by Van ©2017


Chapter 1

Dramatis Personæ


Plain toast and weak tea.  It wasn't much of a breakfast, but it would have to do.  Sam couldn't remember the last time she'd had a proper fry-up, but meat and eggs were for proper soldiers, not Mechanized Transport Corps volunteers, not when they were living in civilian quarters and seconded to the police as drivers.  Of course, if it were large enough, an MTC depot might have an actual mess hall, and it might have questionable butter to go with its toast, as well as Spam and powdered eggs; but that would entail day after day of servicing a never ending queue of jeeps and lorries.  Far better to drive for DCS Foyle.

Uniform neat and proper, Sam left her tiny, shabby apartment (which she felt very lucky to have) and trudged through the quiet, early morning streets of Hastings to the police station.

Would it be another hurry-up-and-wait day of chauffeuring Foyle to various crime scenes, interviews, and meetings?  Possibly, but driving for the police, especially driving DCS Folyle about the Hastings area could be exciting, very exciting.  At the very least it was often interesting, and she encountered people she would never have met under ordinary circumstances.  One never knew where an investigation might lead.

Sergeant Rivers was manning the front desk, as usual.

"Good morning," Sam said with a bright smile as she added her trench coat and cap to the row of police overcoats and helmets hanging from pegs on the wall behind the counter.

Rivers smiled back.  "Mornin', Sam."  He nodded down the hallway.  "I was told to send you in straight away as soon as you arrived.  Something hush-hush arrived at sunrise, via motorcycle messenger."

Sam gazed down the hallway at DCS Foyle's closed door.  "That's unusual."

Rivers nodded.  "By the courier's uniform and accent, I believe she was Polish.  And yes, she was a woman."

Sam favored the grinning sergeant with a wry smile.  "Imagine, a woman driver," she called back over her shoulder as she walked down the hall, then rapped on DCS Foyle's door and entered.

Foyle was behind his desk, an unfolded sheet of flimsy paper in his hands.

"Good morning, sir," Sam said with a smile.

Foyle's eyes were on the paper.  "Good morning, Sam," he intoned, then glanced at his wristwatch, dropped the paper on the desk, and smiled.  "Prompt, as usual.  I have a task for you."


"You know Whatlington, of course," Foyle said.

"North of Battle, yes sir," Sam replied.

"I've received a detailed order," Foyle explained. "to provide transportation for two important persons to an undisclosed location somewhere in Sussex."  He picked up the paper and focused on Sam.  "And you're specified by name, Sam."

Sam swallowed, somewhat nervously.  "By name, sir?"

Foyle folded the paper and handed it to Sam.  "Your copy.  The order is from Military Intelligence, countersigned by the Commissioner.  It authorizes petrol replenishment from any source, as required.  Highly unusual."

"I'll say," Sam said as she started reading, then added a belated, "sir."  There was no information regarding who she would be driving or where, only that she was to report to someone named "M. Carter."

Foyle smiled.  "I have no idea what this is all about," he said as Sam hurriedly read, "but if you're to meet the timeline specified, you'd better shake a leg."

"Uh, yes sir."  Sam turned and headed for the door, still reading, then turned back.  "Oh!  Who's going to drive you if I take the Wolseley, sir?"

"Orders are orders, Sam," Foyle chuckled.  "I'll be fine."

"Oh."  Sam folded the paper and tucked it in her uniform coat pocket.  "Yes sir.  I'll... report afterwards."  She opened the office door, then paused in the threshold.  "Sorry, sir.  That was silly.  Of course I'll report afterwards."

A ghost of a smile curled Foyle's lips.  "Off you go, Sam."

"Yes sir," Sam sighed, then closed the door.

Foyle's smile faded as he reached for the telephone.  "DCS Foyle for Assistant Commissioner Redgrave," he said when the police operator came on the line.
Sam made good time from Hastings to Whatlington.  There was a brief delay at a crossroads north of Hollington while she waited for a convoy of American lorries laden with troops to pass, but made up time afterwards.

The rendezvous specified in her orders was at a pub named The Royal Oak.  She parked the Wolseley and went inside, not knowing what to expect.

The public room was closed, as was appropriate for the hour, but two women were seated at a table near the entrance and sipping tea, one in uniform and the other in civilian dress.  Both were attractive... not that that was either here nor there.  They looked up when Sam entered.
Agent CarterJoan Clarke
Sam blinked uncertainly, then reached into her pocket and pulled out her orders.  "Uh... M. Carter?" she inquired.

The woman in uniform smiled and raised a hand.  "M for Margaret," she said, "but I go by Peggy.  'S. Stewart', I presume."

Sam smiled back as she stepped forward.  "S for Samantha, but I go by Sam."

Both women stood and shook hands with Sam.  The unknown civilian introduced herself with a single word: "Joan."

"Please, sit," Peggy said, indicting an empty chair.  All three sat and Joan lifted the brown teapot and filled an empty cup.

Sam noted that the tea service had been for three, so they'd been prepared for her arrival.

Still smiling, Peggy extended her hand.  "Orders and identification?"

Sam suppressed a frown.  She had produced her papers to pass through innumerable roadblocks and checkpoints, but this was the first such request from someone she'd been assigned to drive.  She reached into her pocket and pulled out her paybook and driving permit.  As Sam handed them over, together with her orders, she noted that Peggy's uniform was unlike any she'd seen before.  It was the same khaki drab as Sam's own, but its style was more feminine, like a woman's suit tailored along military lines.  The only insignia were a pair of unfamiliar gold badges on her lower lapels.

The tailored aspect was enhanced by Peggy's figure, which was most decidedly feminine.  Peggy had bosoms, and even the uniform couldn't disguise their volume.  (Not that Sam was jealous, of course.)

As for Joan, her clothing was inexpensive and rather drab, not that Sam was a fancy dresser when she was in mufti.  As for figure, Sam had no cause to be jealous of Joan in that department.  However, with respect to her features, Joan was a looker, indeed.

Having finished her thorough inspection of Sam's papers and orders, Peggy handed them back.  "Please don't think either of us are unfriendly, but Joan is under orders to keep all conversation to an absolute minimum."

Joan smiled (and she had a truly stunning smile) but said nothing.

Sam smiled back.  "How very hush-hush, and what about yourself?"

Peggy favored Sam with coy smile.  "I can tell we're going to get along famously, not discussing any and all aspects of our respective duties."  She pointed to Sam's teacup.  "Drink up."

Sam did so, gulping the warm tea as Peggy and Joan stood.  "At least tell me where we're going," she said as she followed suit.  "I am the driver, after all."

Peggy pointed towards the door.  "I'll give you a series of way points," she said, "after we're underway."

"Very cloak-and-dagger," Sam said in a near whisper, smiling at Joan.  "Makes me feel like Mata Hari."

Joan giggled, earning both Sam and herself a disapproving frown from Peggy.  "Let's all behave ourselves and soldier on, shall we?"  The twinkle in her eyes put the lie to her disapproval.

Sam joined Joan in a final giggle, but allowed herself to be shepherded from the pub, together with Joan.  Mysterious they might be, but Sam had already decided she liked these women.

The land belonged to Harry Winborn, a prosperous farmer currently serving as a sergeant with the 8th Army.  Harry's wife and young daughter were currently living with her parents in Stafford and his fields had been apportioned among his neighbors to be worked in his absence.  The use of the barn was also shared by the neighboring farms, but at this time of year its space wasn't required and it was closed up and secure, as were the other outbuildings and the main house—or rather, had been until quite recently.

A contingent of female soldiers (believe it or not) had rolled up in a modest convoy, posted an official notice on the front gate, opened the house, and then started moving crates into the barn.  Once things were well underway, a female officer in a jeep with a driver called on all the neighboring farms, informing them that the house and its immediate environs had been requisitioned as a temporary training facility and the farmyard and house were now strictly off limits.

The officer and her soldiers struck the neighbors as... odd.  Not only were they women—"Blimey!  Women in arms!  It ain't natural!"—but their uniforms were peculiar, they saluted in a rather outlandish manner (with two fingers, no less), and spoke with foreign accents, even the officer!  "Polish!  They's Polish," Thom Tuppen announced at the pub.  "It's right there on the requisition notice.  They's with the 'Polish Independent Parachute Brigade'."  The somewhat relieved villagers nodded, and several checked for themselves the next day.  S
omeone left a bouquet of flowers tied with a red and white ribbon.  (Actually, it was Mary, Tom's daughter.  A nice girl, to be sure.)

The "Polish" troops kept strictly to themselves, visiting neither the local pub and shops nor attending church on Sunday.  "They's Polish, so they's Catholic!" Peter Collins pointed out, so that explained their absence from services.  It did not explain their lack of interest in the pub.  "They's Polish, so they only drink vodka," James Harris stated, and all agreed that if anyone knew about drink, it was Jimmy Harris.

Anyway, things quickly settled down to a new normal.  The locals left the female soldiers to their unspecified training.  There was the time the officer and a sergeant returned a ten year old lad to his mother after he'd been apprehended playing too close to the farmhouse, but so far that was the only incident.  The townsfolk agreed that it was a good thing the women were there.  They might be foreigners, but they were Allies and were no doubt keen to punch Hitler's ticket and free their homeland.

Meanwhile, in the basement of the farmhouse...

Two women were present, and neither was in uniform.
The Baroness
The first was a blonde, in her thirties, and quite attractive, even glamorous—movie star glamorous.  She was smartly dressed in a hideously expensive, custom tailored suit, the height of fashion in occupied Paris, and was smoking a Gaulois Bleu in a cigarette holder.
The second woman was slightly younger, either in her late twenties or early thirties.  She was naked and reclined full-length, flat on her back on a hard wooden table covered by a dark gray wool blanket.  Her curly hair was bright red and her skin lightly freckled.  She lay on the rough blanket, unmoving and staring up at the smoking blonde.

"Frau Professor Doktor," the blonde purred, "I am zo disappointed.  Zhe Reich is disappointed.  Hydra is disappointed."  She drew on the cigarette... then exhaled.  "I hope you don't mind if ve converse in English," she continued.  "I know you are fluent in our native tongue, French, Russian, und Polish, vith at least zcientific literacy, but mein,
I mean my English isvhat do zhey say?—rusted.  Und as ve are currently on an active mission in zhe 'homeland of shopkeepers', I must practice."

The naked redhead continued staring without moving and without making any reply.  Her eyes blinked and her breasts slowly rose and fell as she breathed, but she was otherwise still.

"I vas against bringing you on zhis operation," the blonde continued, "but vas overruled by my superiors.  Your enthusiasm for coming to England aroused my zuspicions."  She took another drag on the cigarette.  "And as it turns our, my instincts vere correct.  Und zhank you for making your notes on zhe use of zhese marvelous new drugs you haff developed zo complete und comprehensive.  Dosages, combinations, precautions
it is all right zhere in zhe documentation.  Most helpful."

The redhead continued staring... and breathing... and not moving.

"Yes, I vas suspicious," the blonde purred, "und zho, I ordered zhe drugs field tested on you, Frau Professor Doktor... and you exposed yourself to be zhe traitor zhat you are.  You came here to defect to zhe Allies, not to serve zhe Reich.  Obviously, zhat is not goink to happen.  You will return to zhe Fatherland when our mission is complete, und you vill continue your research under direct Hydra zupervision at a Hydra facility, either as a zcientist... or as a test zubject... or both."

The blonde snubbed out her cigarette, pocketed the holder, then stood and continued smiling down at the redhead.  "According to your notes, zhe paralytic drug I gave you vill wear off within zhe hour, und an immediate zecond doze might do permanent neurological damage."  She removed her fedora, then unbuttoned and removed her stylish jacket.  "I zuppose I could have you locked in a room und place guards on zhe door..."  She reached under the table and lifted one of several coils of hemp rope from the shelf under the redhead's table.  "Zhat zeems like an unconscionable vaste of highly trained Hydra verdecktesoldaten.  The blonde released the retaining hitch, let the coil fall open, then doubled it and found the center.  "I have an alternative zolution."

Over the next several minutes, rolling the redhead's limp body as required, the blonde tied her wrists together behind her back, her elbows about two inches apart, her knees, her ankles, then trussed her arms against her torso, taking hitches around her waist and yoking her shoulders.  She continued taking hitches, linking the redhead's various bonds into a unified whole.

The blonde readied another coil for use, then smiled, paused, and tossed the length of rope to the side.  Still smiling, she reached out and cupped the redhead's milky white breasts with her two hands... and gently squeezed.

"You are very beautiful, Frau Professor Doktor," the blonde said as her hands slid over the redhead's well-roped and drug-paralyzed body.  "I haff always had a veakness for flaming red hair und... sommersprossen.  I don't know zhe English vord.  Zpecks?  Dapples?"  Her hand
slid down the redhead's flat stomach and she tugged on the bound captive's copper-red pubic hair.  "Zo very beautiful.  Perhaps ve vill haff time for a little playtime... later.  For now, I must make sure zhat vhen you are able, you will not be able to speak... or to scream."

The blond pulled a strip of sacking from under the table.  Its length and width was similar to a scarf or cravat.  She tied a large overhand knot in the center of the cloth and pulled it tight, then thrust it into the redhead's mouth and tied the ends together at the nape of the redhead's neck, under her tousled curls.  The resulting thick, mouth-filling cleave-gag was tight enough to make the captive's freckled cheeks bulge.

Next, the blonde rolled the redhead onto her stomach, lifted her bound ankles, and lashed them to her wrists, enforcing a stringent hogtie.  This caused some of the hitches linking her bonds to slacken and others to tighten, but the blonde solved this "problem" by taking additional hitches and removing the slack.  She used more rope to bind the redhead's shins to her thighs, then crafted yet more linkages between her various bonds.

"Und now," the blonde purred, "zhe pièce de résistance."  She gathered the redheads curls behind her head, tied a tight hitch around the resulting bun, then tied it to her ankles, feet, and big toes.  Finally, she added a gag-to-ankles rope, further reinforcing the cruel hogtie.

The result was an elaborately trussed bundle of freckled, peach-pink flesh.  The redhead was balanced on her taut stomach with her pink breasts and thighs lifted off the gray blanket, her body contorted, her spine bent, her wrists lashed slightly past her ankles, and with taut ropes lifting her chin and pulling back and immobilizing her gagged head.  The redhead was still unmoving, and now, thanks to her stringently hogtied condition, was unable to focus on her tormentor.  Her blinking green eyes stared away into the dark basement.

Just then, a female soldier in black boots and trousers, a camouflage frock, a coal scuttle style helmet, and a black face mask clumped down the basement stairs, snapped to attention, and extended both arms in salute.  "Heil Hydra!" she barked.

"Heil Hydra," the blonde answered with a wry smile, lifting her right palm in a casual return salute.

"Wir sind bereit, Frau Baroness," the soldier reported.

"In English, please," the blonde purred, "as per mission protocol."  Apparently, she was a Baroness.

"Ve are ready, Baroness," the soldier responded.

"Excellent," the Baroness chuckled.

"Should I have zhe security vatch check on zhis ungeziefer while ve rest of us are gone?"

The Baroness smiled down at the naked, helplessly hogtied redhead.  "No, I don't zhink Frau Professor Dokter Vogel vill be goink anyvhere, even after zhe drugs leave her zystem."  She donned her jacket, then her hat, and headed for the stairs.  The soldier followed... and the door at the top of the stairs closed with a solid thud.

Back on the table, the redhead remained naked, hogtied, and helpless.

Minutes passed.

The dim electric lights dangling between the basement rafters continued burning.  And then, the redhead's fingers fluttered... slightly.

More minutes passed.

The redhead twitched... then wiggled... and finally, squirmed.

Yet more minutes passed, and it became clear that the "Frau Baroness" was correct.  The paralytic drug might be wearing off, but Frau Professor Doktor Vogel wasn't going anywhere.

Chapter 2