The Secret

Seven

Steam clings to my bare body like an annoying child, condensing into tiny clear beads. A loud knocking on the bathroom door summons me from my nirvana.

"Hurry up!" Sven calls from inside my hotel room. "You'll be late to the UN president's party!"

"Fine, I'm coming!" I huff, toweling my now slim, yet curved body. As I walk out, Sven eyes me carefully, a little creepily even. He's looks sharp, yet different - a crisp black shirt hugs his abs, complimented by a bright red tie, tight dark jeans and chocolate-brown oxford shoes.

"What?"

"The dress I was given will suit you perfectly," he smiles, opening the walk in wardrobe to the left of the bedroom. A while later, I am decked out in a backless, blood-red silk evening gown that drapes demurely over my toes. Sven hands me a pair of small, matching red wedges with pointy toes and a long, dark, wavy wig. As I slip them on, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror - I am beyond recognition as Nadia, the ex-criminal turned spy.

"You look beautiful," Sven breathes, his masculine hands gently stroking my shoulder. His touch leaves my skin tingling.

"Oh wait, I almost forgot-" he digs into the suitcase beside him. He pulls out a long, slender object, and the breath catches in my throat.

"Oh my gosh..." I breathe as the cloth slithers off the knife and he hands it over to me. It has a strap attached to the handle - the garter that is supposed to wrap around my thigh. Sven parts the long slit down my dress as I secure the garter, fingers trembling as the knife strokes my skin.

"Well, what do you expect you did all that training for?" Sven grins.

"I didn't know that tonight I'm supposed to kill someone."

"Well, you never know when these things might happen."

We leave the hotel, a towering thirty-two storey building with the north face made entirely out of glass, enabling each and every apartment a stunning view of Oslo. A crisply chilled blow of Norwegian air lefts up the tendrils of my hair, a full-forced greeting from the arctic. A chauffeur stands outside the revolving glass door, greeting us with a tip of his hat. There, parked proudly outside the gleaming entrance of the hotel, is an elongated black car which Sven calls a limousine. Neon blue lights from underneath the car glow as the entire right side of it unlatches and swings upwards like a garage door, revealing a shallow, spacious room inside the limousine. A brown leather couch is situated along the entire left side adjacent to a vast expanse of tinted window. A minibar is lined up against the front and driver's seats, stocked with various exotic-looking liquids inside marvellous glass bottles of all sorts. Against the boot of the limo is a crystal hologram awaiting an E3 CORPORATION ADMINISTRATOR. As Sven and I climb into the car, the door retracts back into place and I see now that the door is actually a giant plasma screen television on the inside. Norwegian World News is on, and Sven watches it carefully, knitting his brows together.

"Can you understand Norwegian?" I ask abstrusely as the limousine begins its smooth cruise.

"Yes. I can speak five different languages: Norwegian, Arabic, Korean, Swahili, and of course, English. When you are a spy, being multilingual is a highly prized gift and surprisingly comes in handy."

"Wow." I watch as the pretty newsreader reports on a middle-aged man of some high rank involved in a polemical affair. "What's going on?"

Sven watches carefully. "That's the UN president," he begins. "Recent media reports suggest that he has severe mood swings, or potential bipolar disorder. His cocktail party tonight is an opportunity for you to investigate his suicidal behaviour."