I refused to change out of my gorgeous purple Erdem dress. So what if it showed my bare shoulders?

And I lit a Slims as I slid into the unmarked car.

Smoking always makes me sad. So by the time the car entered the mammoth grounds of the Palace, I was actually feeling sympathetic.

The old lady was having a bad patch. A bitter undersecretary had gone to the press. The jilted son was crying his eyes out. And her favourite great granddaughter‘s slight bump was developing into an enormous scandal. Not just because she was seventeen, but because no one knew who the father was.

Rumour had it that the girl was an heiress, and the father could lay claim not just to her money but also her title.

I felt a bit like the English weather when I walked in through those imposing doors. And all those dead kings and queens in their severe clothes, they did nothing to improve my mood.

I stood inside the Grand Hall, expecting to be taken through to the East Gallery. But the Queen likes surprises. And a sour faced secretary briskly told me, “Her Majesty would like you to have tea with her in her private quarters.”

So there I was, being whisked away, past the Grand Staircase, the State Dining Room, The Music Room till finally we reached the Bow Room.

My Christian Louboutins are meant for traipsing not walking, but then I don’t expect any of the women in the house to understand that. The silver framed family portraits that stared down at me from the marble mantelpiece showed generation after generation of princesses in muddy riding boots and sensible walking shoes.

I don’t know what sent a sudden chill up my spine. Their complete lack of fashion. Or the damp of the Palace we called the Dungeons.

The door opened. And I saw the most beautiful face. Accompanied by an even more beautiful body.

He was black, like polished ivory. His jaw line was perfect, his body was sculpted, his nostrils flared with just a hint of what it would be like to in bed with him.

“Would madam like her tea served now?”

I would have preferred the junior Page to tea, but all I could do was nod.

He smiled, bowed and disappeared. And before I could even blink, the tea trolley was being rolled in. By yet another gorgeous young man. The head Page was Italian judging by the olive of his skin, the jet black hair, and those sensual lips.

As I stared mesmerised at him, the food trolley was brought in. By yet another glorious specimen of manhood. He wasn’t very tall, but you could tell he was muscular by the way his crisp white shirt stretched over his shoulders. You could also tell the Footman was a Gorkha, because his eyes slanted deliciously, and his face was flawless. The broad nose, the proud tilt of the chin.

I knew something was amiss. Equal recruitment was one thing, but bringing the entire world on a platter for me, was something else.

But before I could put my finger to it, the Butler walked in and bowed. He was Spanish. His clothes fitted him like a matador. And his eyelashes dipped till you wanted to drown in them.

“Her Majesty.”

And the Queen walked in. I managed a quick courtesy; she motioned me to sit down, and nodded to start the tea service.

“I know its short notice, but it lovely to see you again.”

I managed to smile and say thank you, and talk about the weather, and the races, and ask about the corgis. But all the while I was watching. Not knowing for what, but sensing that a drama was being played out for me.

The junior Page was laying out the cucumber sandwiches and the jammy dodgers. He worked fast, with his eyes down. The head Page had set the crumpets up on a Wedgewood plate. He was pouring clotted cream. The Footman was standing in attention behind the Butler, holding the teapot. The distinct fragrance of Keemun Hao Ya filled the room. The Queen nodded and put out her hand.

The Butler had her cup of tea in his hand. She asked after my parents, her hand stretched out. The tea was still in his hand, as he looked at her for just a split second, a silken smile appearing in the corners of his mouth. And then, he stretched and handed her the teacup.

That was it. As I told her how my parents had just embarked on a vacation to Sardinia, the penny dropped.

Why the best looking men in the palace were waiting on me. Why the Queen wanted to see me, for no apparent reason. Why the butler took more than two seconds to hand her the tea.

It was simple. He knew he had a future. And I knew he had none.

So as she leaned over, I whispered, “Ma’am, the Butler did...her.”

Clutching my Sergio Rossi clutch, I curtseyed my way out of the Bow Room. My eyes slid over the Butler. And I knew I’d never see him again.

The Dungeon had claimed another victim.

the files of agentgreenglass are copyright protected. please do not reprint or publish them without her permission. the consequences, needless to say, can be deadly.

assignment lausanne

Once a week, I shall post a page from the coded transcripts that I have preserved from my days as agent greenglass. Am I still in active service? Do I still walk around with a credit card in my bag that can slit people’s throats? Are my morals looser than a yellow journalist’s tongue? Do I really use champagne to wash my hair? You might find answers. Or you might not.

Date: Blacked out. Location: Switzerland

I got dropped off at the Lausanne Palace. Usually I don’t think very highly of agents who choose conspicuous meeting places. Especially when the fate of two governments rested in the smooth brown confines of my Loius Vuitton Damien Azure bag.

I knew it was wrong. Both the hotel and the bag. But I had just stepped off the beaches of Saint Tropez. My bathing suit lay on the floor of the helicopter that had flown me in. The foot soldiers had the sense to pack in a red valentino dress and a white virgin wool cashmere jacket. But of course they forgot the bag.

I walked into the Palace. My instructions said he would be waiting at the Le Cote Jardin. But then, in my line of work, nothing ever turns out the way it’s planned.

There was a message for me. He was waiting at the Suite Presidentielles. His note said he hoped it would be more comfortable for me, after my journey.

I smiled to myself. Why was I not surprised? Hadn’t everyone told me there was something about him? Je ne sais quoi!

Still I was here on work. And if I wanted rich playboys all I had to do was drop my Hermes scarf. And my razor sharp brain.

Though I was curious I must confess. As the elevator purred its way to the inside of the Presidentielle Suite, I caught myself wondering if he would be what they made him out to be.

007. Charming, dashing, a man of unimaginable wealth, wit and intellect. He knew how to fly planes. Detonate bombs. Speak in sixteen languages. And every trick in the book to make a woman go weak in the knees.

The doors parted. And he stood outside.

I’ve been taught, since I was nine, that a woman never gave away what she thought. But for once, the smoothest woman operator this side of the Atlantic was caught by surprise.

His dark blue Brioni suit was impeccable. But its clever tailoring could not hide the paunch. The face was tanned all right, but the eyes were not right. They looked red, like he’s been drinking too much of the fine Bollinger Champagne that stood the uncorked on a table behind him. The hair was too long, and combed over. An attempt perhaps to conceal the bald patch that was beginning to make itself more than visible.

He extended his hand and said, “Finally we meet.”

I smiled. My cold-as-the-Choppard-on-my-finger smile and said, “Pleased to meet you Mr Bond.”

He grabbed my hand and held it. “You are as beautiful as they say.”

“ You are too kind. I believe we have some important business.”

“ That can wait. There’s champagne on ice. And cold briny oysters. “

The only way I like my champagne is with caviar. And the only way I like my men is suave and athletic. He was neither.

I accepted the champagne and walked across to the window. I knew his eyes would take in my long legs sheathed in silk stockings. No man has ever been able to look at them, without wondering what it would feel like to have them wrapped around him.

I felt a hand run up my legs.

“ You are incredibly sexy.”

I turned. Resisting the urge to flip him across my shoulder and straight down the busy Grand Chene. It would certainly stop traffic. And the international community. And every swiss bank. Every government. Every secret service operation. Every mafia, the Russian, the Italian, the American.

But this was not the plan.

An aging secret service agent with too much information and a loose mouth couldn’t just be dealt with. He had to be disposed, in a manner that was befitting. And more importantly, discreet. So no questions would be asked. No blood would be spilt. No government would be embarrassed.

So I turned. And looked at him over my glass.

“ Don’t you want to know what business I’m here on?”

His tongue darted out as he licked his lips. Perhaps it was the oysters, or perhaps not.

“I’ve been doing it for years. Takes one look to tell me why you’re here. Her Majesty probably wants me to save her skin again. Or the agency needs me track down the Russian Mafia before they invest in a nuclear plant in Kabul. “

He knocked back the champagne and said, “But you. I’ve never seen anything like you.”

And before I could say Kamasutra, he was all over me.

His legendary lovemaking skills were either a figment of someone’s overactive imagination. Or the women in our service were just not meeting the right kind of men. Let’s just say I don’t consider trying to bite off my breasts while simultaneously pushing his groin into my thigh to be an able demonstration of the finest lovemaking.

I, of course, had paid attention to every aspect of my training, which is probably why I had mastered not just the seven sections and thirty six chapters of the Kamasutra, but also all thousand chapters of the original Kamashatra.

But first there was business to settle. The brown confines of my bag, in which nestled a single condom. Packed in its signature black and gold casing.

His eyes widened when I pulled it out. I smiled and said, “ I came prepared for you Mr Bond.”

From there it was easy. The Kamashatra doesn’t really describe how you can kill a man. But the Mare’s Position followed by the Suspended Congress, followed by Splitting the Bamboo can make even the most virile man tired. Add the Lotus like position to that, and you have him in a faint.

Top that with Spinning like a Top, and you’ll realise why sex is such a deadly weapon.

I checked his pulse. Nothing.

I slipped on my jacket. And picked up my purse. It was bothering me.

Maybe I could stop over at Loius Vuitton, before catching my flight back to France. One does like to be dressed right.

As I walked out, I picked up the receiver and said, “ The international man of mystery, is history.”

I do have a sense for the dramatic.

the files of agentgreenglass are copyright protected. please do not reprint or publish them without her permission. the consequences, needless to say, can be deadly.