The Infiltrator by Maryanne Peters (Patreon)

Chapter 1

I was born in Biarritz in the South West of France, on a date that I would rather not tell. My mother came from Santander in Spain and we travelled there regularly in my childhood. While I was not Basque I grew up in Basque country. I learned a lot about their culture and language, and I took that knowledge with me when I left France to study in America aged nineteen.

Looking back now, I am not sure how I became involved with counter-terrorism. I studied political science and I wrote papers on various minor conflicts. My work attracted some attention among the teams of analysts employed by various intelligence-gathering agencies in the USA and Europe. I hadn’t written about the Basque separatist issue in my thesis. I was directed onto that issue by my new employer and it became a focus for me. Please understand that I was not a spy – I was an academic. I studied and wrote about social issues and how they were exhibited in violence. I wrote about the kind of people involved – what drove them and what they were seeking to destroy. I loved my work. I was well paid to write about things I knew well.

I increased my knowledge of the Basque language through study. When I returned to my birthplace as a US citizen, I spoke it without accent. I could pass as a Basque even among the old people. 

I was directed to study separatist issues. I learned to recognise the people involved. I became the leading analyst investigating Basque issues and the rise of ETA – the Basque separatist terrorist movement. This organization was totally ruthless and very close-knit. While they would use terrorists co-opted from outside the Basque community for many tasks, the planning and direction was undertaken by a small impenetrable group 

Among the people I studied was Paloma Garrastazu. She had been caught with explosives in 1998 and had been in jail in Germany since then. I had the opportunity to interview her there, on more than one occasion. She told me little. But more importantly, I learned to understand the person. That was my objective. Facts about what happened and what will happen were not my area. I was to study the people. I formed the opinion that Paloma was a hardened terrorist and she was too dangerous to release. I considered that she could easily resume a leadership position if she were ever to get out. But I learned also to admire her strong character.

When I met her in 2004 she was 28, a little older than me. She was attractive in a hard kind of way. She had quite heavy features including the typical Basque large nose, a mass of long dark hair, and large dark brown eyes (as I had). She was tall – about 5’9,” slim but well shaped in the bust and hips. She had a sexy quality, which she played down, but she was evidently vain. She smoked heavily and spoke in a husky voice. She could converse fluently in Basque, French, Spanish and English (as I could) and had learned only a little German during her stay. 

In 2006 an operative within our group learned of a plan to arrange an escape for Paloma. Because of my fluency in the language, I was added to a small group who knew of the plan (Group VBS9) and steps were to be taken to foil the attempt. The task to be undertaken was to wait for the moment of the escape and attempt to capture others involved. The escape bid was led by Paloma’s brother and her boyfriend, the two closest to her. Only her brother (and some lawyers) had access to her in prison.

I do not know the details but less than a week later I was called into a special meeting of VBS9. The escape attempt had been foiled and all 5 people involved had been killed plus one of our operatives. Paloma, her brother, her boyfriend, and two other ETA members were dead. I was frankly shocked, but not as shocked as what my employers then suggested.

As was common with situations like this, the press knew nothing, so the event would not be reported. ETA would only learn what had happened by information sent out by the escape team. According to the operatives present, the last message sent was that the team had been discovered but that Paloma was free and safe. The suggestion was that ETA be allowed to continue to think that. Paloma had been scheduled to go to Belgium for plastic surgery to disguise herself. The suggestion was that we use someone to replace Paloma and infiltrate ETA.

Was this far-fetched plan feasible? Perhaps. I was initially asked about what disguise Paloma would assume. I said that in my view she would seek to improve her appearance but retain strong features. She was attached to her long hair and would be unlikely to cut it. After surgery who would know her? Those who knew her best were now dead. Being in prison for 15 years, to the younger ones she was virtually unknown and for many others only a distant memory. As for the impostor, with considerable knowledge of her life and contacts, it might be possible. Years in jail can result in forgetfulness which might explain some lapses of memory. But I said that I would need to brief the impersonator intensively for weeks to be safe. I was then asked what skills the person would need to have – this was where the plan seemed almost impossible – the person would need to be fluent in four languages including Basque, a language spoken by only that community and a few others (myself included). It could not be learned quickly.

Then the bombshell … I was told that it was being proposed that I should impersonate Paloma. I was dumbfounded. But the group leader explained that research had already been undertaken and everything that they had considered could be done. It was clear that I had been identified from the beginning. 

Of course, the obvious problem was that I was a man. This seemingly important fact was being disregarded by the team. Their solution was simply a simply a matter of additional training and some surgery. The proposal was that I would undertake facial cosmetic surgery to build the face of Paloma as modified to disguise her. Surgery wounds would be explicable. In my case that would include surgery on my scalp to redistribute some hair – I would need to grow my own hair as a wig could be discovered. In the meantime, special hair extensions that were virtually undetectable would be woven in. Height would not be a problem as we were about the same height. The shape of Paloma’s body presented a bigger problem as breasts could not be allowed time to develop. Radical surgery, including implants, would be required and some wounds disguised as wounds received during the escape. There would need to be some work on the vocal cords, some major depilation, and some conditioning of the skin and hair. The detailed study had already been done without consulting me. I was presented with a complete plan – as we say in French a fait accompli. 

The only briefing that would be required for me was a crash course in living as a woman, seemingly an easier task than learning a life history, 1,000 names and faces and prior encounters for each, and one of the world’s more complex languages (together with fluency in 3 others). It appeared that I knew most of what she knew. Only femininity needed to be learned, and that seemed easier to them.

The only question remaining was would I do it? If I was discovered death would be immediate (but perhaps not mercifully instantaneous). Was I ready to go from analyst to spy?

The plan was further developed: The team would use a known communication link and code to advise that Paloma and her brother were still alive and in hiding in Belgium. Paloma (alias myself) would undergo plastic surgery. The brother’s body would be taken on ice to a site where his death and Paloma’s further escape would be rigged under the eyes of a witness credible to ETA. Paloma would have a different appearance, jail would have made her a different person, but her commitment to the cause was unquestioned and her ability, legend. She would glide into a major role in the organization I would feed data to my team to expose the whole organization.

But my life was study and a daily grind on my computer producing reports. This seemed so exciting that it seemed almost impossible to turn down, despite the danger – or perhaps, because of it. I agreed to do it. It is not that I did not enjoy the work I was doing – I did. But now was the chance to get right into the thing that I was studying. The temptation of that was so great that I simply gave no thought to the danger. I would become Paloma Garrastazu.

Chapter 2

It may occur to you that the plan for the new body made no reference to genitals. Although it seems stupid now, until I awoke from surgery I had given little thought to what changes would be necessary. All I had received was an assurance that any surgery would be reversible. The concealment of male genitalia simply created more risk of discovery. While it was unlikely that I would be donning a bikini it was considered appropriate that my pubic area be rendered flush.

This was one of the first areas I explored in my groggy state, coming to from the general anaesthetic. It was just so womanly that it was hard to believe that it could be reconstructed when this was all over. Stupidly I simply believed what I had been told. After the swelling had gone down I also discovered the string that appeared to enter between the fake lips of my vulva, that I was told was the key to reconstruction. When nude I could pass it off as a tampon. It was even said that it could be the basis for refusing sex if that situation arose. That thought was totally beyond me – what could they be thinking that I would be doing?

I also explored my breasts. They were the same size as Paloma’s. A scar in the right armpit was faked as a bullet wound, and on the other side, the scar was concealed in creating an old burn scar found on Paloma’s body.

There were also implants in my bottom and hips. On the right side, a small wound was constructed but then skin grafted over to show an effort to correct it. On the left, the work was done through an entry point concealed in the cheeks of my ass.

I had to wait to see the effects of surgery on my face. The first view showed a face inflamed and stretched, but as it settled I found myself gaping at the work that had been done. My eyes were a perfect match for Palomas, but it was agreed that for her disguise she would adopt green contact lenses. Her cheekbones had been lifted and her lips curled up and augmented a little. Both her nose and mine had been modified only slightly, so as to retain the Basque look she would insist upon. Both her ears and mine had been trimmed and reworked seamlessly. My brow had been drastically changed to reduce the masculinity. My chin was built slightly but the jaw retained the strength that I had advised Paloma would be unlikely to sacrifice. My entire face (except eyebrows) had been depilated by electrolysis.

It hardly seemed like my face at all. It was the face of a beautiful woman. More beautiful than the original Paloma. My advice had been that her vanity would demand that.

For three weeks after the surgery, I was very sick from the huge quantity of hormones pumped into my system. But the effect of these was soon evident. My skin and hair softened. Muscles (which were never well developed) appeared to waste away, although I exercised to maintain tone. An unexpected side effect was the apparent influence on my emotions. Right after a shot, I appeared to behave differently. I felt flushed and strangely content, but could become weepy for the slightest reason. This was something that I felt I needed to control, as a part of surgery included the implantation of a slow-release ampoule of hormones timed for activation over three months on a cyclical basis.

While recovering I was briefed on the fundamentals of femininity. While I shared some of her knowledge of cooking and fine wines, I knew that Paloma had a taste for fashion that I would need to understand better. A qualified trainer from my employer worked with me on movement and feminine etiquette.

The more unusual of these first experiences was my excursion to the toilet. For some time after the operation, I experienced pain in the penis. It was explained to me that the penile tissue was still intact and that discomfort after surgery was to be expected. Sitting down to pee was an entirely new experience but was the start of feminization in my head. Somehow that simple act and the tissue to clean up were so womanly that I began to feel female.

It was only after the healing and intense hormone therapy was complete that I had the full makeover. It was decided that I would be treated to the full salon experience to get used to that notion. We dressed to leave the confines of the centre where I had been confined. The surgical bra was removed and I was instructed in the art of putting on a normal bra and other female garments. For this first outing, pants were considered easier, but these were chocolate brown hip-hugging Capri pants. The top was loose-fitting cream silk and sleeveless, with a neckline that showed a full cleavage. For the visit my now shaggy hair with its new feminine hairline was washed and blow-dried to a vaguely female style, ready for the extensions.

I was determined to follow the brief and enjoy to the fullest my first salon experience. The suggestion was that I try to get into the role of a woman by being as girly as possible. I read women’s magazines and engaged in some discussions on fashion trends that I had only just learned, faking it as a style-conscious high-flyer. All in all, I think I was successful, and the approach worked because I was beginning to like it. The salon was so totally foreign, but I convinced myself that it was my favourite place to be. While I had long dark extensions woven in and trimmed, my eyebrows waxed to an exotic (and sexy) curve, and a full facial, I chatted meaninglessly. For all my intelligence and devotion to academic study, I found a true release in just acting like a girl.

But the truth is that Paloma was a different creature -- something between that and me and some kind of monster. Paloma Garrastazu was a ruthless terrorist. A woman who had murdered several times without compunction and could do so again. Even if I could act like a woman, could I be her?

I had further lessons to learn before I could be placed. I needed to know how to style my hair and apply make-up. How to walk, and how to run, in high heels. For the one week of training remaining, I must have put up my hair and taken it down again 1,000 times – loose buns, French rolls, top knots. I learned to use the tools — curlers (for an occasional sophisticated look that Paloma had been known to adopt), styling wands, straightening tools. I must have applied and removed bucket loads of make-up, used pots of mascara, huge quantities of lipstick. But after that time it did become natural. I found myself resorting to the mirror regularly and primping. I would check my hair, remove and replace a hairpin, or simply pat down a wayward wisp. Lipstick I reapplied at appropriate intervals. The truth is that I was concerned to look good. I was an attractive woman and wanted to be at my best. 

My trainers were totally satisfied as I prepared for placement at the heart of one of the most dangerous terrorist organizations in the world.

Chapter 3

The objective was simple: Paloma Garrastazu would return to the organization that she was such an important part of, moving immediately to the centre of operations. She would learn about the key operatives, covers, safehouses, their moles in government and counter-terrorism agencies, and other information. If possible, she would move to contacts with other terrorist organizations that ETA was known to co-operate with, to learn the same information.

It was now five weeks since Paloma’s death and since her escape had been fabricated and her brother’s body made available for collection by her family (his widow whom she had never met). The link had been advised and the coded message was that Paloma and another terrorist were hiding in a farmhouse near Awelhof in Belgium. Interpol was hot on our tail and the idea was to commission a rescue party that would extract me from the very jaws of the authorities. The farmhouse had been staged for a simulated raid and rescue, including repositioning the body of the other terrorist killed weeks ago

I had waited in the farmhouse for about two days when I received the message from my handler that I was to go to the Intermarche supermarket in the village to await contact. From the moment I knew that I was on my own. The chances are that I would be watched from that point to check that I was not being followed. I could not make any contact with my handlers from that point until I was established. I decided to wear something practical – plain underwear, simple floral dress, denim jacket, flat shoes, handbag. Hair in a high ponytail with a tortoiseshell clip. 

My rescue did not happen the way it was intended at all. I was approached in the supermarket by a young man, barely 20. He simply asked: “Paloma?” and I nodded. He took my arm and lead me outside to the carpark without saying a word. We got into a car – a large late model Peugeot. I got in the back door but the back seat was folded down to reveal a compartment between the seat and the trunk. I climbed in, checking about the car before ducking my head down.

“What about Sebastian?” I asked in Basque. “He’s at the farmhouse.” The driver turned to me and took off his dark glasses. I recognised his ugly face immediately: “Dano!” I used her pet name for him. “Oh, I’m glad to see you. We must collect Sebastian.”

“Darling,” he said, “It is too hot for us here. It is you we are here for. We must wish him luck but he is on his own.” He put back his sunglasses and accelerated away as the younger man closed the seats leaving me in darkness.

Daniel Macanzo. What a huge thrill to be so close to the man I had read so much about. Now I know how close I am to the action. I was living the thing that I had studied for so long. And I have passed my first test. Despite my different appearance he accepts me as Paloma. He did not flinch from assuming that I was she. I knew then that this crazy plan was going to work.

The raid on the farmhouse did take place. And Sebastian died (again) in a shoot out with police. But a charade was not necessary. I was in. When I was released from the compartment, news was already coming out over the radio about a female terrorist once again on the loose in Belgium. But we were in France. I had travelled 400 km in foetal position before I was allowed into the back seat.

“I agree that trying to release Sebastian would have been too risky,” I said. “But Dano, your face is too well known. You should not have done this job,” I scolded.

“I am here to see that it is really you, my darling,” he said. “But only you could tell me off like that! The surgery is good on you. You look much younger. I hope that the surgeon was not tempted to take a photograph of his good work.”

“Sebastian stayed with me through the operation,” I explained. “There are no photos and the silence of the surgeon and his assistant is assured. If not they would be dead.”

After a long pause, he said: “It has been a long time for you.” He offered me a cigarette but I declined. I did not smoke as she did, but I decided that it was easier for her to give up than for me to take it up. “You have a lot to catch up on.”

“I want to join the struggle again as soon as possible,” I said. “With my new face, I am unknown to the authorities. I need new papers. I need work to do. I have been dead for so long I must live again. Life is sweetest close to death.” 

My words rolled off my tongue as she would have spoken. I had become her. It was working beautifully. Dano was already opening up. He spoke about people who had died, two or three who had dropped out with stress. One who had been removed as a risk. Where I recognised names, I talked about old jobs done, the names of wives or brothers. I used all of my knowledge to entrench myself.

But what of the new team? Many were unknown to me. Others were known to me but unknown to her. I needed to be careful there, to ask questions that I knew the answers to. We talked in the car, over lunch at a roadside café, in the car again, and in the small restaurant outside Toulouse where we had our evening meal. We shared two bottles of wine so that the young man would drive us west to our safe house. We laughed as it was clear that we had done so on many occasions before. A few small errors were lost or easily corrected in those hours, but it was clear that convincing Dano was the important part. Most of the people mentioned by him were either new or they had not been close associates of Paloma. Daniel Macanzo had been very close to her, and now he was just as close to me.

He did refer to differences that I needed to be aware of. My voice was a little less husky – work on my vocal chords had lifted the tone but I put the change down to giving up smoking. I had a habit of fiddling with a bangle on my wrist – I wore it because she wore something like that, but I knew that I would either have to get used to a bangle or bracelet or lose it. A little more primping than was her habit I put down to my new face and a desire to make my facelift last. My laugh I needed to adjust – I knew from my meetings with her, but when genuinely amused it is hard to affect the nuances of her laugh. I needed to take account of this.

The safehouse was in the centre of the town of Bec. It was perfect for the job: In a higher part of town with good views of approaches, but close enough to allow an escape to be effected quickly through neighbouring streets. Lights on a timer gave the effect of it being occupied. There were stocks of food and a tank of water on the roof. A cache of weapons (including some explosives) was well concealed. A secure telephone line also allowed calls to be routed through a dead-end line. There was a comfortable bed for me, and (most welcome) a shower.

While I had the opportunity to explore my new body before, my first shower there in that house was my first physical contact with the new Paloma. As the water poured over me I felt it so keenly on my smooth hairless body. It was the words that I had spoken – being close to death, being in the bosom of the beast, I felt my body tingle with excitement. I reached down to my fake genitalia and I stroked where a clitoris should be. And it was as if there was a clitoris. My nipples shot out and a huge pre-orgasmic wave swept over me. I was a little shaken by my feelings, and I stopped further stimulation. But I felt sufficiently close to my femininity to wash my hair and wind it with cloth strips for the night to curl it for the morning. The response of my body was a little unsettling. How effective were these modifications to my body?

On my bed, a silk nightgown was laid out. From the point of view of a hardened terrorist in a safehouse, this was a little incongruous. Even more surprising was a note on the nightgown in English: “Looking forward to meeting you, Nick.” Who was Nick? Why in English? And the nightgown was beautiful and so soft. It was also slightly sexy. While it covered the body, it had patterns of lace in the front of it through which my breasts were clearly visible. What an unusual gift it appeared to be. As I surveyed myself wearing in the mirror, I felt … pretty.

Chapter 4

Nick had left another surprise for the morning. Some flowers and a bowl of fruit on the table with a note: “Brasserie d’Argenot, 08:30, Don’t be late, Nick.” As it was already after 08:00 that might be difficult. I had only the floral dress and shoes from yesterday, but I was able to open the buttons on the front a little, and with my hair down and curly, just the front held back with the tortoiseshell clip, I looked different and decidedly hot.

I had to check the way to Brasserie d’Argenot. I had the feeling that Paloma knew this town, but while I had familiarised myself with many of the places that she knew, I was light on information there. Outside on the street was a collection of tables including two occupied by men sitting alone. One was an older man, very grizzled and sour-looking, smoking, looking into the distance away from me. At the other, a younger man sat reading the paper. He looked like a tourist – tanned with light brown hair, wearing stylish sunglasses, and a short-sleeve check shirt, jeans, and trainers. I was embarrassed should I approach the wrong man. I decided that the nightgown must have come from the younger man. Without a word, I sat down at his table. He lowered his paper – today’s “Le Monde.”

“What should I call you?” he asked. English was perhaps not his native tongue but it was his natural language.  It was not clear that it was an American accent. Perhaps it betrayed an education in America, like me.

“If your name is Nick, perhaps I should ask you,” I said.

“Nick Brakich,” he introduced himself with outstretched hand, which I took in a most feminine manner as if expecting him to take it and kiss it. It was immediately clear to me that there was something about this man that disarmed me, in the same way that the nightgown on the bed had done. He was a good-looking man; lean, muscled body, strong jaw, strong clean hands. Without the sunglasses, he had clear, startlingly penetrative blue eyes. I had the impression that he was dangerous. But then he must have known that I was, too. What was obvious was that he was not Basque.

“Things have changed,” I said in Basque, and then (when it was clear he did not understand) in French: “You look a little out of place.” 

He said in English: “Free contractors are never out of place.” He understood French. His smile had that effect on me again. He was flirting with me – nothing unusual in that. I was an attractive woman. There was a feeling in me that I could exercise some control over this man, despite him being so clearly a ruthless mercenary. I liked the feeling. I smiled back. He ordered a coffee and a croissant, and with my agreement, the same for me.

“I am interested in the current leadership,” I leaned forward to get down to business. My dark curls dropped towards the table and I pushed the lock of hair back. He was looking at me and I imagined what effect I was having. I was an extremely attractive woman. At that moment I wished that I were wearing perfume to work more magic on him. “Naturally I will wait in my place to serve best, but I want to be involved.”

He nodded: “I lead operations now,” he said, leaning back. “Politics is not my concern. Bringing you here was my job. You may have a role in the political side. I understand that you are available for operations. If you are needed there I will call upon you. But perhaps you are more valuable as a figurehead, beyond risk of capture again.”

“I need new papers, and at least one change of clothes,” I said. He nodded, but as our meals arrived, he momentarily broke into some questions about walking tracks in the neighbouring mountains. 

“Papers I can arrange,” he said, as he nibbled on his croissant. “As for clothes, there is a project in Paris next week if you are ready for it.” And then: “We may need to get married first.” He was beaming. I shrugged my shoulders. 

“Mrs. Brakich is a name – what about a first name”

“I’ve always liked Maria. Like ‘West Side Story.’ What do you think?”

“Why not?” I held the coffee up to my lips and glanced at him over my cup. The look that I gave him was quite deliberate. It was a come on. It was, I knew, a response to his thoughts as I read them. What was surprising to me that this was all coming to me naturally. It was as if I had slipped so easily into the role that it was second nature. Where these skills came from, I could not guess. I had known many women and I pride myself that I had sex with many of them, but I was no student of their behaviour; I had had no long-term relationships with women. Certainly, I was heterosexual and had never had any homosexual leanings, ever. Yet, from somewhere within me a vixen was emerging, spurred on by this extremely desirable man flirting with me across a café table in Southern France. 

“We’ll finish our coffee and then get the photographs and other papers,” he said. 

I crossed my legs and pulled out a compact to redo my lipstick. I puckered and pouted in doing so – automatically. We rose and walked together. We almost touched shoulders several times, and I was almost willing that we did. He directed us quietly, making some remarks about the weather for the coming day. It was going to be hot.

On the way, I stopped near a stall selling some items including light scarves. I fingered through several until I found one that I liked. I looked at him with my face turned down coyly – “Excuse me, I have no local currency….” I did not have to say more. He paid and gave me another 50 euros or so in smaller notes. Enough for me to buy some suitably expensive scent at a department store nearby, making sure that he saw me spend all but the whole lot in doing so.

He left me with a small, greasy man in a basement workshop behind a stationery shop where my papers were in preparation. He said he had a small errand to run and that he would return before noon. He did not, but I had the opportunity to catch up on local news with the forger (who was Basque), and to learn the background of my new identity. I was to be Maria Consuella Brakic nee Baroku. Spanish citizen, Basque, born Santander 26 years before (younger than my true age, and Paloma’s) occupation stated as “executive assistant,” a card showed that I was an approved interpreter for state business (Spanish/French) with the local provincial council. I had a birth certificate, baptismal certificate (Catholic), marriage certificate (Paris Civil Marriage Registry, less than a year old, husband Nikolas Mate Brakic, born Varazdin, Yugoslavia 2 years before his wife), my driving licence (Spanish, photo cleverly aged), passport (Spanish, recent, an almost perfect forgery) and two bankcards ready to sign. It required some practice to get a new signature right. I was also given a diary and several pens to write some past entries using another diary that Nick had supplied for reference. After I had finished and reviewed what I had written I was amazed to see how feminine the script was. Where did this come from? I put the diary and a carefully assembled bundle of receipts and other minor papers into my handbag.

Chapter 5

When Nick did appear after 13:00 I felt that I should then say something about punctuality: “I believe that timing is important in our work,” I said looking at my watch.

“I bought you something to wear,” he smiled. His look was playful, clearly designed to infuriate me, as if I were some kind of Doris Day character to his Rock Hudson. I was determined to stay unruffled. Giving due thought in his absence, I had decided that I would treat him strictly as a work colleague, but that I would keep it light-hearted try to get him to open up.

“Go back to the house to change,” he said. “Do you remember the way back? I will drive you to Toulouse this evening. You are booked in at the Hotel du Gascoigne, single room. I am not staying. You will dine with some old friends. Tomorrow you will take the train to Paris. You will stay at the Ibis Les Halles. I will join you there on Friday. Here are the tickets and some more cash. There is also money on your credit card. Spend no more than 500 euros.” That was plenty.

I found his businesslike approach refreshing. I was again making progress. This was an operation. Was it terrorist activity? Very unlikely. ETA did not attack targets in France. Perhaps buying materials? Would it be dangerous? Was I prepared? This was sooner than anticipated – contact with my handlers would be difficult. 

I think he sensed some concern in me. He did a strange thing. He took my hand. “Slowly, slowly,” he said. You have been away a long time. We won’t rush things. But you are a focal point for many people. It’s political shit. Draco will be with you tonight. He will explain. I’m going ahead for security. That’s my job.” 

He kissed my hand delicately, turned and left. There was no mistaking what happened next. I felt my face burn with blood. I was blushing. I felt as if my head must look like beetroot. What kind of operative was I? As I walked back, I reassured myself that my deception was so perfect that it went as far a being able to call up feminine traits at will. But the truth was harder to explain. I was turning into the person I had created.

I needed another shower. Again, I explored my body. This time I was more critical. I was checking for seams in my disguise. I would meet Draco that evening. He was well known to me by his reputation. Although as “the Dragon” he ought to be a fearsome terrorist, I knew that he was more likely to be a suburban type who has carefully concealed his identity to be allowed to move freely. His function was to fix targets and timing for best impact. He was a thinker. My problem was that his appearance was unknown to me and all the agencies. I had a view of him in my own mind, but I had to suppress that. I did have the advantage that I knew his voice. There was one recording of him speaking a few words over a crackling telephone connection. But I had listened to it many times. I was looking for specific intonations. I could not speak first. This would be a big test.

I stepped out of the shower and towelled off my soft, smooth body. I pulled off the shower cap and let my hair cascade down my back. I looked at myself in the mirror over my shoulder. I was beautiful and so pleased with that fact. I would have expected some kind of stirring in my concealed organs (surely the man in me would be turned on by the woman in the mirror), but there was nothing.

I emptied out the contents of three Gallarie Lafayette bags onto the bed. The first bag contained lingerie. A bra, panties, and a very light camisole top, all in black and red, with lace and little bows. They were extremely sexy. Nick was playing some kind of game with me. Then there was the dress. Bright red. Tight-fitting around the middle. Beautiful. Expensive. Shoes – black with red heel straps. High heels. High fashion. High cost. The overall look was sexy and sophisticated. A wealthy man’s moll. In the same bag as the shoes, a small clutch bag – impractical. The finishing touch, inside the bag bright red lipstick, mascara, and a small color-pack of eye make-up. What woman would not put it all on immediately?

I found myself cursing that the mirror on the wall was not full-length. But I took it down and propped it on the floor and elsewhere. The sizing was perfect. The underwear lifted my breasts and formed a perfect cleavage. The panties strung across my hips giving them width and nestling my pubis in delicate lace. The camisole was deliciously soft silk against my sensitive skin. The dress was almost painted on me. The heels lifted my legs to appear like a catwalk model. And model it I did – walking, strutting, standing, pouting. I felt fantastic in that outfit.

I took time with my face and with my eyes in particular. I took the coloured lenses out. I decided the dress looked better with brown eyes. How crazy is that? I also worked on my hair, brushing, and arranging carefully into an updo with what was left of my curls. I had only the clip and a few pins but I had worked wonders. I was still primping when Nick knocked on the door. I threw everything into the shopping bags to rush down to the door, but then I paused.

“Just a minute,” I called. I was ready, but I took ten.

When I opened the door I stepped back a little to retrieve the bags from behind me and to let the inside light show me to my best advantage. There was no mistaking the reaction – Nick was agog. Then a smile, almost a leering smile.

“I can see why you have a reputation as a killer,” he said. “With you in that dress, we are all in danger.”

“This is hardly practical,” I reprimanded him light-heartedly. “I am supposed to be lying low. That’s a bit difficult in this.” And then, “Am I dressed for a reason?”

“Unfortunately, I will not be able to join you for dinner tonight,” he said. But please wear the same thing in Paris.” He gallantly opened the door for me to get into his car, a late-model black Audi.

He was alone. Toulouse was two hours away. We would talk, and I would listen for information. That was what I was there for. I did not want to be too direct. I could not appear to interrogate. I was an intelligence operative. I would learn all I needed to know through cunning. But I blurted out: “Who are you?” Just like that.

“Who am I? Good Question. I am just a technical adviser,” he explained. “But with the death of your man and your brother, I have taken charge of operations. I haven’t had the chance to offer you my condolences on their deaths. I know they were very close to you. I’m sorry.” His words were genuine. There was a goodness in this man.

“The struggle is bigger than any one man … or two.” My words sounded cliché. Then tears came. Where on earth had that come from? I felt that it was hormone-driven. I had had little tearful intervals ever since I was pumped full of this stuff. But the arrival of tears was perfect. Nick pulled over and reached over to put his arm around me. My head dropped onto his shoulder and I cried, the first tears drawing out more. His hand on my back gently soothed me and stirred a host of strange feelings. I felt fragile, protected, perhaps loved (?). For a couple of minutes, I just basked in it, without any thought but for the warmth in me. Was I losing control? I needed to pull myself together.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “This is not appropriate behavior.”

“What are husbands for?” he said. We drove on. After a time, I used the mirror to repair my make-up.

“We are in love,” he was stating facts for my information. “We were married last year after a brief courtship which began right here. You are a local girl. You have a work history with the local stationery company. You are personal assistant to the general manager. I came here the winter before last for skiing in the Pyrenees. We met and fell in love. I live and work in Paris. You still work here. I travel to you, you travel to me.”

“I need to know who you are, where you come from, if we are working so closely together.” I was insistent now. The subtle drawing of information was not an option.

“I really was born in Yugoslavia, but in Serbia, not Croatia,” he explained. “I was raised with a gun in my hands. It was all I knew for many years. I was sent to stay with distant relatives in the United States when I was a teenager. Nick Brakic was their child – US citizen. When I returned to Europe my home was in a mess. I joined the Foreign Legion. At the end of my term, they gave me a French identity and a French passport, which I rarely use. I met a Basque fighter in the Legion. I like the people. I married one.” He turned to me and smiled as the car sped on. I remember thinking “my husband” as I smiled back, happy in that knowledge. Having this strong and handsome man as my husband made me so happy. It was an almost sickening feeling that followed – how could I be thinking this? It was as if some female being had invaded my body and was controlling my will. As if my own personality was not as strong as the female personality that was now operating me.

Chapter 6

The Hotel du Gascoigne was imposing. An old hotel in classic style, it showed the benefit of recent refurbishment. We pulled up outside and attendants opened the doors. Nick got out to walk me to the entrance, but he left the keys in the car. Even in my heels, he was taller than me. I had a feeling then that I did not want him to go.

“Do you have everything you need?” he asked, taking my left hand.

“Yes,” was all I could say. I looked into his wonderfully blue eyes.

“For appearance's sake…” he whispered. And then he kissed me. He kissed me full on the lips. I could have (should have) kept my lips shut. It would have appeared as a passionate enough kiss without doing it, but my mouth did open. Even without tongue, our saliva mixed. My lips felt hot and soft. Yielding. My right hand found its way to the back of his neck so that I pulled his mouth more towards me. “Until we are together in Paris,” he whispered, in French. It was perfect. He left.

Once again, I was shaken. I found myself standing at the entrance of the Hotel Gascony, Toulouse, watching my husband drive away, physically longing for him. Feeling like a little-girl-lost. A girl. 

“You are already checked in, madame,” said the bell captain taking my humble shopping bags and handing me a key – Room 637. “Your party is in the private dining room already,” he said, clearly attempting to hurry me along. But in this outfit, an entrance was called for. I pulled myself together. I went to my room first. I sat on the toilet. I checked my face. I redid my lipstick. All those tasks that now seemed second nature. I re-pinned a wisp of hair. I smoothed my dress. I was ready.

There were three men and one woman (about Paloma’s age) at the dinner table. The men rose as I entered. By the expressions I judged that my entrance had been effective. The woman I did not know. She remained seated but fixed a stare on me. Brooding. A rival?

Draco was easier than I thought. I knew the other men by sight. And Draco was much as I expected, although my image of him was very different than the official view. He was an accountant by his method, and he looked like one. Curiously, there was no recognition of me. I was only vaguely aware of the risk (was he really who I thought he was) as I said: “Even dragons get older I see.”

He touched the grey hair at his right temple and smiled at me as he walked around the table. He embraced me, and I him. He said: “And you darling, you are younger. The surgeon has done good work.”

I greeted the men by name, and we embraced. At last, the woman rose. She air-kissed me on both cheeks. There was no doubting the hostility. Did I know this woman? I understood then that this would be a test. If I did know her (I wracked my brains for a connection) passing myself off as both Paloma and as a woman would be more difficult. I said nothing to her. I spoke to the men, with a small piece of rehearsed banter I had prepared for each of them, knowing that I would meet each of them at some time. Again, I marvelled at my success. Only the woman was an obstacle. I felt her eyes in my back. I felt that she could see through it all. 

I continued with some ready phrases and anecdotes about prison, contacts since, my first escape, my second escape. This was the meeting I had expected, and I was prepared. Only her words disturbed my comfort.

“Your voice sounds different,” she said. She knew me. Who was she?

“I gave up smoking in prison quite recently,” I said. “I feel as if I could sing opera. You should think about it.” I pointed to the pack of cigarettes on the table near her.

“And you took some bullets in your escape. Your body must be horribly scarred.” The fake concern was almost mocking. She hated me. I hated her.

“The surgeon did some work there, too. But yes, I have scars. As a soldier for our people, I am proud to carry them. Still, I recommend plastic surgery for those who need it.” My words slashed at her. This woman was a threat. She had to be destroyed. Was this a trace of testosterone rising in me? I must be careful not to betray the man in me. Or was it something different?

As we ate, she asked: “Where did you get the dress?” Her tone was disparaging. But I noted that she was also dressed for the evening. In black, concealing a just visible flabby body, although her neck was slender and her face handsome. 

“Oh, it’s just GF,” I remarked, “But I think red shows off my figure very well. Plenty of exercise has enabled me to keep trim.”

“You look fantastic,” said Draco. He was right.

There was some more talk before the coffee came and the business agenda began.

“What do you think of Brakic?” said Draco. I could tell by the tone that this was a loaded question. 

A strange thought came over me – Nick, what did I think about him? A vision of him appeared in my head, smiling in his flirting way. I felt warm and ... girly. But I responded coldly: “I would like to know why an outsider is leading our operational team.”

“Our field leadership on the ground has been decimated rescuing you,” her hostility was open now and drew a rebuke from Draco.

“Albina,” he said (the name meant nothing to me), “Paloma did not call for the rescue. The price of her freedom has been high, but within the organization, the fact that she is free and alive is a huge boost for us. What is more,” he said, addressing me, “if you will take leadership on the ground that repairs the loss.”

“I will do as I am asked,” I said, solemnly. “But times have changed. I will need to meet new people, learn about the new equipment. Who will guide me in this?”

“Work with Brakic. You have cover as his wife. You go to Paris tomorrow where he has been asked to introduce you to the people who supply the explosives. He took over from your brother in this. But he is expendable. He is only a contractor.”

I started to fear a little for Nick. But Draco was right. Contractors could not be trusted, and he was in deeper than any contractor should be. Paloma would have shot him in the head that night and taken over. That thought prompted me to coldly whisper, “I will dispose of him when that is required. But I have to learn from him for now.”

Chapter 7

“Would you mind driving for the first few hours?” Nick asked, “I’ve been working all night.” So, I did, all the way to Orleans. I had time to think. The task facing me was to find the source of explosives, weapons, and training. I needed to work with this man to do that. I needed to win his confidence. But my mind went back to that kiss under the portico of the Hotel du Gascoigne. What did that mean? How far would I need to go? How far could I go as a man in disguise?

And then again as I stopped for a rest and a coffee at a “relais” near La Rochelle, I came back to the car where he nestled sleeping and that weird feeling came back. The feeling that this was my man, and the strange desires associated with that thought. As I reached across him to the glove box, I felt his hot sleeping breath against my neck and my eyes closed to enjoy it. I turned my head and wanted to kiss his slumbering face. But I did not. Instead, I steeled myself by checking my make-up and re-clipping my hair, things that had become second nature in maintaining who I was.

He stirred less than an hour out of Paris and offered to drive. I pulled over and we both stepped out. We met in front of the car, face to face.

“You look fabulous,” he said. I smiled and tilted my head in a playful way as if the girl was taking over again. He put his arm around my waist and pulled me close to him. I almost swooned.

“In case you haven’t noticed we are on the shoulder on a major motorway,” I casually observed. He kissed me. Lips on lips, soft, tender, brief. 

As we drove on I said what I had rehearsed: “Nick, while we are here we need to keep this on a professional level.” I had decided that I would hold out the prospect of a relationship but only after I had learned what I needed. After that, I could step out of this mess.

“I understand completely,” he said, “but I don’t think I can. I know this will seem crazy to you as we have only just met, but I think I’m falling in love with you.”

I cannot explain to this day what the effect of those words were. My whole carefully thought out approach dissolved in a flash. He was looking straight ahead but in profile, he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. He was a god and I was a humble worshipper. His words were true – there was a trace of a tear in his eye. I started to cry. “Oh Nick ...,” I just blubbered like a baby. I put my head on his shoulder. I did not need to say “I love you, too,” because it was clear that I did.

We drove on silently.

How is this possible? I have explained that I was a heterosexual man. I had enjoyed sex with women on many occasions but never love. In truth, until that day I did not know what love was. I was not a woman – I was in disguise. I understood that the disguise was advanced and might include female chemistry, but it could not change my sexuality. Could it? The flirtation was explicable – getting caught up in the role. The return of a kiss was the same – pretending. But this was no pretence. 

“After we check in to the hotel I will need some time to myself,” I said. I needed that time, but I knew that I would need to make contact with my controller. I was in deep. I was way out of my depth. Not the organisation, I could happily destroy that – it was my personal life that troubled me. I had become Paloma Garrastazu, or more importantly, I had become a woman.

Chapter 8

“Paloma, so pleased to hear from you,” said the voice I did not recognise. I had used a phone in a reception room at a small hotel near where Nick and I had checked in – private and untappable. 

“I need to speak to Hobo,” I said. It was the code name for my controller.

“If you have something that you need to report you can speak with me,” said the voice. “If you are compromised, I can act immediately.”

“Compromised? Not in the way you think,” I said. I thought for a minute and said: “I am simply on the edge of being sexually engaged with the key contact who can blow this organisation wide open.” There – too much said.

“Plenty of operatives have done more than have sex,” he said.

“Perhaps you have not been briefed,” I said, “I do not have the necessary equipment.”

“I have been briefed and you do,” the reply came back to throw me into confusion. “We could not take the risk of you not functioning fully as a woman. You are equipped for this eventuality,” he said flatly. “Remember to use lubrication and to reinsert the forming device when you have finished.”

I parted my legs and felt between. Was he saying what I think he was saying?

“Do you require anything else?” he asked.

“No.” I just hung up.

I ran to the ladies' toilet in a fright. I collapsed in the nearest stall and pulled down my pretty lace panties. There between my legs was the small loop of string that I had understood was a surgically fastened permanent excuse for abstinence, and which was attached to the panel of flesh that concealed my male genitals. I pulled, and when I felt resistance, I willed myself to relax despite my heightened state, and I pulled again. Slowly out of my body came an enormous dildo, a full nine inches long. My immediate thought was fascination, and then the realisation that I had a sense of something within me for the past weeks, now understood. And then ... panic. Where was my penis? Where were my balls? What had they done to me?

I banged the wall of the cubicle and started to cry. Just like a silly girl. But when a lady outside asked me if I was alright, I remembered where I was, and professionalism took over.

“N’est rien,” I called out, “tout des hommes sont infides.” She laughed in agreement and counselled me to stay strong in the face of unfaithful men.

I decided to wait for her to leave and examined what I had drawn from my groin. It was covered in a plastic film and I could see paper wrapped around underneath with the words “Remove and discard covering” written on the outside. I tore the covering away and disposed of it in the tampon bin. Unfolded inside the paper was text headed “Instructions for use, memorise and destroy.” How typically organized.

When not in use the device appeared to be, and could serve as, a vibrator, with 2 AA batteries required. More importantly, concealed in the vibration mechanism was a homing device activated within the battery case, effective “for 500 metres with the device held internally, or 50 kilometres if the device is outside the body.” Another switch allowed this homing device to transmit a distress signal “to be used only if the mission is entirely compromised.” 

The closing passage stated warmly: “the body adaptation will allow the recipient to function fully as a female in sexual relations, including achieving orgasm. The use of lubricant is essential. The use of condoms is strongly advised.”

Go on – have sex with Nick. Is that what was being said? I had the equipment and was expected to do my duty. Had they given me a way back to maleness? Or was I stuck with this body? Or just plain expendable? Perhaps I was never expected to return from this mission. That was highly plausible.

What I said to myself was that I would complete the mission. It would then be their problem how they put me right. But as I walked back to the hotel I began to think about how big a task this would be. Whatever they could do to my body, how could my mind go back? As I walked, I looked at women but saw only their clothes or hairstyles. It was as if my sexual attraction to women had disappeared. Perhaps my balls were gone? Or were my genitals in a freezer back home ready to be re-attached?

I also looked at men differently. I seemed to compare the good-looking ones to Nick – weaker chin, eyes not as sparkling.... It worried that he was in my head at all, given what I had just learned. 

I walked on through the streets of Paris. Men who smiled at me, I either met their gaze full-on with my own smile as if to say, “yes, I am a beautiful woman but I am walking on by you,” or sometimes I would drop my eyes with a visible smile as if to say, “I see you and I know you want me but I refuse.” I had been Paloma long enough to know what effect she had. It was exciting. How could I have these thoughts and feelings expunged if my body was restored?

On the corner near the hotel was a small cafe and Nick was seated prominently on an outside table, scanning all directions periodically over his copy of Le Figaro. He saw me early: 

“Is your head clear?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, “Let’s go upstairs and fuck.”

He moved quickly, and to amuse me, he made a show of knocking over his empty coffee cup in his haste. But he took my hand tenderly, kissed me softly, and led me away. 

Chapter 9

He undressed me slowly and with tenderness. Sunlight passed through the curtains bathing the room in a dappled pinkish light. My dress fell to the floor and he pulled my slip up over my lifted arms. He kissed my neck. He undid my bra and I felt my breasts drop only slightly, onto my ribs. My skin felt so sensitive his warm breath was like a blow-torch.

He pulled down my panties and kissed me above my mound of pubic hair. I put my hands in his hair and felt my back arch and he went lower. 

He pushed me back onto the bed with his strong arm beneath me, so that I lowered gently. I was being handled by him as if I were weightless. Suddenly he was naked and beside me.

My hands moved over his body. How I could do this was beyond understanding. What had happened to the heterosexual male? My body had once been like his – or a poor imitation of it. I had made love to women. But for now, his body was my focus. I felt his muscles, firm beneath his flesh, and I wanted him. I stroked his rough chin and I wanted him. I wanted a man – this man.

My hands went to his penis, now jutting out hot and hard. I had only ever felt one penis before this, my own. This was larger and longer, and unbelievably hot. I moved a leg over him to pull him onto me.

We kissed, long and liquid – saliva running down my cheek. He pulled back and looked at me. His pupils were wide. He was so handsome. He brushed a dark curl from my forehead. I needed him now and he was playing with me. I grabbed his firm buttocks and pulled them towards me.

Then I felt something so strange. It was the tip of his penis meeting my opening. Again, he played with the head of his pole working up and down the slit that I had artificially lubricated earlier. And then slowly, he entered me. I could feel every inch as he went in. I gasped a little as I felt our pelvises meet. And then he started.

The first stroke was slow, and then back out just as slow. Then the tempo increased. My hands moved from his bottom and I could picture my long, painted nails moving up and down his back. He started to groan. I started to groan. He started to slam in, moving me bodily so that my head inched up the pillow with each movement.

It occurred to me what was happening. I was lying in a hotel bed in Paris with a man inside a vagina where I once had a penis, and I was being fucked. And I loved it. I could feel the warmth in me and the orgasm so close that it was almost better than the moment itself. Or so I thought so until the moment came. Until I came.

We both simultaneously squealed with delight. I felt his hot fluid squirt into me. I felt everything. And then, at that moment of exquisite ecstasy, I started to cry.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t know. I suppose it has just been so tense up until now. Now it isn’t tense anymore.” But the truth is that I was crying because I knew that everything had changed, whether I wanted it that way or not. Even if I could have been surgically returned to my prior life I knew now that it could never happen. I was a different person. I could never be a man again. 

We made love four times that day. We never left the room until the sun had gone down. We hardly spoke. We just explored one another. I put his penis in my mouth. He fucked me doggy-style over the sofa. We showered together and made love standing up in the stall. I had been given the body to do this, and I did it all right, every way I could.

When evening fell I prepared myself. As I blow-dried my hair he came over and caressed me again. I smiled at him in the mirror and he smiled back. It was a little thing, but I knew immediately what it meant. We were in love. There was no doubt about that now. 

Chapter 10

The monstrosity of it dawned on me later. It was not that I ceased to be heterosexual and that I now loved a man. It was not that had been a functioning male and that I could now only function on the receiving end as a female. It was not that with all of these changes I had been driven to madness. No. My dilemma was that whatever I was, I was in love with a terrorist gun-runner. Sooner or later I would have to turn him in, and my life, strange as it was, but buoyed by love, would be in ruins.

Even if we were to make a life together; if I were to run away with him and forget my duty, how could he accept the truth about me? He did not know that I was not a real woman, and surely, he could never love a surgically altered man, even if my mind appeared to have followed the changes. It seemed like every thought in my head was female.

I considered whether I should contact my controller and ask that Nick be contacted and turned. After all, he was a mercenary. All mercenaries could be bought. He would have information. But it might backfire, might ruin everything. I was building knowledge. I could not compromise my mission.

Or I could simply deny my feelings. It seemed impossible to me, but people can refuse love and recover. Is that possible? You also hear about people who carry their lost love as a burden for their whole lives. Could I do that?

I needed to find something out first.

After dinner, we were walking back through the streets. The night was warm and there was the smell of flowers in the air.

“Would you consider just running away from all of this?” I asked him. “Just the two of us. Forget the principles of a lifetime; forget the money; just go away somewhere. Could you do it?”

“In a heartbeat,” he said. “I have money. That is not important to me. What is important to me is my word. The contract I have made. But for you it would be hard to give up a lifetime devoted to a cause, I think.”

“The closer I get to you, the more I think people are more important than just ideas,” I pondered. “Nations are just ideas. Independence, even freedom, just ideas. When you are inside me, you are all I want, all I need, all I live for. I don’t think that I want to give up my life for an idea anymore.”

He put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me closer: “I feel the same way,” he said. “The truth is I have always had an escape plan. After this trade, I will show it to you.” 

Chapter 11

Nick asked that there be a large ETA presence at the trade. It seemed unusual. Handling weapons, even in large volumes, should be done with minimum personnel, so as not to attract attention. But Nick said that the Irish would be there in numbers so there could be trouble. Our people should be armed.

I learned later that he had told the Irish the same thing. He wanted both terrorist groups to be well represented.

It had not escaped me that this could be a great opportunity to tip off the authorities and do real damage to both organizations. I could find an opportunity to put a call in to Hobo. For some reason that seemed the wrong thing to do. I know now that I was thinking about what would happen to Nick. He wanted out of all of this. If the trade were busted, he would be right in the middle of it. I reasoned that it would be best to wait until after.

Besides, the exact location of the trade was still unknown to me. All I knew was that the Irish would be leaving on a flight out of Toulouse at 17:00. That much information I could hand on. And I could stay with the explosives and arrange interception later.

With that plan, I did not need to press Nick for the venue. All that we knew was that the ETA funds would be driven from Bayonne on the A64, and I was to advise the pick-up point when the goods were in place. Even if I had wanted to, I could not have made my call. It was after midday when Nick received word that the truck was parked in a warehouse outside just Auch, where we had stopped for lunch. I called through the details to Draco.

“We will not have time for lunch,” said Nick. “Just time for a drink.” We both had a Pschitt, but it was not long before I realized that mine contained some kind of drug. He had to help me back to the car, and that is where I passed out.

Chapter 12

“Paloma, darling.” I could hear Nick’s voice. He was at the wheel of a car and was pulling over. I was lying in the reclined passenger seat next to him. I was suddenly aware that my hands were bound with a cable tie. So were my feet.

“Nick, what is going on,” I demanded.

“You meant what you said, didn’t you? You want a way out, don’t you? I’m taking you out of this, for good. I tied you up because I am not sure if you will love me after what I have done, or want to kill me for it. I am sorry, but my solution has resulted in the death of many of your friends. But there is no other way.”

“What is going on?” This time I was shouting at him.

“I sabotaged the explosives,” he said. “They went off last night. You and I were in the explosion, or at least a couple of matching bodies. With any luck, what is left of your group will blame the Irish.”

I lay silently for a moment, trying to take it all in. What explosion? How long had I been unconscious? Matching bodies? This was no impulse move. He had been planning this. 

“Who are you?” I asked. 

“I am the man who loves you,” he said. He was looking at me and everything about his face told me that it was true. But then he added: “And I also work for the British Government.”

All I could say was: “What?”

“Well, I used to work for them. But if I am to run off with a known terrorist, I am guessing they will discontinue my employment. It’s not as if I could hide you in my flat in London. We are on a freighter out of Marseille this afternoon. That is, if you promise not to kill me.”

“This whole time you have been working for the British?” It did not seem to make sense.

“It was an IRA watching exercise. They have been recycling weapons. I have been doing it for years, posing as a gunrunner. I have always planned to get out, but until you came along, I had no reason. Why couldn’t I fall for a waitress, rather than the Queen of ETA? Now it looks like we will be on the run for the rest of our lives. But together, if that is what you want.”

“I won’t kill you,” I said. “Please cut these bands off.”

“Now just a minute,” he said. The car slowed and he pulled over to the side of the road. “I have to say I am a little surprised that you have not asked who died. You are clearly shocked by my news, but not quite in the way I expected. Something is off here.” 

“Cut my hands free,” I demanded.

He pulled a folding knife from his pocket. He said carefully: “I’m going to do it. But what are you going to do?” He cut the band around my feet and then he cut the one around my hands.

I threw my hands around his neck and pulled him to me kissing him with all the vigor I could muster.

I broke for a moment and said: “I am sure Nick is not your real name, but I love you whoever you are.”

“And I love you, Paloma Garrastazu,” he said.

“Well, we may not have to spend our lives on the run,” I said. “Because I am not Paloma Garrastazu.” He looked confused, so I added: “Things are not quite what they seem, but I’ll forgive you for deceiving me, if you forgive me for deceiving you. I am not the person you think I am.”

“I don’t care who you are,” he said, stroking back my hair. “I love you, and that is all there is.”

The End

© Maryanne   Peters 2018, 2020