Covert Conversion
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The Covert Operative free porn video
“I love fucking your faggot asshole,” the tall, slender career military man announced in French.
“I love that big African dick,” screamed the toned effeminate bottom.
“Take it, slut!”
“Yes sir! Fuck me good. Fuck me like a girl.”
“You are a girl. My girl. Ohhhh, baby!”
“Yes, daddy! I’m your sissy girl. Fuck my ass. Fuck it hard.”
“Bitch,” he roared. “This ass is all mine.”
“Oh yes sir!”
Colonel Rodolfo Urikob slammed his generous ten inch dick into his pussyboi’s asshole. The sweat from his forehead streamed onto the smooth caramel-skinned boy. He plowed feverishly nearing ejaculation. “I am going to breed you,” he belted. The head of the Nazirian Secret Police Service threw all of his weight into his strokes. He grunted while gripping the firm yet pliable butt cheeks of his sissy bottom. “Ahhhhhh,” he wailed. “Ahhhhhh fuck!” His dick shot forth a hefty stream of cum inside the French national’s anus.
“Ohhhhh, Colonel,” cried Stephane.
“Yes, boy! You are such a good little fuck slut.”
“I love you, sir!”
“You better, faggot. I love you too,” the handsome government official said.
“Wow,” exclaimed Stephane as Rodolfo collapsed on top of him.
The pair of lovers fell asleep spooning. Three hours later, the alarm clock’s hissing pierced the silence. The colonel arose quickly and his stiff morning wood beckoned him to pluck his delicate flower of a pussyboi once more. He gyrated working his meat into Stephane. The tight anus resisted slightly, but the colonel pushed harder. His long fat dick popped inside and Stephane howled. He fucked his sexy sissy for the next thirteen minutes until he came. “You’re the best,” Stephane hollered.
Rodolfo made his way to wash up in the bathroom. He put on his uniform and kissed the half-awake Stephane. “I will see you tonight at the palace,” he declared. “I want to fuck you in the President’s office while everyone else is drinking and dancing.”
“Yes, sir,” Stephane grinned meekly.
Stephane awakened from his slumber at 6:04 a.m. He opened the curtains to let in the majestic golden sunlight. As he exited the bedroom of his small apartment in the heart of downtown Oshikoto, he yawned. He showered then dressed in a grey slim-fit suit with a pink Modena dress shirt and red patterned tie. He slid his feet into a pair of black suede Studio Ink lace less Oxford-style dress shoes. He grabbed his brown leather messenger bag from the closet. He checked his Taurus .357 revolver to make sure that it was loaded. Fully satisfied, he took a swig from a bottle of water and exited the flat.
The Program Coordinator at L’eau Saine, a clean drinking water nonprofit, strode down the sidewalk to the neighborhood coffee shop and ordered his customary mocha latte. He sat at a table facing the street and saw a bright blue sign on a light pole advertising babysitting services. He thanked the waitress for delivering his beverage and ran through his mind what the sign meant. He knew the color was a signal of importance, but the day of week made all the difference. It was Tuesday. They were ready to seal deal he remembered.
Stephane sipped his coffee and thought of how to make to make a meeting with his handler. He knew he was being followed by the Secret Police as well as the C.I.A. Being planted as a trap for Colonel Urikob meant having the thugs of Naziria following his every move. As a part of the American spy agency’s Dorado Team, he had been trained for numerous possibilities. His eyes bugged. He clutched his stomach with one hand and fanned himself with the other. He vomited. The waitress rushed to make sure he was okay. He said he was fine and just needed to go to the restroom.
The NSP watched what they knew to be their commander’s nephew chuck up at the table. They saw him stand and walk feebly away. Their listening devices indicated he was going to the men’s room. Stephane pulled two cell phones from a hidden compartment. He typed in a code on the first one and navigated to app that emitted a stream of white noise. On the other, he called a pre-programmed number.
“Hello,” the female voice answered.
“This is Hampton. I need to speak with Muse,” Stephane said deliberately.
The operator pressed in a code and he was quickly patched through.
“Hampton,” inquired the Central Intelligence handler.
“Yeah. I saw the sign,” replied the undercover operative.
“Good. We are moving in a team tonight. We will take out the general and extract you.”
“Understood. What should I do?”
“We need you to get the general alone in the northern rotunda.”
“Damn, his security detail will make that hard, but I can do it.”
“We know you can. We’ll kill him and pull you out simultaneously.”
“Any story you want me to use to get him alone?”
“No, Hampton. We’re leaving that to you. Bye.”
The five-foot-six-inch man splashed cold water on his face. He walked out of the bathroom. He thought back to his days at Morehouse College. He was an international politics major from a sleepy town in Missouri. Ten days before graduation, he was arrested for public drunkenness. The entire ordeal had him completely upset. The night was going terribly and got worse. In the holding cell, he was approached by a considerably larger and much manlier thug.
The criminal announced he was ready to fuck. The apparently vulnerable twenty-one year old did not flinch. Instead, he waited until the man was two feet away and exploded with a Tae Kwon Do back kick and followed it up with a hammer fist. The would-be r****t was severely incapacitated with a bloody broken nose. “Anybody else want some,” the diminutive bottom boy screeched. There were no takers.
The guards quickly moved him from general holding to a private cell. He was released shortly thereafter and led to a large garage where a black Chevy Suburban was waiting. He was ushered into the back. A man wearing dark shades and a grey suit handed a plain card with a six digit code on it. The stranger spoke, “You’re being released and the record of your arrest erased if you can go back to Morehouse and be a good little sissy boy until graduation. We’ll be watching you. You are to tell no one about this. And, I mean no one. Tomorrow you’ll get a delivery. It will be a cell phone. Dial the pre-programmed number and enter the code on that card. Have you memorized the code?”
“Huh,” Kelvin was startled.
“The code, dammit! Have you memorized it?”
“No, sir. I uh…”
“Shut the fuck up and memorize it! If you fail to follow-through with any of our instructions from now until graduation, you will regret it,” stressed the mystery fellow.
The SUV came to a screeching halt.
“You committed it to memory yet,” the gentleman asked.
“Yes sir,” Kelvin assured.
“Give me back the card and get out!”
Kelvin hopped out of the vehicle trying to understand what happened. He kept repeating the six digit code over and over in his head. Every time he saw or heard a car, he got chills. He decided to run full speed back to his dorm room.
The next day, the package arrived as expected in the college mailroom. He opened it to find a prepaid cell phone. He pressed the buttons to dial the programmed number. Then, he entered the code. A female recording told him he was to tell his family he had been accepted into the Peace Corps and that he had to leave the day after graduation. He was also told that he could spend the evening with them, but he was to be dropped off at the Atlanta airport at 7:00 a.m. the next day. He would walk to section 34-H of the parking lot and find a white Chevy Malibu. Inside the keys would be in the glove compartment.
He was further instructed to put on the shades in the passenger seat and use the prepaid parking ticket to exit the lot. His destination was going to be circled on a map folded inside the driver side visor. The voice repeated the message once more and told him to smash the phone in the Student Activities Center and flush it down the toilet.
Over the next few days, he worked hard to explain to his nosy mother why he was all of a sudden going to the Peace Corps. She prodded so much that he finally just stopped to talking to her. On the day of his graduation, twenty of his family members were there to wish him well on his impending trip to Southeast Asia. His mom and her sisters continued to poke holes in his story, but Kelvin held his own by simply saying, “I just feel called.”
The next morning his father drove him to the airport. Kelvin dragged his suitcase inside as he watched his father drive away. He walked inside and found the escalator and exited the bottom level of the terminal. He walked briskly to the parked car and followed his instructions to the letter. As he turned into office complex a phone rang. He found it in the console.
“Hello,” Kelvin answered nervously.
“You’ve done well,” a woman said. “Park in front of G.K.L. Enterprises, walk inside, and keep on walking to the back. Come out of that door and get into the black van. Oh and leave everything including the phone in the car. See you soon.”
Kelvin turned off the vehicle and entered the sparsely furnished commercial space. He found the back door and spotted the van. The side door opened and he stepped inside. No sooner than it was shut, the driver peeled off. The woman removed her sunglasses, “I’m Rita Kinnard. I work with the C.I.A. We’re recruiting you for covert operations training.”
“But I…”
“No. Kelvin. I’m speaking. We’re driving to the farm now where you and a number of other recruits will be trained. Should you fail, you will be put back into civilian life. Should you succeed, you will do more service for your country than anyone will ever know.”
“I don’t…”
“Yes, you do. I suggest you listen up. There are a lot of details of your new life we must cover to get you ready for orientation.”
Kelvin found that he not only excelled in his initial training, but he loved it. His weekly calls to his parents were nice, but he truly enjoyed learning spy-craft and deceit. He was shocked when they pulled him away saying he had been auto-failed on an exercise early that morning. They threw a black bag over his head and drove for about an hour. When they let him see where he was, he was at a shabby log cabin in the middle of the woods.
He saw Rita standing when they took him out of the car.
“Hello, Tyrone,” the well-dressed tall red head greeted him.
“Hi, Rita,” the spy-in-training appeared to take it all in.
“My colleagues have brought you here under false pretenses. The truth is that you didn’t fail out of the process. You passed off the charts! So well, in fact, that we’re bringing you here for Dorado training. I’m your personal handler and this,” she said pointing to a large beefy redneck, “is Bill McFadden. He will be in charge of your training. We’re preparing you to join our most elite squad of counterterrorism operatives. I will warn you now. The training will be anywhere from nine months to a year here at this house. You will learn advanced hand-to-hand combat, weaponry, explosives, languages, torture techniques, and you will be sleep deprived. You can turn back now or at any time.”
“I’m ready,” Tyrone answered.
“You heard the faggot, Rita! He’s all mine,” yelled Bill.
“Hold on there, cowboy,” Rita paused the juggernaut sized white man. “This is his training. We need him to succeed.”
“If he can handle this next year, this little fairy will be ready for anything.”
“I’ll be down here weekly,” she warned.
“Suit yourself.”
Rita wished Tyrone luck and walked to the town car that was waiting for her. She prayed she had done the right thing. All of the analysis and tests pointed to Tyrone as a perfect fit, but could he be too perfect she wondered.
The next week was brutal for Tyrone. He was allowed less than ninety minutes of sleep per night. He had to endure weight training, starvation, perfecting his French, learning Arabic, target practice using multiple close & long range guns, memorization techniques, fighting, and first-aid. The corn-fed Nebraska Brauns wanted to kick ass and often times they did.
He settled into the routine a bit more in week number two. He was holding his own much better against the behemoth thugs coming after him.
At the four month mark, he was where they had hoped he would be by the end of the seventh. His Arabic was great. His French was perfect. He was closing in on sniper perfection and could kick any of their asses. So, they stepped it up a notch. At the end of month nine, they put him in a small a motel to heal up for two weeks. He was not allowed to step out doors. A meal was delivered by a nurse to him each day. She noted his progress. He was granted a four-day leave to see his parents. Of course, they watched him the whole time – even when he snuck away to suck his best friend’s older brother’s dick and take it up his ass.
“Can you believe that faggot is on his way to becoming a world-class spy,” one of the details hissed.
“Yeah. Cause he kicked your ass,” laughed the other.
“Fuck you, asshole!”
“Yeah, I think that’s what that dude just told our spy,” he buckled over.
When Tyrone returned to Virginia, he caught a cab back to the motel. In the room, a plain manila envelope sat on the bed. Inside a letter told him what time to be outside. A government sedan scooped him up and took him to a private hangar at Dulles Airport. He got into a Gulfstream G450 jet. He saw Rita and she informed him they were on the way to Istanbul, Turkey with a quick stop in Frankfurt to refuel. “We’re dropping you off in Istanbul for six months Tyrone. Read up,” she said handing him the dossier.
The file gave him his new identity, a several fake passports, six hundred Turkish Lira, and explained he would need to survive for the next six months to complete his training. He was also given a cue he would see in the Adana Gazette when it was time for him to come in. He was given a wardrobe and a Kel-Tec P-32 semi-automatic pistol. When they finally landed in Turkey, he was driven to the outskirts of downtown and kicked out of the car.
He alias was Janan. No longer was he Tyrone. It had taken him two days of eating cheap street food to convince an elderly café owner to let him have a job and rent a room above the store. He appeared to be a good Muslim, from sub-Saharan Africa, and was a favorite amongst the patrons. Within a couple of weeks, Janan had been approached by a wealthy merchant to come and visit his store for new clothes.
Janan ventured out after work as he did most days taking in the city. He made it to the clothier who was closing up shop. Janan begged away for the inconvenience, but Ramzi al-Hassan would have none of it. He showed Janan some of his nicest robes and suggested the young man model some of the clothes. Janan followed Ramzi to the back where the next thing he knew the handsome Middle Easterner was embracing him. Janan felt attracted as well and he was incredibly horny.
The fat seven inch dick tore up his tight hole. He panted and screamed. He left with a few new pieces for his wardrobe and a smile on his face. When he got back to his room above the store, something felt out of place.
Janan stepped in lightly. He ran through everything he’d seen today in his mind. Then, it hit him. The merchant had been a trap he grabbed the lamp from the table and threw it right while he slid left. The room was still dark. The noise of the lamp crashing caused a figure to emerge from the shadows. Janan lying on his back waited for the assailant to search him out. When he felt the person nearing him, he delivered a massive kick to the intruder’s torso.
The person fell back over a small table and Janan bounded to his feet. He rushed over and grabbed the robber in a debilitating chokehold. The person yelled a safe word. Janan continued his death hold demanding to know who sent him. He tried to get out the safe word again. “What did you say,” Janan loosened the grip. “Say it again.” Satisfied, he released his guest, turned on the light, and said, “Would you like a bottle of water.”
“Yeah, thanks,” the six foot tall lean white man said massaging his neck.
“Here,” Janan tossed it at him. “Have a seat. I’m sorry. I just wasn’t supposed to hear or see that for another two months.”
“I know. But we had no idea you’d choose this place to live. We have a local leader of al-Qaeda we want to kill and we believe you can poison him because he comes every Tuesday.”
“You mean that Imam?”
“Yes. Slip this into his coffee and when he begins to choke walk casually out of the back door. You’ll have to rendezvous with a green motorcycle a kilometer away.”
“Hand me the vial. How do you propose to get out of here without being seen tonight?”
“I’ll slip out the window.”
The guest left. Janan considered his task for the next day and drifted to sleep. A habit he learned in his training was to sleep in very short spurts and never past 2:30 a.m. The hours between 3:00 a.m. and 5:00 a.m. were the best times to assail an individual because of the internal clock rendering a human almost completely defenseless.
The Imam and his bodyguards entered the small café the next day as usual. Janan made the unusual mistake of spilling water on the floor causing the owner to trip. “Oh I’m sorry. He apologized. I will make sure the Imam gets his coffee.”
“You stupid, boy. Hurry and fix another,” the owner demanded.
Janan hurried, poured another mug, and slipped in the contents of the vial. One of the brutes protested, but Janan assured him that all was good. He demanded Janan drink from the cup first. So, he did. Unbeknownst to the man, Janan had also injected himself with an antidote thirty minutes prior. Satisfied after a minute, the Imam sipped.
Janan walked away to another table when the old man began to vomit blood. “Get him,” one of the men yelled. Janan jumped and did a split kick rendering the two of them u*********s. The back door was blocked by a coworker wielding a broom. Janan pulled out his pistol and busted a cap square in his forehead. “I’m sorry Safir,” he whispered as he ran out the back door and down the alley. He saw the green motorcycle but knew a straight line would mean certain death. He zigzagged shedding clothing. He made it safely, said the code word, and was whisked away.
Janan ibn-Khalid was now the most wanted man in all of Turkey. The state police found no traces of DNA or fingerprints in his apartment. And his ID was gone.
That time in Turkey had now been more than six years ago. Tyrone had killed a total of three more people since then – one in a military operation he was assigned to assist on, another was an unfortunate bystander during an undercover sting in central Africa, and the final was a Chinese spy liaising with the Sudanese who were helping an Islamic radical terrorist group obtain weapons. The last one had been the one he most savored. The Asian had put up an admirable fight before Tyrone choked him and then made it look like a robbery.
Now, he had been in Naziria for a total of two years pretending to be a humanitarian. Three months in, he met Col. Urikob, when the commander’s mother fell ill in the rural country. Stephane just happened to be there and knew that his boss had connections with the French embassy for a vaccine to make the illness subside. The colonel begged, but the sassy charity worker said he wanted to suck the colonel’s giant dick he had heard of. The officer was not known generally to be an admirer of attractive girly men. But, the C.I.A.; MI-6; Mossad; & the Directorate Generale all knew better. And, it was all a part of the plan. Stephane was the one who had poisoned the old woman. The colonel snuck away with the Frenchman and they had oral sex.
Colonel Urikob ordered his drivers to rush the foreigner back into the capital in his armored Audi SUV. After a couple of hours, a vaccine and a doctor were procured. The old woman was saved. Stephane exchanged numbers with the army officer. Stephane moved into the apartment next door to keep Secret Police in the dark as to his true identity. Within weeks, they were the best of lovers. The charity for which Stephane worked was a favorite at all palace events.
Stephane knew his place was now bugged and only used his phone to communicate while at the French or American embassy. He rode to them often in the trunk of a car after taking an ice bath and wrapping in cold blankets to fool any infrared devices the Nazirian spooks may have been using. Deep in the concrete basements, he would be warmed up and primed to brief his superiors before undergoing the entire ordeal all over again to return to his supposed job. The best thing about L’eau Saine is that all of its seven employees were employed by one of the various American, French, or British spy agencies. And they had similar facilities underground to help him recuperate prior to heading home.
That evening, Stephane exited his place of employment and walked briskly to back to his flat so he could prepare for the ball. He showered and dressed in a dapper Oscar de la Renta tuxedo. He stopped in the kitchen to have sip of water. He left his staged apartment and entered the one he had originally leased. The undercover operative emptied his safe of copious amounts of international currencies. He grabbed all of his passports.
Stephane hailed a taxi to his office. Once there, he locked his messenger bag in the large bottom drawer of his desk. Bashir, a Nazirian national who was the custodian, said hello. Stephane greeted him in Arabic.
“Going somewhere fancy, sir,” the dark-haired middle-aged man inquired.
“There is ball at the palace tonight,” Stephane answered.
“Enjoy. See you tomorrow.”
“Thanks. Good night!”
Stephane left the office and found another cab to take him to the Presidential Palace. He got out at the front gate and handed his I.D. to a uniformed officer who inspected closely. The security detail found his name on the list and ushered him inside. He hated not carrying a weapon on him, but with the amount of precautions being taken attempting to get through the multiple metal detectors with a gun was not wise.
The night progressed. The wealthiest Nazirians were all present. There were also diplomats from every embassy, influential scholars from the national university, and a smattering of beautiful model-esque women. Stephane spotted the colonel. “Uncle Rodolfo,” he called out.
“Nephew,” lied the mature spy.
“How are you tonight?”
“I am well. Did you want to take that tour of the President’s Office now?”
“I do. But unfortunately, my boss can’t make it tonight and she needs me to discuss a small matter she has with General Ahmed-Thahir. I’ll be right back.”
“Do not take too long. My wife is lurking about and I need your ass before she latches on to me again.”
“Yes, darling. Ten minutes max. Ah, what the hell. Can we sneak away for a quickie now?”
“Absolutely.”
The colonel led his tender bottom out of the busy ballroom. They went down a long corridor and stopped off in a dark room.
“Suck on this, Stephane,” Urikob commanded pulling down his uniform.
“Mmhmm,” Stephane groaned.
Stephane delivered pleasure until the colonel demanded he bend over. “Such a sweet boipussy,” the head of the secret police confessed. He pounded away. Stephane squealed in muffled silence so as to not attract others.
“Nut, daddy,” Stephane whimpered repeatedly.
“Ohhhhhh yes,” howled the colonel.
Stephane pulled up his trousers quickly and suggested he exit the room first and perhaps the colonel could wait about five minutes before coming out. Urikob knew it was a good idea and agreed quickly.
Stephane circulated and spotted the Nazirian president. There was a protective detail milling about. He tapped one of them on the shoulder and whispered that he had news of Miss Kavendji. The tall, muscular gentleman delivered the message to the president-dictator. Gen. Ahmed-Thahir shook his head and motioned for Stephane to approach him.
“What do you know of Miss Kavendji,” the general asked harshly in only a whisper.
Stephane bowed his head, “I have been hired by her family to secure finances for a c***d. Is there somewhere a little less crowded we could speak?”
The general called over his detail to frisk Stephane. They determined he was carrying nothing that could harm the president.
“Follow me,” Ahmed-Thahir said
“Where are we going,” inquired Stephane.
“My office.”
As they walked away, Stephane froze in the rotunda. “This will be fine. I just need to know that you can transfer funds into this Swiss bank account,” he offered handing over a piece of paper with a twelve digit number on it.
“How much does she want,” the dictator quizzed.
“One point two million U.S. dollars should cover it.
“Bullshit. I’ll not pay more than two hundred fifty…”
The general never finished his sentence. Several men clad in all black crashed through the windows and took him out in one motion. The noise caused the security detail to move in. Stephane rushed behind the black ops team that had just killed the victim. They attempted to provide cover shielding him from the flying bullets. Stephane and the team made it the Chinook helicopter uns**thed. As planned, the custodian had ripped open the desk and delivered the leather messenger bag to a handler. Stephane checked the contents and found all was presented and accounted.
The next morning, he awoke in a safe house in Monte Carlo. Soon, it would be time for his next mission. But first, he planned to see his family for a few days before heading back to Langley.
“I love that big African dick,” screamed the toned effeminate bottom.
“Take it, slut!”
“Yes sir! Fuck me good. Fuck me like a girl.”
“You are a girl. My girl. Ohhhh, baby!”
“Yes, daddy! I’m your sissy girl. Fuck my ass. Fuck it hard.”
“Bitch,” he roared. “This ass is all mine.”
“Oh yes sir!”
Colonel Rodolfo Urikob slammed his generous ten inch dick into his pussyboi’s asshole. The sweat from his forehead streamed onto the smooth caramel-skinned boy. He plowed feverishly nearing ejaculation. “I am going to breed you,” he belted. The head of the Nazirian Secret Police Service threw all of his weight into his strokes. He grunted while gripping the firm yet pliable butt cheeks of his sissy bottom. “Ahhhhhh,” he wailed. “Ahhhhhh fuck!” His dick shot forth a hefty stream of cum inside the French national’s anus.
“Ohhhhh, Colonel,” cried Stephane.
“Yes, boy! You are such a good little fuck slut.”
“I love you, sir!”
“You better, faggot. I love you too,” the handsome government official said.
“Wow,” exclaimed Stephane as Rodolfo collapsed on top of him.
The pair of lovers fell asleep spooning. Three hours later, the alarm clock’s hissing pierced the silence. The colonel arose quickly and his stiff morning wood beckoned him to pluck his delicate flower of a pussyboi once more. He gyrated working his meat into Stephane. The tight anus resisted slightly, but the colonel pushed harder. His long fat dick popped inside and Stephane howled. He fucked his sexy sissy for the next thirteen minutes until he came. “You’re the best,” Stephane hollered.
Rodolfo made his way to wash up in the bathroom. He put on his uniform and kissed the half-awake Stephane. “I will see you tonight at the palace,” he declared. “I want to fuck you in the President’s office while everyone else is drinking and dancing.”
“Yes, sir,” Stephane grinned meekly.
Stephane awakened from his slumber at 6:04 a.m. He opened the curtains to let in the majestic golden sunlight. As he exited the bedroom of his small apartment in the heart of downtown Oshikoto, he yawned. He showered then dressed in a grey slim-fit suit with a pink Modena dress shirt and red patterned tie. He slid his feet into a pair of black suede Studio Ink lace less Oxford-style dress shoes. He grabbed his brown leather messenger bag from the closet. He checked his Taurus .357 revolver to make sure that it was loaded. Fully satisfied, he took a swig from a bottle of water and exited the flat.
The Program Coordinator at L’eau Saine, a clean drinking water nonprofit, strode down the sidewalk to the neighborhood coffee shop and ordered his customary mocha latte. He sat at a table facing the street and saw a bright blue sign on a light pole advertising babysitting services. He thanked the waitress for delivering his beverage and ran through his mind what the sign meant. He knew the color was a signal of importance, but the day of week made all the difference. It was Tuesday. They were ready to seal deal he remembered.
Stephane sipped his coffee and thought of how to make to make a meeting with his handler. He knew he was being followed by the Secret Police as well as the C.I.A. Being planted as a trap for Colonel Urikob meant having the thugs of Naziria following his every move. As a part of the American spy agency’s Dorado Team, he had been trained for numerous possibilities. His eyes bugged. He clutched his stomach with one hand and fanned himself with the other. He vomited. The waitress rushed to make sure he was okay. He said he was fine and just needed to go to the restroom.
The NSP watched what they knew to be their commander’s nephew chuck up at the table. They saw him stand and walk feebly away. Their listening devices indicated he was going to the men’s room. Stephane pulled two cell phones from a hidden compartment. He typed in a code on the first one and navigated to app that emitted a stream of white noise. On the other, he called a pre-programmed number.
“Hello,” the female voice answered.
“This is Hampton. I need to speak with Muse,” Stephane said deliberately.
The operator pressed in a code and he was quickly patched through.
“Hampton,” inquired the Central Intelligence handler.
“Yeah. I saw the sign,” replied the undercover operative.
“Good. We are moving in a team tonight. We will take out the general and extract you.”
“Understood. What should I do?”
“We need you to get the general alone in the northern rotunda.”
“Damn, his security detail will make that hard, but I can do it.”
“We know you can. We’ll kill him and pull you out simultaneously.”
“Any story you want me to use to get him alone?”
“No, Hampton. We’re leaving that to you. Bye.”
The five-foot-six-inch man splashed cold water on his face. He walked out of the bathroom. He thought back to his days at Morehouse College. He was an international politics major from a sleepy town in Missouri. Ten days before graduation, he was arrested for public drunkenness. The entire ordeal had him completely upset. The night was going terribly and got worse. In the holding cell, he was approached by a considerably larger and much manlier thug.
The criminal announced he was ready to fuck. The apparently vulnerable twenty-one year old did not flinch. Instead, he waited until the man was two feet away and exploded with a Tae Kwon Do back kick and followed it up with a hammer fist. The would-be r****t was severely incapacitated with a bloody broken nose. “Anybody else want some,” the diminutive bottom boy screeched. There were no takers.
The guards quickly moved him from general holding to a private cell. He was released shortly thereafter and led to a large garage where a black Chevy Suburban was waiting. He was ushered into the back. A man wearing dark shades and a grey suit handed a plain card with a six digit code on it. The stranger spoke, “You’re being released and the record of your arrest erased if you can go back to Morehouse and be a good little sissy boy until graduation. We’ll be watching you. You are to tell no one about this. And, I mean no one. Tomorrow you’ll get a delivery. It will be a cell phone. Dial the pre-programmed number and enter the code on that card. Have you memorized the code?”
“Huh,” Kelvin was startled.
“The code, dammit! Have you memorized it?”
“No, sir. I uh…”
“Shut the fuck up and memorize it! If you fail to follow-through with any of our instructions from now until graduation, you will regret it,” stressed the mystery fellow.
The SUV came to a screeching halt.
“You committed it to memory yet,” the gentleman asked.
“Yes sir,” Kelvin assured.
“Give me back the card and get out!”
Kelvin hopped out of the vehicle trying to understand what happened. He kept repeating the six digit code over and over in his head. Every time he saw or heard a car, he got chills. He decided to run full speed back to his dorm room.
The next day, the package arrived as expected in the college mailroom. He opened it to find a prepaid cell phone. He pressed the buttons to dial the programmed number. Then, he entered the code. A female recording told him he was to tell his family he had been accepted into the Peace Corps and that he had to leave the day after graduation. He was also told that he could spend the evening with them, but he was to be dropped off at the Atlanta airport at 7:00 a.m. the next day. He would walk to section 34-H of the parking lot and find a white Chevy Malibu. Inside the keys would be in the glove compartment.
He was further instructed to put on the shades in the passenger seat and use the prepaid parking ticket to exit the lot. His destination was going to be circled on a map folded inside the driver side visor. The voice repeated the message once more and told him to smash the phone in the Student Activities Center and flush it down the toilet.
Over the next few days, he worked hard to explain to his nosy mother why he was all of a sudden going to the Peace Corps. She prodded so much that he finally just stopped to talking to her. On the day of his graduation, twenty of his family members were there to wish him well on his impending trip to Southeast Asia. His mom and her sisters continued to poke holes in his story, but Kelvin held his own by simply saying, “I just feel called.”
The next morning his father drove him to the airport. Kelvin dragged his suitcase inside as he watched his father drive away. He walked inside and found the escalator and exited the bottom level of the terminal. He walked briskly to the parked car and followed his instructions to the letter. As he turned into office complex a phone rang. He found it in the console.
“Hello,” Kelvin answered nervously.
“You’ve done well,” a woman said. “Park in front of G.K.L. Enterprises, walk inside, and keep on walking to the back. Come out of that door and get into the black van. Oh and leave everything including the phone in the car. See you soon.”
Kelvin turned off the vehicle and entered the sparsely furnished commercial space. He found the back door and spotted the van. The side door opened and he stepped inside. No sooner than it was shut, the driver peeled off. The woman removed her sunglasses, “I’m Rita Kinnard. I work with the C.I.A. We’re recruiting you for covert operations training.”
“But I…”
“No. Kelvin. I’m speaking. We’re driving to the farm now where you and a number of other recruits will be trained. Should you fail, you will be put back into civilian life. Should you succeed, you will do more service for your country than anyone will ever know.”
“I don’t…”
“Yes, you do. I suggest you listen up. There are a lot of details of your new life we must cover to get you ready for orientation.”
Kelvin found that he not only excelled in his initial training, but he loved it. His weekly calls to his parents were nice, but he truly enjoyed learning spy-craft and deceit. He was shocked when they pulled him away saying he had been auto-failed on an exercise early that morning. They threw a black bag over his head and drove for about an hour. When they let him see where he was, he was at a shabby log cabin in the middle of the woods.
He saw Rita standing when they took him out of the car.
“Hello, Tyrone,” the well-dressed tall red head greeted him.
“Hi, Rita,” the spy-in-training appeared to take it all in.
“My colleagues have brought you here under false pretenses. The truth is that you didn’t fail out of the process. You passed off the charts! So well, in fact, that we’re bringing you here for Dorado training. I’m your personal handler and this,” she said pointing to a large beefy redneck, “is Bill McFadden. He will be in charge of your training. We’re preparing you to join our most elite squad of counterterrorism operatives. I will warn you now. The training will be anywhere from nine months to a year here at this house. You will learn advanced hand-to-hand combat, weaponry, explosives, languages, torture techniques, and you will be sleep deprived. You can turn back now or at any time.”
“I’m ready,” Tyrone answered.
“You heard the faggot, Rita! He’s all mine,” yelled Bill.
“Hold on there, cowboy,” Rita paused the juggernaut sized white man. “This is his training. We need him to succeed.”
“If he can handle this next year, this little fairy will be ready for anything.”
“I’ll be down here weekly,” she warned.
“Suit yourself.”
Rita wished Tyrone luck and walked to the town car that was waiting for her. She prayed she had done the right thing. All of the analysis and tests pointed to Tyrone as a perfect fit, but could he be too perfect she wondered.
The next week was brutal for Tyrone. He was allowed less than ninety minutes of sleep per night. He had to endure weight training, starvation, perfecting his French, learning Arabic, target practice using multiple close & long range guns, memorization techniques, fighting, and first-aid. The corn-fed Nebraska Brauns wanted to kick ass and often times they did.
He settled into the routine a bit more in week number two. He was holding his own much better against the behemoth thugs coming after him.
At the four month mark, he was where they had hoped he would be by the end of the seventh. His Arabic was great. His French was perfect. He was closing in on sniper perfection and could kick any of their asses. So, they stepped it up a notch. At the end of month nine, they put him in a small a motel to heal up for two weeks. He was not allowed to step out doors. A meal was delivered by a nurse to him each day. She noted his progress. He was granted a four-day leave to see his parents. Of course, they watched him the whole time – even when he snuck away to suck his best friend’s older brother’s dick and take it up his ass.
“Can you believe that faggot is on his way to becoming a world-class spy,” one of the details hissed.
“Yeah. Cause he kicked your ass,” laughed the other.
“Fuck you, asshole!”
“Yeah, I think that’s what that dude just told our spy,” he buckled over.
When Tyrone returned to Virginia, he caught a cab back to the motel. In the room, a plain manila envelope sat on the bed. Inside a letter told him what time to be outside. A government sedan scooped him up and took him to a private hangar at Dulles Airport. He got into a Gulfstream G450 jet. He saw Rita and she informed him they were on the way to Istanbul, Turkey with a quick stop in Frankfurt to refuel. “We’re dropping you off in Istanbul for six months Tyrone. Read up,” she said handing him the dossier.
The file gave him his new identity, a several fake passports, six hundred Turkish Lira, and explained he would need to survive for the next six months to complete his training. He was also given a cue he would see in the Adana Gazette when it was time for him to come in. He was given a wardrobe and a Kel-Tec P-32 semi-automatic pistol. When they finally landed in Turkey, he was driven to the outskirts of downtown and kicked out of the car.
He alias was Janan. No longer was he Tyrone. It had taken him two days of eating cheap street food to convince an elderly café owner to let him have a job and rent a room above the store. He appeared to be a good Muslim, from sub-Saharan Africa, and was a favorite amongst the patrons. Within a couple of weeks, Janan had been approached by a wealthy merchant to come and visit his store for new clothes.
Janan ventured out after work as he did most days taking in the city. He made it to the clothier who was closing up shop. Janan begged away for the inconvenience, but Ramzi al-Hassan would have none of it. He showed Janan some of his nicest robes and suggested the young man model some of the clothes. Janan followed Ramzi to the back where the next thing he knew the handsome Middle Easterner was embracing him. Janan felt attracted as well and he was incredibly horny.
The fat seven inch dick tore up his tight hole. He panted and screamed. He left with a few new pieces for his wardrobe and a smile on his face. When he got back to his room above the store, something felt out of place.
Janan stepped in lightly. He ran through everything he’d seen today in his mind. Then, it hit him. The merchant had been a trap he grabbed the lamp from the table and threw it right while he slid left. The room was still dark. The noise of the lamp crashing caused a figure to emerge from the shadows. Janan lying on his back waited for the assailant to search him out. When he felt the person nearing him, he delivered a massive kick to the intruder’s torso.
The person fell back over a small table and Janan bounded to his feet. He rushed over and grabbed the robber in a debilitating chokehold. The person yelled a safe word. Janan continued his death hold demanding to know who sent him. He tried to get out the safe word again. “What did you say,” Janan loosened the grip. “Say it again.” Satisfied, he released his guest, turned on the light, and said, “Would you like a bottle of water.”
“Yeah, thanks,” the six foot tall lean white man said massaging his neck.
“Here,” Janan tossed it at him. “Have a seat. I’m sorry. I just wasn’t supposed to hear or see that for another two months.”
“I know. But we had no idea you’d choose this place to live. We have a local leader of al-Qaeda we want to kill and we believe you can poison him because he comes every Tuesday.”
“You mean that Imam?”
“Yes. Slip this into his coffee and when he begins to choke walk casually out of the back door. You’ll have to rendezvous with a green motorcycle a kilometer away.”
“Hand me the vial. How do you propose to get out of here without being seen tonight?”
“I’ll slip out the window.”
The guest left. Janan considered his task for the next day and drifted to sleep. A habit he learned in his training was to sleep in very short spurts and never past 2:30 a.m. The hours between 3:00 a.m. and 5:00 a.m. were the best times to assail an individual because of the internal clock rendering a human almost completely defenseless.
The Imam and his bodyguards entered the small café the next day as usual. Janan made the unusual mistake of spilling water on the floor causing the owner to trip. “Oh I’m sorry. He apologized. I will make sure the Imam gets his coffee.”
“You stupid, boy. Hurry and fix another,” the owner demanded.
Janan hurried, poured another mug, and slipped in the contents of the vial. One of the brutes protested, but Janan assured him that all was good. He demanded Janan drink from the cup first. So, he did. Unbeknownst to the man, Janan had also injected himself with an antidote thirty minutes prior. Satisfied after a minute, the Imam sipped.
Janan walked away to another table when the old man began to vomit blood. “Get him,” one of the men yelled. Janan jumped and did a split kick rendering the two of them u*********s. The back door was blocked by a coworker wielding a broom. Janan pulled out his pistol and busted a cap square in his forehead. “I’m sorry Safir,” he whispered as he ran out the back door and down the alley. He saw the green motorcycle but knew a straight line would mean certain death. He zigzagged shedding clothing. He made it safely, said the code word, and was whisked away.
Janan ibn-Khalid was now the most wanted man in all of Turkey. The state police found no traces of DNA or fingerprints in his apartment. And his ID was gone.
That time in Turkey had now been more than six years ago. Tyrone had killed a total of three more people since then – one in a military operation he was assigned to assist on, another was an unfortunate bystander during an undercover sting in central Africa, and the final was a Chinese spy liaising with the Sudanese who were helping an Islamic radical terrorist group obtain weapons. The last one had been the one he most savored. The Asian had put up an admirable fight before Tyrone choked him and then made it look like a robbery.
Now, he had been in Naziria for a total of two years pretending to be a humanitarian. Three months in, he met Col. Urikob, when the commander’s mother fell ill in the rural country. Stephane just happened to be there and knew that his boss had connections with the French embassy for a vaccine to make the illness subside. The colonel begged, but the sassy charity worker said he wanted to suck the colonel’s giant dick he had heard of. The officer was not known generally to be an admirer of attractive girly men. But, the C.I.A.; MI-6; Mossad; & the Directorate Generale all knew better. And, it was all a part of the plan. Stephane was the one who had poisoned the old woman. The colonel snuck away with the Frenchman and they had oral sex.
Colonel Urikob ordered his drivers to rush the foreigner back into the capital in his armored Audi SUV. After a couple of hours, a vaccine and a doctor were procured. The old woman was saved. Stephane exchanged numbers with the army officer. Stephane moved into the apartment next door to keep Secret Police in the dark as to his true identity. Within weeks, they were the best of lovers. The charity for which Stephane worked was a favorite at all palace events.
Stephane knew his place was now bugged and only used his phone to communicate while at the French or American embassy. He rode to them often in the trunk of a car after taking an ice bath and wrapping in cold blankets to fool any infrared devices the Nazirian spooks may have been using. Deep in the concrete basements, he would be warmed up and primed to brief his superiors before undergoing the entire ordeal all over again to return to his supposed job. The best thing about L’eau Saine is that all of its seven employees were employed by one of the various American, French, or British spy agencies. And they had similar facilities underground to help him recuperate prior to heading home.
That evening, Stephane exited his place of employment and walked briskly to back to his flat so he could prepare for the ball. He showered and dressed in a dapper Oscar de la Renta tuxedo. He stopped in the kitchen to have sip of water. He left his staged apartment and entered the one he had originally leased. The undercover operative emptied his safe of copious amounts of international currencies. He grabbed all of his passports.
Stephane hailed a taxi to his office. Once there, he locked his messenger bag in the large bottom drawer of his desk. Bashir, a Nazirian national who was the custodian, said hello. Stephane greeted him in Arabic.
“Going somewhere fancy, sir,” the dark-haired middle-aged man inquired.
“There is ball at the palace tonight,” Stephane answered.
“Enjoy. See you tomorrow.”
“Thanks. Good night!”
Stephane left the office and found another cab to take him to the Presidential Palace. He got out at the front gate and handed his I.D. to a uniformed officer who inspected closely. The security detail found his name on the list and ushered him inside. He hated not carrying a weapon on him, but with the amount of precautions being taken attempting to get through the multiple metal detectors with a gun was not wise.
The night progressed. The wealthiest Nazirians were all present. There were also diplomats from every embassy, influential scholars from the national university, and a smattering of beautiful model-esque women. Stephane spotted the colonel. “Uncle Rodolfo,” he called out.
“Nephew,” lied the mature spy.
“How are you tonight?”
“I am well. Did you want to take that tour of the President’s Office now?”
“I do. But unfortunately, my boss can’t make it tonight and she needs me to discuss a small matter she has with General Ahmed-Thahir. I’ll be right back.”
“Do not take too long. My wife is lurking about and I need your ass before she latches on to me again.”
“Yes, darling. Ten minutes max. Ah, what the hell. Can we sneak away for a quickie now?”
“Absolutely.”
The colonel led his tender bottom out of the busy ballroom. They went down a long corridor and stopped off in a dark room.
“Suck on this, Stephane,” Urikob commanded pulling down his uniform.
“Mmhmm,” Stephane groaned.
Stephane delivered pleasure until the colonel demanded he bend over. “Such a sweet boipussy,” the head of the secret police confessed. He pounded away. Stephane squealed in muffled silence so as to not attract others.
“Nut, daddy,” Stephane whimpered repeatedly.
“Ohhhhhh yes,” howled the colonel.
Stephane pulled up his trousers quickly and suggested he exit the room first and perhaps the colonel could wait about five minutes before coming out. Urikob knew it was a good idea and agreed quickly.
Stephane circulated and spotted the Nazirian president. There was a protective detail milling about. He tapped one of them on the shoulder and whispered that he had news of Miss Kavendji. The tall, muscular gentleman delivered the message to the president-dictator. Gen. Ahmed-Thahir shook his head and motioned for Stephane to approach him.
“What do you know of Miss Kavendji,” the general asked harshly in only a whisper.
Stephane bowed his head, “I have been hired by her family to secure finances for a c***d. Is there somewhere a little less crowded we could speak?”
The general called over his detail to frisk Stephane. They determined he was carrying nothing that could harm the president.
“Follow me,” Ahmed-Thahir said
“Where are we going,” inquired Stephane.
“My office.”
As they walked away, Stephane froze in the rotunda. “This will be fine. I just need to know that you can transfer funds into this Swiss bank account,” he offered handing over a piece of paper with a twelve digit number on it.
“How much does she want,” the dictator quizzed.
“One point two million U.S. dollars should cover it.
“Bullshit. I’ll not pay more than two hundred fifty…”
The general never finished his sentence. Several men clad in all black crashed through the windows and took him out in one motion. The noise caused the security detail to move in. Stephane rushed behind the black ops team that had just killed the victim. They attempted to provide cover shielding him from the flying bullets. Stephane and the team made it the Chinook helicopter uns**thed. As planned, the custodian had ripped open the desk and delivered the leather messenger bag to a handler. Stephane checked the contents and found all was presented and accounted.
The next morning, he awoke in a safe house in Monte Carlo. Soon, it would be time for his next mission. But first, he planned to see his family for a few days before heading back to Langley.
Cayleigh
- 11.07.2022
- 14
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Covert Operative Honoree
- 1 year ago
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U S Department Of State and covert operations syn
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