Chapter 2B: First Contact

The next two Parts are scene setting. I wanted to introduce all the characters who mattered and start them moving toward the eventual resolution. That produced an unwieldy long story. So, I am going to split this and post the two together. The roller coaster ride begins after this section.

We took the Eurostar from St Pancras to Paris Nord. I’d booked Premier class because I wanted the dinner amenities. So, we ate on the train. We got into Paris that evening and took a taxi to the Hotel Lutetia over in the 6th arrondissement.

I’d gotten suites for both Mel and me. I wanted my own room, so I could spread out my hacking gear. Mel is technology averse and so she tends to treat the cabling like I had strewn several live cobras around on the floor. I told her to go to her room and put something on and we could get a nightcap downstairs.

I had chosen the Lutetia because of the bar. The Lutetia bar was the place where the likes of Gertrude Stein, Alice B Toklas, Josephine Baker and the anarchist and adventurer Alexandra David Neel used to hang out in the twenties. Since I consider them all to be icons of strong feminine spirit, I wanted to have a drink there myself. I put on a little black dress and pearls, just something simple. Then I went next door to collect Mel.

It was 10:00 when we got downstairs, and the jazz was just cranking up. Mel is a jazz lover. It’s one of the many oddly interesting things about her. So, we sat at a little table like two Parisian ladies and listened to the intricate sounds of a piano, bass, drums and saxophone that ranked right up there with Brubeck. Mel was wearing something that was sedate for her, a white silk choker blouse and short cream-colored skirt that made her café au lait skin glow in the dark.

It didn’t take long for us to be approached. The one who sat down next to me was the classic Parisian hipster complete with soul patch. I find that type of person pretentious and although he was insistent, I was not attracted. He did the usual warm-up stuff in very good English. Every woman knows what I’m talking about, “Where are you from?” and “What are you doing here?” All of that expressed like he actually gave a shit.

I didn’t fill him in on the fact that I probably spoke French better than he did. Instead I adopted my fruitiest English academic accent. I said, “We thought we would pop across for a bit of fun.” Mel nodded enthusiastically. She was with the guy who was a little less of a fruitcake. I think that he was the wingman because he kept deferring to the one who I was with.

Unlike his hipster friend, Mel’s guy was a nice-looking Parisian student type, with the white shirt rolled up at the sleeves and huge sad puppy dog French eyes. He spoke passable English. But he was clearly dependent on his buddy to do the in-depth communicating.

They talked back and forth in French, just to coordinate the hook-up. As a result, I was able to listen in on their conversation. At first, they were doing the standard, “You get this one and I get that one” tactic. I wasn’t paying much attention until the guy sitting next to Mel asked, “Do you have the drug?” That stood my ears up in points. My guy, nodded. Then he offered to buy us a drink. I quickly accepted. I wanted to see how far these two morons would take this.

It was their usual weekly night out. They had been going on these little “adventures” since they discovered the wonders of Rohypnol. The beauty of the drug is that the woman would wake up six hours later, confused, naked and covered with dried cum and not have the slightest idea how she got there. And more importantly she would not be able to remember who she had been with.

The drug itself might blank out women’s memories. But it also lowered their inhibitions. So, the victim would do absolutely ANYTHING. As that behavior jibed with Marcel and Pierre’s vision of every woman as a slut, the two of them felt like they were “liberating” their female victims from every one of their hang-ups. All-in-all it was the perfect situation for a couple of guys with serious sociopathic disorders.

They liked to cruise the better hotels looking for females who fit their profile; attractive, single, mid-twenties tourists. And they were willing to move their age range up to include married and mid-forties targets, as long as there was no husband actually present. In fact, the older women were wilder in bed. They probably didn’t get the attention they needed at home and all of them knew how to fuck.

The boys would wait until the drug started to work and then walk their prey down to a sleazy hotel where they could feast on them for hours. They would hit every hole, often trading back and forth until none of them could cum any longer. Then they would disappear leaving their broken victim to cope with what had happened. The boys knew that given the strangeness of the City and the language problems those incidents would never see the light of day.

Tonight, they were sitting in the Bar at the Lutetia when two stunning ladies walked in. The tall one was a classic beauty. She was wearing a simple black dress but the body underneath it was stunning, lithe and athletic, with round tits and hips. Still, it was her legs that blew both of them away. She sported the longest and most perfectly muscled female appendages in a city noted for beautiful female legs.

The little one radiated pure sexuality. She was almost top heavy; her boobs were so big. But it was that sensual face, and those round hips on that little frame that made her radiate earth goddess. She was wearing a demure little skirt and blouse outfit. But she walked, presented and held herself in a way that constantly reminded them of her heat.

So, they just HAD to make these two the beneficiaries of tonight’s gift. They walked up to the table and asked if they could join them. The beautiful one looked at them with cool aristocratic disdain. The sensual one said, “By all means” and pulled out a chair next to her.

They sat. Marcel spoke better English, so he carried the conversation. The beautiful one had one of those plummy accents that Oxbridge women adopt. The little sexy one was clearly a Cockney. Although she had tried out at least five different accents, ranging from Cornish to Scottish, while they were talking. It was a little disconcerting.

They talked long enough to be polite and then Pierre asked Marcel if he was ready. Marcel told him that he was VERY ready. They were especially looking forward to tonight’s pleasures.

The hipster went up to the bar, ordered and picked up drinks for the four of us. I was watching him in the mirror behind the bar. He uncapped a little medicine bottle and added a couple of drops of what I assumed was GHB to my scotch and Mel’s daiquiri, just for flavoring I assume. How considerate.

Before he got back, I told Mel to accompany me to the “ladies” to freshen up. You know us girls. In the restroom I told her to not touch her drink because our friends were planning to get laid via the pharmaceutical romance method.

Mel’s eyes turned as opaque as two black marbles. She’s a ferocious little beast. So, I told her that she could pull whatever crap she wanted on her guy. But I was planning on putting my target to sleep. We returned all flustered and girly.

Fortunately, my guy had also ordered the same drink as mine. I think he was trying to disguise the fact that mine was drugged, by drinking the same thing that I had. Mel, who is a master of getting what she wants using sex, threw her arms around the guy sitting next to her, squashed her huge tits into his arm and gave him an open-mouth kiss.

It was a spectacularly erotic diversion and half the bar was gaping at them including the guy next to me. He was staring with undisguised lust. Hence, it was easy to switch glasses. We drank and talked for fifteen minutes.

Mel covered up the fact that she hadn’t touched her drink by rubbing herself all over the fellow. She had him enthralled. Meanwhile, I was surreptitiously pouring her drink on the floor. I could get away with dumping Mel’s drink because the guy with the soul patch started to slur his words and then he got very groggy. I looked at him with concern and said, “Can I help you? Are you all right?”

He looked at me like he couldn’t focus his eyes and slurred something like “I feel sick.” I said. “Let me get you a cab” and then rose from the table extending my arm to him to help him up. He lurched to his feet. But he was barely able to stand.

I put his arm over my shoulder, and we staggered to the street-side door; all the way there I was making little embarrassed faces and saying over and over, “Pardonne, il’est Bu.” I used the colloquial for drunk, just to let him know how fluent I actually was in French. That is if he remembered in the morning.

I flagged a cab and gave the cabbie 100 Euros to drop the dude naked in a park in St Denis. That place is Detroit with couscous. And given the inclinations of the inhabitants, it would be particularly interesting to see a lily-white hipster from the 6th arrondissement sleeping stark naked in the middle of a park. If he didn’t make it out alive, or unmolested, that was no concern of mine. I am not a big fan of people who drug women for sex.

Mel was angry and amused at the same time. She was angry because those two fools planned to drug the two of them. She was amused thinking about what she had in store for her guy.

As usual she was in awe of Hilley Larson. Hilley had listened in on the whole thing. Then she had told Mel about it in the restroom. She wanted Mel to distract the guy she was with, so she could switch the drinks.

Mel had said, “Don’t worry dear. I’ll make sure that he is distracted and then the other one is mine to play with.” Her smile was chilling.

As soon as they got back to the table Mel went to work heating things up. Hilley made a little gesture with her hand and Mel smashed her boobs against her guy, pried his mouth open and tried to swallow his tongue. He was startled and then he responded enthusiastically.

Mel didn’t even look in Hilley’s direction. She knew that her well-bred friend was as good a Cockney pickpocket as she was. Hilley’s partner was suddenly looking very distracted, almost like he was drunk. Then he nearly fell out of his chair. Hilley got to her feet and said that she was going to help him to a cab. They disappeared in the general direction of the street.

Mel decided it was time for the drug to take its evil effect. So, she slumped against the guy muttering something about not feeling right. The guy took the hint. He said, “Let me take you someplace private.”

Mel let him lever her submissively to her feet and staggered off holding onto his arm. She didn’t know where he was taking her, but she DID know that the result would be. She was delighted when she found that he had decided to rape her in the alley. That way she wouldn’t have to walk very far after she had disposed of him.

She was completely pliant and submissive as the guy led her to a wall several feet down from the door. He kissed her with open mouthed ardor as he shoved her back against the bricks. Mel was actually a little aroused by that. Her arousal would help her sell what she was planning.

The guy played with her big tits while he kissed her. Mel let out a real moan. He frantically worked the buttons of her blouse so that he could pull it out of her skirt and expose the bra that encased those boobs. She moaned much louder. That wasn’t an act either.

Mel reached behind her and unsnapped her bra. The weight of her huge tits pulled it down off her shoulder. She put it in her purse. It was expensive and she didn’t want to leave it behind. Her big beautiful breasts were bare to his touch.

He sucked on a raging nipple. She let out a loud gasp followed by a groan of pure lust. That was also not playacting. As he did that, he slid his hand down her stomach and found her slit. It was very hot and well lubricated. She moaned loudly and began bucking on his hand. One part of her was in total control of the situation. But the other part wanted to have a little fun first.

Then, turn-about was fair play. So, she tugged on his belt struggling to get his pants down. He helped. A very tasty looking cock sprang out, as his pants and underwear hit the paving stones. Mel was almost feeling regret about what she was coming next. But it had to be done.

She eagerly jacked his cock than she said. I have to have that in my mouth. She dropped to her knees. As she did, she pushed the guy back so that he stepped completely out of his clothing, which was puddled at his feet.

Mel took his hot poker in one hand and continued to jack him. She lovingly reached up to fondle his balls, looking at him seductively with her huge, dark luminous eyes. Then she closed her hand violently around his family jewels. You could almost hear the squish as her fingers touched each other. The pain must have been excruciating because Mel’s victim shrieked in agony and collapsed unconscious.

Mel had gone with the nuclear option. But she was not a fan of men who use women like fuck-toys. Then she proceeded to stand like she had just seen her bus arrive, put herself back together, lean over, casually pick up her victim’s pants and undies, and walk back into the bar with them thrown over her shoulder. She gave Hilly a nonchalant smile as she strolled past. All in a day’s work.

Mel and her guy had disappeared. I was frantic. Mel hadn’t touched her drink, had she? I ran to the elevator end of the bar and asked the concierge at the entrance if he had seen a spectacular little Indian girl come that way.

He gave me a Gallic shrug and said, “No.” I knew that Mel hadn’t gone out the street side, so I ran back into the bar. There was a little passageway that led to the toilets. It had a door at the end of it. But that led out into the alley. I couldn’t imagine what Mel would be doing out there. And then it hit me. She was either being ravaged, or she was up to something.

I slowly opened the door and crept into the alley. The first thing I heard was a very sexual moan. There was going to be a serious ass kicking if he was hurting her. I looked down the alley on the opposite side and he had her pressed against the wall. There was enough light to see that Mel’s blouse was open.

What she had done with her bra was a mystery. She had probably tucked it into her purse. He had one of those huge gorgeous tits cupped in his hand. It more than filled his hand. He sucked on the massively erect nipple. She let out a loud groan and threw her head back. I thought to myself, “What the fuck is she doing?” Whatever it was, she was doing it on purpose.

Mel tugged on the guy’s belt moaning and gasping like a woman in extreme need. Then she pushed his pants and underwear down his legs. Her eagerness to get at what popped up in front of her was palpable.

Mel said in a strained voice, “I have to have that in my mouth” and dropped to her knees in front of him. She took his cock in one of her hands and began to jack it furiously making little cries of need and then began to lightly fondle his balls with the other.

As she did it, she pushed him slightly backward. It was as if she was trying to get him better positioned to really go to town on him. He had his head thrown back and looked lost.

Then Mel squeezed his nut-sack like she was trying to make lemonade out of his balls. The cry of agony sounded like a gut shot pig. I thought to myself, “Geez did she actually pull off his dingle-dangles?” As the man started to collapse. I was thinking, “WOW! It’s going to be a long time before he uses THOSE things again.”

Mel popped to her feet with a devilish grin. She put on her blouse and adjusted her skirt and gathered up the guy’s pants and underwear. Then she turned and walked past me and into the bar with her victim’s clothes slung over her shoulder.

Meanwhile the guy seemed to lose control of his bowels. All I could think of were the women he must have left in the same condition. The guy I’d drugged was probably being killed by the Algerians in St. Denis and Mel’s guy would be running around the 6th with no pants covered in shit; and with a pair of badly crushed nuts. Under the heading of poetic justice, our little exploit was a sheer work of art.

Mel was unhurriedly re-buttoning her blouse in the passageway as I came inside. The look on her face was totally evil. She giggled. I burst into laughter. I said, “You’re a vicious little bitch.”

She said serenely, “I know dear.”

The next morning, I called the phone number that Sir Alex had given me. The voice on the other end said, “Oui?”

There were several ways that I could have played this initial contact. But I thought that the best way to convince the guy I was harmless was to act like a rich little twit with too much of her daddy’s money to spend. So, I said with superciliousness oozing out of my voice, “This is Helen Larson, you have something that I want. When can I see it?”

There was a pause. The voice on the other end switched to English. It said, “I believe you have a wrong number.”

Keeping up the patronizing act I said in my best Belgravia accent, “Please don’t be irritating. I know that you have the Varus items. I want them. How much?”

The plan was to keep this guy off balance. And there is nothing that will make a sneaky reptile more nervous than having to deal with somebody who obviously doesn’t have a subtle bone in her body.

He said anxious, “Where did you get this number?”

I said haughtily, “That’s none of your business my man.”

Then I decided to add a little pressure by saying, “If you won’t deal with me, I can talk to some people who will CONVINCE you to; and it won’t be pretty.”

He caved. I knew that the last thing this weasel wanted was to have my made-up gang of Paris thugs show up on his doorstep. He said, “I can show you. But we have to be inconspicuous.”

I said totally dismissively, “I don’t care about privacy. I want the things that you have. Where are you located?” I had to take absolute control, since it was crucial that we meet at his place. I couldn’t bug him otherwise.

He gave me an address in the 18th. I said in my most condescending Lady-of-the-Manor tone of voice, “One o’clock, be there” and hung up. Mel was watching me with amusement. She said, “I’ve never met THAT Hilley before.”

I said affectionately, “You’ve never met the people in my extended family.”

One of the other reasons why I chose the Lutetia was because it was approximately 200 yards from Hermes, which is around the corner from the hotel; where Boulevard Raspail joins the Rue de Sevres. I needed a custom bag to carry my spy gear.

I couldn’t just meet my target carrying a black ballistic nylon bag. That would be a dead giveaway. But meeting him carrying a Hermes bag was a fashion statement. I bought a Caleche-express messenger bag that was absolutely ideal. It almost looked worth the five thousand Euros I paid for it.

I was planning to bluebug the guy, as well as leave some of my special little presents lying around the place. THEN I wanted Mel to distract him enough so that I could drop some really nasty stuff on whatever computer he had.

Back in the room, I loaded the gear into my bag. I had a very small Bluetooth booster of my own design. It was about the size of a dime and I could stick it anywhere. It was my own invention and it was based on the engineering ideas I had picked up in my years at Imperial.

Bluetooth has a very limited range and given that I was going to force-pair this guy’s phone I needed a booster to relay the signal to my internet enabled repeater outside the building. Then I could listen in on his calls no matter where I was sitting.

I also had some pin sized recording devices that looked like REAL bugs. They would only last 72 hours but I thought that was all the time I needed. Finally, I had something nasty, that I had purchased from a German hacker. It would let me own my target’s wireless setup. The device that delivered the payload was in my bag. It was about the size of a paperback. So, I had it disguised as a steamy women’s novel; fake cover and all. You know us girls.

As soon as I walked into range it would handshake whatever router the target was using. It would then transfer the man-in-the-middle code, underneath the security sandbox. Once I got my little pet on the target’s router, his system was mine.

Finally, I was planning on planting a refinement, of my personal version of the Flame virus in his boot sector. It would make his computer my little window into his life. That payload is too big to deliver as a comm exploit. I would do that “hands on” if I could get at his system. I knew I could count on Mel to distract him.

The guy lived in a rat-hole off the Rue Rene Binet near the rail yards. It was a typical place in the 18th meaning disreputable. The outside looked like it had once been a local patisserie. They had boarded up the windows.

The character I was playing would not stand on the street knocking on the door. So as soon as the cab dropped us off, I called his number. When he answered I ripped into him for not waiting for us, on the street in front of his place. He had clearly bought my persona, because his head popped out of the door as soon as I finished my tirade. I walked briskly up to him and shouldered past into his “shop.”

It was actually a residence of sorts. It had chairs a table, a moth-eaten old couch and a back room that was probably once where they kept the stock. The place smelled like a large animal had been hibernating there, but I expected that.

I walked assertively around the room like I was looking for a not too revolting place to sit. It was a completely arrogant move since I was in essence walking around the place like I owned it.

I stopped and looked the man over. He was like something out of central casting for bottom-feeding Parisian thugs. He was perhaps my height or shorter, and probably weighed about the same as my 130 pounds. He was thin, with a sunken-in chest and a scrawny chicken-neck.

His prominent French nose sat between two close set beady little eyes. The rodent analogy was too obvious. He also had a Gauloises dangling from one lip. He was such an extreme caricature that I almost laughed out loud.

I plopped down on the couch looking completely disgusted. I said without any of the usual pleasantries, “Where are they? Show them to me.”

He said, “Madam, I need some proof of who you are before I can do that.” I got the impression that he had a gun stashed behind the pile of old newspapers and magazines next to him.

I said angrily, “Proof? You need PROOF of WHO I AM? You KNOW who I am. What I need to know is who YOU are.”

He said with some menace, “Show me something that proves that you are Helen Larson.”

I huffily dragged out a passport and handed it to him with one hand, while shoving the Bluetooth booster that I had palmed into the cushions of the couch with the other.

That would give me a good wireless link to the miniaturized external receiver that I had placed in the debris next to the building. The receiver was hardened inside what would look like a brick and it would capture, process, and bounce every electronic signal that came in and out of that residence for a 72-hour window.

Meanwhile, the equipment inside my messenger bag had already pinged and acquired his router and was beginning to establish the link to the external receiver for the bounce. I had been scattering my bugs, as I stomped around his place. They were all active and recording.

I make the bugs myself. They are works of art. They look so much like dead flies and pill bugs that the worst that would happen would be that my target might sweep them up and throw them away. Somehow, I had the feeling that this guy wasn’t a clean freak.

He looked at my passport and that seemed to satisfy him. If I had been able to see what my little pets had already acquired, I would know that he had checked me out thoroughly and confirmed that I was as rich as I was acting.

At best, Antoine was a marginal character in the Parisian underworld. He was born and raised in the slums of Marseilles and he had made his way up to the big City for no other reason than to escape the debts that he had run up with some very bad people.

He had kicked the cocaine habit, but he was still a drab, grey specimen of a man, living on the fringes of the criminal world. Then he had the great good fortune to run into his friend Eddie.

Eddie had been his partner in the days when they were working pickpocketing and purse snatchings around the Gare De Marseille-Saint-Charles. Eddie had a friend who knew a guy who needed an inconspicuous fence in Paris. Given Antoine’s experience in the stolen cell phone racket, he was the first guy who Eddie had thought of.

The phone contact had told him to meet him at le Marché Dejean, which was not far from where he lived. As instructed, he had shown up at the designated spot wearing a New York Yankees baseball hat.

The hat was knocked off Antoine’s head, as they dropped the bag over it and loaded him into what he supposed was a van. Given the general ambience of that marketplace a daytime kidnapping was unremarkable.

He rode for more than an hour and was deposited at a ferme in god-knows-where. Standing in the farmyard were four really big, tough looking guys who surrounded an older and extremely rich and sophisticated looking man.

The man said, “Antoine Duchamp?”

Antoine said, “Oui.”

The man said, “My name does not matter to you. But I need a nonentity to serve as a contact for some things I anticipate selling. That man must be as unremarkable as possible and willing to participate in a criminal enterprise.”

Antoine considered for a second and said, “That certainly describes me.”

The man gave Antoine a phone. He said, “People will call this number and attempt to buy the things I am selling. When they do you may negotiate the sale. But you may not provide a hint as to what you have or where you got it. Is that clear?”

It sounded too easy. Antoine said, “What am I selling and what do I get for it?”

The man said, “You do not need to know what you are selling. All you need to know is that it is very old and rare, and that you must get at least 3 million U.S. dollars in the sale. If you do that, I will give you a one percent commission.”

Antoine did the math. He thought, “Mon Dieu that is a fortune!” But he said, “two percent.”

The man actually smiled and said, “I like that attitude, okay two percent.”

Antoine wished he had said five percent, but it was too late now since the gorillas were whisking him back into the van. As they were putting the headbag back on him the stranger said, “We will deliver a strong box with the items. Keep them safe on your life.”

The box showed up later that day. It contained beautiful things. Then a week and a half later the phone rang, and an obnoxious woman began making demands.

I said pissed off, “Can we get down to business now?! Where are the items?!” My act had clearly worked. He said, “I only have a few things here Mademoiselle. You must understand that I can’t keep anything this valuable where it can be easily taken. I can show you those.”

I said as brusquely and haughtily as possible, “Where are they?” and jumped to my feet and unceremoniously walked into the other room. It was as neat and clean as the first room, meaning it looked like a den.

There were work benches and some robust metal chests lying around. The lighting was much better. He followed me tut-tutting as I walked around condescendingly picking things up and looking at them, while adding a couple of new items to his dead bug collection.

He said, “They are right here Mademoiselle.” and he opened one of the lock boxes. Inside were two pieces of the finest-looking silver plate I have ever seen. The workmanship and detail of the designs was indescribably rich. There were also three silver drinking cups of the same quality. At the bottom of the chest was a big pile of gold Aureuses.

I reached in without asking and picked up one of them. The VAR stamp was clearly etched on the face of the coin. Then I reached over and picked up one of the cups. It was exquisite. There were nymphs and satyrs in clear relief playing around the edges. I looked on the bottom and the VAR was there. It was definitely Varus’s mark.

I turned toward him and said without preamble, “three million.” He looked startled and then crafty. He said, “ten million.” I said, “four million and not a penny more you jackal.”

He said, “Five million.”

I said, “Okay, four and a half million it is then.” I figured if he had cash on the barrelhead, he would be willing to open up about what he really had.

I said, “Give me a routing number.” He walked over to an open laptop. He read a long number sequence to me, which I was typing into a tablet from my big Hermes bag. When he finished, I did the necessary transfer and hit send.

The amount must have appeared a few seconds later, because he got a look of almost beatific satisfaction on his face. I said with impatience in my voice like I had just bought a baguette and now I wanted to see the rolls, “Show me the rest.”