Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs. Jina Bacarr

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      “I’ve hired a team of diggers,” I comment, hoping to appeal to his civic pride. “All local men. Fair pay.”

      “I see. Can you trust these men?”

      “Yes,” I answer without hesitation, though the truth is I know little about Ahmed and the diggers he found except they need work and appear strong and healthy.

      “You are a most interesting young woman, Miss Malone,” he begins, getting up from his desk and walking around to face me. We stand eye to eye, though I’m taller. A strong, oily smell, mixed with something I can’t identify, assaults my senses. I don’t back down. “Breaking into my office and not even apologizing for your bold actions. How American.”

      “We call it ‘going for it.’”

      “I’ll make a note of that,” he snaps, his breathing ragged, his eyes going for a better look at my breasts. “I should have you thrown out of here, but I’m most curious, why do you wish to dig in that part of the desert?”

      “A hunch.” No way am I going to tell him about the photos I found. I need him, but I don’t trust him.

      “And you call yourself a scientist?” His tone harbors more than a hint of humor.

      “Yes, Dr. Omar, but I’m a woman, too.”

      “So I’ve noticed.” He walks around me as if conducting a perfunctory inspection, his eyes devouring my flesh, though he doesn’t touch me.

      I ignore his comment. “I believe in instinct. A scientist can’t rely on calculations alone—”

      “I also believe in following my instincts,” he says, breathing on me, his strong male scent suffusing my senses and making me turn away. Fool. That’s exactly what he wants. I shudder as he slides his dark, leathery hand over my thigh and cups my crotch, squeezing me hard, making me cry out in shock, then letting me go. I look down. Grease stains my light-colored pants an ugly brown.

      “Dr. Omar, you—you—”

      “I imagine you’re wet—and tight. Very tight, eh?”

      Embarrassed, I look out the tall window, watching the puffs of clouds moving across the pale blue sky. I remember hiking out to the old fortress, those same clouds hanging like a backdrop against the remnants of the ramparts silhouetted against the sky. Seeing them illuminated by the sun, knowing at night they’re hidden by the darkness fascinates me, as if new artifacts wait for me to find them and bring them out of the darkness. I take a deep breath. I must continue my work, though I refuse to suffer more humiliation from this man.

      “It seems I’ve wasted your time, Dr. Omar.” I turn away, pull damp straggles of hair off my face and compose myself. I’ll dig anyway, though without a permit I won’t receive credit should I unearth any artifacts. I’ll be labeled a tomba-rolo, tomb raider, and my reputation will be tarnished, but I can’t stay here a moment longer with him. I can’t.

      “You seem to be in a hurry, Miss Malone.” He picks up an olive and pushes it between my lips, nearly choking me. “Care for an olive?”

      I spit it out. “I made a mistake coming here, Dr. Omar,” I say flatly. “Sorry to have troubled you.”

      Before I can take more than two steps, he closes the door, locks it, then turns to me, smiling. “Of course, there is a fee for my services.”

      You mean grabbing my crotch wasn’t enough for you? I want to ask, but don’t. Instead, I brace myself, my eyes fixed on him. “A fee? How much?”

      He names a figure that will blow the rest of my grant money. We bargain back and forth, him popping olives into his mouth and lickinghis fingers, me getting the fee down to an amount that won’t leave me with merely a camel for transportation.

      In the end, I write him the check, counting myself lucky to obtain a dig permit without having to go through all the red tape with the local director of the Antiquities Service. So what if it cost me a bit of my pride? Finding the Byzantine artifacts will make it all worth it. Still, I barely have enough funds to purchase supplies and rent transportation, but what choice do I have? Only after I give him the money does he agree to help me establish provenance, the documented history of the site, should I find any significant artifacts. I agree. The Aleppo Museum already contains collections of antiques unearthed in northern Syria, from the Mediterranean to the middle Euphrates, near the point where the river flows into Iraq. Showcasing my find here would be a big step in finishing my dissertation.

      “You won’t be sorry, Dr. Omar. My work goes beyond discovering the artifacts to building their scientific potential,” I continue, making my point and buttoning up my open shirt with my hand. “It’s the invisible part of what I do.”

      He shrugs. “I’m more interested in what I can see, Miss Malone,” he says, handing me the permit, then brushing his fingers across my breasts and lingering on my nipples pointing through the soft fabric. “There’s one more thing necessary to complete our deal.”

      “Yes?” I barely breathe the word, standing in his office, wrestling with my emotions, my fears, knowing he’s not finished with me. Known as a furious digger, a determined seeker after booty for his museum, no doubt he has other vices, as well. I stuff the permit into my pocket, then look for a way out. I frown. There isn’t another exit and the door is locked.

      “I want to touch you and worship you as a goddess.” He unbuttons my blouse in quick, short movements, the silky grease on his fingers making me sick. I try to stop him, but he pulls down my bra cups and rolls my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. Gritting my teeth, I fight against him and push him away. Hard. He stumbles back against his desk, shaken.

      “Unlock the door, Dr. Omar,” I say in an even voice, holding my shirt together. “Or I’ll scream.”

      4

       Present day

      With slow, deliberate moves, I shake the past as I strip in front of the Russian. Where I once floundered, now I perform. I concentrate on the little things, the curve of my fingers when I touch myself, my lips parting in a silent sigh. I maintain a composure bordering on ice. I’m no longer the same young woman locked in a room with Dr. Omar. This time I’m in control. My pulse beats faster, my pussy vibrating to the burning but stimulating sensation a striptease evokes in me. I’m cucumber-cool while I strip, opening up to the pleasures of my art. I find no shame in taking off my clothes. Nudity is part of the game. The only exposure I fear is a double agent like Ivan blowing my cover to one of his cronies.

      I turn, unhook my bra, and with the finesse of an artiste on stage, I ask, “Is this what you’ve been waiting for, Ivan?” With my back to him, I whip off my bra. Then, with a graceful flick of my wrist, I wave my undergarment back and forth in front of his nose as if it were a flag of surrender.

      He says, “Turn around so I can see your tits.”

      Tits. So American. Then it hits me. The one-eyed Jack from the alleyway used the same word. My pubic muscles go into overdrive, reminding me of our sexy encounter.

      I push him off my radar, then say, “Not until we have a little talk, Ivan.”

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