The last mission had been just short of disaster. What had promised in the beginning to be a simple extraction from Geneva of two defecting Chechens had turned out to be a trap for both sides, with a double agent in our side selling out to a third, unknown party. There were no goodbyes or tears when we left - guns had been shot, people killed, and your truly got a lead souvenir in his shoulder that still hurts when I turn to the right. If it had not been for my daughter, my 'backup,' I would have just shouted "Screw You!" and gone down fighting.

That, my friend, is life in the covert business. It' so very easy to die - and just as difficult to stay alive.

For Rebacca, my twenty-two year old daughter, I suppose the choice was pretty easy. She had been pulled into the murky world of post-Cold War espionage by accident, a ploy that had backfired on her abductors who had figured that they could use her to get to her mother - incidentally, my boss. Not only did Becky escape their clutches, she managed to sabotage enough of their vehicles so that the cops had everything on a silver platter. For an ordinary sixteen-year old, that must have been something, but for my daughter, being the product of two people in the same business made it as easy as learning to eat.

Before I knew it, she had accompanied me to Belfast, a perky seventeen-year old girl with a camera that wouldn't stop clicking. While I had objected in the beginning, fearing more her safety than anything else, it was soon made clear to me that she wasn't to be dropped of the team. Good operatives were hard to come by, and for her, 'good' was an insult. Within a couple of months, though, I was forced to reevaluate my reservations. I haven't worked with anybody else since then.

Besides, being family made unspoken communications clearer. She could understand me even before I did, and vice versa. That was something the Agency respected.

Ah! The Agency - our code for the Inter-Agencies Agency, a silent group that could execute the CIA's requirements within the US (the CIA, constitutionally, can't operate domestically) or investigate for the FBI internationally, sidestepping Interpol, or even clean out the NSA once in a while - God, the entire place was full of moles! I was fomer G-2, Army Intel, and perhaps the only person to have walked into the Kremlin empty-handed and walked out unhurt - and with 'certain' files towards the end of the Cold war.

So I guess it was not much of a surprise when the office summoned us for a meeting in DC, with the Director herself. My wife. Being in the same line of work ensured that the time that we did spend together was quality time, and we made it a point never to discuss office matters at home. When she could be home, that is.

"How was the last mission?" she asked.

"Bummer. What happened to the traitor, by the way?"

She grinned. "Apparently, the catch was too valuable - and they lost it. We found your buddy washed up from the Seine, Paris, with his throat slit. And his penis cut off."

Rebacca giggled. "Served him right. And that pig wanted me to go to his room alone!"

"I guess that absolves us of any guilt, then," my wife grinned back. "Either way, his penis would have been cut off!"

This was normal, professional conversation in our family.

Then my wife Deborah became serious. "Another situation has come up."

"Go on."

"You have to go under cover."

"So what else is new?"

"Both of you."

"Where?"

"New York."

"The Apple? What's the deal?"

"Mossad. A gang of theirs wants to talk to a businessman. Jewish businessman."

"And I suppose I am to be Abraham."

"Correct. You are Ribbins, Abraham Ribbins. Rebacca will pose as your wife."

This was a first. Of all the things we had acted, husband and wife had been excepted. Now that was being remedied. But I had to be sure I heard well. "Excuse me?" Rebacca asked the same question at almost the same time.

"A few years ago, we created an exporter by the name of Ribbins. Totally fictitious, a fifth-generation convert - not exactly a Jew from centuries, but just long enough to have it in his blood. A complete dossier was generated, the image cultivated being that of a recluse who had finally tied the knot after forty-three years. Now, incidentally, he matches your description - the other way around, rather - and his young wife can look like anybody we say.

"Now what we want is a couple - but the stakes are high. We need to know what they are doing, without letting them know that we have a man in their department. No compromise on security, no risking exposure."

"What's the op?"

"The Desert Star, a five star hotel in Manhattan. Ritzy, expensive. You will check in from Texas for a week, minimum, and register as husband and wife. Now, it's quite unlikely that the rooms are bugged, but you will have to take precautions. Probably, you will get the King's Suite, their most expensive accomodation, but don't worry about the tab - your company, the Elixir Merchant Corporation will finance that."

"The Elixir Merchant Corporation? Tell me, honey, do we actually have a department in here that comes up with these names? Or do you just think them up in your spare time?"

Debbie laughed softly. "We do have a department for these things, Jack. After all, we've got to justify the billion dollars we get every month!"

As we walked out, she chuckled and said, "Becky, I know this is the first assignment you are acting as your father's wife, but please don't get any ideas."

I must have blushed when my daughter pretended to check me out, her eyes pausing for the briefest of seconds on my trim stomach before moving downwards. Thankfully, any reaction I might have had was left unnoticed.

"I'll try," my daughter quipped back, patting me on my buttocks, "But I can't make any promises!"

I had to tell myself twice that she was only joking before I could convince myself.

In deception, there are no half-measures. Which is why we caught an international flight from Bali, where we were supposed to have had our honeymoon, to Fort Worth, and then to NYC. We arrived by eight in the night, in a limousine that stretched two blocks, and checked in as Mrs. and Mr. Abraham Ribbins. The porter took us to the King's Suite, just as my wife had predicted, and we - actually, my daughter, looking quite undaughterly in her off-the-shoulder top and slitted skirt, mischieviously asked him for a Do Not Disturb Sign.

"And," Rebacca - as Rebacca - asked, throwing her arms around my neck and making me sit on the sofa, she in my lap, "Could you please inform the front desk that all messages are to wait until morning - wait! Better yet, we haven't checked in yet. We don't want any disturbances tonight, do we, Darling?" The last word rolled in her tongue in an exotic, sensuous fashion, and the alarm bells went off as my cock twitched under her weight. Then, as if for emphasis, and even before I had composed myself, her soft lips pressed into mine, kissing, yet... not kissing.

We had agreed within ourselves that we couldn't do away with such shows of affection. Sex was a different matter, or so we thought - sounds could be made, convincing sounds, with little or no effort. But I hadn't expected her to start on the kissing as soon as we had arrived - okay, so we had mouthed a little back at the airport, for purely surveilaance's benefit, but the tongues had stayed inside then. As we promised they would.

Now, the kissing was slightly different. Perhaps it was the boldness of being away from Agency eyes, or perhaps it was just temptation - or perhaps both, but there was so 'perhaps' about the fact that her tongue had ventured out, running its tip over my slightly opened lips. Before I could adjust, however, she squeezed her tongue between my lips and touched my teeth - and before I knew it, she made a loud kissing sound as she pulled away.

"Sorry, hun," she said brightly, "Just couldn't resist those lips of yours."

Since the Mossad ops were probably listening in, I figured it was just theatrics. "Same here, sweetie. But I don't think my teeth will ever taste half as sweet as yours - or be half as soft."

She gave a small, sincere laugh. "My dear, I hope you weren't thinking of becoming a poet."

"You could make me one, yet, my love," I replied, suddenly realizing how true that was. Be professional, I told myself, and of all the people... but her lips had been too...

Our eyes met, hers agreeing that the acting had been good, maybe even acknowledging my compliment, mine searching to see if she had read anything more into it. Apparently, she hadn't.

"Let me go take a shower," she said, "I feel so sticky in these things."

"Why don't you stick to me, baby?" She turned sharply, my question an unexpected one, and I winked softly at her that the act was still on, "Or better yet, why don't we un-stick together?"

She ruffled my hair in a loving manner, approving of my husbandly overtures, amused that I was being so good at it despite being her father, and replied, "I don't think so. Neither of us would get anything tonight then - and we had promised Rasmussen a call later. Maybe... later."

I hadn't counted on another kiss, though, and I was more than pleasantly surprised when she placed a hand on my thigh as she kissed me softly again. Then, to add further to my troubles, she just slid her top off her shoulders, and I remember thanking God she still had her bra on - I don't think my hands would have kept silent had she been bare under her top, and although it still wasn't much, it was something. At least, a feeble attempt at modesty. For the bra that she was wearing was a strapless, bikini-model, and almost showed the pink circle around her nipple.

"Here," she taunted, throwing the silky material onto my lap, "Would you be a dear and give this and the rest of the laundry to the hotel service while I have my bath? Thanks."

With another quick peck, she turned and walked away, not even looking back as she stepped out of the skirt at the bathroom door. Her thong was reduced to a line at her back, and although I had seen her, especially of late, in such states of undress, the knowledge that I was 'being her husband' was getting a little too exciting for comfort.

Presently, there was a knock at the door. This, I knew, would be an Agency contact who would tell me whether the room was video-bugged. If it wasn't, sounds would suffice. If it was... I didn't even want to think of the alternatives.

The man at the door was the hotel photographer, a bald man with a pot belly, with a Polaroid that hung around his neck. That in itself was answer enough - if it had been an Olympus, that would have signified only sound-bugging. A Nikon meant no bugs at all! But here was the polaroid - and the room was, indeed, under internal video surveillance.

"Sir," the man began, "Would you like to have some pictures taken of you and your beautiful wife?"

For a fleeting second, I thought of how my daughter might look naked. How a picture of her naked would be... Goddam it, this was not the time! I shook my head at the man. "I would think not, my man," I said in an officious, almost contemptuous manner - and the manner signalled that I had understood his message - "And a Polaroid could hardly do justice to my wife. Come back when you have a better make." The man began to sputter - another code that he had finished - and I proceeded to shut the door in his face.

I came back into the bedroom and picked up a magazine, ostentatiously to read, actually to mislead the ops watching, while I tried to think of a solution to the dilemma. Shorting the video circuit was out - especially when I wasn't supposed to have any idea I was being watched. I could take Rebacca out for a walk, explain the situation - but one doesn't walk at night in Manhattan. Not even operatives like us.

The only way I could think was to actually 'consummate' our 'marriage.' And I had a pretty strong feeling she wasn't going to like it if I pulled off the nonsense. And I didn't particularly savor the idea of having my penis cut off.

The door clicked open, and my 'wife' walked in. I suppressed an urge to drop my jaw when I saw that all she had on was a towel, wet at that, that barely covered her cunt. Her blonde hair was still damp, clinging to her bare shoulders like a protective blanket, and the dew that had gathered in drops along her forehead gave her an elf-like look. Cute was an inferior adjective, desirable just an adequate one. The one that really fit the bill was unattainable. And beautiful. A more unrelated man might have just swept her into his arms and made love, but a father is hardly an unrelated man.

No matter how hard he wishes he were!

"Anything interesting happen while I was gone?" she asked. Definitely she must have noticed my eyes on her. And those legs! A man could die for them. Hell, in this day and age, even a woman would.

"The hotel's photographer came," I replied absently, as if such an incident were even worthy of attention, but in the absence of anything more, it would have to do, "Apparently, the poor chap goes around with a Polaroid."

Her eyes betrayed the dismay in them - quite probably, she had also pondered over the same thing that had bothered me. What now? her eyes asked me.

"Have I complimented you on how sexy you look in that? Just a towel?" I grinned wolfishly, sending my idea across to her in the oblique manner.

Her eyes widened again, but even as she recovered from the suggestion, she formulated an answer. "I don't think you have ever complimented me on what I wear, darling!"

"Well," I was getting bolder. "Let me start now. You look gorgeous with that wet look, you know. Kinda reminds me of Bali..."

She batted her eyelids twice, telling me that she wasn't too sure if that was the only course of action. I glanced towards the door - we could bolt before they had even realized that the had been had, but, reminded her professionalism, the moment we did that, the known network there would ship out to an anonymous shore. Too much to lose. She batted her eyelids twice again.

"What about Bali?" she countered suddenly. "You dirty rascal - you wouldn't even give me time to put anything on. It was either the beach or the bedroom." As she said the last word, she winked once. Okay!

"Was that a complaint?" Confirmation needed.

"Maybe," she said, now walking closer, tantalisingly swaying her hips, and I could almost make out the lips on this beautiful being that I had been blessed with as a daughter. "Maybe not."

She stopped, smiling. "You could make up for it, though. Rasmussen can wait!" A wink. Once.

I stood up, flinging the book into one corner of the bedroom. And even as it flew across the room, I was in front of Rebacca, inches in front, and about to embark on the one incident that could change our relationship forever. Perhaps we would regret it later - perhaps Deborah would learn of it and send in a hit-team - but if it happened, death would be a small dent. I would die happy.

The right hand, of its own volition, hooked its thumb into the knot of the towel. The knot, strategically placed between her breasts, was just a simple tug away from getting undone - and with it, the towel would slide down, letting me see my daughter in a way few others in history had. I waited for one final affirmation from her eyes, but it did not come - the acquiscence was more concrete.