Jeffery Archer woke on a beach, small waves lapping up against his legs. The soft susurrations of the water was making him nauseous. His head was pounding and the glaring sun wasn’t helping what felt like the worst hangover he’d ever had. He squinted up at it, it was too bloody humid on top of that. Jeffery sat up on the warm powdery white sand, his head whirling in the process. He massaged his temples to stop the pounding. It wasn’t helping.
“God dammit!” said Jeffery. Through the miasma of his befuddled mind the sound of his voice startled him. Gone was the gruff Scottish accent he’d had all his life, the voice he’d used to great success in many a bar, and in its place was a woman’s voice with a French accent. Jeffery shook his head to clear the fog. He tried again.
“Hello?” she said in smooth tones and missing Hs, “What the hell?”
He looked at his hands and instead of the familiar square chiseled-stone fingers and sunken knuckles he found the delicate boned hands of a woman complete with immaculate red nail polish. He forgot his pounding head and scrambled to his feet. Looking down he groaned at the matching toes wiggling in the sand. The small delicate ankles, the curved pale calves, the… It was then that he realized that he was naked, the gentle sea breeze causing his skin to goose-pimple. He spun around, looking up and down the beach for any signs of life. There was a fishing village up the far side of the coast but where he was, was deserted.
“Thank god for small miracles,” she mumbled in time with his thoughts.
He looked down at his chest and smiled. He jumped up and down once, then again, and again. Studiously entranced by the very mesmerizing effects of gravity. Sizing up his new assets, he twisted a nipple experimentally.
“Dammit that actually does hurt,” he said, the words of past conquests echoing in his returning memories. In the tropical heat, he felt as if ice melted down his spine. His hands flew to the typical hiding place of his crown jewels, but found those stolen as well.
“Christ on a cracker! They’ve nicked my nuts.” he said in his new voice, “Fuck me.”
He paced the beach as he tried to remember what happened the night before. He’d been at the Agency. He had met with N. He had accepted his new mission.
“Shit,” he said the details of this particular mission re-surfacing like swollen bodies from the cold depths of his murky mind. He was in N’s office, sitting in one of those uncomfortable chairs that make you squirm after five minutes. He always wondered if that was to speed up meetings or prop up egos. N was sitting on the edge of her desk, wearing an outright conspiracy, that she and her tailor must have stitched up. Her pantsuit; lengthened her legs, teased her bottom, and let just enough of her cleavage exposed to snare your eyes. She never missed that either.
“Archer! Eyes up. You know, the more I think about this the more I’m sure you’re just the man for the job,” N said handing him a whiskey glass and a dossier from the pile on her desk.
“Who’s the mark?” said Archer taking the glass and not opening the file.
“Asad Daar,” said N, “His photo is in there.”
“The Somalian Pirate? Operates off of East Africa?”
“That’s the one. It’s time his hopes were sunken. It’s an under cover operation. You’re to get as close to him as possible. Remember to tie up any loose ends.”
“Sounds pretty standard so far,” said Archer throwing the dossier back onto N’s desk, eliciting a raised eyebrow and a half smile like a censor’s marker.
“We have a small opening. So we’re going to have to do something a little unconventional. You up for it?” she said, that smile growing ever slightly. He remembered the last time he’d seen that smile, over the brim of a martini.
