There was considerable overlap between the Eastern European sojourns of Agent LVN and the woman we call "Dinah." In those days she was known as Diana of the Bloody Star.
She was the mistress of a high-placed NKVD officer. Well, this same man was eventually found, tongue missing, in a Bucharest brothel. The doctor who prepared the body (a long and grueling job) for his Soviet state funeral swore that despite the missing appendage, the kamrad had died smiling. Joyful and... excited.
Interesting tidbit: the madam of this house of ill-repute spent little time there, as she needed to keep an eye on her husband so that he would not drink away all their black market profits. Her understudy, as it were, handled the day to day business. That girl? None other than LVN.
I have gradually learned to decipher this sibilant language of theirs. There's "No, that's not the antidote to the nerve toxin." And also, "Keep your pet junkies away from my herb garden." Most exchanges, though, are recriminations over the end of their lesbian affair.
I pride myself on the maintenance and upkeep of my targets. Well, up until that final point, of course.
My innovation--shared with only a handful of others--is to fill my clay pigeons with ketchup and hot sauce packets from those sleepless eateries by the highway. Yes, viscous fluid is an essential factor. When one's shot hits home, one must be prepared to dodge the spatter. To avoid it outright, if possible. If you can wear white with confidence, you have made the grade as an assassin.
Luisa knows this. She is one of those for whom hitting the target is the easy part. Now the noise needn't bother her. She's got ear-plugs molded to her own shape. I should know, as they are of my own making. But the discharge of firearms always gets her hot and bothered, unleashing the kinds of appetites that may overwhelm even the sturdiest of husbands.