Undercover and Under the Covers

Knock, knock, goes the door.

You look up from your book, forehead creased. You aren't expecting anyone, and this is worrying. For most people, you imagine, an unexpected visitor would just be an unexpected visitor. But for you, there is always the worry that one of your less savory fans may have discovered your home address. You live in an uncomfortable middle ground. As a well-known porn actress, you are successful enough to attract stalkers, but you aren't so successful that you can afford to hire the kind of security that mainstream film stars have -- porn doesn't pay anything like as well.

Knock, knock, the door repeats.

You grab your pepper spray and carefully pad towards the door, trying not to create any audible footsteps. You carefully put your eye to the peephole. What you see is both reassuring and alarming. Six men, all in suits. Four of them look like middle-aged businessmen; two of them, standing behind those four, are younger and larger. On the one hand, it's unlikely that six creeps managed to coordinate a joint stalking session, and you somehow don't picture stalkers wearing suits. On the other hand, if they are stalkers, there's no way you'd have a chance against six, especially those two in the back. You again give the younger two a once-over. They are enormous, both in height and bulk. They are also the only ones not carrying briefcases.

Knock, knock, the door elaborates, nearly hitting you in the head.

Well, they don't look like stalkers, you say to yourself, and open the door -- but you keep the chain lock on, just in case. "Yes?" you ask.

The man in front asks "Ms. Frasta?" This is curious. Of course, many of your fans would be surprised at how you look when not filming -- the lack of all the makeup, the fact that you're wearing a comfy t-shirt and jeans rather than whatever ridiculous fetishistic outfit the studio crammed you in for the part -- but your appearance is still pretty distinctive. Your blazing red hair for one thing, but even more than that the enormous breasts that made your career, should be instantly recognizable to anyone who's seen your movies, even through the small gap through which you're looking at each other. Has this guy never heard of you? You relax a bit. It's looking less likely that these are stalkers.

"Yes, that's me," you confirm. "And you are?"

He pulls out his wallet, flips it open, and shows you an ID card. "Alistair Wallenberg," he says. "I'm with the Central Intelligence Agency."

You study the card, as if you'd have any idea how to determine whether it's real. "I... see," you say finally. "And what would the CIA want with me?"

He licks his lips nervously. "Well, it's not what we want, exactly, it's what we're hoping other people will want. Which is to say" -- he looks uncomfortable for a moment -- "You."

You consider this. "You want me to be a honeypot?"

"Something like that," he says. His face is bright red, clearly not comfortable with this topic of conversation.

You think about this for a few seconds. You're as patriotic as the next girl, but you didn't get where you are today by fucking for free. "Is it paid?"

"Of course," says Alistair.

"...Why don't you come inside so we can talk about this," you decide, and begin to undo the chain lock.