Summer in Paris. Paris, known as the City of Light. Paris, home of the Eiffel
Tower, and Notre Dame Cathedral, and the Seine River bridges. Working in Paris
was the dream assignment of the agency. Competition for posting to European Headquarters
was fierce and only the best of the best won out. Today, however, the beleaguered
secretary would have traded places with anyone, even if it was in the most backward third world country, to escape the foul
mood her supervisor was in. She had just been 'chewed out' for interrupting
him during a meeting to take a phone call when he felt she could have easily taken a message.
Now, there was a strange woman standing by her desk, waiting for her to come out of the inner office. Summoning her aura of the consummate haughty professional, she asked, "Can I help you?"
The visitor smiled at the tone of superiority
implied in the secretary's voice and answered, "I hope so, since it's your job. Murchison,
Corrine Murchison. I have an eleven-thirty appointment with Control," and she showed her CIA credentials.
The secretary sat down, glancing at her
appointment book. Replying with as much sarcasm and contempt she could gather,
the secretary answered, "Evidently I can not help you as I have no record of you having an appointment today."
Not the least bit intimidated by the woman's
manner, Corrine Elizabeth Margaret Murchison flashed her best, sickeningly sweet, smile and said, "I will say it one more
time, very slowly, in case your attitude has gotten in the way of your hearing. My
name is Corrine Murchison and I have an eleven-thirty appointment with Control. This is a statement, not a question. Please
let him know that I am here."
Never having been spoken to before in this
way, and right after dealing with her very cranky superior, the indignant secretary attempted to stand her ground. "Control is a very busy man. I have no record of your appointment,
and as I am his secretary, I will not disturb him."
At this point, much to the secretary's
consternation, Corrie Murchison nodded her head and sat down in one of the rooms many chairs. Still smiling, she answered
the secretary's inquiring look by saying, "We can play your officious little game, if that is what you want. But remember this, in five minutes, when your boss comes out that door and sees me sitting here, and not
in his office as I should be, he will ask you why and not me." Saying that, she
pulled a paperback book from her purse and began to read.
Flustered, the secretary sat back down
and debated whether to call security. She noted that the book this very odd woman
was reading was printed in a language totally foreign to her. The book was very
thick and the printing appeared to be hieroglyphic. She had never seen anything like it before.
Five minutes later, to the second, as she
was still pondering what to do next, the inner office door opened and the extremely displeased man known as Control, entered
the room. With a brief glance at the woman who was reading in the waiting room,
he walked directly over to his secretary and asked, "Do you like your job, Miss Andrews?"
Surprised and confused, the secretary replied,
"Yes, why?"
"I ask you that question because I wonder
why you are not doing your job." he replied, locking his cold eyes on hers. "I
have been waiting for Miss Murchison to arrive for five minutes now. I find her
sitting in my waiting room, reading. Since it is your job to let me know that
a visitor has arrived to keep an appointment with me, and you have not done that, I can not help but wonder if you do not
like your job. If this is so, I can arrange for your transfer to another position
within the company, immediately if need be."
Without waiting for a reply from the stunned
woman, he turned, beckoned his waiting visitor to follow with a nod of his head, and re-entered his office. Closing the door after her, he looked down at the petite figure standing before him and sighed. "You enjoyed that, didn't you? Knowing you, you did it deliberately. Do you think I have nothing better to do than sit in here, twiddling my thumbs,
waiting for you? Don't you think I have enough headaches with this new
job? Are you going to answer me, or are you just going to stand there looking
at me?" he ended in exasperation.
"Are you ever going to shut up and kiss
me, you idiot? Or do I have to stand on a chair and clobber you?" she shot right
back at him.
He stood quite still for a few seconds,
then took two, slow, deliberate steps towards her. Reaching out, he grabbed her
by her shoulders, and with the force needed to pull her totally off her feet, he swept her into his arms and kissed her in
the way every woman in the world has fantasized about being kissed. He started
slowly, tenderly, then built on the passion, and the hunger, and the want that had been waiting inside him for the past three
months, in ever increasing waves. Not so much as finishing as being spent, he
released his grip on the back of her hair, looked down into her eyes and whispered menacingly, "You can try."
They laughed together for five full minutes,
still holding on tightly to each other. It was a good thing his new office was
sound proof. He was sure his secretary would have called for the men in white
jackets if she had heard them. She was that type, he thought.
With their laughter finished, they continued
to hold on to each other, neither wanting to end this physical contact. It had
been the longest three months in either one's life. Much had happened to alter
their lives, and their plans; a great deal of change was in progress right now; and they both knew there was still more to
come.
After leaving Berlin three months ago,
Control had returned to Paris and the investigation into the wrong doing that had brought him to the German capital in the
first place. As a result of his findings, the then head of European headquarters
was relieved of his duties and Control was named in his place. This was quite
a step up for the dedicated company man, and he reveled in the added work and responsibility.
At the same time, Corrie had been assigned
to return to the United States, to begin several elite courses at the CIA main center in Langley, Virginia. The extensive classes covered all aspects of the newest technology available to the Agency, from use, to
field operation, to repair. Corrie had a gift for working with complex electronics
that had impressed even the most stead fast chauvinist in the male dominated company.
She had grown up an army brat, with seven brothers to challenge her, so she well understood, and could cope with, any
difficulties she encountered within the testosterone driven organization.
That was one of the reasons the man, holding
her in his arms so tightly, had fallen in love with her. She was not afraid of,
or impressed by, his position or his many moods. That and the fact that she could
make him laugh so easily, the ability of which he thought he had lost forever during his many years as an agent and case manager
in the shadow world they lived in. He had forgotten what it was like to really
love someone, to share the joy and the trials of life, and find fun and happiness in small things. They had only had a short time together in Berlin and this was the first opportunity they had to see each
other since. Their time together now would be short and they knew they had to
pack as much as they could in the next three nights.
They moved over to the couch in the corner. Sitting, he pulled her to his lap. For
the next fifteen minutes, they sat happily sharing the mundane news in their lives.
Finally, knowing that the real world would soon be banging on the door, he handed her a set of keys, whispered an entry
code, and promised to be home no later than 7:00p.m. Laughing, she told him she
would not hold her breath and that when he came, he should come hungry. She planned
on cooking for him. With that, she was gone, and he returned to the pile of reports waiting on his desk and the afternoon
jammed with appointments.
Arriving only one hour later than he had
planned, Control hurried off the elevator and unlocked his front door. Entering,
he was greeted by the intoxicating aroma of something wonderful cooking in the kitchen.
The dining room table was impeccably set with crystal and candles, a bottle of wine 'breathing' on the table. And Corrie, well, she was standing naked by the bedroom door. She held a single red rose in her hand, beckoning him with a "come hither" curl of her index finger. He did not have to be invited twice.
Never in his life had he had a night light
this. The longing and want of the last few months were satiated by this woman
he had come to love in ways he never knew imaginable. The first time they made
love, it was savage and explosive in its fierce release of pent up lust. They
hadn't even made it into the bedroom, ending up on the floor in the bedroom doorway, both of them tearing and pulling at the
zipper and fastener of his trousers in their angst.
Afterward, Corrie led him directly into
the master bathroom. There, by the tub, was a tray set with two glasses of wine
and a bowl of chocolates. As he removed what clothes he still had on, Corrie
drew a steaming, hot tub and added some fragrant oil she had bought, just for this occasion, at a mall not far from Langley.
Sitting him in the tub, she took a sponge and washed him, explaining in Japanese the significance of the bath ritual in that
culture. She then joined him and they luxuriated in the hot water until their
glasses were emptied and they had recouped their energies to continue the night's activities.
Returning to the bedroom, Corrie had two
more glasses of wine waiting, a bowl of strawberries, and a vial of massage oil. Control
had always considered himself a man of the world, familiar with many of the exotic pleasures available to a man. In that candle lit room, though, he discovered something important, something he had never taken into consideration
before. Sex had been an act that could be performed with or without love being
involved and it could still be satisfying. However, when love, real love, was
the driving force of the act, the reason for wanting to enter, and be inside, and fill the woman you cared so very much about,
well, there was nothing in all this world to compare that too. They spent an
hour in his bed, teaching each other the things that aroused them the most, that sent waves of pleasure through them and brought
them to passion fulfilled together.
They would have spent the whole night there
had not the kitchen timer summoned them from their revelries. Sitting in the
candle lit dining room, holding hands, Corrie served the simple meal she had planned for, shopped for, and prepared just for
this special man in her life. And to Control, it wasn't just a meatloaf with
potatoes and vegetables, it was love personified, planned and prepared with great care just for him by the woman he loved.
Later, as they cuddled on the large living
room couch and listened to music, they shared the many things that had happened during the last three months of separation,
no matter how trivial the details. In the middle of Corrie's tale about attending
a small, boring reception held for her training group at Langley, Control interrupted her.
He had forgotten about an invitation he had received for tomorrow night, Saturday, to attend a diplomatic reception
at the American Consulate for a visiting dignitary. This was a 'must attend'
event and, even though he would have preferred to stay quietly at home, alone with Corrie, he asked if she would, please,
accompany him. Giving her his best forlorn look, Corrie laughed and reluctantly
agreed, even though she personally hated this type of formal affairs. It also
meant that she would have to go shopping and find something to wear to the reception as she made a practice of deliberately
not packing anything fancy while traveling to avoid being dragged to these things. Giving
him her best forlorn look, she sighed and said she would do it only because he asked so nicely and had said "please".
To thank her for making this sacrifice
for him, he kissed her gently, stood up, and carried her back to his bed to show her just how grateful he was.
Eighty-four hours later, he awoke with
a start, sitting in a chair in a darkened hospital room, Corrie's small hand still held tightly in his. As his tired mind cleared a bit, he noted the eight other men in the room, sitting in chairs or on the
floor, and realized again he was not having a nightmare, but living through one.
Involuntarily, his exhausted and tortured
mind returned to the fairy tale evening the nightmare began. The American Consulate had been aglow with festive lights and
decorations. The air was filled with the heady smell of fragrant flowers and
beautiful music. The guest list included the cream of European society and the
international rich and famous. But he had eyes for only the woman he escorted
on his arm. She had looked dazzling in a simple A-line gown of shimmering blues
turning to shades of purple, with sleeves that were split sexily from shoulder to wrist.
He had felt himself the richest man in the room because her eyes had sparkled brighter than the millions of dollars
in jewels worn by the other women present, because they had sparkled just for him.
The nightmare began as they were leaving,
just as they exited the Consulate. Their limousine had just pulled up when a
diplomat he recognized had called his name. He had stopped to see what the man
wanted, and Corrie had stepped in front of him to enter the limo. Suddenly, her
body jerked backward into him as the sound of a rifle report was heard. Holding
her in his arms, he guided her falling body gently to the ground and covered her with his own self to protect her from further
harm. Security guards, with guns drawn, were throwing themselves in front of
the terrified diplomats and guests on the sidewalk. CIA security agents grabbed
him and tried to push him into the waiting vehicle, but he would not move until he had her secure in his arms. As the agent, acting as chauffeur, had squealed away from the pandemonium outside the consulate, Control
sat on the floor of the speeding limousine, gently stroking her face, watching in shocked horror as a red stain mixed with
the blue of the gown of her abdomen. She had opened her eyes briefly and his
broken voice tried to reassure her that she would be all right and not to be afraid.
She had smiled up at him and whispered that as long as he held her, she would be fine.
A trauma team was waiting at the American
hospital when they arrived and Corrie was rushed from his arms. The next few
hours were a blur of questions, from the doctors, from hospital personnel, from security agents sent from the Consulate and
the CIA, from the Paris police and from INTERPOL. A dragnet had been thrown over
the city and security agencies from across the continent were dispatching men to the City of Love to find the attempted assassin
before he struck again.
Control remembered vividly the phone call
to Corrie's father in the United States. He remembered trying to explain to him
who he was and what Corrie meant to him. He remembered the pain he felt breaking
the news to this man that his daughter had been wounded critically, all because he had stopped and she had stepped in front
of him. Her father had told him that he already knew who Control was. Corrie
had phoned her parents while she was in training at Langley and had confessed to them that she had fallen in love with a very
special man. Her father then promised to be on the next plane to Paris.
The hours waiting for Corrie to come out
of surgery, and for her to be released from the surgical recovery room, had crawled by.
Almost unconsciously he noted the arrival of one after another of her brothers, many of whom were stationed in Europe. Her father arrived, accompanied by the last three of his sons, all of whom where stationed
in the States and who had procured military transport for their flight over.
Control had tried to relinquish his chair
near Corrie's head to the patriarch of her family, but Corrie had begun to move and trash about as if searching for him. Her father had gently told him to remain in the chair, and to continue holding her
hand as he had been, to quiet his agitated child. Her father had been sitting
silently in the chair across the bed from him, his lips moving wordlessly in prayer for many hours.
He did not know exactly how many hours he had
been sitting beside her bed as he had no clear idea of the day or the time. He had slept only a few, exhaustion driven, minutes
at a time, sitting straight up in the chair. The nine men in the room spoke very
little, each keeping their own thoughts and prayers in the privacy of their hearts.
A steady flow of coffee was brought in, and an occasional sandwich. Doctors
and nurses would come in to check the vital signs of the unconscious woman, but they also had little to say.
