Northwest of Moscow, USSR, early evening
"Compliments of Comrade Gogol!" the young pale-blonde girl greeted the sentry as she dismounted from the sidecar motorcycle. "Is terrible night and I am underdressed," she continued, letting her trenchcoat slip open to reveal a generous amount of pale leg and a flash of her full breasts.
The teen-aged soldier on guard didn't know what to make of this apparition, but his crotch responded by quickly coming to attention. "What. A-are you doing here?" he stammered, pulling his rifle up to shoulder-arms. "This zone is restricted."
"So, shoot then," the girl countered, coming closer, smiling. "Then explain to General why you killed evening's entertainment."
"En-entertainment?"
"Da; I am... dancer. Not from Bolshoi, surely, more... exotic." She managed a quick bump & grind inside the trenchcoat that hinted at her skills.
That was all it took.
Ten minutes later she was prancing atop a makeshift tabletop stage, stripped down to her bra and lacy panties, already having discarded the coat, gloves, shoes, hat, and assorted other items of clothing. From her bag had come long satin gloves and clear plastic high-heeled shoes. Ragtime burlesque music blared from a portable sound system she had brought with her; the soldiers were clustered around, amazed at their good fortune as well as General Gogol's largesse. Some had pulled out grubby ruble notes and were trying to slip them into the elastic of her panties, others passed bottles of vodka and sloppily toasted their good fortune.
The young dancer reached behind her back to unclip her bra; it came free and she twirled it over her head, exhibiting her bounteous breasts to the troops, also triggering a signal. Moments later an odd shreik came from the music box, along with a snapping sound, like the crack of a whip; the dancer and everything else living froze in place, still as stone. Not only those nearby in the room, but the kitchen staff, the unfortunate ones outside in the cold patrolling the watch, and the guard dogs roaming the grounds. All felt a strange tingle, then their muscles locked solid, immobilizing them in place. A minute or so later, they fell into a deep dreamless sleep. The soldiers had no idea what had happened to them; on top of the table, Special Agent Pamela (Candi) Cordia was posed sexily, now a living statue, stiffly satisified that her part of the plan had succeeded perfectly.
"Remind me again how you talked me into this?" Pete (or Pyotr in his Russian alias) grumbled, his exhaled breath fogging the inside of the army truck's cab despite the futile efforts of the persnickety heating system. He clapped his gloved hands together, rubbing them furiously to help circulation. Allen sat on the left side and was concentrating on driving. The forest roads were icy, narrow, and unimproved. Despite his best efforts, they seemed to be finding every rut and pothole there was as the grungy WWII-era vehicle bounced along.
"You volunteered," Allen responded during a less-bumpy part of the road. "in a moment of weakness. Of course, you weren't trying to score points with the Director or anything." In truth, Allen had depended on his fellow agent many time for his life; Pete Simmons had never let him down.
"Well, someone had to come along to cover your mistakes," Pete jibed, grinning, wishing they'd had time to get a thermos of coffee. Or a slug of vodka.
"Something about a dacha filled with lovely naked honeys had a good bit to do with it too, as I recall," his partner shot back, hunched over the wheel in a seedy motheaten military parka that probably dated back to the siege of Leningrad. The musty-smelling fur hat on his head didn't keep his ears any warmer, but did improve his disguise. "Speaking of, I wonder how Na-nookie of the North is doing?"
"Have no doubt; Candi will have them drooling on their boots. You know, I interviewed her for this gig?"
"Spending your lunches at the Pink Pussycat doesn't qualify as an interview, my friend."
"Hey, it's my story and I'm sticking to it!" Pete countered with mock indiginity. "Who's to criticize that she does her aerobics by dancing?" The truck rounded another bend in the path. "Oops, no time for chit-chat. We're coming up on Gogol's digs. Not bad for a humble servant of the state, eh?" The dacha was an ornate, 3-story lodge that covered an impressive area. Floodlights bathed the immediate grounds in white brilliance, highlighting a large number of large cars parked along the curving drive.
"It would seem the good general is entertaining," Allen observed sarcastically.
"And what luck; we've arrived, bearing gifts!"
Per plan, they drove the truck to the rear of the mansion, where they backed up to a loading platform came level to the bed of the truck. It was obvious they hadn't made the first delivery of this kind. Speaking Russian now, Allen and Pete threw open the canvas cover, revealing the six posed female statues that had been their cargo. All were cloaked in soft semi-transparent packing material, now coated by a light dusting of snow and rime ice. All agency-trained, they had spent the journey from the US fully immobilized and already 'in character'.
Pete was banging on the loading door of the dacha, having already wasted time pressing on the buzzer that had no effect. Allen busied himself removing the cargo straps from the girls and lifting them towards the back of the truck. After a few minutes, the door was opened by another young soldier who looked confused.
"Soldat! Don't stand there with your hands in your pants; get this door open. It's cold enough out here to freeze the balls off a brass monkey!" Pete barked. "Can't you see the captain and myself are waiting, to say nothing of our delivery? Surely you would not want the General to hear of this delay," he challenged.
"Uhh, yes, sir! I mean, no sir, no; say nothing to Gogol and I will give you vodka," the young soldier mumbled.
"Trying to bribe Russian officer?" Allen spoke up, glaring at the lad, who paled. "You show promise!" he laughed broadly a moment later, thoroughly confusing the soldier. "But none of that rotgut potato whisky; give us some of the General's napoleon brandy, later. For now, help move these art-works into position."
Together, they lifted and carried the six statues onto a low 4-wheeled hand truck, then rolled them deeper into the dacha. As soon as they passed out of the service area, the paneling became more ornate and they began passing other frozen artworks. Some were posed in wall niches, standing stiffly upright, staring into space. Others were free-standing on the floor or displayed on raised dais. All were female; most were completely unclothed, though some wore lingerie, fetish costumes, or dance attire. Ballerinas seemed popular. As they approached the library, the number and beauty of the living artworks increased. The young soldier was agape; he had never been to this part of the mansion before and now knew those fantastic descriptions his compatriots had told him were true. Even Allen and Pete, expecting the frozen gallery, were amazed at the scope of the general's collection. Both were thinking, We're going to need a bigger truck!
They were met some moments later by a staff member in butler's attire who directed the procession into the library, which was deserted save for the numerous living statues positioned around the room and along the walls. There was a more open space towards the double-doored entry, beyond which the sounds of a dinner party could be heard; the clink of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter rising above the rumble of conversation.
"Unwrap the new artworks here; position them facing that way," the butler indicated the entryway, "then leave. You are soiling the carpet," he concluded with an almost audible sniff of disdain. Common soldiers were never welcome in the General's inner sanctum. He apparently had better things to do, for seconds later he walked off without another word.
Pete and the young soldier were working to remove the protective covering from the frozen women, a job the soldier was enjoying since it gave him the opportunity to touch the statues and an excuse to brush his hands down their hardened curves as he made sure there were no traces of packing on them. These figures were all nudes, posed in reproductions of classic Greek statuary. Some even held vases or were lightly draped in white linen. Allen, wearing the uniform of the superior officer, ambled around the room, idly looking at the sculpted figures while mentally going over his mission objectives. He had already identified Agent Santiago as one of the statues prominently displayed in the tableaux of frozen women occupying the center of the library and thought he'd recognized the classmate of Natalia Zorynich placed in one of the wall niches, but had not seen their primary objective yet, the professor's daughter. She could be anywhere, but Allen had a suspicion about Gogol.
"Ah, all finished here," Pete announced. "You, Reiter, lend me a hand with one other part of the delivery, then you can return to your duties." He led the way back to the truck, followed by the obedient soldier.
"Not before you point out the General's liquor pantry!" Allen added with a sly smile, then getting to work as soon as they were out of sight. He quickly locked the entry door from the inside, then checked if there were any other doors; other than the one leading to the loading dock there was only one. A wad of quick-setting epoxy sealed that entry. His other boot heel contained a jammer for any listening devices or surveillance cameras in the room.
Alone among the living statues, he approached the most recent six. Taking a cigarette-pack-sized gizmo out of his boot heel, he pressed two buttons then placed it on the closest immobilized figure. A second or so later, it 'peep'ed briefly, then the statue blinked and came back to life. She shivered a little in her nakedness and from the trip in the unheated vehicle. Allen held his finger up to his lips, mouthed "Silence", showed her a set of prearranged hand signals that told her essentially everything was on schedule, then moved on to the next statue to be revived. Repeating the process, he revived two more before hearing a harsh voice behind him.
"Why are you still here?" the butler said icily. "These artworks are for the General's pleasure, not for your crude pawing." He strode into the room, oblivious to the fact that three of those artworks were now holding themselves still in slightly different poses than before, trying not to be seen breathing.
"There was one item left by mistake; Leytenant Gorlov is fetching it," Allen said, slightly louder than usual. "Ah, there he is now," he continued, looking quickly towards the loading door.
The butler followed suit, saw something in the corridor that surprised him for an instant before he stiffened and started to fall over. Allen was close enough to catch him before he thumped on the floor. Pete stepped out of the shadows, holding a suspensor sidearm and lugging a duffel bag over his other shoulder. He closed and locked the door leading to the loading platform, then looked at the stiffened butler.
"That one looks more your size than mine," Pete commented.
"Rank hath its priviledges, Lieutenant," Allen countered with a smile, polishing his Captain's bars with a flourish.
"Alright, but one of these times you get to be the one playing dress-up," Pete conceded, tossing the sidearm to Allen and pulling military uniforms and servant's garments from the bag. The three revived statues started to dress, assuming the roles they had been briefed in. Pete followed suit, stashing his uniform jacket while removing clothes from the unfortunate immobilized butler. A few minutes later, they were ready; Allen had revived the remaining statued agents though they retained their poses, for now, via a light pulsing Suspensor field they could control when not briefly frozen. The girls had concealed their suspensor pistols in the folds of their togas or in other hiding places. One now stood atop a new platform, another Suspensor bomb like the one that had silenced the guardpost.
Agent Santiago had also been revived,with some difficulty. It seemed that the Russian 'permanent' treatment had been changed recently so that it took more applications of the re-anima device to bring her around. For someone who had spent the better part of a year as a statue she looked amazingly beautiful, clad in a wisp of transparent fabric that enhanced her shapely figure rather than concealing it. A little wobbly, she stepped down from her platform and took in her new surroundings in a glance. She recognized Gogol's library and his permanent collection along with the many recently added (to her) artworks. Highly trained, she was ready to fight, flee, or make love, as the occasion demanded. Her first target was a Russian army Kapitan who seemed to be molesting her, holding his hands on her upper torso. She moved to strike when, anticipating her move, he grabbed her arms and twisted his body to shield the inevitiable kick between the legs.
Close to her ear, the Russian whispered, in English, "Pauline, we're here to rescue you; I'm with Pete Simmons, who you trained with. You can call me Allen."
She struggled briefly, not believing him until she saw Pete's grinning face as he helped one of the other agents into her tight serving-maid outfit. Then she hugged him for a moment, grateful for being revived from what she had feared to be a permanent immobilization. Agent Santiago was good; she kept her emotions in check and knew there would be time to thank him more fully, later. They were in the middle of a mission; from what she knew of the General's safeguards, getting in had been the easy part.
"What do you want me to do?" she asked in Russian, immodestly discarding the remainder of her fabric decorations. "I cannot remain Anastasia."
"We anticipated that; you're going to be one of Gogol's guests for now, a Sofia Ivachenko," Pete added, handing her an evening gown. "Agent Grimes will see to your wig and makeup. Believe me, she's good; after she's done, I wouldn't recognize you..."
As Pauline assumed her new alias, Allen briefed her on the mission plan and what her role was. To this, she added one more of her own: If she saw General Gogol, she would kill him. Allen also supplied her with a suspensor sidearm and a bracelet 'for additional security' he told her. A few minutes later, they were ready.
Allen rounded up his small band of agents, unlocked the entry door, and walked to the door at the back of the library. "Out this way; time to mingle. Remember, the priority is now locating Natalia Zorynich." He winked at the three remaining statue-agents, knowing they were fully aware and ready to take care of any intruders before it was time.
The door to the loading area would not open, even after releasing the lock.
Allen looked at Pete, who shrugged with a 'what did I do?' expression on his face. There was no time for any more questions; the entry doors burst open and several soldiers, guns at the ready, burst in, followed by a scowling bear in a multi-ribboned uniform: General of the Army Lopahtin Vladimirovich Gogol. Several of his guests peered in from the edges of the doorway.
The general pointed a gaudy but fully functional pearl-handled .45 revolver at Allen. "Kapitan, you have fifteen seconds to explain yourself; what are you doing in my library?"
"A delivery sir; your latest artworks for the celebration as you requested," Allen replied levelly, as Plan A evaportated from reality. He looked Gogol straight in the eyes, though he wondered what Pete and Agent Santiago were doing.
"So you claim, but as lovely as these statues are, I canceled the delivery for tonight. Now, my guardpost has gone silent. One last time: Who are you, and why are you here?" With a click, he brought the weapon to full-cock and aimed it directly at the senior agent's forehead.
"April Fools?" Allen said in clear English, with a smirk he hoped wasn't his last, mentally counting the seconds until his statue-sentries would briefly revive again.
Gogol reddened, not used to being made fun of. "Zhopa!" he blurted, his index finger tensing on the trigger.
"Lopahyuska, they came for me..." Pauline Santiago spoke loudly, pulling her wig off as she moved clearly into the general's sight, an animate vision in tight black satin. He recognized her in that instant; a confusion of emotions running across his craggy features. Surprise, puzzlement, joy, hope, devotion, deceit, passion, duplicity, betrayal. She was alive, no longer a statue, yet his beloved Anastasia had been proven to be an amerikanski spy.
It bought them enough time. An electronic shriek filled the huge room and when it faded, everything was still. Almost.
Allen had already started to duck out of the way when the field struck, sending a tingling throughout his body, slowing his muscles. He had a moment of fear and doubt that the shield bracelet would actually work as promised before the Suspensor field passed and he felt himself returning to normal. The sentry agents were frozen once more, but could be revived. He glanced back to check on the rest of his team.
There was a rustle of smooth fabric behind Allen; Pauline pushed him to one side while yelling "Watch Out!" An instant later, a gunshot smashed the silence. She seemed to freeze at the sound, more falling over than running at that point and bowled into Gogol like a ton of bricks, knocking him to the floor, pinning him down as he struggled with her. It took Allen a moment to register that the general wasn't frozen at all. After a few more seconds, Pauline seemed to return to normal on her own and began struggling with the larger stronger man, clawing at him, trying to reach something. She had his gun arm pinned with one silky nyloned leg but wasn't able to overpower him completely.
Allen's mind seemed to be foggy; time still wasn't moving fast enough. Everyone else remained frozen, a silent still audience.
"Damn you!" she cried, fighting with all her strength. "Made. Me. Statue..."
"Nyet.." the general managed to say before his body twitched simultaneously with another shot being fired. Pauline froze in position again in mid-strike. Then he sagged back away from her, grimacing in pain; wounded, but breathing.
"Almost forgot what this was for," Pete Simmons commented, putting his service pistol back in the holster. "The suspensor gun seems useless on him..."
Again after a few seconds, Pauline unfroze and resumed thrashing the general. Since Gogol was weakened, she moved her forearm to cross his windpipe and pushed down, hard, putting the weight of her slim body behind it, waiting for that moist crunch that would tell her he was finished. Tears streamed down her face; she too had been betrayed, or so she thought.
"NO! Stop; we want him for interrogation," Allen demanded, finally finding his voice. Another shot and once more she stiffened instantly; Pete had fired into the air. Allen reached down to pull her away, then felt a warm wetness on the torso of her dress. "Agent Santiago, you've been shot!"
"She's frozen again, Allen," Pete said, helping him to raise the immobile agent upright. "Seems to happen everytime she hears a loud noise..."
"Or, is startled somehow?" Allen ventured.
Pauline then came back to life with a moan, feeling for the first time her injuries. "What's? Happening? To me?" her words came; labored and wavering. She, too, was losing strength along with blood; when she finally stood on her own, she swayed slightly on the verge of fainting until Allen supported her.
Pete kicked the gun away from the general and was patting him down, searching for the suppressor the Russian had to be using to stay mobile. The slug he'd put into Gogol's thigh would keep him from running around, he figured.
"You're injured, Agent Santiago," Allen told Pauline redundantly, earning him a glare from her. "Plus, there seems like there is some kind of lingering effect from your suspension. Do you remember losing consciousness, freezing up?"
"I'm OK," she said bravely. "Just a flesh wou...."
"Bang!" Allen yelled at her. She stopped in mid-sentence for only a few seconds this time.
"nd, nothing.... What?" Pauline finally realized there was something to what the other agent said.
"We've got no time for this, Agent Santiago," Allen concluded, slipping the suppressor bracelet from her wrist and producing a pill-shaped capsule from a picket of his uniform. "Bite down on this, before you bleed out."
She popped the device in her mouth and clenched her jaw triggering the personal-sized suspensor field with a piezoelectic zap. Stiffening, instantly a living statue once more, Pauline Santiago started to topple over as Allen eased her rigid body to the ground. She continued to stare blankly at the ceiling, unable to blink.
"Whew!" Pete said from where he held the general at gunpoint. "Santiago's quite a gung-ho little firebrand, isn't she? Oh, by the way, I found out where this Cossack was hiding his personal suppressor," he added, dangling a gold chain holding a St.Christopher medal and an oblong metal box. "I'm glad I didn't have to do a BCS on him!"
"General Gogol," Allen addressed the soviet, "how many others wear these devices?" he questioned, pointing to the suppressor on the chain.
The general simply laughed, then wheezed, his defiant gesture blunted by the pain of his wounds.
"We aren't going to get anything from him here," Pete observed. "Time's a wasting..." Without hestiation, he triggered his suspensor sidearm and at last the soviet general felt the effects of being suspended against his will as his expression hardened into immobility. "Throw him in the truck with the rest and let Langley put the squeeze on later. Who knows what silent alarms he's triggered?"
"Yeah; you're right. Go ahead then and search the rest of the dacha; I'll send out our 'sleeper' agents too," Allen agreed after a moment. He revived the remaining statued agents and relayed the instructions to search and reanimate any female statues they found, letting them strip the frozen guests for clothing and disguises. The General's private quarters he saved to search himself. Pete went off to retrieve the roommate of Natalia Zorynich along with the other designated primary targets for recovery & rescue. Time was indeed passing and they were no closer to the rendezvous point.
Climbing the ornate staircase, Allen entered a different world. The traditional paneling and accents were replaced by decorations that would have been more appropriate in a fantasyland harem or house of ill repute. Long, silky drapes covered the walls and the wood floor gave way to deep plush carpet. The lighting was more subdued as well, except for distinct pools of illumination centered around the many motionless figures that occupied their pedestals in silent, still repose. The statued women here held positions more explicit than those downstairs; representing positions and sexual acrobatics borrowed from classical literature, the Kama Sutra, various Oriental meditations, and at least one Parisian brothel. Most of the figures were extremely naked and exposed, with the occasional piece of erotic clothing only emphasizing the amount of bare flesh shown by the statued women. Groupings and tableaux seemed common, as opposed to individual settings (which, he reflected, limited the carnal combinations) with a few males participating as frozen artworks as well. Some seemed to be posed in a way that they could be removed and another person, perhaps the General, substituted in the couplings.
Allen was at a loss; he had started to revive the living artworks one by one, giving each the instructions to find suitable outer clothes and flee, but soon became overwhelmed by the numbers. There had to be almost a hundred of them. Many were completely confused by waking up in a strange place without a scrap of clothing on. Some were exotically foreign, speaking languages or dialects Allen had no grasp of, while hand gestures proved almost useless. A few others had been selected from the Soviet military, some even with consent, they resisted for as long as it took for him to zap them back into immobility. Still, there was no sign of the Zorynich girl as he probed deeper and deeper into the private quarters.
Now the statues were less artful and held more utilitarian roles. Frozen women became clothes hangers, footstools, and towel racks. One even held a lamp high over the huge bed, illuminating the blankly staring eyes of the nude figure spreadeagled and tied to the center. She was immobilized of course, but seemed to have beeen a statue there long before the agent's suspensor field had enstilled the entire dacha. It was a sign of ultimate disrespect that Gogol had chosen Natalia as his personal sexual play-toy. Staining on the sheets and encrusted cum on her pussy were evidence of how often he had abused and raped her frozen body.
The agent kept to the side, out of her field of vision, as he reanimated her. Natalia gasped; more of a scream of "Nyet!!" that had been building for some time. She tensed on the bed, feeling an uncontrollable orgasm that may have been building for days or weeks, then sagged back. Closing her eyes, she began to sob.
"Natalia, your father sent me. I am here to take you to him. Do you understand?" Allen explained, slicing the velvet ropes with his razor-sharp ranger knife.
"Da.." Another few sobs. "Spazeba." Her eyes darted around the bizarre boudoir, then down over her soiled body. She blushed and began to weep again.
"It is finished; we have the General in custody. Take a few minutes to clean yourself; here are some clothes you can put on." He handed her a wrapped bundle of fatigues and some underwear.
"Amerikanski?" She looked at him for the first time, wide eyes still moist with tears but holding a look of hope.
A nod, then Allen smiled warmly. This was the tricky part; Zorynich's daughter would be coming with him one way or another but he hoped it would be with her consent. Even so, he palmed the suspensor just in case.
"My father with you?" She ventured in halting English.
"He is in America; he sent me to find you, to rescue you."
"I go," she said after a tense moment, edging herself to the edge of the bed, holding onto the sheet for modesty. She slipped into the vast spa-sized bathroom suite and soon the sound of running water could be heard along with splashing.
"Allen!" someone said loudly, very close by. The agent jumped reflexively.
"Don't ever sneak up on me like that, Pete," he hissed.
"Didn't want to spook the filly, but we gotta go quick," his partner urged. "Finish up here; I'm getting the truck loaded. Most of Gogol's 'collection' has already vamoosed."
"OK, thanks." But Pete had already vanished back into the shadows.
A couple of minutes later, Natalia emerged in her army fatigues looking a lot more confident than before. She even managed to flash him a quick smile. Together they wound their way among the curtains and mostly empty display stands, then down the stairs. She gawked at seeing Gogol's guests, many in their underwear or without a stitch of clothing, strewn about the foyer like so many discarded display dummies. Quietly she let herself be led towards the loading dock and did not seem surprised to see other soldier-costumed agents milling around.
Suddenly Natalia gasped in alarm. "Velika! Where is she??"
"Safe," Allen reassured her. "Though your friend is again frozen. We revived her and she was not...cooperative."
"For best, now. Velika so emotional I know," Natalia agreed.
Pete appeared once more. "Time to saddle up, folks. I just received intel that there was a convoy dispatched thirty minutes ago. Heading here, it looks like. Pauline and the others are loaded in the back already."
"Hm, Gogol wasn't bluffing then. Let's hit it," Allen agreed, ushering Natalia towards her seat among the agents bundled up for the chilly ride to the garrison and then the rendezvous.
She paused, turned back for half a step, then spat on the polished floor of the general's dacha. "Finished, now," she stated firmly, showing her old man's spirit as she turned her back on the humilating place for the last time.
--Afterward--
Wilson Moving & Storage, Frederick Maryland
Agent Pauline Santiago stood rigid in the store room, her body upright with her arms and legs held together at attention, her face staring out at blank space with unmoving concentration. She was as stiff as a statue, but had not been painted or otherwise disguised. A new clip-on suspensor unit was affixed to the strap of her two piece swimsuit and the indicator lamp showed it was working properly. She stood inside a tall glass box with a latched door on its front. She was still, a little wet from the shower she had been taking moments before and even held a faint smell of the unbelievable sex she had been having prior to that. There had been almost no time for surprise, for awareness, before her body had been frozen in position once more — an incredibly detailed living statue. The lingering effects of the Soviet 'permanent' suspensor meant that she could not remain animated for any more than an hour or so before she began to revert back to motionlessness.
Allen touched the cool smoothness of her crotch under her shapely bottom and then patted her on the cheek. He closed the door to the box, then locked it, leaving her on display like some window dummy, as he made ready to leave the room. After a few seconds, he looked back. I'll be here next week, next year, or the next time we need you awake. And then we will have another unbelievable time, my precious. Good bye, for now. He closed the storage unit door, leaving the suspended agent in still darkness.
To Be Continued...