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AN HOMAGE TO VINCENT VEGA, SEASON 2

 

SECRET AGENT MAN

 

“We need to talk,” Ian said as he opened his office door and stood aside, silently bidding  Priscilla to enter.  His tone was brusque, the easy going manner that he always adopted with her shelved.

 

Entering, standing mute while he kicked the door shut with his foot, Priscilla suddenly realized that this was a man she had never met before.  The Professor was gone, and the Major stood in his place.  For the first time, she was face to face with the man who had commanded others, and issued orders that would send some of them to their deaths.

 

She shivered.  It was cold in the room.

 

“Have you spoken with your father this morning?”

 

“Over breakfast,” she admitted.

 

“And your mother?”

 

“The same.”

 

“Did you talk about me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Ian nodded, now sure of the path that he was following.  “What was it that tipped your mother off?”

 

“The tracking device.  Ian, she knows this stuff, and she says that it's military grade, state of the art.  And you just happen to have it sitting in a desk drawer?  It didn't make any sense!”

 

“Shit!  You're right, Pris, and I apologize.  This isn't on you or your parents … I was careless … just careless.  It's all my fault.  Shit!”

 

Ian slapped the desk with his open palm.  It wasn't his first mistake, but if he could make his retirement stick, it just might be his last.  He had been sent to this community at the back end of nowhere to blend in and disappear.  And now he wanted to do just that.  Falling in love had a way of altering a guy's perspective.

 

“Pris, I'm going to need your help to get the genie back in the bottle.  A few minutes ago, your dad ran me through the NCIC, triggering an alert at the highest levels of the FBI.  By now, a Deputy Director has been on the horn to his Chief, ordering him to back off, and the Chief will have passed the message to your dad.  So, we can shut this down officially, but that doesn't get me off the hook with your parents.  There are limits to what I can tell them, but I don't want their imaginations to run riot.  This is less about me than it is the paranoia that rages up and down the banks of the Potomac.  I swear that some of the fools back there would slap a top secret tag on a ham sandwich.”

 

“Ian, tell me the truth.”  Priscilla was staring at him hard.  “Are you some kind of spy?  Have you been playing all of us for fools?”

 

“A spy?”  Ian exploded with laughter, his sense of relief written all over his face.  “A spy?  Are you kidding me?  Pris, I'm the farthest thing from!  I've traveled the world for my friends at Langley, but most of it stems from the fact that I'm the only person in the country with a high security clearance who speaks a lot of pretty obscure languages well enough to get by.  That trip that Vickie was wondering about … the one to Timbuktu?  It's a case in point.  I was sent out to do a meet and greet with a tribal chief who speaks a Songhai dialect that no one in our embassy can even touch.  There was literally no one else that Washington could send.”

 

“That seems innocent enough … far too innocent to set off an alarm that would end up with my Dad being dressed down by the Chief.  I need more, Ian, and my parents are going to want a hell of a lot more!”

 

“It goes back to Hue, Pris, and my inability to pass a physical after the surgery on my shoulder.  I should have received a medical discharge, but the military didn't want to lose my language abilities, so they transferred me out of the chain of command into an outfit called the Studies and Observation Group.  SOG tasked me with putting together a unit that ultimately housed more mercenaries than regular army.  We're talking Vietnamese, Koreans, French, Aussies, Canadians as well as Americans … volunteers all.”

 

Ian shook his head, the details sharply etched in his memories.  “We're talking about a highly experienced, elite fighting force,” he went on, “one that carried out missions that weren't always in strict conformity with American law.  I worked for two men; my immediate superior was SACSA … the Special Assistant for Counterinsurgency and Special Activities.”  Ian paused, knowing that he was about to cross the Rubicon.

 

“His boss, and the only person he reported to, was the President of the United States.”

 

“My God!!!”  Priscilla was literally slack jawed.  “What you're describing sounds like a private army working directly for the President!!”

 

“Yeah.  Can you imagine the fireworks if one of us were ever subpoenaed to testify before a congressional committee?  Pris, everything I've done since Hue is heavily classified-- even the overseas jaunts that were nothing more than vacations.”

 

“So, Dad's poked a stick in a hornet's nest, and now they're flying around looking for someone to sting.”

 

“Pretty much,” Ian agreed.  “But it gets worse.”

 

Priscilla simply stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

 

“Class starts in less than five minutes, and I need a diaper change.”

 

Priscilla burst out laughing.  It's all so insane, she thought as she reached for Ian's diaper bag and changing mat.  By all rights, Allen Funt should be waiting outside, camera in hand …

 

Smile!  You're on Candid Camera!

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Knock, knock.”

 

Sarah looked up from behind the stack of papers piled in front of her, surprised to see Vickie standing in the doorway, a sly grin on her lips and an impish twinkle in her eyes.

 

“Mommy, I made a tinkles in my diapee,” Vickie confessed, with just the right note of shameful regret.  “Can you change me?”

 

Vickie debated sticking her thumb in her mouth for added effect, but at the last moment decided that she might end up sucking on a pacifier instead.  Sarah was not famous for her sense of humor.

 

“You might want to shut the door,” Sarah politely suggested.

 

“Oops!  You're right, Mommy; we don't need an audience!”  Taking Sarah's advice, Vickie then danced around the desk.  She was thoroughly enjoying herself, and the game that she and Sarah were playing.

 

Sighing, Sarah stood up.  “Arms out,” she commanded. 

 

Vickie promptly obeyed, leaving it to her new mommy to unfasten her pants and sweep them down to her ankles.  She was surprised, however, when Sarah removed the key to her diaper cover from her pocket.  Vickie had expected it to be hiding in one of the desk drawers.

 

Sarah unlocked and loosened the cover, then lowered it to Vickie's knees.  Her pink baby pants were next, but Sarah lowered the vinyl garment just enough to allow her to pat Vickie's diaper front, back, and bottom.  Sarah took her time at the bottom, squeezing it roughly to get a better sense of just how wet Vickie really was.

 

Without saying a word, Sarah pulled Vickie's baby pants back into place, then pulled up the cover, cinched it tight, and listened with satisfaction as the lock once more clicked into place.  Both of her babies were naughty, and Vickie was as precocious and energetic as any toddler, but with time and training she was confident that she could bring them both under her firm control.

 

“Baby girl, your diaper is a bit wet, but not enough to warrant changing you.  Come back after your first session is finished, and I'll check you again.  I'll change you right away if you're poopy, but I want that diaper to be good and wet before I change you.”

 

“Thank you, Mommy.”  Vickie muscled her pants back into place, checked to make sure that the top of her diaper cover was well hidden, and left with a triumphant smile.  Vickie's appetite for sex was insatiable; she needed relief at least once a day, every day-- and she knew it.  Once they moved in together, however, it would be difficult if not impossible for Vickie to use her wand at home.  She was certain that Sarah would put a stop to it instantly, and in any event she already knew that the heavy hospital diaper that she would probably end up wearing everywhere but at the office could not be defeated.  The wand in her locker was her best option by far, but everything depended on whether Sarah would detect the pungent smell of her juices when changing her diaper.  Vickie had been watching carefully, and she had seen nothing in Sarah's behavior to suggest that she was any the wiser.  So far, she concluded, so good.

 

.  .  .  .

 

After Vickie left, Sarah leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and brought her hand up to her nose.  She had massaged and squeezed the crotch of Vickie's diaper with more than one purpose in mind.  She was wet, but truly not wet enough to warrant a change.

 

Sniffing her hand, Sarah had no difficulty smelling the urine that she had touched with her fingers and palm.  But there was a second, distinctive odor that brought a smile to Sarah's lips-- the distinctive smell of Vickie's arousal fluid.

 

Sarah knew that Vickie kept a wand in her locker; she had joked about it more than once.  And Sarah had an antidote stored in the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet.  She would not make Vickie wear the hospital diaper during her shift, but she could reduce the number of diaper changes that she would have to perform if she packed baby diapers inside the thinner fabric supplied by Ian's diaper service.  She decided to start small, with a couple of diapers folded lengthwise to make a pad four layers thick.  If they didn't do the trick, she would add a third diaper and then a fourth, and all for the stated purpose of reducing the number of Vickie's trips to her office to the point where they would no longer arouse anyone's curiosity.  At some point, the makeshift pad would become thick enough to prevent the wand from performing its magic.

 

Sarah had given a lot of thought to the demands of family … how could she not when, in a matter of hours, she and Vickie would have the results of their fertility tests in hand?  It was obvious that Vickie badly wanted to have a child, and if her friend was capable of bearing children, Sarah was going to do everything in her power to make Vickie's wish come true.  Playing the bad cop, she was going to force Vickie to channel all of her restless sexual energy into her relationship with Ian.

 

Privately, Sarah thought that Vickie would make a wonderful mother, and although she could not put her finger on why, she somehow knew with absolute certainty that Ian would prove to be a loving father.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Dad?  Dad, what are you doing here?”

 

Priscilla didn't know what surprised her more … seeing her dad hovering outside Ian's classroom, or dressed in civvies when he was on duty.

 

“Orders from on high,” Sergeant Canon admitted.  He was staring hard at Ian, a well practiced confrontational look designed to intimidate.  It sometimes worked on suspects and snitches.

 

It did not work on Ian Grady.  Street Racer stood silent as a stone, waiting for Herb Canon to get on with it.

 

“I ran the professor here through the NCIC, triggered some kind of alert at FBI headquarters, got spanked by the Chief, and sent over here to find out what the hell is going on.  First question, Professor: are you running some kind of covert training program in our backyard for one or more of the alphabet agencies?”

 

Ian chuckled lightly; his trips behind the Iron Curtain had always generated suspicion and hostility among the secret police, but he was beginning to think that cops in the American Midwest might not be all that different.

 

“Sergeant, the alert has to do with my past, not the present.  I teach two language courses a day, and know little about my students except their names.  Most of them look like bankers and stockbrokers … corporate types … but for all I know they could be junior G-men prepping for overseas assignments.  And frankly, I don't care one way or the other.  The tuition's the same either way, and I don't play favorites in the classroom.  I have high expectations, and they apply equally to frat boys and Quantico's best and brightest.”

 

“Then I guess it would be all right with you if I sit in on this class, and look your students over for myself.”

 

“You're more than welcome, Sergeant; grab a seat anywhere you like.  Now, if you'll excuse me ...”

 

Ian broke off the conversation to enter his classroom.  Herb filed in to find a seat, leaving Priscilla to bring up the rear.  She took her now customary spot just inside the door.

 

Neither Ian nor Priscilla was prepared for the mob scene that awaited them.  The classroom was awash with coeds, several of whom Priscilla instantly recognized.  It was obvious that PISS had turned out in force.

 

Looking around, Priscilla gave herself an imaginary pat on the back.  She would have bet a month's salary that this was some cockamamie scheme cooked up by Suzie Marshall … and there she was, sitting in the front row.  Elegantly dressed, hair and makeup turned out to perfection, it was obvious that Suzie was intent upon seducing Ian-- and she was a seductress without peer.  Whether this was a simple exercise in scalp hunting or a competitive urge run wild, it was obvious that Suzie wanted what Vickie Robinson currently possessed.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Twisting and turning in front of the mirror in the staff locker room, Vickie was trying to survey her diaper zone fore and aft.  Diapers bulged, and she favored skin tight pants that drew attention to her trim thighs and tight little ass.  She was, therefore, expecting the worst, but to her great surprise found that on the whole she was pleased with what she saw.  Cinched tight enough that she couldn't even get a finger inside the waist band, the canvas diaper cover did more than keep her chaste.

 

The damn thing could be marketed as a girdle!  It keeps everything in its place … in fact, if it reached up to my boobs, it could pass for one of those whalebone corsets that women wore in the nineteenth century … thank you, Scarlett O'Hara!

 

Giving her shapely ass an admiring pat or two, Vickie retreated to the staff office and sat down in front of a typewriter.  Taking Rita at her word, she proceeded to write up a report describing her “Autoerotic Experiment” (that was the title of the three page, single spaced document)-- a report that was as graphic as it was detailed.  Vickie leaned heavily on the Derogatis Sexual Functioning Inventory (DSFI), although she zeroed in on two of its subsets (sexual fantasies and sexual satisfaction) to the exclusion of the rest.  In her conclusion, she was happy to report that fantasizing about making love with Ian, in tandem with skillful application of her wand, had yielded a result scoring seven out of seven on the Female Orgasm Scale.

 

In a postscript, she added that she was looking forward to repeating the experiment in order to generate additional data that would control for such variables as time of day and location of experiment.

 

As the nine o clock hour approached and Vickie prepared for her first group session of the day, there was a spring in her step and a broad smile on her face.

 

Diapers?  Wet diapers?  Never mind; it was all good.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Well,” Ian said as he surveyed the classroom, “historically my lecture on Korean dating etiquette has always been a winner, but never like this.  It looks like the whole of the Pi Iota Sigma sorority has turned out this morning, with Miss Marshall here leading the parade.”  Ian nodded at Suzie, who was occupying her now customary front row perch.  Once again, she was stylishly dressed, with nary a hair out of place and makeup artfully applied.

 

“Of course,” he continued with a knowing smile, “their spies may have informed them that my courses are attracting hard-working, well-dressed, clean cut young men sporting Italian silk ties and handcrafted penny loafers, which are all the rage in the office towers downtown-- and also in the upscale restaurants and nightclubs of Seoul and Busan, where some of you will doubtless be keen to make some female friends.  But hear me well: it is not enough to stroll up and down Haeundae Beach showing off your well tanned, buffed physique.  The lady may be attracted by your rippling muscles, but she will be well and truly turned off if you show her the soles of your feet!  So, take care, gentlemen, when you are lying there, elbows up, admiring the attractive young women who come strolling by … bury your feet in the sand, and keep them there.  To do otherwise shows a lack of respect, never mind poor manners.”

 

Lightly drumming his fingers on the podium, Ian was debating how best to take advantage of Suzie Marshall's gift.  An innocuous question, he decided, might just open the floodgates.

 

“So guys, what's the worst thing you can do on a first date?”

 

“Ask her to go Dutch,” one of his male students tossed out …

 

“Showing up,” one of the coeds fired back.

 

The room erupted in laughter, a sense of camaraderie beginning to unite the two very different groups of students.  Priscilla was willing to bet that, at lecture's end, more slips of paper bearing names and telephone numbers would be changing hands.

 

Careful to keep his back turned to the class, and taking his time, Ian wrote a string of characters on the board.  Finally, he turned around and tapped what he had written.

 

“It's pronounced deo-chi-pee-ee … 'Dutch pay'.  Gentlemen, you need to be very careful here.  When they are out in groups, Koreans expect to pay their own way.  So, if you choose to be chivalrous and offer to pick up the the tab for one of the ladies, you are in effect asking her to become your girlfriend.  And if she allows you to do so, she is publicly stating that she now considers you to be her boyfriend.  Oops,” he laughed.

 

“But Professor, what if the girl takes the lead and offers to pay the guy's bill?”  Wendy Stafford was fascinated by how quickly good intentions could get you into serious trouble in a strange culture.

 

“Miss Stafford, that's a good question,” Ian replied with a nod.  “In a group setting, this could only happen between two people who have already accepted that they are girlfriend and boyfriend.  One on one, however, this amounts to the girl saying that she wants him to become her boyfriend.  If he is ready to make the leap, he will permit her to pay.  If he's not ready, he will politely refuse.”

 

“So,” one of the male students wanted to know, “how can I take my secretary out for a drink after work without signaling that I want to date her, never mind get engaged?”

 

“Another good question,” Ian acknowledged.  “Anyone got an answer?”

 

“Sure,” Carla responded.  “It's obvious.  You don't take one secretary out; you take two or more.  There's safety in numbers.”

 

“Of course!”  The male student rapped his forehead with his knuckles, admitting that he had overlooked the obvious.  “Thank you, Miss.”

 

“My pleasure,” Carla answered.  Her tone was silken.

 

The class proceeded smoothly.  Ian brought up topics like gift giving and meeting her family, but he encouraged the students to bounce their ideas off one another, intervening only when the answers were wrong or in need of greater nuance.  He paid no attention whatsoever to the veteran police officer sitting quietly and observing near the back of the room.  And for her part, Priscilla marveled at Ian's ability to make learning fun, and in the process bridge the gap between two very different groups of students.

 

.  .  .  .

 

At ten fifteen, Candy bid her battered women's group goodbye, and headed out to the foyer.  As expected, Vickie was already waiting for her, camped out in her favorite overstuffed chair.  Unlike abused women, the hard core alcoholics never lingered, so Vickie's morning group always ended first.

 

Candy took a seat beside her mentor, and looked at her inquiringly, the unspoken question hanging in the air between them.

 

“I just left Rita's office,” she said tersely.  “Linda called; both reports are ready.”

 

“I'll go down and collect them … drop off Sarah's at her office, then I'll come back up.  Fifteen minutes tops.  Vix, are you okay?”

 

Vickie's cheeks were bloodless, so much so that Candy would have sworn she had seen a ghost.

 

“I'm scared, Candy.”  Vickie's halfhearted laugh was toneless.  “For the first time in my life, I'm really, really scared.  Love sneaked up and slapped me in the face ...”

 

“Think uppercut to the jaw,” Candy smiled, patting Vickie gently on the arm.

 

“Yeah,” Vickie conceded, “I guess so.  And while I'm staggering against the ropes, it leans in and whispers in my ear-- 'and you want to have a baby'.  At times, life seems like such a cruel joke.  Can you honestly see me as a mother?”

 

“Actually, I can,” Candy confessed.  “All this love was hidden away inside you, and then Ian came along and opened the door to your heart, and now it's all spilling out … making these great, big puddles.  I'm keeping my fingers crossed, Vix, because you'd make a great mom.”

 

Standing up, Candy walked out of the ward and casually made her way to the lab.  She left with two thin envelopes, the first of which she wordlessly deposited on Sarah's desk before returning to the seventh floor.

 

Vickie hadn't moved.  Indeed, she was so lost in thought that Candy chose silently to lay the envelope on the armrest before walking away.

 

The envelope lay there, and it was a while before Vickie could summon the courage even to touch it with her fingertips.  The rest of her life depended on the clinical prose that lay inside.  Whether tears of joy or tears of sorrow, Vickie knew that she was going to cry, but what she wanted was not privacy but friendship.

 

Climbing to her feet and gripping the envelope hard, Vickie shuffled into Rita's office.  She eased the door shut behind her, and settled into a waiting chair.

 

.  .  .  .

 

It was after ten when Herb Canon finally got back to his desk.  Ignoring his daughter's “I  told you so” look, he had hung around after class just long enough to confirm that the sorority girls had piqued the interest of Professor Grady's fine young men.  Gambling that one or more of his persons of interest were parked in the same public lot that he was using, Herb had navigated the treacherous, ice covered sidewalk back to his car at a dangerously brisk pace.  Being parked in a NO PARKING ZONE at the entrance to the lot allowed him to observe approaching foot traffic, and to capture the license plates of departing vehicles.

 

Five of Grady's students walked in and drove out, each in his own vehicle.  Five vehicles, five destinations, Herb concluded.  Each car had Minnesota plates, so if this was a Langley operation, someone somewhere was adhering to elementary tradecraft.

 

Herb decided to tail the last car, a nondescript late model sedan, as it wound its way through the slushy city streets, heading downtown.  In his mind, the black, four door sedan screamed federal agent. 

 

Less than ten minutes later, he was driving into a parking ramp in the heart of the business district, which was also home to city hall and the federal building.  Continuing his surveillance on foot, Herb fully expected his quarry to head for the federal building, but he was both surprised and disappointed to watch him enter a gleaming, glass tower that was home to one of the largest banks in the Midwest.  To all appearances, the young man was just another corporate climber in the banking industry, attending a class that would give him an advantage over the competition in far off Seoul, South Korea.

 

But there was another, much more ominous possibility: the guy could have been seeded into the bank to flesh out his Legend.  Overseas, he would continue to draw his salary from the bank, but he would take orders from and report to a Controller at Langley.

 

Returning to headquarters, Herb was ushered into the Chief's office without delay.  What followed, given the hard reality of budgetary constraints, was a foregone conclusion.  The results of his preliminary investigation, he reported, were inconclusive.  Grady's students did indeed look like Stepford husbands, but the heavily diapered professor was about as unlikely a spook as one could possibly imagine.  The one student whom he had tailed had walked into an office building housing a bank with an international presence that could indeed have use of his services in South Korea.  Further investigation would require manpower and logistics to track every student in the class, and that was an expense in time and money normally reserved for organized crime.  Worse yet, such investigations were normally carried out by a joint task force involving one or more federal agencies-- but the FBI was one of the alphabet agencies that they might be pursuing!

 

Neither Herb nor the Chief had any illusions about federal law enforcement.  The feds had two offices out by the airport that were in the phone book, but both men suspected that Fart, Barf and Itch was running one or more counterintelligence operations inside the rapidly growing Hmong, Vietnamese and Cambodian refugee communities in the Twin Cities.  This was a turf war that they could not possibly win, and so the Chief reluctantly decided to let the matter largely drop.  If Herb wanted to pursue it on his own time, he emphasized, the Department would be grateful for any information that he might choose to share, but there could be no departmental involvement.

 

Herb got the point, and so he returned to his office to phone Julia.  In December, she had nothing but time on her hands and, if anything, her investigative experience out in the field was both broader and deeper than his own.

 

The problem, of course, was Priscilla.  His daughter had made her feelings on the subject of Professor Ian Grady crystal clear.

 

As he picked up the phone to make the call, Herb wondered whether either of them was even capable of breaking the one promise to Priscilla that they had made at her birth-- made, and never broken.

 

Could either of them lie to their daughter, never mind lie convincingly?                  

 

 

 

   

    

 

        

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          

 

 

 

 

 

 

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